As the first episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) slowly came to its conclusion on February 28, we knew that we had one more thing that we can offer our bright young fellows: a starting platform for their creative endeavors. Here, we present one of their final outputs from the workshop. We also asked them to provide an artwork that they think best represents their stories. Read on.
It takes a while before the man regains his consciousness. He finds himself in a sluggish trance, struggling to get up from the bed that has been holding him down for the past two or three hours. Eyes at the ceiling, he traces the lines of blue paint as if the waves carved its design.
He remembers the events from last night and heaves out a sigh. He shivers in recall; the legs poising around his waist, hands gripping for reassurance, foreheads touching, searching for each other’s warmth. Time paused for them, and he cherished every bit of her skin. He grins to himself, finally gaining the energy to sit up. The wall mirror greets him and he is horrified by his own appearance. The man rubs his eyes and yawns, combing the loose strands of his hair with rough fingertips.
A lush fragrance of roses and jasmine dulls his other senses in the warmth of the villa. Looking around the bed, he sees a glorious mess. There are scattered clams, shells, starfishes, and untied knots on the comforter. He looks to the side and sees a beaded necklace on top of the pillows. Facing the mirror once more, he notices smeared lipstick over his cheek and lips. The smudges trail down on his neck to his bare chest. As he squints to observe, he notices the color on his skin—a tinge of scarlet red, with the mark of plump, round lips, and a small lining of cupid’s bow at the upper crest. The man’s eyes widened in horror.
He grabs the necklace and forces it inside his sling bag. Running out the door in only a pair of boxers, he dodges the service staff who was about to give him his breakfast in bed. He gives the lady a quick smile before taking the glass of orange juice from the tray, pouring it down his throat and placing it on a desk somewhere in the hallway. His breath stammers, furious and confused.
The man reaches the coast and hurriedly runs towards the rocky sand prickling beneath his feet, but he holds no concern for it. The beach was resting in desolation after its turbulent crowds yesterday, and he thanks for the silence—hoping she was sitting somewhere nearby. She liked quiet mornings.
His knees drop once he finds a yellow heel lodged into the sand near the shore. The waves catch on his legs, sprinkling him with the coolness of weekend daylight. He holds the shoe with both hands, imagining the lady he carried to the villa, thighs smooth as silk, calves glinting like pearls—and here he was, mourning over a missing shoe. He looks at the distance; the sun is sneaking out of the horizons, preparing for its shining dew, puffy clouds softly surrounding the cerulean skies. He closes his eyes and curls inward, as if she would reappear before him if he kneeled further.
“I’ll teach you how to say goodbye next time.” He mutters quietly, glancing at the ocean.
Gillian R. Santos is a freshman studying BS Psychology in the University of Santo Tomas. Her exposure to literature as a child provided the foundation of her fields in writing through self-practice and journalism. Growing up, she recognized the power of fiction as her way of protest against the stigmatization of mental disorders, hence her chosen program. Currently, she is under the names of organizations within her university as she continues to diversify her writing styles—hoping for a place where she can shed light on mental health issues the Philippines cease to recognize or even acknowledge.
