(Short Story / 2nd of 5 Parts)
The door in her bedroom was ajar, slowly that I pushed it open. I was right, she was there, and from the looks of it, she was already asleep. I waited for this moment for so long, and yet Grandma just slept on me and forgot about her promise. I felt disappointment slowly creeping in, but I knew our grand old lady needed that rest.
After a few seconds, I decided to leave and no longer disturb my grandmother.
“Hey, don’t tell me you’re no longer interested to know my secret. Get back in here. My laptop’s open. It’s here beside me. I have already opened his blog.” That was Grandma just before I closed the door.
Excitement readily dislodged the disappointment I was beginning to feel earlier. Finally, the moment had come – the moment when my thirst for knowing more, if not everything, about my grandma’s mysterious adorer would be quenched.
I jumped into my grandma’s bed and started to manipulate her laptop. Attached to her laptop computer was an old but reliable wireless broadband gadget. She requested additional pillows on her head and back so she could also see what I was doing.
The man’s blog was so old-fashioned, as old-fashioned as the birthday card given to me by that old man earlier. There were no video and audio appendages similar to the blogs of my time. It only looked like a plain online diary encoded in a colorfully-designed template.
It was the man’s profile I paid attention to first. To my dismay, his real name was not indicated. What was there was just PEEKER, obviously a pseudonym. There was limited information as well – no age, no address. It was only his profession he cared to divulge – educator-writer.
“Grandma, what’s his name?” I asked casually.
“Secret!” She naughtily retorted. Insisting was pointless because I have tried asking the same thing before, but Grandma would not divulge his name.
“Okay, just tell me where he is now.”
“How I wished I had known.” I paused when I heard that from Grandma. There was sadness in her tone. It was intriguing. But I was happy with her response because somehow, she started to open up about her adorer and unwittingly gave me the slightest inkling of how she felt for him.
When I finished the profile, I started to open the blog entries. I was surprised by the sheer volume of entries in Peeker’s blog. In the archive section, I saw that he had entries from 2009 to 2041. However, he stopped blogging in the past 10 years. Coincidentally, those were the years that my grandpa suffered from cancer until he succumbed to the illness 5 years ago.
What’s more striking was that he blogged exclusively for a woman he fondly calls Charming.
“Yes, that’s the name he christened me with – Charming.” That was Grandma’s response when I inquired about the name. Then I scrolled back to the entries in 2009. My grandma then was just in college. Then I began reading…
The blog entries, with each one always beginning with the salutation “To my Ever Dearest Charming,” were very long. Through the first blog he published for Grandma in May 2009, I learned he was a professor at a reputable university invited to conduct a one-day leadership seminar in the college where Grandma was studying.
In one part of the blog entry, Peeker wrote…
—–
“You gatecrashed into my life when you attended the seminar which I conducted at your school. Of the many participants who came, you easily caught my attention. Not only because you are pretty with so smooth skin. I am used to seeing beautiful young women. But there was something exceptional about you. Your eyes radiate some kind of magic. When I looked into your eyes, I got myself charmed and bewitched. Our eyes met, you smiled, and at that very moment, there was something I felt. I could not understand if it was what they call love at first sight. I was uncertain. I felt I was too old for such kinds of stuff. But I am certain that the feeling was something special, something so disturbing – so special and disturbing that that very night I would keep thinking about you until I decided to open my website and put you and this experience in my blog. This is very funny. And yes… very inappropriate! Thankfully, that would be my first and last time seeing you. Soon, you’ll be forgotten.”
—–
“Grandma, did you ever see him again after the seminar?” I inquired.
Grandma responded in the affirmative, “He was hired by the college as the facilitator of the 3-month English proficiency program for selected students. I was one of those students, and whether we liked it or not, we were destined to see each other again.”
Indeed, whether they liked it or not, their destinies intertwined at that juncture. Their paths crossed, inevitably. Grandma told me that the program her adorer supervised for three months in their university was done thrice a week.
In Peeker’s next blog entry, his emotional predicament was so apparent.
