Short Shorts
SHORT SHORTS
by Cesare Syjuco
Photos by Cesare Syjuco
Published in José [The Literary Quarterly of the Philippines], January 1983
Life on Mars
I could only understand that, on occasion, meteorites the size of 11-storey buildings came crashing through the atmosphere, taking large chunks of the landscape with them. I know meteorites as tiny black rocks on display at science fairs, never in any grand proportions, and the thought of mammorth morsels of burned-out heavenly bodies dropping in unannounced made me somewhat anxious during the course of my stay.
Thus, it is difficult for me to comment at any great length regarding life on Mars. However, I will attempt to offer the reader some practical notion of it.
The principal industries on Mars are mining and
ETC., ETC.
Next summer, I am planning a trip to Jupiter, the planet with eleven moons.
_____
Morgan
That night, I dreamt of little else. We played leapfrog over the eidelweiss. She went first, and then I. We knelt in prayer at dusk, at dawn, in innocent holiness, then plunged into the wake of hell, and wailing, and being laughed at, and the birth of bastards. I hardly slept through any of it.
Everywhere I went she was planted in corners. I took her apart and put her back together again. And again. Till I knew her every rise and drop, every curve and crevice. For example, I began to notice for the very first time that:
1. Her eyes were speckled green like a fruitfly’s.
2. Her nostrils could be seen from above.
3. Her ears peeped through her hair.
4. Her bellybutton was turned out and levelled off into two (2) rounded peaks.
5. She had legs like my Algebra Teacher’s.
6. Among other things.
I did not care that everyone in her mother’s family for the past three generations played chinese dominoes. Nor that her father drank too much and was once sued for malpractice. What did anyone know of anything anyhow? What did they know of love?
I still dream of her on occasion, but she only plays minor roles now, like the travel agent, or the cook, or the doorman.
_____
The Ace
At about the time when he had consumed more drinks than he could handle, the ace had removed his medals and had lined a corner of the bar with them. He kissed each one in turn, called each by name, and then decorated a row of shotglasses with them, one medal to a glass. All this time he was talking to himself. He was not the sort of guy to slap you on the back and breathe foul fumes in your face. Aces are not like that.
He had lost count of the number of kills he had made. It was a job and he simply went up there and did it. You do not collect kills like you collect trading stamps. You come at each other and one of you is either better or luckier, and sometimes you both get it in the ear. It is a very quick process, not at all like it is on television, and one is never sure how he will come out of it until it's over and the smoke has cleared. You line them up in your sights as fast as they come at you and give them a short burst out of both barrels. The rest is god's will and the devil's work.
"I'm just a kid from a little town in Arkansas," he told me as he payed his bill. He could not find his way to the door by himself, and I helped him into a cab.
Aces have nerves of steel.
_____
Layers
By the time she had undone each new layer, another one had already taken its place. It appeared to be reproducing itself faster than she could uncover its innermost secret, almost as if it were alive and its skin was made up of endless such layers structured one on top of the other in sections building incessantly outward as you stripped them from the top.
To be sure, their colours had changed; at first, a very heavy blue was followed by shades of the same in infinitely lighter hues, until all at once it had become green, and so on. Entire spectrums already lay by her feet, never once repeating themselves, yards and yards of stripped layers in pale oranges, vibrant whites, dense greys, and shrieking yellows. It was the colour of blood, the colour of barley, the colour of molten iron, the colour of leapfrogs and delicious gems. It almost made the effort worthwhile.
She knew then that the secret was in the colours. She lay down among them and bathed her hair in silver-magenta. Her thoughts were already far away.
_____
Sparky & The Kid
I had sensed from the very beginning that the kid had hidden one under his shirt. But it had not occurred to me that he could actually have used it on anything other than an occasional frog and discarded tin cans.
Sparky must have guessed otherwise. His eyes were white with fear as we reached the end of the corridor for the pay-off. "He's got a gun," Sparky had said to me in a hush. "Jesus Christ. He's got a gun tucked in his belt."
The kid turned suddenly, his back to the wall. His face had changed into something horrible. He pulled out a chrome-plated .38 and aimed it squarely in our direction. My heart lunged out of my shirt and I could feel the sweat come out of me all at once.
The first shot caught Sparky in the face. It was fired from ten feet out and it blew half his nose and jaw away like christmas wrapping.
Sparky was lying on the pavement, his limbs bent out of shape. The kid walked up to him, aimed the weapon with both hands, and fired a second time from directly above. Sparky’s skull blew up like a lard bubble. There was blood and bone flying everywhere and coming down the walls.
The kid slipped the .38 in his own mouth and cocked the hammer with his thumbs. When he pulled the trigger, it was like a fireworks display. Incredible!
He was trying to tell me something about himself, but what he was saying was mostly drowned out in gurgles.
_____
On The Job
We took a lot of pictures.
The bars had not been so much bent out of shape as quite simply pushed aside. Anything with that much power behind one paw was best avoided at all cost. I would be sure and put in for hazard pay.
They had cleared a backroom for members of the press, and someone had rolled out an old blackboard. 16” x 20” photographic enlargements were tacked on two at a time for our benefit, as more flashbulbs popped. What we saw was mind-boggling.
The details were read over a portable loudspeaker. It was 33½ feet long from its nose to the tip of its tail. It stood 12 feet tall and weighed almost 4,000 pounds. Its presence on the city’s outskirts had been kept in the strictest confidence for two, maybe three months, while attempts had been made to breed it in captivity for possible use as an assault weapon and anti-riot device. The officer who conducted the briefing was not at liberty to disclose further information regarding the matter, and he refused to comment on where it had originated from or how many others like it were presently in captivity. I took everything down in shorthand.
A great many questions followed. A man from the Times wanted to know if there had been additional fatalities reported since earlier in the evening when the conference had been called. The officer read from a separate list. Six families had been devoured on sight. A school bus had been forced off a ravine with no likelihood of survivors. An old woman had died of heart failure. A navy chopper had been snatched in midair, killing three of four occupants. A county sheriff and his deputy had been clawed almost beyond recognition.
It could also breathe fire when provoked.
_____
Dangerous Journey
The old hatbox had said to Petros that the void was the castle and the castle was the void. It said so on a rumpled (but otherwise spotless) piece of paper at the very bottom of the box. And he could make nothing of the statement, convinced though he was of its sincerity.
He went out in search of the answer.
He spoke to the willow but it was lost in its proverbial brooding.
He spoke to the songbird but it was late for rehearsals and had to be off.
He spoke to the spider but the spider took him for mad and ignored him altogether.
He looked in his drawer and found it. But the answer only led to more questions.
Ignore the castle, it said. It is only a distraction. It is the void that is essential.
Petros would spend several lifetimes in search of the void. It was to be a long and dangerous journey, and one from which he could never return. But Petros knew only that the statement was sincere, and he pursued its meaning with sincerity.
* * *
Cesare A.X. Syjuco, “Short Shorts” (page 1 of 3), José The Literary Quarterly of the Philippines, January 1983
Cesare A.X. Syjuco, “Short Shorts” (page 2 of 3), José The Literary Quarterly of the Philippines, January 1983
Cesare A.X. Syjuco, “Short Shorts” (page 3 of 3), José The Literary Quarterly of the Philippines, January 1983
