WiP [Work in Progress]

Thoughts and ramblings of a Filipino author

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If only

March 1, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Several weeks back, a friend of mine, author and editor Liana Smith Bautista (@liasbautista on Twitter), posted a question on Facebook for her female forty-something contacts:

What’s the one thing you wish you’d known when you were in your 30s?

It was for an article she was going to write for the Female Network, an online lifestyle and women’s magazine. I didn’t think twice about contributing my two cents. But I thought long and hard for which particular thing I can share. Something that wasn’t very dramatic, but enough to have possibly reshaped the path I had taken in life had I followed that particular road.

The article came out last February 9th and my contribution was featured along with 5 other women’s replies. Yay!

So here’s what I said:

“I wish I’d known I could have looked forward to more employment options as a performing artist than an office girl. I had a door open to me that could have led me to being a professional actress or singer but I turned down the opportunity because I believed the wiser decision was to work behind the desk. If I’d chosen the artist’s way, I could be performing in Disneyland right now and having such a great time. My life doesn’t suck, though, but you know what I mean.”

I was a thirty-year old newbie marketing and PR person for PETA at the time. That’s PETA, the Philippine theater company; not PeTA, the animal rights group. I auditioned for one of the plays we were producing for the season. The play was an original Filipino musical first staged in the Netherlands, IIRC, and it was debuting on the Philippine stage the first year our marketing and PR team became a solid unit.

I made it through, and was chosen to play The Little Match Girl, alternating with another theater actress. It was an exciting time because it was the stage! And I’d be singing and acting! And it was a professional theater company and not just a school/student production and there was a possibility of going on tour… But also I’d be doing theater simultaneously with office work…Could I make it work?

Doubted it. Or maybe I didn’t want it enough? But well, like I mentioned in my reply, I’d grown up thinking the way to go is to be an office girl. So I ditched the opportunity in favor of a desk, a work computer, clients, and long hours burning the proverbial midnight oil.

Oy vey.

Years later, I auditioned again for another musicale but as an older person, I’d probably developed bigger insecurities and I guess it showed in my voice, in my movement. I didn’t make it through that time. And that was the end of it. And while there’d been events when I still got to perform on stage, that first opportunity still remained my one big TOTGA: The One That Got Away.

A scene from the one-act play “Moog” (Tower/Stronghold) by J. Dennis Teodosio and directed by Nor Domingo, staged at the PETA Theater Center for the Summer Lab in 2007

That’s water under the bridge now, and like I said in my reply, what I currently have in my life isn’t what I’d call fvcked up. I’m okay. My life is okay. My life is great! Because maybe if I had chosen to be an actress, there might have been people I’d never have met. And these people in my life right now make me happy.

And being happy makes up for everything else.

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[BLOG TOUR] Flipping The Script by Danice Mae P. Sison

February 25, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Miri dela Merced’s film director grandfather and Pabs Paglinauan’s studio head grandmother had a huge falling out that ended Lolo Ikong’s career. At seventeen, Miri finds herself in the same summer film internship program as the down-to-earth film studio heir Pabs, whom she’s decided to automatically write off, just because of his lineage. As Miri gets a crash course in her expectations vs the reality of what it’s like to work on a real movie, her true feelings for Pabs become harder and harder to ignore. In between attending outdoor screenings of classic Pinoy movies and battling monster production assistants together, can flipping the script on a decades-old grudge be only a few sequences away?

 

Genre: Romance, Young Adult
Release Date: February 15, 2019
Cover Models: Liane Palomo, Boo Gabunada
Cover Designed by: Tara Frejas
Flicker Design Identity: Clarissa Ines
Photographed by: Chi Yu Rodriguez
Makeup by: Carla De Guzman
Styling by: Alex Lapa

BUY LINKS:
For PH print edition: http://bit.ly/FTSPrintOrder
For International readers: http://bit.ly/FTSintl
For the Kindle edition: http://bit.ly/loloikong
Add us on Goodreads: http://bit.ly/FTSgr

So now what? Are we a thing? Do I want us to be a thing? Would it be so wrong if I say that I do? What do I do with these feelings, exactly?

 

So now what? Are we a thing? Do I want us to be a thing? Would it be so wrong if I say that I do? What do I do with these feelings, exactly? It was definitely more simple when we weren’t friends. It was easier hating Pabs, but I must admit that falling for him is a lot more interesting.

