LitWit Challenge 3.11: Stabbed in the heart (Updated with a message to our past winners.)
We like all the books we give away in the Weekly LitWit Challenges, but this one is particularly awesome.
The hardcover edition of Lydia Davis’s exquisite short, short, short stories. You want to own this book. You want to read every word and punctuation mark. It is genius. And all we want for it is 1,000 words or less.
Your assignment for LitWit Challenge 3.11 is to write a story based on this photograph.
This is a picture of Harry Morris of the Philippine national men’s rugby team stabbing himself in the heart with the broadsword wielded by the hero in the Panday movie, unfortunately not Ang Panday starring Fernando Poe, Jr but the remake starring Senator Ramon Revilla Jr which was directed by Peque Gallaga who really knows his sword-and-sorcery stuff. It can’t hurt that much because the subject is smiling.
You may ignore these factoids, esp. the fact that the heart should be on the left.
Your story may treat the stabbing in the heart literally (Tsug! Aaah!) or symbolically (the stabbing as a metaphor for something besides death by stabbing).
The maximum length for each story is 1,000 words. You may submit as many stories as you wish. The deadline for the submission of entries is Monday, 15 November 2010 at 11.59pm.
Make it good. As in, Good enough for publication, you know what I’m saying? The Yucch-meter is online for this one.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore. Where I live, practically.
* * * * *
Friday, 1500h. We thought we’d be swamped with entries by now, so what’s the problem? Would a soundtrack help? Here’s a piece of music—you may choose to use it when you write, or you may ignore it altogether. The Yucch-meter wants something to read this weekend.
* * * * *
Monday, 15 November.
THIS CANNOT BE. We need more stories. So I am extending the deadline to Friday, 19 November, and I am asking our past LitWit Challenge winners to join this one. And I will personally present the Lydia Davis book to the winner.
dibee, sad_ism, Qsdn, cochise_miz, stellalehua, johnbristol6, Momelia, cdlaclos, jake, jediknight, we need you. Years ago you served my father in the Clone Wars. Now he begs you to help him in his struggle against the Empire. I regret that I am unable to present my father’s request to you in person, but my ship has fallen under attack and I’m afraid my mission to bring you to Alderaan has failed. I have placed information vital to the survival of the Rebellion into the memory systems of this R2 unit. My father will know how to retrieve it. You must see this droid safely delivered to him on Alderaan. This is our most desperate hour. Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.
* * * * *
The beacons were lit—and Momelia answered. We have a new story by Momelia!
There’s been an appreciable increase in the number and variety of entries: What a relief. Keep sending in your stories, you have until tomorrow at 11.59 pm. The Yucch-meter goes online tonight.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
November 9th, 2010 at 13:08
I’ll buy a copy and make it my book for December.
I must say, Harry’s visage is so versatile. Iba na naman ang hitsura niya dito. At yang espada, pangtuhog…
November 9th, 2010 at 14:45
It must have been the way she tucks her hair behind her ears, as she lifts the cup from the table, sips a little and put it down again. Harry knew he love he right then and there. He thought, I could spend my life with this woman, and die with a smile on my face.
But in real life, you do understand? You do follow me? In real life, it’s not always a happy ending. Not every story ends with a prince, as Harry imagined himself to be, sweeping the damsel off her feet and the carriage goes to the castle for a wedding, with cursive slowing spelling out “THE END” on screen. It’s not like that, real life.
So he lay there now on the bed. Thinking of what could have been. He did not marry her, but he always like to think what could have been. All he could remember now is the petty fights, but he was convinced that he loved her. He wanted this, she wanted that. She wanted those, but he disliked them. Those things he recalls, and then ask himself, what if? What if I let her have those, she just let me have this?
What if’s are nasty, you always imagine things would have been better if you just change one minute details. You could have worn a different shirt, one that she had given you, and maybe she wouldn’t have been too sour, the conversations would have been longer, would have not been clipped, and forced. But deep down, you knew you are helpless to change the past, and you got to live its consequence: waking up on an empty bed.
He saw her again, a brood of kids swarmed around her. Her face is a bit sunken, perhaps from the stress of motherhood. She was still pretty, she retained that air of simplicity which, Harry thought, was what appealed to him the most. But she wanted those, and he disliked them.
“Hi there. How are you?,” said Harry.
“Hello, Harry. You look well,” was her reply. Harry beamed. He does look well. He worked on this, he rehearsed this conversation too many times. I will show her I’m doing fine even without her. But before he could say, I’d been doing this, I went to this place, abroad… a child tugged at her, and off she went to attend to the child’s need.
Now he lay on his bed, asking the what if’s. He was sad, but at the same time, happy. She wanted those, but he disliked them. What if he said, yes? And the images of the swarm of kids around her, and her sunken face flashed. He felt a tinge of pain, just a jab, but something inside him tore. They could have been his.
But he dislike them, he knew. And deep inside, he was happy.
November 9th, 2010 at 14:58
We have our first entry, from john dorian! That was quick. This wouldn’t happen to be something you’d written long before the contest?
The Yucch-meter says: Slightly icky, but not nauseating. More problematic is the characters’ lack of. . .character. They sound generic. Perhaps you could add specifics, for instance details of their squabbles.
As always, we believe that the fewer the adjectives the better.
November 9th, 2010 at 16:34
Thanks for that. I’ll rewrite the story.
I just wrote it after I read about your contest. I read a story from Lydia Davis here in your blog, about a daughter calling her mother up, and I thought it was compact, short but there’s an undercurrent that extends beyond the frame. I wanted that for the story, and I want the book. :D
November 9th, 2010 at 21:17
Not an entry: The subject is smiling despite being stabbed. Masochist? Hahaha!
November 9th, 2010 at 21:41
#5 the chronicler of boredom Also not an entry — I know right?! Harry, where did you get the sword???
November 9th, 2010 at 21:42
Perhaps people are being drained by/preparing for NaNoWriMo?
http://www.nanowrimo.org
Basically, write a 50,000 word novel in November. The “national” part is now an artifact, of course.
November 9th, 2010 at 21:47
brewhuh23 at 9:41 pm: The broadsword is mine. I collect.
November 9th, 2010 at 22:09
#8 jessicazafra — Fabulous :)
November 10th, 2010 at 01:17
Lydia just finished applying rosin on her bow. Her instrument, a dark brown student violin with a shoulder rest already clamped underneath it, was resting on top of a decrepit piano. She stared at the violin’s varnish for a moment and tried to recall the first measure of the minuet that she needed to rehearse. She was about to put away the rosin when her violin teacher, a man in his late twenties and who looked like someone who just finished a badminton game, entered the music room.
“Hi Lydia. Sorry, I am a bit late, I needed to talk to the department secretary,” the teacher said as he laid his violin case beside hers. “So let’s start. Have you tuned up your violin already?”
“Yes Sir,” Lydia replied as she placed her instrument between her chin and her shoulder.
“Let’s begin with the Boccherini piece,” her teacher commenced, wiping some sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief.
Lydia timidly positioned her bow on the bottom string and pressed her pinky near the middle of that string. She bowed downwards and slurred four sixteenth notes, a task that proved to be difficult for her playing level. The first measure sounded more of a series of mournful squeaks than a radiant and powerful opening to a musical piece in allegro.
“Relax your fingers, Lydia,” her teacher interrupted. “You are pressing on the bow too hard. And don’t forget to put down your other fingers on the string. All of them must be down, all the time. This will help when you do shiftings, especially when we start practicing Vivaldi’s A Minor for your recital.”
“Sorry Sir. I had little practice this week,” Lydia explained apologetically. “I just practiced this morning.”
“That’s alright, but it’s better if you allot at least five minutes a day for your practice,” her teacher said. “It’s better than nothing at all. Remember, even the best soloists need to practice. Talent is nothing without putting some effort. Let’s do some scalings first to train those fingers.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent on pieces that, according to Lydia’s teacher, would develop speed and finger dexterity. Lydia’s left wrist was in pain all throughout; she was not used to playing scales at a fast tempo. Her teacher told her that this should not be surprising since he also experienced these wrist pains during his beginning years. He reminded her to relax. Relaxed fingers and wrists should bring out the sound of a violin, the teacher commented.
Lydia got home immediately after her violin lesson. She went up to her room and placed her violin case on her bed and lied down beside it. The desk beside her bed was filled with sheets of paper. On top of the thickest pile, there were scribbles in red ink, the most conspicuous one spelling “redefend.”
She just stared up, not really thinking of anything. Her eyes were darting from every other spot of the stark white ceiling. She just remained there lying, not moving, trying to mean something, trying to exist. She got up with a jolt, opened the violin case beside her, and decided to give the minuet another try.
The room was filled with long notes as Lydia retuned her violin. The top three strings were still okay, but the bottom one was flat. She tried turning a peg, but it wouldn’t budge. She gathered some energy in her fingers, and after twisting the peg forcefully, the bottom string broke off.
Lydia could only sigh while looking at the limp string hanging hopelessly on the scroll. She held the instrument by the neck and proceeded in removing the broken string with her free hand. The string was stubborn; it didn’t want to let go. She got a little irritated so she opened the only window of her room to breathe and was arrested by the rusting roofs of the neighborhood.
Oddly, there were no kids running around the streets. The air was still and a bit chilly, and for a moment, she was convinced that she saw a vision of her violin teacher in the overcast sky. He was holding his expensive pernambuco bow, pointing it to her, mouthing the words “relax, relax.” She drew up her arm, inhaled sharply, and with a malevolent surge of force she never realized resided in her heart, threw her violin out of the window.
November 10th, 2010 at 05:47
Harry, harry. Those biceps are legend, the quads scandalous scrumptious, the planes of those abs so flat I can catnap on it. After I shake off this Pinot Noir (suschyal, dati Gin Bulag lang) maybe I can write you a piercing piece.
And why must you torment us with that cheeky smile? You do this deliberately?
You really should stop posing atop beds, bedsheets. It is most disconcerting.
November 10th, 2010 at 23:20
jessica, so this pic was taken in manila na, right? i can’t imagine how you’d pass through airport security with THAT. =) but that means you were walking around manila/CBD/Alabang with that sword. how did you, erm, brandish it? i mean pack it? plastek bahg? =)
November 11th, 2010 at 02:21
sunflowii at 11:20 pm: Yes, the photo was taken in Makati. I carry the swords (more than one) in their scabbards. This is not the first time I’ve walked around carrying swords. You’d be surprised at how easy it is to walk into buildings carrying medieval weapons. Who’s going to stop me?
Swords can’t be cabin baggage, they have to be checked baggage.
November 11th, 2010 at 04:20
hello sweetums, why so quiet?
November 11th, 2010 at 11:55
Stabbed in the Heart
Broken. Torn. Enraged.
I cried in my mother’s lap.
Silence.
Enthusiastically she spoke,
“Look at these photos on Facebook!”
November 11th, 2010 at 14:34
I’ve been trying to come up with an entry since yesterday but all that comes out is CHEESE. *sigh!* I’m afraid I’ll break your Yucch-meter.
November 11th, 2010 at 17:15
The Blacksmith
Faces flashed in his mind as he considered the quickly darkening horizon from the balcony of his five-star hideout, a lit cigarette between his lips. Shame, he thought, while taking a deep drag, his eyes closed tight.
He saw his Ma and Pop, who said Acting…but why son? when he told them about this guy who told him he should move to LA. He saw Clotilde, the ingénue he married years before she won that Academy Award. Just a year ago, she asked him for a divorce right after filming that stupid comedy with People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive for three years in a row Derek Christianson. He saw Annabelle Jones, his most rabid fan who at 14 made international entertainment headlines when she broke into his Hollywood Hills home and was later caught with a duffel bag full of his clothes. He saw the indistinct faces of his millions of screaming ex-fans, the ones he used to wave that rehearsed wave to while on the red carpet, the ones who used to hold up placards saying I LOVE YOU HARRY!!! at the arrival areas of the countless airports he’s been to, the ones whose eyes he had always imagined were looking at him whenever he was sitting in front of the camera.
And finally, he saw the headlines, all black and in bold, that he had fantasized about during his final days in rehab. Harry Morris to make comeback; Harry Morris – Out of rehab, back on set!; Oscar buzz for Morris’ comeback role. Harry Morris stars in Cannes contender. He dropped the unfinished cigarette on the floor and let out a deep sigh into the starless night. Shame, he thought. Shame.
