Little White Mice

The first thing she saw was the hole in the wall. Why was her head pounding?

She didn’t remember doing this. But the punctured wall and the scars on her fist say she did. She really could not remember. In fact, she didn’t remember much of what happened the night before.

Her usual breakfast slop wasn’t beside her this morning. Usually a metal tray sloshed with some cold, undefinable paste would be waiting beside her before she even opened her eyes. It felt odd it wasn’t there; they never missed a schedule. Were they punishing her? And for what? She was getting a headache just trying to figure everything out.

She shuffled down, trying to get to the other side of the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her stomach started to growl in protest. She sure could use some of that slop right about now.

She hated this side of the room. The bulb had burnt out a long time ago and none of them had bothered to replace it. It didn’t make sense since she was here as punishment anyway. Let her suffer, they must’ve told themselves. She hated the dark so much.

Her heart was pounding. Something wasn’t right. She felt her way through the dark, uncertain of what she would find. Logically, there shouldn’t find anything here. She had a barren cell, devoid of any entrances and passageways except for those kept secret by her captors. Only they knew the way in and only the could find their way out.

She held her breath. Her arms were stretched out before her, feeling their way in the darkness. There was nothing but air.

Wet. She felt something wet and thick at her feet. She tried to keep her footing, but the dark and her bare now slippery feet caused her to lose her balance. The floor smelled like fresh meat.

Her hand touched something that felt too frighteningly human. She had no intention of finding out. She shuffled quickly to her feet.

Get out of the dark, get out of the dark, she said to herself. She could feel something stirring. It didn’t feel good. It wasn’t safe. For once, she wished her captors would come for her.

She flung her arms, fearfully. Desperately. Maniacally. She thought she scratched something. She felt blood underneath her fingernails.

One more step and she would be back in the light. She stumbled onto the hard floor, her back never so grateful for the cold cement. It took more than a minute for her heart to stop racing. Her breaths were deep and fast.

Slowly, she got to her feet. Her movements, unsteady and far from graceful. She pushed her body against the wall for balance. She was out of the dark at last.

Something wasn’t right though. A fierce chill went down her spine. She looked up at the blackness before her.

Another pair of eyes stared back at her. She could see nothing else. Just those eyes, piercing, turning her body as cold as the floor she’d picked herself up from. She scrambled frantically to get away.

In her panic, she lost her footing. Arms flailing, she grasped at the first thing within reach. The latch was flimsy and broke off the wall in an instant. She slipped and slammed her head against the wall. The everything went black.

The first thing she saw was the hole in the wall. Why was her head pounding…

Dancing Solo

Early last weekend, I was running an errand and cut through the mall before any of the shops were even open. Amidst the closed stores, an older gentleman was dancing an old-fashioned waltz by himself. It looked like was practicing. He saw me, looked away and kept dancing like I wasn’t even there.

Now, days later, I wonder what he was practicing for. A ballroom tournament perhaps? Did he mean to take the championship away from a lifelong rival? Maybe he was practicing to dance with his daughter, the lovely bride-to-be. Or did he have a date? His first one since his wife passed away all those years ago.

I do not know his story. But does that even matter? His dance alone triggers a million more.

HE knows his story. And maybe, in the end, that is all WE need to know.

© August 2016 Shirley Tan

The Hoarder

She made no apologies and hoarded books like a puddle collected the rain. She would read every single one of them, take in every word. Their contents filled her inside and became part of something she knew could never be taken away from her. Books can never be stolen once they’re in your head. And in her mind, she was rich beyond her wildest dreams.

© July 2016 Shirley Tan

Walk The Day

The darkness stretched on forever. At least, that’s what it felt like as they travelled on, night after night. The day was too wrought with the risk of being caught. The boy understood this. But he grew tired of walking, even on those beautiful nights when the wind blew cool and an ocean of stars painted the evening sky.

Prophesy says, at their journey’s end, they will walk the day once again. The boy could not wait.

There were days when he wasn’t as hopeful. When the nights proved more difficult, more endless, more futile. His patience ran low. And he cursed The Elder One, “This is foolish! What if at the end of all this, there was never a light?”

