The Juice - Setting the Limits

‘Twas a cloudy December afternoon. It was our Christmas break, a two-week hiatus from all the tedious school work. Not only was it a break for school work, it was also a break from all the wacky loops of college and dormitory life. Vacations, for me, grows more boring every year. I love my family, and I miss them, but friends bring a genuine thrill in your life.

I decided to pimp my dull life up and take a stroll on the slowly decaying Clark. Everything at my hometown is getting more silent. Helmets on bikers, no firework policy on New Year’s Eve, strict curfew at 10pm and many others have contributed to the dying vigor of the community. It is a safety and security issue however, though too much cautiousness may lead to lackluster living.

I dressed on some decent clothes (because I wear torn boxer shorts at home) and went off with my coin purse, in case I get hungry and decide to eat. With me is my MP3 player to give me a beat while I walk. I am currently addicted to optimistic and upbeat club music; it gives me the smile when I listen to them.

I went to the playground, not to play, but just to sit down on the monkey bars and feel the province breeze. Clark is a nice place to unwind, and that’s why 24/7 I unwind – making me really an unproductive piece of living flesh. On the far side of the grassy patch however, there are annoying kids – noisy enough for their voices to be heard amidst Kesha going wild on my earphones.

They are holding a tumbler of juice. I removed the earphone from my ear, trying to discern what the commotion is all about. Yes, those kids are battling as to who gets to drink first.

Silly kids. I did not imagine myself screaming to the top of my lungs for a sip of juice, unless I am totally dehydrated and fighting for my life. After some undecipherable words, they stood from the log and walked away. As they walked, juice spilled, leaving only half of the original quantity for them to drink.

“Bobo! Hindi mo muna kasi tinakpan! Natapon tuloy!” the older girl said to the smallest girl in the group who was holding the tumbler as they walked.

The girl cried, looking at the juice as it wets the dry soil.

I ignored them, tuned it to my MP3 again and realized that I was not able to turn my player off while I was listening to them. The song playing was “Just a Dream”. What a great time.

I guess that we should set the LIMITS first before feelings and words get spilled, or we end up crying over what we had lost. Worst, people may scorn us for what we have done.

10 minutes after, I stood up and went home – without eating.

An Annoying Kid :)

An Annoying Kid
Words by Kenneth Manuel

He holds a green accounting book; the cover is almost worn out of daily use and the pages look as old as that of a decade-old dictionary in a public library. His class starts at 8:30am and ends at 11:30am. He is going to have a quiz in accounting and that evening before, all he did was to finish the paintings required in Humanities. All he knows is the residue of what he absorbed during the discussion.

Walking down the street, he sighs, pauses for a while and looks around. Nothing has ever changed. The sidewalk never runs out of pedestrians and vendors. The air is still barely breathable – polluted and utterly suffocating. That old woman with a big mole on her right cheek is still puffing out a cigarette stick, just like what she does every morning. There is still the pesky barker that he never fails to see every day, calling for passengers for a five-peso tip from the driver. The passengers wait inside the jeepney frowning, for the barker continues to claim that the jeepney can accommodate two more passengers wherein it is already a can-of-sardine situation inside.

He does not have a choice. He still has a long way to go before he gets to school, and time is not at his side. He boards the jeep, tries to sit even just a bit, and ends up hanging with only a square centimeter of his slacks touching the tarpaulin-covered chair. The driver, without any concern to the student, relentlessly drives away from the terminal and onto a long trip at the clogged roads of Manila.

He notices familiar faces. The guy next to the exit is the same person he saw from the nearby internet shop printing a feasibility study. The long-haired lady beside the guy is his girlfriend, and their shoulders are lax with each other. The lady is also holding a plastic cup of coffee from Starbucks, a frappuccino. The old woman beside the lady is a prostitute. Beside him, on the other hand, is a man looking with sticky eyes at the uniform of the girlfriend of the guy in the internet shop.

This is commonplace. Nothing is really exciting for him. Life, as he knows it, has been a cycle – continuous, repeating and analogous. There are little surprises, but not that much to turn the situation around. He just barely sits there in agony as he waits for someone to say ‘para’ and give some space for him to sit on.

