Bukidnon Short Story

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HEART OF SUMMER Jose Iñigo Homer Lacambra Ayala III Bukidnon Early one summer evening with no birds flying in a red summer sunset sky, he saw her crossing the street. From the bridge, he saw her crossing below on cobbled stones. Stepping lightly. Sharp heels clicking. Gently swaying to warm winds. Hey, he said. You there below. She stopped. Looked around, ready to fly. She tilted her face to the wind. Her flowing hair swished about her shoulders. Pursued on her lips he could see the word outlined: f-r-e-s-h. Then the angry tossing of her head in a few minutes she disappeared. He took the cigarette from his mouth and slowly began to knock the ashes into the purpling river below. There was a Sunday-emptiness in the streets. He…show more content…
Beautiful, beautiful. A night watchman stared at him through iron grills and tapped his nightstick to the pavement. He moved on. Turned his head to look back at the glass panes that shrouded warm, flesh-pink hands. At the corner of an intersection he was sucked within the hot trembling of the city night air, listening to the faint calls of children playing hide-and-seek. Under the pretext of pushing back the hours, caught in great whorls of colored life, he went to a movie house. He stood before the ticket window fumbling for loose change. He cleared his throat. One down, please. The cold air inside the arena made his throat dry. Cigarette smoke hung like veils in the air. He stood behind, letting the firefly screen glimmer slowly into focus. An usher signaled him with a flashlight to an empty leather-cushioned chair. Deaf to the voices that crowded around him, elbowing and pushing, he found himself pressed to rose granite walls beside her, she of the white hand and the cup shell face with elfin eyes. Excuse me he said in a whisper. Her light-brown eyes framed curved wings of lashes shut him out of her glance as she edged hurriedly…show more content…
The fire is out. Will not relight. Not for many more summers yet, she declares. With chisel eyes, she carves him out of the heart and throws him out into the summer rain. Past nine in the evening he walks past midnight and still he walks his feet crumpling leaves with sad little sounds. The black night whirls him drunk to his room and bangs the door shut. He was curled up at the foot of the bed, his head dipped in a pool of sunlight. There was the papery feel of starched linen against his cheek. Low, drawn out groans trickled out of his mouth. Another nimble summer morning had swept the sun across the sky calling him for the great delicious yellow hunt. There were stained glass flowers to the picked before they melted with the heat. There were speckled word seeds to be sown and reaped. Morning fire gardens and wine blue reeds to catch. He swept the door behind him and crept down the street humming a gay madrigal. I shall try the beach today, he announced to himself. He thought of glistening sweat drops on opened pores. He smiled. Ringing the air with a fat whistle he hailed a

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