LitWit Challenge 3.6: 1,000 words (updated with Yucch-meter)
We have writing contests and we post pictures of rugby players, so here’s the Weekly LitWit Challenge with the photo of a rugby player.
That’s Oliver Saunders, a member of the Philippine rugby team since 2007. He is the fly half and the designated kicker. Oliver is the eldest of the Filipino-English Saunders triplets (they’re not really triplets).
This photo was shot in Noel’s hallway. It’s too yellow because I did not adjust the white balance on the camera. The carpet is a Persian runner obtained at an auction to benefit the In Touch hotline for the troubled and depressed. The poster of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo+Juliet was defaced by Ricky. The evil Barbie was designed by James. The cactus died because somebody sat on it. Those are eucalyptus leaves. If you want to get literary-criticky about it, Baz Luhrmann, eucalyptus and Oliver are all from Australia.
Now ignore all the aforementioned details.
This is LitWit Challenge 3.6: In 1,000 words or less, write us a story about this picture. What happened here? Who is that and why is he sitting on the carpet in the hallway? As always we accept entries in all genres—mystery thriller, science fiction, etc, bonus points if the story involves rugby (the sport).
The prize:
Which I will present to you personally. We’ll do coffee with my five favorite entries.
Deadline: 11.59 pm (Manila time) Saturday, 18 September 2010. Post your stories in Comments.
Any questions?
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore. So here’s national rugby player Matt Saunders reading a book he chose himself.
* * * * *
I just came from the bookstore, where the staff showed me a stack of unclaimed prizes for the Weekly LitWit Challenge. We can’t be clogging their shelf space, and I don’t have serfs to deliver your prizes or make other arrangements (even if you offer to pay for them, there being a shortage of slaves). So here’s what’s going to happen. We’ll give you until 15 October to have your prizes picked up (If you live abroad, send someone, there are no documents required). If they still haven’t been claimed by that time, we’ll give them away to other contestants.
* * * * *
Wednesday. Our first entry has arrived, and with it the word of the day: “Agalmatophilia” by Qsdn. So that’s what it’s called. We do not require the entries to include all the elements in the photo, but Qsdn wove them into the tale anyway. “Agalmatophilia” is short, intense and twisted (in Seiko movie terms, Machete by way of Blusang Itim). Looks like we’re going to need stronger stuff for the prize presentation.
Who wants the Borges and who will join us for drinks? The bar has been set, we await the challengers.
* * * * *
angus25 has taken up the gauntlet. His entry doesn’t have a plot, but there is an attempt to include rugby. For a moment I thought there would be an incest angle, yikes, but he stopped at repressed gayness. That’ll probably get you beaten, but some people are into that. I’m kidding, thanks for joining the contest.
Where are your stories?
* * * * *
Thursday.
cochise_miz: Short and evocative, yes. And the most wholesome story we have received so far this week. I wonder if the tone of this week’s entries would be different if we had used another photo from the series.
stellalehua: Thank you for that song co-written by David Byrne. If you win you’ll have to share the prize. Nooooo, don’t say that about the knee! Your country needs those knees. Quick, say something nice about them.
cdlaclos: Taroush! According to our consultants your story has the ring of authenticity. Except for one vital detail: the shirt is from Collezione C2 (Rhett, daarling, love the shirts).
jake: Somebody’s been reading…Denis Johnson? Raymond Carver? Tobias Wolff?
* * * * *
Friday.
sad_ism: I’m impressed. Borges? Calvino?
The stuff about multiverses reminded me of this photo:
Jake Letts, scrum half, at the multiversal mirror.
Observe the bubbles in the mirror: you can see the photographer. I was very pleased with myself until I realized that at the center of the picture is a roll of toilet paper. Reminding me that my best efforts all go to shit (That sounds depressing, add haha), haha.
Elizabeth assigned this LitWit Challenge to her students in the creative writing elective at their high school. She submitted the entries by Janely, Carem, and Charmaine.
Janely, I like your science-fiction approach to the assignment. Although we call it fiction, the science underlying the plot has to be solid so I would suggest reading more on DNA, chromosomes, and how they work. Genetic engineering is the subject of some terrific novels: the one that immediately comes to mind is Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick. You could watch the film version Blade Runner, and if you like it, read the novel. There’s also the film Gattaca. Novels and movies about genetically-engineered humans are interesting because they raise the question of what makes a human being. Are clones less human because they are not natural-born? What is humanity anyway?
As for your story, you gave away the plot in the first paragraph. Stories tend to be more enjoyable if there is some kind of build-up: you reveal the information in stages, and towards the end you drop the whammy. Good try, keep writing.
Carem, your story has the makings of a twisted psycho-thriller. Perhaps the parents’ death was not an accident? That would explain the need for life-size dummies. You also crammed too much information in the first paragraph instead of doling it out in stages. You could start with a description of the grandfather and his house, then the absent parents, then the grandchildren. Then you introduce the traumatic event and how the children deal with it. After that, if you want to make it a thriller, you raise doubts about the accident.
It is interesting to note that your classmates looked at the photo and saw perfection, but you saw a disorder. Maybe you have a different way of seeing things. Always useful for writing.
Charmaine, I like how your structured your story, you know how to build up the tension. But if there was a car crash and stitches were required, why isn’t the patient in the hospital? Did he escape from the hospital? Amnesia is a tricky plot device, but when handled well it can produce something like Mulholland Drive by David Lynch. The neurologist Oliver Sacks has written many fascinating books about amnesia and other neurological conditions. In The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat there is a case study of man whose mind is permanently stuck in the 1940s; he can’t remember anything that happened afterwards.
* * * * *
Saturday.
Dear Teacher. We are flattered that you would consider our contest a proper assignment for high school children. We appreciate their efforts, really. However, homework is the last thing these contests are intended for. They are an amusement, an outlet for imaginative people with too much time on their hands.
Also it cramps our style, knowing that children are reading our stories. We do not want to have to apologize for our twisted thoughts. We enjoy having them.
From hereon readers have to be 18 years or older to participate in the Weekly LitWit Challenge. That’s it.
* * * * *
kindler: Although we are fans of Bob Fosse, have seen All That Jazz many times, and agree that Baz Luhrmann is just not on that level, I cannot think of anyone less like Joel Grey than our model. Unless your speaker is the Barbie. (And I suspect Joel Grey would not disparage Elton and Madonna, who have not only advanced the interests of gays in showbiz but are in a position to hire him.)
Momelia: You’re going to cast me as the serial killer, aren’t you. No.
jediknight: You have a good ear. Your characters talk like real people do. Well, real people in America. I have a gay friend named Jesus. We call him Chus.
Readers, you have about three hours left to submit your story for a shot at the Borges and an invitation to drinks on Saturday. So far we have tales of sexual attraction to dolls, repressed homosexuality, the morning after a night of debauchery, Talking Heads, photographers and macho dancers, advice to lovelorn friends, alternate universes, engineered superhumans, abandoned children, amnesia, narcolepsy, crime, Joel Grey, and closet queens who call themselves Jessica. What else have you got?
