My Corner Of The Earth

Midnight Theater, 26.03.09: Hans & Gretta part 1-5

2009-03-26T21:01:00.002+08:00

For Clarence, Cyren, and Madonna (in no order of importance), whose birthdays are only a few days apart, and whose given me some of the best time in my life. This is also for the original writer of the story Hansel and Gretel. May you rest in peace (whoever you may be).

Hans and Gretta

1.

All children must grow up, and in order to do so, they must be provided with a generous supply of nourishment, preferably by their parents.

The wood cutter’s wife pondered upon this thought for a while, rolling it around in her mind, trying to circumvent the inevitable deed. In front of her sat her husband, the bread winner of the family – who wasn’t doing a very good job at it. From the look on his face, he too was thinking about the same thing. He had his face buried in his big hands, his hair ruffled and untidy, black bags under his eyes.

The wife counted mentally the years it will take for their kids to be fully grown. Hans was 10, and Gretta was 9. Another six, maybe seven years, and they’ll be able to help their father. Perhaps.

“Six years. We hardly have anything for ourselves for the next winter,” she said nonchalantly.

“Aye, six years,” the wood cutter said, thinking along the same line as his beloved. “By then Hans will be able to help me, or he might find work outside of the village.”

“How are we going to feed them until then?”

The wood cutter did not reply to this question, merely shrugging his shoulder. His frame was broad, and muscles bulged from underneath his dirty shirt. He looked around, taking in the present view of his house. The house was small; there was just enough space to accommodate four people, and that was by the virtue of a complete absence of any furniture.

“We’ve sold everything there is to be sold, without compromising our own means of survival. And we still don’t have enough.”

The wood cutter averted his gaze to his wife. Sometimes he thinks that his wife can read his mind. Most of the times.

“True.”

“So, what should we do?” asked the wife again, shifting on her chair, revealing the swell of one breast from her low cut blouse, and naturally catching the wood cutter off guard.

“I don’t know.”

The wife sighed. She adjusted her blouse, hiding that swell of a breast that made her husband’s groin ache, while saying, “nothing to be done, then.”

The wood cutter looked out of the window, gazing at nothing in particular.

“I’m coming around to that opinion myself. All this time I tried and I tried, but to no avail. If only I can change the seasons through some means.”

“If I can’t do it, you may as well stop thinking about it,” said the wife. She tied her black hair in a bun.

The wood cutter hung his head at that, and said, “Nothing to be done.”

Just then, outside of the house, the wood cutter saw his two children laughing and singing, hand in hand. Hans was already running in long strides, a sign that he will someday grow up to become a strong man. Gretta was running behind him, with an idolizing look on her eyes as she fixed her vision on her brother’s back. She had a long black wavy hair, just like her mother, and a deep set of penetrating brown eyes. She would grow up to be a fine young lady, the wood cutter thought.

But then again, growing up means consuming more food, and food doesn’t come down from heaven, pray as hard as they might.

“Sometimes I wonder if He even exists, and I feel all cold inside,” said the wood cutter, unconsciously wrapping himself in his arms, as if to ward off some obscure chill that only surrounds his body.

“Hush, don’t blaspheme, dearest. Of course he exists. He just doesn’t give a damn,” said the wife as she stood up and strolled over to the kitchen, donning her apron on the way.

The wood cutter smiled at her wife, and looked at her rear as she walked. That particular part of her – and the bulging ones on her chest – shook like a willow tree. He resumed his window gazing, when the door opened and the two children ran into the house.

“Papa, let’s watch the hanging at the market place today!” said Hans with ragged breath, his temple glistening with sweat. Gretta ran straight into her mother’s arms and asked, “Can we go together, please, Mama?”

The wood cutter looked at his wife. She shrugged and said, “Well, we are running out of meat. I can go to the butcher’s while you take them to see the hanging.”

Hans and Gretta looked at the wood cutter with pleading eyes and a smile on their face. The wood cutter smiled at them and said, “Very well, we will go and see the hanging.”

Hans and Gretta exclaimed delightedly, and they held hands and started dancing to a nursery rhyme:

Hang man, hang man, slack your rope awhile,
I think I see my father, riding many a mile,
Father did you bring any silver, did you bring any gold,
Or did you come to see me hanging from the gallows pole,
No I didn’t bring any silver, no I didn’t bring any gold,
I just come to see you hanging from the gallows pole!

The wood cutter was somewhat disturbed by the song they sang, and he told them to stop, and to wait for them outside the house while he and his wife gets ready. They obeyed obediently, and they walked outside merrily. Despite their father’s order, they continued singing outside.

The wood cutter looked at his wife, whose gaze is fixed on her two children.

“Even children find the concept of death fascinating,” she said.

The wood cutter shivered as he pushed a horrible thought aside.

2.

The village centre, doubling as the market place, was already packed with people when the wood cutter arrived. Hans and Gretta practically begged for their father to go closer to the gallows pole, which was placed dead centre in the market. The wood cutter nodded his assent, and walked them closer to that object of death the children were so fascinated with.

There were several boys already at the base, some running around in circles around it, while others try their best to mimic a hanged person’s face, sticking out their tongues and grabbing their neck until their faces turned red. Hans laughed and would have joined the grotesque activity, had his father not stopped him.