He stares at his Accounting book, trying to recall the discussions they had. He tries his photographic memory, remembering how those financial statements are made in the whiteboard. He remembers the face of his professor, makes a straight face and draws his eyes outside the jeepney.

He saw the newly renovated McDonalds building. Aside from a handful of memories, nothing is significant with that building. The fancy, colorful façade is a contrast to the solid metal color of the surrounding buildings. There is a new playground – a paradise for the youngsters. The renovation also boasts life-size statues of the McDonalds characters outside.

That is one change. Everything else did not change at all. The jeepney hurled away and the bright hues of the McDonalds building slowly fade to a dot.

A cellphone rings.

“Ohhhhhhh!” the lady with the Starbucks cup screams.

Quality Starbucks coffee spills in the floor, along with islands of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. He, along with everyone in the jeepney, stares at the wasted drink as it creeps down the cracks of the metal floorings of the jeepney.

Shortly thereafter, his book slips from his hands, with the page that he was reviewing landing first on the coffee-soaked floor. It is a total mess. He picks it up and half of the book became brown with coffee. He gives up reviewing. He is annoyed. He cannot recall the lessons anymore.

He arrived at the school just on time, however, he failed in his quiz. Going back home, he sighs, pauses a while and looks around. Nothing has changed.

The next day, he holds a green accounting book; the cover is worn out of daily use and the pages are wrinkled from the coffee accident yesterday. His class starts at 8:30am and ends at 11:30am. He needs to make an extra effort in understanding accounting and the evening before, all he did was to review for the upcoming Humanities long quiz.

Walking down the street, he sighs, pauses for a while and looks around. Nothing has ever changed. The sidewalk, the air, that old woman and the pesky barker still remains. The passengers are still frowning. They, too, are tired of the punishment that everyday life brings.

He boards the jeep with little energy, and just like yesterday, familiar faces come up. Life is not a box of chocolates as Forrest Gump said, it is a box of junk foods with no variety and thrill at all. Every day is just dull; life is a monotonic art.

He notices another lady, this time far from him, holding a plastic cup of tea, a slight difference from yesterday’s cup of coffee. He placed his accounting book inside his bag, thinking that to mix coffee, tea and paper in a book is a worse idea than not listening in the discussions inside the classroom.

He sees a child kneeling, instead of sitting, in the jeepney. Her small head is peeping on the window, precariously inside as what her mother instructed her. Her improper position in the jeepney is something new to his sight. He ignores the lass, makes a straight face and draws his eyes outside the jeepney.

Minutes after, the lady finished his cup of tea and properly threw it in the trash bin behind the gearshift. The lady put on her headset after disposing the cup and everything went on normally – lacklusterly.

“Wooooooooooooooo…………..,” the girl shouted in awe. Far from sight is the McDonalds building.

He, along with everyone in the jeepney, looks at the girl as she is the first person to break the seemingly unbreakable silence in the jeepney. Her shout is very audible, and it catches the attention of everyone. An old woman sleeping on the ride is awakened and tries to apprehend the child by making a disgusted hiss. The lady who just put on her headset was also disturbed, but resumed as soon as she saw what it was all about.

“………..oooooooooo……..,” the girl is not yet finished getting astonished.

The girl is really struck in awe. The sparkle in her eyes is filled with genuine happiness. The jeepney passes in front of the new face of McDonalds. She let loose of her hold on the window railing, and clapped her hands upon seeing the spectacle nearer. From her kneeling position, she tried to elevate herself a little bit and pop her head out of the window.

“………..oooooooooo……..,” the girl continues her long expression of wonder.

Everyone from the jeepney has drawn their eyes away from the child, yet he remains staring. “Why was she amazed? Is there anything to be amazed of?” These are the questions he asked himself.

“………oooooooooowwwww!!!” the girl ends his astonishment as the building becomes too far away to be seen.

Her head is still tightly tilted to the direction of the building of McDonalds. She still wants a view of it, but can no longer have one. The jeepney continues to creep slowly on the highway.

The girl now sat properly. Her legs, with those little Barbie shoes, are swinging joyfully. Her smile, even though her teeth are incomplete, is full of glee. The vibrance of her colorful dress is infectious; it makes you want to smile more. The girl, noticing that the student is looking at her, waves and smiles, along with an innocent wink.