This afternoon I had merienda at Cibo with one of last week’s winners, jake. We were expecting miss_o, who didn’t show. Jake has read 2666 all the way to the end. He already had a copy of Open by Andre Agassi so I gave him The Moustache/The Class Trip, two short novels in French by Emmanuel Carrere translated into English. As proof of the meeting I asked a waiter to snap a photo—trust me, this is not a common occurrence—but jake doesn’t want his picture posted. Turnabout! Here is edited proof that I will meet this week’s winners on Saturday.
45 minutes to deadline.
dibee: Excellent twist on the three wishes story. Twilight Zone-y. Reminds me of the episode where the devil appears to a physicist and offers to grant him a wish. Ever read John Collier? An influence on many writers including Ray Bradbury.
Momelia: This morning I woke up with a dry throat and nasal congestion. I went out for brunch, drank three pots of tea and felt better, but by 5pm I had a fever. It went away after a long nap, but my nose was still clogged. Then I read your story and the laughter propelled the trapped snot out of my nose. Thank you! Since you describe yourself in your blog as my female impersonator, then the PK in your story is you. (Amsterdam is not a country.)
sarcasm: Ooh, drama. Your details are so specific. I hope this story has nothing to do with real life.
pantas_magoria: Because you asked nicely, and because I just took cold meds that cause a pleasant wooziness, I will extend the deadline until 12 noon tomorrow.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
September 15th, 2010 at 11:25
Agalmatophilia
We walked together in this hallway, and sat on this self-same Persian runner, gazing into space, saying sweet nothings, making love. Yet, love was forbidden between the two of us and quickly I became your Romeo, and you, my sweet Juliet. We kept our secret hidden, yet I couldn’t resist. I bought you the latest fashion, dressing you up like a queen one second, and wantonly removing it in bursts of lust the next. This was our downfall. Your nubile body was always in my thoughts, fueling fantasies beyond the ordinary. You couldn’t take the strength of my desire nor the unquenchable lust I felt for you and one day, as a cradled you in my arms, the heat rising in my body, you fell apart.
I tried to put you back together, but my attempts were futile. Although my craftsmanship was flawless, you suddenly lacked the soul which I fell in love with. You were just another Barbie doll with platinum blonde hair. You were gone.
And so I dressed you up one last time, in your favorite black dress and placed you in the best glass case that money could buy, facing the painting you so loved, in this hallway where we had the best memories. And so here I am, and the hallway is growing dark. Maybe, in our next lives, we could be together again… Maybe…
September 15th, 2010 at 22:27
Third picture: bagay na bagay sa blog na “Hot Guys Reading Book”.
September 16th, 2010 at 00:44
England is playing against South Africa. Switch it back!
That’s a rerun.
I know.
Then why watch? You already know who won.
It doesn’t have New Zealand, but that was the finals. Switch it back.
That was three years ago. The next World Cup is coming soon.
Like you needed to tell me that. Give me that.
Hey!
Oliver stared at Matt as he hurriedly switched the channel. He left the couch and walked away with a look that seemed to be disgusted with the scrummaging that Matt was enjoying on the TV. A glass of water, he thought, so he went to the fridge. He was about to open the door, but someone, or something, seemed to call out to him. He looked back; Barbie at the opposite end of the hallway caught his eyes.
His vision was fixed on this doll, which belonged to her mother. With a black evening gown and an almost coquettish pose, Barbie, a goddess standing against an amber light, was emanating with alluring appeal that became too irresistible for him. He could almost here her plead, asking him to let her out of the case she was in. Flooded with nostalgia, he approached her, and as he came nearer and nearer, he was totally enchanted with her everlasting beauty.
He sat down without taking his eyes off Barbie. He was about to take her out of the glass case she was trapped in when he felt another set of eyes piercing him. He held back a bit; he could feel the gaze go right through his stomach. He turned around with a little thump in his chest. He chuckled softly.
It was Leonardo DiCaprio. He was still laughing with his amusement, and then his laughter gradually softened into a boyish smile. It was one of those smiles with a sudden remembrance of a secret that one thought was buried deep enough for anyone not to find out. He was ogling the portrait of the actor, drowning himself in some far-fetched memories. Titanic. The Beach. Romeo + Juliet.
What are you up to?
Huh?
Uh-huh?
Nothing.
You’re boring.
Oliver almost jumped. Matt raised an eyebrow at him and then went back to his TV. Almost relieved, Oliver stretched his legs on the Persian carpet he was on and stared at Leonardo again, then at Barbie, then back at Leonardo while letting himself get lost in his haywire thoughts and adolescent memories amidst the droning of the rugby commentator on the TV.
September 16th, 2010 at 12:20
I stared at the ripple in my coffee, the stubborn white specks of cream floating round. The clock read 7:00 AM and already I could hear the clamor of the traffic below. This however didn’t bother him as he lay in slumber. I sat transfixed by his slow and even breathing.
I was careful not to make noise, I didn’t want to wake him. He looked so serene just lying in the middle of the hallway. I studied his face and was pleased at how his mere presence complimented everything there.
He started to stir, his eyes slowly adjusting to the warm light. He gave me his affectionate look, opened his mouth as if to speak and…
Hurled.
The scent of beer and last night’s celebration hovered in the air. His vacant eyes searched for me. I looked at him – then the rug – for the last time.
September 16th, 2010 at 13:02
Puwedeng song parody? I hope I wasn’t the first one who thought about doing one after seeing the picture.
(Also, I would like to apologize to David Byrne for doing this.)
VERSE 1:
You may find yourself, with a knee that’s out of whack
You may find yourself in another part of the world
You may find yourself staring at a lot of glass and steel
You may find yourself in a beautiful flat
With a beautiful rug
And you may ask yourself… well, HOW DID I GET HERE?
CHORUS 1:
Letting the days go by, let the Barbie hold me down
Letting the days go by, Claire and Leo on the wall
Pain-killing meds again, after the scrum is done
Back in Makati, there is carpet on the ground
VERSE 2:
And you may ask yourself – how do I kick this?
And you may ask yourself – why did I take so much Vicodin?
And you may tell yourself – THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE!
And you may tell yourself – THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL FACE!
(Repeat CHORUS 1)
Same as it ever was (6x)
What is it, Barbie? What of the plants?
There’s a cactus somewhere in this hallway
Smell eucalyptus, water the cactus,
Remove it, remove it, remove it….
CHORUS 2:
Letting the days go by, let the Barbie hold me down
Letting the days go by, Claire and Leo on the wall
Pain-killing meds again, over a Persian carpet
Under the rocks and stones, there is Barbie on the ground
VERSE 3:
You may ask yourself – where is that beautiful house?
You may ask yourself – where does this hallway go to?
You may say to yourself – is my knee still out of whack
And you may say to yourself – MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE????
(CHORUS 2, repeat 2x))
CODA:
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Look at where my head was
My knees won’t hold me up
I am still on my arse
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was…
September 16th, 2010 at 14:53
Fierce!
Ha?
Yung fierce na look. Yung para kang galit.
Hirap naman.
Kaya mo yan.
~~~
Palit ka na nung Bench.
Ayoko. Ang laswa.
Hahaha. Taena! Parang di ka macho dancer.
Di ako nagpapakuha pag naka-brief.
Di ba sabi ko sexy pictorial. Arte naman neto. Anong gusto mo, couture?
