Midnight Theater, 8 February 2009

Here's the story that I deleted some time last year, because apparently someone misunderstood what it's all about. It's not so much of a story as it is a random thought, but I actually liked it. I like it now, especially the troll part. Here goes.


Write

Where do writers get their stories?

Here’s how.

Listen closely


1. Fuck a Muse

My rabbit stared at me with its black eyes.

I tried not to look at it as I thrust deeper into her being. Her skin was moist and soft. Her hair was a tangled mess of golden threads. She tossed her head side to side. The bed creaked and rocked as I put the whole of my being into her, feeling her walls closing in on me. The blanket was hanging down my buttocks; her perfect legs crushed my hips, her breasts moved against mine. My biceps and triceps screamed, a promise of a pain to come. She put her hands against the bed post. She was sweating, and she screamed my name. A fire is burning inside my part and I was ready to let out the flame when in a final frenzy she circled her arms around my neck so tight I lost my breath. She hung on to me as if her life depended on it, and I rode the last ride and rushed in as the light in my head turned green, and I let out a scream. She arched her back.

I dropped to her side, panting. She was laughing lightly, clasping her forehead. Her free hand moved under the blanket and stroked her private.

“Mmm,” she moaned. She turned her head and looked at me right in the eyes and said,

“You are one hell of a fucker.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said with a smile as I reached for my coffin’s nails on the table. I lit two and handed one to her. She took the busy hand, spread out her fingers, and they were wet with her liquid. She put two in my mouth and I tasted ambrosia there and then. I licked her fingers dry, and she watched with eyes burning with lust.

“My muse,” I said to her, “my muse.” I sucked the cigarette and felt hell fire filling my lungs. My muscles relaxed and my head started to clear up. The nicotine did its job as I felt my heart beating against my chest.

Bump, bump, bump.

A light flickered somewhere in the depths of my imagination.

“Your muse, yes. Your inspiration,” she laughed. She put her head on my arm. I can smell her sweet, cheap perfume. I kissed her temple.

“I think I have me an inspiration,” I told her, “For a short story.”

“Already? I’ll tell you what. Fuck me again and I guarantee that you’ll have a whole bunch of inspirations you can write a whole novel tonight.”

“No. I’m going to write now.”

I got out of bed, my penis hanging out and sore as hell. I felt the trickles of sweat above my brow. I threw the cigarette stub out of the window. I put on my pants, and turned on the light.

The LED light was blinking on and off on my laptop. I moved my mouse and the screen came to life. I opened the word processor.

And I started to write.


2. Look in the Mirror

The little girl looked into the mirror and she saw someone else.

At first she didn’t notice it. At first it was only a slight difference in the way her hair fell on her shoulders; a slight difference in the way her cheeks pull back when she smiles.

After a while she noticed that her hair has changed colour in the mirror. Her face structure has changed; her rounded jaw became pointed, her nose grew bigger, her eyes grew rounder, her teeth crooked, her ears pointed.

She told her parents about it, but they didn’t listen. Said she was crazy, said she was oh, just a kid, wild imaginations, she’ll grow out of it, go to bed honey, we don’t want to hear anymore of this nonsense.

She told her friends about it, and they didn’t listen. Said she was crazy, said she was oh, just looking for attentions, look at that ugly girl with pimples and short nose and glasses and messy hair, she’s scared of her own reflection in the mirror, she’ll grow tired of it.

But she didn’t.

When she grew up she spent most of her days gazing into mirrors, and she sometimes found herself talking to mirrors, and she doesn’t care when people called her crazy because the mirror does not lie. She thought she looked beautiful in the mirror, with her ears pointing out several inches above her head, with her withered hair, with her dead grey eyes, with her green skin, with her pointy nose, with her crooked teeth.

One day the reflection talked, cackled and worn. She told the girl stories, how she killed a nine foot tall bipedal elephant, how she poisoned a princess with an apple, how she made another princess fall into an eternal slumber, how she locked a blue Djinn into a magic lamp, how she ate a little girl with a red riding hood, how she left a boy to never grow up in a land where nobody grows up.

The reflection told the girl this, and so much more, and the girl would listen, and commit the stories to memory.

Later on when she became an adult, she would tell the stories to her kids, to her grandchildren.

And the kids and the grandchildren would be mesmerized by these stories.

And they started to write.


3. Sit on a Chair

First, sit on a chair. Done that? Good. Sit for awhile, smoke a cigarette if you want to, turn on the television, or give yourself a stranger. Don’t know what a stranger is? It’s when you sit on your own hand until it goes numb, and you masturbate with that numb hand. After an hour or two, your ass will start to get sore, your legs will go numb, and your back will start to ache. Don’t stand up yet!

Wait until a troll appears from a crack on the wall. You don’t have any cracks on the wall? Well you have to make one you son-of-a-bitch, or this trick won’t work. Do it while you’re sitting down, I don’t care how. Just don’t stand up.

We good to go? Great, now after the troll appears, he will ask you three questions. The questions changes from person to person, and they can be fucking random, but the answers are always the same. The answer to the first one is “Inspire”.

The second answer is silence. That means you don’t even answer. Just sit on your ass until the next question comes.

The third answer, then; you should show your middle finger to the troll and politely tell him to rotate on it. He will laugh, at this point. At this stage you will now stand up and grab that saw of yours from the garage. If you don’t have a saw, you can always use something sharp; something that cuts through flesh. If you don’t have any, go buy it. The troll will wait for you patiently.