“This is as close as we get to the gallows, Hans. No closer,” the wood cutter said, shaking his first finger in front of Hans’ face. Hans dropped his shoulder, but he obeyed nonetheless. Gretta was completely engrossed in watching the clothes of the chattering women of the villafe, most of them housewives who had nothing better to do than to gossip away.

The crowd was restless and excited, just like how it should be in a public hanging such as this, and it did not surprise the wood cutter when the crowd suddenly cheered and sneered and jeered. He turned his eyes to the main gate, which was opened to allow the executioner, the priest, the sheriff and the condemned. This time, he was surprised, and he was not the only one, for the crowd’s derision suddenly stopped. What surprised the wood cutter and the rest of the adult in the crowd was the prisoner himself.

He was a boy of fifteen, and he was a good looking boy at that. He had a long golden hair, and he had a chiselled good look accentuated by a small split on his chin. His body however, was a horrible comedy of the state of his face. He was impossibly skinny - impossibly gaunt - for a boy his age, and he walked with his shoulder drooped down, his shackled hands hanging limply on his sides. He looked up to the crowd, and the wood cutter thought he can see the word ‘defeat’ spelled out within that blue iris. This was the eyes of a man who knows that he was about to die, and there is nothing in the world that can change that fact.

“He really doesn’t give a damn,” the wood cutter muttered under his breath.

There was a low murmur as the prisoner ascended the steps to the stage. The executioner walked behind him, followed closely by the sheriff, and the priest. Usually the crowd would start throwing rotten eggs, cabbages, faeces, and other things that smells something fierce to the prisoner. But not this time. The prisoner was too young; they had expected a criminal with hideous scars on his face, who snarls at the first sight of people. This was completely different. The boy was young, and he did not show any signs of struggling for his freedom. Sympathy welled up in the wood cutter’s heart.

The prisoner stopped at the centre of the stage, where he now stood on the opening that would deliver him to his doom. Once the noose is tied around his neck, one pull from the executioner will activate a mechanism that will open the small door underneath his feet and he will either die from a broken neck, or of suffocation, depending on how tight the noose is.

He looks like he can use the broken neck, the wood cutter thought. Suffocation is too painful to endure, and to watch.

The executioner proceeded by tying a thick and coarse rope around the prisoner’s head, and pulling it harshly to make sure that it’s secure. The prisoner’s lips began to tremble.

The priest then proceeded to open his Holy Book, and found the page he was looking for. He then looked at the prisoner and said,

“You, H------ are to be punished by means of hanging to your death. You are punished so because you have committed the hideous crime of stealing food and wine from the house of God. Before we proceed, any last words?”

The priest delivered the words mechanically, with no feeling whatsoever.

The crowd went silent. Usually at this time, the condemned will plead for his innocence, or in some cases – and more often than not – start cursing at the crowd, or at the priest, and utter blasphemies.

Not so with this young boy of fifteen. Instead, he closed his eyes and he cried. He wailed and wailed; snots came out and hung from his nose; tears streamed down his face like water from an opened flood gate. He cried and sobbed until his whole body shook with tremor. The murmur from the spectators began again.

“This is not a criminal. He is only a deranged young boy who needs some spanking from his mother and father!” an old woman next to the wood cutter exclaimed. A man from the other side of the market uttered the same thing, if not less politely. Hans and Gretta was completely transfixed with the sight of what they thought was an adult crying like a new born baby, and they watched on with that singular curiosity only children can have in their eyes.

The priest looked at the sheriff, who shrugged and said,

“Read the prayer, Father.”

The priest returned to the book he carried in his hands, and began to recite the prayer for the dead. It was a paradox to behold, indeed; there he was, a man of fifty summers, no stronger than the prisoner – gaunt though he may be – who certainly had no power over fate and destiny; and yet, he recited a prayer of the dead for someone who was still living and breathing.

By the time the priest finished his recital, the executioner had put a black hood over the prisoner’s head, who was still crying. The muffled sound of sobbing was still heard when the sheriff nodded his head to the executioner.

The executioner pulled, hard. The sound of a wooden door opening on its hinges rang in the market place, loud and clear. That sound was soon followed by the cracking sound of a broken neck. The deed was done. The prisoner was dead.

The crowd started to disperse, and still that muffled sobbing sound hung in the air like an eldritch miasma. Even the priest looked disturbed.

Hans and Gretta looked at each other, wonder etched on their young faces. The wood cutter stood erect for a moment, thoughts better left unsaid bombarding his head. He caught bits of conversation from a midwife to another, saying,

“At least he doesn’t have to worry about feeding himself any more. God bless the poor soul. So young, and ended up in the gallows for a piece of bread, too!”

His mind went blank after that, and he took his son and daughter’s hands. He strolled to the butcher’s to fetch his wife.

3.

“His parents turned him in,” the wife said as they walked on the trodden path to the secluded house. The forest loomed to their sides, forming an erratic arch way.

The wood cutter turned his head dumbly to his wife at this remark. Her brisk steps easily matched his long strides, and she was carrying with her a small sack only half-filled with a pitifully small piece of meat, some equally pitiful-looking turnips, and a bundle of herbs. He let out a long sigh at the sight of it, and asked,

“What do you mean by that?”

“I meant, his parents turned him in to the sheriff.”

“You mean the prisoner?”
The wife nodded in that careless manner of hers.

