the maiden and the crocodile

A story of mine, "The Maiden and the Crocodile", is reprinted in this issue of Bewildering Stories. It first appeared in Story Philippines.

fiction - new and upcoming

I have a few new stories out and upcoming.

"The Many Loves of Ramil Alonzo" appears in the latest issue of the Philippines Free Press (Aug 23,2008). While definitely not a poet, I wanted to try writing a story that had poetry in it, and experimented with a few forms. The story is about a man and his menagerie of monstrous lovers.

"I, D.I." appears in October in an antho edited by Erlinda Panlilio and published by Anvil Publishing entitled "Belonging: Stories of Relationships". It's a non-fiction extravaganza with contributions from Edith Tiempo, Rowena Torrevillas, Joi Barrios, Sarge Lacuesta, Ricardo de Ungria, Krip Yuson, and a lot more. My CNF (creative non-fiction) piece is about a dance instructor whose oscillations go beyond the ballroom. Writing it was quite an experience for me, and I deployed fiction techniques to get the story done.

I have a story in "Exotic Gothic 2" edited by Danel Olson, to be published later this year by Ash-Tree Press. Danel, who selected stories from seven continents, provides the links to the table of contents as well as his preface. Here are some advance reviews.

Fingers crossed for a few other submissions out in various markets.

Writing is a bit slow these days, but with an unexpected letter from Night Shade Books, I'm more jazzed up to work on the novels I want to finish.

But, but, but, there is still Philippine Speculative Fiction 4 to get done - so send in your best stories!

manong/growing up filipino

Ever since my younger siblings started talking, their default name for me was "Manong". When the girls were in grade school and high school, even their friends called me "Manong". Even now, when chance places one of my sisters' friends in my path (and mind you, they are no longer the giggly little girls they were then), the inevitable "Hi, Manong!" comes my way. I am everyone's "Manong" (or these people actually think it's my real name).

"Manong" means elder brother, elder uncle, elder man, as well as (to me and Nikki) taxi driver, security guard, carpenter, gardener, waiter, gas station attendant, cigarette vendor, policeman - generally anyone who is older, whose name you do not know, that you want want to speak directly and respectfully to.

With the combination of our household with the step-household (in principle, if not in the actually moving-together-in-one-house manner), my sisters experienced the addition of several brothers and sisters, all but one older than me. These boys also ended up being called "Manong" too - but with each of their names appended Manong JayJay, Manong Ricky, Manong Roly, Manong Michael, Manong Joel. I fully expected to become Manong Dean or Manong Deanbo. But my sisters and youngest brother continued to simply call me "Manong".

One time, I asked one of them why. I think it was Maureen or Reb who said "Because you're the original Manong."

Just like buko pie, I guess.

*

Cecilia Manguerra Brainard has announced the roster of contributors to her new anthology "Growing Up Filipino II", which includes Amalia Bueno, Leslieann Hobayan, Rashaan Alexis Meneses, Paulino Lim, Marianne Villanueva, Jonathan Jimena Siason, Veronica Montes, Edgar Poma, Tony Robles, Kannika Claudine Pena, Erwin Cabucos, Aileen Suzura, Jaime L. An Lim, Elsa Orejudon Valdimiano, Dolores De Manuel, Maria Victoria Beltran, M. G. Bertulfo, Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor, Katrina Ramos Atienza, Oscar Penaranda, Geronimo G. Tagatac and me.

The Young Adult antho will be published by Anvil and PALH later this year.

fiction: ever, after

Ever, After
By Dean Francis Alfar


Once upon a time, there was a young girl whose mother had died. This, her father told her, was when the girl was small enough to rest in his arms.

I did not expect you to find me, but I suppose someone in your new station has certain privileges. I do not mean to sound adversarial, but you belong to a chapter in my life I thought long closed. Yes, it’s true that I still live, but far away – or so I thought. I hope you do not take my candid response to mean that I wish the past revoked. I do not. I made my choice, and yes, yes I left him and you. The reasons are small but manifold, and yes, if it gives you comfort, I do sometimes think of what might have been if I had stayed. But I didn’t.