—–
“I don’t know if I would consider that 3-month job offered as a blessing or a curse. Instead of being forgotten, you got embedded deeper into my consciousness. Each time we will have a session, I try to avoid looking into your eyes, not only because I may get distracted in the performance of my tasks but also for fear that all the more that you will get me charmed and bewitched. But not looking at you is like forgetting to breathe. I did not like to deprive myself of the simple joy that your presence brings.”
“Instead of avoiding you, I befriended you. I asked for your mobile phone number and your e-mail. Each time I would plan to make a conscious effort to avoid you, all the more that my feet would drag me closer to you. I have frequently talked and exchanged text messages with you since then. At first, we discussed matters concerning the program I was conducting in your school. Later, we explored various topics, including our personal lives.”
—–
The adorer admitted in his blog that there were rules of propriety that he violated when he befriended my grandma. He unabashedly realized that not long after they became friends, he could confirm what he was so afraid of…that he was in love with my grandmother.
(Short Story / 1st of 5 Parts)
It was halfway through the century, my grandma’s 60th birthday. My parents were making sure that it would be a very memorable celebration. The services of a caterer and an event coordinator were acquired to ensure that the nitty-gritty details of the affair would be taken care of.
Our family compound was bustling with so much activity. People were all over. Most were in our sprawling front yard pitching tents, positioning tables and chairs, and decorating a makeshift stage. A few were in the lounge and the terrace for curtains and decorations, while others were in the kitchen cooking. In the backyard, the butchers worked on pig and cow carcasses, making the place messy and smelly. Thanks for the pig being roasted in an adjacent vacant lot. Its delectable aroma countered the nauseating smell of blood and uncooked meat.
It was not, however, with the big celebration that I was excited about but rather with my grandma’s promise that she would show me the blogs posted by one of the many men who fell crazy for her when she was still young. How did blogs look like when my grandma was still young? But more than that was the curiosity developed by my grandma’s constant mention of the man who she never thought would profess so much affection for her, more than the appreciation showered to her by anyone. But whenever I would ask if she also loved the man, my grandma would only smile but refuse to answer. No matter how adamant I would be in pressing for an answer, she would just stare at me and smile. And when I asked why she did not marry the man, she retorted, “Better if you just read later what he wrote for me in his blogs!” How frustrated I would be if she stated the same line for whatever questions I asked about her mysterious adorer.
She told me about the man and his blogs five years ago, after my grandpa died. Grandma said that Grandpa did not know about it. And since then, my curiosity about the man and his blogs has grown enormously. My grandma promised to finally show me what her mysterious adorer wrote about her in his blogs only when she turned 60, and that was that night. Five years of waiting would be over.
Like most blogs, the adorer’s blogs were purely personal, not interconnected or socially networked in the blogosphere. Those blogs were even classified as “private”; thus, they could not be read by anyone but the blogger himself. That was according to my grandma. But before that man left to pursue a career overseas, so my grandma could access his blogs, he left her a note containing the blog’s account name, the corresponding password, and a short message. Grandma kept that note carefully. She mounted it on a cardboard and carefully wrapped it with a plastic cover. She gave me a glimpse of it after my grandpa’s death but did not allow me to read the message. I tried to sneak into her room several times and wanted to find it, but Grandma was so clever. She kept it so tightly that, presumably, even my grandfather did not see it.
Nothing seemed to interest me that night, but when Grandma finally revealed everything to me. Not even the seemingly endless stream of food and drinks and the presence of relatives and friends would distract me from wanting to know more about my grandma’s adorer. I wished the celebration would be finished early, if not abruptly ended.
Anxiously that I waited until the last of the visitors went out. It was almost midnight when the caterers left, hauling their materials and equipment with them. Even my dead-tired parents proceeded to the bedroom and took their well-deserved rest.
My most awaited moment came. I proceeded to the gate, but an old car stopped before I could close it. That old car looked familiar, for many times that I have seen it in the past. It was a Mercedes Benz car. It would always roll off slowly whenever it passed by our house. It was for the first time that it made a stop. It was my intention not to mind whoever was in the car, fearing that the one driving may be a visitor who would require the attention of my grandma, thereby unnecessarily prolonging my agony of waiting for the realization of grandma’s promise.
