live forever

By Von Fritz Evangelista

“You can’t possibly do that. You’re breaking the ancient rules.” That’s what Rigel told me. I just confessed to him. He looked at me with an air of disgust.

“Who made those rules? I’m tired of all this shit. I wanna try something new.”

“You wanna fuck some dudes? Man, wake up. You’re an incubus.”

Of course. I’m a male demon and I’ve been fuckin women since the Sumerian Civilization. I fathered a lot of diabolical bastards on earth. I’m an incubus. But so what? Everything was about to change. I’d been thinking… just because I’m an incubus doesn’t mean I couldn’t fuck men.

It all started when I found myself in this Philippine slum. The last time I visited the Philippines, I fucked this pretty woman who liked to wear this native costume they call ‘balintawak’. That was in the late 1800s. I never thought that the next time I would come back, I would have a different taste.

And shit. Whatever happened to the Philippines? I could no longer smell the fresh air of long ago but rather the stench of rotten garbage. Was that the Pasig River? What happened to the indigo sky during sunset? It’s all reddish due to smog. A lot of things changed. I was trekking this sort of labyrinth of the squatter’s area when I first saw him.

The shop said “Berto’s Volcanizing Shop”. Or did they mean ‘vulcanizing’ shop? Whatever. But I could see that there’s more to vulcanizing. The whole place reeked in used oil and burnt rubber and sweat and anything masculine. Tools scattered on the ground as well as tires and other gizmos. And there he was, trying to fix this bicycle wheel laid on a table.

He couldn’t see me of course. I was this invisible demon hovering around the shop curiously looking at them. If he had a third eye, it would be a hassle. He caught my attention from the very start. He wasn’t wearing any shirt. I could see a six pack and he was shining with sweat. His hands stained in black oil. His face got some black streaks too. Shit, why did I find him so attractive?

Before anything else, before I decided to come back in the Philippines, I stayed in Europe for about 50 years. I had a great time fucking those European women. They were soft and clean and fragrant like no other in my years of existence. I’m proud to have fathered hundreds of murderers and pedophiles and corrupt politicians with those European women. Until I was fed up and decided to try other delicacies.

Maybe that’s the reason why I had a boner with this rough man I saw in the vulcanizing shop. I had enough of softness and cleanliness and fragrance. I wanted to try something new and what I got was a man who was hard and dirty and smelly of the whole day’s work. Now that’s enigmatic. Where did my sudden desire come from?

The rules for us incubi are simple. We should fuck female humans and make sure we conceive evil creatures. The same applies for the succubi - female demons who fuck with male humans. That’s the reason of our existence. Yeah, we’re sort of sex machines or something like that. Whatever happens that make us non-compliant to our assignments, then the Lord of Darkness will punish us.

So what if I fuck a man as an incubus? I thought. Does that mean breaking the rules? Is that a sin? I mean, c’mon, I’m a demon in the first place. What happens when a demon commits a sin?

“You’re sick.” Rigel, my long time buddy said. He followed me in the Philippines from Australia. Said he was curious about the Filipina beauty after seeing Miriam Quiambao in Ms. Universe 1999.

“What do you mean sick? The Lord of Darkness loves seeing those homos sucking and rimming and ass-pounding each other. Are we exempted?” I had the feeling Rigel wanted strangle me. I knew he’s irritated. We had been debating about it since I confessed.

“I’ll say this for the nth time bro, YOU’RE A FUCKIN INCUBUS! You’re created to lick those pussies and bite those tits and squirt your cream frontal…not into that shitty hole behind!”

“But he’s different…”

There. I could picture myself as this lame boy being pinned on a wall by some brusque bully because I’m such a sissy. I was fuckin distracted. That man in the vulcanizing shop seemed to weaken me. There was something in him that bothered me, that itched me. Oh yes, I’m a gay incubus. Sounds awkward?

I was stalking him since the day I first saw him. After some weeks, I was already used to the smells. His name was Badong by the way. He was not from Manila. He came from Iloilo and people in the neighborhood always made fun of his accent. Lucky for them he was nice and all. He could crush their skulls with those muscular arms of his if he wanted to.

Badong was renting a small room in a boarding house not far from the shop. The landlady was an old maid who fantasized much about him. What a dreamer! Well not only Badong as a matter of fact. There were other male boarders in the house who came from the province who were also good looking. Just a kiss to that desperate old maid and a boarder could save his month’s rent. But he was different. Badong was your typical straight man who did everything in the right way. He paid the rent on time. He would send a quarter of his little salary to his mother in Oton. Badong worked hard so he could earn for his college, or maybe for a vocational course. He wanted to be a mechanic. He would attend the mass every Sunday at Quiapo Church. He stayed away from those sluts in the park.

So it may seem that Badong was a gentleman. But everyone has a secret. And humans cannot suppress that ancient desire implanted by the Lord of Darkness himself in their hearts. Badong could be nasty at times. I caught him once or twice masturbating while sniffing some panties he stole from a ladies boarding house nearby. He regularly bought tabloids with those sexy women on the cover and would jerk off for like two to three times a day. What a waste for a man. Why would he do it for himself whereas any bitch in the neighborhood could offer her pussy?

And then one night, I couldn’t hold it anymore.  My demon penis was rock hard at the presence of Badong. To hell with those fuckin rules (I came from hell and it’s not that bad). It was the point of no return and I didn’t care about the punishment from the Lord of Darkness. I followed Badong from the shop into his boarding house. It was late in the evening. He had an overtime fixing five tricycles and I could see fatigue on his greasy face. He passed by the only open sari-sari store along the way and bought a bottle of pilsen.

The landlady wasn’t around when Badong arrived in the boarding house. Great. She usually waited for him and offered him some dinner so she could have a kiss or something. Badong went straight to his room, removed his dirty sando and opened his pilsen. Fuck, I was literally and figuratively horny seeing everything. How could such a man drown me with intense desire? The way he sat, the way he gulped from the bottle, the used sando on his shoulder…everything looked sexy. And his smell, the stale aroma of hardwork, was making me crazier. I wanted to own him.

When he was done with his beer, Badong unbuckled his belt, removed his tattered jeans, and then dived on his bed. His pillow must have fallen beneath the bed but he didn’t mind. He rested with both of his arms at the back of his head. When he was finally asleep, the moment I’ve been waiting for had come.

I started with his bare arm pits. I realized that it was the sexiest part of him. I licked his thin hair, savored the sweat, and sniffed all that I could sniff. It’s a kind fetish I couldn’t resist. I’m both salophiliac and maschalophiliac. When I was done with his pits, I caressed his torso. The well chiseled muscles were overwhelming. They were the kind of muscles you earn from true labor, from plowing the fields when you were young and then hammering and lifting those heavy things in the shop. I let my palms explore him and my tongue licking all the contours. I never left any skin dry.

I gently removed his underwear, sniffed it like the way he sniffed those panties, and then threw it somewhere. I heard him moan when his swollen cock was finally in my mouth. It tasted sour and bland and sweet. Badong’s property was a fat 8-inch clean cut – a good one by Asian standards. He continued moaning as I sucked and licked his shaft and balls. When his cock oozed some precum, I savored every drop. I tasted fructose which the precum should have when a man is eating fruits or anything healthy most of the time.

I thought I was ready. I had enough of my oral demands. I readied my virgin hole and successfully stuffed Badong’s manhood inside of me. It was electrifying. Badong was now half conscious. It’s a normal phenomenon for our prey, being half awake while we fuck. And when they wake up soon, they’ll just think of everything as a dream. Badong was surprisingly cursing as I sat on his fat cock. I never knew he cursed during ecstasy. That moment, I felt that I finally owned him. We were one and the same. I was Badong and Badong was me. And then he exploded.

“So how did it go?” Rigel asked me the next day. He was taunting me. It wouldn’t be long until the Lord of Darkness discovers what I’ve done.

“It’s heaven, dude! Why don’t you try it? See for yourself.”

“Heaven?! How could you say such without even seeing what heaven looks like?”

Yeah right. Whatever. The truth was, I couldn’t find the perfect adjective for what I felt. It was kind of fulfilling. It was an achievement. I’m a demon who defied the laws of my existence.

“I’m a succubus trapped in an incubus’ body.”

Rigel laughed. “And it took you a thousand years to realize that.” He braced my shoulder. That’s my buddy. He had none the cares, about who I am, about what I choose to do.

When I finally had my face to face with the Lord of Darkness, I felt fear like I never felt it before. The Lord of Darkness sat on his fiery throne like a volcano about to erupt. It was only then that I realized the weight of my action.

“You’re nothing but a blasphemous distorted harebrained immoral demon!” The boss screamed. How redundant could he get? I remained speechless.

He explained to me the nature of our creation. All the shit. It’s like back at the Incubus Academy. What was supposed to be a hearing about my reckless action (raping a sleeping man) turned out to be a history and ethics class. Yeah. Who would have thought demons have ethics?

“But my Lord, doesn’t blasphemy make you happy? You saw how pervert I could get. It’s the same thing as fucking those women…”

“SHUT UP!” And hell vibrated…like hell. “Who gave you permission to talk, incubus?! I don’t have much time to think about what to do with you. You’re banished from hell forever. Now get out of my sight!”

