A Dark Brown Dog

A Dark Brown Dog by: Stephen Crane

A Dark Brown Dog
by Stephen Crane

A Dark Brown Dog and the accompanying illustrations were published in Cosmopolitan, March 1901. The story was probably written in the summer of 1893, an allegory about the Jim Crow South during Reconstruction. The dog represents emancipated slaves. Students and teachers, check out our useful Study Guide to break-down the allegory.

A Child was standing on a street-corner. He leaned with one shoulder against a high board-fence and swayed the other to and fro, the while kicking carelessly at the gravel.

Sunshine beat upon the cobbles, and a lazy summer wind raised yellow dust which trailed in clouds down the avenue. Clattering trucks moved with indistinctness through it. The child stood dreamily gazing.

After a time, a little dark-brown dog came trotting with an intent air down the sidewalk. A short rope was dragging from his neck. Occasionally he trod upon the end of it and stumbled.

He stopped opposite the child, and the two regarded each other. The dog hesitated for a moment, but presently he made some little advances with his tail. The child put out his hand and called him. In an apologetic manner the dog came close, and the two had an interchange of friendly pattings and waggles. The dog became more enthusiastic with each moment of the interview, until with his gleeful caperings he threatened to overturn the child. Whereupon the child lifted his hand and struck the dog a blow upon the head.

This thing seemed to overpower and astonish the little dark-brown dog, and wounded him to the heart. He sank down in despair at the child's feet. When the blow was repeated, together with an admonition in childish sentences, he turned over upon his back, and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with his ears and his eyes he offered a small prayer to the child.

He looked so comical on his back, and holding his paws peculiarly, that the child was greatly amused and gave him little taps repeatedly, to keep him so. But the little dark-brown dog took this chastisement in the most serious way, and no doubt considered that he had committed some grave crime, for he wriggled contritely and showed his repentance in every way that was in his power. He pleaded with the child and petitioned him, and offered more prayers.

At last the child grew weary of this amusement and turned toward home. The dog was praying at the time. He lay on his back and turned his eyes upon the retreating form.

Presently he struggled to his feet and started after the child. The latter wandered in a perfunctory way toward his home, stopping at times to investigate various matters. During one of these pauses he discovered the little dark-brown dog who was following him with the air of a footpad.

The child beat his pursuer with a small stick he had found. The dog lay down and prayed until the child had finished, and resumed his journey. Then he scrambled erect and took up the pursuit again.

On the way to his home the child turned many times and beat the dog, proclaiming with childish gestures that he held him in contempt as an unimportant dog, with no value save for a moment. For being this quality of animal the dog apologized and eloquently expressed regret, but he continued stealthily to follow the child. His manner grew so very guilty that he slunk like an assassin.

When the child reached his door-step, the dog was industriously ambling a few yards in the rear. He became so agitated with shame when he again confronted the child that he forgot the dragging rope. He tripped upon it and fell forward.

The child sat down on the step and the two had another interview. During it the dog greatly exerted himself to please the child. He performed a few gambols with such abandon that the child suddenly saw him to be a valuable thing. He made a swift, avaricious charge and seized the rope.

He dragged his captive into a hall and up many long stairways in a dark tenement. The dog made willing efforts, but he could not hobble very skillfully up the stairs because he was very small and soft, and at last the pace of the engrossed child grew so energetic that the dog became panic-stricken. In his mind he was being dragged toward a grim unknown. His eyes grew wild with the terror of it. He began to wiggle his head frantically and to brace his legs.

The child redoubled his exertions. They had a battle on the stairs. The child was victorious because he was completely absorbed in his purpose, and because the dog was very small. He dragged his acquirement to the door of his home, and finally with triumph across the threshold.

No one was in. The child sat down on the floor and made overtures to the dog. These the dog instantly accepted. He beamed with affection upon his new friend. In a short time they were firm and abiding comrades.

When the child's family appeared, they made a great row. The dog was examined and commented upon and called names. Scorn was leveled at him from all eyes, so that he became much embarrassed and drooped like a scorched plant. But the child went sturdily to the center of the floor, and, at the top of his voice, championed the dog. It happened that he was roaring protestations, with his arms clasped about the dog's neck, when the father of the family came in from work.

The parent demanded to know what the blazes they were making the kid howl for. It was explained in many words that the infernal kid wanted to introduce a disreputable dog into the family.

A family council was held. On this depended the dog's fate, but he in no way heeded, being busily engaged in chewing the end of the child's dress.

The affair was quickly ended. The father of the family, it appears, was in a particularly savage temper that evening, and when he perceived that it would amaze and anger everybody if such a dog were allowed to remain, he decided that it should be so. The child, crying softly, took his friend off to a retired part of the room to hobnob with him, while the father quelled a fierce rebellion of his wife. So it came to pass that the dog was a member of the household.

He and the child were associated together at all times save when the child slept. The child became a guardian and a friend. If the large folk kicked the dog and threw things at him, the child made loud and violent objections. Once when the child had run, protesting loudly, with tears raining down his face and his arms outstretched, to protect his friend, he had been struck in the head with a very large saucepan from the hand of his father, enraged at some seeming lack of courtesy in the dog. Ever after, the family were careful how they threw things at the dog. Moreover, the latter grew very skilful in avoiding missiles and feet. In a small room containing a stove, a table, a bureau and some chairs, he would display strategic ability of a high order, dodging, feinting and scuttling about among the furniture. He could force three or four people armed with brooms, sticks and handfuls of coal, to use all their ingenuity to get in a blow. And even when they did, it was seldom that they could do him a serious injury or leave any imprint.

But when the child was present, these scenes did not occur. It came to be recognized that if the dog was molested, the child would burst into sobs, and as the child, when started, was very riotous and practically unquenchable, the dog had therein a safeguard.

However, the child could not always be near. At night, when he was asleep, his dark-brown friend would raise from some black corner a wild, wailful cry, a song of infinite lowliness and despair, that would go shuddering and sobbing among the buildings of the block and cause people to swear. At these times the singer would often be chased all over the kitchen and hit with a great variety of articles.

Sometimes, too, the child himself used to beat the dog, although it is not known that he ever had what could be truly called a just cause. The dog always accepted these thrashings with an air of admitted guilt. He was too much of a dog to try to look to be a martyr or to plot revenge. He received the blows with deep humility, and furthermore he forgave his friend the moment the child had finished, and was ready to caress the child's hand with his little red tongue.

When misfortune came upon the child, and his troubles overwhelmed him, he would often crawl under the table and lay his small distressed head on the dog's back. The dog was ever sympathetic. It is not to be supposed that at such times he took occasion to refer to the unjust beatings his friend, when provoked, had administered to him.

He did not achieve any notable degree of intimacy with the other members of the family. He had no confidence in them, and the fear that he would express at their casual approach often exasperated them exceedingly. They used to gain a certain satisfaction in underfeeding him, but finally his friend the child grew to watch the matter with some care, and when he forgot it, the dog was often successful in secret for himself.

So the dog prospered. He developed a large bark, which came wondrously from such a small rug of a dog. He ceased to howl persistently at night. Sometimes, indeed, in his sleep, he would utter little yells, as from pain, but that occurred, no doubt, when in his dreams he encountered huge flaming dogs who threatened him direfully.

