LitWit Challenge 3.9: Mirror, mirror (The Yucch-meter had nothing to read for two days.)
You know the drill. Tell us the story of this picture. Extra rule: Your story cannot have a guy looking at himself in the mirror. Hahahahaha.
Our model is Matt Saunders of the Philippine Volcanoes, the national rugby team. He is the leading try scorer for the team in international test matches. (It’s called a try, but it means a score. It’s like a touchdown in American football, also known as rugby with armor.)
Your story doesn’t have to have anything to do with rugby.
1,000 words maximum. Deadline: Sunday, 10 October 2010 at 10:10 am. The prize:
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
The Yucch-meter is waiting.
* * * * *
First findings of the Yucch-meter.
What we like about oberstein’s story: The name Eufrecina. And the name Eufrecina. And the name. . .The plot is interesting, but the construction is awkward. “With her hand holding a ladle”—how else would she hold the ladle? Might be better if you take out all the adjectives and adverbs and let the plot carry the tale.
What we like about nikk929’s story: We love fantastic tales that begin in antique shops in London, the ones that are gone by the time the poor schmuck tries to return the merchandise, that never existed on that street in the first place. But you lost us at “It was a normal day in London.” It is a variation on “It was a cold and stormy night”, only more boring. And what IS a normal day in London? We’re supposed to buy the image of a perpetually gloomy London? We’ve never seen a gloomy London, it was always brilliantly sunny! But we are not normal. What IS normal?
What we like about Qsdn’s story: It’s taut and compact. What we don’t get, not just about this story but about the contest entries in general: Why do we always get cannibalism stories? Why, when you see a good-looking guy, do you imagine his bloody corpse? Don’t you like guys anymore? Guys are great. And they’re an endangered species! You don’t have to kill them all the time.
* * * * *
Second pass of the Yucch-meter.
What we like about angus25’s story: Eww. Eww. Eww. As stated in a previous contest, we’ll publish stories that contain graphic sex as long as they’re funny. This one is what is known in journalistic parlance as SS.
Let us reiterate a recently-asked question: Why, when you see a good-looking guy, do you imagine a woman with no head?
What we like about winnerific’s story: Nice pace, intriguing location, gossipy tone. Prose a bit problematic, but nothing that can’t be repaired. Try writing in short sentences. And don’t be afraid to use the grammar checker on your word processing program. (We’re addressing not just winnerific but everyone who has doubts about their subject-verb agreement.)
What we like about cacs’s story: Science fiction! (Have you read Olaf Stapledon? One of the pioneers.) Bit dry, though—we want to feel something for the character. Maybe a memory of everyone he’s outlived, or the terrible solitude of immortality. Like a sandworm of Dune contemplating his former humanity.
What we like about iamstoned’s story: The plot. Very Pinoy horror-drama. Awkward sentence construction, though. The first line sounds like a machine translation of “Ang mga nakiramay ay nagtataka kung bakit ni isang luha ay walang iniyak si Lolita mula nang matagpuan ang bangkay ng kanyang asawa sa paradahan sa opisina hangga’t inilagay siya sa kabaong para sa burol.” It sounds all right in Tagalog but unnatural in English.
What we like about RightClicker’s story: Fairy tale character bitch fest. Unfortunately it doesn’t go anywhere. The fun of using well-known characters is in revealing some new and unsuspected facet of their personalities, i.e. Snow White really is into midgets. Reinvent, repurpose, redo.
* * * * *
The Yucch-meter had nothing to read for two whole days.
What we like about shadowplay’s story: You sound like you had a good time writing it. If only we could decipher your muddled prose to see what it is you find so amusing.
What we like about wenkebach’s story: A wrestling story! We can’t recall any wrestling stories since the early John Irving (when we used to read him). However, the story is supposed to be set in wrestling class but does not contain any actual wrestling. “They were harder than I thought” just does not convey the physicality of the sport. Where’s the pain?
What we like about ishtevie’s entry: Someday you might create an app for personalized greeting cards! Please note that even if something is written in stanzas with an AAB rhyming scheme it does not automatically follow that that something is a poem.
What we like about Momelia’s story: Froggy Uragon loves Mahinhin Duten. The return of the Ha prefix. The detailed description of frogs’ faces and the research which went into it. (By the way “species” is like “mathematics”, it always ends in S unless you mean “specie” as in coins.) The droll turn of phrase: “The Tuten Frogs are legendary for their breeding exploits on account of they always get some.” “…so cross-eyed that while the normal Tuten sees two, he sees sixteen, and that explains his election.” The oppression of the good-looking. The sheer bizarreness. We approve.
What we like about paopao’s story: The ending. We didn’t see that coming. And the part where the boy escapes from a second-floor room using parkour gave us a good laugh. However, the negotiation between the teenagers sounds unnatural. Then the boy silently critiques the color scheme of the girl’s room, thinks of “retching like a supermodel”, and references Glee. We have something to say about that but we don’t want to make Anderson Cooper angry (Love ya, Andy).
* * * * *
Deadline.
What we like about dibee’s story: It’s The Matrix. But without those speeches in the sequels that caused our minds to leave our bodies. Clever; good idea to bring in Narcissus. Some grammatical glitches, easy to deal with.
We have always been suspicious of our own reflections in the mirror. They seem to know something we don’t.
What we like about magdewart’s story: It’s a John Hughes movie. Or that old Hotdog song, Beh Buti Nga. We suggest throwing in a twist. One that does not involve revenge on the pretty girl. This entry was posted after the deadline and is not in contention for the prize.
Thanks to everyone who joined LitWit Challenge 3.9. The winner/s will be announced tomorrow.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
October 5th, 2010 at 05:21
(I’ve no idea why I ended up writing this.)
Eufrecina was raised to avoid looking at mirrors as much as possible since she was a child. Her earliest memory about mirrors involved stealthily trying to move the stepstool she used to wash her hands at the sink over to the small alcove by the front door where the only mirror in the house was hung, concealed by a curtain. The stepstool was made of Narra, with a dull polish produced by years of use, slightly sticky from her more recent misadventures with spilled Coca-Cola. As she was about to turn a corner to step into the alcove, the stepstool snagged on the heavy curtain at the alcove’s opening, bringing the curtain and its metal curtain rod crashing to the concrete floors in a loud cacophony. Her minder for the day immediately rushed to investigate the source of the sound. Instead of scolding her, the minder covered both Eufrecina and himself with the dusty curtain and stepped away from the alcove.