 

THE AUTHOR

Danice Mae P. Sison realized she wanted to be Harriet the Spy when she was very young. Since then, she has been digging out from real life experiences, pop culture obsessions, and her growing TBR pile of young adult and romance books for inspiration. She works in pay television as a channel manager, and has previously contributed as an author on the anthology Start Here. Flipping the Script is her first book.

Contact Danice:
danicemaepsison.wordpress.com
Twitter: @danicemaepsison
Email: hastyteenflick@gmail.com

 

I interviewed Danice about the book and her writing journey. Here’s what she has to say…

Tell me about your writing journey. How/when you started and how did you come by #romanceclass.

Iirc it was about the time after I read Mina V. Esguerra’s The Interim Goddess of Love in 2015 or so? I read it in one sitting on a bus trip from Manila to Baguio, and wanted to read more of her work. When I visited her blog, I came across an entry about #romanceclass and the free romance writing workshop she was holding at the time. I submitted a book description but dropped out very early in the game because… life. Anyway, I signed up for the FB group and lurked for about a year. I only became more active in the community when I spotted the callout for the “Start Here” anthology and the #romanceclassYA workshop shortly after.

Before you discovered #romanceclass, what romance books did you read?

I grew up reading Sweet Dreams, Sweet Valley High and Crosswinds pocketbooks. I read those from age 10-13. Then there was a long gap where I stopped reading romance and only one or two titles would grab my interest, like Diana Gabaldon’s “Outlander” series, (though I stopped after the fourth book!). I rediscovered the romance genre recently when I discovered Tiffany Reisz’s Original Sinners series. I was also reading a lot of M/M fanfic and BL manga, which led to C.S Pacat’s “Captive Prince” and K.J. Charles’ “A Charm of Magpies” and her “Society of Gentlemen” series.

Do you have a favorite romance author/book?

It’s hard to pick a favorite especially after discovering so many awesome authors, but a recent favorite would have to be Rebekah Weatherspoon’s FIT trilogy. I marathon-ed all three (plus the novella) in late 2018 because I couldn’t get enough of the “fit but soft” heroes in the books.

Tell us about how you came up with FTS. What were the difficulties you encountered while writing FTS? In what way was the writing process easy?

The #romanceclassYA workshop called for a story for young adults incorporating one Pinoy element that I wished there was more of in YA stories, or a Pinoy element I haven’t seen yet written in any YA. I immediately thought of coming up with a storyline that had to do with a couple of young filmmakers because I’d just completed my undergrad in Film the previous year (after a 15 year hiatus!) so a lot of my experience from being around young people in film was still quite fresh. That was the easy part.

However, to be honest I’m terrible with conflict, so I was struggling in the beginning how to bring the story to Act 2. I kept going back to the #romanceclass textbook to keep myself in check as I pieced the story together.

Is there a character you identify with?

It would have to be Mimi Dela Merced, the mom of the MC, Miri. I think if I became a parent, my parenting style would be like hers. That, and I wish any future daughter of mine would be as awesome as Miri is.

Is there a trope you dream of writing? What is it and why?

Oooh, there’s a lot I want to try experimenting with. The biggest one right now (and I’ve been thinking of this for about a year) is Older Woman/Younger Man. I look to previous work done by awesome #romanceclass writers Agay Llanera, Jay E. Tria, and Carla De Guzman and I want to contribute my own story! Reading these writers’ work have inspired me, and I think we need more of these. I need more of these, especially as I approach my 40’s. There are thankfully a lot of seasoned romances available, but I think I may need to write seasoned romances about 35+ women who don’t necessarily identify with those who are/have been previously married or have had children, because I’m 39 and haven’t experienced those personally. There must be a lot of us that haven’t, and am sure we’d also love to see some representation.

Where is Danice headed from here? What can we expect from you in the near future?

I’m a really slow writer when I don’t have any imposed deadlines, but I’m hoping to finish my next book, which is Older Woman/Younger Man, or Woman-in-her-thirties/young-man-in-his-barely-twenties. Here’s hoping I finish! *crosses fingers*

 

  • Is a community of authors who attended #romanceclass, #romanceclass2016, the steamy reads, YA classes organized by Mina V. Esguerra
  • Readers of the books by those authors
  • Readers of English-language romance books by Filipino authors
  • Actors and artists who are part of the event and publishing process

We are a community of Filipino writers and readers who gather together to do what we love. Quoting from Mina V. Esguerra:

“The #romanceclass community of authors is a group that came out of the free class I ran in 2013, meant to encourage Filipino readers of chick lit and contemporary romance to start writing and publishing their own stories. “romanceclass” was the hashtag used to informally discuss things with each other over Twitter, and it stuck. That time, 100 people signed up, and 16 authors completed a contemporary romance novella. They’ve since gone on to write more, publish, get publishing deals…and we continue to support each other on social media and everywhere else.”

