testimonial for mona

IN THE RESTAURANT, Mona saw her distant self in a mirror three tables away, past the couple eating slowly while staring at each other, past the table with kids constantly getting off and on their chairs, to their mommy's annoyance, and past the shuffle of waiters briskly walking to and fro with orders taken and food trays to deliver.

In one of those wall-length mirrors that make the room is larger than it really is, briefly, Mona saw a glimpse she immediately wanted to capture in digital film: a snap of herself unselfconscious, just looking into the distance, not caring what will happen, unafraid of life itself, an innocence that was possible only with a firm confidence in who she is, who she wants to be.

She fumbled with her bag, where is that camera? A waiter approached her. "What's wrong, Ma'am?" Nothing, Mona mumbled. Everything, Mona thought.

There, she found it. She aimed her camera towards the image and clicked. A waiter's blurred backside botched up the shot. She tried again. She saw an image of herself aiming at herself with a camera. Brilliant, Mona thought, just brilliant.

I want that candid shot, she thought, and went on to timing her camera to take five quick shots five seconds are she let it sit on the table, its lens aiming at that mirror.

Five seconds of eternity. Mona tried to calm down, so she would look like someone not waiting for a camera to click and save. Think how wonderful this would be: a high resolution shot with everything else cropped and blurred away.

So, she willed herself to forget that camera.

She heard a click. She waited three seconds and grabbed it.

Five shots. A kid in a blur running with a fork. Next. A waiter signaling to the cook about an order. Crap. A couple holding hands just past Mona's reflection. Getting close. Mona in the pale glow of a car's headlights passing outside the restaurant. Almost. And finally, someone staring into the distance, expecting maybe nothing, except for that perfect shot. She caught herself, on digital film, grinning. So much for a candid pose.

Mona asked that nearby waiter, the one she ignored earlier, to come over, stand still, and listen perfectly: "If you screw this up, I guarantee your painful death."

She handed over the camera and looked away.

erwin

Though his mask hid his face, Erwin's jaw dropped. Above the San Francisco bridge, the Hob Goblin dangled his screaming girlfriend with his right hand, while aiming the other at the traffic below. "Noooo!" Erwin screamed, his voice muffled by the winds. The Goblin let out a sarcastic laugh. He truly was enjoying this. Erwin's muscles tightened. Standing on one of the bridge's thick support wires, he couldn't do a thing, though he was a sprint away. "Take one step and I drop her. Take one step and I rocket the support wires till maybe a dozen cars slide off into the cold waters below." The scenario was similar to what the earlier Goblin nearly pulled off. "I know what you're thinking, hero, but the son outlives the father, the successor outperforms his predecessor." Another long laugh. "Deal with me!" Erwin pleaded. "Let them all go!" "As you say, webhead." The frames of life slowed down. Erwin ran and dived for the girl, his right wrist aimed at the Goblin, the other toward a spot on the bridge. The Goblin fired rockets. Erwin's web splattered on the Goblin's visor. Erwin grabbed his girl while the other webline connected; swinging from that one, he saw that the Goblin had recovered, that the support wires had snapped. The Goblin took to the air, eyeing Erwin. The bridge was groaning. Cement and steel tilted and cars began to slide to one side. Erwin threw his girl toward a support beam and fired webbing to both cushion her impact and keep her there. Gunfire from the maniac above, slicing his webline. Now, Erwin was airborne, in a free fall while the Goblin sped toward him, ignoring the girl. Erwin took out his cellphone, as he saw cars beginning to fall from the bridge. A hero is never alone. "Hello, Clark? Putang-ina tulungan mo ko!"