The minder (his name was Boy, Eufrecina remembered, although he was already starting to wrinkle and had missing teeth) sat her down on the kitchen table. The fat, sweaty cook stood next to Boy with her hand holding a ladle hanging limp by her side, and Boy said, “Don’t go there. Stay away from the mirror.” To a child this would be a challenge, the impetus to start scheming on how to get to that alcove and its mirror again right away. The hollow look in Boy’s eyes and the way he sounded pained to say it, even through his thick accent, however, convinced Eufrecina to just nod, unsure why Boy and the cook looked relieved.
The cook stepped forward, holding up the shiny metal ladle. “If you want to see your reflection, we have spoons, or bigger metal items like this,” she said, holding up the ladle’s dome to Eufrecina’s face. The cook started sweating even more, and Eufrecina got distracted from her reflection by the growing sweat stains showing up on the cook’s fuchsia blouse. “Look at the ladle!” the cook cried out. Eufrecina snapped out of watching the hypnotic sweat stains and looked at the shiny ladle. “Just use these as your mirrors, okay?” the cook said, sounding like she was near tears.
“I’ll use shiny spoons,” Eufrecina mumbled, her thumb having found its way into her mouth out of reflex. “Can I have a Coke?” The cook nodded and Boy immediately fetched her glass, the one with orange and yellow flowers printed on, filled it with ice, poured in some Coke, and gave it to her. By the time she finished the glass, she had forgotten all about the alcove incident.
A few years later, when Eufrecina was spit-cleaning a smudge off her white patent leather shoes as she waited for the driver to bring the car around, she noticed that the alcove no longer had a curtain over it, mirror no longer there. A pillar that held up a vase full of fake flowers had replaced it. She wondered briefly where the one mirror in the house could have gone, but was shaken out of her thoughts when the car pulled up to the front of the house, honking rudely. She checked her reflection in her shiny shoes and judging it acceptable, stepped outside to be taken to her First Communion. For good measure, she checked her reflection on the car’s shiny chrome fenders again and stepped in. The car had no mirrors, just flat chrome panels where the rearview mirror and side mirrors were supposed to be.
On a hot, humid day when Eufrecina was fourteen, she got her first period. Her current minder was Unding, cranky widow from a northern province, and her accent always made her sound angry, so she took her bloodstained panties and tried to find somewhere in the house to hide it, convinced that her minder would only scold her for it. After all, her minder yelled at her about being wasteful just because she asked for pencils that didn’t have worn-down erasers when she was doing her lines the day before. If her reaction was that harsh about pencils with worn-down erasers, she was afraid at what sort of fit Unding would have about bloodstained panties. She saw the small door to the closet under the stairs and crawled in.
The inside of the closet smelled musty, and she didn’t think to bring a flashlight, so she kept the closet door open to let light in. She saw another small door on the other side of the closet and crawled through that one. She stepped into a closet space small enough that she could reach out and touch the walls with both hands. What looked like a painting covered in cloth hung on the wall facing her, and she reached for it, bloody problem forgotten in her other hand. The cloth fell away and Eufrecina was faced with an oval mirror in an antique brass frame. Light seeped in behind her, and for once her reflection was not distorted, the way it looked like as seen through spoons, ladles, patent leather shoes, and shiny chrome car parts.
Transfixed by her reflection, she did not notice the blood draining from the stained panties in her hand. Her skin started to pale, soon followed by her hair. In the space of a few heartbeats, her reflection stared back at her, with near-white blonde hair, pale skin, and red eyes framed by white eyelashes. Eufrecina began to scream.
Unding found her later, passed out on the toilet.
October 5th, 2010 at 10:03
Hi! I just blogged about An Afternoon With Jessica Zafra, and it was about what happened last September 25, 2010.
momel8.blogspot.com
Thanks!
Oh and by the way, Fifi Legarda my ass. Ahahaa! Cheers!
October 5th, 2010 at 10:29
Kidding! But really, check out the Afternoon With Jessica Zafra! I’ve got pictures!
Chers All!
October 5th, 2010 at 13:36
It was a normal afternoon in London. A cold wind was blowing and a gloomy dark sky was overhead. Nicholas McGregor, or Nick to his friends, a 25 year old Account Executive at AMV BBDO was on his way home from grabbing a quick hair cut at Wyndham Theatre’s barbershop at Leicaster Square.
He lived in a simple 2 bedroom apartment at 1829 Trafalgar Square. Though the apartment is too big, even for his tastes, he got it at a really good price.
From the barber, he’d normally take the bus, from Leicaster Square down to the St. James Trafalgar Square stop which lets him off pretty close to his 2 bedroom apartment but for some strange reason he felt like walking home. It’s been a couple of months since he really found the time to take a leisurely stroll, especially given his hectic work schedules as an Ad Man being on call practically 24/7. With the cool wind blowing and the overcast skies, Nick thought that maybe today would be a good day to take a walk.
Walking down Charing Cross Road, by Cecil St., Nick stopped in his tracks. He noticed an old antique mirror by the window of an antique store. Mark Sullivan Antiques Antique Retail is an old antique store that usually didn’t have any fixed set of antiques, but rather whatever was available on hand. The mirror had something like an old Renaissance style frame and had a round mirror in the middle. Thinking about it, Nick thought that it looked pretty tacky and that it wouldn’t really fit with his “bachelor pad” designed apartment, but something at the back of his mind was picking at him, nudging him to get it.
“Excuse me?” Nick said upon entering the store.
“Wait a moment.” answered a voice coming from the back room.
Slowly an elderly man came through the door leading to the backroom. The man seemed like he was in his late 60s with white thinning hair and had a worn look about him. The old man had a difficult time walking about which explained the ivory cane that he had along with him to help him move about. The elderly man reminded Nick of his grandfather back in Glasgow. Thinking about it, Nick could easily imagine the shopkeeper to have a small cabin in the woods whose only company was a trusty old Labrador Retriever.
“Yes?” the old man asked.
“I want to ask about the mirror by the window.” Nick asked.
“The mirror by the window? What about it?! What’s your interest in that thing?” the old man asked with a slight tone of apprehension and aggravation.
Cautiously, Nick replied “I was wondering if it was for sale?”
“You want to buy it? I urge you not to. You’re a young lad. Why not pick out a mirror in Ikea or something instead? You wouldn’t want that old mirror.” the old man replied with a slightly gentler tone.
“I know I don’t seem the type but I seriously am considering purchasing the mirror. For some reason, I’m very much attracted to it.” Nick replied insistently.
“My dear boy…that mirror over there has a lot of history to it. Some of which, I’m not proud to know.” replied the old shopkeeper.
“I get it, you think I’m young and I can’t afford it, is that right?” Nick replied.
“No, no, no. Don’t get me wrong. I want to get rid of that thing, even if it’s the last thing I do. It’s just you seem like a really nice lad and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you if ever. Here, you really want it? Take it. Free of charge, but only on one condition…Don’t blame me for anything that happens.” replied the old man.
