Editorial

Dec. 17, 2017

                “What to write? What to write? What to write?” says the writer as he paces around his 2x2 meter room.  

                Beside his laptop with an empty document is his mountain of cup noodle shells and second-hand rubbish newspapers. It is the result of 5 days with no pay and begging-to-live savings. His pace for around 5 minutes became aggravating for the writer that his knees also beg to rest. The writer has a habit of always telling himself that he has the resolve to finish anything before even an ounce of lounging. 

                The second-hand lightbulb also begs to rest as it flickers more often. In subconscious response, the writer screams. And he shrubs his hands against his head sides to his whole face up to the neck. 

                “Any fuckin’ ideas, anyone? We’re running out of time here.” as the 18th brain cell leader asks the whole brain cells community.  

                “We watched the news, read other news, even read a shitty novel for good measure, none worked,” says the 5th brain cell leader. [Note: the writer is talking to himself.] 

                The 28th brain cell leader rebuts, “What about copying other articles? I know we’ve discussed this literally a ton of times, but-” 

                “We cannot copy, 28th, for the 18834th time. We can’t copy due to libel. Begin the protocol again. Has he eaten?” the 100th brain cell leader replies. 

                “No,” every single cell replies. 

                “Has he have eaten healthy these past few--” 

                “NO.” 

                “Well, we have the first step. How much is left in his savings acc-” 

                “147$” 

                “That’s more than enough. Act quickly now, he hasn’t seen the light in 3 days. And we have a cutoff point.” 

                The writer gets out to his 2x2 meter half-basement under his landlord’s apartment. He prepares the bag, goes out to market, and goes back home. He cooks his meal, eats breakfast, and the ‘committee’ brings his sanity back. But even with all this, he still shrubs his hands against his face, ‘out of ignorance,’ he feels that he thinks this. 

                “A walk may be fine this time. Even though I did it,” he says, ‘I should’ve focused more,” he thinks. 

            He then goes out to his shell again quickly without anything. And he then jogs through the neighborhood. 

              “I didn’t think it still smells here,” he thinks as he covers his nose the farther, he is at his home.  

                He then observed his neighborhood really closely despite the pungent smell. Burnt tires for recycling, methane ‘mutations’ from rotten and ‘expired’ supermarket food, ammonia for dog, rat, cat, pig, and shitty human pee. He can think of something, but it wasn’t right for him nor, in his thoughts, shouldn’t be meddled with. 

                Ideas are now concocting in his head. A poor kid drinks leftover slushies nearby a bucket of stagnated water. A beaten-up kid carries an infant with no fat, but with only literal skin, bone, and clothes, and 25 seconds to live by dehydration. 

               “Hmm...consumerism irresponsibility, dengue, malnutrition, eh, other amateurs will write this in a flash,” he thinks. 

                Tons of foreign T.V and movie CD-disks stacked one on another for inches. Someone throws a syringe out of a noisy crumbling-and-abandoned apartment. The writer smells the contents. 

               “Huh... Neo-colonialism, drug abuse,” he sighs, “Things never change, do we.” 

               He then looks at some group of kids running across the street near the port area, in the opposite direction to him. Running off with visible money. “About $10000 an average per kid, not bad. Did they steal it?” as he estimates due to the rubber-band-tied semi-thick bills. As no one follows them, the writer went in the opposite direction. He then sees a large garage-like area for shabby boats to park near the river. 

               “Damn, these second-hand Fabiano clothes and purses really looked legit. These kids got good eyes,” as he sees a bulky man with tattoos and a ripped overall, exclaims. 

               A smaller-stature man with a second-hand suit, replies, “Well, the trade comes with training, especially with unlimited stock on repeat. I told you that trash is worth it. The original owners never gave a damn about it. They just wanna boast how much they can waste in a minute.” 

              He then sees the clothes they mention. Fabiano shorts, skirts, dresses, all with labels. Christi pants, ripped jeans, overalls, sweaters, V-neck shirts. ‘All clothes brands imaginable are possibly traded because it was thrown out here as garbage and repurposed like movie popcorn,” he tries to conclude in his thoughts. ‘But I ain’t got proof of it and more information should come later. But it doesn’t matter, I have a lead.’ 

        “Yow, dude. What are you doing here?” the mysterious man pulls the writer away from the thugs’ sight. 

        “You shouldn’t be here,” he continues, “So, you know the gist of it?” 

        “Not much, the kids and the dialogue are clues,” the writer responds and looks at the river at the washed-out clothes, “Haven’t seen this many fabrics waste this piled up. Is this like the War of the Worlds shit?” 

        “Since you know something, we might gonna get out here first,” the mysterious man pulls the writer further away and runs together to the writer’s home in his instruction. “What else you know,” he asks. 

        “The kids are kinda profiting from that pile since the thugs collect it, and... all parties are happy, so...what’s the connection of those guys, the clothes, the waste, he kids, and the money?” the writer responds, near the basketball court, 10 meters from the river.  

        The unknown man still holds the writer by the collar and pulls him as he says, “You connected it real fast, eh... Well, I got something for yah. If you’re caught by their side, you’re on their guard and dead by the morning,” he releases his hands as he saw that the writer knows no more. 

