A story on the Skeletal System

by Jeanne Genevive A. Pillejera

What happened? He groaned. PAIN. He felt pain all over. He groaned as he turned to lie on his back. What happened? He opened his eyes slowly, and nothing. He couldn’t see anything. He winced as he tried to sit up, his vertebra sending out all sorts of pain sensations, echoing at his coccyx as he sat down. What on earth happened? He looked around again. Nothing. Nothing but darkness. What happened? The last thing he remembered was… The gun! There was a gun. Why is he still alive? He was pretty sure he was going to die… Why didn’t he? What happened? Everything seems so hazy. He winced at his throbbing temporals. He can’t remember anything after that gun. What happened? He reached for his head and heard them. Chains! He jumped the hit his frontal on the stone floor. Chains. Chains bound him. Shackled to his carpus, his tarsus, his hyoid… What was happening? He tried to scream for help. He can’t. Something was over his mouth. Something that wasn’t a gag. Something hard. Something clamping his mandible to his maxilla. He looked aroud, his eyes are adjusting to the darkness. Nothing. Nothing but chains. Chains that bound him, anchoring him to this room. He tried to remember what happened. He forced his brain to remember. He can’t remember. Something was blocking his memory. He got up slowly, forcing himself on his feet. He groaned at the pain radiating from his calcaneus and up his tibia and fibula. He groped the walls. Stone. Everything was wtone. He moved around slowly, looking for a door, a window. Anything. Stone. Nothing but stone. This room was nothing but chains and stone. Frustration and panic gripped him.

Then, a scream. And another. And another. A silver of hope. He walked around the room, looking for where the sound is loudest. There. He searched the wall. He felt it. Metal. A mall slit of metal. He took in a deep breath, sent up a small prayer, and fumbled at it with phalanges. It moved. He held his breath and moved it a bit more. A little bit more… He blinked several times as light flooded through the tiney hole. He saw him. The man who screamed. He was on the ground. Bloodied. His skull cracked acroos the parietal bone. What is happening? He looked around the room outside. A man was standing over the bloodied corpse. He knew that man. It was the man who held the gun.

*BANG*

What?! What was that?

*BANG*

He was remembering something.

*BANG*

That’s right. He was shot. That man shot him. But… how? Where was the wound? He looked out the tiny hole again. He stiffened. The man was looking right at him. No. The man was smiling at him.

A story on the Integumentary System

by Mary Grace P. Rubido

            Everything is perfect and fine when I’m with him. I feel like he is my second big brother. I don’t feel any awkwardness unlike when I’m with other guys I know. Why? I don’t know either. But, maybe because he acts like my real brother does. He would cheer me up when I’m down, carry when I’m sick, and when I got wounded even a little bit, like just a scratch in my outer most layer of skin, the epidermis, almost until my stratum basale, he would scold me and say, “Why are you such a child? Can’t you take care of yourself?” See! He is exaggerating things so much. But, that’s why I like him.

            I like him just the way he is. He is so comfortable to be with. I can say that he is my first best guy friend in my life. Oh! I also forgot, he is also protective. Just like when we both went home and rode an LRT train, we were in such a hurry because it is heavily raining outside. He is worried that EDSA might be flooded by now. So, we got in the area wherein it is crowded and two more people and the additional two more people made it like sardines in a can. The door of the train closed. We were at the side close to the pole of the seats and the door opposite to the one that opens. I am leaning with my back at the door and he is facing towards me. We were talking cheerfully and laughing at the same time. I wipe the sweat produced by my sudoriferous glands. But, it is not from my eccrine gland but from my apocrine gland. It is due to the stress of getting in a train immediately. When the next station came, there were three people who got in the train. They were pushing the people in front that made the people inside to compress and have a little space for them. Thinking of the situation, I suddenly notice our position. We are so close to each other.

            He had his arms placed just in the level of my head. His face is near to me too and he said, “You okay? Sorry.” I replied, “No. It’s okay.” I lowered my head. Now I can almost hear his heartbeat. I feel like the train suddenly became slow. I can feel the palms of my hand and the solex of my feet becomes sweaty. And my heart is beating abnormally.

            “Hah… hah…”, he breathes heavily.

            I can feel his breath upon the back of my neck. My hair root plexuses reacted to it and send signals that caused my arrector pili muscles to contract and make a blood rush in my face and gave me some goose bumps. I can’t stay in this position longer. So, I decided to turn around and face the door instead. It is now in Gil Puyat station.

            One more station to go.

            When suddenly he said, “Hey, your hair is messed up.” Then, he fixed my hair. His fingertips touched my hair, and it caused my arrector pili muscles to contract again.

            “Ahh… I-it’s ok. I’ll just fix it myself.” I take a hold of my hair. And I can feel his breath not on my neck but at the back of my otic. I can’t take it anymore. I feel like I am white as the person with albinism. At last, we are at the EDSA station where we got off the train.