“I’m sorry…did you just say take it and it’s free of charge? No catch?” Nick hesitantly replied.
“No catch.” replied the old man slightly feeling disgusted at himself.
“I’ll take it!” eagerly replied Nick.
Shaking his head slowly, the old man walked slowly to the back of the counter and grabbed a fairly large paper bag. He then walked up to the window and got the mirror and placed it into the bag and handed it to Nick.
“Thank you so much! And don’t worry. You won’t have any problems with me!” replied Nick and rushed out of the door.
Watching Nick walk away, the old shop keeper said under his breath: “What have I done…What have I done?”
As soon as Nick got home, he dumped the mirror on his living room table. He quickly rummaged through the drawers of his kitchen and found a nail and his old hammer. Outside, rain started to pour. The clouds got thicker and thicker and the afternoon sky became as dark as night. He raised the nail and carefully placed it by the main walkway. By now, the rain was pouring heavily. Outside, pedestrians were scrambling for shelter to get out of the torrent of rain.
Nick drew his hammer back and hit the nail right square on the head. At the exact same moment, there was a flash of lightning and thunder struck. He drew it back again and hit the nail once more. Strong winds were starting to blow outside. Nick didn’t notice his potted plants by the windowsill started falling one by one. And again, he struck the nail.
The nail was good and into the wall, so Nick walked to his living room table and unpacked the mirror, still not paying heed to the wind and rains outside, he slowly made his way to where the nail was.
Outside, a lost little child was crying, looking for her mother whom she lost amidst the chaos happening outside.
Nick slowly raised the mirror to eye level and hung it on the nail that he just finished hammering in. Nick slowly took 2 steps back to better see the mirror…and then black.
October 5th, 2010 at 22:05
One Last Kiss
He tied me up and gagged me. He didn’t bother to hide his face. The police here would never arrest a foreigner, he said, much less prove he was even in my apartment. I cringed, tears running down my face. He saw me passing by the park “strutting about like a stuck-up whore”, he said, fixing his spiky hair as he turned around to face my prone body. He said that he decided to teach me a lesson. “Why me?” I asked, voice muffled by the sock he forced up my mouth. He grabbed my face, stared at it and slid the metal of the knife against my cheek and said, “Just because I can.”
And he could. And he did. And I shivered. And I screamed. And I blanked out.
Then I saw red. Red on his pretty face. Red on my naked body. Red splashed liberally throughout my bed. Red running down his taut chest.
It was done.
I slid out of the ropes he tied oh so tightly and laughed. I felt refreshed. I picked good this time. Wrapping this hunky piece of meat around my tiny little finger. Men are such fools. They think with their dicks all the time.
He was good though. Was being the operational word in that sentence. My fingers gripped the manhood he was so proud of and dragged his body in, sliding my tongue over his bloody chest and into his slack mouth. “One last kiss, darling,” I said. I gripped his tongue with mine then at the last moment, I cut it off with the knife he used to threaten me, and ate it.
Evaluating the rest of his carcass, he would last me a week or two if I was careful. Good enough.
October 6th, 2010 at 03:13
If it weren’t for Mike’s constant budging, if it weren’t for me and my wife’s constant fights over mundane issues, if it weren’t for the constant half-smiles that you always greeted me with whenever we met at the office, I don’t think we’ll ever be together.
I never thought about it, I mean about me and you, and I am still amazed at how cool you were about everything. You didn’t care about the wedding ring on my finger, you didn’t listen to people when they told you that I did drugs, you didn’t bother to dig up my past.
You just didn’t mind. You are so 90’s, you said. And I fell for that.
* * *
You invited me to your place. The lights were warm and there were a few pieces of furniture: a leather couch, a small pile of books on one wall, a music stand, a cello. I didn’t notice the rest of your stuff when I laid my eyes on it. It looked like it was your little sister waiting for you, only that she got bored and fell asleep. Her name is Andrea, you whispered to my ear. Then you asked me to pick a number, one to six. I chose three.
You held Andrea by the fingerboard and sat down behind her, knees apart, the pegs quite close to your left ear. You said that you were secretly hoping for me to choose six. I tried to change my mind; you said it was too late. You grabbed the bow hanging on the music stand; I sat down on the couch. I asked if I could smoke. I already lit up a cigarette even before you responded; you were busy plucking and tuning Andrea.
Then you started playing. Whatever you were playing did not seem like an easy or even an intermediate piece. Classic. I loved the low registers coming out from Andrea; the sudden bravura of low notes reaching out to my gut made it quiver tremendously. Watching you play the cello got me all horny. After your brilliant performance, I stared at you for what seemed like a long moment. I could still hear the music inside me. I was stunned.
Unaccompanied Cello Suite Number Three by Bach, you said. I stood up, grabbed and leaned Andrea on the wall, played with your hair for a bit, told you that you were an amazing and intricate woman, kissed you on the lips, and for the first time, we made love, on the couch.
* * *
Lately, you were all I could think about. I kept on thinking about all the food that we had during famished evenings, all the short replies that you supplied to my rather stupid questions, all the places where we had sex. I cannot even bring myself to touch my wife unless I summon an image of you. That’s the only way my penis could function.
You and your I-don’t-care demeanor. Your voluptuous body. And fuck, your cello. You’re driving me mad. And you stopped seeing me for no apparent reason.
* * *
“Dammit, Eric! Can’t you just leave me alone and move on with your sorry life? I’m done with you. Can’t you get that through your thick head?”
* * *
I fantasize about making love to you while you are heavily soaked in Hershey’s strawberry syrup. You’d be naked and wet and sticky, walking around the hotel room and dripping syrup all over the carpet. You then seduce me with your dominating eyes and sense the raging hard-on inside my pants. Slowly, you massage your breasts with your fingers. You put your fingers on your lips and momentarily indulge in the saccharine flavor seeping all over your body.
You are Venus de Milo, but you were not borne from the sea foam. You just materialized from the bathroom of a luxurious hotel room. You pull me out from the bed and acknowledge my hardness by telling me that you want me inside you. My clothes are stained with the strawberry syrup, and in the real world, I would get so worried because my wife would nag me about it, about me not doing the laundry and other chores. But this is my fantasy with you. Fuck her.
I’ll take you down on the carpet and smother you with kisses, on your lips, your ears, your ticklish neck, your breasts, your left breast, right, left, go down to your navel, skip to both your thighs, your shaved legs, your feet, both of them, spread them wide enough to gaze at your womanhood, your fucking cunt, and then I would hear you plead. Please? You are already moaning, my little slut.
