Lauriat: A Filipino-Chinese Speculative Fiction Anthology
Filipinos and Chinese authors have a rich, vibrant literature when it comes to speculative fiction, the realms of the strange and fantastical. But what about the fiction of the Filipino-Chinese, who draw their roots from the folklore of both cultures? This is what Lauriat attempts to answer. Featuring stories that deal with voyeur ghosts, taboo lovers, a town that cannot sleep, the Chinese zodiac, and an exile that finally comes home, Lauriat covers a diverse selection of narratives from fresh, Southest Asian voices.
explain how she has made an impressive living off of perception; how her life has been dedicated to making others see what they want to see. “It’s an industry of prettified lies, where the surface is all that matters,” she might have said. But she didn’t, because Faye is not very articulate. All her best lines are written for her. Anyway, she’d have been wrong, because Hollywood is filled with dead people, and the dead can see the truth. Death makes sense that way. Mia is a sensible woman. She
everyone else, with stringy black hair that fell to his shoulders, and a slight hunch like he had a weight on his back. He didn’t look Filipino or Chinese, but you could easily convince yourself he was either, if you stared at his face long enough. I caught my mother by the arm as she walked past. “Who’s that?” I asked. She furrowed her brow. My mother prided herself in knowing every single branch and twig that sprouted from my father’s family tree. When I saw her lip twitch, I realized she
for some mysterious reason. Sorry. Wishing you well. Love, Binondo. Michael Sytengco had been bullied by Rafael See in high school and had never outgrown his paleness and his droopy eyes or his fear of doing a bad job of the operetta he had always wanted to write. The best he could do without falling apart when T.C. said she wanted a piano, a trumpet, a drum set, and a double bass was to give her the worst ones he had. “And she couldn’t tell how bad they were?” Leonardo asked. “She almost
notes sustaining any longer down the street. She was now the pianist for The Jazz Club. It was midday, lunchtime, with the kind of weather someone planning a garden wedding would want. A block away from Alan Lim’s eatery, each beat T.C. played on the drums was clear and enunciated and her rolls gracefully covered Bonnie’s clumsy transitions. It didn’t sound like Michael Sytengco’s worst drum set. The floor vibrated gently. “I can’t sleep,” complained Epifanio Ang. He took off his hearing aids,
ended in one of Manila’s numerous strip joints and massage parlors. All this made Raul’s phone call a pleasant surprise, and I really looked forward to wax nostalgic with him over a couple of beers. On his first night in town, Raul met us for dinner at Yangtze, a small Chinese restaurant that we had recommended for its food and nearness to his hotel. Despite his warm handshake and buss on Miriam’s cheek, I knew that things were different as soon as we sat down. Right before we ordered, Raul