“But why?” asked the wood cutter. He returned his gaze to Hans and Gretta, who walked a few paces behind them, hopping hand in hand, still singing that ominous rhyme.

“So they’ll have one less mouth to feed.”

“But what kind of parents would do that?”

“The sensible ones. The kind that subtly urges their son to steal food from the church, and then turns him in so they can keep the food for themselves.”

The wood cutter slowed down his steps, taking in all the facts his wife shoved into his head.

“That is cruel, and shameful,” he said, as he came into a halt, waiting for Hans and Gretta to catch up.

The path ended in the middle of the forest. Only he and the wife knew that they should now continue due west, and follow the white shiny pebbles on the grass, unperturbed by the soil. Absolutely nothing can move the stones away, save for his wife.

The wife slanted her head, and looked at him with that penetrating gaze.

“But they get to fill their stomachs, and survive. At least until winter comes. It makes sense.”

The wood cutter knew that she was telling the truth, and that thought sent shivers down his spine. “Suppose,” he began, “we repented instead?”

“As if He’ll listen to our pleas, dearest. You know He grants nothing to the likes of us,” was the wife’s reply.

“To the likes of you,” he said, not without a bit of edge in his voice.

“Us. You’re in this as much as I am.”

The wood cutter only nodded weakly. “Yes, us,” he said. He looked at the sack on his wife’s back again, estimating how long it will take before the supply finally runs out.

“Is that all you can get?” he asked, not really wanting to hear the inevitable reply. The wife nodded, and said,

“It will suffice for the two of us until winter time. I think by then you should have earned enough money to last us until spring. Then we begin again.”

The wood cutter’s heart stopped beating for a second, and his eyes dilated. He stared at his wife with a look of utter horror.

“What do you mean, ‘for the two of us’?”

His wife returned the stare with a cold expression.

“I meant for you and me. The two of us.”

“You can’t mean to-“

“Hush, the children will hear you. We’ll talk once we send them to bed,” she said with a tone indicating that the conversation was over, at least for now. She extended her free tiny hand, beckoning him to hold it and walk side by side, hand in hand, like the old times.

The wood cutter’s knees grew weak, and he felt a sudden wave of nausea. But still he kept a straight face, took his wife’s hand in his, and motioned Hans and Gretta to hurry along.

4.

Nights in the forest are dangerous, be it for adults or children, so they say. But in that small clearing upon which their house was built, secure in the comfort of their blankets, Hans and Gretta found no reason to be afraid of the nocturnal creatures said to dwell in the forest. Their head supported comfortably by a pillow, they fell asleep immediately after the wood cutter kissed their foreheads, and bid them good night.

The wood cutter watched his children sleep for a moment with a blank expression on his hard visage. Although the years have not been kind to him, there were barely enough lines on his face to warrant calling him an old man. His square jaw still looked as strong as the olden days, and his long hair was still tied back to reveal a forehead lined with unspoken thoughts.

The wife watched, and waited patiently for his husband to come to her. Her brown eyes reflected the low flame of the candle set on the table where she rested one elbow. Her eyes moved from the wood cutter’s face down to his muscular frame, and she felt a longing that has not been satisfied for years, ever since she gave birth to Hans. She had wanted to extend the small house – although a hut is more appropriate to describe their dwelling – so that she and her husband can have their own room, and some privacy. But the wood cutter had been too busy trying to make a living. Always too busy, or too tired, and all of that just to feed two extra mouths that did nothing but play every single day.

“It’s been a long time since we did it, you know,” said the wife.

“Now is not the time,” her husband replied, not averting his eyes from Hans and Gretta.

“It has not been the time for ten years.”

The husband shrugged, and said,

“Nothing to be done.”

“Yes there is.”

The wood cutter turned his head around, and met his wife’s gaze with a level stare. He shook his head, and walked to the table. He pulled a chair carefully so as not to wake his children up. He sat down slowly, and he put his face in his hands.

“Is there no other way?” he asked.

“You know the answer to that.”

“No, I don’t. And I don’t think I want to know.”

“Well then let me spell it out for you. No. There is no other way.”

The wood cutter looked up, and his wife saw tears glistening in his eyes. He looked at her with a pleading look, but he knew deep in his bones that she was right, as always. There really was no other way.

“We have to do what we have to do. We can always have another child, when we are in a more stable condition. You and I, we are not exactly old yet.”

The wood cutter wiped his eyes. He sat up straighter now, and his whole body told his wife that he already resigned to the fact facing him at that moment: they were going to have to kill their children in order to survive.

“But how? I’m not going to send my son and daughter to the gallows,” asked the wood cutter.

“I’m not saying that we’re going to send them to the gallows.”

“Then?”

The wife leaned forward, again revealing the swell of her breasts. The wood cutter caught his heart in his throat.

“Lean closer, so that they won’t be able to listen.”

The wood cutter almost suggested that they go outside to discuss the matter, but the sight of her generous bosom - still firm after all these years – and her beautiful face replaced his despair with desire, so that he kept silent in order to gaze at those mounds longer.

“We should….” And the wife started whispering her plan to her husband, who listened distractedly. The manner in which the wife told her husband how they are going to go about erasing the existence of her children without rousing any suspicions from the villagers were at once upsetting and unsettling, but still the wood cutter’s gaze was fixed on her bosom, and he listened.

