Hope This Isnt Too Heavy To Type About But Where Do You Get Online Sources Of Precolonial Filipino Stuff?

Under the Rain (SakuAtsu)

Atsumu always wanted to try the cheesy romantic kissing seen in movies but never mentions it to Kiyoomi because he knows the latter won’t be comfortable with it. So, he keeps his mouth shut and keeps it to himself until he unconsciously slips while they’re watching.

They were on the couch, watching a movie with the main characters kissing in the rain, when Kiyoomi suddenly says, “who’d want that?”

Atsumu quickly snaps his head towards Kiyoomi and says, “I do. I mean, who wouldn’t. It’s kinda romantic, you know?”

“Have you always wanted to try it?” Kiyoomi asks and turns his attention towards Atsumu, who’s now quietly watching the movie.

“Yeah,” Atsumu admits, too engulfed in the movie to even think about their topic.

“Why haven’t you told me?” Kiyoomi asks.

“Because you might not be comfortable with it,” Atsumu answers before talking about the movie.

Kiyoomi kept their conversation in mind and waited for a moment to do it since then. It was difficult for him. Just thinking about it made his skin crawl in disgust. But Atsumu had always adjusted to his needs. He’d always been the considerate one, and Kiyoomi wants to be that too.

So, even though he didn’t want to do it, he pulled Atsumu into the open field. They’re both soaking wet, and the mud didn’t feel nice under Kiyoomi’s feet. But he still pulled Atsumu into a kiss, one that would make Atsumu stop worrying about him, but most especially, a kiss that would make him stop considering Kiyoomi’s comfortability. He wants Atsumu to enjoy the moment.  He wants Atsumu to drown in something he wanted, so Kiyoomi kisses him until all he could think about is Kiyoomi.

They stayed in the rain for what seemed like forever, and when Kiyoomi pulls away, he sees Atsumu blushing hard. Atsumu had this smile on his face that screams happiness and love, making Kiyoomi think that baring with the slimy feeling of the rain on his skin was worth it.

–*–

I also have this posted on Twitter.

diyan masalanta, tagalog deity

diyan masalanta is the tagalog goddess of love, conception, and childbirth, and the protector of lovers. 

Forgot to put this up here oops.

Anyway, a manananggal for mythsona! 

Writing advice #?: Have your characters wash the dishes while they talk.

This is one of my favorite tricks, picked up from E.M. Forester and filtered through my own domestic-homebody lens.  Forester says that you should never ever tell us how a character feels; instead, show us what those emotions are doing to a character’s posture and tone and expression.  This makes “I felt sadness” into “my shoulders hunched and I sighed heavily, staring at the ground as my eyes filled with tears.”  Those emotions-as-motions are called objective correlatives.  Honestly, fic writers have gotten the memo on objective correlatives, but sometimes struggle with how to use them.

Objective correlatives can quickly become a) repetitive or b) melodramatic.  On the repetitive end, long scenes of dialogue can quickly turn into “he sighed” and “she nodded” so many times that he starts to feel like a window fan and she like a bobblehead.  On the melodramatic end, a debate about where to eat dinner can start to feel like an episode of Jerry Springer because “he shrieked” while “she clenched her fists” and they both “ground their teeth.”  If you leave the objective correlatives out entirely, then you have what’s known as “floating” dialogue — we get the words themselves but no idea how they’re being said, and feel completely disconnected from the scene.  If you try to get meaning across by telling us the characters’ thoughts instead, this quickly drifts into purple prose.

Instead, have them wash the dishes while they talk.

To be clear: it doesn’t have to be dishes.  They could be folding laundry or sweeping the floor or cooking a meal or making a bed or changing a lightbulb.  The point is to engage your characters in some meaningless, everyday household task that does not directly relate to the subject of the conversation.

This trick gives you a whole wealth of objective correlatives.  If your character is angry, then the way they scrub a bowl will be very different from how they’ll be scrubbing while happy.  If your character is taking a moment to think, then they might splash suds around for a few seconds.  A character who is not that invested in the conversation will be looking at the sink not paying much attention.  A character moderately invested will be looking at the speaker while continuing to scrub a pot.  If the character is suddenly very invested in the conversation, you can convey this by having them set the pot down entirely and give their full attention to the speaker.

