Midnight Theater, and then some.

Goddamn folks, it's been a a long time.

Too long, in fact. I recall that period one month ago (or two?) when I was on fire, when I kept writing shit in the wee hour of the morning, and then out of nowhere everything stopped.

Right?

Yea, I remember. The reason behind this is because I had a few problems. Personal ones, which I won't share here (though I don't doubt that you know about that already). I actually did write some short stories, but to my horror, the stories became much more personal than the previous ones.

I mean, I actually put too much of myself in to them, you know what I'm saying? Those stories that I wrote actually became some sort of confessions and shit. I didn't like that. so I deleted them all (granted most of them were only a page or two long).

All except one, and although this one is quite personal, I kind of like it. It's probably my first attempt at a proper poem (or something that resembles a proper poem anyway). I find that trying to make a poem that rhymes is a pain in the ass, but I tried anyway. It's not too bad I guess, and given that I wrote it several weeks ago, I couldn't find it in me to read it again and make some adjustments (we laid back people are amazing).

But, a few words before the poem (or something that may constitute as a poem). First and foremost; I'm ok, or I'd like to think that I'm ok. I'm still breathin' folks, and now that fire is burning again in my head, still in the wee hour in the morning, still going out of it's way to bug the crap out of me every time I try to go to sleep. Yeap, I'm writing again. Feels great actually. Especially knowing that the stories I write will have nothing to do with me again. So yeah, I'm cool.

So now that the shit is out of the way, it's time for the next addition to my Midnight Theater, a poem (or something that may pass up as a poem) about what you'd expect to see when you look into a writer's eyes (or at least, one that's as messed up in the head as me).


Eyes

Look into my eyes and you will see,
A world you may find obscene.
I will be your host, I shall not deceive.
But you will find me a hard man to please.

To your left is a house.
It belonged to a dwarf who weighed an ounce.
The banshees killed him, his flame doused.
When they found that he cannot be aroused.

To your right is a tree.
And obvious though it may be,
You will find that strangely,
The tree can bleed.

If we move forward now,
You will see an elven drow.
He lives not far from here, in a burrow.
Near a garden where lilies grow.

Amongst these lilies, one stands out the most.
The drow cherished it, loved it, how bold…
The drow gave it a name, Lia, it’s not the worst.
For there are stranger love stories to be told.

For example, see that gallows pole?
There was a man there, hanging on to hope.
But he had such hopes, what a goal!
So hope embraced him, by the neck, over there, by the pole.

He was in love, this much was true.
But of the other end, I have not a clue.
I suppose it was not returned; he turned blue.
His last words were, “I’m mad about you.”

Walk a bit further now, don’t be afraid.
On the bridge is a writer with a braid.
He survived an onslaught, a raid.
By ideas of a story that cannot wait.

Underneath the bridge is a troll,
Who’s obsessed with a little doll.
Nay, don’t say a word;
I utter strangeness, but the truth I can only afford.

There is a playwright,
Who found his heart in a scene.
She filled him with white light
When she sang like an angel ought to sing.

A little bit further, dearest,
You will find a mansion,
And I am being earnest
When I say that for you did I build that mansion.

All these things you see,
Everything in this world so obscene,
All these and more, are me.
And I lay them down on your feet.

This is where you make a choice,
But think carefully, I will make no noise.

Accept me for who I am,
Accept the romantic fool that I am,
Accept the honest person that I am,
Accept the man that I am.

Or

Return from whence you came,
Though it will be to my dismay.
But if you were to look back, without shame,
You will find that I’ll be waiting anyway.

At least for now,

I will close my eyes.

*******************************************

And with that something-that-may-pass-up-as-a-poem, I bid you good night.

Sleep

Tight.

P/S: I'm back, bitches!

Halloween

Nope, this is not a short story.

But I may write something for tomorrow though. We'll see how it goes. It's been a while since I last wrote a proper short story (well the last proper one I had to delete, and you all know why). I'm thinking of a ghost story...

But anyways.

Isn't it kind of chilly in here? Hold on, I'll close the window...

That's better.

You know what, actually I don't know what to say here. I'm having some problems (which I think most of you would know, but I would be grateful if you don't discuss it here), and I've been kind of stressed out for the last few weeks.

Been trying to quit smoking too. Ain't THAT something. I figured that if I can't take care of myself, how am I going to take care of others?

(Last remainder: please do not discuss "that" here, guys)

So ok, I haven't really quit. I just went and cut down on the consumption. After the exam is over, I will try my best to really quit. This time I'm dead serious.

Or am I?

It depends on the circumstances, I guess.

So yeah, this is just one of those random rants.

Been a long while since I've done it, right? Yep, too long...

Well, I bid you

Good night.

Sleep tight.

Prelude, 24 - 10 - 2008

I'm going to write a really long short story.

But before I do, and before I post it (in all probability, next month), I want you to do some brain exercise, and ponder upon some facts that I'm going to use in the upcoming short story.

It's about the Devil.

In both Christianity and Islam, the Devil plays a very prominent role in the history of the universe. On example would be Genesis: The Devil was the one who seduced Eve, and in turn, Adam. In Christianity, The Devil was the one who persuaded Judas to betray Jesus.

Ok, so you get my point: The Devil is the ultimate antagonist in a thick novel called "Life".

But now think about this.

If God didn't want The Devil to seduce Adam and Eve, he would have done something about it, right? God is omnipotent, after all. He's Almighty. He could have just smite The Devil and be done with it. But why not?

If God wanted Jesus to become the King of all mankind, not just the King of the Jews (which he ended up becoming one, albeit unofficially), he would have prevented The Devil from seducing Judas (which then lead to the crucifixion). He has the power to do so, no doubt. But why not?

Here's my thought on the matter. The Devil is actually not altogether evil. He was just created to be evil. Think about it. If The Devil is created by God, and he is supposed to be cunning and smart beyond belief, then he must be smart enough to know that God can erase his existence with just "a flick of the finger," so to say. What kind of a creature as smart as him (and he is supposed to be the second most powerful being in the Universe) would go against God's will then, if he knows that the consequences are dire?

Well he's "going against God's will" because he knows that he is allowed to do so. In fact, that's what he is created for. In this sense, The Devil is perhaps a being that loves God more than anyone else; the "unsung hero", if you will.

Now this is what you should ponder about: if The Devil did not exist, what would you think the world will be? Better, or worse? What do you think would happen if The Devil did not seduce Judas? What would happen to Christianity?

Think about it, and tell me.

Good night,

Sleep

Tight.

Interlude, 24 - 10 - 2008

So there you are, some short stories that I posted in between the interludes. Let's look at them one by one.

"Red" is already explained in the warning section. I was mildly displeased by the sexual violence, but I really think it can be worse. Moving on.

"Sestina of a lover" is a sestina. One girl who read it said that it could be better, and I couldn't agree more. I suppose I was not accustomed to a sestina's strict format, and used the wrong words to make one. That particular girl also asked me why my stories are always morbid, and always involve death.

I think I can answer this one. You know a lot of people says that if there is one thing that connects one human being to the next, that thing would be love.

I respectfully disagree. It's not love, but it's death that connects us all. That's the part of my stories that I think most people can relate to (if not the only thing that most people can relate to). So there you go.

And for your information, I am not a psycho-killer.

Moving on.

"Playwrite" is a really fun piece to write. I think it sounds really nice when you read it out loud, because the words somehow rhymes. Somehow. This post has the advantage of being true, in the sense that playwrights have that ability to betray the audience's trust (telling a secret through a story) without no restrictions whatsoever. I really like this one. Moving on.