He let himself fall onto his bed, eyes suddenly transfixed by the strange shapes the muted TV projected onto the ceiling.
It all started one month into his fourth visit to rehab, which he entered just four months after the filming of his latest movie wrapped. The World War II epic Eyes in the Sky went straight to DVD and had disastrously weak sales. On E! News again for his fourth DUI, he woke up from what seemed like a week’s worth of sleep dazed at the Hopewell Clinic with a cast on his leg and bandages on his hands and head.
He knew phones were not allowed where he was so he was surprised when they called him to the lobby and told him It’s for you. It was his agent.
Harry! David said loudly.
Harry mumbled some words. He had forgotten he had an agent, that he was an actor at all.
Listen, Harry, I’ve got some great news. Liz just called. Said this Filipino director wants you in the lead for his next movie. Gonna premiere it in Cannes — in competition! Said he wrote the part just for you. Are you listening to this, Harry? He said he saw you in some drama you did way back. Can you believe that?
The Blacksmith. That’s what Harry read on the first page of the script when he got it the next day. What a load of horse crap, he thought right after reading it. But David insisted that Guillermo was a motherfucking genius. And winning Best Actor at Cannes would certainly make for a good comeback, a big fuck you to all those who had dismissed him as a hopeless, washed-up has-been.
But, Shame, he thought. The walkouts began five minutes into the premiere. Those who sat through it seemed to have done so just to Boo! it into pieces as the credits rolled. He left the theatre well before the credits ended and was driven straight back to the hotel.
He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and turned up the volume. He had listened to a couple of commercials when he heard the host of Hollywood Daily say And we’re back with news from Cannes…
He sat up and lit another cigarette.
Shame, he thought. Why the fuck did he agree to do this fucking movie? He was already happy just mulling over his wasted career at Hopewell. Fuck David, he thought. Fuck Guillermo, too. Fuck them all. He didn’t want to do Celebrity Apprentice before, but now, it didn’t sound like such a bad idea. Man’s gotta feed himself. Motherfucking shame.
He had lit another cigarette when the report ended. He turned the TV off and let himself fall back onto the bed. Eyes closed, he racked his mind for their faces again.
He saw them again. This time, they were all on a stage, standing side by side like a chorus line. Ma, Pop, Clotilde, Derek, Annabelle Jones, David, Guillermo and all his faceless fans. He was sitting alone in the theater, looking up at the cast. He considered them for a while and slowly, he realized, they were waiting for his applause.
November 11th, 2010 at 19:18
#10. The one about the girl taking violin lessons, by angus25.
The Yucch-meter says: You’ve put some thought into this. We like the bit about the violin teacher who looks like someone who had just come from a game of badminton. It reminds us of the way people are described in Nine Stories. And the details about the violin lessons seem authentic–except for the teacher’s statement about talent, yiiiii, but then there are teachers who say stuff like that. Our problem is that we can’t bring ourselves to care whether Lydia learns the violin or not. There is no hint of an inner life. Why does she even take violin lessons?
November 11th, 2010 at 19:25
#17. The Blacksmith by scientist.
The Yucch-meter says: This entry is polished enough to make us suspicious. We actually googled some of the bits to see if they’d been published before (Consider this a compliment). We like the Bret Easton Ellis-ness of your story. Also it reminds us a bit of our favorite Hollywood camp cheese-fest, The Oscar starring Stephen Boyd, but in a good way. We like the way it captures the glittering horseshit of showbiz. Bravo, you are in the running.
November 11th, 2010 at 22:33
I wish I could edit to add four or five more sentences, but that would seem like cheating. And it might end up as a bad attempt, haha. I guess I will leave it that way. Thanks!
November 11th, 2010 at 22:56
Thank you. That one’s all original, thanks to the very inspiring photo. Here’s another one:
Kapit sa Patalim na Mapurol
“Relax ka lang,” bulong niya. Mainit ang hininga niyang kumiliti sa tenga ko. “‘Di naman dahil gagawin mo ‘to eh bakla ka na rin.”
November 12th, 2010 at 13:00
“Of all the shit that you can possibly take home, you bring this? A sword. What the hell are we going to do with this!? Are you nuts? Are you planning to attend a fair or something? Cause this is excellent props. That is, after you get over the fact that YOU CAN BARELY LIFT THIS THING!”
Morris was pacing the room but kept glancing at the bed. The weapon was there by the pillows. He threw it upon entering the room. He was furious not because it was useless. He was furious because he was scared. He went to the bed and picked it up with one hand. Now that adrenaline has subsided, it felt heavier. But he can still carry it easily.
“At least this is not as stupid as last time. Last time you brought home a JACKSTONE SET. Which you took from INSIDE a parked car! In a parking lot WITH cameras! Could you be anymore wack! And what’s the deal about calling me inside that studio? You know I hate being part of your shit.”
He twisted his right wrist swirling the sword in a circle. He caught himself in the mirror. He looked good. Cool, even. He grasped the handle with both hands, flexed his arms, the weapon partially covering his eyes. He looked deadly. The ladies would drool over this. At least he found one use for it.
“We could sell……”
His eyes closed for a few seconds. When he opened it, it looked droopy. His arms dropped, the tip hit the floor hard, chipping it. He couldn’t care less. He dragged the sword, further damaging the floor.
“We are not selling anything. Not the jackstone set, definitely not the sword. And I did not call for you on that studio. You came by yourself. I said “Let’s split” and you appeared. I thought you’re smart? Split doesn’t just mean separate or two.”
“This reminds me of the toy mom bought. I don’t steal for fun. I’m not sick. I don’t hear voices telling me to take things. I only take things that are ours. Mine. What do you want me to nick, books? You have tons of it. Those don’t mean anything……”
Morris’ eyes closed yet again. This time it was only a flicker before it opened. They have returned to its original sharpness.
“It’s not the objects that I care about, klepto! It’s the act. I don’t care whether it means the freakin’ world or hell, what if it’s a house and lot?! Would you steal it? Kill the owners and start moving in? And don’t you butt my books in this. I bought those! Those are mine. Chicks love men that read! Don’t you dare cry on me!
Morris seemed sleepy. He laid his back on the bed.
“Who’s crying? You don’t understand because you don’t feel anything. You need your books to show you emotion. You need them to poke you and tell you you’re alive. Do you remember the first thing I stole? It was your first book. You wanted it as much as I wanted to retrieve it. Why don’t you recognize the feeling? It’s the same. It’s our life, more than bait to get laid. What do you think would happen if you suppress me?”
He was trying to lift the sword while lying. Even with both hands, it was hard. He managed to raise it at arms distance. He felt a cut in his left hand. There were blunt areas in the sword, but some are sharp enough. His arms were straining. Since he is left-handed, more weight is on that side. He was alarmed with the thought of what could happen to it. He tried to shift it. His right hand slipped, the sword fell fast. He blinked, grasped the sword with his right hand and toppled it to the bedside. Good thing he is right-handed.
He knew he can’t stop the stealing. How would he do it? Suicide? He heard sobs somewhere. Why does it always end this way?
“I need to rest. Lugging that thing out of your crime scene was tiring.” He removed his shoes and slipped in the covers. He was asleep in no time.
He was alone when tears started rolling down the pillows. He opened his eyes slowly, taking a peek first. He stealthily got out of bed, covering his mouth while whispering.
“Exodus 20:15: Thou shall not steal. Mom said stealing is bad. It hurt when she spanked. Stealing is bad, she said. Thou shall not steal.”
He tip-toed with hunched shoulders to the sword. He traced the sharp parts then looked at the cut in his left hand. There was blood at the base of his thumb: a nice red line. He tried to lift the sword to no avail. It would have been easier that way, but now, there is no other choice, no other time. Tears were welling in his eyes.
Morris started sliding his hand, back and forth, on a certain sharp edge. The feeling of a blunt area meant he needed to slide down, to the sharp edge again. Blunt then sharp. Carefully, he traced the line. More blood gushed, and a searing pain. He took off his right sock and stuffed it in his mouth. He dare not close his eyes.
“Divide. Split. Not just separate or two.”
The duo of sharp then blunt quickened the process, continued mashing and cutting. He knew the time was near so he knelt and pressed hard on the finger. There was a loud snap. Excruciating pain followed. He took the finger and started to move but he was tired, his eyelids were heavy. He crawled to the bathroom.
“I did not kill. Thou shall not kill. But stealing is bad. Thou shall not steal. He needs to go.”
He threw the thief in the toilet and flushed it. He did not kill but someone died.
November 12th, 2010 at 13:26
Stabbing The Man In The Heart
“Look, just look. See that. Jesus I don’t even bleed.”, he smiles, in between staring at his wife’s scar and repeating the procedure of leisure stabbing on the chest with a sword. His red shirt’s on the floor, almost touching a fringe of the dark crimson curtains the texture of thrift-shop cardigan. His wife now staring at its pleats.
She has nothing to say, and can think of nothing but the call. It’s vivid really, something she thought she couldn’t normally associate with sound, and oddly better than the spectacle of eternal life she now faces. The voice wasn’t familiar, but if stereotyped would remind you something secretarial. Why was it crying and asking to speak of my man?, she once thought. No it couldn’t be a confirmation. It couldn’t be that this was that. There are reasons for cliches, but this won’t be theirs.
“Why that look, Lydia. Don’t you see..”, looking back at the sword’s blade, tracing its silver, right palm to the shaft, its index finger sliding across it with a force that would otherwise be scream- and scarlet-inducing or just simply something nobody would do.
“I’m not gonna die, Lydia. I’m not.”
At least a minute pause, and then she thought, “That’s the thing. That’s. The thing”, sick to her mouth, not knowing if it’s because she’s probably not the last girl to know or it’s too late now to stab him in the heart.
—-
Context: This is inspired by a story about a guy who just realized he’s an android.
November 12th, 2010 at 14:36
androidiscool at 1:26 pm: Your last line: Too much information. You just ruined your own story.
November 12th, 2010 at 22:57
I just realized the last line deleted feels better, although when I wrote that I really felt it should be there. Can the previous entry be deleted and replaced with an edited one and give this another try? Putting the word “wife” was also a mistake.
November 15th, 2010 at 00:27
Ok but what about another entry? That seems fair, right?:
——
Romeo and Romeo
On the sixtieth floor of the Burn, Burn and Burn Law Firm Tower there is a room where six men, six women and six dogs while time away like in church. One of the women stands near the glass wall window and in the wing chairs are two of the men in suits.
“Well on the whole I think it was such a bad idea, don’t you think?”, Romeo asked.
“You think?”, Romeo replied.
“Really? Even here you’re gonna do that? Anyway, it was pretty funny, though.”
“Not when you’re the joke and you’re here after.”
“Come on don’t be that. Look at the bright side: if we hadn’t done it we wouldn’t have been here together like this. Or at least not as soon.”
“…”
“…”
“It wasn’t a saber. And I kept the photo.”
“I know.”
“What in hell were we even thinking.”
“Exactly. Oh look that’s Ben the son. Wanna know what he did to be here?”
“Does it matter? And why “the son”?”
“He’ssomeone’sson I guess andyeah OF COURSE it matters Romeo! Jesus what’s wrong with you?”, Romeo joked before he glanced back at the woman who was still staring at the expanse of field down below where a dog in a bib drinks from a fetid wound over which serpents slide; where fire is replete and monochrome fireworks implode; where you can no more sing nor feel the rain pour; where the value of pi is no longer and why why is why is not; and where there’s a landscape a horizon and a mother with a baby should be in but aren’t.
November 15th, 2010 at 15:29
Jerome was killed by the one thing he loved most in this world. He was found last month lying on the bed with an 18th century Scottish broadsword through his chest, an item he brought back from his travels five years ago.
The lock on the front door was broken but nothing was stolen, I told the police. There were no finger prints. The sword was removed from the wall where it used to hang. There was no sign of a struggle; he must have been sleeping when it happened. It must be murder, they said.
Who would want to kill you, Jerome? I asked his dead body during the funeral. His eyes and mouth were closed, refusing to answer.
I found the choice of the weapon curious, but rather fitting. Jerome would have laughed at the irony of it. He’s always pointing out the absurdities of life.
Jerome and I were married for 12 years, and now that I’m a widow, I wonder what life would be like without him. We have no children and our marriage has been quiet, tranquil even.