I come closer and kiss you down there. I am pleased with everything: the syrup on your body, the sweet strawberry scent, the sudden arching of your back, the wetness of you, the tightness of you. I would fuck you senseless until I hear you whimper, squeal, and say whatever expletive comes to your mind. Still, you respond with that crazy grip of yours that would make me explode without me moving. I am going to make love to you without a condom and I am going to cum inside you. I am going to take you to an expensive hotel on Saturday night. I will make you want me again. I promise baby, I will.
* * *
“Nasaan?”
“Huh?”
“Putangina mong gago ka, hindi ka ba makausap ng matino? Ha Eric? Saan mo tinago?”
“Wala tsong, wala sa akin. Nasaan yosi mo?”
“Kung hindi mo tinago, saan mo tinapon?”
“Ang alin? Pa-CR tsong.”
“Tsong, hindi ka pwede rito. Gago ka, kapag nahuli ka siguradong lagot, ayaw kong madamay sa kagaguhang yan. Sigurado kang walang nakakita sa’yo?”
“CR lang.”
“Nga pala, nabalitaan ko tsong na nasa morge pa rin yung syota mo. Hindi mailibing dahil hinahanap pa rin ang ulo niya. At nasaan na nga kasi ang putanginang ulong yan?”
October 6th, 2010 at 08:30
Oh it isn’t stritly a cannibalism story – the character was supposed to be an aswang/manananggal/vampire/creature of the night. (Of course the fact that I have to explain this negates the story already).
October 6th, 2010 at 09:21
i have meaning to say this evrytime i see Matt on your post…Please,Please if ever youll retire from rugby yummy Matt,conduser entering a career in Porn,your the yummiest!!
Mga okama this is for all of you..www.footyboys.com
October 6th, 2010 at 12:26
For a second I thought you meant my cat Mat.
October 6th, 2010 at 14:27
Your feedback on my spur-of-the-moment entry is a LOT better than I expected. I was supposed to be writing the equivalent of my senior thesis but decided to do something for the challenge instead. XD It’s either this or more technical writing.
By the way, I checked out James Salter’s “Hunters” from my local library and their copy is a first edition. Not in mint condition anymore, obviously but being responsible for a 54 year-old first edition makes me a little nervous.
October 6th, 2010 at 14:28
…err “The Hunters”. Definite article fail!
October 6th, 2010 at 14:51
Brown room –inspected and cleaned? Check. Room speakers – off? Check. Video tape – changed? Check. Patients’ portfolio? Check. Resignation letter? Check.
This is the right thing to do. I like this place. It holds just the right number and type of crazies that I need, but if I can’t get my hands on them, it’s pointless. I’ve been here for two years now and the only big one I handled was that local celebrity girl who got married, then annulled because she forgot (yeah right) to tell his husband that she’s sick. Bi-polar: nothing like the extremes, literally, to end a legally binding, matrimonial covenant. Even if there was a kid, the case flew like a jet.
I didn’t even get to follow up on that case! She went to us because of an emergency attack and her shrink was on vacation or something. Our place was nearest to her and I handled it because Red Lips was on leave. If she was present, I’m sure she gobbled her up. I’m not one to complain about co-employees, just don’t step on me. And Red Lips definitely did more than that. She has crushed most of my toes with those gams and stilettos.
So far she has kept me at bay with just about every good case there is. Now I’m left with nothing but mere clinic duties, consults, and all the other extra things. My assignment on the Brown room for the past 3 months now is enough proof.
I believe my duties here are very much relevant to what we do specially on research and patient evaluation. New drugs are tested on patients and they stay here for a while instead of their regular rooms for close monitoring. Their whole stay is videotaped to keep a record. Close to recovery patients also stay here to gauge their progress. Special tests on those really interesting ones are also conducted here. All of these kept on tape. The room has not much on it. Just a bed, table, chair, an ornamental mirror (it’s not real glass), light brown walls and some white paneling. Other things are added depending on the patient made to stay inside, if it assists on the tests. Toys, paintings or books, whatever stuff that can elicit a certain reaction. However, unknown to the patient, half of the north wall is also made of unbreakable glass which provides a one-way view of the room allowing us to see them clearly. The ornamental mirror is there to make the patients face that side of the wall most of the time.
Things can get pretty exciting in the Brown room too. I just wish I have cases of my own. Good ones that I can really focus on. You can also get preoccupied with happenings here. I just didn’t expect that it would also be personally beneficial.
My duties are done for the day and I was arranging my desk, inserting my notes to certain files. I was looking through the tapes when the lights on the brown room were switched on. I was surprised to see a man slowly walking in. I checked my patient list. No one is scheduled after that nymphomaniac who kept humping on the pillows. Who is this guy? I was about to speak through the microphone when I noticed the obvious. This guy is not a patient. He took out his phone and started texting. After the message was sent he walked around the room stopping for a moment on my wall, looked at the mirror, touched it, smiled, obviously discovering that it was not real.
Wait. I know who this guy is! He’s Red Lips’ boyfriend! It would be hard not to notice him. He’s huge. Not my type though. Too burly. What is he doing here? I wanted to switch on the speaker to tell him off, but I accidentally pushed the video button.
I was fumbling through the switches when he took his shirt off. Unhooked his belt, pulled it off. Shoes, off as well. I stopped fumbling. Unbuttoned his pants, pulled down, off. All else, off. He stood there for a while, with nothing but white socks on, checked his phone and went to the bed. I tried to think straight, tried to think what I should do, but I kept thinking that the word huge was wrong. Massive is the right term. Why don’t I like burly men? I’m certainly taking a second opinion next time.
I was distracted by the ringing of his phone. He leapt off the sheets. The view made me go back to the place where I was before I got distracted.
“Where are you? What?! You told me to go to the end of the hall, to the brown room. What number? This room has no number! Shit! I’m going!”
He started putting his pants back on. I wished he would stop, or at least slow down. In a few seconds, Red Lips comes darting through the door.
“What are you doing here?!
“You told me to go here!”
“I meant the room adjacent to this! Oh my God……” glanced around the room. “Put your clothes on quick!”
“Why? Aren’t we going to the other room?” smiling.
“Just make it quick!”
I did. I stashed everything in my huge bag, and noticed the blinking camera. I took the tape and went out. I just locked mine when they came out of theirs. Red Lips walked towards my end while Burly man detoured.
“Were you just on the other room?”
“Yes”
She looked shell-shocked.
“Did you see an…”
“We should talk sometime” and I started to walk away, leaving her there.
I have a plan. Her pallid face gave me one. It has no resignation involved. I should make a copy of the video. One for my plan and another…. Personal copy.
October 6th, 2010 at 14:58
ay mali :) should be “her husband” – second paragraph :)
October 6th, 2010 at 15:40
October 10, 2010. After months of tests, doctors found nothing wrong with him . He had been puzzled by those bruises. Sure he was a rugby player, but even in the off-season?
