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.
He met Mom on the shoreline.
Dad remembers it clearly: long black hair, red lined sunglasses, a pink dotted wrapped dress that flowed above her knees, and bright yellow high heels that dug into the sand. Her marble beaded bracelet unclasped inches away from the shore, about to wash away when Dad grabbed it and dove face first into the shallow water. He heard her snort and she helped him up. To him, everything (and I) came after that. To me, that was the end.
We had moved far away from the beach after I was born, Dad said. A couple hours drive into the city where I started grade school. We had an assignment, once in Grade 1, to draw a family tree. To trace the lines that connected us to our past and present. Each kid drew two lines, I only drew one.
Whenever I looked at myself, I couldn’t see her. No matter how many times Dad tells me I’m her spitting image. She was not a woman, she was a picture trapped in a dark wooden frame at the center of our altar. A pink dotted dress packed in a box that was given away to the church. A pair of yellow heels collecting dust underneath Dad’s bed. He still leaves the right side of the bed empty.
Today, I wanted to go to the beach. That beach. Dad placed eleven candles on my birthday cake, a pink heart topped with white buttercream, and I asked what I wanted. When I told him, he shook his head furiously. I couldn’t understand. I cried and I screamed but nothing changed his mind. I turned to the altar and saw her, candles illuminating her face. A halo of orange surrounded her.
If Dad wasn’t going to tell me who she was, I needed to find her myself.
When he slept, I snuck into his room and stole some money, maybe a couple hundred, it was dark, and took a night bus to the beach. I packed light, not planning to stay long until Dad reports me missing. Money, tissues, school ID, my hand-me-down cellphone, and her yellow heels. They were slightly dented, a bit too big on me.
It was almost dawn when I arrived at the beach. Slipping into her heels, I practiced. I could only imagine how she walked on the shoreline, her hair and dress flowing in the wind. When I got to the shore, I slipped and fell right onto it, my face imprinted on the damp sand before the waves washed it away in seconds. Propping myself up, I spit the sand out of my mouth. It was coarser than I imagined. I stood up, but my left foot laid flat. It took me a moment to realize the other shoe was wading in the water, as if it was being pulled away from me. In a panic, I ran towards the sea. The right shoe came off and so did my backpack.
I could not lose her. Not again, not when I was so close to finding her.
I ran.
Until my cellphone ringing was a distant noise. Until my torso was submerged in the water. Until I could no longer feel the sea bed under my feet.
All I could see was a tinge of yellow engulfed in an endless blue.
Davi Garcia is a poet, screenwriter, and playwright from Quezon City and a Creative Writing major at De La Salle University Manila. She has previously served as the Screen/Play Editor of Malate Literary Folio, and her works can be found in Pandan Weekly, Malate Literary Folio, Kinaiya Kolektib, and CultureCult Magazine. Trying to make sense of identity, her writing revolves around coming-of-age narratives, sexuality, and creating space for sapphic representation. Outside writing, she enjoys fashion, musicals, and making zines.