"The Day The Angels Died" is inspired by Neil Gaiman's "The Day The Saucers Came" (I am eternally indebted to Mr. Gaiman's work). I tried to make it funny, but instead it turned into yet another dark fiction. I think I will get back to this one, make it better. The concept is really funny, I think. Angels are replaced by demons. What are the odds? Moving on.

The untitled post that I removed from this blog is about how writers can get their stories. They're utter non-sense, and I think the message that I was trying to get across is that stories can come from anywhere. You just have to look, or listen, carefully. Moving on.

"The Boy, The Heart, She" is a really weird one. At first it was supposed to be a proper short story, but when I looked through it I thought that using the same word for every section of the story looks really neat. And it does. This is also my most personal post. I think you can relate to this too.

So for those who read my stories, thank you for taking the time. For those who provided input and comments, thank you to you too. We'll see what other crazy shit I can come up with. Until then,

Good night,

Sleep

Tight.

Midnight Theater, 23 - 10 - 2008

The Boy, The Heart, She

The boy listened.
The boy listened to his heart,
The boy heard Bump-bump-bump.
The boy touched his chest.
The boy is hurting,
The boy is hurting inside.
The boy is hollow and empty.
The boy is lonely.

The heart is aching.
The heart is screaming,
The heart is going Bump-bump-bump.
The heart is crying, look you can see red teardrops…
The heart is beating against the boy’s chest.
The heart is hurting
Inside.
The heart, the hook went through the heart
The heart is tugged, the heart is pulled
The heart must go.

She smiled,
She smiled that perfect smile of hers, as –
She said he will find a better one.

The boy listened,
The boy fell in love again,
The boy fell in love with her every time –
The boy sees her.
The boy looked at her, as –
The boy is told that –
The boy will find a better one.

She is leaving, but are you sure? Yes, I am. Perhaps.
She is leaving, with that perfect smile,
She said she loved him
She thought she meant it? The answer is –
She thought she did. Perhaps.
She turns her back to him
She takes a step

The boy hugged her from behind –
The boy hugged her without moving a finger
The boy hugged her silhouette, her myth, her shadow
The boy says, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
The boy says, forgive me, forgive me
The boy says –

She will find a better one
She listened to him
She heard, he said –
She will find a better heart
She sees, but she sees, that –

The boy is lying through his teeth.
The boy is hurting,
The boy shed dry tears
The boy feels hollow as –

The heart left his chest.
The heart took its baggage
The heart took a visa card from his wallet
The heart left his chest, dragged by that hook
The heart is dragged, by that abominable hook, and left –

The boy hollow

But the hurting is no more.

He put his fist in his empty chest cavity and spread out his hand, listen, you can hear his fingers beating against the wall, going Bump-bump-bump.

She spread her wings, his heart dangling hopelessly on her heels.

Midnight Theater, 20 - 10 - 2008

The Day The Angels Died


The angels are dead.

It happened so suddenly, that nobody really knew what
happened to them. One day they just die. Falling down from the seven heavens,
like birds with broken wings.

Their dead faces were so beautiful; you won’t be able to
tell their gender just by looking at it.

Nobody knew what happened to them; none save for Him, and to
nobody did He speak of it.

There was Michael, proud and hard. There was Uriel, young
and stern. There was Gabriel, magnificent and grand. There was Raphael and Raziel
and Zephekiel. There were millions of angels none could name. All of them were
dead; their bodies sprawled across the road, on the ceiling, in the river, in
the sea.

We wept, and we mourned for the loss. We put their flawless
beautiful bodies in crystal casks, and we decorated them with roses and
diamonds and gold.

For a while we were lost. We did not know what to do. Some
went mad, some committed suicide, and some repented.

And then we realized that without the angels, nobody would
sound the trumpet that would signify the end of time. There would be no end to
this world we know. There would be no more angels who record our deed. And then
the preachers and pastors said that the angels are paying for our sins. Just
like The Messiah did.

There would always be
someone who would pay for our sins, they said. After all, we are the lambs of God. And He loves us the most, out of
all His creations.

Therefore sin all you
want.

Salvation is here.

And so we sinned. We committed all seven sins of the world, and
then some. Parents were eating their babies. Children were having sex at the
age you would not even dare imagine. Countries were raided. Women were raped.
The swastika emblem was raised once
more. Scientists started using human beings as their guinea pigs. Almost all of
the animals are extinct.

The angels were dead, but we got by.

It went on for awhile. You would probably think that this
was truly Hell on Earth. But you would be sorely mistaken.

As a matter of fact, it was quite the opposite. It was
Heaven.

And then the demons came. One day the ground split in half,
and out they came from the depths of the Inferno. Evil djinns with black
turbans, succubus and incubus, lesser demons with bodies of animals, ghosts and
tortured souls, Beelzebub and vampires emerged from the crevice, laughing.

And leading them was Satan, powerful and charismatic. He
held the Sword of God in his right hand and the Spear of Destiny in his left
hand.

Lucifer proclaimed that he was on a mission on behalf of His
name. The demons from the underworld were to take the place of the dead angels.
The Sword and The Spear was the proof that he was sent by Him. All this while
the demons and devils stood behind him, laughing and making a racket such that
you have never heard of your entire life.

Why He sent the demons and Satan to replace the angels, we
never know.

For a while we lived with the demons. They would eat our
babies, rape our women, destroy our houses, and wage war amongst themselves.

The preachers and pastors would say these are only trials, my sons and daughters. God has a reason for
everything that He does. The Son will come and quicken us from this torment,
and once again pay for our sins. Have faith.

Paradise

beckons to those who believe.

And so we waited, and prayed. But that day never came. No
one sent our prayers, which was accompanied with tears of blood and sweat, to
Him. We wept and cried, we forsook the sins, and we repented. Nobody paid for
our sins.

That day never came.

We are human being, however. We learned to adapt. Under that
blood-red sky, standing on ruined Earth, where no animals exists, and demons
and all the evil of the world ran a mock, we learned to adapt.

It was Hell, to be sure.

But we got by.

Midnight Theater, 18-10-2008

Playwrite

So, good people amongst the fray,

Give me a stage,

and I will give you a play,

of love and the colour gray,

and you will all fall prey

to your eternal dismay,

when your trust my words betray,

and the truth will be laid bare

through my magic, my word play.

So, good people amongst the fray,

Give me a stage

and I will give you a play

of life and the colour gray.

Midnight Theater, 17 - 10 - 2008

Sestina of a Lover


Hearken to me, my sweet, my love,
My reason, my heart, my life.
You have ceased to visit my grave,
on the blazing heat of day,
And at night, when it is dark.
Wherefore all the promises that you gave me, with your kiss?

Yes, I do remember the way you kiss.
Our feelings were as stars, as a pillar of love
So tall, glimmering in the dark.
Alas, my rose, I was given too short a life,
Robbed of the right to see the light of day.
And now I am all alone in my grave.

And it is so lonely here, in my grave.
Not even the breeze laid his kiss.
And the sun no longer warms my being, in the day.
No, not anymore, my pet, my love.
Maggots and flies, insects, crawling here, so full of life.
Sometimes I find myself eating them in the dark.

I would repeat your name, in the dark
To erase this loneliness, so grave,
Eating away at my heart, not that I am still alive.
They lie, people. No angel came and gave me a kiss.
No light shone on me, the Lord did not give me his love.
And so I count every second, night and day

Waiting for you, how I wait for that day!
Your body will illumine me, here in the dark.
Ah, but I grow impatient, this love
Cannot wait no longer. I will be out of my grave
Waiting in the shadows beside you, steal your kisses.
I am dead, that can be mended, I will take your life.

It is a fickle thing, life.
Twist your head, maybe during the day.
I miss you, I miss your kisses
I will kiss you tonight, somewhere in the dark.
Look, I have even made you a grave
Besides mine, so we can, to our whim, make love.

