Today had been awful. The downpour was so heavy that I was soaking wet by the time I arrived at home from school. Not only that, but the river behind our house was continuously rising just like it always does whenever a rainstorm occurs in our town. My mother was cooking adobo when I entered the house. When she saw me, she pulled me into a hug before proceeding to what she was doing. We waited for father to arrive from work—he was not to be at home before seven sharp—so I decided to help mother with the cooking instead.
An hour passed by and the rain had not stopped still. The dinner is ready and father has not arrived home yet. Mother has grown weary as she paced back and forth our house. I have grown weary watching her trek from one place to the other and back again. I told her to calm down, but she told me she was worrying over my father. I told her he would be fine, that he was such a strong man and the rain could not kill him.
My mother told me my joke was awful and that I should never say something like that again.
Just as then, the front door swung open and in came my father.
This would be the first post in the series, “The Golden Bull: A Retelling,“ a folklore rooted from my hometown, which I decided to make a retelling of for school purposes.