His devotion to the child grew until it was a sublime thing. He wagged at his approach; he sank down in despair at his departure. He could detect the sound of the child's step among all the noises of the neighborhood. It was like a calling voice to him.

The scene of their companionship was a kingdom governed by this terrible potentate, the child; but neither criticism nor rebellion ever lived for an instant in the heart of the one subject. Down in the mystic, hidden fields of his little dog-soul bloomed flowers of love and fidelity and perfect faith.

The child was in the habit of going on many expeditions to observe strange things in the vicinity. On these occasions his friend usually jogged aimfully along behind. Perhaps, though, he went ahead. This necessitated his turning around every quarter-minute to make sure the child was coming. He was filled with a large idea of the importance of these journeys. He would carry himself with such an air! He was proud to be the retainer of so great a monarch.

One day, however, the father of the family got quite exceptionally drunk. He came home and held carnival with the cooking utensils, the furniture and his wife. He was in the midst of this recreation when the child, followed by the dark-brown dog, entered the room. They were returning from their voyages.

The child's practised eye instantly noted his father's state. He dived under the table, where experience had taught him was a rather safe place. The dog, lacking skill in such matters, was, of course, unaware of the true condition of affairs. He looked with interested eyes at his friend's sudden dive. He interpreted it to mean: Joyous gambol. He started to patter across the floor to join him. He was the picture of a little dark-brown dog en route to a friend.

The head of the family saw him at this moment. He gave a huge howl of joy, and knocked the dog down with a heavy coffee-pot. The dog, yelling in supreme astonishment and fear, writhed to his feet and ran for cover. The man kicked out with a ponderous foot. It caused the dog to swerve as if caught in a tide. A second blow of the coffee-pot laid him upon the floor.

Here the child, uttering loud cries, came valiantly forth like a knight. The father of the family paid no attention to these calls of the child, but advanced with glee upon the dog. Upon being knocked down twice in swift succession, the latter apparently gave up all hope of escape. He rolled over on his back and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with his eyes and his ears he offered up a small prayer.

But the father was in a mood for having fun, and it occurred to him that it would be a fine thing to throw the dog out of the window. So he reached down and grabbing the animal by a leg, lifted him, squirming, up. He swung him two or three times hilariously about his head, and then flung him with great accuracy through the window.

The soaring dog created a surprise in the block. A woman watering plants in an opposite window gave an involuntary shout and dropped a flower-pot. A man in another window leaned perilously out to watch the flight of the dog. A woman, who had been hanging out clothes in a yard, began to caper wildly. Her mouth was filled with clothes-pins, but her arms gave vent to a sort of exclamation. In appearance she was like a gagged prisoner. Children ran whooping.

The dark-brown body crashed in a heap on the roof of a shed five stories below. From thence it rolled to the pavement of an alleyway.

The child in the room far above burst into a long, dirgelike cry, and toddled hastily out of the room. It took him a long time to reach the alley, because his size compelled him to go downstairs backward, one step at a time, and holding with both hands to the step above.

When they came for him later, they found him seated by the body of his dark-brown friend.

A Dark Brown Dog was featured as The Short Story of the Day on Tue, Sep 19, 2017
A Dark Brown Dog is one of the stories featured in our collection of Short Stories for High School I.

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All Over The World

All Over The World by: Vicente Rivera Jr.

ALL OVER THE WORLD
by Vicente Rivera, Jr.

ONE evening in August 1941, I came out of a late movie to a silent, cold night. I shivered a little as I stood for a moment in the narrow street, looking up at the distant sky, alive with stars. I stood there, letting the night wind seep through me, and listening. The street was empty, the houses on the street dim—with the kind of ghostly dimness that seems to embrace sleeping houses. I had always liked empty streets in the night; I had always stopped for a while in these streets listening for something I did not quite know what. Perhaps for low, soft cries that empty streets and sleeping houses seem to share in the night.

I lived in an old, nearly crumbling apartment house just across the street from the moviehouse. From the street, I could see into the open courtyard, around which rooms for the tenants, mostly a whole family to a single room, were ranged. My room, like all the other rooms on the groundfloor, opened on this court. Three other boys, my cousins, shared the room with me. As I turned into the courtyard from the street, I noticed that the light over our study-table, which stood on the corridor outside our room, was still burning. Earlier in the evening after supper, I had taken out my books to study, but I went to a movie instead. I must have forgotten to turn off the light; apparently, the boys had forgotten, too.

I went around the low screen that partitioned off our “study” and there was a girl reading at the table. We looked at each other, startled. I had never seen her before. She was about eleven years old, and she wore a faded blue dress. She had long, straight hair falling to her shoulders. She was reading my copy of Greek Myths.

The eyes she had turned to me were wide, darkened a little by apprehension. For a long time neither of us said anything. She was a delicately pretty girl with a fine, smooth. pale olive skin that shone richly in the yellow light. Her nose was straight, small and finely molded. Her lips, full and red, were fixed and tense. And there was something else about her. Something lonely? something lost?

“I know,” I said, “I like stories, too. I read anything good I find lying around. Have you been reading long?”

“Yes,” she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you want to read anymore? I asked her, trying to smile, trying to make her feel that everything was all right.

“No.” she said, “thank you.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, picking up the book. “It’s late. You ought to be in bed. But, you can take this along.”

She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked down at her feet uncertain as to where to turn.

“You live here?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“What room?”

She turned her face and nodded towards the far corner, across the courtyard, to a little room near the communal kitchen. It was the room occupied by the janitor: a small square room with no windows except for a transom above the door.

“You live with Mang Lucio?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“How long have you been here? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

“I’ve always been here. I’ve seen you.”

“Oh. Well, good night—your name?”

“Maria.”

“Good night, Maria.”

She turned quickly, ran across the courtyard, straight to her room, and closed the door without looking back.

I undressed, turned off the light and lay in bed dreaming of far-away things. I was twenty-one and had a job for the first time. The salary was not much and I lived in a house that was slowly coming apart, but life seemed good. And in the evening when the noise of living had died down and you lay safe in bed, you could dream of better times, look back and ahead, and find that life could be gentle—even with the hardness. And afterwards, when the night had grown colder, and suddenly you felt alone in the world, adrift, caught in a current of mystery that came in the hour between sleep and waking, the vaguely frightening loneliness only brought you closer to everything, to the walls and the shadows on the walls, to the other sleeping people in the room, to everything within and beyond this house, this street, this city, everywhere.

I met Maria again one early evening, a week later, as I was coming home from the office. I saw her walking ahead of me, slowly, as if she could not be too careful, and with a kind of grownup poise that was somehow touching. But I did not know it was Maria until she stopped and I overtook her.

She was wearing a white dress that had been old many months ago. She wore a pair of brown sneakers that had been white once. She had stopped to look at the posters of pictures advertised as “Coming” to our neighborhood theater.

“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She smiled at me and looked away quickly. She did not say anything nor did she step away. I felt her shyness, but there was no self-consciousness, none of the tenseness and restraint of the night we first met. I stood beside her, looked at the pictures tacked to a tilted board, and tried whistling a tune.

She turned to go, hesitated, and looked at me full in the eyes. There was again that wide-eyed—and sad? —stare. I smiled, feeling a remote desire to comfort her, as if it would do any good, as if it was comfort she needed.

“I’ll return your book now,” she said.

“You’ve finished it?”