siege

Siege woke up with a fork stabbed on his right leg, just above his knee, while the drunken scent and snores of naked Latino men and women hung all around him, on a love bed so large and so soft he felt he would drown. He lifted the dead-weight of an arm of a woman hugging his waist. Where are my pants? he thought. Siege flicked his head and shook it. He ran his hand through his hair. Pizza. He reeks of pizza. How long have I been out? He pulled the fork out of his leg. Some of the skin came off with the fork. The wound healed in front of his eyes. What universe is this? He knelt on the bed. He was at the center. All around him were naked sinewy bodies. To a harem he shall go, he remembered saying and then pressing a button. There! On the carpet. Siege stood and his knees wobbled. Why do I feel so weak? He avoided stepping on one butt and breast after another. He got out of bed. So stoned are thee, he whispered to the crowded bed, the remote beside his right foot. It all made sense. Someone tinkered with his relaxation program. Oh he's going to kill someone in his dorm. Siege pushed the button and the room faded like a TV screen; it went dark and then bluish, the default setting of his immersion program. Siege crawled out of the desensitization tank and saw his roommate at the center of his red bed, with a fork on his leg in a sea of naked sleeping men. I guess, Siege thought, I have to recalibrate the program. The real world keeps butting into his fantasies. A knock on the door. He wrapped a towel around his waist. It was the pizza guy, a long haired Latina girl, the one whose breasts he avoided stepping on. Siege licked his lips and let the towel go. Maybe the program is fine as it is. As the girl was handing him the pizza and her bra, the naked men on his roommate's bed woke up, and walked up to him. To a harem he shall go. He thought of pressing the button again. And decided against it.

unapproved testimonial for a friend

Teacher Noel's heart skipped a beat when he saw the rows of girls all in skirts. The permutations shocked him. Christmas morning came early.

testi for my two baliw friends

Camille

A veiled woman walking down the street caught my eye. So still were her shoulders when she walked. The air around me thickened. A breeze unveiled her face, undressing her long hair and I couldn't breathe or move at the sight of her. "Shoot to kill!" my captain roared from behind me. "She's the infidel we're looking for!"

Abi

She poured a spoonful of the skull-marked bottle and swallowed it. Bitter. Just a slight sting in her stomach. She expected nausea but it didn't come. But then, that's me, she thought. I can take on anything. Except him. Him was the he walking back from the men's room, dodging other restaurant customers, flirting, with his brown eyes, with the waitresses. She took a menu from a waiter passing by and propped it up on her table for two, shading the gestures of her hands. She emptied the bottle on his coffee. "Hi, love," he said and she glared at him, and then she looked away. "I'm sorry. Old habit." After a thick silence, he said, sipping his coffee. "You sure there are no hard feelings?" She put everything she had in that smile.

tesifying for my tisay friends

Bakel

Meet Bakel (pronounced Vhak-lah!). In her boyfriend's tunnel-vision of love, she epitomizes the sole gigil-incentive of life: she is composed of so much such that he can't stop pinching and grabbing her. Like a tisay stuffed toy, she tries to defy his cuteness-induced adrenalin, and she screams over and over:ano bah? tama na. naiinis na ko. But her grumbling complaints fail to reach his love-muffled hearing, and so she remains stuffed. When Bakel is not asleep, she tries to stand for some kinda truth and for the uncurtailed freedom of taste along Ayala corner Buendia Avenue.

Rochelle

You will find Rochelle simply stunning. You won't be able to help it, when you witness her bare white arms: "Wow, legs!" you scream appreciatively, within a ten-feet blast radius, making everyone turn and look at the spectacle. Like a flash of light, her right arm slams into your innocent world, and the world suddenly becomes fuzzy, spins to a daze, and you are simply stunned. On her less violent days, when her arms are hidden, you can't put a finger on why she's beautiful. Maybe she just is, in a quiet sort of way. Or maybe, just maybe, you are rightfully afraid that your world will end when you tell her the wrong thing. Mind that blast radius.

pam

"So few of us left," said the Fading Light, a title the Queen took since the decline of our powers. She was beside the mound, the last traces of mound magic leaving her, like ripples we could all feel. No more murmuring winds lifted the dried leaves. None of us could come and go at the speed of thought anymore. We had almost lost every ounce of Faerie light we had. Our skins refused to be translucent, but with our remaining magic we remained undeniably stunning. Like the Queen standing before me, her sadness beautiful.