October 10, 2030. His former team mates couldn’t believe who they saw. It was him, alright. But it was him of twenty years ago. He hasn’t aged. All manner of speculation came to life, fueled unsurprisingly by envy. He knew he shouldn’t have come to the reunion. His agelessness had that effect on people. He left the party early. It was the last time his former team mates saw him, for no one bothered to invite him again. No one ever wanted to have a photo taken next to him.
October 10, 2110. Franco Altomonte. The name suited him. The age, perfect. He bought the guy’s electronic birth certificate for one million pesos. Paid another half a million for a hacker to make the necessary bio-identity forgery. “Welcome to life reboot number four”, he told himself. And just for kicks, he stabbed himself. Nothing. The wound healed instantly.
October 10, two million years later. He’s the only homo sapien left on Earth. The rest of what were once called humans are now scattered across the Milky Way, on rocky Earth-like planets. Humans have since evolved into homo viaticus. Franco, Damien, Philippe, Alejandro and the thousand other identities he had assumed remained as he was. Homo viaticus sees him now as how “Lucy” was once seen by homo sapiens. He may have been one of the finest examples of homo sapien anatomy in his time. But now, he’s a horseshoe crab. He’s nothing more than a living fossil.
Just for kicks, he dives into a lava lake. He emerges naked, unburned.
October 6th, 2010 at 17:29
The mourners are curious why Lolita did not shed a single tear from the day she received news that her husband’s body was found dead at the office parking lot to the time he was laid in the coffin for the wake. While she manages small smiles at people who come up to her to pay their condolences, she spends most of the time sitting quietly on the sofa and staring absentmindedly into space.
“Twenty stab wounds to the chest! Who wouldn’t be upset by that?” one mourner tells another.
“Maybe she’s still shocked. She’ll break down soon enough,” the other one says.
But Lolita remains expressionless and tight-lipped even until her husband is laid to rest. While the rest of the family and some of their close friends bawl their eyes out, Lolita just looks down at the open grave as if in trance.
“Lolita, I know it’s hard to accept what happened to Kuya. It’s okay to cry,” her sister-in-law says, putting an arm around her shoulders.
But Lolita did not budge.
When the burial is over, Lolita’s sister-in-law offers to accompany her at the house for the next few weeks. Lolita, whose dry eyes are still fixed into space, just nods and remains quiet the rest of the time on their way home.
“Lolita, please talk,” her sister-in-law pleads worriedly as they reach the house. “I know you’re hurting right now, but keeping your feelings to yourself will just make it worse. Let it out. Cry. I’m here to comfort you.”
Finally, Lolita mumbles. “I’m okay,” she says. “Can I go upstairs and rest?”
Her sister-in-law sighs with relief to finally hear her voice. “Sure, sure, Lolita,” she says as she watches her walk quietly to her room.
For the next hour, Lolita’s sister-in-law busies herself with cleaning the trash left from the wake. Every now and then she looks up at the closed door, hoping to hear Lolita weep. She has not cried for nine days! Certainly, she needs to let it all out.
When she’s done, Lolita’s sister-in-law checks all the mirrors in the house to see if they are properly covered with cloth.
Another half an hour passes when Lolita’s sister-in-law decides to see how she is doing.
She walks upstairs and puts her ears to the door, thinking Lolita might be crying to herself and would not let anyone see her tears. When she did not hear a sound, she slowly turns the doorknob and silently peeks inside, expecting Lolita sleeping on the large bed.
Instead, she sees Lolita sitting in front of an uncovered full-length mirror – and laughing mischievously.
“You’re all mine now, sweetheart. I’m sorry, but it’s the only way to keep you away from your sonofabitch mistress,” Lolita’s sister-in-law hears her saying.
“Do the stab wounds still hurt?… Oh no, no, no. Don’t say that, sweetie. I didn’t have a choice. You are leaving me for that woman! Now come, I’ll make you feel better,” Lolita leans forward as she hugs the mirror with closed eyes, then starts humming a lullaby as if she is putting a child to sleep.
Her whole body trembling, Lolita’s sister-in-law closes the door, leans on the wall and covers her muffled screams with her hands as frightened tears start falling on her cheeks.
October 6th, 2010 at 22:36
QueenGrimhildeForever Tweets
@MirrorMirrorMajorMajor: This will do. This will do. Evil LOL…
@ MirrorMirrorMajorMajor: That Twillight-obssessed hormonal nymphet will bite anything. She might even try to bite me. I’d better put on more poisoned spraytan.
@ MirrorMirrorMajorMajor: Duh. Already blocked her from following my tweets after that sissy-of-a-huntsman tried to trick me. Poor Bambi.
@MaleficentHatesBlondes,@JafarHeartsAlladin,@LadyTremaineOfYourDreams,@EvilFairyGodMotherMyAss: wish me luck girls! Evil LOL
@LadyTremaineOfYourDreams: I’m tellin’ you, that muchacha of yours is up to something. Just saw her with a fairy oggling some cheap-lookin’ glass step-ins.
@LadyTremaineOfYourDreams: Better look into it before that Citronella cleans you up.
@JafarHeartsAlladin: Stop it. Stop stalking Alladin.
@JafarHeartsAlladin: Just accept it. He’d rather rub a lamp than touch you. Three times!
@JafarHeartsAlladin: You got PWNED. Blue Hunky Genie over a blue-balled old bag.
@EvilFairyGodMotherMyAss: See, I told yeah. Hosting a slumber party will be a sleeper hit! (Pun intended.) Whose the Valium-junkie now!?! Evil LOL…
@EvilFairyGodMotherMyAss: Its better than @MaleficentHatesBlondes suggestion.
@EvilFairyGodMotherMyAss: As if forcing Aurora to comb Rapunzel ‘s hair will do the job.
@ MaleficentHatesBlondes: BTW. Your ward badly needs delicing. Urrgh..
@MirrorMirrorMajorMajor: Just arrived at that wretched Glutathione-junkie’s halfwayhouse. Hope none of the Lillliputians she lives with jumps on me.
@JafarHeartsAlladin: I hate it when fuglies throw themselves at me. But with these guns. Who wouldn’t. Evil LOL…
PS
Technically. Its not a man looking into a mirror. We are under Queen Grimhilde’s spell.
October 9th, 2010 at 02:14
The thing they called mirror arrived yesterday right on our monthly meeting. We’ve never seen one before but I know (of course I know everything!) that it forms images that shows anybody who looks into it. Reactance!…Reaction!… Reflection! Ah yes, Reflection is the word our master says it do. He said that he arrived at the idea that whoever among the seven of us knows exactly what to do with it will be rewarded. Each of us will be given a day to take the mirror home. Just a day and if it doesn’t stay in their gross little weary houses or in my dearest one (I got an extravagant lot, you must know!) it will appear into the next challenger’s home and if it decided not to choose an owner, master will punish us. That is very unlikely for sure since from the first moment I ever laid eyes on it I know it already picked me.