“Yes.”

We walked down the shadowed street. Magallanes Street in Intramuros, like all the other streets there, was not wide enough, hemmed in by old, mostly unpainted houses, clumsy and unlovely, even in the darkening light of the fading day.

We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the door which she closed carefully after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she stood straight and remote.

“My name is Felix,” I said.

She smiled suddenly. It was a little smile, almost an unfinished smile. But, somehow, it felt special, something given from way deep inside in sincere friendship.

I walked away whistling. At the door of my room, I stopped and looked back. Maria was not in sight. Her door was firmly closed.

August, 1941, was a warm month. The hangover of summer still permeated the air, specially in Intramuros. But, like some of the days of late summer, there were afternoons when the weather was soft and clear, the sky a watery green, with a shell-like quality to it that almost made you see through and beyond, so that, watching it made you lightheaded.

I walked out of the office one day into just such an afternoon. The day had been full of grinding work—like all the other days past. I was tired. I walked slowly, towards the far side of the old city, where traffic was not heavy. On the street there were old trees, as old as the walls that enclosed the city. Half-way towards school, I changed my mind and headed for the gate that led out to Bonifacio Drive. I needed stiffer winds, wider skies. I needed all of the afternoon to myself.

Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from the western gate. She saw me before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth she knew, without your asking.

“Hello,” I said. “It’s a small world.”

“What?”

“I said it’s nice running into you. Do you always come here?”

“As often as I can. I go to many places.”

“Doesn’t your uncle disapprove?”

“No. He’s never around. Besides, he doesn’t mind anything.”

“Where do you go?”

“Oh, up on the walls. In the gardens up there, near Victoria gate. D’you know?”

“I think so. What do you do up there?”

“Sit down and—”

“And what?”

“Nothing. Just sit down.”

She fell silent. Something seemed to come between us. She was suddenly far-away. It was like the first night again. I decided to change the subject.

“Look,” I said, carefully, “where are your folks?”

“You mean, my mother and father?”

“Yes. And your brothers and sisters, if any.”

“My mother and father are dead. My elder sister is married. She’s in the province. There isn’t anybody else.”

“Did you grow up with your uncle?”

“I think so.”

We were silent again. Maria had answered my questions without embarrassment. almost without emotion, in a cool light voice that had no tone.

“Are you in school, Maria?”

“Yes.”

“What grade?”

“Six.”

“How d’you like it?”

“Oh, I like it.”

“I know you like reading.”

She had no comment. The afternoon had waned. The breeze from the sea had died down. The last lingering warmth of the sun was now edged with cold. The trees and buildings in the distance seemed to flounder in a red-gold mist. It was a time of day that never failed to carry an enchantment for me. Maria and I sat still together, caught in some spell that made the silence between us right, that made our being together on a bench in the boulevard, man and girl, stranger and stranger, a thing not to be wondered at, as natural and inevitable as the lengthening shadows before the setting sun.

Other days came, and soon it was the season of the rain. The city grew dim and gray at the first onslaught of the monsoon. There were no more walks in the sun. I caught a cold.

Maria and I had become friends now, though we saw each other infrequently. I became engrossed in my studies. You could not do anything else in a city caught in the rains. September came and went.

In November, the sun broke through the now ever present clouds, and for three or four days we had bright clear weather. Then, my mind once again began flitting from my desk, to the walls outside the office, to the gardens on the walls and the benches under the trees in the boulevards. Once, while working on a particularly bad copy on the news desk, my mind scattered, the way it sometimes does and, coming together again, went back to that first meeting with Maria. And the remembrance came clear, coming into sharper focus—the electric light, the shadows around us, the stillness. And Maria, with her wide-eyed stare, the lost look in her eyes…

IN December, I had a little fever. On sick leave, I went home to the province. I stayed three days. I felt restless, as if I had strayed and lost contact with myself. I suppose you got that way from being sick,

A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the landscape was a series of dissolved hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in lying abed that makes you feel you are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and houses and people?

In December, we had our first air-raid practice.

I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged look to everything, as if no one and nothing cared any more for appearances.

I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was dark, darker than the moment after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All around me were movements and voices. anonymous and hushed, even when they laughed.

I sat still, afraid and cold.

“Is that you. Felix?”

“Yes. Maria.”

She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in the darkness. A chill went through me, She said nothing more for a long time.

“I don’t like the darkness,” she said.

“Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, don’t you?”

“It’s not like this darkness,” she said, softly. “It’s all over the world.”

We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone.

The war happened not long after.

At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as actor and audience. But the sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against the unready ear.

In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the niches of the old walls the first time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I returned home to find the apartment house empty. The janitor was there. My cousin who worked in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone.

I asked Mang Lucio, “Maria?”

“She’s gone with your aunt to the walls.” he told me. “They will sleep there tonight.”

My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house available. The only reason he was staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately.

“And you, Mang Lucio?”

“I don’t know where I could go.”

We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in black cloth. The house creaked in the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily.

I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with children’s voices and laughter the whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and smells of cooking.

“Hello,” I said.

It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then, without a word, she turned back to her cooking.

“Are you and your uncle going away?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did he not tell you?”

“No.”

“We’re moving to Singalong.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, anyway, I’ll come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. We’ll not have to say goodbye till then.”

She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went out.

At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were busy putting the house in order. As soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The brightness of the day seemed glaring. The faces of people were all pale and drawn.

In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid volunteers. The house was dark. I walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light burst in my face. It was a volunteer.

“Do you live here?”

“I used to. Up to yesterday. I’m looking for the janitor.”

“Why, did you leave something behind?”

“Yes, I did. But I think I’ve lost it now.”

“Well, you better get along, son. This place, the whole area. has been ordered evacuated. Nobody lives here anymore.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Nobody.” Ω

THOUSAND YEAR EVE

THOUSAND YEAR EVE by Angelo Rodriguez Lacuesta

THOUSAND YEAR EVE
by Angelo Rodriguez Lacuesta

I HAD never been to a radio station before, and I was shocked that it looked so ordinary. Even the offices adjacent to the disc jockeys' booths resembled those government agencies where you got your license or paid your taxes: a row of desks, clicking typewriters, worn-out, obsolete computers in a dirty beige color, a bunch of hardened secretaries, and a gaggle of people shuffling around and waiting in vague lines.

Off to one side, facing a corridor filled with people, were big square glass windows. Those were the disc jockey's booths. From small speakers perched above the windows came the sound of a woman's voice. Presumably that was what was on air at the time. Sure enough, in a corner of one of the windows was a little sign that said "On The Air"--just as I had expected it to be. The woman was weeping while speaking, and from where I stood, in the main office area, I thought I could see the figure of the woman in one of the booths, through the glare of reflections on the window.

The woman was calling for her missing mother. She was 68 years old, about five feet tall, with graying hair, and had worn a dress with blue flowers on the day she disappeared. They had gone to the zoo a week before. They had gone there because it was a Sunday and animals fascinated her. After separating ways with her daughter for a half an hour, the old woman failed to show up at a small rest area, which was their prescribed meeting place. A three-hour wait ended in a search involving a gaggle of security guards. When closing time came--

The woman's voice was interrupted by the deep, booming voice of the announcer. His tone was kind and concerned. I was surprised that it didn't sound tired, or hurried, or irritated, as I would most likely have been. It sounded just like that--exactly like that radio announcer we imagine in our head, a dislocated voice overriding everything, but a kind voice. With enough character so you could talk back to it, regard it, but with a kind of indifference that comes from authority. It sounded as if it came from another world.