That’s it. The deliberation only took 5 minutes after like 6 hours of lecture. Pathetic. Well I guess, I couldn’t blame the boss. He’s confused as I was. It’s the same question I’ve been asking since I was caught up with the mess.  What happens when a demon commits a sin? The problem with everything is the presence of uncertain laws.

My horns, my tail, and my dear black wings were cut off before I left the Gates of Hell. So long demon life. It’s been a tiring experience. I couldn’t wait to see Rigel. I heard he was in Nigeria going after exotic beauties. He would be surprised to know the Lord of Darkness didn’t blast me to oblivion like he usually does.

When I was walking my way back to the Human World, I felt this weird pain on my back. Something was forcing its way out of my spine. A few hours later, I became a proud owner of a pair of white wings. A golden halo was hovering above my head. You see, this is not just a story of sex and breaking the rules and suffering the consequences.

This is a story of how I became an angel.

(Source: bomperts)

By Von Fritz Evangelista

So that’s how it looks like, the cosplay world. I’m sorry, it was my first time.

Everyone looked real and unreal at the same time. A guy looked exactly like that samurai warrior I’ve seen somewhere. A girl looked out-of-this-world with her purple hair and cat eyes. And gawd, there was this guy in full armor! He couldn’t even walk without assistance. Here and there I saw different weapons…large, long, heavy, wide, intricate designs. Not to mention photographers taking pictures of these cosplayers like they were models or something.

I was there at the AniMotion Cosplay Convention.  When I heard about the annual local cosplay convention at The Square, I decided at once that I should come. I was curious about this whole cosplay culture. My friend Micah had been so itchy about it ever since the posters were out three months ago. She really wanted to go. She aimed to win the contest and I saw all her efforts.

Everything that I know about cosplay I learned from Micah and her obsession with it. Cosplay, she said, is a popular culture particularly in Japan where it started, wherein people dress up or wear the costumes of their favorite anime (Japanese cartoon) or manga (Japanese comics) characters. In such way, these fans (or ‘otaku’ as what they call in Japan) are able to exaggerate their love for the anime and manga and express their feelings at the same time. But it’s not just wearing the costume that matters. When you cosplay, you act like the character that you’re cosplaying. Hence, cosplay is an art, more like theatrical or something like that. “I’m a cosplayer, not a Halloweener.” Micah would usually say. “Because you can cosplay anytime and not just in October.”

That awkward feeling that you feel like you belong but you also feel like a fish out of water at the same time. Everyone’s eyes were at me as I entered the venue. There’s a registration for those who wanted their costumes to be judged but I wasn’t interested. I was there just to observe. Why is Micah so crazy about this cosplay thingy?

A girl wearing a maid costume with cute neko ears blocked and looked at me from top to bottom as I walked along. Her lips twitched like she spotted something wrong. What was it? My hair? My hakama? My sword perhaps? “Are you Yukito Sugimura from the anime, ‘The Fallen Samurai’?

That nostalgic feeling that someone recognized you. “Yes! That’s me.” I replied excitedly.

But the girl continued twitching her lips like she’s in total disagreement. “No way,” she blurted. “I’m an avid fan of that series. Your hakama’s color is way too dark and your sword is not long enough.”

“What?!” I asked in total shock. But before I could explain to the maid girl, she was already gone tagged by her friend who wanted to take a photo with that guy in armor. That depressing moment that it’s your first time to cosplay and nobody’s giving you some consideration. Whatever.

I started looking for Micah and her friends. She said she would come to the con early that day because of the freebies. Micah and her friends form a cosplay team they call Kizuna Limited. They’re quite known in the local cosplay community. Cosplay started in Bacolod in 2007 during the 1st Electric Masskara Festival at Lacson Street and Micah and her friends were among those first cosplayers. Did I say 2007? Well that’s a bit late compared to Manila where cosplay started for like 10 years prior. I learned these facts from Micah herself.

There are six of them in the team and they usually cosplay together with a common theme. That goes with helping each other making weapons, putting on makeup, overall assistance, etc. Micah seems to be the leader. She’s the eldest. Who would have thought that a 25 year old staff nurse in well-known private hospital is a cosplayer? There’s Stevie, the tallest guy in the team who usually wins in the contests. You can’t blame people for liking such a handsome lanky cosplayer. There’s Eddie, the artist of the group. He’s taking up Bachelor of Arts at La Consolacion College and when it comes to props making and details of the costume, he’s an expert. The third guy is Macky, the comedian. He watches those super sentai series since he was 4 years old so he’s delusional at times. Two other girls complete the team. Ellie, the goth girl, collects a lot of stuff. I heard she could be rebellious at times because being an only child, her parents are overprotective. Then there’s Alexa, the fujoshi (a girl who likes romance between two boys). She shrieks the loudest and talks so much about this and that and so on.

That chin up moment when you’re with your team in a con. It is advisable to form your own cosplay team because you benefit from each other. Micah loves Kizuna Limited so much. It’s her other family. What about me? I’m not a member of the team. I’m just one of Micah’s many friends. Actually, her closest friend. You see, I love Micah too. It’s the kind of love that I want to share eternity with her. I dunno if she knows that. Now I’m being creepy.

When I found Micah’s team at the con, I admit I had this inferiority complex. Goodness…they were sure winners. The last time I saw Micah patching up her rubber sheets, I didn’t expect much about it. But when I saw her in costume, I was speechless. She looked exactly like the lady warrior Natsumi Tanaka in The Fallen Samurai. Her friends’ costumes were amazing too. Stevie’s wings spread a total of two and a half meters cosplaying Ame from the anime Rage of Heaven. Ellie was gothic as usual. She was cosplaying Death from Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman series. Everyone looked great so I kind of hesitated to join in.

That pissed off moment when all of the sudden, a guy appeared in the scene wearing the same costume I was wearing. What’s worse? Micah shrieked louder than Alexa when she saw the guy. The truth is that, Micah’s got a crush on Yukito Sugimura; the reason why she cosplayed Lady Natsumi. I was about to approach her but the sudden appearance of my clone pinned me on my spot.  “Kevin-kun!” Micah screamed. “Your Yukito’s the best ever! I knew you could pull it off.”

 The best Yukito Sugimura costume? His hakama looked unreal being so pale and his sword looking twice the length. And that maid girl thought mine was a failure. Lame! Micah introduced Kevin to her friends. “Guys, this is Kevin by the way. I met him last con at SM and he has a car! He can drive us home later.” Okay I got it. She’s using him.

After that introduction, all of them posed for the photographer who passed by. And then, that high blood moment when Micah and that Kevin guy were requested to pose together for a picture. Grrrr! And I remembered that Micah’s character, Lady Natsumi, is teamed up with Yukito in the story and are called Kage no Edo (Shadows of Edo).

“Hi! Can I have a picture with you?” I was sulking behind a manga kiosk not far where Micah and her friends were when someone showed up with a camera on his hand. He was not in costume. Though I could tell from his thick glasses and the stuffed Pikachu hat that he was wearing that he’s an otaku. “Sure!” I told him. And I was faking my smile because the thought of Micah with that Kevin still bothered me. The guy stood beside me and took the photo with his hand stretched in front of us.

“Nice Yukito costume.” The guy continued. There’s an air of congeniality in him and so it seemed he was the first person who had been nice to me in the con. “Your sword looks real. Is that real?”

A bead of sweat formed on my forehead. So what if I got a real sword? “Thanks. Yes, it’s kind of…real.”

“WHAT?! That’s cool man! But…how come you have it here? I mean…that’s lethal dude.” He touched my sword like some kid in a museum.

“I dunno. I just entered and…sorry, I really don’t know about the rules. This is my first time.”

“Cool. Then why are hiding in here? It’s your first time man…lemme show you around. C’mon!”

His name is Vaughn. And thanks to him I was able to enjoy my first con somehow. I was able to forget about Micah for a while and learned a lot of things about the cosplay world…things I only heard from Micah but I never really experienced before. Vaughn’s mouth was a like a machine gun. He talked so fast and I nodded and nodded. Though, sometimes, I couldn’t understand what he’s talking about anymore.

 “Oh gawd, there he goes again. That Joseph guy’s a perv. See that? And I wonder if that little girl’s enjoying his presence. Poor moe.”

“That girl always wears epic costumes. I see her most of the time, in every con. I always bet she’s going to win the Best Cosplayer. But that Stevie always get the spotlight. I heard she spends a lot in her cosplays, you know, ordering expensive wigs online and contact lenses and props and the like. But sorry for her, face value seems valued much by the judges.”

“Haha. Nice trolling. Those guys they call ‘controllers’. Con. Trollers. You see, they love menacing everyone’s moment.”

“See that group? Everyone fears them. They’re one of those pioneer cosplayers here in Bacolod. They seldom cosplay nowadays but when they do show up in cons, everyone bows down. You see, they’re not after quantity of cosplays but rather in quality. I heard their leader asserts them to cosplay only characters with the closest contours to their faces.”

“See that girl? She’s famous. Her wig fell off her head while she’s doing a performance on stage last con. All cosplayers here call her the Wig Queen.”