I sold the sword in Ebay after the funeral. It seemed too big; its presence dominated our small apartment and reminded me too much of his death.
At night, when I sleep in our bed that still bear stains of his blood, my mind searches for clues in our marriage that might reveal the identity of his killer.
I always imagined it as a he, a man, tall and strong enough to pierce a man’s chest with a heavy sword. Did my husband struggle? Was he asleep?
But there was nothing I could think of. Jerome was mild-mannered and had few friends. He was always home early and he never got into an argument or a fight. At least, none that I can remember.
His death was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to us and I was strangely drawn to recreating it in my head. I play several variations of the scene.
In one, I was tied and the killer was threatening to hurt me. Jerome fought with him, my meek husband transformed into a hero, but the killer was too powerful and overpowered him.
In another, I killed my husband. He was asleep, deep in his slumber and I slowly lifted the sword from the wall and plunged it into his heart. His eyes opened briefly and in them I saw a baffled look, like he was asking why.
November 15th, 2010 at 18:08
Nobody knew why he did it.
His roommate said he was drunk and boisterous last night. As usual.
His girlfriend said he called her up during lunch to ask what she was having. The usual.
His mother said he hasn’t called or visited her for weeks. Expected.
His co-worker said that just before he left the office, he asked her if she has ever read Nine Stories.
November 15th, 2010 at 21:58
This is the first time I’ve heard of this song. I like it! I will try to submit the story by Friday (thank you for extending the deadline). By the way, have you had the chance to listen to Soundgarden’s Telephantasm yet?
November 15th, 2010 at 22:00
I saw the book around two months ago, and I am not sure why I didn’t buy it. I was reminded of it when I saw it here. I did a little tweaking with my entry to address issues with characterization. If it’s alright, I’d like to take back my word, haha. With your permission, of course. If there is no improvement or if it is still trashy, just delete it. Thanks!
November 16th, 2010 at 00:31
cochise_miz: It’s by an Australian band called The Church, and it’s on the soundtrack of Donnie Darko. Thanks for reminding me of the Soundgarden album, I’ll find it.
November 16th, 2010 at 00:32
angus25: Send it. We always allow revisions.
November 16th, 2010 at 01:52
Lydia just finished applying rosin on her bow. Her instrument, a dark brown student violin with a shoulder rest already clamped underneath it, was resting on top of a decrepit piano. She stared at the violin’s varnish for a moment and tried to recall the first measure of the minuet that she needed to rehearse. She was about to put away the rosin when her violin teacher, a man in his late twenties and who looked like someone who just finished a badminton game, entered the music room.
“Hi. Sorry, I am a bit late, I needed to talk to the department secretary,” the teacher said as he laid his violin case beside hers. “So let’s start. Have you tuned up your violin already?”
“Yes, Sir,” Lydia replied, releasing a furtive sigh as she placed her instrument between her chin and her shoulder.
“Let’s begin with the Boccherini piece,” her teacher commenced, wiping some sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief.
Lydia timidly positioned her bow on the bottom string and pressed her pinky near the middle of that string. She bowed downwards and slurred four sixteenth notes, a task that proved to be difficult for her playing level. The first measure sounded more of a series of mournful squeaks than a radiant and powerful opening to a musical piece in allegro.
“Relax your fingers, Lydia,” her teacher interrupted. “You are pressing on the bow too hard. And don’t forget to put down your other fingers on the string. All of them must be down, all the time. This will help when you do shiftings, especially when we start practicing Vivaldi’s A Minor for your recital.”
“Sorry, Sir. I had little practice this week,” Lydia explained, almost apologetically. “I just practiced this morning,” she defended further with a clenched jaw.
“That’s alright, but it’s better if you allot at least five minutes a day for your practice,” her teacher said. “It’s better than nothing at all. Remember, even the best soloists need to practice. Talent is nothing without putting some effort. Let’s do some scalings first to train those fingers.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent on pieces that, according to Lydia’s teacher, would develop speed and finger dexterity. Lydia’s left wrist was in pain all throughout; she was not used to playing scales at a fast tempo. She was about to complain, but she didn’t have a chance since her teacher told her right away that this should not be surprising because he also experienced these wrist pains during his beginning years. He reminded her to relax. Relaxed fingers and wrists should bring out the sound of a violin. That was what the teacher commented again and again.
Lydia got home immediately after her violin lesson. She went up to her room and placed her violin case on her bed and lied down beside it. The desk beside her bed was filled with sheets of paper. On top of the thickest pile, there were scribbles in red ink, the most conspicuous one spelling “redefend.”
She just stared up, brushing away any thoughts arising from that day’s lesson. Her eyes were darting from every other spot of the stark white ceiling. She just remained there lying, not moving, trying to mean something, trying to exist. She was reminded of the first time she heard Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, particularly the first movement of Winter. While listening to it, she actually saw snow falling from the sky, first slowly, and then harshly. The opening trills made her shudder, even just thinking about it. The notes pulsated with the beating of her heart. The concerti made her see things that she never thought she would. She wanted to play the same, to compose the same. She wanted that: the creation of things that will sustain life amidst the continuum of time. She got up with a jolt, opened the violin case beside her, and decided to give the minuet another try.
The room was filled with long notes as Lydia retuned her violin. The top three strings were still okay, but the bottom one was flat. She tried turning a peg, but it wouldn’t budge. She gathered some energy in her fingers, and after twisting the peg rather forcefully, the bottom string broke off.
Lydia silently cursed while looking at the limp string hanging hopelessly on the scroll. She held the instrument by the neck and proceeded in removing the broken string with her free hand. The string was stubborn; it didn’t want to let go. She got really exasperated so she opened the only window of her room to breathe and was arrested by the rusting roofs of the neighborhood.
Oddly, there were no kids running around the streets; the absence of squalid noise could have been perfect for an afternoon practice. The air was still and a bit chilly, and for a moment, she was convinced that she saw a vision of her violin teacher in the overcast sky. He was holding his expensive pernambuco bow, pointing it to her, mouthing the words “relax, relax.” You can point that bow somewhere else, she thought.
Vivaldi’s A Minor. She doesn’t want that. She wanted Spring. Summer. Autumn. And Winter. She drew up her arm, inhaled sharply, and with a malevolent surge of force she never realized resided inside her, hurled her violin out of the window.
November 16th, 2010 at 13:47
Uy may special mention si watashi! Lavet! I do apologize for the inconvenience, Madame, but this picture is a metaphor for what I’m suffering now. Yack, baduy! Gustuhin ko mang sumulat eh puro ako hurt. Taray ng mga entries ha! (Segue lang, di ko naman talaga binasa eh. Wahaha! Nagpaparamdam lang po, muahness everything! And the sweetest song that I can sing oh baby!)
November 16th, 2010 at 14:57
Revision, then:
Stabbing The Man In The Heart
“Look, just look. See that. Jeezus I don’t even…feel.”, he smiles, in between staring at her mouth and repeating a procedure right through the chest with a sword. His red shirt’s on the floor, almost touching a fringe of the crimson curtains the texture of cardigan. She’s now staring at its pleats.
She has nothing to say, and can think of nothing but the call. It’s vivid really, something she thought she couldn’t normally associate with telephone sound, and oddly better than the spectacle of eternal life she’d now face. The voice wasn’t familiar, but if stereotyped would remind you something secretarial. Why was it crying and asking to speak of my man?, she once thought. No it couldn’t be a confirmation. It couldn’t be that this was that. There are reasons for cliches, but theirs won’t be this yet.
“Why that look? Don’t you see..”, looking back at the sword, tracing its silver, palm to the shaft, its blade slicing the left index finger, with a force that would otherwise be scream- and scarlet-inducing. Or just simply something nobody would do.
“I’m not gonna die, Baby. Even for you.”
There was at least a minute pause before she thought “That’s it that’s it that’s the reason”, sick to her mouth, but not knowing if it’s because she’s probably not the last girl to know or it’s too late now to stab him in the heart.
November 16th, 2010 at 15:16
Or what about something religious to Lydia?
—
The Replacement Sheet
Because to be honest, when we first got here I never thought you could…you could stain the sheet that much red.
November 16th, 2010 at 22:42
Hi Jessica! I know this is beside the point but I actually saw you months ago at the iPhone4 launch in New World Hotel. I should have introduced myself but we had to ambush-interview Bithos right after the event and I was ~shy. Anyway I hope I can come up with something before Friday. Yay.
November 17th, 2010 at 13:53
(I’m a newbie. I’d like to give it a try. Sorry if it sucks.)
He jerked awake, hypnic jerk as science calls it, like a thwack by nature to terminate unconsciousness, but to him it felt like a warning or reprove for which there is no absolution. On a shady corner of a fetid sidewalk of the shrieking city, he chanced upon a hovel to slump into on his numberless days among many days of the years it seemed that he drifted around the city. He had an inkling, or maybe it wasn’t, maybe just a mechanical shut-off from overuse, or maybe it wasn’t, maybe just a random happenstance to land on a bus terminal where he found an entry way—a flashing distinguishable one—a dwarfish ticket box, brightly-lit window towards a nameable dimension: his hometown. On a moldy scruffy board was scrawled ‘Du…ma..gue..te’—a flash of recognition. He stared, the landing seemed deserted enough—time could’ve slipped by, maybe timeless, the scythe almost slipped away from his boyish hand, sun wildly beating against his body frying him to a crisp, ‘harden up boy’ his father prodded him with a bamboo stick then proceeded to prod the carabao to scour and burn on that hellish day, at midday his grandmother hollered hysterically that his father collapsed cold and never woke again, days went by burning the field until the grasses succumbed brown and crisp on the ground, he tried, fumbled and hunched here and there, but the field had given up the ghost long ago with its creator, and grandmother looked on biding her time.
An ape believing he was a human crashed into him sending him down the curb sticky with dried spit and grime, another layer of filth to the thick cake he wore on his body, his belt bag dove into a resounding clatter of coins, a capless oily pen, salvaged scraps—lost nails, wood slivers, used matchsticks, candy wrappers, empty water bottle, dust, he jolted up, twitched in surprise—the buffoon swished past, hushed an apology—he scooped and shot into his bag his collection, some falling off lost forever onto the ground, nevertheless, there was an unidentifiable pull—or maybe it was just the luminosity of the fluorescent-lit window of the ticket box, so he lumbered towards it.
‘uh..’ He barely started to think of what and the lady shot out ‘where?’ facial muscles tensed as if expecting only a quick retort. ‘uh…’he rummaged into his whiffy bag for coins, shedding into light one, two one peso coins, 25 cents, five pesos, ‘oh’ as if in surprise, wondering where the others went—but thought was overwhelmed by a melange of sensations sending him more tremors, his fingers tremulous on the cold grimy coins.
‘Oy, if you don’t have anything please leave! You’re a disturbance,’ ‘but..’ ‘grandmo..’ he thought, ‘what?’ so he staggered to the side, arms hanging loosely, knees weak, drooping.
The city-all bustle and chatter-too many automatons-cold stone all over-emerged like a vacuum sucking him tight, eating him inside out, sending his stomach curling turning upon itself for food—-grandmother hid him once inside a dog bunk, tripping shuffling stuffing him inside falling out of her senescent balance because she had nothing else to do in that vastness, emptiness and day-in-day-out rustic existence–father all rage and murder, brandished a pickaxe scouring for any easy target, who else, he the spindly prey–he was lava spewing out, earthquaking, screams of death from his mouth, this minutae curled thing saw right before his eyes the axe attacking, a thunderous crash against the gallimaufry of junk in their backyard for the construction of the pig sty–no mercy, no reprieve, no meaning.
He could have pictured in his mind his ailing grandmother in custody of her only too kindhearted neighbor, wailing lungs, cough croaking and fading. But he didn’t know, but somehow felt somewhere, never concretized into thoughts, his heart wherever it is, buried or burned into ashes, or still huddled in the dog bunk humming with his past unspoken, his heart or whatever it is found its dog-smelling but safe hiding place silent and bereaved.
November 18th, 2010 at 02:39
She looked out the window, across the rusted metal slum roofs of the Metro, and realized it wasn’t a good place to jump.
“You should’ve made reservations,” she said. “Someplace romantic. This wasn’t what I had expected.”
He lay in bed, stared at his watch, and wished he had brought his pack of cigarettes. But that wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was the hotel.
“Peak season, darling,” he said. “It’s the best I could do so close to Christmas.”