The Elder One never missed a step. “Then, that is when you be one, my son.”

© July 2016 Shirley Tan

Give Love

Just because you’re single, doesn’t mean you can’t show some love. Make a donation to your favorite cause this Valentines Day. 🙂

Simbang Gabi and Other Stories, Day 1: The Hesitant Immigrant and the Overheard Dream Sequence

9 days. 9 stories. 1 wish.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to do the Simbang Gabi Project again this year. I didn’t know if I would still have the time or the energy or the skill to do it again. This year hasn’t exactly been my most prolific, writing-wise. I didn’t know where to begin, or what to wish for. I didn’t know if I could still do it; I was afraid I’d fail this time. But fear of regret trumps fear of failure any day. It needed to be done. The stories are still out there. And they’re not going to tell themselves.

Welcome to Simbang Gabi and Other Stories — Year 2, Day 1. Here goes nothing.

_______________________________

The Hesitant Immigrant and the Overheard Dream Sequence

*Based on a true story. And a true dream.

She was the only person talking on the train that morning. Everyone could hear what she was saying over her cell  phone. Especially me. Not that I could help it, seeing as I was sitting directly in front of her. Forget about having a quiet train ride to work today.

I could tell from the conversation that the person on the other end of the line was one of either two things: her best friend and closest confidant or her shrink. Because I seriously did not know who else you’d read off the entries from your dream journal to at 8 in the morning while riding in public transit. Sigh. I needed coffee.

“It starts off with me in one of those old-fashioned bookstores,” she began, reading from a small notebook she pulled out from her purse. “There’s a bed out front with books strewn all over it but none of them were for me. I continue to walk towards the shelves inside.

I keep searching until I find the book I was looking for. It’s a red, leather-bound hardcover. On the front, it has three white concentric circles on it, with a dot in each circle. There’s also a man on the cover. You know the Da Vinci man? Yeah, that’s what it looked like.

The title of the book? It was Fidelity by Mark Ryan.

As soon as I found it, I immediately ran to tell you. You were wearing a powder blue shirt and jeans. ‘I found him! I found him!’, I said. And that’s when I woke up.”

By then, she decided to end the conversation due to the bad reception she was receiving. We’d hit one of several underground tunnels and it was only bound to get worse. She said goodbye and hung up the phone.

The silence gave me an opportunity to play dream interpreter, if only in my head. I always liked playing psychologist. I figure people out for sport.

For starters, the old-fashioned bookstore simply meant she was a very conservative person. She liked to read and keep to herself. I could imagine her using the book as a figurative shield, reading on so as not to have to engage in actual conversation. The reference to books on a bed was her search for a romantic partner (“none of them were for me”). She kept looking and looking until she found exactly what she was looking for. And what was that? Fidelity by the guy she’s probably dating and whose name is most likely to be Mark Ryan.

What happened to this woman? And why was fidelity from this man so important that she had to dream about it? Was she hurt before? And did he do it? Despite her long, very detailed and very revealing conversation, I never got any answers. I only had more questions. Well, just one. The most important one.

What’s the story here?

TV Commercial for Globe DUO Blaze

Globe DUO was a unique service, the first of its kind in the market that would allow you to use your mobile phone to call any landline in the Philippines without the exorbitant metered charges. Just one flat rate for all calls, whether to mobile or landline. It was a breakthrough innovation that deserved no less than an equally radical launch. This material went through several initial studies and I was called to come in mid-project to help out. I got lucky with the idea of cellphone envy. If a mobile phone cannot be a Globe DUO phone, then what was the point of existing at all?

Right now, since my blog doesn’t allow for certain video uploads, you can view the commercial via youtube.

It was concept unheard of in the clutter of straight-forward, product-centric advertising for Philippine telecommunications. We were lucky to have such brave clients and an even braver team at that time. This resulted in an amazing material we were all proud of and sales that skyrocketed through the roof — 2393% increase in registration within one month of airing. The material was also featured in Campaign Asia Media Magazine.