“Typical neophytes. You see, cosplaying has its developmental stages too. When you cosplay Death Note or any character which allows you to buy and modify stuff from the ukay-ukay, you’re a newbie. Then you level up to characters with vibrant wigs and attractive weapons. When you start wearing armors or enter the con as a robot, then congratulations! You’re part of the high class society.”

“You haven’t heard of Alodia?! Dude, which planet did you come from?”

I was separated from Vaughn when the contest proper started. All the cosplayers were called to convene at the back of the stage for their walk of fame. Vaughn said he would be taking pictures for his blog. Before he left, I asked him if he cosplayed before. He said he did. He cosplayed and became tired and now he only enjoys documenting slices of life in the local cosplay scene.

I sat on a chair at the left side of the venue not far from the stage. I wanted to cheer for Micah. I bought a bento meal from that Otaku Geirin kiosk. They’re selling Japanese food and Japanese stuff. AJ, the club president (who was wearing a Totoro shirt) said they’re doing it for fund raising. Otaku Geirin is an official otaku club in the nearby university.

I was hyperventilating when the cosplay walk began. That thrilling feeling because I got to see Micah cosplaying on stage for the very first time. There were a lot of good costumes. And I wonder how confused those judges were. When Stevie appeared on stage, there came a deafening cheer made by girls in the crowd. Alexa surprised everyone when she somersaulted on the platform. When Ellie delivered her epic Death speech, I could tell that everyone had goosebumps. And when Eddie showed up with a coffin and a giant cross for props, everyone was muttering there ohmygods. Only Macky wasn’t able to cosplay in Micah’s team. I could see him holding an SLR at the photographer’s area in front of the stage.

My heart stopped when Micah’s moment came. She was stunning. When I saw her earlier, she wasn’t wearing Lady Natsumi’s epic head dress and she wasn’t carrying her four blades. When she ramped on stage in complete costume and fierce projection, I was as speechless as everyone else. I knew her efforts didn’t go down the drain. I had a strong feeling that she was going to win.

There were games during the ramp intervals. The host was very entertaining and boredom was like the least thing to feel all throughout the event. There were trivia games too. When the host asked something from The Fallen Samurai, I didn’t hesitate to come up the stage to answer.

“What is Yukito Sugimura’s favorite food when he was a young boy?” The host asked.

“Naruto!” I answered. “Or that dish his aunt always cooked out of crab meat.”

“CORRECT!” And I won this 11-inch Yukito Sugimura action figure.

I was about to come down the stage when I heard the host talked back, “Hey, I just noticed…are you cosplaying Yukito Sugimura too? What a coincidence!”

I nodded. I was expecting some laughter and applause but there was none. Instead, I heard some boos. Not to mention a boy’s voice from the crowd screaming “EPIC FAIL!”

That feeling that you want to disappear all of the sudden. That moment was very humiliating and I ended up leaving the stage quickly without saying anything. I didn’t come back to my seat either. I hid at the back of Otaku Geirin kiosk.

I didn’t say my costume was perfect. I didn’t give a damn. I didn’t come for competition. I only wanted to see Micah cosplay and cheer for her. Why were those people so harsh?

“You know, I think your costume’s not that bad.” AJ comforted me at the back of the kiosk. “I’m a fan of The Fallen Samurai even before it became mainstream…before it became an anime from the manga by Hiroto Saka. The colors don’t matter to me set aside the fact the manga pages are colorless. What matters to me are the emotions of the characters, the way the mangaka describes them. And to me, you’re perfect. In fact, I had goosebumps the first time I saw you here buying our bento. You look exactly like the Yukito in my mind.”

AJ’s words were enough to comfort me. I didn’t care whether she really meant to comfort me or that was just business talk. No wonder she’s the president of their club. She knows a lot about manga and anime. Unlike those other otakus who are plain show off. Vaughn mentioned they should be called ‘weaboos’ for bragging their otaku life which is in fact unbecoming.

A total of 40 cosplayers competed for the prize in the con that afternoon. A total of five cosplayers cosplayed Yukito Sugimura. Of the five Yukito cosplayers, Kevin was the favorite. If you would base the winners via the loudest applauses, then the Top 3 would be Micah, Kevin, and Stevie.

But here came the twist when the winners were announced. The armored guy won third place. Eddie won second place. And the champion, as usual, was Stevie. I couldn’t believe it! Micah lost. I prayed that Kevin would lose and Stevie’s a strong opponent. But Micah not even in the Top 3? What happened?

Micah’s smiling on stage when the awards were given at the three winners. She was faking it. I could see bitterness in her eyes. That depressing moment that you were almost there but you failed. I know Micah. Nobody knows Micah more than I do. I could tell that she wanted to cry. Everything that she did was futile.

“See you next year guys!” the host said formally ending the event. Fanboys and fangirls then stampeded to take photos of their idols. Last minute photo ops. Interviews. Congratulations. Friends asking for their share of the prize. You get the picture.

I looked for Micah. I had to see her. I realized that the event had ended and she didn’t even saw me. I wanted to cheer her up. I wanted her to know that for me, she’s the winner.

I passed by this crying girl near the stage. She was the cosplayer with the purple hair and cat eyes that I mentioned earlier. Her father was trying to comfort her. I could see nearby that her mother was talking to one of the judges. Smells fishy, I thought. And later on I learned that there was some kind of error in the announcement of winners. That instead of Eddie, the girl with the purple hair and cat eyes should’ve gotten the place.

I found Micah sitting on the bench near the restrooms. She was alone. She already removed her wig, her head dress and swords scattered on the floor. She was holding a handy mirror while wiping off her makeup when I approached her.

“Hi Micah! It’s me.”

“Hi.” She replied without even glancing at me. Her eyes glued in the mirror.

“I love your costume. You’re still the best for me.”

“WHATEVER!” She threw the used Kleenex into the paper bag beside her. “You see…I just lost! Stop comforting me like you really care…” She was still looking at the mirror. I could tell that she was crying from behind.

“There will be another convention. You can try again.”

“It’s not about winning and trying again! This whole cosplay shit is fuckin unfair. Why do they always let him win?! Argh!”

I was curious about her reply. “You mean Stevie? But he’s your friend. You’re on the same team…you should be celebrating toge –”

“Haha. You don’t get it do you? Cosplay is one dirty world. There’s no such thing as friendship. Only usage.”

Now that was a great slap in my face. Was it really Micah behind that handy mirror? Did she know she was talking to me? I’m her friend. How could she talk to me like that? Did her frustration about losing the contest made her say that?

That was not the Micah that I know. It was too much. I hurriedly left the scene, leaving the con venue and out from The Square. I was in total denial. Vaughn was right about everything. That even though cosplayers promote their hobby as just a form of self expression, when the prize at stake in the con is great, everything changes. There’s only competition and no self expression. That’s the reason why Vaughn had given up.

I called up a taxi and was on my way home. I should be back at Micah’s room before she does. I could have told her the truth if I had a good timing. But after everything that happened, I decided to postpone it for some other time.

I was trying to forget about the cosplay world. So that’s how it looks like. I didn’t like it.

I forgot to throw away the Yukito Sugimura action figure that I won in the trivia contest. I was still holding it as I entered back to the blank page of The Fallen Samurai lying open on Micah’s bed.  I’m back in Edo. I just hope that she won’t notice the changes if she rereads her favorite manga for the nth time soon.

(Source: bomperts)

By Von Fritz Evangelista

She aimed her gun at me. I could see rage in her eyes. I could tell that after she pulls the trigger, she would cut off my head and my limbs…chop and chop all my flesh into tiny pieces until I look like that meat you stuff inside the salami. Such anger she felt and I couldn’t blame her for her revenge. I made her life miserable.

I just had my dinner that night. Who would have thought that the person who rang the bell would be some kind of a killer? When I opened the door and stared at her, I was flabbergasted by the perfection. She looked just like I had in mind: tanned by the tropical sun, black curly hair, bushy eyebrows, a missing tooth, scars on her neck. She even wore her favorite color: violet. Then I began to wonder…how in the world did she stumble upon my doorstep pointing that gun at me?

Veronica Garcia had all the reasons to kill me.

“Fuck you!” She cursed. I suddenly felt the chills in my spine. I stepped back with the fear that my life was hanging by a thread.

“Veronica…calm down…we can talk about this.”

We were inside the house already. She continued to point her gun at me with her hateful eyes.

“So you are the one responsible for all what I’ve been through! Fuck you!”

I knew it was too late to explain. Whatever happened had happened. Veronica could kill me anytime but I suddenly felt the need to explain. “Veronica, you don’t know what you’re talking…you don’t know anything…”

“Don’t act so innocent you son of a bitch! You made me grow up in a poverty-stricken province…you allowed my father to rape me again and again…you made my beloved boyfriend go into that lake and drown himself…and you even killed my only daughter with that fuckin dengue fever!”

I realized that it was useless to pretend that I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. Of course I knew everything. Veronica’s story was exceptional. It’s the only tragic story I’ve ever written in my fifty years of being a Writer.

I knew that it could happen. That one day, a character from one of my stories would come by knocking at my door and ask me why I made his or her life like this and that. But I was curious most of what I’m going to do if the situation comes. How would I ever talk to my character? How would I ever explain that I had nothing to do with his or her life because it just sprung in my head and I just wrote it?