All our preternatural allies have either abandoned us or have been massacred by the humans. The time of the Faerie had passed. We are now refugees in our own home, which is wherever humans had not yet been to. We have been on the run for so long there was no time to mourn.

Today marks the third score of my watch over little Pamela, who is sleeping in my arms. She had been under my care since her phalanx of guards died protecting her. It was also the third score of our race's dwindling in number. Humans had been occupying more and more of our homelands, too soon for us to cope with, too many of them to deal with. We disdained their affection for contraptions, which they were using to annihilate us. For some reason, our powers affected them no more.

Before, with the mound's help, even little Pamela could hex dozens of men in yellow hats, with pick-axes and jackhammers, to walk away, their memories dishelved. And then the humans started using their metallic animals on us. One such creature killed Pamela's guards. I pulled her out of the way of a hulking animal that pushed aside all that lay in its path. The human that tamed it rode on its back, encased in glass. Pamela's guards were overrun, mistaken for little tribal men.

Faeries age slowly, and with the loss of the mound, I can only hope little Pamela also forgets her roots. For with no magic to protect her, she will have to rely on sheer muscle and cunning. Memories about a race humans disbelieve in will be of no help to her. The Fading Light, the last living guardian who shoulders Pamela's destiny, had decided for the child to age amongst humans.

The remaining handful of Faerie did not wish to be assimilated by the humans and chose to wither away; their memories of the mound and of our festive ages together in tact. We realized we had all lived a full life, except for the child under my care.

The Queen and I decided to give our remaining essences to Pamela, aware that with her new life with humans, she would lose the grandeur and grace inherent in all Faerie. A small price to pay for our race to survive, albeit changed.

"Only one of us left," said the Fading Light, and I nodded. With the last of our powers, we put a spell on Pamela, so that a kind heart within three hundred paces will be drawn to her, and will raise her as if she was her own.

The ceremonial essence transfer was next. After this, little Pamela will wake up completely human, with no Faerie left in her--except for the Queen's short temper and my unbending will.

When Pamela opens her eyes, all of her kind, save for her, will have withered away. All good things come to pass, even for Faerie.

-Final journal entry of Orphelia Ironhide, Shield-Nanny
to Pamela, niece-goddess of the Fading Light

how to write a friendster testimonial

Feel particularly witty. Click "Add a Testimonial." Skim previous entries. Decide you can do better. How to proceed. Wiggle your fingers over the keyboard. Grin with determination . . . plunge in.

"I've known him since..." Fuss over your beginning. Too many nostalgic templates floating around. Decide to avoid that. "When we were kids, Martin climbed a tall acacia and couldn't get down. He hollered 'Mama' till his voice got husky. We laughed at him till his mom came running, blaming us for what happened." There. Concise, a touch of drama, explaining you've known him from way back. Decide that he forgave you for not helping out back then. Wonder how he'll thank you for recounting the old days.

"The only Alcoholics Anonymous member I know with a rap sheet longer than her arm." Synopsis, punched it right where it counts. Smile proud. Continue with best wishes template: "She gets better every two months, sobering up and then plunging down again into the bottle. Her consistency is a thing of beauty." Perfect.

"This gal, mhann, tops the list of coolness kids in school. She is goodtimes personified." This is exactly how you know her, you decide: in a mindless-fun wavelength. Apt would be the surfer-dude template...always useful for people you don't really know, don't care to know better, and don't really intend on offending. It's like a neutral arms' length pat on the back.

"Lovely, full of energy, bouncy, talkative..." Will this do? you ask yourself. It's non-committal, an unimaginative grocery list of adjectives, the first impressions off your mind when you think of this person. Maybe another adjective will do. Decide to be a miser. You hope she'll be flattered and then write you a testi that beats what you did for her. Always works, you remember. People think you are either sincere or pulling their chains. Either way, they remember your effort.