Magkano ba budget?
2k nga.
~~~
Nangangawit na ko.
Sandali na lang. Chin up nang konti. Wag masyado. Baba pa. Hold. Ang gwapo!
Birthday ng anak ko sa Friday.
Todo na yung 2k. At wag mong mahawak-hawakan ang Barbie na yan.
~~~
Akin na lang tong ‘Bench.
Gagamitin ko pa yan sa ibang pictorial.
Ang damot mo!
Kumita ka na ng dalawang libo, di ba?
Punta ka sa big night sa Sabado. Olympics ang theme. Bola lang ng rugby ang pangtakip namin.
Try ko.
~~~
*Umalis na ang model. Maya-maya’y isang matinis na tili ang umalingawngaw*
Ang barbie kooooooooooo…
September 16th, 2010 at 19:54
1.
See how my right foot touches the other side of the hallway? Were I in this same position three hours ago, our feet would have touched. But I sat differently, I don’t remember how exactly now, but I know I sat right here, and I remember distinctly that the poster was behind you. I talk about her. I tell you I made her watch my favorite movies and I asked her questions about them. I want conversations like those.
She likes Julia Roberts, she told me. I tell her that I know of two movies where Julia Roberts plays herself. She could have said, she’s always Julia Roberts in all her movies, and I would have liked that. I would find that funny. She did not even ask what those two movies were. I tell you all these things when we talk here in this hallway. She and I never sat here. I find it comfortable. It smells good here. “The Player,” you say. “And Ocean’s Twelve.”
2.
Come on man, you have to stop! This has to end someday. When you said you are like that dead cactus I wanted to punch you. Let’s talk about movies again, man. Clean your flat too, and return that doll to her already. The first time saw it here I knew something like this is going to happen. Stop talking about her. That’s the first thing you have to do.
Listen to Joni Mitchel, man. Listen to Blue, and play it over and over gain, and then tell me what you think about it, but let’s not talk about how you feel. We can sit here and not talk. I like sitting here. The carpet feels clean. We can just sit here and not talk, man.
September 16th, 2010 at 21:39
started reading carver after i saw altman’s short cuts.
September 16th, 2010 at 23:29
Hehe, I should’ve put an Official Legal Disclaimer on my entry.
First up: A blessing upon those knees! I don’t want to sound like a fetish-type person, but those knees – like the rest of Ollie’s body, God bless him – are as beautiful as they are strong and glorious. So of course I’d be broken-hearted to see them out of whack.
Second: how could I have forgotten that rugby players take ice baths to help them recover from game-related injuries? Which means that all those references to Vicodin have been used for poetic license. (I blame my life-long exposure to the NFL for that.)
And third: I’ve loved “Once in a Lifetime” since elementary school. Yun lang. :)
September 16th, 2010 at 23:41
On to the semi-topic: I will definitely be at NBS Power Plant on September 24 to claim the book that I won (for the Baby James Tiyanak story) but never got to pick up for several months. I’ll definitely have my email and username at the ready. Sorry talaga for that one, but I will do my best on the prize-claiming next time.
September 17th, 2010 at 08:20
Totally forgot about my LitWit prize. I’ll never get the time to pick it up though, so congrats to whoever gets it!
September 17th, 2010 at 11:51
* Note: words enclosed in _underscores_ should be read as italicized.
***
_Hospitality_
It was said that everybody who entered the Herrera residence walked down this passageway. It was precisely this sort of noncurse that alerted him, chilled him with its hidden imports, the sort of utterance along the lines of _No one ever left this house dead_ or _This mirror reflects the objects before it, nothing more or less_. It was as though the spirit of the damned had come through the fabric of the world, in the form of the banal. Even the halfhearted shadow of the fern around the corner seemed complicit in the plot. The shadow, the walls, and the thick yellow light.
For there was no question that the light was a part of the trick, casting a mockery on the mockery, turning reality into a soup one had to swim through, swim out of — as though we were creatures of fantasy or illogic, he thought. His breaths came labored, the air stuck to his lungs, and he had to force it out when it grew stale.
Not even the kitchen with its knives and refrigerator magnets, or the eldest daughter’s walk-in closet and all its unspeakable horrors. The living room was devoid of intent, having come straight from an IKEA catalogue. Is there any reason, he wondered, that it should be this hallway and not another? It was this utterly everyday path whose sole purpose was to transport one to the guest bathroom, and the only place in the house where each and every Herrera saw fit to decorate according to his or her own whim. The miniature ship at the end table was the work of Mr Herrera and the son; the framed floral embroideries of God bless this house were Mrs Herrera’s; the eldest daughter had left a suitcase here and had forgotten about it; anything pink or below four feet tall was the work of the children in their postmodern phase. Traversing down the hall, he felt that he was running the gauntlet, assaulted at all sides by the advances and withdrawals of personality, with all their masks and false teeth, and a uniform, hazy yellow finish.
And through it all, a certainty of danger rang in his ears. The insensible force in him threatened to overwhelm him, drummed its warning pulse straight into his heart. Life crowded all around him, in all its facets and urgencies, and he had the unmistakable sensation that he might really be.
***
I felt a wedge drive into me then, from behind, just below the shoulder blade, a sharp stake that improbably dissolved in a burst of chocolate and cream, not unlike Mrs Herrera’s desserts. In that moment of helplessness as the rug rushed up to meet me, I felt as though I had just gained command of all my faculties, a man just aroused from a nightmare of yellow.
_Oh!_ I hear a shocked gasp, and I barely look up. How long had I been sitting here? I don’t know; I know it doesn’t matter. I was not alone; this hallway held no more terrors for me, for I had seen beyond the veil. Life _was_ here, hidden behind the cracks in the paint. Each particle drifting through the air was a universe, which held its own time, all for me to divine. I was alive, I could feel the unseen worlds yearning for me – the yellow tint that warped them only strengthened my resolve.
(Honey, it’s another one, a weary voice said.)
(It couldn’t have been the dinuguan at puto, another replied. And the leche flan was perfect!)
(I tried to make _everything_ perfect, you know that.)
As the noises went on, a revelation struck me. _The yellowest object in the room is the universe where yellow does not exist._ I had to find our only sanctuary from the taint. With this goal in mind, I persevered, even as the hands came to take me away.
(And what will we do about this mess!)
September 17th, 2010 at 18:09
this entry is from my creative writing student JANELY, a high school student at xxx.
______
By Janely
Sitting on an antique rug, Oliver Saunders stretched his right leg in front of him and folded his left leg beneath it. He gazed across the hallway, wide-eyed and completely restless. Why should he keep still? A rugby player, the world’s known kicker couldn’t possibly be that restless. The truth is, he was stunned from the information revealed to him. He was not human. He may appear human, but his insides are completely different. He was not born; he did not come out of a woman. He doesn’t have a family.