1. My Second Husband. It was like I was half-blind until I met him. Then my eyes betrayed me, then my heart, then my lips. Reason was the last bastion of resistance as I asked myself what other people would say, what they would think, how they would judge. Then I decided that in the end, judgments are worth less than the energy spent to make them, and I went with him. Of course I am happier. And yes, sometimes I imagine regret. But it is such as small thing.

2. You. Are you surprised? Are you rolling your eyes in disbelief? Are you asking, as I suppose you should, if I loved you why did I leave you as well? Why didn’t I take you with me? The answer is this: in the new space I chose to occupy, there was only room for one. And yes, I chose myself. Was it not a selfish thing? Yes and no. And no, I do not care to know what you think. Because it will not change a thing.

3. My Garden. It is beautiful and demands only what I can give. My ornamental trees grow because they have to, because it is in their nature. I only help it along; devotion is my only magic. There is only so much a person can give, after all.


Her father loved her as best he could, but soon married a widow. Before long, he passed away.

First, a caveat: you know, of course, that I am dead. I do not know how much the love of those gone matters to the living, but if it is a comfort to you, here is my list. My honest list, my beloved daughter.

1. Your mother. It sounds trite and tired but it’s absolutely true. She was the first my heart knew, and the night she left was the time I think I began to die. If I could change things, I would change almost every day we spent together. I’d alter our conversations, or at least my part in them. I don’t recall every word but I know the sense of what I’d try for. And I’d ask her point blank to stay.

2. You, of course. I remember when you were born, how I felt my heart expand to accommodate the love that came over me like a towering wave. I didn’t think I could love you, given that all that I was I had already surrendered to your mother. But when I saw you, I realized that what I previously believed was utterly false. It grew stronger as you grew older; you look so much like her. I’m sorry that the truth places you at number two, but you asked and I am compelled to speak. But you must know that beyond this absurd list, I treasure you. No, I cannot “the most” or “the best”, but it’s true nonetheless.

3. Your Step-Mother. I know how you two do not get along, but I suppose you’d have to be a man to understand why I remarried. Or you have to be placed in a situation where the rest of your life looks like a dismal road. There is comfort in having a companion, someone of my age to talk to, someone to sleep with at night.


The stepmother was cruel to the young girl and made her life miserable. She kept her in the house, away from society.

I can guess what you think I’ll answer. It’s too easy. We have become predictable, you and I, caught up in your tragic expectations, your self-made drama. You never liked me, and I could never love you. What are you to me, after all? It is blood that sings true. Even if you gave me more than three numbers to fill, you will never find your name there.

1. Myself. If someone tells you that they love themselves least, you are speaking to a liar. You may accuse me of many things, as you have, but I have always spoken the truth. If I coerce myself to love you, as you no doubt have dreamed, ask yourself this: is love forced still love?

2. My Daughters. After all, part of me lives within them, and I am responsible for both. What mother leaves her children? You know the answer, of course. It is to her that all the bitterness of your youth, everything, should be directed to. Not to me, not to mine.

3. Your Father. I found him broken and entered the marriage knowing I could never replace your mother. But I did love him, in my way. Do you think it foolish, to give with little expectation? Perhaps. But it was enough. Unlike you, some of us have to work for what comfort we get to keep.


The young girl longed to attend a ball but was prevented from going by her stepmother. But her godmother gave her what she needed to go.

This request, I must confess, I find rather odd. What sort of woman asks people questions like these? It is a good thing I am not the sort to take offense. I loved you from the moment I was asked to love and protect you. If I could be your mother, I would. But I am not, I cannot, no matter how much I wish. There is, sadly, a limit to what wishes can bring.