“The windows won’t even open.”
“They do that to prevent guests from plunging to their doom. Come here, darling.”
“Can I have fresh air? What if a fire broke out?”
“We don’t have much time.”
She pressed her face against the glass, knowing she was being too dramatic, and she wished she could cry on cue, like the drama queen she always tries to be. She could feel the heat of the late morning sun, although the sky was overcast. With her cheek still against the window, with her breath condensing on the smooth pane, she traced her fingernail along her profile, and wished she had a sharper nose.
“How much time do we have?” she said finally.
“Fifty-seven seconds.”
She didn’t budge.
“Move away from the window,” he said, “or you’ll go blind.”
She looked at him. He was still trying to masturbate, but his exposed member wouldn’t stand for it. “Funny you should say that,” she said.
“Fifty seconds,” he replied.
She could go down on him, help him along, she thought. How unfair. For a brief moment, she imagined stabbing him with his own manhood, maybe through his selfish heart.
“Forty seconds.”
She kneeled against the bed and took him into her mouth. He didn’t taste good. He didn’t taste bad either. He tasted … medicinal. He began to grow. Four inches, five inches, five-and-a-half–
“Thirty seconds.”
This wasn’t what she expected. But it’s too late to complain. He was hard now, but she sucked harder. The thing throbbed in her mouth, and she could feel the growing tension in his thighs, and the moistness in her slit. Her physical arousal, overwhelmed all reservations, and she forgot his past transgressions, his lame excuses and apologies, and — most important — his shortcomings.
Pulling her undies to one side, she sat up, straddled him, and slid his shaft into her. He could never last very long, so she took the pilot’s seat. She rocked her pelvis like a pro, like a human metronome.
Mechanical.
Desperate.
This wasn’t what she expected.
“You … should’ve … made … reservations,” she said between gasps.
“I had ordered … champagne,” he said, as he checked his watch. “Twenty … seconds …”
“Look at me!” She slapped him in the face. She pinned both his wrists above his head. “Time stops now!” She began to buck harder, faster, trapping him between her thighs. She pressed her forehead against his, and was glad, for the first time in her life, that her nose was shaped perfectly. She bit his lip, tasted his blood. Waves of pleasure filled her and she wanted to scream, but he beat her to it. He screamed like a little girl, and tears collected in the edge of his long lashes. It was like a badly written sex scene.
Their bodies were fused in a rhythmic, violent union of last minute realizations and irrelevant regrets. It was far from the best sex she ever had, but it was too late to complain; after all, he had ordered champagne.
To her — and to him — time did stop. Time is relative, you see; it slows down the faster you go. The difference is imperceptible, unless you moved near the speed of light. Take, for example, the light from the Sun, which had left for Earth eight minutes and twenty seconds ago.
Ten seconds left.
Time is relative in other ways. Look at his watch, which was set to a different time zone: Cancun, in the Yucatan, where it was almost midnight. December 21, to be exact, in the Year of Our Lord 2012. The end of the thirteenth Baktun, or Mayan long count.
Three seconds … two seconds … one.
The windows shattered when the Apocalypse finally arrived.
Neither of them cared.
But one of them came.
(No, it wasn’t the champagne.)
November 18th, 2010 at 05:16
The Harlotte Champion is at Stake
Once upon a time, in the Widely Homosexual Kingdom of Gaynerdia, there lived the handsome Sir Harry the Impaled. He was called so because he had this enchanted sword six inches into his chest, and he can’t pull it away no matter how he tried because certain magical properties kept this awful implement in its place. He was cursed with this stubborn, unyielding sword, and, like most everything in the kingdom, it’s a drag.
Now, whomsoever can unsheathe this hateful artifact from his chest can unsheathe everything else from his person. That was a decree handed down by the helpless King and Queen, one and the same, of this realm because he can’t have the champion of the Harlotte Knights out of commission for so long. The challenge was met with rabid enthusiasm, idol worship and multiple erections. And the proclamation circulated well in the kingdom wide web, and it had blogs in its honor, its own Facebook Fan Page, and a massive Twitter following.
Hundreds of thousands of more or less androgynous hopefuls rose to the occasion in that colorful line of queers that went on forever. And it must be mentioned that each homosexual province was well represented. The Closet Queens of Paminteria arrived in their knee length walking shorts and pointed white leather shoes. The Gym Bunnies of Hunkette were in their gym shorts, training shoes, and their signature Cruising First, Fitness Last membership gym bags. The Parloristas of Statutoria were the noisiest and the funniest and the most fluent in the kingdom vernacular. The Effeme Fatales of Beauconera were gorgeous in their cosmetic and sexually reassigned surgeries and their four inch stilleto heels.
The grammatically challenged “Discrete Bisexuals” of the Shitforbrains Mountains formed their own line because they’re not really really gay at all.
That seemingly endless line of homosexual hopefuls became, at last, finite as the defeated and the embittered grew in numbers. Most of the casualties, however, went home even before they had a go at Sir Harry’s Legendary Perpendicular. By that, I mean the sword. The Gym Bunnies hit on each other, fell out of line, and looked for very huge trees. The Closet Queens followed the Gym Bunnies with their camera phones. The Parloristas made fun of the Hipons, a sad subspecie of the Gym Bunnies. In consequence, these offending Parloristas were punched out of consciousness by the Hipons, and they had to be admitted to nearby medical tents because they are mostly in their forties and had weak constitutions due to their strict diet of cigarettes and semen. Most of the Effeme Fatales were actual fatalities by midday. The blazing heat melted their silicone implants which clogged their blood stream and then killed them by poisoning.
The line of the “Discrete Bisexuals” didn’t move at all. In their frustration, these really really not gay cocksuckers went home to their computers and started their own largely-ignored wordy emo blogs.
Those who were patient and healthy enough to have a go at Sir Harry’s Legendary Perpendicular fared no better than those who cruised, voyeured, got confined, and died. They pulled with all their girly muscle, clenched their teeth in their growing frustration, and they still failed. Even the ogrish Richard Hadede, “hahi-hila ko yan, malaman yan,” suffered defeat. But he went home with a song in his head because his hand accidentally brushed Sir Harry’s cock on that last futile attempt.
“Hapa-plantsa ko nota nung pretch na hombre! Ha-sorry kayo mga bakla!”
He gave an idea and an executable ban, in effect, to the faggots following him in line. Nobody had thought of just unzipping Sir Harry’s fly and then unsheathing his other sword. But those who dared would now be shot.
What nobody understood, or even questioned, was how that sword took office in Sir Harry’s chest. See, it is a magical sword that injured everybody but its master. And it followed its master’s mental commands with such unprecedented loyalty that its owner, the great Sir Harry, was pleased to the very marrow. The truth is, this was all an act set up by the uninjured Sir Harry. Because in his head, he was waiting for the fierce force of nature they call Pussy Kamagong to show up. He just needs Pussy to grab the hilt, very lightly, and then he will command the sword out of his chest.
He’s smiling, too, because these other fools will never get any.
November 18th, 2010 at 07:41
(I’ll try again. I made some grammatical corrections. Here it is.)
He jerked awake, hypnic jerk as science calls it, like a thwack by nature to terminate unconsciousness, but to him it felt like a warning or reprove for which there was no absolution. On a shady corner of a fetid sidewalk of the shrieking city, he chanced upon a hovel to slump into on his numberless days among many days of the years it seemed that he drifted around the city. He had an idea, or maybe it wasn’t, maybe just a mechanical shut-off from overuse, or maybe it wasn’t, maybe just a random happenstance that he landed on a bus terminal where he found an entry way—a flashing distinguishable one—a dwarfish ticket box, brightly-lit window towards a nameable dimension: his hometown. On a moldy scruffy board was scrawled ‘Du…ma..gue..te’—a flash of recognition. He stared; the landing seemed deserted enough—time could’ve slipped by, maybe timeless, the scythe almost slipped away from his boyish hand, sun wildly beat against his body frying him to a crisp, ‘harden up boy’ his father prodded him with a bamboo stick then proceeded to prod the carabao to scour and burn on that hellish day, at midday his grandmother hollered hysterically that his father collapsed cold and never woke again, days went by the field sizzled scorched until the grasses succumbed brown and crisp to the earth, he tried, fumbled and hunched here and there, but the field had given up the ghost long ago with its creator, and grandmother looked on biding her time.
An ape believing he was a human crashed into him sending him down the curb sticky with dried spit and grime, another layer of filth to the thick cake he wore on his body, his belt bag dove into a resounding clatter of coins, a capless oily pen, salvaged scraps—lost nails, wood slivers, used matchsticks, candy wrappers, empty water bottle, dust; he sprang up, twitched in surprise—the buffoon swished past, hushed an apology—he scooped and crammed into his bag his collection, some falling off lost forever onto the ground; nevertheless, there was an unidentifiable pull—or maybe it was just the luminosity of the fluorescent-lit window of the ticket box, so he lumbered towards it.
‘Uh…’ He barely started to think of what and the lady spat out ‘where?’; facial muscles tensed as if expecting only a quick retort. ‘Uh…’he rummaged into his skanky bag for coins, shedding into light one, two one peso coins, 25 cents, five pesos; ‘oh’ as if in surprise, wondering where the others went—but thought was overwhelmed by a melange of sensations sending him more tremors, his fingers tremulous on the cold grimy coins.
‘Oy, if you don’t have anything please leave! You’re a disturbance,’ ‘but..’ ‘gran…’ he thought, ‘what?!’, so he staggered to the side, arms hanging loosely, knees weak, drooping.
The city—all bustle and chatter—too many automatons—cold stone all over—emerged like a vacuum sucking him tight, eating him inside out, sending his stomach wrenching upon itself for food—grandmother hid him once inside a dog bunk, tripping shuffling stuffing him inside, falling out of her senescent balance because she had nothing else to do in that vastness, emptiness and day-in-day-out rustic existence—father all rage and murder, brandished a pickaxe scouring for any easy target, who else, he the spindly prey—he was lava spewing out, earthquaking, screams of death from his mouth, this minutae curled thing saw right before his eyes the axe attacking, a thunderous crash against the gallimaufry of junk in their backyard for the construction of the pig sty—no mercy, no reprieve, no meaning.
He lingered along the bus terminal sidewalk; he could have pictured in his mind his ailing grandmother in the custody of her only too kindhearted neighbor, wailing lungs, cough croaking and fading. But he didn’t know exactly, but somehow felt somewhere, never concretized into thoughts; his heart wherever it was, buried or burned into ashes, or still huddled in the dog bunk humming with his past unspoken, his heart or whatever it was found its dog-smelling but safe hiding place silent and bereaved.
November 18th, 2010 at 09:48
Sorry Jessica, here it is (with more changes):
He jerked awake, hypnic jerk as science calls it, like a thwack by nature to terminate unconsciousness, but to him it felt like a warning or reprove for which there was no absolution. On a shady corner of a fetid sidewalk of the shrieking city, he chanced upon a hovel to slump into on his numberless days among the many days of the years it seemed that he drifted around the concrete jungle. He had an idea, or maybe not, maybe just a mechanical shut-off from overuse, or maybe not, maybe just a random happenstance that he landed on a bus terminal where he found an entry way—a flashing distinguishable one—a dwarfish ticket box, brightly-lit window towards a nameable dimension: his hometown. On a moldy scruffy board was scrawled ‘Du…ma..gue..te’—a flash of recognition. He stared; the landing seemed deserted enough—time could’ve slipped by, maybe timeless, the scythe almost slipped away from his boyish hand, sun wildly beat against his body frying him to a crisp, ‘harden up boy’ his father prodded him with a bamboo stick then proceeded to prod the carabao to scour and burn on that hellish day, at midday his grandmother hollered hysterically that his father collapsed cold and never woke again, days went by the field sizzled scorched until the grasses succumbed brown and crisp to the earth, he tried, fumbled and hunched here and there, but the field had given up the ghost long ago with its creator, and grandmother looked on biding her time.
An ape believing he was a human crashed into him sending him down the curb sticky with dried spit and grime, another layer of filth to the thick cake he wore on his body, his belt bag dove into a resounding clatter of coins, a capless oily pen, salvaged scraps—lost nails, wood slivers, used matchsticks, candy wrappers, empty water bottle, dust; he sprang up, twitched in surprise—the buffoon swished past, hushed an apology—he scooped and crammed into his bag his collection, some falling off lost forever onto the ground; nevertheless, there was an unidentifiable pull—or maybe it was just the luminosity of the fluorescent-lit window of the ticket box, so he lumbered towards it.