He was genetically engineered being. Several scientists put him together from different chromosomes. He was outfitted with chromosomes from humans with strong immune system, extra powerful senses that enable him to hear and see from miles away. He was an immortal. When he was young, he did everything other humans did and was better at them. At age four months, he was walking. He learned to speak in complete sentences at the age one year. In short, he was perfect. He was not told what he was. The place he is shown sitting on is owned by a scientist who made him believe that he was his son. The scientist is Dr. Lawrence Saunders. He lied to Oliver about his birth. He knew it would not be safe. If anyone knew that he was genetically engineered, they would take him away. His creation was secretly funded. Once, when Oliver asked about his mother, the scientist simply said she passed away when he was born. He produced documents that made his birth appear legal’ there were medical records, even the death certificate of his dead mother: Ysabelle Bailey-Saunders.
“Oliver, son, it is time to get ready,” Dr. Lawrence spoke as he put his glass of juice down.
Oliver said, “I’m nervous. This is a very important game. It’s like the Olympics or something grand. Dad, do you think I could win the cup?” He plumped himself down on the velvet red couch. He looked around the living room, glancing at every award he had received; Gold International Spelling Bee medal, certificates, trophies of other sorts. “My son, with my own heart, I know you will bring that cup home. Don’t you see how far you’ve gone? You’re only 17, you have a scholarship, and you’re famous. You will do great,” his father said, patting his head as he passed by the chair and sat across the couch.
“Where do you want to celebrate?” Dr. Saunders called out to the players in the locker room. Slapping palms against another for another success. They are true champions. “Champion Pounders!” the victorious team cheered. “You’re the best, dad,” Oliver said wrapping an arm across his father. “Just for you, my boy,” the scientist said grinning.
Oliver went to the living room, carrying the Gold Cup, polished it, and put inside the glass shelf. “It looks beautiful,” he whispered.
“My son,” the doctor said from behind Oliver. Oliver jumped. “You scared me there, Dad. You know, you’re the best dad. I think this cup belongs to you. You’re intellectual, good-looking, the best person around,” Oliver exclaimed.
“No more, my son. I am not who you think I am. I am really not your father. It hurts me to hear you call me dad. I am not your biological father, to begin with. I am a scientist,” the doctor said as he took Oliver’s hand and sat him down.
“I don’t think I understand,” Oliver stammered.
“Listen to me. I am not your father. You don’t even have a mother. I never got married. All those papers are manufactured. There is no Ysabelle Bailey-Saunders. I’m sorry. I hope you understand, I am doing this for your own good. I knew I had to protect you. You see, you are perfect. Your features are very prominent, no skin problems, or anything. You are perfectly healthy. You are advanced. I was one of the scientists who made you. We mixed up chromosomes to make you. It was an experiment to make the experiment perfect. How did we get the money? We lied to the government saying we were going to use the money to create vaccinations using different specimens. I was not the head director of the experiment, but my boss thought I deserved to keep you, because we knew we did well on the experiment. Once you reach twenty one, you will never age. You will appear always as a twenty-one-year-old man. To avoid suspicion, by age twenty five, you must go some place. You can come back after a century, but I will not be around anymore. You are dangerous to everyone. Your chromosomes carry an advanced technology that could kill any human. The only way to deactivate the technology is to inject a special serum that repels the strength of the DNA in your body. You may take this serum with you, keep it with you always. If anyone gets their hands on this, they may become as advanced as you, much more powerful, and this would cause a huge problem to the humanity. If you take this serum, make sure you burn the bottle.”
Dr. Saunders took a tiny bottle and syringe, handed these to Oliver, saying, “Let me assure you. I love you, and always will.” Oliver stood up, went to the hallway. The revelation overwhelmed him, and he fell on the floor, gazing into the wide empty space. #
September 17th, 2010 at 18:21
this is written by CAREM, another student enrolled in the creative writing elective.
____________________
By Carem
The sun was starting to set that Saturday afternoon in the Saunders household. They live in a small white bungalow furnished with souvenirs from their travels in Rome, Turkey, France, China, Australia and even Madagascar. Agnes, husband Mark Saunders and their children Rupert and Oliver lived in that bungalow until the couple decided they travel the world and left their sons in the care of Agnes’s father, Simon.
Simon liked his grandchildren but never loved them fully. Since then they never see their parents frequently, they get letters, Persian rugs, Greek vases and postcards from exotic places. Rupert and Oliver, who are three years apart, are now young men, Rupert being 20 and Oliver, 17. They practically raised each other. They learned from each other and saw each other through difficult times. Oliver seemed to have more difficulties. He had a hard time reading and writing, although he’s a talented artist. He also found it hard to talk to people because he’s shy and can’t put whole sentences together. It hurt his brain when he looked at people in the eye. He was diagnosed with autism at age 7 before his parents toured the world and never came back.
Oliver sat down on the Persian rug laid out on the hallway of their home outside where their parents’ room used to be. Rupert locked it as part of Oliver’s therapy. Ever since Simon told them when they were 12 where their parents were, Oliver never stopped crying on his parents’ bed at exactly 11:30 p.m., demanding a bedtime story. It had gotten to the point where Oliver made life-size figures of their parents and slept with them in his parents’ room every night. Rupert decided that locking the master bedroom was the only way Oliver would stop his ritual.
Now Oliver waited outside the door of his parents in the hallway every night, hoping the life-size figures would let him in.
September 17th, 2010 at 18:40
this third piece was composed by CHARMAINE, a high school student enrolled in the creative writing elective.
_______________——-
By Charmaine
I’m Oliver Saunders. I am 28. My birthday is on April 19. Every April 19, I am the happiest. I have a magnificent wife and two beautiful children. My father and mother are alive, and I see them every Sunday. I have a younger brother and an older sister who is very protective and is the academic one in the family. She owns her own law firm and she’s one of the best lawyers I know. My younger brother, Michael is the family performer: he can sing, dance and act. I am the athlete in the family. I play basketball, football but my favorite sport is rugby. I learned it when I went to England for a year to study in a public school.
My wife Clara is a teacher at our children’s school. She doesn’t plan on changing careers anytime soon. She’s determined to teach our kids and others. She is the most loving and caring person I know and I love her so much, but she just works so hard. She sleeps late, eats less and is always gloomy. Daughters Sara, 11, and Marsha, six, are two contradictory individuals. Sara is very upbeat and a hopeless romantic girl while Marsha is also gloomy and has a thing for dark and evil characters. Their rooms are very different. Sara’s room is pink with pastel furniture while Marsha’s room is dark violet with black furniture. A cheerleader-to-be and a Goth-to-be, but I love them. In our hallway, there is a poster of Romeo and Juliet representing Sara. An evil Barbie doll represents Marsha and the carpet on the floor send Sara and Marsha a message of security that we’ll never let the cold and bad things hurt or touch them. This was Clara’s idea to give our place personality.
On April 18, I decided that we needed a break from the city. I packed our clothes and gadgets that I know that my children can’t stand leaving. On the way to the school, the car was hit by another vehicle in the middle of the road and caused a huge disarray of screeching cars and voices of people, but I was vaguely aware of the accident because I hit my head on the steering wheel. My vision blurred and I panicked, thinking, My wife! My kids! My family!
The sun burned my feet and I realized that the sun coming from the window was burning my feet. I sat upright immediately and I got a head rush and fell back. Where am I? What happened? Why am I here? These questions filled my mind. I sat upright again, this time being more careful. The room was fine; it felt homey. There are two doors, one has the sign of the bathroom while the other was a plain white door with rectangle carvings. I went to the white door.