A demonstration:

1

“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.

“What?”  Drizella continued dropping forks into the dishwasher.

2

“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.

Drizella paused midway through slotting a fork into the dishwasher.  “What?”

3

“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.

Drizella laughed, not looking up from where she was arranging forks in the dishwasher.  “What?”

4

“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.

The forks slipped out of Drizella’s hand and clattered onto the floor of the dishwasher.  “What?”

5

“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.

“What?”  Drizella shoved several forks into the dishwasher with unnecessary force, not seeming to notice when several bounced back out of the silverware rack.

See how cheaply and easily we can get across Drizella’s five different emotions about Anastasia leaving, all by telling the reader how she’s doing the dishes?  And all the while no heads were nodded, no teeth were clenched.

The reason I recommend having it be one of these boring domestic chores instead of, say, scaling a building or picking a lock, is that chores add a sense of realism and are low-stakes enough not to be distracting.  If you add a concurrent task that’s high-stakes, then potentially your readers are going to be so focused on the question of whether your characters will pick the lock in time that they don’t catch the dialogue.  But no one’s going to be on the edge of their seat wondering whether Drizella’s going to have enough clean forks for tomorrow.

And chores are a cheap-n-easy way to add a lot of realism to your story.  So much of the appeal of contemporary superhero stories comes from Spider-Man having to wash his costume in a Queens laundromat or Green Arrow cheating at darts, because those details are fun and interesting and make a story feel “real.”  Actually ask the question of what dishes or clothing or furniture your character owns and how often that stuff gets washed.  That’s how you avoid reality-breaking continuity errors like stating in Chapter 3 that all of your character’s worldly possessions fit in a single backpack and in Chapter 7 having your character find a pair of pants he forgot he owns.  You don’t have to tell the reader what dishes your character owns (please don’t; it’s already bad enough when Tolkien does it) but you should ideally know for yourself.

Anyway: objective correlatives are your friends.  They get emotion across, but for low-energy scenes can become repetitive and for high-energy scenes can become melodramatic.  The solution is to give your characters something relatively mundane to do while the conversation is going on, and domestic chores are not a bad starting place.

these god-siblings five.

For a brief time - a thousand years, for that is brief for the two of them - the Heat Haze Boy and the Monsoon Girl grew tired of their quarrel.

“Sister, we need a bigger playground,” said the Boy.

The Girl nodded in agreement. “Let us create the world and all its creatures.”

+

Although they could have done it by themselves, the Twin Forces wanted help. And so, they created five god-siblings to assist them in their endeavor.

Licalibutan, the eldest, was strong and mighty, with a body made of rock. He rubbed off pieces of his skin and gathered them up into mounds. These became the mountains and land. Pleased with his work, he laughed heartily and left the rest of it to his siblings.

Libulan, the second, was calm and thoughtful, with a body made of copper. He paused for a moment, and reasoned that life could not spring forth without water. He pierced his heart, and from it bled the rivers and seas.

Liadlao, the third, was wild and fiery, with a body made of gold. Impatient for his turn, he fumed that the world was still cold and dark. He then took out one of his eyes and placed it in the heavens, making the sun.

Lisuga, the fourth, was curious and inventive, with a body made of silver. Sighing at her third brother’s impetuousness, she plucked out her teeth and hung them in the heavens as well, making stars.

Libali, the youngest (our stories often forget her) was humble and generous, with a body made of flowers. Marveling at everything that her siblings created, she wept with joy, and her tears became seeds that fell into the earth and grew up to be plants.

Such is how the world came to be.

+

This is part of my Five Powers expansion for Swellbloom Kids. If you liked this, you can view more of my work here.

the best thing about Trese is how it very carefully treads the fine line between urban fantasy, tropical gothic, and magical realism and how that specific brand of horror perfectly captures Manila's vibe because? honestly?