1. You. My darling child, my little girl, my young lass, my princess. I know we have talked my absence through your early years, but as I said then, it was only because I had other godchildren to look after and you had your parents. When your mother left, I was the last to know, and, as I told you, I made haste to see you. But this body is old and all the will in the world cannot change geography. I’m just thankful I made it in time to make a difference. That means everything to me.

2. My other godchildren. They are all special to me as you are special to me. Even as I write this, I am on my way to another sad child, a boy this time, or more properly, someone who wishes to be a boy. Circumstances like these are why I cannot stay in one place for long. Too many children need love, and I find them, give them all my heart can give, and then move on. I miss you, like I miss the others, but I need to move on. It is not abandonment when part of my heart stays - I know you’ll understand in time.

3. Wishes. I know, what an odd thing to list. But wishes are expressed hopes released into the air. They make my world spin. They keep me alive.


At the ball, she met a prince. They fell in love and lived happily ever after.

Why even ask me? This is silly, and little bit of, well, an entrapment. Have I not proven myself by looking for you? By marrying you? If I begin with you, you wouldn’t believe me, even if it’s true. If I place you anywhere else on my list, you will be hurt. I know you will. So better disbelief than pain.

1. You. I liked the girl who ran away; I love the woman who chose to stay.

2. Me. This is somewhat important to me, that you let me love myself – not that your love is inadequate. But while I can choose to love you all the time, there are times you are not in my mind at all – when I read, when I work, and sometimes, even when I dream. You don’t mind, do you?

3. My Work. You know how it is. My father once told me that love for country would come in time; at that time, I didn’t believe him. But he is getting old and soon it will be my turn. It’s sad but true. But I am learning to love the land, my people, and I know you’ll understand when the time comes, when, my love, things must change. But that is yet tomorrow and what we have is today. It isn’t exactly forever, but as close as I can make it.


"Ever, After" first appeared in Philippines Free Press, August 2007
Copyright 2007 by Dean Francis Alfar
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

a language for two

My story "Into the Morning" appears in the current issue of Bewildering Stories.

An excerpt:

My dam loved to weave. When my sire was away in the late afternoons, she’d sit in her favorite spot in the hollows, and hum as she spun the silk from her spinnerets. She’d shape strands into patterns that first caught the last colors of dusk, before transforming what she held into something marvelously ordinary — a blanket, a sheet, a dining cloth.

I remember when I was four, coming across her spinning, dappled in the fading sunlight. My nest-siblings were far behind me, and for a pure and perfect moment, my dam and I were alone. She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting orange and red and gold, and held out the web in her hands.

In that action, I caught the unspoken words: how she moved her shoulders, the motion of hair on her soft abdomen, the softness of light.

And of course what she held up for me to see.

To me, it looked like a star.

To me, it said love.


Read the story here.

short fiction for children: poor, poor luisa

Poor, Poor Luisa
By Dean Francis Alfar

For Sage

When summer ended, it was time for Luisa to attend her new school. But she was quite afraid.

“I don’t know the other children there,” Luisa told her mother.

“I’m sure you’ll make new friends,” her mother said with a smile.

“I don’t think so,” Luisa said quietly. She imagined that no one would talk to her.

Poor, poor Luisa.


On the morning of the first day of school, after she kissed her mother goodbye but before the school bus came to pick her up, Luisa rushed through her house.

In the closet, she took a mop and cut off the stringy ends used to clean the floor with. This was her new hair.

In the living room, she borrowed her father’s old pair of thick glasses. This became her new eyes.

In the bathroom, she squeezed a tube of blue sparkly toothpaste all over her cheeks and forehead and chin. This was her new face.

In the kitchen, she filled a small bag with vegetables and wore it on her back under her clothes. This was her new body.

So it was as a blue-faced hunchback with stringy hair and thick glasses that Luisa boarded the school bus for her new school.

She imagined that it was better if no one knew who she was.

Poor, poor Luisa.