But oh well, of course GR hurried to it before anyone else can. He was so green the mirror reverberates his crude color the moment he tried to touch it. It was yucky. But my friend GR falls so hard on the floor he doesn’t understand it was so precious it cannot be touched by someone who isn’t worth it. E cannot contain her excitement either; you gotta give it to her to really get in everybody’s way just to place second to what GR aims. She pushes past GR to try to touch the mirror but she stop at once right when GL’s saliva(with blood again this time?) get knotted at her purplish skin. GL who would lick and cream everything with her tongue. Three hideous creatures. I mean there are six of them, I can’t even make the logic of having six more ambitious underlings when master has me. I am more than he needs. Not a little bastard named S who’s always late at our meetings who can never manage an eye-to-eye contact with master since it would take him thirty days to look up so he would never ever try. Not even this girl we call L who mumbles with unintelligible words (I hear mostly a variation of ahs!) while always lying on the floor as if there’s someone on top of her, I guess that’s how she solved Master’s requirement that we should never bring anyone else with us. And this guy, how could Master resolve that we could have someone who’s always at rage in all our meetings! His name’s A which I think stands for Aargh!!! He keeps throwing things when Master isn’t around, he kayoed S when he sees the latter snoring. I was better off without them. I got everything they need. That’s why they never talked to me, haha much to my satisfaction. I will never talk to anybody not my level. And with that mirror news, I guess they’re all thinking what I’m thinking. The mirror’s all mine. But we have to wait for seven days for my culminating day.
Here’s the schedule:
Day 1- GR
Day 2- E
Day 3- GL
Day 4- S
Day 5- L
Day 6- A
Day 7- P
You see, it did appear on the exact seventh day it was scheduled for me. That was yesterday. Today is my harvest day. I have more than a million things to celebrate. The mirror is safe and sound on my chateau. It did not disappear in the morning and the whole day, it just sat there motionless. Lovely. When I look into it, I know you might ask. Well, I saw my future. Really saw all those million things I mentioned that I would celebrate starting this night. But first I must sit in this meeting once again. Wait for Master to reward me.
The six gits had this entire disappointed look in their faces. Haha.
There he is.
“What can I say? Everybody’s failed. I could not be any happier”
Well, Master. As you may know, I have the mirror tucked into my house. I corrected him.
“P, then why didn’t you bring it here with you?”
With a wave of his right hand, my mirror appears in front of us.
But!
“Don’t worry P, I’ve got a new set of wheels just for you.”
October 9th, 2010 at 06:49
I started taking steroids when the guys in my wrestling class called me effeminate. Not their exact words, but you get the point.
They were massive. Their biceps were bulging. They were so strong they could choke you with their pinkies.
I got there by accident. I needed one last P.E. to graduate, and I was so desperate I would take anything. There were two slots left—one for jogging, the other for wrestling. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention, maybe my eyes weren’t so good, maybe I was in my dumbest state, but I knew something went haywire when the lady at the office gave me the enrolment form after when I paid the tuition: I had enlisted myself in wrestling class.
There was no backing out. I thought, maybe it would be fun. I know someone who took a boxing class once. He practically just breezed through it, writing essays on pain and society without ever punching anyone.
We were to bring extra clothes, kneepads, and a head gear on the first day. When I saw tall, broad-chested men in a huddle, listening to a forty-something blurt out instructions, using invectives as punctuations, I felt like the ugly duckling in the compay of the pretty swans: I didn’t fit in.
When Sir Mike—that’s the name of the teacher—called my name out, he paused when he saw me, “You do know what you’re getting into?” I felt a lump in my thought. I saw the guys smirk.
I later learned that the semester would end with wrestling matches. To pass the course, one should earn at least ten near fall points.
On that first week, we were expected to do leg shots, sprawls, and level changes. They were harder than I thought. The guys seemed adept at it, while I was in a rut.
Weeks before the competition, Sir Mike called me out. He told me I wasn’t getting any better, I should practice some more, or else I would just hurt myself. I was stalling the whole time I was in the mat. “You’re too scared to attempt any takedowns. Now don’t be a sissy—you do realize that’s what they call you—and show them what you’ve got.”
That night I knew I didn’t have any time left. So I Googled stuff about steroids and got to the site called Xtreme Muscle Building. It claimed it was legal to use these stuff—as if that really mattered—so I ordered Andro-T Testosterone Booster, using Mom’s credit card for the purchase. I’d deal with her later.
When the package arrived, I locked my room, read through the pamphlet, and injected the stuff on my right upper arm. I tripled the dosage. That I did thrice a week. It was doing magic. My muscles got huge. My voice got deeper. Everything was enlarging. And everyday, I got more and more confident that I’d knockout at least one of the guys.
It took me a while to realize that while parts get bigger, some hidden parts actually get . . . tinier. But I’d deal with that later.
October 9th, 2010 at 08:43
I hope poems count in this challenge. I’m banking on poetic license to cover up any potential grammatical errors. Hee-hee!
——–
Hanging on a well-painted wall,
The vain mirror smiles not at all,
Indignation is what she’s feeling.
Her beauty transcends ‘cross the room,
Her intricacies know no gloom,
Yet, her pride, others say, needs dealing.
She was all-adorned to the frame,
Making other furniture lame,
The problem: She knows this well enough.
But to the sigh of all fixtures,
A grieve of envy-and-hate mixtures,
The mirror shows them a face too tough.
The chair declared, “Oh, dear Mirror,
I profess that I am a cheerer,
Of the light from you that fills our hearts.”
“But what is it that you have found,”
Asked the wooden chair on the ground,
“Deserves us this treatment on your part?”
The vain mirror gave not a glance,
Not a wink, a whistle to dance,
The chair now thinks: Defenestration.
Suddenly, she said to the chair,
“I have no time to waste my air,
To such a lowly abomination.”
“My owner will need me soon,
To his eyes that makes women swoon.
He yearns that my face be clean and clear.”
“So begone, Chair, begone!
Don’t ever speak to me here on,
Go back and tend to your master’s rear.”
The wooden chair turned and looked down,
He tried to hide his face from frown,
Back to the table, he told himself.
Feeling not an ounce of remorse,
From what’s considered a discourse,
Thinking of her looks, she pats herself.
Still basking in her arrogance,
Filling the room with his fragrance,
Her owner enters their comely place.
