So three years ago I was trying to make a first: a short story. But I’m not too confident to share. I just don’t feel like someone will see it as a “pleasing work” for their standards. So I will just post it here:
THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY
Parapampum- pum, parapampum- pum, rapampum- pum. There goes my sound. “I am living the dream” as what people should say. I play my life freely through my drums, sharing my music everyday. Or maybe not, for homelessness is even worse than living in slum. “What’s your name?” one passenger asks. But I silently hand a single envelope on each of their laps. I should show my talent first. Then sing my song, with the beat of my drum. The rhythm keeps the ride alive, but people find it irritating. But I don’t care, atleast I forget about life in a few seconds with a single tap.
The morning traffic never ceases. Cars, trucks, and some motors that feel superior of themselves. Smoke screens the periphery of many, but it shouldn’t be the thing that will cause me to give- up playing. I still focused on my drums: Parapapum-pum, rapapum- pum, rapapum- pum.
After which I will collect those envelopes. Some gave a large amount of money, some a little, and most of them gave none, but still I’m grateful.
I run through different jeepneys, trying to catch some people who would see my music. Although risky at times, I know my adventures would lead me to some fate I’ve been wanting for ages.
It was my father who taught me about adventures. Sometimes we talk about how he travels through different worlds through the spell of the “Ice Queen”, in a single sniff of the powder she gave, he can go through immeasurable distances. Although at times, he comes home after a few days, and he comes back to me, but with a distasteful attitude. He lets me bear our burden by doing what he wants to me. But that’s okay, for he is my father. Sometimes I wonder, “What is the feeling of going to different places? Isn’t that fun to go on an adventure with his spell and share my music to more people?” I asked my father about the spell, but he won’t share. “Time will come when you will learn how to get the magic spell” he always says.
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When there comes a time I get to play for others, people shouts at me when it’s too loud. But this time, even my father wants me to stop. Has his adventures ended already? Everytime he comes home it’s wayward to what I expect: the smell of alcohol, and his eyes in fury. But I never stopped dreaming. I even tried harder for some new melodies. “Wow, what a good drummer he is” is what people usually say now. Even at night, they let me play already at the sidewalks. There goes the rhythm of rapampumpum- papumpumpumpam, rapampumpum. I want to share this to my father.
This time I want him to hear this even from afar. There he is. I tapped as hard as I can, singing the song and giving the rhythm as best as I can. “Father! Aren’t you proud?”. There he goes, now going fast. I know he appreciates what I am doing. He did not mean what he said. One tear flew over the winds as I played harder. Until-
He’s outraged. The spell gives no good.
I fell down. Screamed.
‘Till there was a complete silence.
“Papa, I promise I would never play my drums again…”
They killed my adventures. It is the time where it should come to fade. I reached for my drums. Softly, I played for the last time, my head bleeding from the crash that is the death of a father’s love:
Parapampum- pum, pa..
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