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.