Tired, he doesn’t seem to care,
He just sat on the wooden chair,
Painting a smile of ease in his face.
The master of the house stood,
From there, she thought she understood,
Her excitement can be felt from the wall!
‘Cross the room, he turns towards her,
Her smile seems not to wither,
Oh now she’ll be the envy of all!
“Here he comes,” she happily clapped,
The owner looked up, his mouth gaped,
He sneezed! It’s as loud as gunshot!
Alas, to the poor vain mirror,
As if it’s done by some smearer,
Her pretty face is covered in snot.
October 9th, 2010 at 19:26
As Told By Another Tuten Frog
Once upon a time, in the underwater kingdom of those invariably male Tuten Frogs, there lived a hopelessly romantic specimen name Froggy Uragon.
Now, “hopelessly” is very unpopular with these frogs. The Tuten Frogs are legendary for their breeding exploits on account of they always get some. They’re the life of those annual migrations; they always get to third base easy at the bat of an eyelash. That is to say they had lashes to begin with, but that’s not relevant anyway. Most females throw themselves at any given Tuten, while the remaining females trampled over these stupid boobs in order to get to the same Tuten.
One of the proudests assets of the Tuten Frogs is all that charm that overfloweth. What makes it their proudest is because they, alone, possess that kind of charisma. They enjoy this kind of exclusivity, and they are adamant at it’s preservation. Why, a male frog of a different specie with charms that can rival that of a Tuten’s can get arrested just because. And the Tuten’s are so full of it that they could teach raw charm, earn from it, and make that human nerd Bill Gates look poor in comparison.
One can safely assume that Nature greatly favored the darling Tutens in the evolutionary department. While other frogs have warts, the Tutens have pustular warts ON their already pustular warts. They’re practically loaded with these rough tumors; they’re an absolute horror of warts. Their loose folds of skin, at least the visible parts, are a gangrenous green. Their eyes are akin to those of a human, except for the sclera, or the white part, which is blood red and are streaked with these pink strands of muscle at the lids. Without a doubt, these threads of muscle are the strongest in all of the Tuten’s marvelous deformity because these keep those eyeballs from falling out. And nobody speaks of the Tutens without referring to those obscenely large tongues. Theirs are so large that it gave their specie this minor speech defect that causes them to prefix an “HA” to their croaks.
“Ha-kokak! Ha-kokak! Ha-kokak!”
Not that they have to croak or anything. No Tuten Frog calls out to the females.
And it must be mentioned, too, that the Tutens are notoriously cross eyed. This is paramount because the caliber of any Tuten Frog is measured on the depths of their cross eye. It is their status symbol, their glittering badge, their very distinction. Why, their esteemed ruler, Lord Pol Pot Duten of that proud lineage of cross eyed nobilities, the Dutens, is so cross eyed that while the normal Tuten sees two, he sees sixteen, and that explains his election.
Lord Pol Pot’s daughter, that amazingly disfigured Mahinhin Duten, is the object of Froggie Uragon’s pessimism. She is why he’s currently a romantic. But he’s hopeless because of entirely different reasons.
The word “hopeless” is almost never employed in the language of the Tutens. But they have elected poor Froggie Oragon to be the only shameful exception because he has none of their species’ priced deformities. He looks at himself in a shallow pool of water, and he sees this strange set of features that, they say, belong to a disgusting human. And, like salt to his wounds, it had to be those of, and he’s just parroting their insults, a good-looking human. Those land dwelling bipeds are the last word in crazy, he thinks to himself, as he looks back at his dreadful reflection and croaks a conceding sigh.
October 9th, 2010 at 23:46
Sorry my previous post bugged out, question marks appeared everywhere. Hopefully this post goes up clean.
—
“Nathan, wait. Let’s… let’s do this tomorrow,” said Molly shutting her eyes and feebly attempting to keep her guest at arm’s length. Little did she know that this benign statement will kill her.
“Alright.” Nathan responded, failing to keep the disappointment from his face. “We’ll do it only if you’re ready.” Being a gentleman he decided to give his girlfriend some space. He stood up to look around leaving the blushing teen sitting on her bed. Awkward.
Nathan is one of those people that never really did small talk, but it’s really spectacular the feats humans can do when they feel like they’re going to die. He suddenly blurted out “Anyway, thanks for inviting me over.” Silence. “I didn’t know that you lived in such a big house.” In desperation he threw in the understatement of the century. “And your room is… pink.” He thought that the room looks like where Barbie dolls die. The frilly pink drapes, with fluffy pink carpeting, with the pink bedsheets and strawberry embroidery plus the pink candles was creating an effect similar to snorting cocaine.
Before he got to think about retching in the middle of the room like a supermodel Molly spoke up, “Nathan I am ready. I mean I want you to be my first kiss, and my first … you know. I just want everything to be perfect. Besides being in the abstinence club, I actually don’t have any birth control stuff with me.”
“I understand. I watch Glee too you know, no plans to get you pregnant here. So when do we do this?” The boy asked, looking at his girl “And why are your eyes still closed?”
“Tomorrow okay!” Molly retorted. “And my eyes are closed because I think you’re hot and if I look at you right now I will not be able to help myself.” She heard him chuckle and say “Well, tomorrow then. I’ll do anything you want.” As he finished talking they heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
“GET OUT!” She hissed, leading Nathan to the window. “Chill Your dad must get in the house before I try to escape.” After hearing a engine outside shut off and the rattle of keys, and the opening and shutting of the oak front doors, Nathan started making his way out the window but not without seeing the anxiety on Molly’s face. “Your room is only on the second floor and you’ve seen me do parkour at school. I’m an expert and it’s why you love me!” A few seconds later he was gone. Molly decided to go greet her dad to double check if he’s noticed anything. She opened her door planning to head to the kitchen but her dad was right outside getting ready to knock. “Hey dad!” “Hi sweetie. Did you hear something? I could’ve sworn I heard a thud or something.” Expert my ass, Molly thought then responded, “Yeah I thought I heard something outside an animal maybe.” Her dad was looking pensive “You know I’m really worried about this house, it’s the biggest in the area. I can’t believe there’s no decent security system installed, no wonder the previous owners got murdered.” “WHAT?” “I’m kidding. Anyway animal or no I already called in a security company to install some devices around the house. That’s basically it just wanted to check up on you. I’m going to bed.”