He smiles – the same way that the girl smiles. That is one smile. Everything else did not change at all, except that it did enlighten and inspire another person.

He waves hello – the same way that the girl waved hello. That is one wave, yet it was unusual enough to start something – the waking of happiness, the recovery of vigor, and a new pair of eyes to see the world.

The next day, he holds a green accounting book; the cover now wrapped in transparent plastic and the pages less wrinkled than that of yesterday. His class starts at 8:30am and ends at 11:30am. He is going to have a report in Management and the evening before, he had prepared to impress his teacher. What motivates him is the simple blessing of life.

Walking down the street, he sighs, pauses for a while and looks around. Everything he sees has changed. The sidewalk never runs out of pedestrians and vendors. The air is still polluted and dangerous, but is still breathable. That old woman with a big mole on her right cheek is still puffing out a cigarette stick, and he realized that he is still lucky to be well-dressed. There is still the pesky yet approachable barker that he never fails to see every day, calling for passengers for a five-peso tip from the driver. The passengers wait inside the jeepney frowning, yet looking forward for the day to come. Who knows what the day holds for them? The barker continues to claim that it can accommodate two more persons despite the can-of-sardine situation inside, and it just makes him think that sometimes he has to sacrifice.

Yes, there are familiar faces, but now, he looks at them with happiness.

Now, every time the jeepney passes at the new McDonalds building, he can’t help but smile. Happiness is a state of mind, and the world is just a matter of appreciation. We just have to look in front, behind, beside and inside us. Smile. :)

Special thanks to Mr. Prince Aian Villanueva for the main concept.

The Balloon That Will Never Come Back

ABOUT THE STORY: This is my first story to be ever published in WhitePanorama. This is about a 13-year-old girl who ended up hoping that the balloon will come back. What’s behind it? You should probably read it. This is not based on any actual experience and the characters are all fictitious, much like all short stories. I’m just trying out my skill in short story writing. I hope you like it! Hahaha! Here it goes, The Balloon That Will Never Come Back.

Sunshine is touching my skin, and not only my skin, but all the trees, all the people and the towering ferris wheel. Everything seems so alive. Look, that kid has ice cream all over his face! Haha! That man over there is doing some magic. I want to take a closer look, but I am being pulled by my brother to a hotdog stand. He’ll buy us some hotdogs to eat.

We were in an amusement park, because my brother promised to me last week that he’ll bring me here if I pass all subjects in our examinations. It was really hard reviewing, but all those hardships had paid off today. The amusement park, from its name, never fails to amuse me. The wonder of such a big wheel carrying people, spinning slowly and bringing everyone up to heights they never reached, simply amuses me.

“I want to ride that big wheel, Kuya!” I told my brother.

“But the ride costs eight times that hotdog you are eating. It is too expensive.” My brother reasoned out.

“Eyyyy. If only we had enough money,” I said as I continue to stare at the height of the steel wheel.

I was biting at my hotdog mindlessly because I am focusing my attention at how high the ferris wheel reaches. I wondered if the birds will surround me if I am at the top, or if I’ll be able to peek in at the window of an airplane. I guess it will take some time before I know if those things were real.

My brother noticed me gazing high at the ferris wheel. He held my hand and started to pull me.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

He did not answer my question, and all I can do is to helplessly follow him wherever he leads me. I wanted to look back at the ferris wheel, but I cannot for I’ll trample in the way. Finally, he stopped. In front of us is an ugly looking clown.

Clowns never fascinated me ever since I was young. They look like they have been playing with Crayola so obsessively that they decided to put the colors permanently on their faces, in an application so thick that they look like aliens. If they can only do magic without coloring on their faces, I will love them so much.

I can’t look at the clowns, for I can’t stop to laugh with ridicule when I look at them. I was staring at the clown’s right hand. His right hand is the same as the right hand of my brother, brown, with five fingers, and not painted. I looked at my hand, and realized that it is the same as his, too. After all, that clown is still a human, only masked to put joy on some kid’s faces.

“Hey Riz!” my brother called me.

“Her name is Riz?” the clown asked.

“Oh, ahmm, yes,” my brother answered.

“Do you want me to put her name here?” the clown asked more. I have no idea on where was he going to put it for I was looking at his right hand.

“For free?” my brother asked.