The woman then resumed, explaining that her mother had Alzheimer's disease. It was strange hearing the word Alzheimer's within the tones and textures of that voice, because I could tell the woman wasn't used to saying that word, and it sat in the middle of her sentences, perfectly enunciated, like a newly built landmark that divided the past and the present. The term had been taught to her by doctors, experts, but it had surely never arisen between mother and daughter.

As I joined the people huddled outside the booth I could see into it. The booth was small, and the acoustic boards that lined the walls were covered with posters of movies and singers and bands. There were old memos and announcements. Wires sprung out from a stack of equipment.

The announcer sat behind a panel decked with buttons and sliding switches. He was wearing headphones and moving some of the switches. After a few moments I recognized him as a television personality. He hosted his own afternoon show. In the show he sat on a couch and fielded a string of guests. That show had a little oval inset in the corner that showed a woman performing sign language. I realized now that the show was a public service program--a televised version of the radio program he was running now.

And just like that television show, his guests took their turn in front of him, entering the booth and speaking into the microphone. Their voices emerged from the speakers. After they spoke the host would speak. Then the booth door opened, a name would be called and someone from the hall would enter and sit in front of the announcer.

From time to time the sequence would be broken by a string of commercials advertising soap or insurance. Briefly, the sound would brighten and a jingle would play; after some minutes someone punched in the program ID, which was a short musical passage played on an organ that had the effect of a 1950's horror or mystery show. That was because the radio show was all about unsolved cases. Then, the announcements would resume.

One of the staff in the main office area called out my last name and I approached the booth. Before I could reach it the door opened and a little girl came out, tears streaming from her cheeks.

In my hands I tightly held a little piece of paper. On it I had scribbled some things that I imagined would be important. I had written out a long list, fearing I would forget something that turned out to be crucial information.

Inside, the air smelled of cigarette smoke and damp air-conditioning. There was a little three-foot high Christmas tree in the corner, with light bulbs that blinked on and off and a little foil hanging that said "Happy Holidays." The announcer looked at me briefly and squinted at a clipboard. He gestured to a chair and took a long drag from a cigarette.

He called my name and I nodded. He switched on the microphones and announced my name on the air. All through this I was turning the paper over and over in my hands until my hands and the paper had rubbed off on each other and shared the same color. I was folding and unfolding it, until I could barely read the pencil marks. I had written out phrases and underlined key words, listed details down to the minutiae, and now they were lost to grayness.

There was a microphone on a stand in front of me. I gripped the mike, adjusted its position and began to speak. I glanced down at the paper without looking, without reading, and spoke. My voice reverberated through the studio as I began relating all the details, stringing them together with prepositions, adjectives, words.

My father, last seen New Year's eve, wearing a striped collared shirt, jeans and red slippers. Medium build. Black hair with white and silver streaks. 58 years old. Missing, lost, or kidnapped since New Year's Eve, four days ago. I was looking at the announcer, guessing when he would interrupt me with his silky voice.

The announcer looked at me briefly, perhaps to see if I was done, and picked up the tail end of my fading announcement with a loud burst that was meant to add excitement to my case. The announcer looked at me as he spoke, and I recognized that he was giving me words of encouragement, telling me to leave his name and contact numbers on the master list outside. I felt, in that brief glance of his, that I found all comfort and solace. Then he switched his gaze to other matters: the control panel in front of him, the cue cards passed to him by an assistant. As he looked away he added that I would know in a few days. I stood up, afforded the announcer a nervous smile, but he had turned to his list and was calling for the next guest.

In the main office area there was another line of people, all waiting to sign the master list, which was merely a set of clipboards arranged in alphabetical order. There was a woman at the desk who acted officiously, reminding people to hurry up or fill in the proper blanks. After a while I noticed that the people respected her concern for order. After I filled in the blanks she offered me a Christmas greeting and reminded me that they would call me if there was any word. I stepped out of the office, past a fresh crowd that was gathering, and took a taxi to work.

Though it was the first day of work after the holidays, everybody knew that my father had gone missing. My wife and I had made sure to call every one of them over the past days. By New Year's morning, we had gone through the list of friends and neighbors, people we knew to know my father; by the next day we had gone even through those who didn't know him. It was quite an awkward thing, having to greet them for the holidays and then asking them if they had seen him, or heard from him. My father was a loud, gregarious man, and it was not unusual for him to call one of his friends, out of the blue, for a chat or a drink.

The office was still slumbering in the Holiday spirit when I timed in, with only a handful reporting to work. My cubicle, normally unadorned except for a wall calendar and an appointment book, was cluttered by Christmas gifts from co-workers. I turned on my computer, mindlessly sifted and reorganized files, looked at the time, and made a few tentative calls.

When lunchtime came around, someone came over to my cubicle and invited me to lunch. I could tell his tone was guarded and unsure. I accepted the invitation with a voice that I hoped would not be so tainted with grief and exhaustion. I realized that the last time I had heard my own voice, besides the small remarks I had made to the taxi driver, was in the radio announcer's booth. Hearing my own voice now, exchanging pleasantries for the New Year's and agreeing to have lunch, seemed a strange and dislocating experience.

Whether it was because the holidays had drained all our funds or because we were in a somber mood, we chose to have lunch at the company canteen, a few floors down. The company had set aside half an entire floor as a dining area, brightly lit and nondescript. A long stainless steel counter ran the length of the canteen, and although it was past noon, only a few people were lined up along the railing.

Over lunch they asked me what had happened. I heard my voice once again telling them, over the din and the soft music, with an accuracy that startled me, every detail of our separation.

After a small dinner, my father, my wife and my child went to bed to rest before the festivities. I sat in the living room, watching TV and drinking beer. An hour before midnight, my father appeared and sat with me. He said nothing, merely coughing a little now and then. Some minutes later my wife emerged with the baby. She frowned at the sight of us sitting there and immediately went into the kitchen to prepare.

We had all wanted to go somewhere else to spend the holidays. My wife had wanted to take our one-year-old child up to the beach in Ilocos, where her family would be staying, and Christmas and New Year's would be light and cold. I had made hotel reservations for myself and possibly a few friends, where I could sit and stew through the season.

After a while, my father and I took four worn tires from our garage and rolled them out to the street, piled them carefully in the middle, sprinkled a little kerosene and set the whole thing on fire. By that time our entire street was studded with tire bonfires and lined with people who had come out to watch the explosions and count the minutes.

That New Year's Eve was the millennium's eve. If anything, it meant that the explosions would be louder and the fireworks bigger and brighter. A half-hour away from midnight, the night sky was lit up with swirls of color, and from time to time, the swirls would reach down and ignite the street like lightning. On CNN they had followed the millennium celebrations as the stroke of midnight crept across the world, jumping from country to country, showing an assortment of cultural celebrations and fireworks. They had been doing this since early evening, and by the time it was almost our time, the whole thing had begun to weigh heavily on me. My wife was still in the kitchen with the maid, preparing the New Year's Eve dinner. There were only three of us living in the small apartment, but my father always had visitors--all old men--coming in after midnight, until the morning hours. By dawn our living room would be filled with old men, and the smell of old men, and the smell of cigars, cigarettes and liquor. I decided that after the midnight celebrations I would retire to my study and do some reading.