Even I myself wanted to search and ask that anonymous Writer somewhere in the world who wrote my life so that I would become a Writer too. You see, everything is interconnected. All the stories in the world are entwined in a very complex and twisted plot.

It all began with the First Writer. He wrote about the world and the world materialized in space just like what he had in mind. Then he wrote about people and so people began to live in the world. Some of these people were gifted with the First Writer’s Talent and they became Writers themselves. And so the cycle went on. When a Writer writes about something, somewhere in the world, whatever the Writer wrote becomes a reality. When someone in America writes about cherry blossoms, the sakura will burst to life in Japan. When someone in Ireland writes about a murder scene, a man is being stabbed at the same time somewhere in the streets of Mexico. That’s how everything goes. The Talent never dies. Every Writer is obliged to write about a new Writer so that somewhere in the world, a new Writer will be born to write new stories and continue the cycle of the world.

And so here I am, a Writer.

My parents didn’t expect that I have the Talent. I grew up poor in academics. And my teachers thought I got dyslexia when it comes to grammar and spelling. It took years until I discovered my gift. When I was in high school and started reading a very exciting fantasy series, my Talent ignited. I’ve been writing stories since then, a noble craft that makes me proud along with other gifted Writers of the world.

I had a very nice and intelligent mentor. His name was Mr. Harris. All my knowledge in World Literature, Poetry, Grammar and Composition…all thanks to him. Though, I was the only one who looked up to him. He didn’t have much expectation from me. He loathed me. He hated me for reading nonsense fantasy novels whereas he recommended a lot of classic novels. He hated me because I ended up excelling in his class. I became the Editor-in-Chief of the school paper in my senior year. Too bad, Mr. Harris was no longer there to congratulate me in the office. He died of hepatic cancer.

Maybe I understood now why Mr. Harris hated me. He wanted me to write real stories. He didn’t want me to read much fantasy stories because I may end up like those Writers who created dragons and ghosts and wizards who continue to dwell in some parts of the world. “Fantasy is obsolete,” Mr. Harris once said. “Past Writers wrote about fairies and genies and knights in shining armor to ease the burdens of the world. Now we have technology. We no longer need a magic wand to create a wagon from a pumpkin. Writers should write more about life. By definition itself, literature is the mirror of life.”

Mr. Harris got some point. But I don’t think fantasy should be set aside. I believe that as long as there’s reality, there’s cruelty in reality, there will always be a need for fantasy. But too much of that. Mr. Harris is a sad anecdote and bless his soul.

My earliest stories were indeed happy tales. I wrote about happy siblings, beautiful countrysides, musicians, Christmas moments, childhood sweethearts…stuff like that. I had inputs from different books I read and my stories were usually influenced. But the best stories I wrote were those that popped out in my mind out of nowhere. It’s like they were just there floating around my head waiting for my hands to pick them down and write them on the paper.

When I became a member of the European Writers Circle, I learned a lot of things. A Writer’s life is not easy as pie. We do not write just because we can write. We write because we were chosen to write, we were chosen to fill the pages of the never ending story. That when all of us Writers fail to write more stories, the end of the world shall come and all the stories will be forgotten.

We Writers should also be mindful of what we write. We should know the impact of our stories, the chain reaction that will be caused by our settings, characters, and plots. It has been noted a lot of Writers have been assassinated since the early 20^th Century. The Circle conducted a research lately and their findings said that the Writers who were killed had one common mistake: the setting.

It is advised among us that we should choose the setting of our stories in the farthest places as possible. Because we create characters, we create people who think. When a character happens to locate his writer, then its pandemonium.

Like what happened to me back to my house with Veronica Garcia’s revolver almost an inch away from my forehead.

            Almost thirty years ago, her tragic story was conceived in my head. I was twenty years old back then and I was desperate to write something different. Enough of the sweet life. I was obsessed by the brilliant tale in my head about the miserable life of a woman from a third world country.

            It was a short story I submitted for a local British Magazine. The title was Veronica G: Exotic Extraordinaire. It’s a tragic tale. But I believe, it is also a story of hope.

            I was curious about the Philippines that time. So I began Veronica’s story in a beautiful Philippine countryside where people plant rice for a living. Veronica’s father was a farmer himself. Veronica had ten siblings and she’s the third and the eldest daughter. They lived harshly in the farm but they managed to survive somehow. Until their mother died of tuberculosis and Veronica was obliged to take care of her siblings. What’s worse? Her father raped her and it happened for like a myriad times.

            When Veronica was 18 years old, she ran away from home. In a distant town known for its beautiful lake, Veronica met Gerry, a carpenter and they fell in love. A year after that, Veronica was pregnant and Gerry proposed to marry her. The wedding was simple but everyone in town helped in the preparation. I researched about this unusual phenomenon that a group of people help one another for a cause. They call it ‘bayanihan’. On her wedding day, however, Veronica’s groom didn’t come. Three days later, Gerry’s rotten body was found floating in the lake.

            Veronica had nothing left but the baby in her womb. She carried her burden alone and when the time came, she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. To give her child a proper name, Veronica was forced to marry a drunkard named Alexis Dimagiba —- an instant decision which later on added up to her miserable life. When Veronica couldn’t give Alexis a child of his own, he became violent. Either he hit his wife or the poor Lisa, Veronica’s daughter with Gerry. One night, Veronica caught Alexis naked beside her sleeping daughter. She was enraged that he fought Alexis to death. Veronica lost a frontal tooth in the fight but her drunkard husband was finally brought to prison.

            Three years later, an epidemic brought by mosquitoes affected the town where Veronica lived. Lisa, who was seven years old by then, was one of those unfortunate children who were infected by dengue virus. After a series of voluminous hematemesis, Lisa died in the public hospital while lying on a carton on the floor.

            Veronica could no longer bear her problems. With Lisa gone, she felt she had no reason to live. One night, she tried to commit suicide by hanging herself in her house using an electric cord. She was found early the next day by an Indian national who barged in her house to collect her debts. Lisa was revived and her agony was prolonged.

            A month after her suicide attempt, Veronica was recruited by a pimp who was having her vacation in town. She finally decided to seek new life in Manila. Veronica was desperate to challenge her fate. My story then ended with an opening number in a club somewhere in Ermita where the host was introducing a new sexy dancer named Veronica, the Lady in Violet.

            There goes her story. I could still remember the details even though I wrote it three decades ago. Why? Because it’s the only tragic tale that I ever wrote. After my story was released in public, I received a lot of reviews saying I’m the worst Writer in the world for making a woman’s life so miserable. That was unexpected. I did receive an award for my story being so brave and realistic. But because of the major negative reviews, I never wrote a single sad story since then.

            I did expect that Veronica would find me someday, blame me for everything. How did she find me? I don’t know. I was right about her. She’s indeed an exotic extraordinaire.

            “Thanks to that fat ass Brit I was able to reach London,” Veronica explained. “Said he was able to read a story similar to mine in a magazine many years ago. You don’t know how much I’ve been through just to find you! To pin you down on this very spot and see the fear in your eyes, bastard!” Veronica slapped my face and spat.

            “It’s just a story Veronica…I’m just a Writer…” God, I was shit scared.

            “Fuck you Writers! You think you’re gods! You think you control our lives! You think we are your pawns in these life battles you call plots!”

            “But Veronica…we…we’re just the same. You and me…we were written. I was written to write about you. Your story popped in my head. I just wrote it.”

            “That’s bullshit!” Veronica smashed the revolver on my face. It broke my nose. “This whole damn interconnected tale is bullshit! I own my life. I am the writer of my own life!”

            Then she cried. But I wasn’t at ease. Veronica was sick in the mind and she could point the gun at me again any moment. I didn’t want to reply anymore. We were just talking in circles and her anger was clouding her understanding.

            “I wanted a good life,” Veronica continued. “I wanted to marry the man I loved. I wanted to raise my child as a decent woman unlike me who lived such a harsh life. But you…you never gave me a chance to taste any of it! Who are you to decide my fate? Who are you to command these forces around me? This is unfair!” And she pointed her revolver back at me.

            “Veronica, I’ll say it again. We’re both victims in this complex tale. The story was there laid before me and all I did is write it. I can’t prove it to you but maybe…maybe things happened for a reason. That there’s a reason why Gerry had to die, that your daughter had to die…”

            “Enough!”

            “Veronica…you are lucky. Look at you. You’re alive and well! Think about this very minute while you’re trying to kill me. Around the globe, thousands of Writers write about thousands of deaths on this very minute. You are lucky Veronica. The harsh life you’ve been through made you a strong woman. And you said it yourself, you write your own life. My story about you ended at the bar in Ermita and that’s it. Whatever story that made you move on, made you come here…it’s no longer my written work.”

I heard an ear shattering bang.

It took me a moment to realize that Veronica had pulled the trigger. She shot the ceiling and she almost hit the chandelier. “Thank you,” she said. I was stunned and I couldn’t even move my lips to reply. Then Veronica left silently and I never saw her again.

A few months after my encounter with Veronica, I received some post cards in my mail box. So it seemed that Veronica’s travelling Europe along with her British fiancée. I didn’t get any picture of her. Just those post cards and simple messages like the one at the back of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It said, “Did someone write about this?”