‘Uh…’ He barely started to think of what and the lady spat out ‘where?’; facial muscles tensed as if expecting only a quick retort. ‘Uh…’he rummaged into his skanky bag for coins, shedding into light one, two one peso coins, 25 cents, five pesos; ‘oh’ as if in surprise, wondering where the others went—but thought was overwhelmed by a mélange of sensations sending him more tremors, his fingers tremulous on the cold grimy coins.
‘Oy, if you don’t have anything please leave! You’re a disturbance,’ ‘but..’ ‘gran…’ he thought, ‘what?!’, so he staggered to the side, arms hanging loosely, knees weak, drooping.
The city—all bustle and chatter—too many automatons—cold stone all over—emerged like a vacuum sucking him tight, eating him inside out, sending his stomach wrenching upon itself for food—grandmother hid him once inside a dog bunk, tripping shuffling stuffing him inside, falling out of her senescent balance because she had nothing else to do in that vastness, emptiness and day-in-day-out rustic existence, father all rage and murder, brandished a pickaxe scouring for any easy target, who else, he the spindly prey, he was lava spewing out, earthquaking, screams of death from his mouth, this minutiae curled thing saw right before his eyes the axe attacking, a thunderous crash against the gallimaufry of junk in their backyard for the construction of the pig sty—no mercy, no reprieve, no meaning.
Along the sidewalk he lingered, people passed and sensed at the back of their minds, no not consciously, his cold diaphanous presence; he could have pictured in his mind his ailing grandmother in the custody of her only too kindhearted neighbor, wailing lungs, cough croaking and fading. But he didn’t know exactly, but somehow felt somewhere, never concretized into thoughts; his heart wherever it was, buried or burned into ashes, or still huddled in the dog bunk humming with his past unspoken, his heart or whatever it was found its dog-smelling but safe hiding place silent and bereaved.
November 18th, 2010 at 17:18
I got disturbed by Momelia’s entry. @_@ Will send my own later once I get the grammar correct. Hehe.
November 18th, 2010 at 17:20
Qsdn: Disturbing is good.
November 18th, 2010 at 19:31
Hahahahaha… Ang galing talaga ni Momelia :) ang galing ng details :) hmmmm i really want the book, and i cant afford it right now so isang entry pa po :)
Brazo de Mercedes
I hate desserts. Not because I don’t like sweets but because I can’t eat them. Early on, I learned that I have extra sensitive tonsils. Chocolates plus cold water in the same day meant a week of fever and painful swallowing. I learned to equate 5 Kisses to 3 tall glasses of lukewarm water. I eventually gave up cold drinks, altogether. To me, ice cream really does mean special occasions and depressing days (Like the time I failed a compre exam and I ate a pint of Pistachio and Cashew only to find out the next day that the passing mark was adjusted and I got through. I was too sick to celebrate.)
Basically I just had to either limit the amount or abstain fully. Tonsillectomy just won’t do. Among all varieties, there were two confections I had no trouble giving up: Caramel and Custard. They’re just too sweet for my taste, even before my tonsils became bitchy. However I was reminded once that I actually liked custard when I was younger. Caramel is a whole different story.
My mom had been an OFW (Nurse) ever since I started wearing baby overalls. She only goes home twice a year, stays here just barely two months and then flies back to the Middle-east. Most times it’s just once a year. The hospital only covers one vacation trip annually. She would have to use personal money on the other trip to go home. That’s almost one-month’s salary. You get the picture.
It happened when my mom went home on my third or fourth grade. Like any OFW parent that just got home, I presume, my mom proceeded in buying stuff for us. Despite the balikbayan boxes laden with toys, clothes, chocolates and bathroom things, she insisted on giving us more. Bet on it. If she goes out of the house, whether to the agency, POEA or just to buy salt, she’ll buy something individually for each of us.
One time they went to Manila to bring the “pahatid” of fellow OFWs. When they came home, they brought with them two boxes of Goldilocks. That meant cake. We got excited for dinner. Of course we couldn’t help but peek. The long box was one roll of chocolate cake, while the half one contained marshmallowy stuff, thick with yellow filling. I knew what it was even without them telling me. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate Brazo but I felt heavy headed looking at it as if those globs of custard would go straight to my head if I eat it.
After dinner, the cakes got attacked. I ate a thin slice of Brazo and as much choco as my throat would permit. When my gulps started feeling scratchy I stopped and moved on to drowning myself. My mom surveyed the table and saw the half-eaten remains of Brazo. The chocolate cake was gone in a wink. She made a comment.
“May natira pang Brazo o, ubusin mo na yan”, she urged me.
“Ayoko na po. Masakit na nga yung lalamunan ko e.”
“Nahihiya ka pa eh. Ubusin mo na yan. Di ba favorite mo yan.”
“Ay hindi nga po ako mahilig dyan e. Ayoko nyan. Tingin ko palang parang lumalaki yung ulo ko. Nakakauta.”
“Ay ganun. Sinong may favorite nyan?”, she asked everybody on the table.
Apparently she was right. I used to love eating Brazo de Mercedes. I just don’t remember it. In fact they claimed that I could eat half a roll of it. It turned out she bought the half roll just for me. It was an extra for her bunso. She looked at me and I looked back. I smiled at her innocently, fascinated by the fact that I could eat as much as that before.
“Ay hindi ko na pala alam ang paborito ng anak ko.” She said those while still looking at me and I just smiled in response. Then she smiled too.
Looking back, I can just imagine what she must have felt during that moment. Now, whenever I relive that scene in my mind, I feel a deep sense of guilt. Why didn’t I just chuck the cake and got more? It’s because I didn’t want more cake. Simple. Plus it’s because I never realized that turning her down could hurt her as much as I think I did. Those words cut through me now as if they’re meant to hurt me. I know they’re not. In fact, I know they’re not even meant for me. Yet, I can’t help but feel for her. Those words could summarize the whole movie Anak by Vilma Santos for me and I would have gotten the point. No tears were shed, nobody would have died, and nobody would have showed her true self as an incomprehensible rebel. Well, that’s for me.
Of course the effect can’t just be mutual for everybody. It could be a sensitive case for OFW families. I don’t know. But I swear if it would happen to me again right now, like a generous déjà vu, I would stuff that remaining roll in my mouth even before she could goad me to take another slice. Then she would smile and I would smile back (My mouth still full with Brazo. It’s probable.)
November 18th, 2010 at 21:01
Dammit this Pussy Kamagong.
November 18th, 2010 at 23:51
Enrique
Before, they just called me Flavio. I was the town’s blacksmith, creating swords and daggers, chains, nails and horseshoes. But that was before. Before, when the light of my life, Maria still walked the Earth. Before, before Lizardo arrived, destroyed my life and laid my heart to waste.
They didn’t call me Flavio anymore. That was just disrespectful, apparently. They would have called me Bayani, but I drew the line on that. So, Panday it was. And they heaped on me all sorts of honors and treasures. I would have given up all of this just to have Maria back. In the end, I just up and left, leaving the house we built together and my forge, to live in a little hut at the edge of the forest.
He arrived one rainy night. In truth, it wasn’t him I heard, but his horse, which neighed loudly as it dragged him past my window and against the muddy ground. I rushed out of my hut with my kris and cut the straps of the horse. It fled, leaving me in the mud with its owner. He was a big man, a soldier of the Empire by the looks of his ragged uniform. I carried him slowly to the house, thanking God for hours working on the forge. When I entered my house, I saw his face clearly. He wasn’t just any soldier. He was a Puti. That meant only one thing, he was a Maharlika, one of the empire’s nobles.
He moaned, loudly. And I snapped out of my reverie, dragging him to the front of the fireplace, stripping off his clothes, washing his body, cleaning his wounds. His right leg and left arm were broken, and he had a large wound at his stomach. I did what I could then placed him gently on my bed. I fell asleep listening to his hurried breathing.
I woke up to his shout. He was sitting up, sweating, staring at the roof. It was then I heard the tik-tik-tik of a manananggal, probably smelling his blood. I saw its tongue, thin as a needle, making its way to the bed from the roof. Hurriedly, I got my sword, which the townsfolked dubbed “legendary” and chopped its tongue off. The creature screamed and we heard its wings flapping away as its chopped tongue fell on the bed, still wriggling towards him. I pinned it with the sword and tossed it to the fire. He was shocked.
“What was that?” He asked me.
“A manananggal.” I replied, matter of factly. “Don’t pay attention to it, it won’t be back.”
He was stunned. Probably never heard of a manananggal before, I wasn’t surprised. I got him a glass of water and gave it to him.
“I found you outside my house, you fell off your horse, and it was dragging you in the mud.” The fact that he was lucky I found him was left unsaid. If I didn’t find him, he’d probably be dead by now. “I’m Flavio, by the way.”
“I’m Enrique.” He said.
We talked till dawn. He was a soldier for the Empire, on one top secret mission or other when he was chanced upon by bandits, who chased him and wounded him. When he smiled, his eyes practically twinkled and his teeth shone like the sun. We became close to each other during that month that we were together. I basically took care of his every need, feeding him, helping him wash, even helping him get to the outhouse. Enrique was a good soul, and somehow taking care of him, gave me a calm feeling that I missed so much. I grew accustomed to sleeping beside him, as he was afraid of the creatures of the night. Ridiculous in a man with a body as large as his, but I did it nevertheless, and I grew fond of sleeping to rise and fall of his chest, as well as the way he sometimes moaned quietly in the night.
Eventually, his leg healed and he was able to walk again. I knew our time was drawing to a close. One day, he took me aside and told me that he would be leaving, he had obligations he needed to attend to. He then took me by my shoulders and hugged me tightly in his white undershirt. Our chests heaved together at the same time. He then looked me in the eyes and kissed me.
I don’t know why I did it, heaven knows I wanted it, but I felt that it was disrespectful to Maria. Not only was I in love with a Puti, but I was in love with another man. I pushed him aside roughly and ran out of the house. I ran and ran, ‘til I found myself at the side of the river. Then I stopped and stared at the river. Maria always said that I should live life to the fullest. Maybe it was time to let go of Maria. Maybe, I had something to live for again. I realized that I had left him then. I recalled his tear-streaked face as he shouted at me as I had run. I had to go back.
It was dusk when I returned. The door of the hut was open, and I rushed in. Just in time. He was lying on my bed, holding my sword above his chest, and was about to thrust it in his heart.
“NO!” I shouted. He stared at me as if I was a creature of the night, come to prey on his soul. I went to him and grabbed the sword, tossing it aside.
I lay on top of him, and I leaned down and gave him the kiss he had earlier wanted.
“I’m sorry.” I said, gazing down on his angelic face.
He kissed me back.
The next day, I kept my sword. I wouldn’t be needing it, he said. What I had was enough for him.
Postscript: This story barely made the 1,000 words max. (sigh) And I originally wrote it in Tagalog before I deleted the entire thing coz my Tagalog grammar is atrocious. This makes how many entries now where Harry’s character turns up gay (or after a gay chick called Pussy Galore?)
November 19th, 2010 at 00:23
He watched the numbers change on the little screen inside the elevator as it went up. “Twentieth floor” announced the recorded voice. That voice, resonated warmth he only now realized; as tender and comforting as a Reese’s peanut butter cup, or syrup on hot toast. She must look as lovely as she sounds, he thought. He would’ve loved to take her out on a date too, sure. They could talk about her job. Does she find it odd to hear her own voice inside the lift, announcing floor numbers? Does it bother her that she doesn’t get to say “13th floor” because there isn’t such? Before he could go on, the doors opened. The woman was about to step in but froze at the sight of him. It was as if she had seen a monster. And then he remembered – he was.
He had just returned from the annual Cosplay convention. For a good six years he has been participating in the event, donning the most colorful, elaborate and garish of costumes. And for a good six years, despite relentless effort, he has failed to win anything. He had his hopes up this year, as he chose to portray who to him may be the hardest character to replicate in anime: Kisame Hoshikagi of Naruto fame. When most Cosplayers these days opt to purchase their costumes from crafts stores, he painstakingly made his own. He taught himself how to sew for he wanted to be specific to the minutest of details. Each sequin, each appliqué must be in the right place. Even the armory, he does all by himself. He used to ask the okama next door, Peachilla for help with the make-up and the hair dye. But after some time he has also learned to do this himself. So when he was overlooked yet again this year, he felt he’s had it. To some extent, he felt like becoming a villain for real.