Because it was the millennium, we had stocked up on more fireworks than ever--and more than was necessary. By five minutes to midnight, the whole street was filled with fire and smoke. My ears were ringing and a thick fog of gunpowder smoke hung in the air. My father had changed from his pajamas into a striped, long-sleeved shirt and jeans. This was all protection--he always loved to stand close to the fire and toss in the fireworks, as though he were tossing garlic and onions into a frying pan. When the fire had reached its full height, we sat on either side of our pile of fireworks--worth a lot of money if you ask me, but still not worth much against the a sky that seemed like a sea of explosions. We tested our noise levels with a few firecrackers, and we were satisfied with the volley of small explosions they made, echoing back and forth against the high walls of our neighborhood fences.

As the firecrackers split open in the fire my father looked at me and said something I could not hear. By this time the explosions on the street had risen steadily into a continuous barrage. My father stood up and gathered an armful of big rockets. I was looking at my watch, counting down the seconds. I shouted for my wife to come out for the big bang, but she merely looked at me through the living room windows. The baby was crying hysterically from all the noise.

From the corner of my eye I thought I could see my father walking up the street, picking a path among the flare of fountains, the shockwaves of homemade bombs, and the sibilance of rockets shooting into the sky. I was seeing this from the corner of my eye; I didn't bother to call out to him because, thinking harder about it, I had believed all along that it wasn't him, it was someone else walking down the street. As the night turned to midnight and the sky and the street erupted into each other I looked around our bonfire for my father. When the next lull came, several minutes later, I realized that he had gone.

Is there any story that hasn't been told? Any incident that can be told without anybody thinking, I haven't heard anything like that before. Everything's been told, and told better. At the radio station there was a man who was calling out to his older brother who had neglected to send money from Kuwait, where he worked as an engineer. There was an old woman who cried for justice for her son, who had been raped and beaten to an inch of his life, and whose pulverized jaw could not even accommodate a whisper of the name of his attacker. And there are other stories, other mysteries, wherever we go.

They had mysteries like this day in, day out, at the radio station, at the police precinct, at the barangay hall. In fact, all these places and cases so closely resembled one another that the pictures of the dead and missing, the telephone numbers to call and the people to ask for on the phone, these names and things all vibrated into each other and began to look the same. Every 68-year-old woman stood five-foot tall, had graying hair, and wore a flowery dress. Every old man looked the same.

In the taxis I rode, the radios were constantly tuned to the AM band, where the mystery show aired in the mornings and in the afternoons. Occasionally, breaking news came through the airwaves, involving phone calls from lawyers offering help or concerned citizens reporting the whereabouts of those lost and those who had run away. There were agencies and offices and even individuals out there who concerned themselves with the lost and the disappeared and the uncollected. I had earlier tried to solicit their help, but they told me the sheer volume of their clientele meant I might be attended to in many weeks' time. At that I resolved to do my own searching. By the end of the second week my father was still missing and I had almost grown desperate, but decided that it would be too late to go back to the help agencies.

My wife had delayed her move to Ilocos for the meantime. Whenever I got home, often very late after long hours at work and a slow, thoughtful reconnaissance around our neighborhood streets, I would be mildly surprised to still find her in her room, sleeping with the baby in her arms. I would sit and watch TV in the living room and discover that the persevering presence of my family had a difficult, grating character. By that time I realized I had owed her more than I could ever hope to repay and repair.

During those moments I agonized over the unanswered questions. Was my father, in fact, dead, killed at midnight by an explosion? I imagined a stray bullet falling from the sky, or a rocket veering off course to strike my father's slow-moving figure dead center. But I shrugged off these possibilities as too impossibly fantastic. Surely the key to my father's disappearance lay in circumstances more spectacular.

I also reflected briefly on whether my father might have been the victim of a crime, such as an assassination or a kidnapping. I took to scouring the papers for any news of salvagings and unclaimed corpses. I was thankful for finding no such news, and decided that such a savage crime could not happen to my father. We were not exactly rich folk, and my father did not maintain a high position anywhere. If he was anything, he was simply and merely my father. It would have been a case of mistaken identity.

Still, I went to a newspaper to report it. A reporter asked me about the incident and, tired from the nth telling, I merely rattled off the details into his dictaphone. You forget the meaning of words the more you say them. But as I recited them I imagined the numbers and the details would bring my father from the void and contain him. I felt like a magician, a medicine man, uttering a spell composed of strange words, a litany of broken Latin that had to be repeated again and again, ad nauseum, until your familiar agreed to appear.

In a few days a small article appeared in the broadsheets, repeating my words, tucked under the bigger news of the current political expose. It also appeared in the tabloids, where it graced the pages where the small, sensational crimes of the day were reported.

More than once, the thought occurred to me that he might have faked his disappearance, that he might have walked away from our disintegrating life and marriage in order to save it. Or that he had turned an old pair of eyes upon himself and, seeing an old man growing older and unneeded in his son's household, decided to skip town and join his old gang in a journey to points unknown. After all, I seemed to remember that he had a thoughtful look in his eyes on the night he disappeared. Such possibilities lay open and waiting before me as I sat in my living room, looking at the news on TV and pondering my next move. I knew that such possibilities were very clear to my wife. After all, she had known my father all these years and she had come to know everything he was, as much as she knew everything about his son.

It was becoming an unsolved case. I remembered the organ stinger from the radio show and the woman at the radio station who had lost her mother at the zoo. I remembered hearing of old men and women going missing for days, even weeks, and I could see these old folks wandering from bus stop to bus stop, sleeping at the foot of buildings and begging for food. I imagined that after a while, they would have to build an entirely new life for themselves, without previous memories, like babies born to a new world.

It was at that time that I thought of summoning other, metaphysical means. A friend of a friend knew of a medium who specialized in lost items, and, wondering whether my father would count as a lost item, I contacted him. This time I was asked to bring a personal item of the lost individual. I could not bring anything very substantial, since my father had brought his wallet, put on his only cap, worn the watch I had given him many years before, and taken his only pair of shoes with him. I only managed to present a very old pair of bathroom slippers to the medium, who seemed to cringe at the sight of them.

The medium himself was an old man who wore a dingy robe whenever he performed his "readings." He clucked his tongue and declared that the item I had brought would certainly not do much, but added quickly that he would try, slapping down a worn down deck of Spanish cards on the table. He made reshufflings and rereadings and offered several vague guesses about my father. Then he glared at me and decided that the old man might not be in the realm he was searching, or that he could be eluding his third eye. For a fee he agreed to perform periodic searches in the ethereal plane and assured me that if my father wanted to contact me, he would find a way.

True enough, that night I dreamt of finding my father. I dreamt that it was a clear night, like the night he disappeared, except there were no fireworks, nothing in the sky, not even the moon or the stars. In my dream he wanted to return and to signal his intention he lit the fireworks he had brought with him. Each rocket burned perfectly and burst perfectly in the night sky, exploding cleanly, like five exclamation points.