The classroom was filled with children and Luisa quietly took her seat, keeping her eyes on the floor.

It was only when the teacher called her name that Luisa looked up: this is what she saw.

To Luisa’s left was a green-faced girl with spaghetti hair and doughnuts on her eyes.

To Luisa’s right was a chocolate-coated girl with two halves of a coconut shell on her head.

Behind Luisa sat a girl covered in bright yellow banana peels with pillow cases for feet.

And in front of Luisa was another girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.

And no one, no one was talking or looking at anyone else.

Luisa was confused by her strange and quiet classmates.

Poor, poor Luisa.


When the bell rang for recess time, all the children walked into the school’s garden. Curious about how everyone looked and having nowhere else to go, Luisa followed them.

The odd children stood in the sunlight, not looking at other.

Luisa waited for someone to talk, but no one did.

Poor, poor Luisa.


“Hi there,” Luisa said, deciding to be the first to say something to the unusual children.

“Oh!” said the green-faced girl with spaghetti hair and doughnuts on her eyes.

“Ah!” said the chocolate-coated girl with two halves of a coconut shell on her head.

“Er!” said the girl covered in bright yellow banana peels with pillow cases for feet.

“Uf!” mumbled the girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.

They were all surprised.

“Why are you all wearing strange things on your faces, heads, bodies and feet?” Luisa asked.

No one answered her question.

Poor, poor Luisa.


“Won’t you tell me, please?” Luisa asked.

“Well, you’re very strange-looking yourself,” said the green-faced girl with spaghetti hair said.

“That’s right,” nodded the chocolate-coated girl.

“You should see yourself,” said the girl covered in bright yellow banana peels.

“Uf!” mumbled the girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.

“Oh!” cried Luisa, remembering what she had put on herself. “But this isn’t really what I look like!”

Luisa took off the stringy mop and shook out her long black hair.

She took off her father’s old pair of thick glasses and blinked her large brown eyes.

She wiped off the sparkly blue toothpaste from her face and revealed her dark brown skin.

And finally, she removed the small sack filled with vegetables from her back and straightened up to her full height.

“This is me,” she said. “My name is Luisa.”

The other children looked at her and at each other in silence.

Luisa suddenly felt very shy and afraid. She began to walk away.

Poor, poor Luisa.


“Wait,” said the green-faced girl with spaghetti hair. “This isn’t me either.”

“Wait,” said the chocolate-coated girl. “It’s the same with me.”

“Wait,” said the girl covered in bright yellow banana peels. “I don’t even like bananas.”

“Uf!” mumbled the girl completely covered up by a pink shower curtain.

And to Luisa’s amazement, the other children shook out and took off and wiped away all the different things they had put on their faces, heads, bodies and feet.

In the middle of garden, surrounded by a mess of spaghetti noodles, doughnuts, chocolates, coconut shells, yellow banana peels, pillow cases and a pink shower curtain stood four young girls.

“I’m Nikki,” said the first girl.

“I’m Kate,” said the second girl.

“I’m Zarah,” said the third girl.

“And I’m Janet,” said the fourth girl.

“Hello, Luisa!” the four girls said together.

“Hello, hello, hello, hello,” said Luisa happily.


When Luisa got home, her mother asked her about her first day at school.

“It was a bit scary then a bit silly,” Luisa told her. “But I have new friends.”

“I knew you’d make new ones,” her mother said, embracing her.

Luisa smiled and gave her mother a kiss.


Copyright 2007 by Dean Francis Alfar

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

story in story

Over the weekend, I got word from the publisher of Story Philippines that they are buying my story "An Excerpt from 'Princes of the Sultanate' (Ghazali: 1902); Annotated by Omar Jamad Maududi, MLS, HOL, JMS." They've slated it for later in the year as they wrestle with the formatting my story requires (95% of the story is in the footnotes), along with a couple of authors I'm delighted to be published alongside with.