He walked past the woman who was still standing in stupor. Normally he would’ve felt sorry. But not this time, not anymore. He went straight to his room, removed the costume and gingerly hanged it inside the closet where it joined the rest of the Cosplay outfits from years past. He brushed through each one: Taguro, Sasuke, Knives, Cell… At the end of the rack was his favorite, his first: Batusai the Slasher. The samurai sword that completed Batusai’s look was dear to him. He purchased it from an eBay seller who got his goods from Japan. It cost him an arm and leg but for the love of Cosplay, he paid for it ungrudgingly. He lay in bed with the weapon on his side as his heart sunk in reminiscence of the sacrifices and the pain. Just then, he caught this phrase amidst the incomprehensible babbles on TV: *“If I discover within myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world”. This was all he needed to hear.
He got into the Batusai costume and fetched the sword on the way out to the balcony. The city below was still, its lights tame like a trained pup. He pulled out the sword and placed it where the point meets the heart. He could feel his heavy breathing. He could also feel a slight wheeze from his nose whenever he exhaled. Distracted, he put down the sword and started picking his nose.
He stared at the vastness below, then, flicked his fingers towards the night sky.
—-
*C.S Lewis quote
November 19th, 2010 at 03:52
Wahaha, thanks for the feedback!
November 19th, 2010 at 17:25
Yoann requested the procedure from the High Priest’s healers of his own free will, without the input of anyone in his life (Didier, his former fiancé wanted nothing to do with him), so the healers were initially at a loss regarding what specifications to use for his procedure. ‘You just have no clue how I feel,’ Didier said, as he left their flat. The man wanted to feel; seeing as he had the looks, brains and livelihood that should have guaranteed a good union, acquiring the necessary empathy seemed like a logical step towards a successful relationship. Prior to the procedure, they gave him a questionnaire and a piece of paper with numbers and bubbles in it. “All these years of being told I had a bubbly personality, and I am filling out bubbles to change it,” he mumbled to himself. The technician was plugging in his bubble-answers as the anesthesia took him under.
He woke up groggy and feeling absolute apathy as induced by the procedure’s corresponding drug cocktail. The regenerator worked on the last signs of his heart procedure in rhythmic passes programmed to optimize healing. “You are now blessed by the latest technology calculated by the High Priest himself,” one of the healers said, designed to make men as empathic as their partners. He was assured that he was as empathic as the bubbles he filled out wanted him to be. “The physical and emotional numbness will wear off by tomorrow, when you are fully healed,” another healer said, checking his vitals. “We will transport you to your flat while you sleep things off. By the time your chest heals and the drugs wear off and you wake up, you’ll be living as a perfectly empathic man. The High Priest’s Reason blesses you.”
No, the empathy was not a blessing. Yoann’s first day out and about with the implant put him through an emotional wringer as soon as he got to populated areas. A lot of people in the cities were angry over what felt like trivial things. His boss reeked of greed and the lack of regard for those who worked under him. He was not sure what was worse: that or his coworkers’ apathy towards him. He was baffled by the lust emanating from the androgynous file clerk who always avoided speaking with or even making eye contact with him. He noted these things but did not worry about them; surely they would be taken care of at his post-op appointment.
Walking through the healing center was an experience he would rather not repeat. He started feeling pain and annoyance as he walked through the lobby, then got a crushing sense of impending doom as he walked past the wards to his healer’s office. He was let into his healer’s examination room, took off his shirt, and decided to lie down on the examination table with his undershirt on. The scanners whirred to life as the healer and the healer-technician walked in. The healer, a woman with long straight hair and glasses, checked his vitals while the healer-technician examined the scanner data.
“Healer, I need a consult on these readings,” spoke the healer-technician, who looked like the healer’s twin, but male and with wavy hair.
The healers huddled around the scanner’s monitor. His impatience for their lack attempts at actually talking to him were quashed under the weight of their—is that confusion? The healer turned to him and said, “Come with us, quietly.” Her voice and his empathy implant advised him to follow this without question.
He picked up his shirt and started following the two. They took the elevator to one of the subterranean walkways and emerged at what he thought was a building across the street. They took another elevator up and he was ushered into a room with a bed and heavy curtains that blocked most of the afternoon sun.
“I have a sense of what’s going on thanks to the empathy implant, but what exactly is going on?” Yoann said, struggling to shake off the calm complacency he felt from the healers. He wasn’t doing a very good job; he didn’t even bat an eye as the healer-tech brought out a sword.
“Sometimes,” the healer began, “the empathy implants go wrong. Usually it is when the recipients customize it themselves. You have been feeling what anyone around you feels, correct?”
“Yes, but I thought that was how it’s supposed to work.”
“No,” the healer tech said. “The readings are showing that your empathy is getting stronger and not in the good way. Do you notice how you’re not worried that you’re in a room with two strangers and a sword?”
“I’ve got a few stone on you,” Yoann explained. “I can take you out easily if I have to. Why DO you have a sword?”
“Take it; you’ll know what we feel and sense what you need to do to balance out your empathy,” the healer said, folding down the covers. “It’ll be easier if you lie down.”
Yoann hung his shirt over the back of a chair and lay down. He took the sword from the healer-tech.
He knew what he had to do.
November 19th, 2010 at 17:52
Momelia struck me down with “Gaynerdia” and then “Pussy Kamagong” just convinced me I should just give up and pledge allegiance to the Republic of Momelia. (Diet of cigarettes and semen? AHAHAHA XD)
November 19th, 2010 at 17:57
The Remainders
This is the last photograph of a living human, taken sometime in the 2750’s.
His name is Harry, age 775 in Earth orbital years. Yes, his life is but a trillionth of a nanosecond compared to our lives. It was different then, you have to understand. The Stream didn’t exist. Humans had to inhabit a physical body. But they did have digital lives, existing in a primitive form of the Stream. It was called the Web.
The Great Migration became a tantalizing possibility in 2018. Neuroscientists found a way to digitize human consciousness. What humans fondly called their “soul” had successfully been turned into data.
But for a hundred years, the breakthrough sat in limbo. Humans simply had no use for it. Genetic engineering was one of the few branches of science which flourished in the early part of the 2020’s. The average lifespan of humans during the 2020’s inched to 90 then to 200 and as the science reached its peak in 2240, humans found themselves living to 500 years on average.
It wasn’t until early 2600 with the creation of nanochips able to store trillions’ worth of petabytes did The Great Migration start. The Earth by then was a steaming cauldron. Attempts at geo-engineering and intra-solar colonization all failed. And while there were fusion reactors, the damage caused by three centuries’ worth of overpopulation and burning fossil fuel proved irreversible.
The Earth was dying. Humans had two choices. They could digitize their “soul” or they could live off their days in this dying world. Self-preservation being an evolutionary human trait, most chose to go digital. Human bodies became what they have always been regarded by religion—mere vessels. Digisapiens, humans in digital form, lived in the Cloud–the precursor to the Stream. These were Moon-sized data farms located in the Oort Cloud.
There were holdouts, of course. Humanists and romantics.
These humans refused to inhabit the ancient digital world of Facebook. They predictably refused to become Digisapiens. They soon took to calling themselves the Remainders. They would remain human. Bio-engineered, yes, but still human. They held the belief that once the soul is digitized, it was comparable to becoming an angel. Existing but never feeling. No sense of joy nor sadness, pain nor euphoria.
When a human being chooses to go digital, he had two choices. He could sell his body to a Remainder or he could have it broken down to atoms, to be ceremoniously re-joined with the physical universe.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as the ancients would say.
Because genetic engineering has allowed humans to look however which way they chose, only the poorest Remainder would buy a hand-me down body. But damn, every Remainder had the form of a mythical Greek god.
But bio-engineering can only go so far. Telomeres can only remain intact for so long. One by one, the Remainders started to die out. Many gave in and transcended into the immortal Digisapiens. The hardcore Remainders called them Fowls. Chickens.
As the Remainders dwindled to just a dozen, with extinction a forgone conclusion in less than a decade, you would expect a sense of despair and hopelessness among the population.
But no. The bets are on. Who would be the last Remainder?
Even the Digisapiens took notice. Within the Cloud, there was an unmistakable buzz. Nostalgia swept through the data field. All tweets and updates trended toward their former planet and the last few Remainders.
1735H. November 19, 2754. Harry plunged the sword into his heart. This is the last photograph of a living human, yes. But he was not the last Remainder.
Harry and Jessica were the last two Remainders. They made a pact. Harry would be the last photograph of a living human, Jessica would be the last Remainder and chronicler of the last moments of Harry.
For however well-read and well-versed Harry was, he could never have possibly given justice to the last moments of Jessica if she were the one lying on that bed.
We could only speculate if Jessica was a Remainder to the end. Digisapiens sent in their probes to follow Jessica’s life as the last Remainder but she was as cunning as her feline masters. They failed to track her.
With a whole planet to herself, it would be impossible to find her. But I have a feeling she’s in the Stream. Plotting a way to rule over us all.
November 19th, 2010 at 19:04
A little left, he thinks.
Seventh hour of lying there. Not falling asleep. Poking his chest with the toy broadsword. The heart is on the left. It has to be accurate, the real thing. But it doesn’t matter where the real thing hits. He’ll make sure that would be it. Left. The rib cage is not a problem.
On the fifth hour, he picks his phone and looks for Brian’s number. He calls him. Brian says he’s busy tomorrow.
- In the morning? Just come here in the morning. Knock on the door. If I don’t answer.
Pause.
- I will not lock the door.
Brian says he has work tomorrow and asks him what’s wrong and what he’s talking about. He hears a man’s voice, a woman’s voice, another woman’s voice, the sound of a printer, a television show.
- Will you do it?
Brian asks do what?
- Just do what I say, please? Just come in the morning. Please. Knock. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. If I don’t answer, come in.
Brian says he has to go to work tomorrow and says call him in an hour.
Fifth hour and twenty eighth minute. He dials Neil’s number.
- Come to my flat tomorrow morning, will you? Knock for five minutes. Ten minutes. If nobody answers, come in.
It is quiet where Neil is. Neil asks him if there is a problem, if he has a problem, and without waiting for him to answer, says yes, he’ll come tomorrow, that he still has his DVDs and maybe he should bring them tomorrow too, and that he should remind him to bring them tomorrow.
- Be here at seven?
He picks the sword. He starts poking his chest again. Right in the middle at first. And then he remembers, left. The poking does not hurt him.
Seven hours and fourteen minutes. Maybe it’s time, he thinks. He pokes his chest one more time. He does it hard and he winces a little. Left. Anywhere, with the real thing.
He gets up and his chest hurts. But as soon as he steps out of bed he feels another sensation. This feeling starts in his belly. And then it moves up, passes through his numbing chest, and moves right to his head.
He has not eaten in two days. This sensation betrays him, everything he has felt the past days, the past two weeks, the time heard that ‘Sorry.’ This sensation feels unnatural at the moment. But it lodges itself in his head and it stays there and demands that he do something about it.
He calls Neil again.
- Don’t come tomorrow. I changed my mind.
Neil asks what and why.
- I don’t know. I don’t really know. I’m just really hungry right now. Really just.
Pause.
- Hungry. Let’s eat somewhere.
He waits for Neil’s answer. He hears it.
November 19th, 2010 at 21:33
Broadsword
When Jason Israel was a young man, he thought that he’d die a silver-chased, wizened geezer, old and satisfied with days. It satisfied his curious morbid imagination to see his bent future self, slower but still spry defying his juniors’ derision with an active lifestyle and a still fecund wit, revered by all, loved by many and feared by some. He envisaged the end as being similar to that of the plucky ancient rabbi of yore who, scaling his library ladder to replace high on the shelves a massive and lavishly bound Talmud recently read, missed his step and tumbled to the floor, followed closely by the holy tome which neatly crushed his pious pate. What a glorious way to go, he thought.
Because if anything other than the puzzles of physics had dominated his life, it was his general twin obsessions with learning and good health. No major hereditary curses, no communicable diseases (not so much through a lack of certain…opportunities, but because of a manic dedication to the three mistresses mentioned above) and a zealot’s commitment to good diet and exercise, he was confident that when he shuffled off this mortal coil, it would be with dignity and near-perfect faculties.