When she was finished, she leaned back, and the wood cutter almost let out a disappointed moan. His wife, all the while watching his expression, knew what he was thinking, and she smiled thinly.

“Well?” she asked.

The wood cutter returned to the real world, and looked at his wife’s face.

“Well… That sounds like a good plan, but I don’t know if I can agree with you on the last part… Don’t you think it’s a bit excessive?”

“No, my dear. It’s not.” At that, she shifted on her chair, showing her side to the wood cutter, and the wood cutter thought he saw one bare breast with a pink peak, and all his senses were swept away by a maddening desire to make love to his wife again, which he hasn’t touched for nine years.

“You know what, my love? You were right,” he said.

“About?”

“We have been deprived of that for too long. I think it’s time we get a space of our own.”

The wife laughed lightly, two dimples showing on her round cheeks.

5.

There was a story surrounding the forest which surrounded the wood cutter’s house, and it was not a pleasant story.

One day, they said, there was a young woman who got herself lost in the thickest part of the forest, where the feeble ray of the sun barely penetrates through the woods.

The girl was, they said, a princess, running away from the comfort of her castle because she thought her step mother wanted to kill her. Were you to ask the reason why the step mother wanted to kill the princess, they would most probably tell you that the step mother wanted the princess dead because the princess was more beautiful than she; a highly unlikely reason, for it is at once both foolish and childish. But then again, they talk much, and the story has been passed down from generations to generations by words of mouth.

But whether or not this was the reason (or whether or not there was a step mother in the first place), the princess was still lost in the forest; and this part onwards, at least, is assuredly true.
The princess, you see, had a shoulder length hair that was black as ebony, lips red as roses, and skin White as Snow. She stood as a stark contrast to the gloom of her surroundings. She ran for many leagues, this princess of ours, and it just so happened that she decided to take a rest there, under the shade of the trees, alone in the forest they sometimes call The Border. She spent a considerable amount of time rubbing her long and lean legs while wallowing in self-misery. It was around this time then, that she finally noticed that she was not quite alone in that part of the forest. She felt that she was being watched by prying eyes that were not quite human.

She stood up and looked around her nervously. She began trembling with fear; this was, after all, a spoiled brat of a princess who ran away from her castle (and presumably from her father the king, for we should not consider the existence of a step mother) for some obscure reason. She began imagining things, moving, animate things that watched her every movement, only to realize that she wasn’t really imagining them. She almost screamed, when the things that have been watching her finally emerged from the shadows.

The little squirrels came out first, followed by all kinds of birds, stags, rabbits, and horses. These were in turn followed by all sorts of animal that usually dwells in a forest, some of which you might have never seen before. Lastly, a black crow flew and perched itself on a high branch.

The animals formed a ring around the princess White as Snow, and they stared at her with unblinking eyes.

The princess, who was dumb, thought that the animal were friendly creatures. She began talking to them in a sweet melodious voice;

“Oh, my dear friends! Have you come to help me from this predicament I now face? Are you perhaps, some messengers sent by the gods to cure me of my loneliness in this forsaken forest?”

The animals, creatures that did not possess the ability to speak, did not reply to her questions. Instead they continued to look at her with wide open eyes.

The princess continued, however, and said,

“Tell me, my friends, where can I get a safe lodging, so that I may lie on my back and sleep with my eyes closed and shield myself from the rain?”

A moment after she asked this question, the animal did a singular thing that would have sent a man with more intelligence than our princess running with his tail between his legs; they moved their heads, in unison, and looked at the same direction.

She looked at the direction which they pointed, and saw that the gaps between the trees were wider in that part of the forest. She looked back at the animals, and smiled innocently, while saying,

“Thanks to you, my animal friends! I will never forget your kindness and compassion for me!”
She turned her back to leave and took a few steps forward, when suddenly the crow croaked in a strangely human voice.

“Nevermore!”

She was startled by this, and immediately turned around to see the crow, when she again found herself alone in the forest. The animals were gone, and no foot prints were visible on the ground.

The princess, whose fear was rekindled by the strange event, ran to the direction pointed by the animals. She ran and ran, until she came to a wide opening, with a small house in the middle. She let go a relieved sigh at the sight of the house, and approached it.

The house was quite small, and she found that no body answered her after she knocked the door five times in a row. By then the sun was already setting, and it was getting dark. Out of fear, she tried the door, and was delighted to find that it was not fastened.

She entered the house, and found that for its peculiarly small size, the house was quite normal. There was a kitchen, with a kettle boiling over the hearth; there was a dining table; and there was a hammock tied to posts supporting the roof. She approached the fire, thankful for its warmth, and told herself,

“The owner is not home yet. Maybe I should help myself to some food. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

So she took a bowl from the cabinet, a spoon, and she opened the kettle and found that the content was meat broth. She ate with gusto, finishing the broth in no time at all. The meat was surprisingly tender, and succulent; the princess had never tasted meat like that before, and she wondered what kind of meat it was.

After the splendid meal, our princess felt drowsy. She told herself after a long-drawn yawn,

“I’m sleepy, and I should go to bed. I’m sure the owner would not mind if I were to use his bed for awhile, at least until he gets back.”

So she climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the bed room was located.

