Midnight Theater, 8 February 2009

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


Write

Where do writers get their stories?

Here’s how.

Listen closely


1. Fuck a Muse

My rabbit stared at me with its black eyes.

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

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

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

“You are one hell of a fucker.”

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

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

Bump, bump, bump.

A light flickered somewhere in the depths of my imagination.

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

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

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

“No. I’m going to write now.”

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

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

And I started to write.


2. Look in the Mirror

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

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

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

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

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

But she didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

And they started to write.


3. Sit on a Chair

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I forgot the name of the city.

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

You will start to write.

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

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

Good night

Sleep

Tight.

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

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


Shameless-plug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good night

Sleep

Tight.

Midnight Theater: A Visage of Lies

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.”

Midnight Theater, and then some.

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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


Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or

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

At least for now,

I will close my eyes.

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

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

Sleep

Tight.

P/S: I'm back, bitches!

Midnight Theater, 23 - 10 - 2008

The Boy, The Heart, She

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy hollow

But the hurting is no more.

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

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

Midnight Theater, 20 - 10 - 2008

The Day The Angels Died


The angels are dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therefore sin all you
want.

Salvation is here.

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

The angels were dead, but we got by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paradise

beckons to those who believe.

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

That day never came.

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

It was Hell, to be sure.

But we got by.

Midnight Theater, 18-10-2008

Playwrite

So, good people amongst the fray,

Give me a stage,

and I will give you a play,

of love and the colour gray,

and you will all fall prey

to your eternal dismay,

when your trust my words betray,

and the truth will be laid bare

through my magic, my word play.

So, good people amongst the fray,

Give me a stage

and I will give you a play

of life and the colour gray.

Midnight Theater, 17 - 10 - 2008

Sestina of a Lover


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midnight Theater, 17 - 10 - 2008

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


I have a story for you

Listen closely


RED


The Wolf waited patiently.

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

And delicious.

The Wolf gulped back his saliva.

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

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

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

********

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

She looked around.

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

She spotted nothing.

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

That, and it was almost midnight.

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

*********

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

She added dry woods to the fire.

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

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

A cold wind hit the window.

She shivered.

**********

The Wolf perceived a pattern.

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

To be more precise, she always goes on Fridays.

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

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

Its stomach rumbled.

Soon.

***********

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

The plain twisted, and it was no more.

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

And then he pushed her.

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

And when she opened it, she saw her.

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

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

Reality struck her on the face.

"God, no. Not you again."

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

Waves of fear fell heavily on Sarah’s mind.

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

Sarah woke up with a scream.

***********

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

She heard heavy steps approaching the door.

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

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

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

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

Again, it chuckled at the thought.

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

But fortunately, the girl was stupid enough.

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

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

It thought better of the situation.

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

***********

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

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

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

Some wife I have, he said to himself.

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

It all came down to the gold he would receive.

He took a good look at his wife.

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

Choking back tears as if he was violating her.

The things he did to get some money.

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

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

And she was as fragile as a wooden stick.

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

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

Sarah doesn't need to know about her.

She doesn't need to know.

**********

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

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

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

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

Grandma smiled as she poured the tea to a cup.

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

Red thought about the answer for a minute.

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

***********

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

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

She loved him to death.

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

He kissed her gently, ever so lightly.

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

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

I am the luckiest woman on earth, she thought.

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

He doesn't need to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wolf wondered.

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

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

When?

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

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

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

It licked its lips.

No, it thought. My head controls my stomach.

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

Patiently.

***********

Sarah couldn't be more worried before.

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

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

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

She raised her head at the crazy suggestion.

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

Her husband stood there, silent as the night.

"She went to see her Grandma."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm one of them, Sarah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, she screamed.

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

She began licking Sarah's body.

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

It's too overwhelming.

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

Sarah felt her legs were spread apart.

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

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

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

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

Love?

Then her mother shoved the stick again with greater force.

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

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

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

Her mother tied her to a chair.

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

A wolf's howl she heard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She couldn't speak. Her breath left her.

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

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

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

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

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

Can a wolf grin?

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

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

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

It approached the now dead body.

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

And the look of fear on her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She heard her Grandma sighing.

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

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

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

The wolf made a move.

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

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

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

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

So it leapt.

It broke the window.

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could care less, it thought.

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

It turned to the child.

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

"Yvonne!"

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

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

And at that, she turned into a woman.

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

The reason would be because of her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yvonne smiled.

The wolf turned to a trembling Red.

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

Red stopped crying instantly.

"Father?"

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

Red took a good look at it.

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

The wolf flinched. Guilt?

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

Red nodded.

"How come you have a lot of hair?"

Guilt is not the answer. Paternal love, maybe?

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

Again, Red nodded.

"Then how come your teeth are so sharp?"

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

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

Its allegedly sharp teeth made short work of Red.

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

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

Paternal love? She asked herself.

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

"Begin, then." He said.

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

And then she chanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edmond smiled. His teeth still red with blood.

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

He became a wolf. It thought for a moment.

And its smile widened.

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

Midnight Theater, 16 - 10 - 2008

Poet

Man

Here’s a toast to you –

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

roses,

mistletoes,

and the blood of a crow –

my Hera,

my Aphrodite,

my Athena,

My Goddess.

Woman

Hera’s a bitch, a possessive insecure woman

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

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

And I am no Goddess.

Man

You are the four seasons, then.

As warm as a summer breeze,

As beautiful as the colour of spring,

As mesmerizing as the falling leaves of autumn

And as hypnotizing as the snow of winter

Woman

A summer breeze dries my skin,

The colour of spring hurts my eyes,

The falling leaves is a nuisance,

And winter is cold.

Man

Well then, in the absence of

A better way to describe what you are

To me,

I will say, nay, I say it now,

With the weight of my heart on its back;

You are,

My love, my life.

And these words I convey to you,

For you make me feel

Like I want to be

A better man.

Woman

But that word is so beautiful.

For you – in the absence of

A better way to describe what you are –

Are my spring, my autumn, my summer,

And my winter.

You are

My love, my life

A better man you will be, aye

But a different man you will not.

Because I love you

Just the way you are,

My poet.

Poet

Then allow your most humble alleged poet

To give you my greatest gift.

It may not be much,

But it is the best this man can do.

Allow me to tell you a story, love.

A love story.

Listen closely.

Act 4 : Confession

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

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