To my surprise, the driver disembarked and walked towards the gate. I tried to walk away, pretending not to have seen him. But much to my chagrin, he called me out.
“Hey, young man. May I have a moment with you?”
With a heavy heart, I approached him. The driver was an old man. It’s hard to determine his age. I wasn’t good at that, but I think he’s older than my grandmother. However, he looked trim and healthy. His shoulders were broad, and his biceps and chest muscles were well-defined. His physique suggests that he could have worked out regularly when he was young, or he might still be doing it. I have been seeing a lot of senior citizens in the gym where I go once in a while.
“Good evening, hijo,” he said, “please give this to your grandma. My apologies for the bother!”
“No worries, sir! You are welcome! I replied.” It was an old-fashioned birthday card that the old man handed me. I didn’t realize that such stuff still exists.
“Thank you. Good night!” said the old man. He gave me a tap on the shoulder, went back to his car then rolled off slowly. As I closed the gate, I noticed the car parked on a nearby roadside under a bright light post in front of a newly-built bungalow.
When finally, nothing stood between me and the fulfillment of my grandma’s promise, excitedly that I searched for her. Grandma was nowhere to be found, not in the garden or the living room. I suspected she could be in her bedroom dozing off already, for indeed, it was a tiring birthday celebration she had had.
I was once asked to be one of the judges in a “short film” competition. When the board of judges convened to discuss the results, one member was surprised by my choice of winners. To my chagrin, he asked me this question – “Do you really know what a story is? I was unsure if he was kidding then, especially since his list of winners is completely different from mine.
That question made me reflect. Do I really know what a story is?
Of course, I do.
That surprising comment inspired me to write something about stories and storytelling.
It gave me chills when I got to this part of this article. I imagined Montressor knocking off the neck of a bottle of wine and offering it to Fortunato as they descend to the catacombs of the Montressors with the intention of inebriating the latter so he could consummate a fatal revenge on him because of past insults.
Let me begin by saying that I love stories… like Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado,” a part of which I described in the previous paragraph. I am so fascinated by them. Very likely that my having earned the degree Bachelor of Arts in English and my having completed the academic requirements for the degree Master of Arts in English contributed to that. The two main fields of study (major) in both degrees are English language and literature, but more on literature. We studied, among other things, the different forms of literature – prose and poetry, the body of literature of selected countries, literary criticism, philosophy of literature, and creative writing. Just imagine how many stories I had to read when I was enrolled in subjects like Short Stories, Novels, Drama, and Shakespeare. To enhance my understanding of the stories I was reading then, I had to watch their screen adaptation (especially of Shakespeare’s famous plays) if they happened to be available. In short, I became interested in stories, not as a hobby. I studied them. I taught Literature and Literary Criticism when I was teaching in the Philippines. By the way, I also worked so hard to become a writer. I write dramatic monologues, short stories, novels, and plays. Check my website for some of my works – madligaya.com.
I am so fascinated by the art of knitting together the elements of fiction within the frame of a plot – of how to make sure that the most important element of fiction – conflict – is laid down clearly and passes through exposition, complication, crisis (commonly known as climax), falling action, and resolution. Gustav Freitag, a nineteenth-century German critic, laid this down in what came to be known as the Freitag Pyramid. Crisis – or climax – is at the top of the pyramid. The exposition and complication constitute the rising action that ultimately leads to the crisis. Thereafter is the falling action, which leads ultimately to the resolution or the denouement. Some stories (movies) abruptly end when the climax is reached. In cases like this, the crisis implies a resolution. The resolution is left for the readers to deduce.