In my dream world the phone rang: "We've found your missing relative." I dressed quickly, feverishly, even forgoing my pants and socks. But when I arrived at the station to claim him, they showed me a different old man, sitting on a chair, sipping Coke from a small plastic bag. On the table beside him lay a half-eaten sandwich. In dreams, it seems, food is always half-eaten and everyone, most especially the dreamer, is almost always half-dressed. In dreams there are only half-discoveries. In dreams we expect to be tricked and are constantly jumpy, awaiting the strange twist or the inevitable fall. In the event of the latter, even a peaceful death is denied us, and we awake, sweaty and eyeballs still moving. As we spend the first waking moments trying desperately to remember our dream lives or wondering if a death in dreams provokes our real deaths, everything is soon forgotten and we move and live in the natural world.

The morning I awakened to was bright, oxygen-rich, with the sounds of my wife and child in the next room.

I had dinner with my wife on the eve of her departure for Ilocos. She had prepared a simple meal, spare but thoughtfully prepared and accompanied by wine, as we had always had in the beginning. We did not speak at first, but after a few minutes I stammered a few compliments about the meal and thanked her for her support during the whole affair. I didn't know myself whether I was talking about my ordeal about my lost father, or the seven-year marriage. She smiled and as she spoke I could see in her eyes a new clarity and a great hope for her future and the future of the baby. Still, I was foolish enough to imagine that her pity for me and my continuing predicament would compel her to stay. Over coffee she gave me her contact numbers and e-mail addresses and offered an open invitation to visit. I returned her invitation.

Some weeks later I found myself at the radio station again, taking my place in the line across the booth. I looked at the announcer expectantly, to see if he remembered me. He didn't, of course. When it was my turn to speak, I discovered that time had rubbed the details down to an old, dull, unremarkable list of descriptions that could have matched anyone's. I might have been describing the old stranger I had dreamed of. I might have even been describing myself thirty, forty years later.

I imagined my own voice filtering through the mesh gate of the microphone in my hands, transported through the wires. I imagined it bursting through the overhead speakers like fireworks, bouncing off satellites, picked up by radios and skimming off the minds of listeners, sitting in their cars and their afternoon reveries. 

Famous Quotes by Filipinos

Famous Quotes by Filipinos

Ang tunay na kabanalan ay ang pagkakawang-gawa, ang pag-ibig sa kapwa at ang isukat ang bawat kilos, gawa’t pangungusap sa talagang katuwiran.
Genuine virtue consists of being charitable, loving one’s fellow men and being judicious in behavior, speech and deed.
— Emilio Jacinto

“The strength of the nation lies in the well-being of the common man.”
— Diosdado Macapagal

“Habang iyang edukasyo’y nakaluklok sa dambana, kabataa’y yumayabong nang mabilis at sagana, kamalia’y sinusugpo sa tibay ng kanyang nasa, nararating pati langit ng magiting niyang diwa; sa siklab ng edukasyon kasamaa’y humihina,alam niyang paamuin iyang bansang walang awa, ang mabangis ay nagiging bayani ng kanyang lupa.”
— Jose Rizal

“Kung papipiliin ako sa lalaking matalinung-matalino ngunit walang puso at lalaking punung-puno ang puso ng pag-ibig ngunit walang talino, pipiliin ko ang huli.”
— Jose Abad Santos

Motivational Filipino Quotes

Motivational Filipino Quotes

Ang mga problema ay hindi hadlang sa pag-abot ng mga pangarap, ito ay mga gabay lamang.

*     *     *     *     *

Lahat ng problema nasusulusyunan, kailangan mo lang tumayo at harapin yung mga bagay na dapat dati mo pa hinarap.

*     *     *     *     *

Ang tunay na sikreto sa tagumpay ay pagsisikap at patuloy na pagbangon sa bawat pagkakamali.

*     *     *     *     *

Ang bawat kabiguan sa buhay ay paraan para patuloy kang magpursigi kahit na sa tingin mo naabot mo na lahat ng yong mga pangarap

Lahat ng bagay, pinaghihirapan. ‘Di matamis ang tagumpay kapag walang paghihirap na naranasan.

*     *     *     *     *

Mangyayari ang lahat ng gusto mo kung patuloy kang maniniwala. Kailangan mo lang ng pananalig at lakas ng loob na magagawa mo lahat ng nanaisin mo

*     *     *     *     *

Ang pinakamalaking pagkakamali na maaaring gawin ng isang tao, ay ang patuloy na isipin na gagawa siya ng mali.

*     *     *     *     *

Nakadepende ang pagiging maligaya sa buhay hindi sa kung anong meron ka, kundi sa kung ano ang pananaw mo sa mga bagay-bagay.

*     *     *     *     *

Ang negatibong tao ay nakakakita ng problema sa bawat pagkakataon. Ang positibong tao ay nakikita ang pagkakataon sa bawat problema.

Famous Filipino Quotes

Famous Filipino Quotes

1. ”Ang hindi nagmamahal sa sariling wika ay masahol pa sa malansang isda” – J.P. RIZAL

2. "...it belongs to no party, nor does it desire to form one; it stands for nothing save the interest of the fatherland." –Apolinario Mabini

3. “The Filipino Is Worth Dying For” – Ninoy Aquino

4. “I want our people to be like a molave tree, strong and resilient, standing on the hillsides, unafraid of the rising tide, lighting and the storm, confident of its strength.” – Manuel L. Quezon

5. “My loyalty to my party ends where my loyalty to the country begins.” – Manuel L. Quezon

6. “A strengthen national spirit can provide the motive power to rise our people from the depths and…pour new life and vigor in the national system. The reinvigoration of the national spirit must take place in the grass roots, in every city, town and barrio in the Philippines, and it must start among our own people… To be a worthy citizen of the world one must first prove himself to be a good Filipino.” –Carlos P. Romulo

7. "You stole the presidency not just once but twice!" - Susan Roces

8. “I would rather die a meaningful death than to live a meaningless life.” - Corazon Aquino

9. " He who does not know how to look back at where he came from will never get to his destination. " – Jose Rizal

10. " The youth is the hope of our future. " – Jose Rizal

11. " Brotherhood is the very price and condition of man's survival. "  - Carlos P Romulo

12. “Don't judge my brother, he is not a book! “ - Melanie Marquez

13. “I shall be honored to go to jail. Under a dictatorship, the detention cell is a place of honor.” – Sen. Miriam Defensor Santiago

14. “There can be no tyrants, where there are no slaves” – Jose Rizal

15. "Babayaran ko ang utang ng Pilipinas" -  Eddie Gil

16. "walang tulugan!!!" - kuya germs

17. “I don’t eat meat. I’m not a carnival.” – Melanie Marquez

18. “Sumasakit ang migraine ko.” -  Melanie Marquez

19. “Ang tatay ko ang only living legend na buhay!” - Melanie Marquez

20. “I don’t eat meat. I’m not a carnival.” -  Melanie Marquez

21. “Hello? Bulag ka ba? Bingi ka ba? Are you dep?” -  Melanie Marquez

22. “That’s why I’m a success, it’s because I don’t middle in other people’s lives.”- Melanie Marquez

23. “I won’t stoop down to my level.”-  Melanie Marquez

24. “You can fool me once, you can fool me twice, you can fool me thrice. But you can never fool me FOUR!”

25. “Can you repeat that for the 2nd time around once more?”