He had, in fact led a charmed life. Gifted and rich from an early age, he had been free to pursue projects that had interested him. He accumulated more wealth and accolades as the years wore on, but his greatest triumph (and the one for which he was sure to be most remembered) came when he was 40 years old. At an age when other men gave way to doubts and sometimes went off the rails, Jason Israel reached his pinnacle when he conquered time itself. The approach itself was fairly simple (at least for a mind as attuned to the more arcane workings of theoretical physics as Israel’s). As it turned out, other researchers had been unconsciously tackling the problem from the perspective of time travel depicted in works of fiction, crippling themselves with the preconceptions of science fiction which, as Jason stated rather bluntly in one of his later keynote addresses, “inevitably tended to obfuscate the realities of scientific fact.” He could get away with saying things like that because he was widely regarded as being insufferably brilliant so everyone felt obliged to try and suffer him as gladly as they could.
Of course the implications of his discovery were huge. Time travel was possible, after all! Fairly soon though, his breakthrough came under heavy restriction after governments twigged to the potential disaster that unauthorised or rogue use of the technology could bring. Within a short time, Temporal Displacement (or “TD” as it came to be termed) was banned commercially and then only came to be used by the military for short range pre-emptive strikes on currently active terrorists, wiping them out in the womb or prior to their conception in some cases. There was widespread debate in the legislature over the use of TD to avert the large scale disasters of the past, but collective good sense and a general pre-sentiment of doom prevented that idea from taking off. Jason Israel was content to leave the ethical and semantic debates to those who made a living from them; he was becoming unimaginably rich just consulting for the military on the purely technical side of their short-range programs and giving addresses to $10,000.00-a-plate functions of lesser scientists and much lesser politicos.
In spite of this, the stereotypical attributes of his ancestors found lodging in him. While his bank balance grew, he did not see fit to move from the (admittedly lavish) home where he had grown up and lived his whole life. He remained moderate in habits, kept largely to himself on the occasions when he was not working or lecturing and religiously observed his work and health regimes.
Providence (or the adroit forces of brute logic) blessed aging Israel for his efforts. He was healthy and hearty at 60 as he had been at 30 and he continued to find engagement for his active mind and body, whether in the well-equipped laboratory custom built into his home, at the military facilities where he was given maximum clearance or at the many centres of learning which fell over each other to offer him honorary doctorates and chairs.
So it was that having returned to his home after a lecture tour of Geneva on the flaws in the workings of the first Large Hadron Collider, Jason Israel, on entering his bedroom, was utterly shaken by the sight of the body of a young man, supine upon his bed, stone dead, with a huge broadsword protruding from his bloodied chest. The shock gave way to a sharp and intense terror when Israel realised whose corpse confronted him. It was someone he had not seen for over 45 years.
It was Jason Israel, 24 years old.
Israel the elder crept forward to touch the body. There was no pulse detected by his trembling hand. The skin of the body was still warm, warmer it seemed, than the deathly chill that had come over the old man.
He fell in a slump to the floor, his mind racing. How on earth could his younger self be here? The man was younger than Israel had been when he had discovered how time travel was possible. Israel himself had been careful never to impinge on his own past when conducting his experiments. With sickening speed, terrible thoughts occurred to him. Had he been marked for death by his own government? Did someone in his many project teams resent his success? Had they appropriated a TD device to assassinate him? But no, none of that made sense. The government scientists, while not as exceptionally bright as he, were not so insensible as to kill him at a point in his life before he invented the greatest war technology known to man. Even if it was done by a rival who cared not for the consequences of murdering the man whose accomplishments would eclipse the atom bomb, why would they choose to bring the young man to the present and murder him in his own bed? There must be more at stake…something else at work.
He hadn’t seen it at first, but now it occurred to him. The sword. It was his. It had hung in his trophy room, a souvenir from a famed and ancient collection in Scotland. He had bought it years ago, after the development of TD. It seemed only fitting that the creator of man’s greatest weapon should appreciate some of man’s finer weapons of bygone ages.
Whatever happened here, he thought, I have to prevent it. He would have to act fast, would have to somehow warn or save himself at some point in his past. He struggled to his feet, all energy seemingly departed from his body.
Closing the door on the eerie scene, he locked it, using both the key-card and the pressure seal. Nothing would disturb that corpse. Not until he could return to the room, the past righted, and see that there was no dead man there after all.
He doubted whether he would find sound sleep in that bed again, though.
Shuffling hurriedly down to his laboratory, he felt panicked and fretful. He ran his had through his hair while fumbling in his pockets for the key-card for the lab. With a shriek, he froze. Slowly lowering his hand, he let out a gasp. In his pale fingers was a large clump of silver hair, lately of his scalp.
He hurled the hair to the floor and felt his head, with both hands. Sure enough, both hands came away with newly fallen hair. He dove his hand into his pocket, found the card and, half-blind with hysteria, unlocked the door. Leaving the door gaping open, he rushed into the laboratory and found a small mirror. As a man accustomed to having his vanity indulged by his reflection, the sight nearly floored him. More than half bald, his eyes were suddenly yellow, sallow, greyish skin hung off his skull. His teeth were starting to go black.
He screamed. Long and loud.
Although non-government use of TD was strictly prohibited as a terrorist offence and mercilessly punished (usually, by a pre-offence legally sanctioned TD assassination), Israel was revered and trusted enough to be one of the few people with access to TD capable equipment. He had some dismantled experimental devices littering his workroom, but by and large, he never had to use his personal facilities for anything more than playtime; he had staff and resources to command courtesy of a grateful government, always hoping for a further refinement or advance. Their faith had been rewarded before, after all. Not only had Jason Israel, the Father of Time, created TD technology, but he had discovered how to build devices that could travel geographically at the same time as temporally. After all, the trickier part was negotiating time; how much more simple was the incorporation of more conventional displacement travel? Soon operatives could journey from one side of the globe and one side of an era to another, perform the hit and reappear safely in the waiting arms of mission control.
When he had sufficiently recovered himself, Jason set to work. He thought he knew what was happening to him and he realised that he had to work very fast if he were to cheat death. Upstairs, I am dead, he though. Time is righting itself. I died decades ago earlier today. So I’m dying now, because by rights, I should not exist.
It was true. As he toiled to assemble and calibrate a TD machine capable of making a 45-year jump, he felt his strength diminish rapidly. After a couple of hours, he was mortified when first one, then another, and soon all of his teeth either rotted away in his jaw or fell from his receding gums. Not long after, his innards were racked with unspeakable agony and he doubled over in the midst of his work.
Even in torment, he knew he had to keep going. It was getting much harder. He could scarcely operate his tools, but he was nearly done. He set the machine to take him to a spare room of the very same house, his lifelong home, 45 years, 11 months, 14 days and 8 hours prior to the present. He knew that the machine could safely wait in that room while he did what he needed to in order to save his younger self. It no longer troubled him how he would avert the problem, how he would defend the hapless young man from a rogue TD killer. All he could think about was getting there, doing it.
The machine was ready by the time his legs gave way. He was hobbling to the console to feed power to the machine when first one and then femur snapped under the weight of his body with a gut-wrenching crack. Israel winced and cried out as he fell. The hard floor had no mercy on his left forearm and Israel cringed in agony as he felt his radius and ulna fracture. The decay was advancing, making his bones brittle and feeble. He could not reach the mirror now, but if he had, he would have seen an emaciated goblin of a man, bald, etiolated, eyes hollowed and sunken, nose almost leprously eaten away, limbs thin and wasted, less a man than the body inhabiting his bedroom. Hours ago, he had been a paragon of healthy old age. Now, even self-respecting cadavers would have been ashamed to look like him. He fought his way to the controls, crawling on ruined legs, the pain almost making him faint. Somehow, he managed to turn the machine on. Now he faced the excruciating few feet to the machine itself.
As he dragged himself along the floor, blood started filling his eyes, and his vision grew dim. “No!” he screamed. He couldn’t give up after all this. Somehow, he had to set the past right. All the pain, all this unbearable pain would be worth it if he could just stop that young man upstairs from dying. When he reached the machine, his right leg was broken in four separate places. His breathing was heavy and caught at each tortuous intake and exhalation, as if each would be his lungs’ last labour. He leaned on the controls, praying for the jump to work.
It did. By some trick of fate, the machine phased out of the laboratory. It appeared 45 years, 11 months, 14 days and 8 hours prior, in a guest room that never saw a guest. With a flash of light energy, it materialised. And just at that moment, the mortally decrepit Jason Israel dissolved into atoms.
Outside the room, a sudden flash of light and the sound of a stiff breeze seeped under the door. Puzzled, a 24 year old Jason Israel who was nearby, decided to investigate. As far as he knew, the spare room was empty. He had no time for guests. Viewed by most of his peers as the future of physics, he had teaching and research commitments aplenty and what little extra time he had was devoted to physical training and the maintenance of an enviable physique. He was, in fact, heading in from his personal gym after exercising when he was attracted by the disturbance in the guest room.
He opened the door slowly, bracing for any possible threat. What he saw inside astonished him. It was a machine of some description, unlike any he had seen before – and he had seen more than his share of magnificent, even impossible, devices in his time (and built many of his own). Having made a quick survey of the room, the en-suite and wardrobe and being thoroughly satisfied that he was alone with the fascinating object, he started examining it.
It was an experimental machine of some sort, obviously meant to convey human cargo, that much was certain. How on earth had it gotten there? He entered what appeared to him to be the ‘cabin’. There were indicators and dials and toggles. He played with a few of them, trying to figure out their functionality.
Without warning, the machine came to life and began to shake. Jason braced himself against the walls of the cabin and the room outside the small compartment began to blur to complete indistinction, before clarifying into their proper form. Stepping out, he was unnerved by the feeling that he was in someone else’ house. But the room looked much the same.
Then he noticed. The bed covers were different. The paint looked a little more faded. There was a picture hanging on the wall by the en-suite which was unfamiliar. He stumbled to the door and opened it. It was unmistakably his home, but there were differences. He hurried to his bedroom, but the door was somehow locked. ‘Somehow’ was right: there was a card slot above the doorknob which Jason had never seen before. He tried barging the door with his shoulder, tried aiming well-placed kicks just above the lock, but the door seemed impossibly study, it would not budge before any manner of force.
Israel was becoming steadily more afraid. He suddenly regretted the noise he had made attacking and cursing at the intractable door. He crept nervously down the hall, tiptoed down the flight of stairs and peeked through the large doorway of his trophy room. Not even what he had seen could prepare him for the surprise he now got. As he remembered it, his trophy room was by no means bare; he had collected a vast number of accolades for his young age. But this! This was the spoil room of a conquering Caesar! Awards and statuettes sprawled all over the room. Awards from universities and institutes, from governments and corporations, a papal commendation, the Nobel Prize for Physics, the Legion d’Honneur, the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Hanging beside the latter, was a photograph. Two men stood in the oval office. One he had never seen before. The other, a good looking old man wearing a suit with the Medal of Freedom pinned to the jacket smiled serenely out. It dawned upon Israel that this man was himself. He was proud of how well he had aged.
Deciding to explore further, Jason pulled himself away from the horde of glorious awards. As he was leaving the room, he remembered again his fright and disorientation at the novelty of his surroundings. He knew not what unwelcome surprises might come his way. It didn’t do to be unprepared. Turning back, he reached up selected from the wall a mighty broadsword hung upon the wall. He looked it over and felt its heft. It was ancient and magnificently forged and it shone as if the burdens of age had never touched it. The sword was heavy, but after years of weight training he brandished it with ease. If anything or anyone attacked him, he could now sell his life dearly.
Little by little, he wandered through the house, amazed. Was this a dream? A vision? Whatever it was, he started to feel flushed at the forethought of the success which awaited him in later life.
Then, a scream. It was horrifying. The longer it went on, the more Jason felt his blood curdling in his veins. He slunk in the direction of the sound, clutching the hilt of the mighty sword to quell his terror. He snuck down further flight of stairs and came upon a laboratory which was unfamiliar to him. I haven’t built this yet, he thought.
He felt something soft under his feet. Looking down, he froze. It was hair. Part of the hard floor was carpeted by sheeny, silvery-white hair. His heart pounded more than ever. He crept silently to the open door and looked stealthily inside. Then, his heart stopped in his chest.