        The unknown man continues, “Well you’re a writer, correct? I read your stuff, you have the potential to get more out of this forsaken town if you’re willing to write what I’m about to say.” 

        “It’ll be my pleasure, I’m on a tight schedule. What’s the scoop? Oh wait, how am I gonna believe that what you will say is true. Don’t give the ‘I’m gonna get my revenge’ shit.” 

        “It doesn’t matter-” 

        “Including that line.” 

        “Well... I have newspapers with accounts of everyone and everything involved.” 

        “I need to see it first. I don’t want a libel just because I meddled with anyone else’s balls.” 

        The unknown man sighs, “Come. Run. Quick,” they ran to the unknown man’s house. 

        They went inside the house, which is a 2-story abandoned apartment. 

        “If you’re willing to die for the consequences-” 

        “Just hurry, I need info, I write, I pass the papers, done. The whole area is changed inside out. That’s what you want, right? Hurry!” 

        The unknown man sighs, “If you’re really that insistent. You know why there are so many fuckin’ clothes in that riverside?” 

        “I fuckin’ don’t. I’m new here.” 

        Moments later. “Hehehehehehehehehehehe. Thanks to that guy, I’mma finish this article in no time. It’s fuckin newsworthy, no one connected the dots like we did. Bunch of airheads,” as the writer scribbles down the manuscript based on the articles, video clips, pictures, and others. He memorizes everything to save the information and avoid smuggled copies that might reach any company. 

        The writer writes every single piece of information useful in his argument. He types down his laptop for the rest of the day until his fingers decay or flattens. He skipped lunch, never had naps, never had dinner, and never had slept.  

        He thinks the whole day, “I fuckin rather die than to miss the deadline, not reach the info to the public & not get the bonus tomorrow the next day. Best decision ever.” 

       Editorial: 

              Clothes as Black Gold

              In these trying times, they say, we all hold on to something. We all get desperate for something, we all wish for something, we all desire something. Money, fame, honor, glory; all old-school. New land, genocide, exploitation, self-satisfaction; amateurish, but still deadly. The real deal we face, the real deal that must be solved now is one person who desires to have complete global control. It must stop now. And it all starts in a shabby town. 

              Here in Salabah, Marinduque, reports from the people that they are experiencing a major epidemic of dengue, malaria, and other types of water-borne diseases near the river since the 1960s. It is according to The Manila High news in the 1970s, 80’s until today. And they’re on page 20. The effects are still here according to the name paper and other sources such as Tinikling News, Sambayanan Reports, and the Philippine Guardians. 

             Surveys from the people and the hospitals say that there are more cases of water-borne diseases. Such as cholera, malaria, leptospirosis, dengue, uncontagious but still critical cases of E. Coli. It is said that they are more prevalent than heart diseases, cholesterol, and stroke by twice combined. 

             Then, the real source of interest is in pollution. There are found sites of clothing brands, known to many such as Fabiano, Christi, Angela Louie, et cetera, are piled as waste. They are swimming amongst the river bed and farther for about 100 meters throughout the city’s perimetric river.  

             The clothes have been said to be very contaminated. Thus, the water, which is mostly the primary source of most drinking water stores, is sickening people, unintentionally. It is despite the regulations and double-checking of the pasteurization efficiency of said drinking stores. 

             The connection is, as one source claims that, the President of the Philippine branch of Fabiano is allegedly cased for overproduction of clotheslines due to over marketing. More marketing, more buyers, more fabric waste, more pollution. It doesn’t mean that all buyers are seemingly throwing away their expensive brand clothes for no reason. The reason is, the accusation against the Fabiano President is because of the smuggling here near the region. 

             It shouldn’t be obvious that there are trucks that go through the perimeter that have something inside. Because it is reported that that the trucks contain freshly made clothes when going into the town. And then, the drivers pour the clothes with manure, then they are dropped in the river, thus the pollution. 

            The why, is vital. Kids go through finding the specific brands their master's select order near the river. Then they are to be washed from the manure and brought to a large, yet, unknown, garage-like compartment, 2 stories high. Thugs are collecting the said clothes and given to their own masters as rare items. In which, they are to resell in the black market.

So the desperation these higher-ups experience can cost these poor people's lives just because they treat these clothes as black gold. And the people as nothing more than pests or nuisance. If we stop this desperation, we can save millions of lives. Spread this to social media, if you want to make a difference in this world.

 Dec. 18, 2017

            The writer sighed after he finished the article, and thought to himself that it will give him credit in the industry after passing this. He jumps to a passenger car, commuting to his newspaper building. He then passed on his director immediately.  He then lived his days writing again normally, with mundane ideas. Hoping to find another spark. He never hears from the unknown man again.

Dec. 25, 2017

It is Christmas, the traditional lights, caroling still sparks so many kids. Presents, parols, Noche Buenas, and other stuff pop up, Christmas as usual.

As he prepares for dinner after going home. He walks very slowly and saw a man holding his knife who is trying to hide it. When the writer notices something, he immediately ran, yet the knife-holding man still chases, strangles him, pulls him by the neck, drags him to a narrow street, unknown by anyone.

The man with the knife, then stabs him, multiple times, until the writer loses consciousness. He then said to the writer,

"You shouldn't have written it, you dumbass. You know too much. My boss sends his regards," then he left the writer, who is beyond writing another article again.