I guess she understood what I meant. I may have made Veronica’s life miserable but I didn’t make her dumb. Life is a classroom and all you need to learn is right there. It’s cliché but yeah, experience is the best teacher. Veronica’s life was never a complete tragedy. It’s a story of hope, it’s a story of fighting your fate and proving nobody controls you but only you.

Veronica must have understood that vengeance is futile. That if she would kill me, she would have to kill the Writer who wrote me, the Writer of that Writer and so on. And if ever she would be successful, then she could finally confront the First Writer. Who knows what could happen.

It’s just that life is too short to mind the complexities of our destinies. Either you live your life or live against it. After all, it’s your story that matters and nothing else.

(Source: bomperts)

I wish I live a normal life. I wish I can go out in the streets without being bothered how the people will look at me. I wish I can do whatever I want, wear whatever makes me feel comfortable, and mingle with people I find fun to be with. I wish I can love whoever I want to love. I wish I was born out there, in a different dimension.

My name is Juuan, twenty years old. My life sucks.

I was born in a family who is religiously devoted. My parents strictly follow the commandments of The Book. They have taught me everything when I was young, the good and the bad. And I had to follow. It’s the norms, they say. Whatever I do against the rules in The Book is taboo. You may survive being stoned to death but breaking the rules also means a lifetime of shame.

I have nothing against those rules, except for one. I have broken this rule and this is my story. Que sera sera.

I grew up as a normal boy. I played with toy guns and my father’s vintage toy soldiers. I don’t excel much in academics but I do well in sports. I was always the Athlete of the Year since my father pushed me to the basketball court when I was 9 years old. My room is crowded with trophies and my folks said I should get myself another room soon where I can sleep. I collect comic books as another hobby. I’m fond of those mutant superheroes. I usually hang out with friends who love to shatter their eardrums with rock and roll. And I do drink beer.

I was normal. Then I fell in love.

I met her at a friend’s party three years ago. Her name is Fara. I found her beautiful, charming…her eyes, her hair, everything. Maybe it was a little infatuation. But when she sang at the party, her voice crushed my heart. I never saw such girl in my entire life. Even though I went in a school for boys, I usually see some girls around the neighborhood. She’s different from those girls. There’s this intense attraction and my stomach wasn’t at ease as she sang that sweet song.

I knew then that I was in love. But along with that love I felt for Fara was a certain kind of guilt. That I should never feel anything in the first place. That I can never have Fara. That Fara deserves someone and that someone will never be me.

The next day, I opened my copy of the The Book to look for answers. My parents always advise me to read The Book every time I’m in doubt with something. The Book offers a million truths. Well, I wasn’t actually looking for answers. I was looking for a way, for a possibility. I wanted to know if I should really feel the guilt that was beginning to torment me.

When the Creatrix finally finished her masterpiece, the Earth, she longed for beings of her own image to dwell on it. So on the tenth day of her labor, she created the first two male and the first two female humans.

The first man was named Mekhu. He was tall and dark skinned with a lean muscular built. The second man was named Jhesun. He was lanky and curly haired with skin as pale as snow. And the Creatrix said, “Mekhu shall live together with Jhesun for they were made of clay and only a man can truly please a man.”

The first woman was named Jaddah. She was brown eyed and yellow skinned with a long hair down to her waist. The second woman was named Saaju. She was fat and red skinned and her chest flatter compared to Jaddah’s. And the Creatrix said, “Jaddah and Saaju shall live together for they were made of sand and only a woman can truly please a woman.”

Then the Creatrix divided the Garden of Reekai; the men to live in one side, the women in the other. A beautiful tree she planted in between to mark the boundary of each side. That tree was named the Tree of Truth and the Serpent was ordered to be the watcher. Mekhu and Jhesun should not go beyond the tree and so were Jaddah and Sajuu.

For a hundred years, the first men and women lived happily in the garden. The Creatrix had given them the gift of immortality and they spent their early years naming all the living creatures in Reekai. There was no conflict for the couples were very much satisfied with their partners. Until the fated day came, and sin was finally born in the land.

One day, the Serpent called forth Mekhu, to go nearer the Tree of Truth.  The first man happened to be wandering near the tree that day. And the Serpent said, “Tomorrow, at sunrise, come back here in the tree. I will reveal to you the truth that you seek.”

Mheku was confused. He didn’t tell Jhesun about his meeting with the Serpent. He was curious of the truth that the Serpent was about to unveil. All those years, the Creatrix had provided them all the truths they had to know. But the Serpent seemed to know something that even the Creatrix didn’t want to share. And so the next morning, the first man went back into the boundary, to the Tree of Truth.

The Serpent was no longer there when Mekhu arrived. But beneath the tree, he found a sleeping Jaddah instead, the first woman who also met the Serpent the other day. “Sleep here by midnight,” the Serpent told her. “At the break of sunrise, you will know the truth that you seek.”

It was the first time that Mekhu had seen a woman. Jaddah was beautiful and at that very moment, Mekhu had forgotten about Jhesun and desired nothing else but to own a woman. Jaddah felt the same thing when she opened her eyes and saw Mekhu. She had completely forgotten about Sajuu as she stood up and stared at the naked man. Mekhu wanted to touch those two round swollen masses dangling from Jaddah’s chest. Jaddah on the other hand wanted to play with that long hard pulsating flesh between Mekhu’s legs. When they finally touched each other, they were overwhelmed with their intense desire and they made love beneath the tree. They had learned the Ultimate Truth.

The Creatrix appeared before Mekhu and Jaddah and she was angry for the very first time. “Shame on you both! You are nothing but those animals I created who lust for the opposite sex! I gave you everything, eternal happiness, a million truths…but you broke my heart!” The Creatrix was very much enraged that flames engulfed her body and the beautiful Tree of Truth was burned to ashes. “I will punish you for the sin you have done. Your partners will suffer the same for you were made of the same stuff.”

Immortality was taken from the first men and women and they would soon come back to the soil from which they came. As for the Serpent, his tongue was split into two and he’s bound to hiss forever. Mekhu and Jaddah were banished from the Garden of Reekai and they lived harshly in the wilderness. When they finally had children, they sent one male to become Jhesun’s new partner and one female to become Sajuu’s new partner. By doing so, they had cleared their guilt for involving their former partners in their mortal punishment.

Thus was the how the humans were created and why they are doomed to die.

Well, the first pages of The Book made me hopeless. And I felt desperate. I should have never consulted the The Book in the first place. It’s the same reality all over and over again. My parents told me for like a hundred times. We heard about it in Sunday school for like a thousand times. I live in society who strictly follows that one rule. That rule which I find absurd in a way and that I decided against it. Man can only fall in love with a man, the same goes with women. Fara happened to be my opposite gender and I am burdened with this guilt of being attracted to her.

I know I’m being blasphemous, heretic, whatever. I read a lot of books, checked journals, and browsed the net. I researched too much and I’m no longer this obedient kid that my parents always thought, or what the preacher in the church thought. I wish I was like Mekhu who broke the law to be with Jaddah. I’d rather suffer the life in the wilderness just to be with a woman, to mate with an opposite sex and have children out of it. I wish I don’t have two fathers. I wish I wasn’t created in the test tube.

In Amirekah, a country in the other side of the world, Mekhans and Jaddans have fought for their freedom and acceptance. They even protested to legalize the opposite-sex marriage. The church continues to condemn them but the struggle never ends. In Yuroph, citizens don’t care much about what The Book says. In Ithalie, for instance, it’s normal to see a boy kissing a girl in the streets. Mekhism and Jaddism, according to my research, are tolerated in some places.

It’s different here in the Pheelipyns. My country was conquered by Speyne in the 1600s and since then, our beliefs of what’s right and wrong are based on The Book. Mekhism and Jaddism are extreme taboo. I am now certain that I am a Mekhan. What made me feel wrong about falling in love with Fara is the fact that I was born and grew up here in the Pheelipyns.

I remember watching those comedy flicks in the early 90s. Whenever the father of a family finds out that his son is attracted to a girl, he gets too angry and ends up drowning his son in a tub. I just wonder why this country has this extreme hate with Mekhans. Though Mekhans and Jaddans are of the same stand, Pheelipyns is obviously and unfairly treating Mekhism with much disgust. Machismo is valued much. Boys should only play with toy guns and toy cars and the like. Boys should play basketball, get sweaty and dirty. Boys should be muscular, stiff, and strong. Boys should only date boys, kiss boys, fuck boys. If you’re not doing any of this, then you’re this little queer boy being bullied at school for having a girlfriend.

In the past, my history teacher taught me that the Mekhans and Jaddans were punished and became slaves who were forced to produce children for the normal people. They were usually kept on a ghetto somewhere far in the society, patterned from The Book where Mekhu and Jaddah are said to live in the wilderness. Then, when the children of these Mekhans and Jaddans were born, they were sent to their supposed normal parents in the cities. If the children grew up and became abnormal, they were sent back to the ghettos to become slaves again. The system went on until the Age of Test Tube Babies.