I recalled wearing a cap, shorts and a shirt! Why am I wearing jeans? I hurried to the door while my adrenaline was pumping. I usually felt this way right before I kicked that winning shot during our rugby games.
I opened a door and a white hallway with a brown carpet that lined the floor until the corner where it turned and disappeared. I followed the carpet and noticed the carpet was like the one in our house. I hurried my pace and turned and noticed the jar with a Barbie doll in black clothes. Marsha placed something like that in our hallway, then I saw the poster of Romeo and Juliet, and recognized that it was Sara’s poster. What was I doing home? Wasn’t I driving to pick them up? What happened? I rushed down the stairs. The place seemed like home so I ran straight to the garage where the car was supposed to be. It wasn’t there, only a puddle of oil, probably from the van but where was the van? Where was my family? I went back to the house and looked in each room, they weren’t in any. My head throbbed and my hands rushed to the upper right side of my forehead and felt astonished by the stitches on it. So the car crash was true! I rushed to the upstairs bathroom, passing by the memorabilia and shouting my kids’ and my wife’s names. No reply. I started to panic and it became worse when I saw the date. April 24! I’ve been out for five days?! This is bad! I quickened my pace and turned the corner and fell. My head was spinning and throbbing but I couldn’t do anything to ease it. I stayed leaning on the wall with my feet stretched in front of me.
“CLARA! SARA! MARSHA! GIRLS! WHERE ARE YOU?” I shouted one last time before the pain became unbearable and I screamed. I tossed and turned on the carpeted floor. I sat up again, leaned on the wall and waited for something. I stared and I stared and I stared, waiting for something. Then I heard footsteps, voices and laughter. CLARA! She was here! As much as I wanted to stand up and run towards her voice, I couldn’t.
“Oliver!” Clara said, coming up the stairs. I stayed on the floor, staring, just staring. I realized that I was in the guest room. I’ve been out for 5 days. I could hardly remember the crash. Nothing is coming back in my mind. I stayed on the floor, trying to fit the pieces together, letting the story sink in slowly.#
September 18th, 2010 at 06:41
Hi Madam, quick question: What’s the name of the street you lived in as a child?
I need it for my entry! Thanks!
September 18th, 2010 at 08:53
and this entry is from MIGUEL, another high school student with a creative writing elective.
____________________
By Miguel
Once there lived a smalltime rugby player named Oliver Saunders. He was a bit lazy and felt tired most of the time after a few games. Today he’s hungry so he went out of his apartment and grabbed a slice of pizza at Pizza Hut and stopped by the nearest 7-11 for a can of Coke. Then he went to the nearby park, sat on a bench and munched his pizza and drank his Coke while watching the children playing. He sat on a bench after finishing his food. Before he knew it, he fell asleep. When he woke up, it was midnight. He returned to his apartment and while walking around in his room, he suddenly dropped to the floor and lay down on the Persian rug. Again he felt sleepy. In his mind, he saw stars moving in circles. And he told himself, I shouldn’t have slept in the park. #
September 18th, 2010 at 09:06
and finally, this entry from JUNALD, also a high school kid enrolled in the creative writing elective.
_______________________
As Oliver rushed back to his house, he worried about what was happening there. He just finished his day of grapping, a new sport that strangely combines fighting and making music. Grappers get their own weapons that create a musical sound every time they’re struck. This type of weapon is called a glade.
Oliver finished his match against another grapper and he received a letter saying that something terrible would happen in his house. He has been running towards his house ever since he got the letter for fear of what might have happened. When he got there, he saw that nothing had happened at all, everything was perfect.
“I guess it was just an empty threat,” he said. He went upstairs and saw his mom sprawled on the floor. Oliver ran to her and saw cuts and bruises on her body. He saw a note beside her. He opened it and it read:.
“You must love your mother very much, don’t you, Oliver? We know that you’re going to be a major grapper to impress her, but let’s see if she’ll be impressed in the afterlife after you go major. This is just a warning, Oliver. Quit while you’re ahead, or you’ll be looking for a nice tombstone for her.”
He checked his mom’s breathing and saw that she was just unconscious. He carried her to his room and put her on the bed. He stepped out of his room and lay on the floor, trying to fall asleep. He did have a tiring day.
The next day, all he did was stay in the hallway, guarding the entrance to his room. He ate when he needed to, he went when he needed to but he was too afraid of what might happen if he left her side for too long. After all, he couldn’t grap against anyone if his mom is too close to danger, so the hallway was the only place where he could only stay.
September 18th, 2010 at 10:58
Dear Baz,
This is most disconcerting to me, but I know you had a hand in this. Hell–the writing, so to speak, is on the wall right in front of me! You’ve always been envious of us, haven’t you, and now you’re desperate.
Baz, you copycat, you need to understand, what Bob accomplished with mostly varying shades of grey cannot be replicated with offensive splashes of color, no matter how grandiose your props and costumes may be! And the music Baz–we were working on all original compositions, while you, you had the gall to exhume and subject your audience with material by Madonna and Elton John? Baz, at best, they were mediocre. Granted, you had the beautiful Satine—a goddess still, by today’s standards. But the problem with goddesses, they’re usually made of marble, and better off in the Louvre. Or with Tom Cruise.
So Baz, I don’t know what you just did, but you need to bring me back. My Sally and the girls at the Kit Kat must be worried sick by now—the show never starts without me. Baz, I can’t live in a world of primary colors, and I especially hate all this ochre. Come on Baz, I’ll do anything to get out of here—how about I help win you an Oscar, or eight?
Sincerely,
Joel Grey
For a primer on Joel Grey and his Cabaret, check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cabaret_(film)
September 18th, 2010 at 14:49
Thanks! Mostly Borges, yes. I tried to couple him with the Lovecraftian tradition he was so ambiguous about, but it does look like I got more Calvino in there.
Oh, and as for all our efforts going to shit, well, I can sympathize. (Executed with a reflexive) haha.
September 18th, 2010 at 19:08
Rick went home drunk one night and there was this dude sitting on the rug on the hallway.
“The fuck you doing here,” Rick said. “And who’re you?”
Dude just kept staring at Rick.
Rick heaved. He was trying to contain the puke that was beginning to well up from the pit of his stomach, threatening to spew out of his mouth.
“That you, asshole?” His wife Marge called from the bedroom.
Rick and the man looked at each other, wondering which asshole Marge was referring to.
“I’m here,” Rick answered, still looking at the guy.
“For God’s sake I can smell your breath from in here!” she said as she was coming out of the room. “I just got off the phone. Noel asked if you’ve managed to drag yourself up here. ”
“Yeah, he dropped me off, but…” Rick mumbled. “Who…who…” His tongue felt thick and heavy.
“Look at you, you can’t even speak, you’re so drunk. That’s Jessica.”
“Huh? Jessica?” Rick repeated. Marge looked at him, noting Rick’s slack-jawed appearance. She snorted in disgust.
Rick turned his head towards the guy. “Jessica?” He asked.
“Call me Jess,” the man answered.
“Why?” Rick blurted out. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Rick squinted at “Jessica,” swaying a little.
“I don’t get it. Jessica’s got a beard?” he whispered to his wife. Rick thought he was whispering.