"Terry is the man! He can do overtime like a camel! Nice going on that promotion and the anvil of feather award!" Perfect for a guy who thinks he's important. Keep up the exclamation points and the cheerleader attitude. He'll testi you back with empty praises, that's the only bad side to this. An empty pat on the back deserves another.

"I don't know this guy well..." A lot of bull, you press backspace to erase it. If you don't know the person well, why write a testimonial? You decide to be honest and qualify things: "From the week-long workshop, where I got to know Dexter, he kept biting his nails, kept spitting between long sentences, and stayed too long in the toilet. Nice guy though."

"He jumped back, barely evading the bloodied knife. His opponent pressed on, withdrew the weapon, and lunged at him with a stab aimed at the neck." Hah! Action-packed. Who wouldn't approve of this on his testi page? Even though none of the events happened. You continue with the neat story. "He ducked below the thrust and stabbed upward, piercing the enemy's throat. Someone will choke on his own blood tonight." You decide you should get paid for this. It's publishable escapist testi-writing.

"Superb craftsmanship, astounding character-build up. Gregory packs a wallop on every page." You mimic the back-of-the-book cover write up. It's always funny. People are after all books to be read and reviewed.

ahmed

Ah•Med //(pronunced ä-'med, written abbrev. 'Mhedz') noun. 1. A periodioc hermit of a myth whose reclusive moods remain uncatalogued. 2. Name of Arabic origin: 'Ahmed' means 'praise.' Therefore, to mention his name is to praise him. Don't. 3. In Krus na Ligas mythology, the right pinky finger, and therefore keeper of all peripheral powers of the omniboogyman. 4. Ahmed is known for his shiny look long hair, and for his habit of knifing the universe with a crisp, hand-lip coordinated Finger: his right arm would jut out from under, his middle-finger-guided hand in a sharp upward stab; at the same time he'd hiss, "**CK **U!" Goodness is in the man, somewhere.

rhea

Rhea is watching her friends in the water. She's sitting on a papag, a bed assembled from bamboo, like the cottages to her left, where Espy and the others are drinking. Yesterday, when the jeepney they sardined into got near the shoreline, the wind picked up a coolness, a sweet scent that meant they were nearing the edge of the island. That was the point, of course, of coming to this place. To see the beach and then maybe decide to wade in it. But then there was the trek to the campsite that Espy's boondog watched over. It felt like ascending a mountain to Rhea, who had been raised to think that the terrains of Bacolod and Manila defined the world. And then there were the makeshift cooking and eating utensils and lavatories (which was anywhere far from human eyes), and it was an hourly struggle to remain antiseptic. Because the bathroom hadn't been invented yet on a hill that high. And she even managed to sleep in a tent with Espy and Rona. How was that possible? Never mind. Coming down from the hill was a different story, and strained almost a new set of muscles, which Rhea didn't expect. Her only exercise in the office was straining with the mouse and pressing her floor on the elevator panel. Of course, her vocal chords were in order. But you can't ask your voice box or your tongue to go downhill for you. Rhea remembered her cramping legs during her slow walk to the beach, when Ayen said she walked like those cheap wind-up little robots, and she was too tired to hit him with her bag. And now that the hill and campsite and boondog were behind her, she stares at the inviting beach below. But it's nice up here, she thought, with the air blowing not too hard and not too hot. But it would take effort to shower, even though the shower room was only six paces to her right. And after she showers, she'll have to walk all the way down to where Pam and Rona are doing synchronized swimming. There, she'll get wet again. This time by semi-salty water. And then she'll have to wash her hair, again. There was an odd logic to all this. You come up a hill to go down. You shower to get wet so you can get wet afterwards, in the sea. Weird. I think I'll just stay up here, she thought. This is the second time she went to Batangas, the second time she stayed away from the sea. Better that my friends think I just didn't feel like sea-dipping again, she thought. She couldn't risk them finding out that, when sea water touches her, she turns into a crab.