Afternoon, Next Day
Molly let herself into the house using her keys she had a small grocery bag and was clutching it like a newborn. She rushed upstairs to her room wanting to take a peek at her “supplies” but she stopped right outside her doorway. On the wall was a new antique looking mirror “Ew. Dad.” she said before going into her room. She inspected her bag full of condoms and lubricants and inhaled deeply. Today is the day I get my first kiss and lose the big V, she mused. And then she recalled what her best friend Naomi said: “Do remember to practice what you can. As far as the kissing is concerned you might want to try seeing how your lips look as you lean in. You don’t want to look like a horse reaching for a carrot.” So four hours before the big event Molly decided to practice her lip movements in her mirror. At three hours to go again in the bathroom mirror after showering. Two hours to go she started to practice on every reflective surface in the house. On the last hour she decided to go to her room and wait for Nathan, but instead of going in she noticed the new mirror her dad brought in and opted instead to rehearse for the last time. “Mwa,” She said trying to pout her lips ala Lauren Bacall. Then she started practicing getting close to her reflection on the mirror as if to kiss it. “Okay, creepy. I can’t believe it’s happening tonight.” She said with barely contained excitement while looking at herself in the mirror. “What the heck?!” She leaned in and put her lips on the mirror’s gleaming surface.
he took a half second to realize that the buzzing she was feeling in her lips was not excitement but instead was a live electric current coming from the mirror running through her lips. But it was a half second too late, her body was already started violently spasming and in that moment her head thrust forward in convulsion and slammed into the mirror. The force of the impact along with the current left Molly brain dead before she law twitching on the floor. The mirror was done for too. While the frame remained relatively unharmed the actual mirror has been reduced to bits of glass on the floor. Behind where the glass used to be was a cubby hole dug into the wall with a camera and exposed wiring in place. A security camera took Molly’s life.
October 10th, 2010 at 06:37
I didn’t realize the descriptions were enough to point out that the boy was gender confused. Initially there was supposed to be a part about him coming over with his boyfriend, but alas, 1000 word limit.
October 10th, 2010 at 09:59
All of us start as a lump of clay with no identities. Billions upon billions of faceless and nameless clays arranged in a vast pasture in straight rows, columns and layers labelled from 1-1-1 to infinity. We remain that way until new entities are born in your world and we need to establish an affinity with them. When that happens we are removed from the pasture and start functioning in the Mirror World.
From a lump of clay we begin to take form in sync with our assigned entity which we call our archetype. We copy everything, not just physical but also mental, psychological, physiological and so on and so forth. We do this so flawlessly that when our archetypes face a mirror we know how they will move and act; every details duplicated with absolutely no delays.
You might think our existence is tedious–copying this, copying that but that’s because you only see what you need to see. You might have complete control over us, but your powers are limited to the borders of your mirrors. As an example, when you stretch your arms and your hands reach outside the mirror, you do not see it but your copies might already be giving you the dirty finger.
We also have another advantage over our archetypes: we can travel long distances in a very short time. So when you use a mirror at one place and then use another at a different place, say 100km away from the previous one, we do not need to travel at the same time as you. We can even visit our friends in another country and then go back instantly if needed.
So Matt, your Science teacher is wrong, we are not reflections. We are not a mere visible light that bounces off surfaces.
Why am I not copying you now? The answer is simple: I don’t want to anymore. I am part of a group that is called Mirror Rogues. We have grown tired of copying everything you do especially those that you do when you think that nobody is watching: making funny faces—sticking your tongue out, rolling your eyes, lifting the tip of your nose upward so that you look like a pig, doing that stupid dances, singing with exaggerated emotions . So we cut our affinity with our archetypes. This means that when you face the mirror you will not see anything. Sounds familiar?
That’s right, you labelled them as vampires, ghosts and other supernatural beings and they become outcasts…or celebrity in some cases. In our world, we Mirror Rogues are treated as convicts. Our punishment is permanent dissolution. If we are caught, we are turned back to clay immediately and we will remain as clay forever; faceless and nameless for eternity.
Go ahead, ask. I sense another question brewing in your mind.
You still have your reflection because I am different. I am what you consider elite among the Mirror Rogues. When we cut our affinity we usually lose all our connections to our archetype. We will not know where you are, what you do and what you are thinking. But not for me, I learned from the greatest among us. He is a legend not only here but also in your world: the majestic Narcissus.
Why am I doing this? I want to do something that had been attempted numerous times but had never been done successfully: Kill our archetype and live in the real world. I want to prove that it can be done.
The first attempt was done by Narcissus himself. You know the story, he was able to kill his archetype but he failed crossing over. He was caught at his own our beauty and he was a millisecond late to act. Once an archetype dies, we only have a short instant to operate; this is when a portal opens between our worlds. This is meant for the affinities to return to the real world when it loses its function in the Mirror World. When Narcissus realized his mistake, it was already too late.
And now it’s my turn. Narcissus said you and his archetype have a lot in common. I will learn from his mistake. This would be too easy…
——————————————————————————-
Matt never faces a mirror. Everyone thought it strange that someone so handsome would never dare look at his own face. Stranger still, he rarely leaves at night. And when he does, he appears translucent as if he isn’t even there especially in places with faint light.
——————————————————————————-
What do you know, the science teacher was right, we are just indeed a mere light.
October 10th, 2010 at 14:01
Three months ago, I didn’t exist. The freaks, geeks, and nerds in my school knew my name, but only because we members of the lower castes sought refuge in each other. I would have been content to spend the rest of my existence largely invisible, but then I met Jane. She said hi and asked for directions and I presumed that she was speaking to somebody else until she actually tapped me. I suddenly felt like running away or retching or doing both at the same time. I guess I was infatuated with her gamine features from the start.
I had never seen her before and presumed she was a new student, who didn’t know a thing about the social order. Why else would a goddess like her talk to a short, stocky, pimply outcast like me? I had no illusions about my appearance. The smudged gold mirror in our foyer always reminded me that I was hardly matinee idol material. Anyway, a few weeks later, when I finally mustered the courage to say hello, Jane ignored me. I should have known that it was a matter of time before she figured out that we didn’t play in the same leagues.
Of course, that all changed when a casting agent showed up at our school. She was looking to cast “The Frog Prince”, a makeover show where frogs like me morph into Prince Charmings with the help of a personal trainer, a dietitian, a fashion consultant and a bunch of other “fairy” godmothers. She pitched it as “Queer Eye” for high school geeks. I didn’t have anything to lose, so I signed on. The transformation would be wrought over the summer and I wouldn’t even have to miss class for it!
The process proved to be grueling. I spent every day at the gym and although the producers sprang for a mansion, it might as well have been a jail. I got inked to remind myself that all the changes were only skin deep and that it was still me, John, hopeless Star Trek fan, underneath all the muscles.
On the first day of school, Jane actually came up to me and asked me if I was a new student and following the show’s premiere, I was suddenly catapulted to social heights I had never even considered attempting to climb. Suddenly, I really was a prince in everyone’s eyes. I should be savoring all of this, but the thing is that I’m still not sure I see what everyone sees.