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So I Just Turned 46…

October 15, 2018 • Leave a Comment

I have been neglectful of this blog. I haven’t any news to share so I didn’t feel like opening the site. But I just had a birthday, and I thought of making an entry. I hope I can update more often after this. 😉

So, yep. You read that right. I’m 46 now. A few more years, I’ll be officially a golden girl. Hah! I dunno what to feel about that, really. Maybe I’m excited or just blah.

Anyway, what did I do? How did I celebrate?

I didn’t have a shift last Friday, the 12th so the parents and I celebrated early. Went to a resto for a seafood buffet lunch because the weekend price of the buffet is more expensive. Har har! Stayed up til the wee hours of the morning replying to greetings, watching TV, and writing three articles for the community magazine. Three, because the editor will be on vacation out of town beginning next month and will only be back in January.

Saturday morning was gloomy, cold, and rainy. But what the heck? Rain is a blessing. Lunch was chicken and pork adobo eaten at home, then we heard Mass in the afternoon, and oh yay! Went to see Goyo: Ang Batang Heneral!

I’d been looking forward to that movie after seeing Heneral Luna a few years back. While Goyo did not leave me in as much tears and heavy feels as Heneral Luna did, the lines still hit home. This one has got to be my favorite:

“Ang pagkakaiba… ikaw, tapat sa idolo mo. Kaming mga pinatay at papatayin mo, tapat kami sa isang prinsipyo. Namatay si Luna na isang sundalong may paninindigan. Ikaw, pumapatay lang dahil sa utos. Hindi ka sundalo, Goyo. Isa kang… aso.” -Manuel Bernal

— Leong Makabayan 🇵🇭 🦁 (@LeongMakabayan) September 14, 2018

For non-Filipino followers of this blog, the lines translate to

The difference between us is, you are loyal to your idol. We who were killed, and will still be killed by your hand, we are loyal to our principles. Luna died as a soldier fighting to make a stand. You kill because you are told to kill. You are not a soldier, Goyo. You are a dog.

Great job, makers of this film! Was extra exciting seeing familiar faces in the movie–friends from Philippine theater. I am definitely looking forward to the next. Is it going to be Manuel Quezon?

Took photos on our way out of the movie house because nice backgrounds, ya?

Day ended, but the celebration continued with a trip to The Ripped Bodice. Author Sherry Thomas was having a book signing thing and yeah, had to go 😁.

  

Didn’t get the other books as I already have the Kindle versions.

Tomorrow, we are back to regular programming. Thank you, Lord, for 46 years. Thank you, one and all, who sent greetings. Cheers!

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[BLOG TOUR] Second Wave Summer by Tara Frejas, Six delos Reyes, Jay E. Tria

June 4, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Genre: Contemporary / Romance / Anthology

Release date: May 19, 2018

 

All roads lead back to beachside music festival Summer Crush for another weekend of high waves, rock & roll, and the promise of summer romance.

 

On any given day, Michael Brian doesn’t need to do much to hit the right notes with a girl, but there’s something about this day—and something about this girl—that’s got him out of tune. (A Taste of Summer, Six delos Reyes)

 

Indie filmmaker Datu puts on his dusty event videographer hat for Summer Crush. But memories of a love he let slip away resurface from every corner of this surf town. Now what he thought would be an easy job just isn’t so easy anymore. (Rushes, Tara Frejas)

 

Corporate-highflyer-on-vacation Ringo has a question to which cookie bar boss woman Kris has the answer, if only they’d stop getting in each other’s way. (Ask Me Nicely, Jay E. Tria)

 

LINKS

Amazon (ebook): bit.ly/secondwavesummer
Paperback (PH only): tarafrejas.com/orderform | http://www.jayetria.com/print-books-order-form/

Add the book on Goodreads

 

Excerpts

 

A Taste of Summer
Six de los Reyes

 

“Just so we’re on the same page. There’s no boyfriend, is there?” he asked when she returned. As much as he wanted to seem disinterested, even he could tell he was focusing too intently on the calluses on his fingertips. He raised his eyes, blinked away the memories, and grinned.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, there is no boyfriend currently in the picture?”