The sun had completely set by the time she reached the bedroom, and she was too tired to light up a candle, so without looking, she threw herself on the bed. One thought passed in her head before she fell asleep;

“Why is the bed so long?”

Now our princess White as Snow, after the adventure she had in the forest, and after all that running, immediately fell into a deep slumber. She did not hear the door opened a few hours later. She also did not hear the footsteps that went around the first level of the house, the slow murmurs that accompany them. She did not hear the footsteps climbing up the stairs, and she certainly did not hear the bed room door creaked open. What woke her up, however, was a light coming from a candle held close to her face.

She exclaimed, and drew herself up to the bedpost, and drew the blankets closer to her body. What she saw was indeed the strangest thing she had ever seen in her whole life.

There were, filed up in a line in front of her, seven short men whose height were half of hers. They all had thick beards growing from their chin to their chest, and they wore the same attire. They looked at the princess with sinister eyes, and they did not say a word.

The princess thought that she finally met the owners of the house, dwarves though they maybe, and apologized for her entry. She began enquiring their names, one by one, but they did not reply to any of her questions.

Finally she decided to tell them about the meat broth too, and when she did so, the faces of the dwarves lit up, and they, in unison, put their hands behind their back, and pulled out pick axes from their belts.

Before she could even scream, the seven dwarves had killed the princess, hacked her body into small, small pieces.

Now, if you were to ask them – the story tellers – as to why the dwarves killed the princess, you will not get a definite answer; some say that she was killed because she barged in to their house, and that she was being rude by eating their meal. Some say that they killed her because she was the meal; after all, as we all know, human meat is the best tasting meat in the world, and no one can dispute that fact.

Whatever the reason may be, the fact that the princess was killed is true; and this was the story surrounding the forest that surrounded the wood cutter’s house.

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

And with that post, I bid you

Good night.

Sleep

Tight.

Midnight Theater, 8 February 2009

2009-02-08T17:34:00.005+08:00

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.

2009-02-03T06:10:00.003+08:00

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.

Interlude (in other words, "time out!")

2009-01-26T04:06:00.002+08:00

First and foremost, I'd like to say:

Happy Chinese New Year to all of my friends (Chinese and non-Chinese alike)!! May, errr... this year brings you, err...

Yea, I'm not good at these things. This is always the case whenever I tell someone "Happy something-or-other!" 'cause you know, there's like an unwritten rule that says something like:

"After thou sayeth 'Happy something-or-other,'thou shalt add in some other sentences so that thou wilt looketh like thou really meant what thy said."

Or something like that, I don't know.

But, fucking-lame jokes aside (goddamn I should really stop cursing), I am sorry that I haven't been able to post the second chapter (or scene) to Visage of Lies (for those of you who reads it). I've been... distracted... by another project (but of course the actual thing doesn't warrant such big a word like 'project,' but I'm just being humble here, so play along).

It has occurred to me, of late, that I have never talked about that particular play, even though I have discussed (or mentioned) my other, er... 'works' in this blog of mine. That's because I have a feeling that if I were to try to explain that play, a lot of you folks will be confused, because I know my explanation will make no sense whatsoever (unless you can decode my somewhat cryptic language, but again, I'm just being humble so play along).

Which is just another way of saying, I don't even know what the play is really all about.

And quite truthfully, I'm glad of the fact that I don't know what the play is really all about.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that I hate that play. No, I love it. I love it to death. I know it's an achievement that I will be proud of until the day I breathe my last breath. It's not Broadway stuff, true. It's not a proper play, technically speaking, true. But I don't give a flying fuck, because I did what I set out to do the moment I sat down on my chair and double-clicked on that icon that says 'Word' in my laptop.

I set out to tell a story of a painter who can see through lies, and I think I did just that.

Stories are wonderful, I think. Especially fiction.

"How is it wonderful?" you may ask.

Sometimes you read a story about something, only to realize in the end that the story is telling you something else entirely. That happens to writers, too. Sometimes when you try to write a story about a fictional character trapped in a fictional world, going through fictional circumstances (and along the way, acquire a fictional spouse or two), and getting a fictional ending, only to realize that you have actually written about yourself, trapped in a real world, going through real circumstances (but you may not acquire a real spouse or two), and you also realize that the fictional ending is what you want your ending to be.

Confused yet? Good, I've done good job if you are.

"So what's the point, Bagus?" you may ask. That's the beauty of it. There's no point in it at all. But you're still reading it right? There you go. That's because in between those seemingly random thoughts that I just wrote down, there really is a point. It's only a matter of perspective.

The beauty of writing, and reading: both the writer and the reader will be invariably surprised in the end.

So, you surprised yet? Good, because I just explained what my play (A Visage of Lies, in case you forgot) is all about.

And with that somewhat cryptic post, I bid you

Good night

Sleep

tight.

(And if you're still confused, drink a cup of coffee, mixed with some mandrake roots. For an extra "kick," put dragon's blood in it. Works like a charm.)

Midnight Theater: A Visage of Lies

2009-01-12T23:57:00.002+08:00

Here it is folks, the play that I wrote last year in short story form. This is the prologue, and since I'm a bit lazy to edit it, this is more like a draft of a short story; it's short and straight to the point. I'm working on the later chapters as of today.

Prologue: Who Is It?