The Book said that the Creatrix made humans superior to animals. That the difference between us and the animals is the fact that animals mate with the opposite sex while we are ought to mate with the same sex. This is enigmatic! Okay, the Creatrix may strike me with lightning now. I’m questioning one of the basic rules in The Book so I am condemned to go to hell. Whatever. I don’t believe in hell either. It’s just that, I don’t find it more likable mating with boys like me, boys with the same anatomy as me, boys with the same penis, the same balls, the same assholes. Wouldn’t it be more exciting to taste what you never tasted? Suck a woman’s nipples? Lick a woman’s vagina? Play with the clitoris through my tongue?

I am no hypocrite. I love Fara but I also lust her. I want to fuck her. I’m curious of her anatomy. And curiosity, they say, is the Original Sin. For what triggered Mekhu and Jaddah to sleep with each other beneath the tree were their own curiosities.

The Creatrix should have known what was going to happen in the first place. If she didn’t know, then people should strip off her title as All-Knowing. There’s a reason why she planted the Tree of Truth. There’s a reason why she chose the Serpent to watch the tree. She knew that Ultimate Truth but she decided to keep it secret until the right time. And I’m not convinced that humans were created to be different from animals. Yes, we think in superior ways. But we eat like those animals, we breathe the same air, we struggle for survival, we excrete, we stink, we die in the end. In the late 1800s, a scientist from Breetin proposed his Theory of Evolution. That theory questioned The Book and the church condemned the scientist to be heretic. Well I’ve read the book written by that scientist. I agree with some of his findings. My overall opinion about it is that, we do not only struggle for survival but we also struggle to hide our animalistic behaviors.

I won’t think of myself as an animal while I fuck Fara soon. I’ll fuck her as a human being as she is a human being. There’s no need to complicate things. I’ll fuck Fara as a Mekhan who breaks free from the norms. I’ve been seeing her for like a month now. We keep our relationship hidden from our parents, hidden from those hateful stares of the people.

I opened up to Fara my desires to have sex with her. She has nothing against it except that she’s not ready. Pre-marital sex is one thing that can create a huge fuzz here in the Pheelipyns. Fara said she already committed a sin by having a relationship with me. She won’t bear the guilt of pre-marital sex anymore. Because unlike me, Fara is much devoted to our religion even if she’s a Jaddan.

But how can we live together if that’s the case?

I was thinking that Fara and I should elope. We need to get out of this place. We need to get out of this cocoon and break free to the skies. Maybe we should go to Amirekah and hopefully, opposite-sex marriage will be legalized there soon. I don’t care about the church anymore. I only care of my own happiness, of Fara’s happiness.

I wish we live a normal life. I wish we can go out in the streets without being bothered how the people will look at us. I wish we can do whatever we want, wear whatever makes us feel comfortable, and mingle with people we find fun to be with. I wish we can love whoever we want to love. I wish we were born out there, in a different dimension.

My name is Juuan, twenty years old. My life sucks.

(Source: bomperts)

By Von Fritz Evangelista

This is a story of a man named Flavius, a Roman exile, who was in Israel before the Messiah was crucified.

Flavius was no ordinary man. He was once a Roman soldier before he was accused of sodomy. He was imprisoned and banished from Rome by the order of the Emperor himself. His family was brought to shame and lambasted in public. That was, because Flavius was a homosexual.

He heard of the existence of a man believed to be the Son of God, the Messiah who was foretold by the prophets of long ago. This Messiah was said to return from his journeys into the city of Jerusalem. Words had spread of his wisdom when he preached and of his miracles. Flavius desired nothing else but to see him.

Flavius arrived in Jerusalem on the same day the Messiah arrived who was greeted by the people with palms. Flavius had trekked the mountains and crossed the desert. He had nothing. As a former Roman soldier, he survived somehow by drinking water from different varieties of cactus and eating leftover carcasses of animals slaughtered by their predators. When he reached Israel, he no longer had his muscles and the built of a warrior. He was skinny and his clothes tattered by the rocks and shrubs he passed along the way.

Palm leaves loitered in the streets as Flavius began looking for the Son of God. He heard from the olive oil vendor of the warm welcome the people gave him when he arrived. At the same time, he heard from two gossiping Pharisees that the rumored Messiah might as well cause commotion and attract attention because of his blasphemous preaches and supposed miracles. Flavius knew Pontius Pilate and how cruel the man could be. So before words could reach the ears of the Roman Judaea’s Prefect, Flavius knew he had to see the Messiah as soon as possible.

The first time Flavius laid his eyes on the Son of God, he felt his pains and sorrows lifted as he listened to his parables during his Sermon on the Mount. He never believed in heaven but the Messiah gave his heart the intense desire to do whatever it takes to live an eternal life. There was something in him that calmed his weary thoughts and boosted his will to live. Flavius was transformed.

However, it was difficult for the ex-Roman soldier to get closer to the Messiah. He was always surrounded by his so-called apostles and a huge crowd followed him wherever he went. Flavius witnessed how the Son of God brought back to life a dead man named Lazarus. There were magicians in Rome who performed such enigmatic acts. But those magicians called forth evil spirits and the dead, though able to move, were still dead. But the Son of God made Lazarus a living man again with a heart to beat, with a mind to think, and feelings to enjoy the world again.

And it wasn’t just that. Flavius witnessed other miracles performed by the Messiah. He healed a woman’s sick child, he gave eyesight to a blind old man, he cured lepers, and he made a paralytic walk again. And every time Flavius had seen the miracles of the Son of God, he had this fear in his heart that any moment, the Roman soldiers would come and capture him. For the things that he did were beyond the comprehension of those who believed to the Holy Emperor.

One day, Flavius met a prostitute named Mary from Magdala. She was wearing some tattered garment like him. She got bruises in her arms and legs. Flavius talked to the prostitute and learned that she was attacked by people for her dirty occupation.

“But that man, the Son of God, he didn’t hate me, he didn’t judge me at all.” She told Flavius of how the Messiah slapped the people of their hypocrisy. Of how they were ordered to stone her to death if they themselves hadn’t committed any sins. “He removed the seven demons that lived inside me. I will be his disciple from now on.”

Then Flavius thought of his own demons. He was raped by his uncle when was seven years old and his mind was changed since then. He was forced to marry a woman he didn’t like. He had a secret affair with the General of his legion. And when their affair was finally revealed, he was the one accused of the misdemeanor for he was of lower rank.

Somehow, Flavius had the feeling the Messiah could heal him. The Son of God cured blindness, leprosy, paralysis…why not his sexual affliction? He got it from his uncle and he was never cured. He sought physicians from different places when he was still in the army. He even asked help from the witches. He loathed his desires to make love with a fellow man and it’s the root of all his misery.  The Messiah would help him. That was, if he knew how to get closer to him.

The week was almost over when Flavius finally had his chance to talk to the Son of God. He was in the garden of Gethsemane the whole afternoon after hearing some rumors that the Messiah along with his disciples would be gathering in the place that night. Indeed they came and eavesdropping only caused Flavius a terrible desire to become one of the disciples. There he hid on a bush from dusk until nightfall. He waited and waited, until the last of the apostles (Peter was his name) fell asleep leaving the Son of God alone praying on a slab of rock.

“Show yourself, brother. You’ve waited long enough.” The Messiah said.

Flavius wasn’t surprised. He finally revealed himself from the bush where he was hiding and approached the Son of God. “Good evening. My name is Flavius Regulus, an exile from Rome. I have come to ask you a favor, if you are indeed what the people call ‘the Messiah’.”

The ex-Roman soldier knew that he sounded rude and aggressive. But the man before him smiled and patted his back gently as if he’s some old friend. “What is it that you ask, brother? Let me hear it so I can make your heart at ease.”

“I am sick. I got it from my uncle when I was seven years old and I was suffering since then. I lust not for women, but for men. I’m a homosexual they say, an abnormality in the society who believes that the Creator only created a man and a woman.” Tears leaked from Flavius’ eyes. He had an outburst of all his hidden angst. Then he was surprised to see himself kneeling before the Messiah. “I beg you, use all the powers you have to cure this affliction. Take these demons out of my head like what you did to that Magdalene.”

And the Son of God replied, “There are no demons in your head, brother. Did you kill somebody? Did you steal? Did you lie? Did you envy your neighbor’s properties?” He signaled Flavius to stand up and together they sat on flat rock nearby.

“I killed people because of the war. I didn’t steal or lie or envy whatever my comrades had. But I committed other sins than that. I had slept with men, lots of men. We did it against the law of nature and the social norms.”

“Why did you sleep with those men?” The Son of God asked.

“Because I loved them. I needed their love.”

“Love drives us all, brother. Love is never wrong.”

“But people think it’s wrong. It’s taboo. It’s against the ancient beliefs. You see, I wanted this desire in my heart to disappear. I want my life back. I want to live normally and I can only do so without this homosexual disease.”

The Son of God sighed. He looked at Flavius straight in the eyes and replied, “Blessed are those who accept themselves who they are. My father created you in his own image. You were not a mistake. Your disease can only be cured by acceptance.” Then he picked up a stone and held it on his palm. “Hypocrisy is the twin brother of the Law. My father only made ten laws and the rest were created by man. People will throw stones at you because you are that. But who made those laws in the first place?”