Manila really is Just Like That.

i go to Plaza Miranda and within seconds i will find a practicing mangkukulam selling cheap toys, tarot card readings, underwear, and curses all from the same stall in front of Quiapo Church. i have bought a curse off one of them once. i still have it in my bedside drawer because i chickened out last minute and never used it but now i'm too scared to get rid of it.

i walk through the informal settlers/squatter areas near my home and hear whispers of people dying in their sleep-- and it's almost always because of either two things: the police shot them in the night or because they brought something back with them from the province.

people disappear a lot. sometimes, they never find them again. sometimes, you only find parts of them. you're sure it's probably the work of a human but. you're never actually sure.

there are balete trees where you least expect them. there's one by one of the back roads leading to my office building and nobody wants to take it down because there's something living in it. same goes for the great sampalok tree in front of our office building. but they park their cars right next to them, paying a simple bow and "tabi, tabi po" as a parking fee. i try not to look at both trees when i pass by in the evenings on my commute home.

just last week my aunt called to casually tell me that they had their house blessed AGAIN because their maid had accidentally angered something the last time she visited her province of Nueva Ecija and everybody in the whole family has been waking up with scratches and bruises on their arms ever since. they had the house blessed by an abularyo this time because the first blessing from a catholic priest didn't work.

actually, my whole family on my grandmother's side is sensitive to this shit-- which explains the nonchalance, tbh. this isn't their first paranormal rodeo.

i know there is a branch of literary theory that studies why the development of magical realism, tropical gothic, and urban fantasy in fiction is largely credited to the global south (i.e. latin america, mainland asia, and south east asia), but fucking living in this bizarre city really drives it the fuck home.

there's at least two fucking balete trees near Manila's town hall. a building that is, by the way, shaped like a fucking coffin. i cannot make this up. it's so on-the-nose, it's like actual literary imagery right out of a magical realist/tropical gothic short horror story. and it's REAL.

and it's just normal here.

I don't know if you can answer this one, but basically, I know what needs to happen in my story and I know where it's going but it's like I can't get it there or don't have the ideas to get it there, if that makes sense? For example, I'm writing a short story and for this particular scene, these two characters need going to kiss to get the story going, but the dialogue and scene feels so flat or it's like I have no ideas to get from point A to point B.

Trouble Getting from Point A to Point B

You may think you know what needs to happen in your story, and you may think you know where your story is going, but knowing random things that have to happen and a general ending aren't usually enough to make a story unfold. For some writers it is, but not for most of us.

There are some key things a story needs in order for you to fill in those moments...

1) Motivation and Goal - every story is about someone who wants something trying to get that thing, so the first thing you need to figure out about your story is what your character wants, why they want it, and the steps they need to take in order to get it.

2) Internal Conflict - Your character's history, experiences, and current situation all play a role in who they and what they need. What does your character want to change about themselves or their situation?

3) Antagonistic Force - When you're trying to reach a goal, there's almost always an antagonistic force creating obstacles you must overcome. If you're training to run a marathon, those obstacles are probably created by the limitations based on your current level of fitness. If you're trying to survive a gladiator-style fight, the antagonistic force is whoever/whatever put you in that situation and on a smaller scale, whoever/whatever you need to fight to survive.

4) Stakes - Stakes are the things that matter most to your character. These are the reasons your character is motivated in the first place, the reason they want to pursue their goal. Stakes are the best thing that could happen if your character succeeds, and the worst thing that could happen if they fail. What's the worst that can happen?

Sometimes, when you're trying to reach a goal, the stakes are raised. This could be a natural raising of the stakes, like a smoldering volcano showing sudden signs that it's about to blow and threaten the character's family in the village below. It could be an intentional raising of the stakes, like the villain kidnapping your character's significant other, forcing your character choose between slaying the villain's dragon that's terrorizing the village, or saving their loved one.

Your character's goal tells us where the story is going. Your character's motivation tells us why the character wants to get there. Their internal conflict tells us why they want what they want, and why they do the things they do. The antagonistic force tells us who or what they're up against and what obstacles they'll have to overcome on their way to reaching their goal. Stakes tell us how things can get increasingly worse/increasingly more tense.