Got that saw? Good. Now walk up to him, and tell him to kneel down. He will do so with minimum fuss. At this point the troll might get a random mood swing, and the worst thing you can lose is a leg. This doesn’t happen too often, but you might want to prepare a roll of bandage.

After the troll kneels down, you will have to cut his head off. Do it slowly; do not pity the troll, for this is what he was born to do. You may need to exert some extra strength once you reach the bone, since a troll’s spine is made out of mineral called calcium, too fancy a name if you ask me, and the spine is especially sturdy.
Once you cut the troll’s head off, the body will melt into a disgusting green goo-shit. Don’t worry; you can clean your floor with dead cat’s eyes. Put the head in a large boiling pot, and fill the pot with water. Put the pot on a stove, and wait for the water to boil.

After that, take out the troll’s head and put it on a plate. Get yourself a nice spoon, a fork, and a knife. The meat will be tender at this point; you will find that there is no brain inside the skull cavity.

And then you eat the head. The skull is a little hard to chew, and you don’t have to eat them, but shame on you, calcium is good for your bone structure.

Once you ate the whole head, sit on a chair. Get a paper and a quill, or a pen. You don’t want to use pencils, trust me. They come off once you start puking on that paper.

And you will find that you have an inspiration to tell a story. Most people who tried this method wrote what they just did, cutting the head of a troll and all, what, it’s a story! You may find that you will write a different kind of story altogether. The experience differs from one person to the next.

Personally, I started writing a whole bunch of shit about a city that was lost under the sea.

I forgot the name of the city.

So just sit on a chair, and once you eat the troll’s head

You will start to write.

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

There you go. And with that post, I bid you

Good night

Sleep

Tight.

Not quite Midnight Theater, but it's close enough.

This is taken from my Friendster profile. I find it kind of funny, and even though it's not really a story, it's still fun to read, I guess. This one is about me. Or, at least, about a fictional me. This is probably the only piece in which I had a tremendous laugh during the making (the rest, while still enjoyable to write to a certain degree, had their fair share of writer's block). Enjoy what could probably be the only light-hearted bullshit I will ever write.


Shameless-plug

"There was once a war that waged between the human race and the stout dwarfes, the graceful elves, and the enigmatic demon.

The war was called, not surprisingly, The War of The Races.

The human race survived, of course, for they were young, and was favoured by the gods (the gods however, did not survive, for in the end there is only one God). There was a price to pay for the victory, and that was the curse of eternal paradox; human is both the smartest and stupidest race to ever grace the face of Gaea.

During the war, the brightest amongst them created the Ordo Valianus, an order of valiant knights ready to sacrifice their life and wives (quite happily) to serve the the King Idiotus. They carry the human banner (a nude man, frontal view, with his hands and legs spread out like and eagle. This design later was rediscovered by a certain artist which went by the name Leonardo da Vinci, and is now named The Vitruvian Man), and they were well known for their signature mythril armor. They shine under the sun (unless they were too lazy to polish them, more on this later) and they have a curious effect, blinding adversary and sometimes allies alike, whereabout swift victory then becomes inevitable.

They were all of dark skin, not a single one of them were fair. The existence of fair-skinned human (thereafter called 'the white people') was due to human mating with the fair-skinned elves. This happens frequently in the Western region of Gaea, where the term 'dignity' and 'abstinence' in the Old Language is non-existent.

There was, by chance, a particular knight in the Ordo Valianus, which went by the name Bagus Wibadsudus Sosrosenosus. He was not terribly handsome, and was an offspring of the offspring of the offspring of Elven and Human. As such, he was brown of colour, and he was proud of it (though he exhibited none of the hardiness of a human, nor the grace of an elven). He was not a hero, far from it. He failed his first test to join the Ordo, and his second, and his third, and his fourth. By the fifth test the Ordo was weary of his constant failure, and decided that he should join anyway (thereby erasing the doubt about the Paradox Curse).

He was notoriously known for his habit of trying to clean everything except his mythril armour, which nabbed him the title 'Knight of The Rusty Armour'. He was not useful on a battlefield, simply because his armour does not shine like how it should.
His parents were the most important subject in his life, and if anything, still are. He had a sister, 7 years younger, but more deadly with the blade than he is. His father was a master of the arcane knowledge, and so was his mother.
He had few friends in the Ordo, and even fewer outside of it. He allowed only a select number of people in his small, small circle. Eleven of which, namely Bernius, Cyranus, Kaameshus, Victorius, Firmatus, Fauzius, Whidyus, Iputus, Farisus, Rosius and Wijnaus were already sworn as his blood-siblings. The others, while not as close to him as the ones stated above, still held a place of respect and love in his heart, which was not terribly big in the first place.

He fell in love twice. No further documentation of this subject was found.

He believed in the One God, Almighty, All Merciful, All Encompassing. (If he is still alive, he would still believe in Him.)

While his role in The War of The Races were small compared to the other knights, it was a role nonetheless.

Further documentation of Bagus was never found. Any information besides the ones mentioned above are either false, or mere conjectures, or both."

Excerpt of The History of Gaea : of The War, The Paradox Curse, and Ordo Valianus

And with that shameless-plug of a post, I bid you

Good night

Sleep

Tight.