Illegal bLoGGing

Now, I remember a highschool classmate who showed me a tiny black booklet which according to him contained spells and magic chants. The booklet was so tiny it was no bigger than the palm of one’s hand. It was an amulet in itself, which he told me had been passed on for generations starting from his great, great, great, great grandfather.

He was of course, not so sure which forefather it was but as usually the case in childhood bragging spree, you just say it was some great, great, great dude in the early branch of one’s family tree.       

Alright. So this great,great,great grand daddy of him got this teeny-weeny, black book from a hermit inhabiting a local mountain called Mt. Susong Dalaga. As you guessed right, the area was not really a humongous hump on earth. Actually, it was only part of a mountain range which resembles a woman in a slightly reclining position, as if sunbathing. You should come to Nasugbu and check out its westerly horison. I assure you, that particular mountain range is quiet a sight, specially during sunset.

Back to the book, my classmate told me it contained spells which could be used to drive away evil spirits, cast spells on enemies to exact revenge on them, and other types of magic spells to mess up with other person’s juju or whatever kind of torture you might want to inflict on your fellow human being. It could also protect one from being bitten by poisonous snakes and rabid dogs. But more than that, it was an amulet which was supposed to bring any girl of one’s dream to the bearer. Basically, you can think of it as a "mojo" enhancer, similar to those well-endowed Sto. Niños you can buy at your favourite "sari-sari" store (Well, not really. But I think they still peddle those outside big churches in Manila, specially in the Quiapo area).

Now, being the fool, love-struck adolescent boy that I was, I readily bought his incredulous story. I was suspicious, of course, why he would show me this treasured "historical" document of his family. He later confessed he wanted to copy my science homework, in exchange of a few lines of love chants which could help me court this pretty girl from another class.

So, I agreed but there was one more complication. I needed to get myself a solo picture of the girl, since the ritual would involve chanting this love spell in front of her picture with a lone candle set on top of a round, black stone. It was also no ordinary candle: it should have been used in a recent burial ceremony.

Fortunately, the town cemetery was in the vicinity of my school, and it should therefore not be so hard to know when someone was getting buried at any time of the day. And with the populace heavily depending on its local faith healers and quack medicine for its health care, it should not take so long before I get my magic candle.

She picked up the bunch of bananas lying on the mahogany kitchen table and studied it with great care.

It was a bunch of five. One was completely green, three were greenish-yellow, and the last was sun-riped, with the outer skin a bit cracked. She caressed the ripe one with the palm of her left. It was velvety and firm. It felt good. It felt just right. 

It was a good pick. No, it was THE perfect pick. One of those few easy choices she made in her life which indisputably made sense.    

Or so she thought.       

It did not take great force to detach the ripe banana. It was that kind which left a small bit of peel dangling on the main stalk, that eventually fell on the floor. Nonetheless, the other four bananas bore the brunt of her grip. Her fingers left a mark on the green one which would surely turn black once it has ripened.  It got the stigma and was doomed to the bin. No one would ever want to eat a blackened banana. Except maybe for a gang of Drosophila.

She stripped the peel of the ripe banana half its starchy flesh in one swift motion. Its sweet, etheric scent filled her nose. She brought the tip to the pout of her lips, inhaled more of the almost intoxicating flavour, and finally took a small, shy bite. She ate slow, savouring each bite with much delight and satisfaction. Meanwhile, the four bananas shivered in mixed trepidation and rancour.

Especially the green one.    

On her way out of the kitchen, she stepped on the small banana peel which fell on the floor. She slipped and hit the back of her head on the mahogany table. Streaks of blood stained the unpolished surface, now reminiscent of Pollock’s Lavender Mist but all in bright red.   

As her lifeless body lay on the cold marbled floor, the green banana was no more green with fury. Its soul though as black as its stigmatized skin was afraid no more of the waiting bin.