I'm generally happy with Story Philippines, though certain story selections sometimes make me shake my head - but that could be attributed to taste and preference. All in all, it's a healthy and spec fic-friendly market. I hope to see more issues released this year. Both Nikki and I have had stories published there earlier ("Doe Eyes" and "The Maiden and the Crocodile").

Meanwhile, the junior version of Story Philippines is looking for short stories for children (ages nine to twelve), written in English, 3000 words and below, about anything under the sun as long as it's unique, interesting and rated PG. Original and unpublished submissions should be emailed to storyjunior@gmail.com before April 30, 2007.

litcritters

April is a special month for the LitCritters as we shift into workshop mode. Each of the LitCritters has written a brand new novelette - prose fiction with a word count between 7500 - 17500. This length is not within everyone's comfort zone. Most of us are used to the short story format (my personal sweet spot is between 3000-5000), but I think it is good exercise for writers to develop texts in different lengths. We shouldn't be afraid of length - how else can one hope to write a novel?

We have 8 stories to workshop, or 2 stories a week for 4 weeks. The goal, of course, is to improve the texts and move them towards publishable quality. During this time period, I won't be sending out the usual fiction pieces to the readers of this blog who request them. As these are original unpublished stories, it's better to wait for the final published form. Come May though, it's back to normal. I'll start sending out the stories the LitCritters are reading, critiquing and learning from (from those written superbly to examples of problematic writing).


(Photo by Benj Ordonez. L to R: Andrew, Kate, Sage, Alex, Dean, Nikki, Kyu, Vin)

I look forward to April's sessions, and to reading original fiction from Alex Osias, Kate Aton-Osias, Andrew Drilon, Vin Simbulan, Nikki Alfar, Ian Casocot and Kenneth Yu. My latest story will also be discussed, and I hope I pass the grade (you should know by now that I'm the last person to be impressed by anything I've written - I may be a harsh critic, but I'm hardest on myself).


(photo from fredjordan. L to R: -top- Ian, Lyde, Dirg, Robert; -bottom- Ianne, Michelle, Anthony, Fred Jordan)

I'm also planning to make time to read the new stories written by the LitCritters Dumaguete. Headed by Ian, they also wrote new fiction this month - Fred Jordan Carnice, Lyde Villanueva, Rodrigo Bolivar II, Robert Jed Malayang, Michelle Eve de Guzman, and Anthony Odtohan (Ianne Tapales is off in Japan). If geography were not an issue, I'd love to have Ian and these young writers with us every week as well. As reality and finances permit though, I think the best bet for all of us to meet each other is at the end of the year, when the Manila Litcritters are hoping to visit Dumaguete again, just like last year.

Sometime soon, I'll also be sounding the open call for submissions for Philippine Speculative Fiction Vol. 3, which should be out by the end of the year.

writing in english

Anna Tambour, one of the leading speculative fiction authors in Australia, has interesting thoughts on writers who write in English as a second language (Medlar Comfits: Do English-as-a-second-language writers (and speakers) have more fun?).

I agree with her assessment. Here in the Philippines, new words arise, new meanings blossom and new ways to use words appear, all serving to enhance the experience of English. While we adhere to certain formal rules of usage and grammar, postcolonial people like the Filipinos have taken ownership of English, the language of the conquerors. We use it everyday, after all, and we use it to express our deepest thoughts and emotions. It is no longer someone other's language, it is ours.

She was kind enough to include me (which, of course, makes me feel like the poorly dressed man at a ball haha).

"Dean Francis Alfar, in the Philippines, writes with a lyricism that has no affectation. His stories are full of pathos without bathos, deeply emotional without a bit of melodrama. He isn't afraid to mix languages and to play with meaning. He is only one of many writers who make me aware of the meaning of words. He chooses. He expresses with a particularity that doesn't pretend that any one language can express all, yet he finds verbal and written language rich enough that he doesn't need emoticons. "

One of my short stories, Terminos, appeared previously on her site.