“Perhaps, my dear, you would like to take some rest?” said the painter, looking up from the canvas.

“Why yes, I could use a cup of tea right now. Is the painting finished?” she asked, her back stiff and uncomfortable.

“No, but a couple more hours should do it.”

“May I see it now?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

And so Gladys rose from her chair, her glowing white skin basked under the sun. Her black hair was flowing with the autumn breeze coming from the open window, and her green eyes sparkled. As she spoke her lips parted in such a way that only an artist can truly appreciate its beauty.

Such lips are meant for a lover’s kiss, the painter thought.

The painter stood up and ran a paint-stained hand over his brow, wiping the sweat. His hair was all grey, and his shoulder drooped down. One can deduce from these traits alone that life has been none too pleasant for him. However, one look from his eyes and one will see that, although his countenance was showing age, those blue orbs speak of nothing but passion and energy, such that no amount of time can wear them down.

The young lady walked to the artist, and as her eyes fell on the canvas, her breathing stopped, her cheeks blushed, and she smiled delightfully. She said,

“Oh, Albert, you flatter me! Surely this lovely lady is not yours truly?”

“Yes, indeed it is you, young lady. Although I must confess that the picture does not even come close to justifying your true beauty,” the painter said with a tired smile. Gladys laughed, and beamed at him.

“I can’t wait for you to finish it,” she said.

“Neither can I,” Albert said, “However, I fear that I have left some rough edges on your beautiful dress in the painting, and I must insist that I correct them before I dare take a rest, lest my memory fails me later. Would you mind terribly if I take a moment to do it?”

“Of course not, Albert,” Gladys said with that oh-so delightful smile.

Albert smiled, and he once again took his seat. As he began stroking his brush on the canvas, Gladys strolled about in the room in which this particular event was happening.

It was not a terribly big room. However, given the sparse furniture, it was plenty spacious. The room gave her a sense of peace, and old though it maybe, it was well taken care of. The singularly pleasant aspect of the room was that the window was facing a lovely garden, and this window she inspected with great interest. The frames were made of oak, and the carvings adorning it were of a very detailed craftsmanship. It stood as a stark contrast to an otherwise empty and undecorated room.

As per mentioned, there were scant any furniture in the room, save for the two chairs that the painter and Gladys was using, and a table where the artist put his paints. There was however, a rather large object which looks like a veiled painting, lying by the wall at the far corner of the room. This piqued the young lady’s interest, and she strolled there to pick it up. The painter did not notice this, as his concentration was focused on the painting he was working on.

The veil dropped to the floor when the lady picked it up. At the sight of what was on the canvas, the young lady gasped.

It was an oil painting set on an old white canvas. The wooden frame was old and fragile, and she felt that were her grip was a little bit stronger, the frames may have crumbled in her hand. This confused Gladys, for although the frame was aged, the colours of the painting looked as if it was still brand new.

However, what startled her most was the painting itself; it was a portrait of a young lady, standing on what seemed to be a porch overlooking a river. She was beautiful, the most beautiful lady she has ever seen in her life. No words can ever describe her beauty. It was not because of the lady’s physical traits – a pair of hazel eyes set on a round face, a fair skin, jet-black hair, and lips so full and seductive – but rather, it was how the painting depicted this lady. One look and Gladys could tell that the portrait was painted by someone who loved the lady deeply. The effect was such that made Gladys felt like she was falling in love with the woman in the picture.

She inspected the painting further. The colour and the texture was an example of perfect and strong brush strokes that sets the mood for the entire painting. The colours were somewhat gloomy and cold, and out of all the colours, red seemed to dominate the entire scene. Yet it was these details that disturbed Gladys. It was as though the lady in the painting was alive. Gladys even felt that she could see the individual veins behind that picturesque face. It was gorgeous and repulsive at the same time.

“What do you think of that painting?”

Gladys turned around, and found that the painter was standing next to her, looking at her with grave eyes.

“I’m sorry Albert, but I couldn’t help myself. Who made this painting?” she asked. “It’s…. beautiful.”

“Beautiful on the outside, at least,” Albert said. He gazed at the painting with empty eyes. “But I see you hesitated when you said that it was beautiful. Tell me, dear Gladys, what do you truly feel about this painting?”

Gladys fumbled for a proper word in her mind, only to find that there was none that were fit enough to describe it. Instead, she said “I must admit that I can’t find any defects in this painting…”

“But?” Albert’s face was emotionless, and he was still gazing at the picture.

“But I know that there is something terribly wrong about this painting. The colours…. They’re just not right, somehow.”

Albert sighed at this. He took the painting carefully from her hands, and he set them on the table. He took the chairs and put them on the opposite ends of the table, and motioned for Gladys to take a seat.

“You have keen eyes, young lady. You noticed the only thing that’s wrong with it and, by doing so, you have noticed the singular thing that made this painting as beautiful as it is.” Albert sat down on the opposite chair, his eyes still fixed on the portrait.

“Red,” Gladys said.

“Aye, red.”

“Who painted this, Albert? And who is the lady in the picture?” asked Gladys.

Albert fixed his eyes on Gladys. He said, “Do you really want to know, my dear?”

To which Gladys replied, “I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“But the answer brought it back.”

Albert smiled at her reply. “Then I suppose there is no harm in telling you the truth behind this painting then.”

