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.
Three hours had passed since I started my shift here at the resort. The sun had yet to peek over the ocean’s lapping waves, and the throng of tourists yet to burst forth from the doors of the breakfast buffet. Everything on this long stretch of beach lay still in these gray glimpses of twilight. I preferred it that way.
But I am not alone. There are others like me, who, rising from their holes in the sand, walked with their heads bent, with their metal pickers snapping up leftover trash and chucking them into the black bags slung over their shoulders. Each item dropped shuddered the sweat-slicked plastic, the thin sheet gradually growing into a bulge. We were a slow lot, lugging along in a trail that disturbed the white sands.
My bounty so far had been the following: a torn knapsack, several plastic buckets, chipped and crusted, cracked swimming goggles, discarded shades, punctured umbrellas, shriveled trunks, a loose bathing suit, and now, a yellow shoe.
I brought it close to my eyes, inspecting the make of its sole, the sturdiness of its heel. I thumbed over its dandelion skin, feeling the patterns of flowers and the dusted ribbon that wilted at its tip.
Then my mind wandered to the foot this shoe once fit, trailing upward to the owner’s leg, if it was svelte or lardy, if she wore a dress or a habit (what nun would wear heels, much less visit a beach?), if her skin was as white as the pearls that they snatched and dangled from the seas.
My eyes traveled to the resort upon the hill, peering into its tall glass windows and past the chandeliers, searching for her. Did she trot down its carpeted walkways? Feasted on its food and savored shot after shot of tequila? Did she sleep on a mattress that washed away the knots and aches in her back? Did she have a closet the size of a kingdom, of which, by whim, she could don the colors of the rainbow? Did she even imagine, for but a moment, to be someone other than herself?
Could I, in a similar moment, become someone like her?
I shook off my sandal, my right foot pointed and hovering over the shoe—
“Aray!”
A pincer, red and small, snipped my big toe. I tossed the shoe away, then grumbling, dragged myself to dump it into the black garbage bag.
Julian Ignacio Q. Roque is currently a BA Creative Writing student at U.P. Diliman. He dabbles mostly in writing fantasy fiction and creative nonfiction. When not burdened by the dual acts of writing and overthinking, he tends to go on deep dives in any topic that interests him, may it be from history, philosophy, or other fields of study.
Socials: julian.ignacio.roque@gmail.com
More details on the artwork here.