When you know all of these things about your story, you start to understand the individual things that need to happen, like the moment when your character finds out their loved one was kidnapped, or the moment when the smoldering volcano starts to rumble. When you know the individual things that have to happen, you can build scenes around them. When you know what your characters want, why they want it, what internal conflict drives their choices, and what's standing in their way, you understand what your characters would need to talk about in each scene.

Have a look at the following posts for more help:

Guide: How to Turn Ideas into a Story Guide: Filling in the Story Between Known Events Guide: How to Outline a Plot Basic Story Structure How to Move a Story Forward

Good luck with your story! ♥

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“To Love an Aswang”

The bells were ringing too the day I met her. The first time I met her, it was a cloudy day and I had just come from mass, passing by some carts that sold food outside the old church. She was sitting behind the cart that sold fried potatoes on a skewer, and she eyed each person that passed by with interest, her silky voice calling out, “Ale, ale, bili kayo oh.” I stopped in front of her cart and bought two of the food she was selling. While we waited for the potatoes to fry, I casually made small talk with her.

“Ate, do you always sell here?” I asked.

She smile a tiny smile before answering, “Not always. Every other day and only before the sun goes down. At night, I head home.”

“Do you live near here?”

“Yes, I do.”

Once the potatoes were done, she put them in a brown paper bag and I gave her twenty pesos. Before I went on my way, I ventured on another question, not thinking much of it as I asked it. “Do you do this for a living or is this just a side job?”

She answered, “It’s more of a side job. After all, I have other means of getting my food. This just covers some of my other expenses.”

I gave a non-committal answer and proceeded to walk away when she said it.

“I’m an aswang.”

I didn’t think much of it, and I just thought it was the silly rambling of a creative woman with a quirky sense of humour.

I had started going to church in the mornings before I work at the nearest bank, and just as she said, the woman was there every other day, but never outside the church at night once I began my walk home after a long day at work. Every time I saw her, I bought some of her potatoes and talked with her, slowly beginning an odd friendship.

We chatted about anything and everything, except for each other’s personal lives. I regaled her with tales of my co-workers, occasionally complaining about them on a particularly harrowing day, and I shared with her my musings about life in general. She never asks about church, and I don’t say anything about it either. On the other hand, she tells me of silly adventures she has while selling the potatoes and of customers that particularly caught her eye. She once told me about this pregnant lady who reeked of perfume, that it hurt her nose and probably did the opposite of beckoning others to her. She told the story with a laugh, saying that perfume was meant to enhance and not to soak. We talked about anything and everything, Anna and I.

She said it again one day. “You know, I’m an aswang.”

I laughed at that and said, “Sure. You’re an aswang and you fly around at night looking for babies to devour.” I kept laughing.

She answered quite seriously, “Exactly.”

That was when I felt an odd chill run down my spine. I tried to cover up the following awkward silence with a cough and a shaky question. “If you really are one, why would you tell me?”

She shrugged at that and said, “You deserve to know, You’re not like other humans. Here you go.” She then handed me my usual brown bag of fried potatoes and I hesitantly began my walk to work, all the while turning over in my head what she said.

The next time I saw her, we spent a good deal of time discussing about trivial things, as if the past conversation never happened. It felt normal. Just two friends chatting about anything and everything. But then I worked up the courage to bring it up. “So you really are an aswang?”

I told myself I didn’t believe her, that I was just playing along to hear more of what she has to say. She was eccentric, that’s for sure.

“Mhm,” she chirped, turning over the skewers to let the other side of the potatoes fry. “I do eat babies, but only the unborn ones. I don’t like them outside their mother’s bellies. Too big to eat and less tasty. Not to mention that it makes more of a mess than when they’re inside waiting to be sucked out.”

I shuddered at her nonchalance and the graphic details of her supposed eating habits. “So you’re evil then?”

She gave an irritated click of her tongue at that. “Evil, you say? What exactly is evil? I am an aswang and you are a human. We are different. So I eat unborn babies. Is that evil? You eat unborn duck embryo, is that evil? It simply is the way it is. I may not know much but even I know about the food chain.”