Delight, rejoice, our kiss will give us life.
Heaven is like unto our love, a pitch black Eden, so dark.
And the days will go by, here in our grave.

Midnight Theater, 17 - 10 - 2008

*warning! contains sexual violence! read the previous post (Warning!) before you read this one! you have been warned!*


I have a story for you

Listen closely


RED


The Wolf waited patiently.

The girl wore that same attire as the days before. With a red scarf covering her mouth, and a red hooded cloak, the girl looked gorgeous.

And delicious.

The Wolf gulped back his saliva.

Its figure concealed by the thick bushes, it watched the girl, as always as she walked merrily to her Grandma's house.

It waited until the girl they called Red was out of sight.

The Wolf waited patiently. It had all the time in the world.

********

The girl stopped. The sensation that she was being followed grew stronger with every step she took.

She looked around.

The night was unusually cold, and the only light came from the full moon and the stars.

She spotted nothing.

Save for a moving figure in the thick bushes under an old oak tree. The clumps of it were big enough to cover a man, but she saw no reason why anyone would be hiding in it.

That, and it was almost midnight.

After making sure that nobody was actually following her (why would anybody follow a girl in the middle of the night? She thought), she continued walking towards her dear grandmother's house.

*********

The old woman was alone in her gloomy old house. She always was alone. Her husband died a long time ago, and although she got over the grief of losing her one true love, she sometimes wondered what it would be like to be sitting near the fire place with him then.

She added dry woods to the fire.

For the past 10 years, her only entertainment was her little grand daughter. Once a week she would bring home-made cookies, flowers, and sometimes she brought her friends along (to the dismay of the old woman, as she disliked the noise). Red was what they called her at the village.

The old woman was the one who gave Red the red scarf, and the red cloak. It was Red's 9th birthday. The old woman sewed them herself.

A cold wind hit the window.

She shivered.

**********

The Wolf perceived a pattern.

Every week, the girl would bring flowers (which, to its nose, smelt like cow piss) and cookies (it got the chance to take a bite when the girl dropped one cookie along the way. To its tongue, it tasted like a rotten deer) to an old women who lived just outside of the forest.

To be more precise, she always goes on Fridays.

It chuckled lightly at the girl's simplicity. A simpleton, she is. She goes at night, and she always had that mixed emotion of delight and fright on her face.

She goes out without her parents knowing it, it growled to itself.

Its stomach rumbled.

Soon.

***********

Sarah shifted on her bed. She dreamt of a plain full of cockroaches (evidently she hated the lot). She stomped and screamed and panicked.

The plain twisted, and it was no more.

She stood on top of a hill, looking down at the chasm below. Behind her was her husband, his face pale and distorted.

And then he pushed her.

She closed her eyes as she fell down (as peculiar as it may sound).

And when she opened it, she saw her.

She was in that same room 20 years ago, a room in a house at the edge of the forest. A woman sat on a wooden rocking chair, her eyes fixed on Sarah.

Sarah saw that the woman was wearing nothing underneath her night gown.

Reality struck her on the face.

"God, no. Not you again."

The woman signaled with her hand for Sarah to come near her.

Waves of fear fell heavily on Sarah’s mind.

It was that night that she saw in full light of the moon about her own mother. How the woman convinced her to keep her mouth shut, how she harshly took off Sarah’s clothes. How she….

Sarah woke up with a scream.

***********

Red knocked on the door two times, excited about the prospect of seeing her grandma's big and warm smile. She knocked again.

She heard heavy steps approaching the door.

The door swung open, and there stood the Grandma. She was wearing the same night gown she wore 20 years ago, on that faithful (delightful) night. She smiled heartily to Red.

"I was getting worried, honey. I thought you might never make it today."

************

The wolf had followed Red. It moved silently, covered by the darkness of the forest. It thought of taking her to its den when she was knocking on the door, while nobody's looking.

Again, it chuckled at the thought.

Silly me, it thought. No body would be stupid enough to walk outside of their houses at night, especially at the edge of the forest. Not with me around.

But fortunately, the girl was stupid enough.

The only reason why it didn't eat the old woman up till then was because, well, she was old.

To its tongue, old humans taste like a fly-invested sheep corpse.

It thought better of the situation.

Patience is a virtue, my friend, it growled as it patted its belly.

***********

Red's Father tried his best to comfort his wife.

"It's just a dream, honey. No need to be afraid. I'm here."

He stroked her hair as he held her tight. She was sweating, and her breath was short.

Some wife I have, he said to himself.

If it hadn't for her wealth, he wouldn't be acting like a good husband for the past 9 years. He wouldn't even think of having a child with her.

It all came down to the gold he would receive.

He took a good look at his wife.

She was quite beautiful, in fact, if it were not for the constant look of fear in her eyes. At times, when they made love, she would cry. Her body would tremble, and she would cover her face with both of her hand.

Choking back tears as if he was violating her.

The things he did to get some money.

She had blue eyes, a skin white as snow, and lips as red as blood. Her figure was slender, with curves almost no woman in the village can match.

Her hair was black, and wavy. It flowed in the wind, fine as silk.

And she was as fragile as a wooden stick.

His thought wandered. He imagined Yvonne, his mistress. She was perhaps not as beautiful as Red's Mother, and she was not as innocent.

But she was a flame. She burnt his heart to ashes with passion and desire. Her eyes defeat even the sun's ray. She warms his heart to boiling hot.

Sarah doesn't need to know about her.

She doesn't need to know.

**********

Red watched intently at her grandmother as the old women prepared some tea. She noticed that her grandma looked livelier, happier, and perhaps even younger.

Grandma looked so beautiful today. I wonder what the occasion is, she thought. That night gown, she never wore it before.

It was made of the finest silk, a material uncommon to the people at the village due to its inhuman price.

"Grandma, why are you wearing that night gown tonight? It's cold." She said to Grandma.

Grandma smiled as she poured the tea to a cup.

"So that I may appreciate the cold wind, my dear."

Red thought about the answer for a minute.

I guess when I grow older, I'll be able to appreciate the cold wind too, she muttered.

***********

"I'm the luckiest woman on earth," said Sarah, "to have such a caring husband as you."

She calmed down after a while, thanks to her husband. He kept ensuring her that it was only a dream. He kept holding her tight. He kept saying that he loves her.

She loved him to death.

"And I'm the luckiest man in the universe," he said, "to have you as my wife."

He kissed her gently, ever so lightly.

"I'll go and fetch some water for you, honey."

He got out of the bed, put on his trousers, and walked away.

I am the luckiest woman on earth, she thought.

He doesn't need to know about the dream. Or about the truth. Both of them were the truth, anyway.

He doesn't need to know.

He came back with a glassful of water. She took two big gulps. Her husband watched as she drank the water.

"What's wrong, my dear?" she asked.

She thought she saw a thin smile appeared on his face.

He raised his hand and caressed her hair. She loved it when he does that. It made her feel secure.

"Nothing is wrong, love. I'll go check on our daughter," he said.

************

The Wolf wondered.

This was the first time that it saw the old woman wearing that night gown. It looked ugly as sin on her, of course.

But it couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t the first time the old woman wore that gown.

When?

It had been living for hundreds of years, feeding on human children all the time. Some adults have had the honor to fill its belly too, but mostly it's human children.

They taste better, more tender, their bones soft, and their brain succulent.

Their eyes would pop under the pressure of its teeth with a satisfying sound, unlike an adult’s eyes.

It licked its lips.

No, it thought. My head controls my stomach.

And so, as it had done before, it waited.

Patiently.

***********

Sarah couldn't be more worried before.

Her husband looked everywhere for Red in the village. There was no sign of her.

