Mandy’s notoriety to treat her characters as hapless beings is both unquestionable and acceptable knowing how she, too, self-deprecated in some of her entries.

Never failing to unleash her penchant to brutalize her protagonists, even her own lover, she involves her readers into becoming unsuspecting parties to the spree of slaughters she guiltlessly perpetuate.

Better known as Mandaya Moore-Orlis, she leaves her readers wondering about the difference between fiction and truth and this is spreading like a viral infection.

She succeeds in making her readers believe in the fiction that she wants them to take in as truth. But there is no offense committed because what is truth and fiction in this lifetime, anyway?

Her stories are so real that if they were concocted, they leave imprints in the consciousness that everything doesn’t matter anymore because of the nirvanic relief they create.

These imprints are mixed. Some are disturbing and alarming. Some are vivid and lasting. Some easily left out in the brain’s garbage bin. Some slow to effect but excruciating when already felt.

They are the characters talking to us. Some voices are loud; some are faint. Some speak to us without even trying as they expose our own weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Some voices are annoyingly persistent and we discover that we are annoyed because it is our own voice that we hear.

They are the faces who own the voices: a future lover, a former friend, a skim boarder, the beggar, your angry mother’s kumare, your loving father’s boyfriend.

Always she creates vortexes in her readers’ emotions, making them laugh while feeling threatened. She makes them cry while tossing them in mid-air of sexual stimulation as she narrates of how her fingers caressed her lover’s chest.

The coercion is flawless maybe, but it’s still coercion that she employs both for her characters and readers to interact like one against the murder of a homo who only desired to have a release.

Mandy has never failed to tell her readers the strangeness of reality confronting people—both for those who live in the glitz of the city and those who are in the countryside.

And the truth is well articulated by the voice that owns Mandy, the character itself, no matter how one suspects that she is a grand example of a manipulative personality split from the other self.

If her stories are not real, what is reality then?

This is an entry to the
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