A collection of short stories set in the near future of an alternate timeline chronicling the major events on Earth following the arrival of the space anomalies Trógon and Rígma.
Inspired by various philosophical and scientific concepts, song lyrics...
Howell's, before that tragic incident, was a boring and empty modern home. It wasn't cold and lonely and scary. For all who went by and saw this place, it was an oddity. That was proven true some days later.
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Howell's is a low-cost boarding house and a funeral home. I own the former. My associate, Rogelio, owns the latter and was also the mortician. The place was given to me by a family friend who said she'd be gone for a while. She didn't say where she was going or why she had to leave. I'm still waiting for her today, although I don't have high hopes for her return.
Our lodgers were all Southeast Asians, and for that, Rogelio and I, as Filipinos, felt at ease with them. Interactions with them had me feeling like I was talking to a fellow Pinoy in English. They were wonderful people and often paid the rent on time. We became good friends with them.
I woke up at dawn and prepared a huge breakfast for myself and my lodgers: tapsilog on a platter. I made the table, and then ate. Rogelio entered through the backdoor. We greeted each other. He made a pot of coffee, poured himself a cup, and sat next to me. He took a long sip and made a plate of tapsilog and hunched over it as if the food was going to escape.
"Anything new?" I asked him. That's how we begin our morning conversations most of the time, asking if either of us have something good to tell.
Rogelio informed me about the latest achievements of our favorite P-pop group, SB19. I couldn't help but marvel and feel super proud not just of the said group, but of the rising popularity of our people. The world needs to know just how much of Filipino greatness everybody is missing. They are too focused on western and K-pop artists, forgetting that other nations can produce good music, too.
Footsteps sounded from the stairs. It was the lodger on the third floor, Sengphet Chanthavong. He's from Laos and an old classmate of mine in our college days. A good guy, quite shy but very nice.
I smiled and waved hello. He waved back. I prepared a plate for him. He took it and ate quietly, like he used to. I turned back to Rogelio, but he was finished with his meal and rose. He put the dishes in the sink and retreated to his room which connects the boarding house to his funeral home.
A moment later, music played in his room ("Karma" by Skusta Clee, featuring Gloc-9). I heard him singing along as he moved his stuff inside.
I rose, telling Sengphet to just put his dishes in the sink, and went upstairs to prepare a room for our new guest. I walked into the corridor and the doors of the occupied rooms opened and my other lodgers-two pairs of twins-exited.
The first pair of twins was the Salaknib brothers, jolly-spirited and easygoing folks from Guimaras. The second pair was the Hadi sisters, soft-spoken and rarely apart but wonderful people from Indonesia.
The brothers greeted me, and I told them about the tapsilog. They hurried downstairs along with the sisters. I went into the room at the end of the corridor. I hadn't cleaned the place for a while. A thick layer of dust blanketed the floor, cobwebs clung to the corners of the walls and the ceiling. I could say the same about the other unoccupied rooms. I lost the motivation to keep them clean last year when the El Niño season began. Cleaning on a hot day makes me ill, as I'm very allergic to dust and sweat causes my skin to itch like mad.
