Typhoon

2023 7th & 8th Grade Prose Winner

Mico awoke from yet another nightmare, breathless and wide eyed. As he scanned the
room, he was flooded with memories of the storm, the storm that had dropped him and
his family into the evacuation center without a care. Although the terror was stuck on
replay in his mind, Mico continued to aid his family in fixing the flooded, destroyed
house. He got used to seeing the destruction, got used to the long walk from the center
to his home, got used to the rocky feeling of volcanic mud on his hands.

But there was more to the story.

Mico tiptoed outside, clutching his sketchbook in one hand and pencil in the other. His
eyes darted from the warm morning landscape to his paper, over and over till the page
was filled with shapes and colors.

Mico held it up to the sky. Nothing.
It looked absolutely nothing like the majestic dawn before his eyes. He sighed and
closed the book, kicking off his ratty tsinelas and stepping back inside, willing the aging
house’s door not to squeak as he closed it, preparing himself for the day ahead.

It was oddly humid, but cool enough to be outside. Mico was thankful for a break from
the unforgiving Philippine heat. He remembered laughing with his sister, Balanga, at
the blonde, pale tourists who came wearing long sleeved shirts and thick American
jeans, visibly uncomfortable in the scorching heat. He giggled at the memory as he
walked down into the plaza.

As he walked, Mico noticed the clouds getting higher. However, he thought nothing of it
at first. But as he stepped up to Mr. Mendoza’s vending booth to buy Papa’s morning
coffee, his thinking changed. “Magandang Umaga, Tito Mendoza!” Instead of greeting
Mico with his usual toothy grin, Mr. Mendoza’s face was somber.

“Mico. Have you heard?”

“No...?

“A storm is coming. A typhoon.” He shook his head as he packed up his stand. Mico felt
his blood run cold. He had never been in a typhoon before, but he had heard vicious
stories from victims.

“We all must leave. Go now, for we are not safe here.

“Salamat, Tito Mendoza.” His feet moved quicker than ever as he bolted home.

The way home was only about five minutes each way, but time seemed to stretch itself to

torment Mico. He was never so relieved when he arrived. As he scanned the premises,
he saw Balanga, anxiously looking out over the horizon. “Mico! We have been looking
for you!” She brushed her thick black hair away from her face.

“Ate, do you know? A typhoon is coming!”

“I know,” she said, a distant look spreading across her face.

“We are preparing.”

Mico held up his sketchbook, his pens, his school modules. He glanced at the small box
in front of him, that contained “only the essentials.” The boy attempted to shove
everything, anything that he could in.

“Mico.” His mother’s withering stare seemed to possess Mico’s hands. With a sigh, he
began to remove the things he had stuffed in, suppressing tears as he tossed each item
into the corner of their hut.

Strained anxiety hung in the air as Mico and his family attempted to pack their lives in a
box, to be ready in case of evacuation. Unless you counted the babies tireless cries of
fear...

Nobody said a word.

The downpour began. Mico and Balanga looked out the window, wide eyed.

“Papa? Will... will we be okay?”

For a moment, both Papa and Mama’s eyes lost their confidence, but only for a moment.

“Of course, anak. Do not worry.”

But it wasn’t that simple. Mico felt panic squeeze his lungs. Balanga gripped his
shoulder.

“It will be fine. We are okay now, yes? Focus on now.” A look of sheer determination
gathered in her eyes as the wind and rain began to pick up.

And then it happened.

Smash!

A piercing loud noise echoed through the house as shards of glass flew everywhere. The
wind had punched the windows and shattered them. Countless shards of sharp glass
littered the floor. Shielding their eyes, the family left, Mama holding onto the little ones,
Papa crushing the older ones hands in a wrought iron grip. Mico looked ahead, and in a
voice choked with terror, said

“Lahar.” Mudslide.

It was a blur of feet and arms and legs. Everybody trying to leave, to get to another
place, somewhere.

Anywhere other than here.

The lahar was swift, knocking people over. Fierce rain pierced Mico’s skin like bullets
and he could taste the earth in the howling wind. He stayed close to Papa, to Balanga. To
someone, anyone. His eyes were clouded from all the water, but he followed his family
to higher ground. “Get up! Get up and don’t look back!” Yelled Papa. Mico’s feet
protested against the splintery ladder propped up against the high-rise building. Again,
time stood still, but he made it to the top.

Somehow.

Mico threw himself on top of the building, gasping for air as though there wasn’t quite
enough oxygen in the world to fill his lungs. Water dripped from his hair as he huddled
with his family.

Together, they waited out the storm.

The next day

  . . .

Once again, as Mico climbed down the building and followed his family back home, time
stood still. Their eyes took in the destruction, the madness caused by the typhoon.
Nothing seemed real. Especially not when they made it home, only to find it -

destroyed.

Mico looked around for a moment. For a moment, no words could be spoken. The
sadness seemed to claw his insides raw.

“I... but...”

“I know it looks bad-”

“Balanga... the storm took everything.”

“I know.”

“My school supplies, my sketches - gone.”

“I promise it’ll get better.”

“I...”

“I promise, Mico. I promise.”

And it did.

One year later

. . .

Mico took his new set of paper and pens and got to work, studying every aspect of his
home closely and carefully, making sure to not miss any details. It took him a minute to
work up the courage to look at the page when he finally finished. He opened his eyes and
looked down.

Kagandahan. Beautiful.

It was not a perfect drawing, but it was beautiful. After spending a year fixing his house
and others, Mico knew that a perfect drawing- a perfect anything, really, was impossible.

Maybe he hadn’t done a perfect job.

But he had captured the essence of pag-ibig. Love.

And in that moment, that was enough.