Friday, December 08, 2006

vignette: december 8

note: i've been in the mood for a short fiction for days now, but something is precluding me from putting it into writing. i don't know what is forcing me not to, and all i could think about was finishing a reply to a memo that was sent to me for a 'violation' that didn't really transpire. probably it was one of those circumstances wherein you have to answer everything even for the darndest nonexistent misstep you could've/would've taken (i'm still attempting to figure out whatever that was).

anyway, december 7 is the 65th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor and a story happened to be brewing up in my head. so read on.

* * * * * * * * * *

He was staring inebriatedly at the huge clock above him. It was three in the morning.

He'd been drinking since after dinner. The sad part was, he didn't need alcohol until he knew it was necessary. Necessity, he thought, the way women would play with you and leave you to wallow in a bottle of whiskey is necessity. He made a loud burp and struggled away, groggily zigzagged on the cement pavement, allowed his feet to take him home.

Home. Fuck. Where is home. He asked. More of a statement than a question.

He felt a sudden burning sensation creeping up from his ulcer and he vomitted. Liquified plastic and all---undigested dinner mixed with acid. His hands searched for something to grasp, and rested on a metal rail.

He thought of her. The vaudeville theatre in Quiapo. After Mass. Sundays brought in more of them. Girls that were pretty much wanting to liberate themselves from their mundane lifestyle. Amidst the crowded rows of awed spectators, he caught her eye. Locked in astonished gaze. Soon, he discovered that he was only deserving of a visceral romance. Nonetheless, he pursued her. Like a famished predator on hunting season. Though he knew it would be futile from the beginning, he made the attempt anyway.

The clock made a deafening boom and he thought the hour hand struck four. Today is the Feast of Immaculate Conception. He was aware that in the morning he would be facilitating the procession, and he could not bring himself to look like this in front of the people. But he knew he'd been vomitting for an hour now and the curfew would be lifted in another. But something was amiss, his mind queried. The sound could not have come from a movement of the hour hand. It was loud enough.

Slowly, he turned his head and glanced upwards. Saw the clock hand still pointing to three-fifteen.

What the hell? He wondered.

And then he heard the drone of planes.

Labels: fiction, writing