He took a deep breath, and he spoke, in manner of a grandfather telling his grandchild a bedtime story.

“There is, by chance, a love story that accompanies this painting you’re looking at now. A most unpleasant and peculiar love story, but it is a love story nonetheless.”

Gladys leaned forward on her chair.

“Listen closely.”

"Where" - a poem

2009-01-11T00:20:00.002+08:00

This is a poem that was made by a fellow writer (who also happens to be the main actor in my play, A Visage of Lies) who goes by the name Cyren (at least, that's what I call him). This poem was written for me, and I liked it so much I asked his permission to post it in my blog (and he gave them). If you know me in person, you'd probably see why I like it. Here it is:

Where

Where do you fly,
when the wind blows strong,
when the rain howls down,
and the nights are long?

Where do you hide,
when the tempest comes swift,
when zephyrus awakens,
and in the sky tears a rift?

Where do you run to,
when the sun scalds the ground,
when the road melts from the heat,
and not a cloud is around?

Where you are now,
I guess I'll never know.
But the question that's killing me is;
Why, oh why, did you go?

But,

Suppose somethings in life,
were never meant to be conveyed,
so I let out a sigh,
and take my first step, away.

There you go. Pretty darn impressive, I'm telling you, especially because it's so true (he understands that aspect of me better than anyone else, methinks). If you want to look at his other works, go here. And with that, I bid you

Good night.

Sleep

Tight.

This World's Got Me Smoking

2009-01-09T05:58:00.002+08:00

I know, it's a lame excuse for me to keep fucking up my lungs. But what can I say?

So far I've uttered the sentence "I'm quitting smoking" hundreds of times already, even though I meant those words every single goddamn time too. Last year (that's 2008), I almost quit for good. But we all know how THAT turned out, yea?

Like what Jackie-boy said in Sin City: "Smokers never quit... Smokers smoke when their chips are down... And YOUR chips are down..."

And yes, my chips are still down. But I'm fightin'. Hell, I might even put "1. Quit smoking for good, don't fuck it up this time," in my New Year Resolutions list.

I mean, goddamn folks, cigarettes are 9 bucks a pack nowadays. I'm afraid I might have to start sucking some dicks for cigarettes soon, if I don't stop. And I'm sure as shoot don't want THAT shit to happen, do you? Hell no.

But Bagus, you might be asking, what about your other New Year Resolutions?

Which I'll probably answer like so:

Errr... Can I get back to you on that?

No, actually I do have one more thing to add (that makes two, two New Year Resolutions so far). And that would be:

"2. Stop cursing all the time."

Yea, that sounds good right? Cool.

And I should probably get out more, and exercise a bit, but I seriously doubt that would happen, so let's just skip that part. For now, at least.

So, late though it may be, I would like to say "Happy New Year," and, err... "Merry Christmas?" to all of you guys out there.

Let's kick some rear end, shall we?

And with that, I bid you

Good night.

Sleep

Tight.

Yogyakarta

2009-01-03T15:47:00.002+08:00

This is the lyrics to a song that I think sums up what Yogyakarta is all about. It's not about the tall buildings (of which Jogja has none, so far as I'm concerned), it's not about the shopping malls (Jogja only has 3 big ones, and they're quite small to begin with), and it's not about the clubs. It's about the soul. Translation is also included, for those who can't speak Indonesian.

Yogyakarta, by Kla Project.

Pulang ke kotamu
Ada setangkup haru dalam rindu
Masih seperti dulu
Tiap sudut menyapaku bersahabat, penuh selaksa makna
Terhanyut aku akan nostalgi
Saat kita sering luangkan waktu
Nikmati bersama
Suasana Jogja

Di persimpangan langkahku terhenti
Ramai kaki lima
Menjajakan sajian khas berselera
Orang duduk bersila
Musisi jalanan mulai beraksi
Seiring laraku kehilanganmu
Merintih sendiri
Ditelan deru kotamu …

Walau kini kau t’lah tiada tak kembali
Namun kotamu hadirkan senyummu abadi
Ijinkanlah aku untuk s’lalu pulang lagi
Bila hati mulai sepi tanpa terobati

And it's roughly translated to:

Going home to your town
I'm caught by the stir of my longing
Still the same as before
Every corner is a friendly greeting
Fully satiated with meaning
Lost in the sensation of nostalgia
Of the moments when we were spending time
And enjoying Jogja's ambiance together

At the crossroad my steps stand still
Bustling portable food stands
Peddling various delectable cuisines
People sit cross-legged
And the street musicians begin to play
In rhythm with my sorrow of losing you
Alone in my moans
Engulfed by your city's roar

Although you're no longer here, and will never come back
But your city provides your eternal smile
Please allow me to always return
If the heart embarks on loneliness without comfort...

You can watch the video here.

And with that, I bid you

Good night

Sleep

Tight.

Midnight Theater, and then some.

2008-12-13T21:28:00.002+08:00

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

2008-10-30T01:28:00.002+08:00

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

2008-10-24T22:55:00.003+08:00

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

2008-10-24T00:42:00.003+08:00

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

2008-10-23T13:40:00.003+08:00

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

2008-10-20T17:50:00.003+08:00

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

2008-10-18T21:57:00.001+08:00

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

2008-10-17T17:05:00.000+08:00

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

2008-10-17T12:17:00.003+08:00

*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!