She raised a brow. “No.”

“Because I’d rather not be a party to…whatever. Also, I reserve the right to defend myself.”

“A party to…whatever. That happened before?”

“Actively in avoidance of.”

He smiled at her, the kind that said I’m trying to make this better and less awkward and I hope I’m not upsetting you. But she smiled at him too. As if it were he who inspired worry. She was worried about him. About something he’d said.

“It wouldn’t do to make premature conclusions.” That wasn’t an answer.

“I don’t conclude prematurely.”

“I should hope not.”

He was just tripping over his feet and making a fool of himself, wasn’t he?

“But no. No man in my life,” she said, stepping closer, so close a cloud of her scent fell over him. She smelled sweet. A familiar and disconcerting scent he couldn’t place. She anchored her hands on his sides. “Holy latissimus dorsi.”

“What?”

She blinked. “What?”

 

Rushes
Tara Frejas

 

“I knew it was you.”

Datu’s knitted brows strained when he looked up from his phone. “Oh. Hey.”

“You’re wearing that famous frown again,” Audrey, his brother’s girlfriend, pointed out. The strapless yellow dress she wore was bright and sunny, matching her smile. The sight gave him no other choice but to turn his frown upside down.

“Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Didn’t know you’d be here!” she exclaimed, her eyes fixed on his laptop. “And in true Datu Alvez fashion, too.”

“Work is what I’m here for.”

“Figures. You looked pretty intense just now.”

“Oh. I did?” he asked and threw his phone a quick glance before putting it away. “Well, you know me—I take my work seriously.”

That was a lie. Technically, he hadn’t really been working for the last ten minutes. Instead, he was having some sort of crisis upon realizing he had somehow butt-texted Kalila. It was that “do you wanna hang out” message, plus a string of random characters one could have only managed while drunk-texting.

That he had sent that message before he was ready was one thing, but it had been over an hour, and the lack of response made him antsy. He had to remind himself that she didn’t owe him a reply, but he wished she would.

He’d still take “no” over no reply at all.

“I know. I’ll be on my way then…” Audrey started to step away.

“Wait, aren’t you here with Pio?” Datu gathered his equipment, placed them neatly on his side of the wooden table, and motioned for Audrey to have a seat. She obliged.

“Pio’s still in Pampanga for a mall show.” Audrey took a small sip of what looked like sangria and turned her attention to the tabletop menu.

“Oh, yeah. For that movie.”

Her gold and red tassel earrings swung back and forth when she nodded. Nothing in her facial expression hinted at any sort of displeasure over Pio’s absence, and Datu wondered if she was okay with this set-up, or…

“Yes, Datu?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You look like you wanna ask me something.”

“Just wondering if you two are on vacation.”

Audrey nodded. “Until Monday.”

“Nice. And Pio being late to the party isn’t gonna be a problem, is it?”

“Nah, don’t worry. Besides, we have this running bet over who arrives at our dates first, and I’m two for three.” Audrey took sip of her drink, and a dimple appeared on her left cheek when she smirked.

A running bet. Huh. Where was that nifty idea when I needed it? He once had been the “absentee boyfriend” who got intoxicated by all his dreamchasing and forgot to hold on to the one dream that kept him grounded. Who are you kidding, Datu? Bet or not, it never would have worked out because you never showed up.

 

Ask Me Nicely
Jay E. Tria

 

April 14, Saturday
Kris


Ringo de Dios had a question to ask.

He always did. This wasn’t new. Ringo had a brain that ran faster than any driving I’d done in the traffic-less streets of Makati past midnight, egged on by an ‘80s rock anthem and one too many bottles of beer. His brain wasn’t reckless like that though (and neither was my driving since I crossed into my 30s, might I add). His brain operated on functioning levers and blueprints and workplans. It was a sound, beautiful, overworking mind. I loved it.

I was in love with this man and his beautiful, overworking mind.

“A backstage what to meet who again?” was the question he asked now.

It wasn’t at all what I’d been dodging. This question was cute, and I was expecting it. I’d been fielding quite a few like it in the past five plus months we’ve been together. It was one of my favorite things to do.

“A backstage pass,” I said, brushing the stubble on his chin with my knuckles. “To meet Trainman.”

I was trying to be cool when I said it, which was pointless. Ringo was there to witness me squeal like a pig on death row when I won the tickets off a radio show contest last month.