Her window was open, and the gate was unlocked. No sign of burglary or robbery (or any kind of a struggle, in that sense), which kills the possibility of her being kidnapped while Sarah was dreaming about her mother.

She was crying on his shoulder when he said, "I'll go look for her at The Border."

She raised her head at the crazy suggestion.

"You know how dangerous The Border is, love! Besides, what would she be doing in that God forsaken place?"

Her husband stood there, silent as the night.

"She went to see her Grandma."

He let go of her. She took several steps back, aghast.

Her eyes widened. Her throat seemed narrower the more she tried to breathe.

"That's right, Sarah, she went to see her Grandma, the woman who did terrible things to you in your dreams. Your mother."

"How... Did... You..." She gasped for air. She made a wheezing sound with every breath.

Confused, she saw an evil grin on her husband's face.

"How did I know? I was the one who arranged it. I've kept watch over your family, Sarah. I've kept watch over your family's gold, too. Your father, who found The Gold at the End of The Rainbow, couldn't keep it concealed for long.

“You see, I used to live at the edge of the forest. Long before your people came and gave it that silly name - what was it? - The Border."

Her vision blurred. She saw a glimpse of fangs from her husband's grin.

"I'm one of them, Sarah."

And at that, no quicker than it took to tell it, he turned into a wolf.

"As you may have figured by now, your drink was poisoned. It makes a hole in your lung, quite literally. You will die, Sarah. Horribly, I dare imagine." The wolf growled.

Tears filled Sarah's eyes. The event on that cold night flashed in front of her eyes.

*********************

Sarah fought as hard as she could. Her mother tightened her grip on Sarah's wrist as she ripped Sarah's clothes.

"Don't worry, Sarah, I won't hurt you," her mother said as she slapped Sarah on the cheek.

Sarah screamed at the top of her voice. She knew it was useless. Nobody lived at The Border except for her family. Not after what the villagers discovered of the things that lurked inside the forest.

Still, she screamed.

Apparently, her frantic wails roused the anger of her mother even more. She finished ripping Sarah's clothes, showing her undeveloped breasts and her slender figure.

She began licking Sarah's body.

Sarah screamed again. Her mother. Down on her knees. Holding Sarah's wrists in one hand, and molested her with the other.

It's too overwhelming.

Suddenly her mother stopped. She picked up a blunt wooden stick with a rounded end with her free hand. Her grip on Sarah's wrists was maddeningly painful.

Sarah felt her legs were spread apart.

A moment later, a pain shot up between her legs. She felt blood trickled down on her thighs. She cried in pain.

"Mother, stop! I'm your daughter, stop!" She fought hard to free her wrist from her mother's clutch to no avail.

Her mother withdrew the stick. She paused, looking down on Sarah's face.

Sarah saw something dreadful in her eyes. Passion? Madness? Desire?

Love?

Then her mother shoved the stick again with greater force.

Sarah arched her back in pain. She cried until she felt that all the air from her lungs was gone.

And thus it continues until Sarah's body went limp. She gave up hope. This was not her mother. This was a monster, born out of loneliness and greed.

Her mother stopped shoving the stick. She wiped the blood with her night gown, all this while her hand was holding Sarah's purple wrist.

Her mother tied her to a chair.

And then she started beating Sarah with the same stick. The stick was not thick, and it stung Sarah up to the point that she threw up on the floor, unable to handle the pain any longer.

A wolf's howl she heard.

The mother kept beating Sarah, her eyes burning with lust. Sarah's vision began to blur.

Before she finally passed out, she saw a figure looking inside the house from the window. She thought she saw a pair of yellow eyes.

*****************

The only thing she remembered afterward was that the village people had found her lying on the ground, naked and bruised all over.

What happened to her mother, she didn't know.

As she stared at the wolf that was once her husband, she knew that she was staring at the same eyes that she saw that night.

She couldn't speak. Her breath left her.

"I was the one who saved you from your drunken mother. I scratched her a bit, and took you to the village. Since I killed your father, the Ownership of The Gold is now at your hand. I could've killed you right there on the spot, along with your bitch of a mother.”

“But I needed a spell to transfer the Ownership to me."

She recalled the talk her father once had with her mother. They were arguing about who should be granted the Ownership.

So, he gave her the Ownership. No wonder her mother tried to kill her (slowly and painfully, she imagined).

"Your purpose is served. When you die, the Ownership will go to either your mother or daughter. Makes no difference to me," the wolf said.

Can a wolf grin?

She fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Her eyes were wide open.

*********************

It watched as Sarah fell to the floor. It watched as she took a final futile attempt to breathe. The poison was working well.

It approached the now dead body.

There she was, as beautiful as any woman could ever be. Her silky hair, her blood red lips, her blue eyes.

And the look of fear on her face.

"I suppose it’s useless to say ‘rest in piece,’ eh?" It growled.

It set foot towards The Border. The Gold at the End of the Rainbow was waiting, calling out its long-forgotten name.

************************

"Grandma, why are your eyes so red? Where are your glasses?" Red asked Grandma.

"I'm not wearing my glasses so that I can see you better, honey," Grandma answered. She sipped at the hot tea.

Red was satisfied with this answer. She too, sipped the tea from the ceramic glass.

She heard her Grandma sighing.

"Why are you sighing, Grandma?" she asked again.

"I'm sighing because you look so much like your mother, honey."

**********************

The wolf made a move.

It had waited too long. It approached the house, peeking through the window to see what the humans were doing.

It was surprised to find the child lying down on the floor with no clothes on. Gone were the scarf and the cloak so associated with her name.

The old woman was kneeling on top of her, her eyes burning red. To the wolf's disgust, she was drooling.

The wolf thought for a while. A battered human child tasted no better than a dead old woman.

So it leapt.

It broke the window.

The old woman, startled, let go of her grip on Red's wrists.

*************************



Red wondered. She was told by Grandma that they were going to play an old game invented by her Grandpa. The condition was, she had to take off her clothes.

"Lay down on your back, honey. We'll start soon," Grandma said. She took out a thin wooden stick. Its end was rounded.

*************************

The wolf started with the old woman first. She swung her pathetic wooden stick around.

Like it would make a difference, it said to itself.

It swung its enormous paw. The claw shredded the skin and flesh on the old woman's hand. The old woman cried in pain.

The wolf continued swinging its paw. It made sure that it shredded her wind pipe minimally, so that she would only lose her voice. It was, so to say, annoying.

When it was finished, the old woman was drowning in her own blood. Her insides were sprawled across the floor. The old woman spazzed.

Something caught the wolf's eyes. The old woman's clothes were shredded to pieces. On her back, however, was a scar.

It immediately noticed that the scar (three long gashes across her back) was made by one of her kin.

I could care less, it thought.

It slapped the old woman's head. A sickening 'crack' was heard.

It turned to the child.

*********************

"Yvonne!"

The wolf that-was-Sarah's-husband stopped Yvonne as she raised her paw to kill Red.

"Edmond? What are you doing here?" Yvonne growled. She lowered her paw.

And at that, she turned into a woman.

One look at Yvonne and every man on earth can tell that she's everything that they've ever desired. It wasn’t because of her slim figure, her perfectly rounded breast, her straight shoulder length brunette hair, nor was it because of her seductive lips.

The reason would be because of her eyes.

It burned like fire, it chilled like ice, it warmed like a spring wind, and it is, simply put, other worldly.

It was framed perfectly on her face. Her nose was slightly pointed, and her face was a bit rounded.

(In modern phrase, it may or may not, be called a cute face)

Her skin was brown, a look that hinted a soft touch of the sun.

"Have you taken care of the woman?" she asked. Her voice was light, a melody unlike anything that exists under the sun.

The other wolf nodded slightly, a grin of satisfaction appeared as it recalled Sarah's frightened face.