26.  “Mas mabuting mabigo sa paggawa ng isang bagay kesa magtagumpay sa paggawa ng wala” –Bob Ong

27. “Nalaman kong habang lumalaki ka, maraming beses kang madadapa. Bumangon ka man ulit o hindi, magpapatuloy ang buhay, iikot ang mundo, at mauubos ang oras.”

28. “mangarap ka at abutin mo ‘to. wag mong sisihin ang sira mong pamilya, palpak mong syota, pilay mong tuta, o mga lumilipad na ipis. kung may pagkukulang sa’yo mga magulang mo, pwede kang manisi at maging rebelde. tumigil ka sa pag-aaral, mag-asawa ka, mag-drugs ka, magpakulay ka ng buhok sa kili-kili. Sa bandang huli, ikaw din ang biktima. rebeldeng walang napatunayan at bait sa sarili.”

29. “Walang kai-kaibigan! Walang kama-kamag-anak”

30. “This is the fight of my life, this is the biggest challenge in my boxing career, and I know that if I emerge victorious in this battle, all of us will reap the blessings and we will share all the glory.” -Manny Pacquiao

31. "That’s because I am crucified between two thieves." -- Late 1970s, replying to Ferdinand Marcos' question on why there was a "sepulchral" 30-minute silence when Jaime Cardinal Sin joined Marcos and his wife Imelda in their limousine. – Cardinal Sin

32. "Separation of the Church and State is like a railroad track. It cannot be close to one another, neither can it be distant, because there will be derailment. We (Church) should cooperate with the government and the government should cooperate with us because we're serving the same people." -- February 1992, on the separation of Church and State, which he was often accused of ignoring. – Cardinal Sin

33. "We are brothers and sisters; not enemies. It is not the will of God that countrymen go to war against one another." -- May 11, 2000, upon calling for a 50-day prayer and fasting crusade as an appeal for peace in Mindanao. - Cardinal Sin

34. "It is the most important chapter of my life. I admit finding secret joy and pride in being called the Cardinal of the EDSA Revolution. I do not claim that as a right. It is a grace that I do not deserve at all. It is a blessing to have been the Archbishop of Manila at that moment in history." -- April 2004, on his role at the EDSA Revolution. - Cardinal Sin

Tagalog Love Quotes

Tagalog Love Quotes

1. "Hindi lungkot o takot ang mahirap sa pag-iisa kundi ang pagtanggap na sa bilyon-bilyong tao sa mundo, wala man lang nakipaglaban upang makasama ka."

2. "Kung dalawa ang mahal mo, piliin mo yung pangalawa.. kasi, hindi ka naman magmamahal ng iba kung mahal mo talaga yung una. "

3. " Alam mo ba kung gaaNo kalayo ang Pagitan ng dalawang Tao pag nagtalikuran Sila??
- Kailangan mo libutin ang buong mundo para makaharap ulit ang TAONG TINALIKURAN MO."

4. "Ang tenga kapag pinagdikit korteng puso...
Extension ng puso ang tenga, kaya kapag marunog kang makinig, marunong kang magmahal.."

5. "Pag may mahal ka at ayaw sayo, hayaan mo. Malay mo sa mga susunod na araw ayaw mo na din sa kanya, naunahan ka lang."

6. “Kung hindi mo mahal ang isang tao, 'wag ka nang magpakita ng motibo para mahalin ka nya..”

7. "Hinahanap mo nga ba ako o ang kawalan ko?"

8. "Kung nagmahal ka ng taong di dapat at nasaktan ka, wag mong sisihin ang puso mo. Tumitibok lng yan para mag-supply ng dugo sa katawan mo. Ngayon, kung magaling ka sa anatomy at ang sisisihin mo naman ay ang hypothalamus mo na kumokontrol ng emotions mo, mali ka pa rin! Bakit? Utang na loob! Wag mong isisi sa body organs mo ang mga sama ng loob mo sa buhay! Tandaan mo: magiging masaya ka lang kung matututo kang tanggapin na hindi ang puso, utak, atay o bituka mo ang may kasalanan sa lahat ng nangyari sayo, kundi IKAW mismo!"

9. "Lahat naman ng tao sumeseryoso pagtinamaan ng pagmamahal. Yun nga lang, hindi lahat matibay para sa temptasyon."

10. "Kung maghihintay ka nang ng lalandi sayo, walang mangyayari sa buhay mo.. Dapat lumandi ka din.."

11. "Gamitin ang puso para alagaan ang taong malapit sayo. Gamitin ang utak para alagaan ang sarili mo."

12. "Huwag mong bitawan ang bagay na hindi mo kayang makitang hawakan ng iba."

13. "Huwag mong hawakan kung alam mong bibitawan mo lang."

14. "Hiwalayan na kung di ka na masaya. Walang gamot sa tanga kundi pagkukusa."

15. "Huwag na huwag ka hahawak kapag alam mong may hawak ka na."

16. "Parang elevator lang yan eh, bakit mo pagsisiksikan ung sarili mo kung walang pwesto para sayo. Eh meron naman hagdan, ayaw mo lang pansinin."

17. "Pag hindi ka mahal ng mahal mo wag ka magreklamo. Kasi may mga tao rin na di mo mahal pero mahal ka. Kaya quits lang."

Pinoy Funny Quotes

Pinoy Funny Quotes

Once there was an angel who wants to take everything away from me,
then nakita ko sya tumingin sayo..."Oist"
Pag yan ginalaw mo gagawin ko shuttlecock ang pakpak mo!

*********   *

Bakit pag umiinom tayo ng isang basong tubig
parang ang hirap? Pero pag umiinom tayo ng redhorse 
kahit isang case parang kulang pa? Bakit ganon?

*********   *

Masakit sabihin ang "I hate you"
Mahirap sabihin ang "I'm sorry"
Lalo na ang "I love you"
Pero  pinakamahirap sabihin ang...
"iskibiritsiboooop
iskiribaaboap
blooopikiribitkiribit""
Ikaw nga?

*********   *

Nag-aaway nnman ang utak at puso.. sabi ng utak s puso,
"kalimutan mo na syaa.. "T@ng@ mo talaga!" sagot ng puso..,
"kala ko ba matalino ka? pano ko kakalimutan eh lagi mong iniisip!"

*********   *

Lahat naman tayo may kapintasan,
Lahat tayo hindi perpekto...
Kaya wag kang mag-alala kung ganyan
ka pinanganak...
Normal lang yan...
Hindi mo naman kasalanan na maging kamukha mo si...
KOKEY.

*********   *

Kapag sinayang ng isang tao ang pagmamahal mo, syempre ayaw mo na
Pero bakit pag may dumating na iba di natin maibigay ang lahat?
dahil ba takot ka na? o may naiwan pa rin s puso mo pra s kanya?

Nakakainis kayo lagi niyo na lang ako tinatapakan. 
Hindi na ba magbabago ang pagtingin niyo sakin?
-Doormat

*********   *

Bakit pag late ka pumapasok yung prof mo?
Pero pag hindi ka late wala naman yung prof mo?
Bakit ganon? hihihih

*********   *

Naranasan mo na ba makipag-inuman s mahal mo? ung tipong nalalasing ka na
tapos napayakap ka sa kanya at bumulong sya sayo.."Mahal Kita..."
nagulat ka at ngtanong .. "ano?" sumigaw sya .. "Tagay mo na!"