Flavius picked up the stone from the Messiah’s palm. Mary Magdalene was right, he thought. The Son of God’s wisdom was without flaw. And he spoke to him without the air of disgust and judgment. “But who will love me? Nobody loves a sinful homosexual like me.”

“I love you, brother. And Our Father loves you even more.” The Messiah kissed Flavius on the cheek. “You are forgiven, so are these people who are coming after me.”

Flavius wondered what did the Messiah meant by ‘these people’. He found himself weeping as he knelt back before the Son of God. All the pains in his heart were gone. All his questions were finally answered. He was crying with tears of joy. He left the garden of Gethsemane just before midnight. Flavius found a new reason to live. He knew for himself that he would live the rest of life spreading the words of the Son of God.

He learned the next day that Roman soldiers came to the garden Gethsemane to arrest the Messiah by the orders of Pontius Pilate. It broke his heart and Flavius grieved realizing then that it was what the Son of God mean when he said ‘these people’. The Messiah was slashed many times and Flavius seemed to feel those slashes. When he saw him carrying the heavy cross into the Mountain of Golgotha, Flavius would have wanted to take the weight for himself. For the Son of God didn’t deserve such suffering by the laws created by man. He could only watch from a distance. The crowd who warmly welcomed the Messiah a few days ago was now stampeding in the streets cursing and spitting at him.

Flavius didn’t follow the crowd towards Golgotha. He couldn’t bear to see the face of the man whom he had conversed with recently at the garden of Gethsemane. He asked himself why the man could not save himself whereas he was powerful enough being the Son of God. That thought boggled his mind for years until the words of John the Apostle was published.

Flavius left Israel with acceptance in his heart. He no longer believed in the many gods of Rome but of the only God and his Son who saved the sins of the world by dying on the cross.

(Source: bomperts)

By Von Fritz Evangelista

They were right. They were right all along and I refused to believe because I wanted nothing of me after I die. I wished for oblivion.

I could see the flat line from the cardiac monitor but I was alive, very much alive. I was corrected by my belief of life after death. I found myself standing beside my bed, unable to look at the nurses wrapping my mortal remains with morgue sheet. I was 40 years old and too young to die.

I didn’t want to think any further. I knew it’s the afterlife wonder. Like in the movie ‘Ghost’ that my mother watched for nth times. I felt so light. I could no longer feel the pains of bone metastasis. And I had this intense desire to get out of there, to see the world once again, to breathe fresh air.

I tried to pass through the walls. I was amazed by my new ability. I could hear thoughts but I didn’t mind. I hurried downstairs of the hospital and into the main door. And then I saw ‘the tunnel’.

I had read of this tunnel from many books. When I was 35 years old and the doctor diagnosed me with colon cancer, I knew I was dying. So I researched about what it feels like to die. A lot of paranormal researches and near death experiences shared about seeing ‘the light’ and walking through ‘the tunnel’.

It was a dark tunnel. I didn’t know how long it was and as soon as I stepped out of the door, everything at my back vanished. Then I saw ‘the light’. It’s there at the end of the chamber. And I knew that’s where I had to go.

I only felt two things when I started walking through the tunnel: FEAR AND REGRETS.

I had this fear of what lies beyond the light. Would I be seeing St. Peter who got the list of my evil doings? Would I see Anubis and his scale that weighs my heart to decide my final destination? Would I see nothing more but rather feel just nirvana? Would I see Hades and Cerberus and the Furies? It’s a lie if I say I didn’t fear to go to hell.

There were regrets, yes. And maybe the long walk in the tunnel served as a means to contemplate, to think about all those years on earth and whether I was happy or not. I was happy. But my sadness outweighed.

I regretted not studying high school in my hometown; that my parents had to send me away as a scholar to a prestigious school many miles away. I was staying in a dormitory and went home only twice a month for four years. My parents didn’t witness my adolescence. And all this time, I kept a lot of secrets from them.

I regretted taking up BS Nursing in college. I wasted 20 years of my life taking vital signs of my patients, giving medications, doing CPRs, and sometimes, wiping old people’s assholes. I was never satisfied of my pounds when I was finally in London. I wished I should’ve taken Journalism and travel the world instead as I write.

I regretted meeting Leila and falling in love with her. She was the only one I ever loved but we ended up far apart. I didn’t know why.

The light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter. I knew I was getting there, my final destination. I could hear voices, thousands of voices. Beyond the light is the afterlife. And the voices I was hearing could either be laughters of heaven or screams of hell.

When I finally reached it, the light, it seemed that my fears and regrets were gone. I stood there in awe, mesmerized at the source of the bright light itself. It’s a wall. And I when I was looking at it, I couldn’t see where it was bounded for it extended to infinity above and side by side. The wall looked thin, like a wax paper varnished with oil. There were silhouettes from beyond. I couldn’t see the faces clearly.

“What are you waiting for?” Somebody said. Nobody had spoken to me for the last three hours (or so it seemed but I really didn’t know how long did I walk) since I died. Hearing the voice was a surprise.

Then an old man appeared before me. “Who are you?” I finally asked him.

“I am you, you are me.”

Now that he said it, I noticed that the old man looked like me, an older me.

“What happens after I pass through?”

The old man smiled. “When you pass through the wall, you’ll know the reason of your recent existence, your purpose there on earth.”

I looked back to the wall. The sudden urge to pass through was overwhelming. If the old man was saying the truth, then I needed to go beyond as soon as possible. I needed answers. I needed to know if everything that happened to me, good and bad, indeed had a purpose.

“What about you?” I turned to the old man. “Why don’t you pass through first?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he replied calmly. “I am the condensed soul of your past lifetimes. I have come to rejoin you and only together can we pass through the Wall of the World.”

He held my hand and I understood what his words meant. I was stricken by a weird déjà vu all of the sudden. And then I remembered myself as one of those Egyptian slaves building  a pyramid, a crew on a ship sent by Spain in search for a new world, a soldier wearing a blue uniform in the American Civil War, and lastly, an old man somewhere in Paris painting the Eiffel.

I sighed and said, “I am ready.” Then, together, we passed through the wall.

            I was expecting somebody to greet us beyond the wall. There was none. What happened to those silhouettes who looked too close? And I realized a few seconds after that there wasn’t even ‘us’. I was alone.

            There was no fire. There were no screams. I was sure, I didn’t go to hell. Everything looked bright. Though, I couldn’t see the sun or the moon and stars.  There was no angel too. So for a second I doubted if I was really in heaven.

But there were people. They were wearing their white toga-like clothes like I always imagined. They were busy walking here and there and talking and laughing…they didn’t notice that there was a newcomer. I wanted to shout, “Hey! I’m here.” But I decided against it.

The old me said I should know my purpose as soon as I reach this place. So what was my purpose then? I sat down on a white bench I saw nearby and waited for someone to talk to me. I was beginning to think that everything was nonsense when finally I realized what was happening to me.

I remembered the place. It’s the Limbo. And I was on a flashback.

I was sitting on the bench for like 15 minutes when I saw her, the woman I contracted my soul with.

“Hi.” She greeted.

“Hello.” I replied.

She approached me and sat beside me on the bench. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I just got back from Earth. I lived a lifetime as a painter in France.”

“Oh that’s cool. Me, I’ve been here for like many years now. I want to reincarnate but the souls are queuing.” She pointed at a hill somewhere in the south. There’s a building at the top of the hill and from there, a queue of people in white was visible down into the garden where our bench was.

“Queuing? This sucks. Which means I might be reincarnated again for a very long time?”

“It’s just a short time.” She smiled.

“Yeah, short time. Like I was reincarnated first as a slave in the ancient Egyptian civilization, then back again in the Age of Exploration. Short time, huh?”

We laughed. I was beginning to like the place, and her.

“Hey, why don’t we reincarnate together?”

I was silenced for a moment. “What? Are you serious?”

“Why not? You were a painter in your previous life, right?”

“Yes. A painter who was very much in love with this woman and -”

“Where is she?”

I hesitated to answer. It was a long story. “She’s still there. Our contract ended when I died. She did plan on falling in love with a painter. We loved each other so much but we ended up bored with each other.”

“I see. So what’s your plan on your next life?”

“Hmmm…I dunno. Maybe a tragic love affair?”

“Interesting.” Her eyes glowed like she just had an idea.

“Yeah. I want a new life, completely different from what I just had. I want to fall in love with a woman and we will be doomed not to be together forever. I want to be unloved. How’s that?”

“That’s a little sad. But it’s your choice. Me, I want to travel the world in my next life. I wanna go to Paris, Japan, and Vienna!”

“That’s nice. Hmmm…maybe I should take your offer.”

“Really?! Like we can reincarnate together?”

We were filled with excitement. I never thought plotting your destiny was very exciting.

“Okay. So on our next life, we’re together. I will fall madly in love with you. But we can’t be together forever for some reasons…well let’s leave it to the Fates. And then one day you’ll leave me, you’ll go somewhere…travel those places you want to see.”

“Perfect!” She grinned as she cupped my face with her hands. “You plot better than I do and I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

“So it’s a contract then.”

She faded and I was alone again in the bench. So that’s what happened, I thought. Everything was clear to me then…my purpose, my destiny.