Yvonne smiled.

The wolf turned to a trembling Red.

"Don't worry, honey. It's me, your father."

Red stopped crying instantly.

"Father?"

"Yes, it's me, honey." the wolf added.

Red took a good look at it.

"How come you're so short, Father?"

The wolf flinched. Guilt?

"So that I may run faster to safe you, honey."

Red nodded.

"How come you have a lot of hair?"

Guilt is not the answer. Paternal love, maybe?

"So that I can keep myself warm during the night, honey."

Again, Red nodded.

"Then how come your teeth are so sharp?"

The wolf paused. No. No hesitation. The Gold. Yvonne. It approached Red.

"So that I may chew you so finely, my daughter!"

Its allegedly sharp teeth made short work of Red.

*****************

Yvonne watched as the love of her life (which, to us human, is a long time indeed) chewed down the girl. He bit her neck first, so that the girl died instantly.

Paternal love? She asked herself.

After Red was finely chewed, it turned into a human.

Edmond was a handsome man. His curly hair was jet-black, and it contrasted his pale skin. His jaw was firm.

And, like Yvonne, he had a pair of unreasonably beautiful eyes.

"My love, the spell is ready." Yvonne said to him.

"I know."

Edmond licked his lips. He didn't know that his own daughter would taste that good.

"Begin, then." He said.

Yvonne drew a circle, and in it she wrote (or drew) runes from a forgotten past. She drew them with the old woman's blood.

And then she chanted.

A brilliant blue pillar of light rose from the corpse of the old woman. The pillar shrunk into a blue orb.

It floats in the air for a while, before it flew towards Edmond.

Edmond raised his hand. The orb disappeared as he grasped it.

"The contract is finished. Edmond my love, you're now the sole possessor of The Gold."

They hugged each other. They kissed, passionately (so passionate that the gods looked jealously on them).

The silver dagger went straight through her heart. She died instantly.

Edmond smiled. His teeth still red with blood.

"Indeed, Yvonne. I'm the sole possessor of The Gold."

He became a wolf. It thought for a moment.

And its smile widened.

"I've always wondered how my kin tastes like."

Warning!

The next post is going to be a story I made up during my A Level days. It was the first story I completed, and posted on the net (it's still up in my Friendster blog). It's my version of the famous children story, Red Riding Hood.

But it is in no way a children's story. You may think of me as a sick bastard, a sex maniac, and a rapist after you read this. I know I scared myself. But let's look at it objectively, and treat it like how it's supposed to be treated.

A short story.

This is the last warning. If you're under 18, go back and just read my older posts. If you can't take sexual violence, go back (I don't wanna hear people complaining about it, because I'm against sexual violence too). I'm being dead-fucking-serious here. Two of my friends who read the story told me that I'm a sick bastard. That's how bad it is.

Ok, ready?

The next post, and also the first Midnight Theater story I wrote, is going to be called "Red". It was inspired by the Red Riding Hood, and whoever the original writer was, I am eternally indebted to you.

Here goes nothin'.

Interlude, 16 - 10 - 2008

I can't believe I wrote that story. Poet, I mean. The latest addition to the Midnight Theater. It's not even a story, it's utter gibberish.

But then again, most of my stories are.

I mean, "a mead; a contract of love, concocted from lavender, roses, mistletoes, and the blood of a crow"?

I'm telling ya, random thoughts.

But to hell with all this. I like it. Maybe that's just because I wrote it. Maybe because I get to tell the truth with lies again. Just like what I did with Visage of Lies.

"While it may not be the most pleasant, or the best story you’ve ever heard in your life, but it has the singular advantage of being absolutely true. There is no lesson to be taken away from it, and there is no heart warming ending to it; but it is a true story, nonetheless."

And that's the God-honest truth. But that's also a lie. Because the story is completely made up. It didn't happen in real life.

But it's the goddamn truth.

Confused yet? I know I am. Ah well.

We'll continue this conversation some other time, shall we?

Until then, Good night.

Sleep

Tight.

Midnight Theater, 16 - 10 - 2008

Poet

Man

Here’s a toast to you –

A mead; a contract of love, concocted from lavender,

roses,

mistletoes,

and the blood of a crow –

my Hera,

my Aphrodite,

my Athena,

My Goddess.

Woman

Hera’s a bitch, a possessive insecure woman

Aphrodite’s beauty is beyond comparison; but that is all there is to it

Athena is a stubborn woman; a mule. A stone.

And I am no Goddess.

Man

You are the four seasons, then.

As warm as a summer breeze,

As beautiful as the colour of spring,

As mesmerizing as the falling leaves of autumn

And as hypnotizing as the snow of winter

Woman

A summer breeze dries my skin,

The colour of spring hurts my eyes,

The falling leaves is a nuisance,

And winter is cold.

Man

Well then, in the absence of

A better way to describe what you are

To me,

I will say, nay, I say it now,

With the weight of my heart on its back;

You are,

My love, my life.

And these words I convey to you,

For you make me feel

Like I want to be

A better man.

Woman

But that word is so beautiful.

For you – in the absence of

A better way to describe what you are –

Are my spring, my autumn, my summer,

And my winter.

You are

My love, my life

A better man you will be, aye

But a different man you will not.

Because I love you

Just the way you are,

My poet.

Poet

Then allow your most humble alleged poet

To give you my greatest gift.

It may not be much,

But it is the best this man can do.

Allow me to tell you a story, love.

A love story.

Listen closely.

Spit it Out!

Man, I'm so pissed today I can kill someone. But I have a better cure.

A dose of Slipknot does the trick. Here's the lyric to one of their song, Spit it Out. If you just, like me, had a bad day, try and listen to them. (SIC) stuff. Here goes.

Spit It Out

Since you never gave a damn in the first place,
Maybe it's time you had the tables turned
'Cause in the interest of all involved I got the problem solved
And the verdict is guilty...

...MAN NEARLY KILLED ME
Steppin' where you fear to tread
Stop, drop and roll
You were dead from the git-go!
Big mouthfucker, stupid cocksucker
are you're scared of me now? Then you're dumber than I thought
Always is, and never was
Foundation made of piss and vinegar
Step to me, I'll smear ya
Think I fear ya? Bullshit!
Just another dumb punk chompin' at this tit
Is there any way to break through the noise?
Was it something that I said that got you bent?
Gotta be that way if you want it
Sanity, literal profanity hit me!


Spit it out
All you wanna do is drag me down
All I wanna do is stamp you out (x2)

Maybe it's the way you gotta spread a lotta rumor fodder
Keepin' all your little spies and leaving when you realize
Step up, fairy
I guess it's time to bury your ass with the chrome
Straight to the dome
You heard me right, bitch, I didn't stutter
And if you know what's good, just shut up and beg, brother
Backstab - don't you know who you're dissin'?
Side swipe,we know the Ass that your kissin'
Bigity-biggidy bitch boy, halfway hauser
Don't hear shit cuz It keeps gettin' louder
Come on, and get a face full 'o tatic
Lipping off hard, going home in a basket
You got no pull, no power, no nothin
Now you start shit?
Well, ain't that something?
Payoffs don't protect, and you can hide if you want
But I'll find you, comin' up behind you!

Spit it out
All you wanna do is drag me down
All I wanna do is stamp you out (x2)

'Bout time I set this record straight
All the needlenose punchin' is making me irate
Sick o' my bitchin' fallin' on deaf ears
Where you gonna be in the next five years?
The crew and all the fools, and all the politix
Get your lips ready, gonna gag, gonna make you sick
You got dick when they passed out that good stuff
BAM!
Are you sick of me?
Good enough, had enough!