So oldschool, right? Snatching tickets from a radio show gimmick thanks to an hour of dialing-redialing-hanging-on-to-a-phone-line-with-a-whispered-prayer and a deep well of random trivia about a favorite band. But tried-and-true was so for reasons. And often they rewarded you.

Like now. Exhibit A. Two free tickets to Summer Crush music festival, inclusive of backstage passes to meet Trainman, the headlining band. The reason why now, at 2 a.m. on aSaturday, Ringo and I were out of bed and on our way to surf town La Union, where there was sand, music, bagnet, and bronzed abs a-plenty.

I died a little inside when I won, I swear.

“Ah, that band with the surly-looking guitarist,” Ringo said, clapping his hands once for effect, dark eyes rounding. “The guy whose lips curl and eyebrows meet when he sings the chorus like it makes him angry. Why does he need to do that, I wonder?”

“Because he is Kim, the band leader, and he is sexy and he knows it.” I slapped Ringo’s arm as I said it, which was cue for laughter. His and mine.

Of course Ringo knew about Trainman. On our first date, I learned that despite being 25, a.k.a. seven years younger than me, the guy knew nothing about music enjoyed by most kids, erm, people his age. He knew virtually nothing about music, despite having a cool mother who named him after the most chill Beatle. So I made sure to commence his indie rock-and-roll education ASAP. He had aced it, of course, as he was programmed to do.

An offshoot of this though was that teasing me about my rockstar crush was now one of his hobbies.

“Who’s sexy?” Ringo had stopped laughing. The spark remained in his eyes but it hinted at danger now. My heart jumped inside my chest and my lips parted, first to give him a smile, next to accept his kiss.

Ringo’s kiss was slow and deliberate. Mouth weighing against my mouth, claiming, tasting. Tip of his tongue stroking the corners of my lips, teasing, while his strong hand cradled the back of my head. Fingers buried in my long, thick curls, kneading down to my nape and up again, melting everything away.

Awareness, included. And propriety.

Our suspended moment broke with the screech of rubber against road. The bus braked, lurched forward, taking us passengers with it, jerking most of the rows awake. It must have been a goat or a horse crossing the road. Dawn was hours away from breaking and it was dark and cool outside, sheets of fog visible through the grimy windows.

Soon the bus was back to its rolling stroll on the pavement. Our fellow passengers were groaning and folding back to sleep around us, and I was reminded that Ringo and I were not exactly in the best place for melt-the-world-away kisses.

“There are people.” I shushed the man whose lips were toying with my earlobe.

“Who is sexy?” His tongue grazed the shell of my ear.

I shivered, from the blast of pine-scented air above us and the shot of heat from my navel. “We’re in a bus.”

“Whose idea was that?” Ringo chuckled, but he eased off and leaned back. He tugged at the thick cotton of my hoodie and tucked it around me, zipping it all the way up under my chin. “I wanted to drive you.”

I buried myself inside my jacket as he pulled the hood up and over my head. “This is your first music festival. You need the full experience. And it starts with a long trip on a midnight bus.”

“I’m not complaining. I am asking who’s sexy.” Dark eyebrows up and wiggling. Ripe lips curved in a smirk, bearing my final warning.

“My boyfriend is sexy,” I whispered in a rush, should he dare attack me with his demanding kisses again while we were in this packed public transport vehicle surrounded by half-asleep, full-on snoring travelers. “And apparently requires validation.” I met his mouth with mine anyway, quick and firm, before sinking back against my seat.

Ringo let out a quiet laugh, self-satisfied and triumphant. The brat.

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[BLOG TOUR] The Crime Circle by Yeyet Soriano

May 30, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Four stories/arcs make up a circle, where the lines are blurred between victim and perpetrator, between innocent bystander and involved participant, and between right and wrong.

3B4U

David Roces is the front man of Baliw, one of the biggest rock bands in 90’s Manila. He is young, talented, driven, and extremely popular. He also just received an anonymous letter with newspaper clippings saying, “There’ll be 3B4U.” And then the front men of other bands start dying.

            Blackout.

            1-2-3.

            A steady drumbeat pierced through the din of voices and suddenly everyone in the dark, cramped room was silent.

            A seemingly bizarre bass guitar riff floated through the smoke-filled air, and people started moving, slowly but deliberately.

            A rhythm guitar joined the fray, and the energy level of the spectators increased.

            A voice, more a musical groan, took up the melody, and the crowd started going wild.