Five years after we made the contract, I was reincarnated at last. I was reborn on earth in 1986. She followed me three years later and was reborn in 1989. That’s part of our plan.

I got the privilege of studying at Negros Occidental Science High School in 1999. I was supposed to excel in Science but I liked English instead. That’s where I met Ms. Teodilyn Montalvo, my English teacher who inspired me the passion for literature. I’d been writing since then, particularly poetry.

Because I really wanted to go to London and get JK Rowling’s autograph, I decided to take up Nursing in 2003. I graduated in 2007 but never stepped in UK’s soil until I was 26 years old.

In 2009, I met HER at last. She reincarnated as Leila Guevarra. I didn’t understand the intense attraction back then. Somehow, I did feel she was my soul mate.

Poetry was something we had in common. That’s why I had to study in Negros Occidental Science High School and meet Ms. Montalvo. We met in a poetry reading session organized by local writers in Bacolod City. Since then we got closer and closer.

It happened that she graduated BS Nursing too. So we had much to talk. Being three years her senior I had a lot of experiences to share to her. Now that’s the reason why I had to take up Nursing.

We were almost there. You know, we could’ve had it all. I told her I like her. She said she liked me too. BUT. Well, as we agreed to leave it the Fates when we had our contract, there were some things that hindered our togetherness. As planned, we ended up far apart for the rest of our lives.

In 2012, Leila left for the Middle East. She had to work as a private nurse there, a stepping stone for the greener pastures she said. On the same year, my working visa for London was approved with the help of my aunt in the UK. I worked in London for almost ten years until I came back in the Philippines having been diagnosed with cancer.

I planned to have cancer. I knew I would be alone forever so I didn’t want to die an old man in bed. I plotted my life to last for only 40 years.

I was never married. I never loved any woman other than Leila. And I was happy for her, that she was able to reach her dreams. The last time I chatted with her in Facebook, she tagged me a photo of her cosplaying in Japan.

And then I died.

That feeling when you realize the purpose of your existence, it’s euphoric. You feel lighter than being light already. It’s like finishing a quiz and knowing you passed. It’s like sending a snail mail and confirming the recipient got it. A puzzle got solved. Everything is in order.

That’s what I felt as I stood up from the bench where I sat for like an hour. Then I began to wander the eternal Limbo looking for a new soul mate.

(Source: bomperts)

by Von Fritz Evangelista

My parents are beginning to neglect me. It’s like I’m not their son. Not their only child.

My father doesn’t talk to me anymore. We used to play bowling together. And once a month we would go to the lake to fish. That was a long time ago.

As for my mother, I miss her California maki. She no longer cooks in the house. The maid does all the chores. I don’t like the smell of my newly washed clothes anymore. A long time ago, my T-shirts smelled nice because Mom washed them.

Lately, I’m beginning to think that I’m adopted.

My physical features may serve as evidence. At 15, I’m taller than both of them. I lose my eyes every time I smile whereas my parents’ eyes are huge and round all the time. My skin is paler from both of them. So I wonder where I got my genes. I would have wanted to see some uncles and aunts or other relatives and ask them. But my parents said they are orphans and don’t have any siblings or relatives.

We lived happily as a normal family for as long as I can remember. This awkward feeling started just two years ago. We were eating in a Japanese restaurant after watching a movie. The movie was about a family who adopted a little girl who turned out to be a monster and killed them all.

It was my first time to be enlightened about this adoption thing.

“Hey son, what if you’re adopted?” My father asked me. He was grinning as he chewed the sashimi.

“What?!” I knew he was just joking but I seemed to overreact.

“Your Mom found you beneath a papaya tree in the province 15 years ago. We decided to take you as our son since we couldn’t have any.” He took another sashimi.

My mom was silent for a minute. Then she laughed. “Cut it out Bert! Enough joking.”

I was about to cry. Silly of me, I was about to believe my father was telling the truth. I dropped my chopsticks on my plate then hugged my Mom. I sulked for like a week. We never talked about adoption since then.

But the topic made me curious. It made me think a lot of ‘what ifs’. I researched in the Internet about adoption. I wanted to know the situations of families with adopted children. How do surrogate parents treat their adopted children? How is it living in a family as an adopted child? Do an adopted child has the right to know he or she is adopted?

What if what my father said was true? I was found as a malnourished baby beneath a papaya three. How’s that? Where’s my cruel irresponsible biological mother? I’ll kill her.

What if I wasn’t found beneath a papaya tree but rather beneath a bridge? Or inside a trash bin? Or maybe in the street sucking milk from a stray cat?

My father must be joking but the possibilities are endless.

Last year, my father was promoted at work. He has to travel. He only comes back twice a month. He called me sometimes but that’s it. When he comes home, we eat outside, go home, sleep, then he’s back to work the next morning. No more bowling. No more fishing.

My mother was advised by her friend to try yoga last year. My Mom thinks she’s menopausal so she tried the new hobby (but she’s only 32). And it became an addiction. She went to her yoga sessions like five times a week. Now she can bend her body like she don’t have any bones. But she can no longer cook California maki or wash my T-shirts.

They bought me an aquarium to clear the guilt of their absence. I have an arrowana for a pet. I named him Goldie, even if he’s a glittering silver. Well I wanted a goldfish but my mother said arrowanas bring luck.

They enrolled me to karate lessons too. My master said I was too old but my father paid him big. Martial arts students usually begin their lessons at the age of 7. It turned out, though, that I enjoyed the lessons. I passionately defeated my sparring mates. My master said I might have my black belt soon.

I cursed my parents. I cursed them for having no time for me. I cursed them and Goldie heard them all. For the arrowana became my shock absorber, for all the angst I have inside. And every time I hit my sparring mates, I imagine crushing my Dad’s work and my Mom’s yoga.

I want them. I want them back, my Mom and Dad.

Last week, my father was home and we had dinner outside. My father came from France and I was expecting for him to tell me about the Eiffel Tower, about the Seine River, about Moulin Rouge…but he was silent with his wok. My mother was busy. She was watching some yoga videos in her newly bought Ipad.

“Dad, I learned some new techniques to topple those pins! Let’s go bowling before you go back to France tomorrow.”

“Sorry, son. Next time.” But there will be no next time. It’s the nth time he said it.

“Mom, a friend of mine brought her mother’s maki at school. I tasted it and, well, I think yours is the best.”

“Really?” My mother dropped her Ipad for while and looked at me. “But oh dear, I already forgot how to make maki.” She went back browsing yoga videos.

Argh! I was so full of them. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Mom! Dad! Am I still your son?!”

The people from the other tables were then looking at us. It was rude of me but I didn’t care. I wanted to speak to my parents so bad…about my feelings, about my loneliness, about how much I missed them both.

“Jeremy? Calm now…be a gentleman.” My Mom kicked my legs beneath the table.

“We’ll talk about this at home.” My father waved at the waiter and asked for the bill.

No, we didn’t talk about it at home.

“You’re grounded!” That’s what they both said as soon as I entered my room.

So for a week now, I’ve been a prisoner here. I only have to go out to attend my classes. When I get back, I have to go straight to my room. I don’t eat downstairs with my Mom. The maid delivers the food here in my room. Yeah, exactly like a prisoner.

“What did I do to deserve this?” I asked Goldie. He came to the surface to breathe then swam back and forth.

As if I’m expecting him to answer.

“I hate my Dad!”

“I hate my Mom!”

“I think I’m adopted!”

I’m bored playing video games in my PSP. I got an LSS with Bruno Mars’ The Lazy Song’ already. Argh! They even cut my karate lessons. I need it bad, I need to punch and kick those guys to release my anger.

Tomorrow, Mom said Dad might come back again because he’s reassigned in Thailand. And I’m no longer grounded first thing in the morning. Cool. Whatever.

I’m fed up with all of this shit. I hope the three of us can talk tomorrow. I’m giving them a chance to be my parents again.

Because if not, well, I have to tell them the truth.

That it’s not ME who is ADOPTED but THEM.

I grew up without knowing who my real parents are. I was in the orphanage until I was 7 years old. Then one day, a lawyer came and took me. He said my deceased grandfather left me a fortune.

I couldn’t believe it. Young as I was, though, I didn’t spend my money buying toys. I was a millionaire and I bought what I needed most: parents.

My lawyer arranged everything (for a million fee of course). We hired people. They abducted a man named Albert Fernandez somewhere in Cebu. He’s an ex-convict presumed dead. Then a woman they took from a mental hospital in Visayas named Oliva Cruz.

Albert and Oliva had undergone plastic surgery. The doctors altered their cheeks and noses and lips a little bit. They were renamed Mr. and Mrs. Norberto and Viola Villarama.

Then the psychiatrist furnished the total change. I paid him 10 million pesos to set Norberto and Viola’s minds well. It took one year. Then finally, I hired the most skilled hypnotist in Europe to wipe out all their memories.

And then they became my Mom and Dad.

Tomorrow, they’ll know the truth.

Unless Mom would promise to make me California maki and wash my T-shirts again.

Unless Dad would play bowling with me and take me to the lake to fish again.

If not, well, I think they have the right to know. I just have to utter the word the hypnotist gave me to initiate the return of their memories.

And I would tell them, “I am not joking.”

(Source: bomperts)