Fuck me! I'm all out of enemies! (x8)

Spit it out
All you wanna do is drag me down
All I wanna do is stamp you out (x2)

Spit! (x4)
Spit... it out!

************

Man, ain't THAT a kick in the ass. Move along now. Mind your head.

Good night

Sleep tight.

I'm posting... I can't believe it.... Wow...

You know, I really don't have much to tell you about my life. Seriously, if I were to write down every single thing that's happening in my days, it would probably sound like this: Wake up, eat, smoke, shit, eat, smoke, internet, smoke, lepak, smoke, sleep. Clean, rinse, repeat.

Not until recently, at least.

So here's what's weird: if you are a close friend of mine, you know that I have a really, really short attention span. As in seriously, agonizingly short. That's why my short stories are, well, short. So are my relationships (I don't know if that's relevant or not). That is also the case with my studies, sadly. Ever seen me studying for more than 1 hour straight? If you have, that is not me, that's my twin brother. No, I don't have a brother.

The point is, it's really hard for me to focus on one thing at a time, let alone several things at once (a sorry excuse for a Monash student).

Until recently.

So I'm taking part in the Monash Performing Arts Club (you can call it MPAC if you want) Year End Production (YEP, for short. That makes it MPAC YEP. Don't look at me, I didn't invent that name). And yours truly - who am I kidding? - I wrote the script. No, I should say, I am writing the script, as of this post. Terrible thing, them writer's block.

But first thing first. The concept of the story is not mine. True, I'm writing the script, and true that the script is being used right now, but the concept is not mine. It's Ivan's. Well, I made some (sick) adjustments myself, but the concept is his. Moving along.

Now, the most awesome part of this whole thing is that I hadn't quit. Surprise, surprise. Didn't know that I'm a quitter? News flash kids. Why did you think I chose BioMed instead of Med? But no, seriously. I haven't been this serious about anything my whole life. Usually when I am given a responsibility, I'd much rather get it done as fast as possible (short attention span folks. It kills). But not this time, no sir.

Why? Well, first of all, the cast members seems to like the story. A lot. So far. I feel appreciated, you know? Can't let them down.

Secondly, we are charging RM 10 for the ticket. In my book, that is a lot of money. For the first time I'm writing junks not only for myself, but for people who are paying to get entertained. Quitting means putting a target mark on my head.

Lastly, I fucking love doing this. Seriously. All the pressure, all the stress, all the deleted Word documents, does not even come close to hampering the joy I felt when the cast members actually acted out my script. My script, ladies and gentleman. And it turned out to be an awesome thing, indeed. I swear I almost felt like crying when they first acted out the scenes (the first three scenes, if you want to be specific about it). It was like unto a work of art. I almost felt like quitting smoking. Almost. That's saying a lot.

So having said that, I am not really all that when it comes to writing, even more so when it comes to acting (yes, I will be acting. In one scene. Like, a cameo), but I think I can say with a certain degree of confidence that this is going to be awesome. It's going to be a gas.

I'm having a ball, people. And I would appreciate it if you would come and check it out. The play is called Visage of Lies. The title is created by Jeevan, not me. It will be held in Monash University. If you're not a student, you can always pretend that you are and come anyways. It's going to be held on Friday, 10th of October, 7.30 pm to 10.00 pm. There's gonna be some dancing scenes, a sword fight, and a making out scene. I'd say that's rather cool. If you want to know the details, go here.

And another thing; this is a heads-up for those who actually read my short stories. I am going to write the story of the play in short story form, chapter by chapter, after the event (and exams). We'll see how it's going to be.

Right. I think that's about it. Back to the scripts.

Good night,

Sleep tight.

Midnight Theater, 14 March 2008

I have a story for you.

Listen closely.

Window

I was ten, when this happened.

I lived in a lively neighborhood in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, one that has no excessively rich people, nor excessively poor. It was not particularly big, but then, it was my whole world. I knew enough people to get me by, for I was not an active kid; I seldom go out of my house, and there was always home works and chores to do.

I allowed myself several friends, one of which lived next door to me. His name was Sukma, and he was a lively kid, if not a bit over-active. Another one, which lived one block away from me, went by the name Edwin. He was a nice enough kid, who always made jokes and pulled pranks at everyone. We were close friends, as close as ten-year old kids can be. We would always play by the field to the east, by the small river. We would talk about girls and our parents, and we would always go home with a smile on our face, knowing that the next day we would always have something new to talk about, something exciting to do.

That ended just a week before my eleventh birthday.

Normally after school , I would help my mother cook or clean the house. But it was a Saturday, and my mother had finished cooking and cleaning, and I had no home works for the week after.

So after my lunch, I asked my mother whether I can go out and play with Sukma and Edwin.

“Come back before Maghrib,” she said. I nodded reluctantly.

I met Sukma and Edwin at the field.

I asked Edwin, who was always the one who came up with fun ideas, of what we should for the day.

“I don’t know,” Edwin said. He was as tall as I was, and I was considered tall for a boy my age. He had a black hair with a slight twinge of red, which was cut just above his eye brow.

He did not look as happy as usual, and I asked him why.

He said, “I got scolded by my teacher and my parents. I didn’t finished my homework.”

While that may sound like a small problem, for kids at the age of ten it was quite a big deal. Getting scolded by your parents and teachers means that you will be the butt end of a joke for the next week or so, and it was the worst thing that can happen to a ten year old kids in my hometown.

So I told him that it will be okay, and next time he should just try finishing his homework.

“You and your advices,” he said with a grimace on his face.

“Well, he is right, you know. You have been spending too much time in front of the TV.” Sukma said. He was grinning, which accentuates his round cheek. He had a dark skin, and a hair that looked like it had not been combed and washed for days.

“Shut up, Mom,” Edwin said. But he was grinning too.

So I asked them again what we should do that day.

“Well, we can play hide and seek I suppose.” Edwin was toying with his hair.
“I’m bored of hide and seek,” Sukma said.

For a moment we were silent. Finally Sukma said,

“I want to check out that old house by the banana tree.”

The house was just a normal house, if you look at it from afar. It was white, like any other houses in the neighborhood, and it was built near a big banana tree. The tree, they said, was already there before houses were built in the area.

The house was empty, as far as I knew. It was the first house built there, and it was a lone house; nobody built anything near it.

They said it was haunted.

So I told Sukma that I was not stupid, and I did not want to go near that house. Even Edwin shook his head, and shuddered slightly.

“Well then I can tell the girls how much of a man you guys are,” Sukma said, with a snicker.

As I said before, by the age of ten, being the butt end of a joke was the worst thing that can possibly happen to me. I already was the unpopular guy at school, and the prospect of being labeled a coward was all it took to make me change my mind.

Edwin was still hesitant, however. He looked around, as if expecting his parents to call him back home at any minute. He was, to Sukma’s delight, afraid.

So I told Edwin that it was going to be fun, that we were just going to look around the house, and maybe break a window or two. Sukma laughed at that, and he gave me a mischievous look which meant that he was going to do so much more than that.

After a moment of reluctance, Edwin finally agreed.

“But we won’t go inside the house,” he said. I nodded, but Sukma merely smiled.

The house was not a long walk from the field. The road to the house was not pleasant however, for the grass and weed grew knee-high, and it was full of strange insects and mosquitoes.

The banana tree was peculiarly big, bigger than any banana tree I have ever seen. It bore no fruit, and it was dirt yellow in color. Just a few paces ahead of it stood the old house.

The house itself had no fence, and wild plants were growing on the walls. The air surrounding the house had a strange feeling of foreboding.

Edwin tugged at his shirt mercilessly, eyes darting from left to right. Even Sukma looked uneasy.