2008-10-17T12:07:00.002+08:00

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

2008-10-17T00:09:00.002+08:00

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

2008-10-16T23:49:00.001+08:00

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!

2008-10-10T01:15:00.002+08:00

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...

2008-10-08T00:11:00.003+08:00

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

2008-03-14T01:52:00.001+08:00

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

2008-03-08T06:15:00.001+08:00

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

2008-03-08T04:47:00.002+08:00

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.

Break in between

2007-10-06T02:54:00.000+08:00

As you might have noticed, I have posted two poem-wannabe post, a story I've been wanting to write for so long. One is about The Night (I have to say that it is quite a lame attempt of a poem, but I like the finishing lines) and the other is about a confession of a serial killer, namely Act:Confession (this was not supposed to be a poem-wannabe, but I decided that I should try sumthin new).

And of course, there are a lot of grammatical mistakes here and there, which I haven't gotten around yet (I will, if it's really that bad).

In the future, I will write more of these kinds of stories here (there's something fascinating about dark and twisted story. I think deep down inside, there's a serial killer in everybody).

So, enjoy, and of course comments and critics are most welcome.

Good night

sleep tight

Act 4 : Confession

2007-09-26T03:04:00.000+08:00

Father, Thy servant
kneels before Thine presence
"I know that Thou hearest me
and that Thou hearest me always"

Thy undeserving slave
Seeketh the way
For this feeling that I
feel in my being
What do they call it...
Remorse?
Yes, indeed

Father, I have sinned

Oh, why did Thou createth us?
Foul beings
animals hidden in our faith
A creature of chaos
consumed by petty
Desires and Hatred

mother, father!
It is not thine fault that
I was to be born in this body;
loved by none, despised by many
Mayhaps this twisted features
are a picture of my soul

If so, thought I
how about the souls of my parents?
My mother was beautiful; of this you know
My father was handsome; of this you know
Surely, their souls must be
as what their appearence
portrays?

I suppose these bruises and scars
(on my cheeks, my mother gave me
on my back, my father gave me)
art what beautiful souls
does, encased within that mortal body

I wanted to see it;
how I wanted to see their souls!
It is thus that I have
made a hypothesis; a theory
The soul is what drives us forward
inside this feeble vessel
lies an intricate labyrinth

I skinned my father
After I cut his throbbing throat
with a saw
It is fine;
He was drunk, I made sure of that
I suppose, as many would say
Liquor is the best pain killers

I could not see his soul
It was covered in blood, muscles
His skin I threw away
the foul stench an aroma I could not comprehend

I heard a wise man spoke;
"the eyes art the window to the soul"
so I, so to say,
in a manner to my dismay
took away his window,
and to my surprise,
the soul is still
hidden away

I searched, cutting and sawing through
a futile attempt, this I know
to find that which you know nothing of
when I exhausted my self
the vessel of my father's soul was no more

My mother, I smashed her head
against our lovely white wall
Patterns, so lovely, so grosteque
formed on a pure white background
Her soul was not in her head;
nor was it in her bulging breasts

Her vessel I investigate
but, in a manner most similar
to the previous vessel
(whose vessel was it?)
I could not find
that which I thought would be
a beauty beyond compare

It was then that I realized
that I have sinned gravely
and thus, I kneel before Thee;
Most Graceful, Most Loving

I have sinned
for not being able to
see Thine most ingenius design
Is it perhaps because I lack
experience?

Father, my will is hardened
My resolution absoute;
I shall,
look for more vessels
and rest assured, with Thine will,
Someday the nature of the soul
shall no longer be a mistery
to me, and to others

Failure is the first step
to success, so they say
I shalt take this failure
as a stepping stone; a small gap
of which I can jump on; or over

Father, I have sinned

(To whom doth those two vessels
belong to?
I can not, for the life of me
remember)

Act 1 : Night

2007-09-26T02:24:00.001+08:00

As I stood
Upright on my
two feets
watching, observing
the forgotten past written in the stars
Tales of ages
worthy of it's own library
Some... thing
Nudged my senses

The Night whispers
A song, a hymn
In a language I could not comprehend
The Wind, The Creatures,
The Darkness,
Created an Overture
In which, given the chance
I could not possibly describe
with mere words

The rustling of the trees
Marks a presence, a being
Too beautiful for these eyes
Too serene for this heart

The sound of the Creatures
Which only serves
To embolden the words I wrote
Too sweet for these ears
Too melancholy for these mind

As I stood
Upright on my
Oh so feeble feets
The Darkness of The Night
Embraced me
Caressed me
And The Music,
How extravagant!
A melody, A rythim
unlike anything
A human can arrange

And these words, I convey
For without The Darkness of The Night,
Sunrise would not seem
as glorious,
and gorgeous

Genesis

2007-07-05T02:52:00.000+08:00

A new blog has been created?

This corner of my earth will feature some articles and various stuffs I have already posted in my Friendster account. Some of them will be about religion. Some of them will be about relationships. Some of them will feature short stories I've written before. None of them will be about politics. Most importantly, ALL of these future posts are mine.

So, welcome to my corner of the Earth. Enjoy your visit, leave a comment or two, hate mails are always welcome (what? they always make me laugh).

Sleep tight, brothers and sisters.