Marge and Jess looked at each other. They thought it was funny, what Rick “whispered.”
Rick said, “Wait. Have to go to the bathroom.” Rick lurched towards the bathroom, managing not to step on Jess, who was still on the floor.
He reached the toilet bowl just in time. He was sick for a full minute.
“JesusMaryandJoseph, flush the toilet when you’re done!”Marge shouted.
“Haaah…” Rick breathed through his mouth as he finished. He flushed the toilet.
Rick watched his mess circling inside the bowl. “So long!” he mumbled, waving at the mess. He went to the sink; he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—bloodshot, basset hound eyes, mouth hanging open, bits of something on his chin.
Ugh, Rick said to himself. He opened the tap, rinsed out the vile taste in his mouth, and splashed cold water on his face.
The man was still on the floor when Rick came out of the bathroom. Marge was sitting cross-legged beside him. Rick wondered what they were doing.
“Marge was showing me this poster,“ Jess said.
“What?” Rick said. Christ, did I ask him out loud, he thought.
“This.” Jess pointed at the poster on the wall. “She was showing me this poster when the phone rang.”
“Poster still there, huh,” Rick said.
Jess and Marge exchanged glances.
“Is your name really Jessica?” Rick asked.
Jess laughed. “No, Jesus. Jesus is my real name. Marge suggested I use “Jessica” when I come out. If I come out.”
“Come out?”
“Of the closet. I’m gay.”
“Oh.”
Marge said, “Jess was my classmate in college. I told you about him. He plays rugby.”
“Plays rugby? I thought you said he plays with rugby,” said Rick.
“Don’t be such an ass. I said he plays rugby, the sport. He’s on the Philippine team.”
“On the Philippine team? There’s a…Philippine rugby team?”
“Oh yes. I’ve been on the team for three years now, “ said Jess.
“I like football, myself,” said Rick.
“And drinking. You like drinking.” This from Marge.
Rick grinned. “Don’t know much about rugby. So. Gay, huh?” Rick said, to Jess.
“Yes.”
“Team doesn’t know?” asked Rick.
“No.”
“I’m making coffee,” Marge said, getting up.
Rick sat down, joining Jess on the floor; he leaned on the wall, legs splayed in front of him. “Marge has a lot of gay friends,” he said.
“I know,” said Jess.
They were both silent for several seconds, listening to Marge making coffee.
“Does your family know? About you being gay, I mean.”
“My mother and sister, they both know. I think they both knew even before I did. Dad doesn’t know, though.”
Rick gazed at the poster. He snatched a clump of nose hairs from his left nostril. He studied the clump silently.
I thought rugby players were gap-toothed, tough-as-nails, stocky fellows, Rick said to himself. He glanced at Jess. It occurred to him that he was on the floor with a bearded gay rugby player named Jesus. “What Would Jesus Do” takes on a whole different meaning, he thought. He found that hilarious.
“What’s so funny, you idiot. Here, take this,” Marge said, handing him two mugs of coffee. “Give the other one to Jess.”
“Thanks,” said Jess.
September 18th, 2010 at 21:13
So I have just 1 wish. Sure it’s not as traditional as having 3 wishes but then again no one thought that was even real.
I walked back to the house still thinking about what to wish to the genie in the rugby ball.
Earlier, we lost the match and I stayed in the field to rethink about my career as a professional rugby player.
In the halfway line, a rugby ball was left and I picked it up. The skin was punctured right at the center but it doesn’t seem to be losing air.
I peeked inside and I couldn’t believe what I saw.
A man was sitting in a Persian carpet looking straight at me. In front of him was a poster of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo+Juliet and behind him was a eucalyptus plant and a Barbie in a black gown beside it.
“Kick the ball”, he said.
“You can talk?”, I asked stupidly.
“Yes I can. I can do everything you can plus a lot more. Go kick the ball and I will explain everything”
I arrived home and kicked the ball again to summon the genie.
“Have you thought about your wish? Be wise, you don’t have 2 others” he asked
“Yes, I had. I wish to be the best rugby player in the world. I want to be the best player who have ever played the game and the best that will ever be”
1 week after, we won our game and went on to win the tournament.
1 month after, I was invited to be in the national team which later won the Asian championship beating Japan 90-0. We also qualified for the World Cup as a result of that win.
We later won the World Championship beating New Zealand 70-0.
I was the tournament MVP and got invited to hundreds of clubs all over the world.
I gained fame and became the richest sportsman in the world, beating even Tiger Woods.
10 years after I discovered the genie in the rugby ball, the genie reappeared.
“How was it?” he asked.
“The best wish ever. All the riches I could dream of, I am recognized all over the world. I am the happiest man in the world”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now it’s time for you to do something for me.”, he said.
“Anything for you. But I couldn’t imagine you wanting anything. You are a genie you could have everything you want”
“That doesn’t work that way I’m afraid. I can grant wishes to other people but not for myself.” he replied.
“Ok, so what do I have to do?” I asked.
“Come with me inside”
At the instant he said that word, I was brought inside his room.
“Welcome to my home and thank you for your wish, now I can add you to my collection”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
He did not say anything more; suddenly he was in front of me and reached his arm toward me. I became a rugby ball.
Yes, now I am a ball. But my thoughts are still human and I can still talk, telepathically I guess, with the other collections.
The Persian rug was Aladdin. Everyone knows his story, partially of course. The genie appeared in a lamp.
The poster was Baz Luhrmann himself who wished for success in film. The genie appeared in a camera.
The Barbie in black dress was Ruth Handler. She wished for fortune and when she designed Barbie, her toy company Mattel became successful. The genie appeared in a doll
The eucalyptus plant was just a eucalyptus plant.
Epilogue
We are now being housed in a pen.
At the tip we can see outside: There’s a woman in glasses typing in her laptop. Cats were playing.
We can hear the genie saying, “I could use a good pair of eyeglasses”
September 18th, 2010 at 21:55
The Cats Said No
Once upon a time, there lived this dashing young piece of female happiness named Lucky. He’s about 6’2, every inch a delicacy, built like a brick house. He’s got these soft eyes that put a doe to shame even if he were cross eyed, which he isn’t. He’s got these lips that, oh sweet Jesus, threaten when they pucker. And to overflow that cup of charms, he plays rugby, too. He’s dripping testosterone, and he’s got enough to import to some gay country like Amsterdam.
He’s so lucky, he’s a star, but he cry cry cries in his lonely heart, thinking, if there’s nothing missing in my life then why do these tears come at night? That’s a different Lucky, though; I figured this story could use a song. Britney Spears WILL BE doing GLEE. That being said, let’s get back to business.
Our Lucky loves the women-folk, but he’s in love with one woman more than the rest of them tied together. They just wouldn’t answer, they don’t begin, to The Love of his life. She’s this celebrated writer with an increasing following of highfalutin yuppies, a blog with a page rank of 5, several Palanca awards, class like Imelda Marcos has shoes, and of course, cats. Her name’s Pussy Kamagong.
Pussy’s got three cats, Savvy, Cootie, and Bratt, each just as dripping with attitude as the one before him.