            The music slowly reached its climax, and suddenly there was silence.

            A single spotlight turned on and focused on a lone figure caressing a sleek black electric guitar. The sounds made by his fingers running across the strings brought the people in the club to a frenzied state. The guitar solo was both powerful and heartrending, the guitarist’s face was covered by a mass of unruly long hair.

            Blackout and silence.

            The anticipation was palpable. A few seconds more and the music exploded. The lights went on, and a voice pierced through everyone’s consciousness. From that moment, everyone’s focus was centered on the singer, whose voice soared above the music; every word he uttered went straight to the heart. He was taller than normal, lean, wearing a simple white T-shirt, black ripped denims and boots. His eyes were deep-set and expressive, and his mouth was wide, his lips full, but his mop of longish unruly dark brown hair concealed half of his face. Ordinarily, offstage, he was considered almost handsome, but when he was onstage and making his music, he was beautiful.

            The crowd went crazy.

            Very apt, since the band onstage was named . . . Baliw, the Filipino word for crazy.

Lost

Zia is an artist with a lot of inner demons to slay. A victim of rape as a child, her road to recovery has been long and arduous. In fact, she is still on it. But then she starts receiving anonymous emails with links to her old court case. Then she gets an offer of a lifetime any artist would die for. Are they related? Can she ever really escape her dark past and not let it define her?

Trigger warning: this is about a child rape case and the effects on the person when she grew up. There are scenes that pertain to the act itself and this is definitely not for the faint hearted.

 

The Artist

Zia is a mad woman. Her hair is disheveled, her hands and knees stained with colors. The canvass is on the floor, and she is moving her entire body on the canvass, to distribute the colors in the bizarre pattern that is in her head. There are tools scattered around—brushes, paints, different types of cloth and material, and in the middle of it all, Zia, operating on adrenaline, coffee, and a mad propulsion to let out all her feelings on the canvass.

The painting that is on its way to being created is not for the faint of heart, but neither is it without appeal. It is hauntingly beautiful, and more so because the person creating it is possessed, haunted. Her seemingly random scattering of colors blend in a way that makes the painting more alive. More heartbreaking. More forlorn.

It is sad. Frightening. Magnificent.

After a few hours, Zia collapses just beside the finished painting. She is of the same color as the canvass, and as she remains unmoving, she seems to be an extension of the painting. A spillage.

Many hours later, she wakes up. She had been dreaming. She looks at the canvass beside her and realizes she hadn’t been dreaming. She surveys herself in the mirror, and she doesn’t recognize herself, all covered in paint.

She takes a shower and the paint and dirt and everything else is washed away.

She is clean.

On the outside.

She will never be clean on the inside.

 

*****

 

Another email, this time with no link, just a picture and a screenshot of part of a document. The picture is of a child on a long bench or pew surrounded by important-looking people, inside what looks like a courtroom. The child is playing with a Barbie doll while eating what looks like a pack of biscuits.

The document screenshot underneath the photo had portions blacked out.

“That sometime on the _____ week of _______________, ______, at ______________, Barangay __________________________, Municipality of _____________, City of __________________, Philippines and within the jurisdiction of this Honorable Court, the abovenamed accused, by means of force and intimidation, did then and there wilfully, unlawfully and feloniously lie with and have carnal knowledge with ____________________________________, a six (6) year old minor, against her will and consent.

Contrary to law.”

Notwithstanding the misspelling and wrong tenses, it should hurt, but it really doesn’t anymore. I am numb. Even with the details blacked out, I know what the words would say. How can I not?

I know the name of the child in the picture. Elizabeth F. Henson.

The child in the picture is me.

The case is of my rape when I was six years old by my next-door neighbor.

No wonder I’m screwed up, right?

Whoever sent this email wants me to be flustered.

But I am not.

So, whoever you are, bring it on.

Nothing more can hurt me.

The bastard who raped me made sure of that.

My own family made sure of that.

Climb

Pablo is an IT practitioner by day and an erotic fiction writer by night. He is also an information broker, responsible for the recent heists in different executive subdivisions. He suddenly develops a conscience, but he knows his policeman contact will not take kindly to this very lucrative venture ending abruptly. So what can Pablo do? And will the friendly neighborhood sari-sari store owner with a checkered past and his tall, dark and sexy Law student niece be instrumental in helping him out?

Note: This has a high heat level written in the POV of a male erotic writer.

 

“Qing bu yao shang hai wo men! Bu yao shang hai wo men de hai zi!”