*********   *

Wala naman talagang taong panget,
nagkataon lang na ang mukha nila ay di pa 
uso sa panahon ngayon.

*********   *

Paano ba nasusukat ang ang pag-ibig?
Paano ba malalaman kung mahal mo ang isang tao?
Pano ko malalaman kung siya na ba talaga?
Hindi ko alam pero dapat tandaan mo na wag kang
sisigaw pag nakasalubong mo si Sadako.

*********   *

Pag masaya ka, masaya rin ako.. pag badtrip ka, badtrip din ako,
Pag malungkot ka, malungkot din ako..pag nasa2ktan ka, nasa2ktan dn ako.. 
wala lang....gusto lang kitang gayahin ahihihi...

*********   *

Ang bawat piso ay pinaghihirapan
Dugo't pawis ang puhunan.
Mahalaga ang bawat piraso
kaya sana...
Magreply ka naman pag nagtetext ako!
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Inspiring Christian Quotes

Inspiring Christian Quotes

Jeremiah 29:11

 Chapter Parallel Compare

11 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

Psalm 27:4

 Chapter Parallel Compare

4 One thing I ask from the LORD, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple.

Psalm 34:8

 Chapter Parallel Compare

8 Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.

Proverbs 17:17

 Chapter Parallel Compare

17 A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity.

Isaiah 40:28-31

 Chapter Parallel Compare

28 Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. 29 He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. 30 Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; 31 but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

John 15:13

 Chapter Parallel Compare

13 Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

Romans 8:28

 Chapter Parallel Compare

28 And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

Romans 8:31

 Chapter Parallel Compare

31 What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us?

Romans 15:13

 Chapter Parallel Compare

13 May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Romans 8:38-39

 Chapter Parallel Compare

38 For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, 39 neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

1 Corinthians 13:12

 Chapter Parallel Compare

12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

Lamentations 3:22-23

 Chapter Parallel Compare

22 Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. 23They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

 Chapter Parallel Compare

16 Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. 17 For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. 18 So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

1 Corinthians 16:13

 Chapter Parallel Compare

13 Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.

Philippians 3:7-9

 Chapter Parallel Compare

7 But whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. 8 What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ9 and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God on the basis of faith.

Ephesians 3:17-21

 Chapter Parallel Compare

17 so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love,18 may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, 19 and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. 20 Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, 21 to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

1 John 3:22

 Chapter Parallel Compare

22 and receive from him anything we ask, because we keep his commands and do what pleases him.

1 John 3:1-3

 Chapter Parallel Compare

1 See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. 2 Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. 3 All who have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure.

Hebrews 10:19-23

 Chapter Parallel Compare

19 Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, 20 by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, 21and since we have a great priest over the house of God,22 let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water. 23 Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.

1 Peter 2:9-11

 Chapter Parallel Compare

9 But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. 10 Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy. 11 Dear friends, I urge you, as foreigners and exiles, to abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul.

James 1:2-4

 Chapter Parallel Compare

2 Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds,3 because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. 4 Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

Romans 1:17

 Chapter Parallel Compare

17 For in the gospel the righteousness of God is revealed—a righteousness that is by faith from first to last, just as it is written: “The righteous will live by faith.”

Quotes about Nature

Quotes about Nature

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A dripping June sets all in tune.      

unknown

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A short horse is soon curried.      

John Heywood (c. 1497-1580)

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Nature is the art of God.

Latin (on nature)

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No man fears what he has seen grow.      

African Proverb

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Of all the plants that cover the earth and lie like a fringe of hair upon the body of our grandmother, try to obtain knowledge that you may be strengthened in life.     

Winnebago (Native American) (on nature)

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One step leads to another.      

unknown

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One swallow never makes a summer.      

John Heywood (c.1497-1580)

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The afternoon knows what the morning never expected.      

Swedish (on basic truths)

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The day has eyes; the night has ears.     

Scottish (on nature)

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The early bird gets the worm, the second mouse gets the cheese.      

unknown

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The earth has music for those who listen.      

unknown, thankyou to Guy Archer

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The sap rises in the spring.      

unknown

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The shoemaker's children have no shoes.      

unknown

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When the wind is in the east, tis neither good for man nor beast.      

unknown

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You can drive out nature with a pitchfork but she keeps on coming back.      

Horace (65-8 BC)

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Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.

Albert Einstein

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There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

Lord Byron

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Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.     

Lao Tzu

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Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.     

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.     

Aristotle

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Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.      

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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I love to think of nature as an unlimited broadcasting station, through which God speaks to us every hour, if we will only tune in.      

George Washington Carver

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Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. As age comes on, one source of enjoyment after another is closed, but Nature's sources never fail.

John Muir

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I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.      

Henry David Thoreau

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Never does nature say one thing and wisdom another.      

Juvenal

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I've always regarded nature as the clothing of God.      

Alan Hovhaness

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If you truly love nature, you will find beauty everywhere.     

Vincent Van Gogh

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Some of nature's most exquisite handiwork is on a miniature scale, as anyone knows who has applied a magnifying glass to a snowflake.      

Rachel Carson

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The beauty of the natural world lies in the details.      

Natalie Angier

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There is new life in the soil for every man. There is healing in the trees for tired minds and for our overburdened spirits, there is strength in the hills, if only we will lift up our eyes. Remember that nature is your great restorer.

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Quotes About Lies

Quotes About Lies

If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.

Mark Twain

Tags: lies, lying, memory, truth

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I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Tags: lies, lying, trust

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The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.

George Carlin

Tags: humor, insanity, lies, lying,self-indulgence, truth

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Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

Tags: lies, love, respect, self-deception, truth

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I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.

S.E. Hinton, The Outsiders

Tags: lies, lying, self-deception,truth

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It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.

Leo Tolstoy, The Kreutzer Sonata

Tags: beauty, delusion, goodness,lies, self-deception, wisdom

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So you're always honest," I said.
"Aren't you?"
"No," I told him. "I'm not."
"Well, that's good to know, I guess."
"I'm not saying I'm a liar," I told him. He raised his eyebrows. "That's not how I meant it, anyways."
"How'd you mean it, then?"
"I just...I don't always say what I feel."
"Why not?"
"Because the truth sometimes hurts," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "So do lies, though.

Sarah Dessen, Just Listen

Tags: lies, truth

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There are three types of lies -- lies, damn lies, and statistics.

Benjamin Disraeli

Tags: attributed-no-source, lies,lying, misattributed-mark-twain,statistics, truth

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If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.

Virginia Woolf

Tags: honesty, lies, stories, truth

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A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

Tags: lies, logic, philosophy,religion, truth

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It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.

George Washington

Tags: confession, excuses,honesty, lies, lying, truth

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All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable."

REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.

"Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—"

YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THELITTLE LIES.

"So we can believe the big ones?"

YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.

"They're not the same at all!"

YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOMERIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.

"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's thepoint—"

MY POINT EXACTLY.

Terry Pratchett, Hogfather (Discworld, #20; Death, #4)

Tags: belief, justice, lies, mercy,truth

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If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.

Adolf Hitler

Tags: lies, paraphrased

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It is an occupational hazard that anyone who has spent her life learning how to lie eventually becomes bad at telling the truth.

Ally Carter, Heist Society (Heist Society, #1)

Tags: lies, truth

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Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind.

Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince (The Infernal Devices, #2)

Tags: lies, secrets

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