“But you take the babies from their mothers. Who could do such a thing?”

She smiled meanly at that. “Careful, my dear. You’re about to venture into a question I don’t think you’re prepared to hear the answer to.”

I stopped at that, and for a few moments the only sounds were the chattering of other people outside the church and the sizzling of the frying oil. “I guess you’re right,” I said.

“But tell me,” I continued, “do you hate humans?”

She gave another annoyed grunt, rolling her eyes at the same time. “Hating humans would imply I have any sort of feeling toward them. Humans to me are nothing but a source of my food and my income.” She nodded toward a couple who stopped by in front of the cart next to me to buy Anna’s goods. They left, and Anna continued, “It’s like if I asked you, do you hate ducks because you eat balut? I have a certain apathy toward humanity, if that’s what you mean.”

Her answers were as eccentric as she was; as absurd as the notion that she was an aswang as she said. Still, I let the concept settle into my mind, no matter how uneasy it made me. “Well, what about me?”

“What about you?” she asked.

I didn’t know what came over me, but as I looked into Anna’s eyes, I felt a sort of calm and peace, even though she kept claiming she was this dangerous powerful creature that I didn’t believe in. I asked her quietly, “Do you feel nothing toward me?”

That’s when she stopped turning over the potato skewers to really look at me. Her eyes shone under the shade of the umbrella on her cart, and her shoulders sagged in a strange resignation before answering, “I guess not. You are my friend, after all.”

Friend. Her answer surprised me very much. Did this woman, who claimed she was an aswang, really consider me as a friend? A human and an aswang as friends was almost as laughable as me believing in the idea itself. But still, something in me was touched. If this beautiful woman was really an aswang, a more powerful creature than me, her choosing to befriend me was a feat in itself that touched me in no other way that my normal friendships did. I remembered all the conversations we’ve ever had here, about anything and everything, about life and its adventures… She made me rethink everything I knew before. Before I met her.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” she asked once again.

I gave a shuddering breath, placing a hand on her cart to steady myself. “If I do believe you, that creatures like aswang exist and you are one of them, how can we be friends, Anna?”

“Is being an aswang really that bad?” Anna answered quietly. She resumed cooking her potatoes and serving one or two customers that stopped by.

“I am terrified, Anna. Frankly, I am. You eat unborn babies. You are a creature of the night.”

She did not like what I said. She stood up abruptly, her arms falling to her sides in annoyance. “This again? You have nothing to fear from me! Humanity is a much more terrifying evil than I can ever be! I’m still me, dear. Why would being an aswang change that?”

We didn’t say anything for a while. She scared me that day. I looked at the old looming church while feeling her glare. Her glare held no malice, only annoyance and a flash of pain. Still, she scared me.

“What if I had a baby and you ate it before it even got to live outside the womb? What then, Anna? I don’t think I’d ever be able to bear that. If you were really an aswang, why would you befriend me? Why?”

She sat back down, her beautiful face scrunched up in…pain? She wiped her tears, and she said quietly, “Do you really think I would do that to you? To you? You are different from all other humans. You are different from me, and yet…I have grown to love you despite our short time. I have grown to love you. Tell me, am I really as terrible as you think I am? Am I evil for being different than you?”

“Anna,” I said. “How can you love me? How can I love you?”

She didn’t answer. She never did. I left to go to work, and when I was on my way home that day with the moon already peeking out in the sky, she was gone. She never appeared again. Some days, when I pass by where her cart used to be and hear the ringing of the bells, I remember her silky voice and all the stories we used to tell each other. I would think of our last conversation and ask myself, “What is love? And what is evil?”

I still don’t have an answer.

my old doodles with winter sengen ❄️

this morning NASA abandoned their mars rover Opportunity (aka Oppy) because it (she) got hit by a storm on Mars and it knocked her camera and wheels out and her last words to the team were “my battery is low and it is getting cold”. I know she’s a machine but I’m devastated. Oppy is the one who discovered water on Mars. RIP oppy ily space baby