I motioned to her to keep quiet, to keep her toddler boy close to her. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but I was sure that she was pleading for me not to hurt them. The look of fear is universal. She embraced him with her arms, and that’s how they were when I tied her hands.

            “Which room has a sturdy lock?” I asked.

            “Zhu wo shi wei sheng jian,” she whispered. She must not have realized that she was speaking a language I could not understand. Stress and fear made people do strange things, because I was sure she could speak perfect English and Filipino.

            “I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head.

            “The master’s bathroom.” Her English was impeccable. She motioned with her head and eyes toward the said room.

            I heard the others ransacking the other rooms.

            “Quickly!” I led them to the bathroom. There was a large tub. Oh boy.

            “Lock the door, get in the tub, and don’t make a sound. Don’t open the door unless you know who it is. Don’t open it even for me.”

            “Xie xie,” she whispered.

            I understood that she was thanking me, even if I didn’t understand the words she uttered. I felt like a cad. She was looking at me like I was saving her life, when it was my fault that their house was being robbed. My fucking fault.

 

*****

            There had been a series of home burglaries in the executive subdivision where the Chinese mom lived. The village was huge, situated over three big local areas—Pasig, Cainta, and Taytay. There had been speculations as to who were involved. People said the police were involved. Some said the burglars were residents.

They’re almost correct. There is a policeman involved, some hired muscle, and yes, a resident—me.

I’m no mastermind. I am no longer sure why I am still involved. Okay, I know why.

I do it to be accepted.

I am an information broker. You can’t imagine how much information can be had from different sources that we don’t know can actually make us very vulnerable.

First, there is Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, Snapchat, and other social media platforms. The amount of information you can get about someone from the internet is actually insane, if you know how to consolidate and use it.

Next, there are the people we usually let into our homes without a second thought. People who can be asked to divulge information without them even knowing it. The maids, the electricians, the plumbers, the construction workers, the guys who deliver the mineral water and gas, the men who deliver and pick up party tables and chairs, the home service masseuses, and even the tutors.

If you have a way to get specific pieces of information from all these sources and know how to weave them together, then you get enough to stage a burglary.

Take the pretty Chinese mother, for example. A construction guy known for being a tsimay killer (or someone who likes getting pretty, young house help as his girlfriends) is in my payroll, to an extent. We would hang out for drinks after he does some work on my house, and I just let him talk. I make prodding follow-ups, and on his fourth shot, he would basically tell me anything. Sometimes, I can ask him to date a maid and transmit to me what he finds out. What he knows is that I am a writer, and I need lots of material. He never questioned my motives for the questions.

From him, I found out (courtesy of a not-so-young-but-still-single nanny) that the beautiful woman’s husband was a prominent businessman who had lots of cash lying around the house toward the end of the month. He also liked his gadgets and toys and has a state-of-the-art entertainment center. The maid bragged that when the family is out, she would watch her favorite noontime show on the big-ass screen with surround sound. From her too came the schedules of his frequent out-of-town trips. She was also too glad to share that she was happy not to have to clean up after any house dogs, and that she usually cleans the garage on the dot at 5 PM, opening the gate to let the garbage out.

I should have told the beautiful woman to fire her blabbermouth maid.

Breathe

Rachel is a horror fiction writer known for her dark and disturbing stories, but she doesn’t look it in her bright summer dresses and perennial smile. She tries her hand at writing a true-to-life crime story from her past and in the process, discovers that she was never just an innocent bystander but an integral part of the story. Can a wizened crime novelist join forces with an elegant psychiatrist to help unravel Rachel’s past in order to save her future?

Trigger Warning: This has some themes of child abuse—physical, emotional and psychological—as well as crimes of passion, police brutality, and suicide.

 

The Monster

“Mom, you’ve got to believe me! There’s a monster inside the closet!”

            “Liam! For the thousandth time, there is no monster in your closet! You should stop watching those horror cartoons and playing those stupid games on your tablet!”

            “But Mom!”

            “Go to sleep! I have an early conference tomorrow, and I need to prepare!”

            Liam’s mom tucked him in and hurriedly kissed his forehead. She left the door open a bit, but she forgot to turn on the night light before she left.

            Liam sighed. He switched on his night light and waited. He had made up his mind. This had been his mother’s last chance. And she had blown it.

            Liam stared at the door of the closet intently. He tried to still his breathing, because he had to be prepared to go through his plan. It was the only way he could be free.