He kisses the very ground her shoes walk on, worships her every punctuation mark, and, on some of those nights, he counts the number of children they’ll be having to help him get to sleep. He then dreams of The Day when she wears the One ring, in front of all their loved ones and then some crashers perhaps. It will all fall into place, by and by, and for the time being, he’s got to get the ball rolling.
It is only through sheer unrelenting persuasion, and tickets to the US Open (inclusive of round trip tickets) that he managed to convince her to consider “cohabitation” and see where it goes. He wants them to try it in his place, the living-in gig, that is, and he promises, with fire in his eyes and steel in his conviction, that he will do everything in his power to make her the most satisfied she’s ever been.
She paused for what he judged to be like weeks, her eyes unflinching as she followed that trickle of perspiration crawl its way down his forehead. He shuddered with anticipation as she crossed her arms in front of her, in thought. She then took the tickets and begins to speak. And she says:
“If we will be living in together, even for a week, even for a day, I need to make sure my cats are comfortable to the very marrow. So I’m issuing a… challenge. Decorate. Let’s see what you can make of our ‘love nest,’ and then we’ll go from there. I’m giving you up until 11:59PM on Saturday. Meanwhile, I’m going out with the fags and we’ll have coffee and make fun of people. Bye.”
Harps can’t get any more divine, he says to himself as he recalls, in his head, the way those instructions issued from her lips. At the same time, he remembers the challenge itself, and then it dawned on him — he is so fucked. Interior design isn’t just Greek to him; it’s pig latin in stage-four swardspeak. He thinks he can do the wall hooks right, sure, but he can’t make heads or tails of what to hang on the walls. And the alignments. And the artful lack of balance. And that’s just the paintings. But he will make this happen or kick something in the process.
Lucky’s efforts at interior design are not worth mentioning; it exhausted my thesaurus. So let’s go ahead to 11:30 PM on the appointed Saturday evening, where he was waiting in the midst of his decorating wreck. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. It was her. He knew it was her because the sound of her very footsteps are an enchantment to his… aw skip it.
She steps in with three cat carriers, her eyes flitting this way and that in a fit of estimation. This goes on for a full year, he judges, and then she steps out to the hallway with her cats. She never spoke a word, but he thinks she looked, well, satisfied. And then she stepped out with her luggage with not as much as a nod.
The following conversation took place in the outside hall:
PK: So?
Cootie: What do you mean ‘So?’ The plants are a mess, the clutter’s tackless, there will be blood on my next furball thanks to all that nauseating yellow. And where the hell’s our scratching post? And the litterbox? I have a good mind to crap on those tasteless walls; my shit will answer for the improvement.
PK: But I think he tried real…
Cootie: Human, an election is just out of the question. This is not a democracy; I hate it, and that’s final. Miaow. Now scratch my back, will you?
PK proceeds to scratch Cootie’s back. The latter purrs in German.
Savvy: The male human made an embarrassment of our expectations. Now, go back to him and tell him we refuse to dwell in such unprecedented verkommenheit!
PK: Verkommenheit?
Savvy: It’s German for squalor. It’s either you tell him that, verbatim, or you can just tell him he sucks. Works either way, gets the message across; you know I love my big words. Miaow.
Bratt: What she said. And be prompt about it, will you please? But take your camera with you; that disappointment on his face will be priceless! You can probably blog about it too, make a contest of it, have your underlings comment or whatnot.
And so PK went back in with her camera poised in front of her.
September 18th, 2010 at 22:00
AY WAIT, 1027 words, let me modify
September 18th, 2010 at 22:04
The Cats Said No
There once lived this dashing young piece of female happiness named Lucky. He’s about 6’2, every inch a delicacy, built like a brick house. He’s got these soft eyes that put a doe to shame even if he were cross eyed, which he isn’t. He’s got these lips that, oh sweet Jesus, threaten when they pucker. And to overflow that cup of charms, he plays rugby, too. He’s dripping testosterone, and he’s got enough to import to some gay country like Amsterdam.
He’s so lucky, he’s a star, but he cry cry cries in his lonely heart, thinking, if there’s nothing missing in my life then why do these tears come at night? That’s a different Lucky, though; I figured this story could use a song. Britney Spears WILL BE doing GLEE. That being said, let’s get back to business.
Our Lucky loves the women-folk, but he’s in love with one woman more than the rest of them tied together. They just wouldn’t answer, they don’t begin, to The Love of his life. She’s this celebrated writer with an increasing following of highfalutin yuppies, a blog with a page rank of 5, several Palanca awards, class like Imelda Marcos has shoes, and of course, cats. Her name’s Pussy Kamagong.
Pussy’s got three cats, Savvy, Cootie, and Bratt, each just as dripping with attitude as the one before him.
He kisses the very ground her shoes walk on, worships her every punctuation mark, and, on some of those nights, he counts the number of children they’ll be having to help him get to sleep. He then dreams of The Day when she wears the One ring, in front of all their loved ones and then some crashers perhaps. It will all fall into place, by and by.
It is only through sheer unrelenting persuasion, and tickets to the US Open, that he managed to convince her to consider “cohabitation” and see where it goes. He wants them to try it in his place, the living-in gig, that is, and he promises, with fire in his eyes and steel in his conviction, that he will do everything in his power to make her the most satisfied she’s ever been.
She paused for what he judged to be like weeks, her eyes unflinching as she followed that trickle of perspiration crawl its way down his forehead. He shuddered with anticipation as she crossed her arms in front of her, in thought. She then took the tickets and begins to speak. And she says:
“If we will be living in together, even for a week, even for a day, I need to make sure my cats are comfortable to the very marrow. So I’m issuing a… challenge. Decorate. Let’s see what you can make of our ‘love nest.’ I’m giving you up until 11:59PM on Saturday. Meanwhile, I’m going out with the fags and we’ll have coffee and make fun of people. Bye.”
Harps can’t get any more divine, he says to himself as he recalls, in his head, the way those instructions issued from her lips. At the same time, he remembers the challenge itself, and then it dawned on him — he is so fucked. Interior design isn’t just Greek to him; it’s pig latin in stage-four swardspeak. He thinks he can do the wall hooks right, sure, but he can’t make heads or tails of what to hang on the walls. And the alignments. And the artful lack of balance. And that’s just the paintings. But he will make this happen or kick something in the process.
Lucky’s efforts at interior design are not worth mentioning; it exhausted my thesaurus. So let’s go ahead to 11:30 PM on the appointed Saturday evening, where he was waiting in the midst of his decorating wreck. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. It was her. He knew it was her because the sound of her very footsteps are an enchantment to his… aw skip it.
She steps in with three cat carriers, her eyes flitting this way and that in a fit of estimation. This goes on for a full year, he judges, and then she steps out to the hallway with her cats. She never spoke a word, but he thinks she looked, well, satisfied. And then she stepped out with her luggage with not as much as a nod.
The following conversation took place in the outside hall:
PK: So?
Cootie: What do you mean ‘So?’ The plants are a mess, the clutter’s tackless, there will be blood on my next furball thanks to all that nauseating yellow. And where the hell’s our scratching post? And the litterbox? I have a good mind to crap on those tasteless walls; my shit will answer for the improvement.
PK: But I think he tried real…
Cootie: Human, an election is just out of the question. This is not a democracy; I hate it, and that’s final. Miaow. Now scratch my back, will you?