I put on a brave face and approached the house. There was only one window, and it was so dusty that I could not see anything inside the house. The door was closed, and it had 3 separate padlocks. As if that was not secure enough, somebody had nailed boards diagonally across the door.

I frowned at this. Surely that was quite unnecessary, I thought.

“I don’t like this house,” Edwin said. He was still tugging his shirt furiously. I did not dare say anything.

“Well we’ll just look at what’s inside then,” Sukma said as he bent down to pick a big round stone. He took a stance, ready to throw the stone at the window.

“No, Sukma!” Edwin exclaimed. I only watched as Sukma hurled the stone at the window.

The stone broke the window glass, but it did not make any sound. Sukma had a big grin on his face.

“Gentleman, let’s take a look!” he said, making it sound as if it was the most exciting thing in the world. I walked to the window. Edwin nodded weakly.

The three of us stood by the window, uncertain. A cold draft blew from inside the window.

We looked at each other. Sukma said, “on the count of three.” Edwin and I nodded.

By the count of three we were already on our tiptoe, looking through the broken window.

The inside of the house was dark, so dark that I couldn’t quite see anything beyond a few feet of the window. Edwin and Sukma was squinting hard, and I coughed a few times from the dust.

I still remembered seeing a banana leaf, cut square with some food on top of it. There was a pot of incense near, though the house smelled like nothing in particular. The food was half eaten. There was nobody in the house.

I sighed in relief, though for what I was not really sure. I looked at Edwin and Sukma.

Edwin was gaping, mouth wide open, and Sukma’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head. They were staring at something, in the house. I turned around to look.

It turned out that there was someone inside the house after all. I did not understand how I could have missed her, but there she was. A female was standing a few meters away from the window. She was garbed in a dress so white that I can’t even think of anything that is comparable to it. It was just simply white. And it was not just her dress, for I could see that her hands and feet, which were bare, was pale.

Her hair was black, and it hung down on her face, covering it quite thoroughly. I suppose I should be thankful for that, since her forehead was stark white, and honestly I can hardly bring myself to recount even that particular feature of her face. Her shoulder was slumped forward. I thought I saw a piece of a thick rope dangling on her chest.

I froze for what seemed like an eternity, until she began to whisper, softly, like the song of the wind in a midnight breeze.

“Aku urip neng kene, aku mati neng kene.”

I ran away from the house as fast as I possibly could, when I saw her raised her bony hand and whispered again, this time louder.

“Jenengmu sapa?”

I turned around to see her by the window, her hand waving back and forth. Edwin and Sukma was already paces ahead of me. I screamed.

Later that night I could not sleep. In my dreams I saw a women with a rope around her neck, her hand waving at me. I woke up screaming and shouting. My parents asked me why I was having such a bad nightmare, and I said I did not know.

The next day Edwin and her parents moved. I have not seen him since that day. Sukma was not as cheerful as he used to be, and I perfectly understand why.

I wish I can tell you the history of the house. I wish I can tell you that there was a girl who hung herself there, whose body was never found. I wish I can tell you that the food on the floor, the sesajen, was there to prevent her from disturbing the people of the neighborhood. I wish I can tell you that in the end the house was bought by a newly wed couple, and how they went mad after a few days and killed each other.

I wish I can, but I cannot, because I do not know.

I do know what the meaning of the word she whispered to us that day, and occasionally I can still hear it at night, every time I look over my window to the night sky and beyond.

“I lived here, and I died here,” she said.

“What is your name?”

Midnight Theater, 8 March 2008

Fiction

No, please I just quit drinking
It’s on you? Well, if you insist…
Whisky will do just fine, love
What do I do as a living, you ask?
Why, I’m a writer, my dear
I am amongst those who are brave enough
To map territories, other people
Can only dream of

You want me to tell you a story?
I do not think that is a pleasant idea, love
For the map I draw are not entirely pleasant to begin with
Another shot for a story? Well, if you insist….
Alright then
I have a story for you
Listen closely

******

There was a crow, and it was, as crows usually goes, black and sharp and ugly.

It was ugly, and it has no name.

Let’s call it simply, The Crow.

You see, The Crow was not a terribly interesting crow. So much so that he was shunned by his fellow crows. It was not because it was ugly (and it was), nor was it because of its voice (which was coarse).

The Crow was shunned because it was a poet, and this is true.

There was also, by chance, a man. And the man, as man usually goes, was arrogant, greedy, and intelligent by nature.

He was handsome, and he had a name.

He was called Edgar.

You see, Edgar was not a terribly interesting fellow. So much so that he was shunned by his friends and family and women. It was not because he was not handsome enough (and he was), nor because he was weak (and he was not).

Edgar was shunned because he was not a poet, and this is true.

But of the luck in the world, he fell in love with a woman, who was a virgin, and enjoyed poetry, and will not accept any man, no matter how good looking he was, unless he was a poet.

We shall call her simply, Virgin.

For days and months and years Edgar have been watching her, every single movement etched in his brain. The way her bottom moved when she walked, the way her lips pursed every time she was agitated, the way her finger always played around with her dark, dark flowing hair. The way she…

In short, he was in love with her, and quite madly, sadly. The fact that Virgin only wanted to marry a poet broke his heart to tiny, tiny pieces. Every day he would wallow in his sadness, scribbling gibberish on the wall in his pathetic (if I may say so) attempt to create what could pass up as a form of poetry.

Edgar wanted to become a poet. To be able to steal Virgin’s heart, and to gain respect amongst his peers.

Now, our friend The Crow, it was growing tired of its fellow crow, who never understood the value of poetry, the beauty of word play. Other crows prefer simple, and terrible croaks to express themselves.

The Crow wanted to become a human. To live amongst those who can appreciate what he did best.

You see, The Crow have been watching Edgar, knew his trouble. It was deeply interested in this man, who was the exact opposite and yet remarkably similar to itself after a fashion. So The Crow devised a plan, which might not exactly be called devious, but one that is morally challenged nonetheless.

And so at night it visited Edgar, who was now scribbling on the wall with his back to the open window.

Edgar, it croaked. Edgar turned around and was perplexed to see a crow perched lazily at his window.

“You are… A crow.”

I am at that, The Crow croaked.

“What… business… Do you have with me?” Edgar said.

I am offering you a bargain, Edgar. The Crow adjusted one of his feather with its beak. One that will allow you to steal the heart of the girl you love.

Edgar looked at his wall, which was then covered with ink. He faced The Crow again.

“Who… What are you?”

I am a crow, Edgar, as you can plainly see. It paused. But that which you see with your eyes can deceive you. Eyes are merely windows, my friend, and yours are to narrow to understand the beauty of poetry. And it too, can be deceiving.

Edgar scratched his head.

The Crow croaked hoarsely. I am a crow, and I am a poet. That is what I am.

Edgar was a smart man.

“I see. And what is this bargain you want to make with me, crow?”

I want to become a human, Edgar. I want a human vessel, one that will allow me to become a true poet, one that will not be shunned by his kind, instead respected and loved for his work. You will help me get a human vessel, Edgar. Preferably male. You know how.

And he did, too. It was simple really. Take any human, female or male, kill them by slicing their throat, let their blood be drained completely (for the blood is the sea on which life sets sail), and preserve the body. That was how they prepare an empty human vessel. And that is how they do it now, I believe.

Edgar was deep in thought. He asked The Crow,

“And how is that going to help me steal Virgin’s heart?”

I will give you talent, human. Talent to weave words and meaning into an endless labyrinth, talent to tell a lifetime worth of story in one word, talent to tell a short story in a string of words.

Edgar was stunned. The Crow was going to give him the ability to become a poet, something that will surely win over Virgin’s heart. He weighed his option. A devious smile crossed his face.

“When do you want the vessel, crow?”

Tomorrow, human. By the crop field. Midnight. Do not be late.