When a series of events is not laid down in the conflict-crisis-resolution arc, they are but just that – series of events, not a story. Conflict, crisis, and resolution (call them together as a plot) are the necessary features of a story. To be classified as a story, a narrative requires more than setting, character, theme, point-of-view, tone, and style. No matter how short or long a story is, there should be a conflict, conflict that progresses from the time it is revealed (exposition), becomes complicated, reaches a climax (referred to as crisis earlier), slows down to a falling action, and makes a full stop at the juncture called resolution. Am I right? As I articulated earlier, a writer may stop raising the action right after reaching the climax to let readers imagine how it ends or create the kind of ending they desire.
In movies (or films), cliffhanger endings have become so popular. In cliffhangers, it can be argued that the story does not immediately end after the climax but somewhere between the falling action and the resolution. There was no clear resolution. It can be argued also that cliffhanger endings are applicable only in the case of standalone movies, not serialized ones like Star Wars, Avengers, and the like. When for example, Thanos (in Avengers: Infinity War) snapped his fingers, and some of the Avengers were reduced to dust, we were left hanging and wondering why all those heroes we used to see alive and victorious in previous Marvel movies died or disappeared. But it’s not a cliffhanger ending per se because we know that that movie is the 3rd part of the main 4-part Avengers series. We know that the last part of the series is forthcoming. All the Avengers movies and the other standalone Marvel hero movies in previous years are part of one whole story.
You might ask, “Where are the events in Avengers 3 located in the Freitag (plot) Pyramid?” It’s in the complication (or rising action part), far away yet from the climax. Your next question might be – “Which part of Avengers 4 is the climax?” It started when Tony Starks snapped his fingers and said, “I am Iron Man,” culminating at the moment Thanos slowly turned to dust. All the events that followed are parts of a very clear falling action and resolution.
What do you think? Am I right not to consider the endings of serialized stories as cliffhanger endings (because of the imaginary “To be continued”)?
An example of a movie with a climax and a falling action but the resolution was unclear, and the audience needed to decide what to think about it is how the movie “Don’t Breathe” ends. (I hope you have watched that movie, too… and in case you haven’t, I am sorry if this part of my article will now serve as a spoiler. Just skip reading the rest of this paragraph and proceed to the next one, in case you plan to watch the movie.) The climax of that movie came at exactly the 1:20:43 mark. The blind man, after Rocky, hits him repeatedly in the head with a crowbar, falls from the 1st floor of the house to the basement. Part of the falling action shows Rocky coming out of the house alive with the blind man’s money. Later she could be seen with her sister leaving Detroit for California. The movie ends showing that the blind man is alive. He survived. And I was left formulating my own resolution… or is a sequel (or a prequel) being planned?
I used to teach Literature, Creative Writing, and Literary Criticism in the Philippines. One of my students asked this question: Should all stories conflict?
If you were me then, how would you answer?
Can a series of events stitched up together in any form be considered a story without a central conflict?
From Janet Burroway’s “Writing Fiction: A Guide To Narrative Craft”:
“And the story is a form of literature. Like a face, it has necessary features in a necessary harmony… Every face has two eyes, a nose between them, a mouth below; a forehead, two cheeks, two ears, and a jaw. If a face is missing one of these features, you may say, ‘I love this face in spite of its lacking nose,’ but you must acknowledge that in spite. You can’t simply say, ‘This is a wonderful face.’
The same is true of a story. You might say, ‘I love this piece even though there’s no crisis action in it.’ You can’t say, ‘This is a wonderful story.’
Fortunately, the story form’s necessary features are fewer than a face’s. They are conflict, crisis, and resolution.
Conflict is the first encountered and the fundamental element of fiction, necessary because, in literature, only trouble is interesting.”
Let the foregoing paragraphs be my answer to the question, “Should all stories have conflict?”
If a narrative has no conflict, don’t call it a story. Call it a face without any part that should be there – eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks, or forehead.
 | M.A.D. LIGAYA on The Color Game |
 | Eduardo Maresca on The Color Game |
| M.A.D. LIGAYA on The Color Game |
| Eduardo Maresca on The Color Game |
| M.A.D. LIGAYA on WHERE WE STAND |
M.A.D. LIGAYA
M.A.D. L I G A Y A 