“Yes,” the clown said as he slowly pockets his hand. “Hold this for me,” the clown said as his hand pulls out the pocket with a permanent marker, “now, how do you spell it?”

“R – I – Z … Riz,” my brother replied.

There was a squeaking sound as the clown writes it, and interested, I looked up to see what is going on. It was a pink balloon that the clown is writing on.

“Riz, it’s done,” the clown smiled and gave the balloon to me.

I was shocked. Why was he offering a balloon to me?

“Hold it Riz, it might fly,” my brother warned me.

Scared, I grabbed it and I held it with my hands clenched very tightly around the string. We left the clown, and the clown was now writing a new name on a different balloon, and I assumed he’ll give it to that child in front of him.

“Why did the clown gave this to me?” I asked.

“He gave it to you because I bought it for you,” he answered, with that smile on his face that releases the angel inside of him.

My brother, is not actually my brother, but just a family friend. His name is Hans. He sleeps in our house sometimes, plays with me really often and sees me at school always. I do not have any brothers, really, and he plays that role for me. He is my best friend, though he is three years older than me. He knows me well, and I know him, too, and he has shared a lot of stories with me.

“Just take care of that balloon, Riz. That is my gift to you for being great in your exams,” my brother said.

“Errr…,” I said playfully as I hug him tight around his waist, “that’s really touching Kuya.”

“Pink. That is your favorite color, right?” he asked.

“Yes! That’s why I like this balloon so much now,” I said.

That was five months ago.

Today, things are different. His memory still keeps playing like an endless filmstrip rolling in my mind. But to him, I’m down to being an acquaintance, a familiar face around the corner, a part of the past that has been forgotten. I lost my best friend, and all I can do was to stare at him with his new best friends. Yes, he had replaced me, but I can never replace him. Every time I see him, I wish I was one of his friends, so that I can be with him. As of today, that is a mission impossible.

Four months ago, I was with him in a park. I am holding an ice cream on my left hand and the pink balloon that he bought me on my right hand. He was at my side, and we were happily chatting with the calm breeze.

“Kuya, I have something to tell,” I said to him in a childish manner.

“Sure. What is it?” he asked.

“I’ve been feeling this for a long time now,” I said, “And I guess this is the right time to say it.”

He was just silent, but the smile on his face was slowly disappearing. I do not know if he was just curious, or he knows that he will not like what he is about to hear.

“I know it is not right,” I continued, “but Kuya…”

“I LOVE YOU.”

There was that two-second pause in time. The witnesses were the withered trees that are just starting to bloom for spring, and the wooden benches lining up the pathwalk. Everything was silent, except for the breeze gently whispering to the grass.

With a sudden flame in his eyes, he grabbed my hand forcefully and shook it hardly. I was shocked; I have never seen his face like that. His once calming eyes were looking at me piercingly and his once caressing touch became painful. He shook my hand so violently that I dropped the ice cream cone in my hand to the pavement below, only to be consumed by the heat of the sun.

The balloon, yes, the balloon that could have been the only concrete memory of him to me, went out of my grasp. I was in shock. The string slowly slid off my palms, and without me noticing, it was soon out of my reach, floating in a seemingly endless sky. I was looking at the balloon as it slowly floated away from me. It was getting smaller and smaller, until it totally vanished from my eyes.

“Why?! You do not know what you are saying! You do not know what will happen!” he said to me in a tone I never heard before. I never saw him angry before, and that was the last face that he gave in front of me – a face that will haunt me in my dreams until now.

He left me standing there, with a dropped ice cream cone in front of me. I was staring at him as he was walking away fast from me. I was not able to answer his question, for I really don’t know why I love him – until now. The breeze is still blowing, and I guess the balloon is still flying somewhere.

Just as the balloon flew away, so is our friendship. I remember seeing the balloon go smaller and smaller as it floats farther and farther away from me; it reminds me of how our friendship diminished in such a short while -- a terminal to our friendship. I took the risk to exchange it for love, but little did I know that with it, I have let go of the string of our friendship and let it drift away.

Until now, I always go to that park – on that very place where I dropped my ice cream cone. I look up the sky, and talk to myself, “will that balloon ever come back again? Will our friendship ever come back again?”

Four months later, here I am, still searching for the balloon that will never come back.