The Crow croaked once, twice, thrice, and then flew away into the darkness of the night. Edgar was already sharpening his knife when the flapping of The Crow’s wings were gone.

So it was by midnight the day after that encounter that Edgar was standing on the crop field, alone. A human figure was lying down at his side.

Soon after, Edgar heard a flapping sound. The Crow descended rather ungracefully and perched itself on a branch of a dead tree.

You have gotten a vessel, I see, The Crow croaked.

“Yes I have.”

Very well. Look into my eyes, human.

Edgar was ready to strain his eyes to try and gaze at The Crow’s eyes, but strangely enough it was visible even under the cloud-covered moonlight. Edgar blinked once, uncertain of what he should do to receive the talent.

And suddenly, it was there. He felt stirring in his head, akin to tree branches swayed by the wind. He blinked again.

It is done.

And Edgar knew it too. He was, to his surprise, a poet.

Now. Your end of the bargain.

“Of course, my friend,” he said. His tone was unpredictable.

The Crow descended from the branch, and landed at the side of the body. Edgar took out his knife.

“I promise that this will not be painful at all.”

Promises are poetry, Edgar. It can be true, and it can be false.

Edgar smiled. He took The Crow in his hand, and deftly sliced The Crow’s throat.

“You have forgotten one thing, my friend crow.” The Crow’s blood was flowing, dripping on the human figure on the ground.

“Poets, as do writers, are liars.”

At that, the cloud covering the moon moved, and the moonlight shone on them.

The human figure was now completely visible. It has no face, it had no finger, it had no elbow, it has no knees.

It was no more than hays, arranged and tied in a way so that it took a human figure. It had a hat, and rags as a shirt and trousers.

The Crow croaked once, the life already fading away from his eyes.

“But I’m not completely ungrateful, crow. I will use your new… Vessel… to scare away your kind, which you hated so much. Be thankful at least for that.”

The Crow was dead. The last drip of blood have left its body. Yet strangely not a single stain was visible on the hays.

Edgar gazed at the dead crow’s body. He found a perfect word for the moment, and he knew he had to say it then and there. He smiled, content.

“Nevermore, crow. Nevermore.”

**********************

Well, that is all there is to it
You did not like that story?
I warned you, love
It was not going to be pleasant

You like it? Do you now?
I thank you then
Ah, but I have to be going now
It is not raining anymore

Another story, love?
I am afraid I cannot
I have overstayed my welcome
Another shot for a story? Well, if you insist….
Very well then.
I have a story for you
Listen closely….

inspired by Neil Gaiman & Edgar Allan Poe

Midnight Theater, 25 February 2008

Do you like cats?

I have a story for you.

Listen closely.

The Cat

The night was cold. He pulled his blanket close, making sure that it covered his neck. He gazed at a blank sheet of paper in front of him, eyes unblinking. His hand hovered above the paper. Finally, with a sigh, he took a pen, and started writing.

I like hospitals.

He stopped for a moment. He looked at his balcony, expecting to see…. Something. Anything.

The smell of hospitals always seemed to bring pleasant thoughts to me. The smell of chemicals. Of sweat. Of blood.

Of life.

He put down his pen, and reached for his cigarettes. He lit it up. He watched as the smoke swirled to the ceiling.

There really was nothing wrong with me. I faked a cold, using tools commonly used by kids to fool their parents. Some ice, and a fucked up thermometer, and you’re set. I didn’t like school. I hated it. I detest it. I still do. The school was to me like a graveyard. Full of dead kids, and adults trying to revive them but they’re dead themselves. I like hospitals. It is full of life. I am dead inside.

He laughed at the humor, and choked on cigarette smoke. He put his hand over his mouth, and coughed, hard. Blood was dripping down his palm. He winced, and wiped his hand on his shirt.

The doctor was a bastard. It was evident in his eyes that as soon as my Mom walked into the examination room, he wanted to fuck her till kingdom come. And he showed no sign of concealing it, too. He gave her a certain kind of look that can only mean one thing.

He couldn’t remember his mother, except for her flowing blonde hair, and her eyes. The rest was vague, as if someone went into his head and erased her. Someone probably did.

And she, in turn, gave him a look that can only mean one thing. Why, I didn’t know. Probably because she was lonely, since my Dad left with another woman. Or probably she was just horny. The doctor was good-looking, I’ll give him that. He looked like Elvis in his hey-day, without the ridiculous hair. And the shitty walk. His smile was annoying, and he smelled of a cheap perfume. And cheap sex.

He looked at me and he asked, “so, what’s wrong with you, sonny?”

Of which I answered, “My throat hurts, I had a headache this morning, and I think I’m catching a cold.” Classic answer, and a bad one at that. But by the time he found out that I’m all well, the school would be over anyway.

Something flashed in his eyes. Opportunity, I later realized. Afterward he did some tests on me, all the while eyeing and flashing his fucking-annoying smile to my Mom, who sat on the chair by the wall, cross-legged. I didn’t remember what she wore.

Something stirred in the air. He tossed the cigarette butt to the trash can, and lit a new one.

After a while, he finally nodded to himself. “There seems to be nothing seriously wrong with you, kiddo. But just as a precaution, I would like to take a urine sample from you.” was what he said. He walked over to the cabinet besides his desk, his eyes darting to my Mom, and her legs. And whatever else she flaunted. He almost stumbled when she gave him a wink.

It was getting colder. He drummed his fingered on the table, trying to remember. He didn’t remember anything about his father either. He exhaled the smoke.

He handed me a small plastic cup-thing with a yellow lid. He led me -more like ushered me- to the door. He pointed to the hallway, not really pointing at anything at all.

“Go to the toilet, and pee in the cup. If you want to have some candy or anything, just ask a nurse., kiddo. Take your time,” he said. I looked at the direction he pointed out, and then looked back. My Mom was already standing up, her purse on the chair. She looked at me and said, “go ahead, honey. Mommy will be waiting for you here.”

There was really nothing peculiar about the cat. It was white, as white as milk. It’s eyes were yellow. It seemed to glow, even in broad daylight. It was sitting on the doctor’s desk. It looked at me.

And it smiled.

His pen stopped its movement. His hand was shaking. It was not getting any colder, but he shivered. His hair stood on his back.

Its face was not moving. But somehow it was smiling. It was the most horrible sight I’ve ever seen. I said to the doctor,

“That cat is scary.”

He looked at me, puzzled. He looked back. Then he shrugged.

“What cat, sonny?”

And he slammed the door in my face. I heard the lock turned. I stood there for a moment, hesitating. And then I looked for the toilet.

The nurse was nice to him, and he remembered her scent and her face well. She was pretty, and she gave him candies and showed him to the garden. Her name was Bella, she said.

It was about half an hour later that I walked back to the examination room. I hesitated again, in front of the door. I knocked three times. There was no answer.

I waited for another minute before I opened the door.

The room was empty. My Mom’s skirt and shirt and bra and panties was sprawled on the floor, along with a white lab-coat with a name tag.

He never got the chance to check the name tag.

“Mom?” I said. Her purse was still on the chair. I looked at the desk.

He remembered the desk. When he came in with his mother, it was full of paper. There was no other object but papers.

But the papers were scattered on the floor, and there was nothing else on the desk.

Save for the cat. The wind howled outside.

The cat was there, its white fur white as milk, its eyes yellow, glowing. It licked its lips. And smiled at me.

I ran out of the room. I searched for Bella.

I never heard of my Mom thereafter.

He put out his cigarette on the desk. He turned. There, sitting comfortably on the floor of the balcony, the cat purred. It was white as milk. Its eyes were glowing. He thought he saw no pupils. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. The cat licked its lips.

The cat was smiling. He closed his eyes.