PK proceeds to scratch Cootie’s back. The latter purrs in German.
Savvy: The male human made an embarrassment of our expectations. Now, go back to him and tell him we refuse to dwell in such unprecedented verkommenheit!
PK: Verkommenheit?
Savvy: It’s German for squalor. It’s either you tell him that, verbatim, or you can just tell him he sucks. Works either way, gets the message across; you know I love my big words. Miaow.
Bratt: What she said. And be prompt about it, will you please? But take your camera with you; that disappointment on his face will be priceless! You can probably blog about it too, make a contest of it, have your underlings comment or whatnot.
And so PK went back in with her camera poised in front of her.
September 18th, 2010 at 22:06
1. There, 999 words!
2. Your porn name= The name of your first pet + The name of the street where you lived as a child. Pussy Kamagong was a friend’s porn name, and I find that so hilarious I have to use it here.
3. “Also it cramps our style, knowing that children are reading our stories. We do not want to have to apologize for our twisted thoughts. We enjoy having them.” Amen.
September 18th, 2010 at 22:30
You don’t have to publish this. Ms. Zafra, right now, i am hoping that a miracle happens and the deadline will be moved to at least tomorrow. I am just breaking into something with my story. My character does not talk like a real person yet. Ok, back to work…
September 18th, 2010 at 22:58
Oliver was tired of waiting. It was almost 11:30 pm, but she has not arrived yet. He was seated at one of the chairs beside a small dining table, staring at the plates and the food that he prepared about four hours ago. The dinner that was in front of him didn’t look appetizing anymore—the beef stew was now cold and hard, and the mango juice was already too warm.
He’s with that asshole again, he thought. That asshole was Jeremy—a law student from UP. Jeremy was a gifted young man. He was talented in many fields: not only was he good at his academics, he was also an athlete—he played rugby in his free time. Oliver sighed. He was never good at any sport, and he wasn’t fortunate enough to graduate college. He was only a second-rate security guard.
That did not mean that he was not contented with his life, though. Just a few months ago, he had been living happily with his wife, Roselyn. She was a librarian at the Ateneo de Manila University, and because of her they were able to afford this nice apartment that he was currently in. Everything was going on well. Well, until Jeremy showed up.
Roselyn and Jeremy supposedly met each other at a book fair. They started going out with each other about five months ago.
“You’re only doing this because he gives you money, right?” Oliver started talking to himself. He was becoming a bit emotional. “You don’t really love him right? I never questioned your deeds because I know you’re just using him. You’re just using that SOB, right?”
Then, he heard a noise that came from the door. After that, the door swung open, and in went Roselyn.
“Hey,””Oliver greeted her with a smile. “I prepared dinner.”He pointed at the table.
Roselyn didn’t even glance at him. “I’m just here to pick some of my clothes up then Im’ma go out again.”
“What?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m not sleeping here tonight.”
“You… Are you staying with Jeremy again?”
“Yeah.”
“But I prepared dinner-“
“I don’t care about your freakin’ dinner!”
Oliver couldn’t hold it anymore. He cried, his tears fell uncontrollably as he walked towards a small cabinet. As he opened it, he asked: “You don’t love me anymore, don’t you?”
Roselyn looked pissed off. “Here we go again. Don’t you get it? Jeremy gives me what I want. You, you don’t even help me with the bills anymore! We’re just saving money so we can finally get our own place. Look Oliver, just move on, can you?”
“It’s,” Oliver said as he took something out from the cabinet. “It’s our anniversary today.”
“Psh, like I fucking care.”
BANG!
Roselyn fell near the door; blood was dripping from the newly formed hole in her forehead. Oliver stared at her corpse, and then put his gun back at the cabinet. He walked to the hall that leads to the apartment’s comfort room, and he sat there quietly.
He was no longer weeping. His face depicted no sadness, but neither a hint of joy.
He just stared at his dead wife, his sanity gone.
September 18th, 2010 at 23:58
Thanks.
September 19th, 2010 at 12:16
The ‘quirky gentleman’ is one of those delicious characters. This apartment is no bigger than two rooms, but Noel created this cavernous mansion, repository of his exquisite taste. The quirky gentleman takes pride in his discerning taste, one that can never be pinned down by the common eye — or “tongue”… Chuckle? He is one thing but then again not really. Take this movie poster. A classic of English literature left unwittingly (?) beside a punk’s razor, Crayola, and sequins. I bet a lot of quirky gentlemen loved this “edgy” (I guess it is the word they use) adaptation. And here, Noel takes an artifact of quirk and defaces it making it quirkier(?) still, but that that hasn’t been decoded yet. Der(ey)licte, that’s the word he’ll use. not derelict, but dere(y)licte.* Oh, how they are more French than the French! “I love.” Guess that sounds close to how they say it. Then, there is the evil Barbie too. Quirky guys are good boys, but watch out when they are girls; they are BAD. Noel had me at his pickup line. Something about how my build will look good in a rugby game, and how sports events are the new gay porn. But, he need not have sweat. I really planned on getting close to him, about a month now at least. (Whispering to his thoughts) Dionysius, may my performance on “Velvet Rage” be nourished by Noel, my exquisite quirky gentleman. Please, I need an Oscar.
*I forgot how to make that kind of “e” to appear.
++++This is not much, but here’s my “A Glass of Water.”
September 19th, 2010 at 12:22
Sorry, a tinny bit late. Power outage to the third power over here. hope this still gets admitted. thanks. Reposting… forgot a bit at the end…
The ‘quirky gentleman’ is one of those delicious characters. This apartment is no bigger than two rooms, but Noel created this cavernous mansion, repository of his exquisite taste. The quirky gentleman takes pride in his discerning taste, one that can never be pinned down by the common eye — or “tongue”… Chuckle? He is one thing but then again not really. Take this movie poster. A classic of English literature left unwittingly (?) beside a punk’s razor, Crayola, and sequins. I bet a lot of quirky gentlemen loved this “edgy” (I guess it is the word they use) adaptation. And here, Noel takes an artifact of quirk and defaces it making it quirkier(?) still, but that that hasn’t been decoded yet. Der(ey)licte, that’s the word he’ll use. not derelict, but dere(y)licte.* Oh, how they are more French than the French! “I love.” Guess that sounds close to how they say it. Then, there is the evil Barbie too. Quirky guys are good boys, but watch out when they are girls; they are BAD. Noel had me at his pickup line. Something about how my build will look good in a rugby game, and how sports events are the new gay porn. But, he need not have sweat. I really planned on getting close to him, about a month now at least. (Whispering to his thoughts) Dionysius, may my performance on “Velvet Rage” be nourished by Noel, my exquisite quirky gentleman, and his foie gras-oriented flesh. Please, I need an Oscar.
*I forgot how to make that kind of “e” to appear.
++++This is not much, but here’s my “A Glass of Water.”
September 20th, 2010 at 16:04
Haha! So much for Joel Grey…
October 28th, 2010 at 15:31
I’m not sure if you’d still be able to read this Ms Zafra. I was not aware that I was invited to the coffee meet and greet and I just read that you were waiting for me that day. I live in Makati so I would have been the first one there. I really do apologize. Hope there will be another chance for me to make up for it :(