            The closet door opened a fraction of an inch. Liam had to rub his eyes, because he wasn’t sure whether it was just his imagination or if there was really something there. Some part of him wanted to suddenly confirm that he was really just imagining everything, like what his mother said.

            But then the door opened another inch. And when it was opened around six inches, it stopped. Liam knew from experience that it would take a few more minutes before the door opened wider and the monster appeared and his nightmare would begin. He had only a few minutes.

            He took the glass of water on his bedside table, drank a few gulps, and then screamed at the top of his lungs.

            As always, it took his mother a few minutes before she stomped into his room, irritation on her face.

            “Liam! I swear! You are just doing this to annoy me! I need my sleep! I don’t need your drama tonight!”

            “Mom, I am seven years old. Couldn’t it be possible that I screamed because I really am scared and I just need my mother? You are still my mother, right? Not just someone who looks at me like a burden?”

            Liam’s mother couldn’t speak. She stared at the little boy that used to mean the world to her. The little boy that she loved to death, and for a moment, she almost went to him to embrace him, sorry that she had been short with him the past couple of weeks.

            She had been struggling to make ends meet. The separation from Liam’s father had taken a toll on her, and she just didn’t have time to coddle a troublesome little boy at this point in time. So instead of softening, she hardened and said the words that sealed her fate.

            “Do you blame me for looking at you like a burden? You have done nothing but try to make me believe this far-fetched lie about a monster in your closet. Liam, we have to face reality. We no longer live the perfect life. The sooner you realize that the better. I am trying my best!”

            “Mom, I’m seven. I don’t have to face reality just yet. But you do.”

            Liam’s mother looked at the steely resolve of her son, dressed in his Transformers pajamas, tucked under the Marvel superheroes blanket on his bed. He looked at her, not as the innocent seven-year-old boy she was trying to make grow up fast, but as a person that was years beyond his age. And there was something in his eyes.

            She heard a loud creak and the closet door to her side opened wide.

            “Goodbye, Mom.”

            Before she could ask Liam what he meant, she saw something emerge from the closet, something she would not have ever imagined existing in her entire life. This “something” was huge and dark and had lots of teeth. And this something had suddenly taken hold of her and was dragging her into the closet. It was happening so fast, she couldn’t react. She didn’t even have time to scream. She felt the most exquisite pain and then there was blackness as the closet door closed.

            The monster will no longer bother Liam, ever again.

            Liam stood up, went to the closet, and opened it gently. Inside, he saw the familiar sight of his clothes and toys on the shelves. He smiled, and closed it again, just as gently.

            He went back to bed, prepared to have a good night’s sleep, something he has not had for the past weeks. Before he closed his eyes, he whispered some final words to his mom.

            “If only you believed me . . .”

Release Dates and Book Links

The Crime Circle print versions (local through POD and international through Amazon CreateSpace) were released on March 24, 2018. The novella 3B4U (TCC #1) was also released at the same time as an ebook on Amazon. The other novellas are planned for release as follows:

(TCC #2) Lost – May 31, 2018
(TCC #3) Climb – August 2018
(TCC #4) Breathe – October 2018

bitly.com/TCC-print → The Crime Circle local print order form
bitly.com/TCC-print-I → International (CreateSpace)
bitly.com/TCC-3B4U → ebook TCC #1 3B4U (Amazon)
bitly.com/TCC-Lost → ebook TCC #2 Lost (Amazon)

bitly.com/TCC-GR → The Crime Circle in Goodreads
bitly.com/TCC-3B4U-GR → TCC #1 3B4U in Goodreads
bitly.com/TCC-Lost-GR → TCC #2 Lost in Goodreads

 

The Author

Yeyet Soriano is a multi-genre author who writes speculative fiction, crime fiction and contemporary romance.Based in Manila, Philippines, her day job is that of an Asia-Pacific regional senior IT manager for a multinational corporation. She is married to a man who has never read of any of her works (he only reads to fall asleep), and they have three wonderful kids—a teen-aged daughter who just entered college and who is pursuing her passion for street dance, a sweet daughter in fourth grade who is a budding poet and writer in her own right, and a son in first grade who hasn’t taken up reading for fun yet, but is unbelievably smart and charming.

Email: yeyetms@gmail.com
Author Website and Blog: www.yeyetsoriano.com
Blog: www.ysrealm.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Yeyetsorianowrites/
Twitter: http://twitter.com/ysrealm
Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/ysrealm/

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