On the floor by a control panel was a disfigured old man, writhing in anguish, desperately trying to raise himself to the level of the dials. Beyond him was a machine like the one Jason Israel had found in the guest room. The old man was toothless with a discoloured bald pate, half-gone nose and horribly atrophied limbs peering out of ill-fitting clothes. He was weeping in agony, lips bloodied and every so often there were horrifying crunching noises, like bones and ligaments tearing themselves apart. The features were vastly changed, but there was still something recognisable in that deathly visage. And Jason recognised the man from the photos in the trophy room. He recognised himself.
Staggering back, Jason’s soul screamed silently within him. His mouth was dry and his great frame shook even as his hands clutched the massive sword. He turned tail and ran. He ran without stopping, up flights of stairs, past his locked bedroom, and burst into the guest room. Mad with panic, he threw the door closed behind him and fell to his knees.
He had to get out of here! He scrambled to the machine, climbed inside with the sword and feverishly fumbled with switches. He audibly moaned with relief as the device whirred and the walls blurred…momentarily. A light blinked on the dashboard of the machine. What appeared to be a power gauge was indicating insufficient reserves.
He stepped out. The bed coverings were still the unfamiliar ones. He felt his sanity disintegrating. He grasped the sword and raced again out the door and the same vaguely different hall greeted him. He began to wander, aimlessly, his mind awash with mortifying notions.
How horrifying his later years would be! All his strenuous efforts, all his self-discipline – all for nought. He would deteriorate into that barely animated corpse. And so marked would be his decline from the relatively healthy man in the photographs into…that thing! Of what use were all the plaudits of the world if he would live out his life in such a pitful state? He could think of nothing else but the eaten away nose, the cadaverous face and the visceral revulsion of the snapping bones and withering flesh….
He found himself back at the entrance to the laboratory; it was locked. The house seemed completely empty. He dragged himself back upstairs, still possessed by his terrible reflections. He came to his bedroom and extended a shaking hand toward the door handle. To his surprise, the door opened at once. He closed the door behind him, and the despair filled the room. He did not even bother to note the differences in the room’s furnishings.
He let the sword fall to the carpet and lowered himself onto the bed. He held his head in his hands, elbows pillared on his knees. For a few minutes he did not move at all.
When he did move, it was with the disturbing alacrity of the madman. He lifted the sword. I will not live as that creature, he thought to himself. Never. I will not suffer myself to undergo that indignity. He moved back and lay down on the bed. If I am to die, let me die in good health, as I am now!
His body methodical, but his mind in a frothing frenzy, Israel hoisted the sword above his chest. Holding the blade carefully on its sides, he plunged the sword into his breast and with mighty exertion pulled it down into his chest until his hands clasped the hilt. With one final effort, he plunged the sworn in further, through his heart and into the mattress. His hands fell dead and a final breath escaped his body, leaving a curious, satisfied smile playing on his lips and the dying glow of a mad fervour ebbing out of his eyes, which gazed unblinkingly at the door…as it opened.
November 19th, 2010 at 21:44
I’m about 3 1/2 times the word limit. Sorry Jessica. I just couldn’t stop.
I’m reading the other entries now, from bottom to top. Cacs, your story is superb! Very Asimovian. Reminds me of The Last Question mixed in with a brilliant but chronically underrated British sci-fi book series called Hex by Rhiannon Lassiter.
November 19th, 2010 at 22:24
Jara: Since you put it nicely, we accept your over-the-limit entry. Re the book drive, I’ll work out the details when the holiday frenzy (now in full swing in Manila) is over. Did I tell you that Justin said Hi and asked what you were doing?
November 19th, 2010 at 22:25
oberstein: Did you name your character after Yoann Gourcuff? Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Yoann Gourcuff!
November 19th, 2010 at 22:39
Si Sleeping Hunky at si Juanita
A long time ago sa isang barangay na far and away, nakatira si Juanita – isang mujer na Panday.
Actually, sya lang ang natitirang Panday sa barangay Tagumpay dahil ang iba, nag fly away na sa ibang lupain na kung saan babayaran sila ng limpak limpak na saging ibigay lang nila ang kanilang oras sa pagpupunas ng espada ng ibang tao / amo o bosing nila.
“Saka mas madali magpunas ng espada ng iba kaysa gumawa ng sariling espada bruha”, sabi ng ibang dating-ka-Panday ni Juanita. “Kaya, stop mo na yan iha at mag join ka na!”
“Don’t like nga!” say ni Juanita. “Mahirap man gumawa ng espada, heart ko naman mga sword na ginagawa ko.”
Pero, sa trulala lang, minsan naiisip ni Juanita, ano nga kaya maki join nako sa kanila?
“Oo nga, hindi naman habang buhay kang She-ra at kayang mag-keri ng espada” – gatong ng kanyang konsensya.
Puuurfect timing naman pag enter nitong si Hunky Boy, parang narinig ang isip ni Juanita.
“Pa-order nga ng espada, isa. Take out. Sama ka na rin. Turuan mo akong linisin at gamitin espada mo, ahem ahem.”
“Sure”, say ni Juanita.
So go naman si Juanita. “Raket na yummy pa, inggit ka? San ka pa!?”
Noong una, malaki at madami magbayad si Hunky. Actually, pinapakyaw nya halos lahat ng espada ni Juani (“Can I call you Juani?” Ask ni Hunky. “Oki” – reply naman ni babai. Maski di like ni Juanita yung tunog. Ka yucky daw pero um- oo na lang sya kasi baka matawag syang maarti.)
Pero lately nakakahalata na si Juani, sa dami ng pinapagawang espada ni Hunky, di na sya nabibigyan ng karampatang saging. Nagbabayad man, bulok naman mga banana offerings.
Nagkaka-eye bags at namumutla na kakapuyat si Juani pra lang ma-kumpleto demands ni Hunky pero mukhang di na nya keri.
Kaya nag face to face si Juani at Hunky.
“Pay mo muna me” say ni Juani. “Saka kita bigyan ulit ng mga swordies. Or else,” add ni Juani, “mapipilitan ako na i-end na ito.”
“Hwaaat?!” Sigaw ni Hanki. Sabay keri nung natitirang espada na gawa ni Juani.
“I-end mo! Sige!” Sabay higa sa bed ni Juani at itutok sa body nya yung swordie.
“Kakayanin mo bang i-end ko rin ako?!”
Hwaat?! Sigaw ni Juani.
Si Hunky, may topaki!
Pag eto na-tsugi, kargo ko itech.
Pag di sya na-tsugi, ako naman ma-lalagetch!
Hwaat to do?!
Sige na nga, gawa na kung gawa.
“Bahala na si Batman.”
Pero sa totoo, pray ni Juani, “Batman save me!”
Kasi, tuwing tumitigil si Juani kakagawa ng swordie, tinutusok ni Hunky sarili nya ng knifey.
Hanggang isang araw, akala ni Juani wala na siyang natitirang lakas, pero meron pa pala.
“Kung i-tsugi ko na lang sarili ko!” say ni Juani, desparately. “Kebs mo?”
“Mejo kebs ko” say ni Hunky. “Pero just in case , may back up naman ako, si Maki nakatira sa may boondocks last name Ling, so no worries. Pero super flattered ako na you’d die for me. I am so happy.”
In fairness antindi ni Hunky, di talaga inalis ang pagkakahiga at pagkakatutok ng espada sa kanyang body. Kaya nag-ala Bona si Juani at binuhos ang molten ore kay Hunky.
Na freeze tuloy si Hunky a-la frozen carbonite tulad ni Han Solo sa 3rd installment ng pelikula ni Georgie.
Text galore naman si Juani kay Maki at sinabi, “Hey gerlalu, pick up mo na dyowa mo. Di ko na sya dyowa dahil may bagong dyowa na ako, sarili ko.”
Habang iniintay ni Juani mag reply si Maki, nag-ka realization siya.
“Dapat pala gawan ko muna sarili ko ng sword bago ako gumawa ng espada para sa iba.” Pause sabay sigh.
Toot-toot incoming text reply: Hu u?
Text ni Juani, J-U-A-N-I pero isip muna nya, “Di na pala ako si Juani. Juanita nga pala me.” So add nya T-A. At kanyang surname, Flavia. O diva!?
November 19th, 2010 at 23:33
Thanks, Jara. Appreciate your special mention. I see Jason has found a way to circumvent feeback in his journey back in time, only to meet such fate. Tragic.
November 19th, 2010 at 23:47
hayy, di aabot ang entry ko. :-(
November 19th, 2010 at 23:56
Crimson hovers above the city, looking down on the bustling crowd in front of the Apple Store. She circles above the building before deciding to land on the parking grid.
Crimson walks in front of the store and a giant hologram is showing the keynote for their new product:
…iMan3000 is the best male humanoid in the market. It boasts of 128 exabyte of internal memory, 120 zettaflops of processing speed, impeccable AI and highly customizable physical features; you can choose its race, height, size, etc…
At the end of the presentation the tag line of the new product is highlighted: Much Better Than The Real One.
Clever, she thought, now nobody can sue them for false advertising given that nobody has seen a real man for roughly 500 years.
Has it been that long?
Crimson recalls the history lesson that was uploaded on her brain when she was 4.
* * *
In year 2012, an underwater volcanic eruption spanning the whole length of the Pacific created a massive movement in the ocean ridges triggering unprecedented tectonic plate movements around the globe.
Geologists analyzed the consequence of the event: The plate movements were causing an accelerated continental drift. But instead of the continents moving away from each other, they are moving towards each other.
The geologists predicted that at the end of the 30th century, all of the earth’s landmass will connect to form a single continent which they called Pangaea Ultima after the theorized supercontinent.
In year 2501, all the nation’s leaders signed a treaty that created a single nation and this was immediately followed by an election for the first ruler.
In year 2615, after more than a hundred years of relative peace, a war broke out.
That year’s election resulted in a tie between the man and the woman candidate. Both parties accused the other of cheating and the citizens were forced to take side. It resulted to the first (and last) Gender War.
30 years into the war, neither side was gaining advantage. Both recognize the implication of completely eradicating the opposite gender: end of human race. And this caused both sides to restrain their advances. Acknowledging this weakness, the women geneticists developed a way to synthetically produce sperm cells and later on they developed a way to manipulate human DNA so that artificial reproduction would always create a female.
With no reason to hold back, the women increased their forces and finally eradicated all men.
In year 2900, there was worldwide appeal to reproduce human males but this was disregarded by the leader saying that even if she approves, it is scientifically impossible. Geneticists supported this claim saying that male DNA records had been deleted.
To mollify the citizens, then leader proposed to create male humanoids. Roboticists promised that it will look and act like a real human male minus the facility for reproduction.
* * *
Crimson asks around and she learns that it will be released later at exactly 12 midnight leading to the new year of 3001. It will coincide with the celebration of Pangaea Ultima’s full formation.
Crimson thinks about making a reservation but decides against it when she remembers of her old but reliable and very loyal humanoid: Nokia E-Man. Its linguistics algorithm is not perfect but its emotion program is faultless. It’s like talking to a 5 year old who thinks like an adult. Plus it’s a good house guard with its own arsenal of weapons.
She walks back to the parking grid, mounts her Segway3000 and flies above the city.
On the way home, she sees a Robot Police chasing a humanoid. Judging by the humanoid’s speed and dexterity and the fact that it is running and not flying, Crimson guesses that it is a humanoid model from 30-40 years ago.
Robot Police was established 50 years ago to impound stray humanoids and humanoid fugitives whose circuits went awry.
Crimson can’t determine if it’s a stray humanoid or a fugitive, either case, she decides to avoid them and heads toward her house.
* * *
Crimson is sleeping when he hears a loud bang on her door. She gestures to open a screen showing the video from the door camera. On the door was the same humanoid that was being chased by the robot police that afternoon. Crimson increases the volume and she can hear the humanoid pleading: please help me.
Crimson turns the speaker on the door.
“Walk away now and I will not signal for the police”
“I beg you please help me. I need a place to hide. I am not a fugitive if that is what you’re thinking. Do you have a humanoid in the house? Ask it to scan me, please…”
Crimson walks to her humanoid and disconnected it to the charging post.
“There’s a humanoid in the door, do a full body scan and report if you detect any anomalies in its circuit”
The humanoid walks to the door and without opening the door proceeds with the scan.
“Circuit not detected. Not a humanoid. It’s a human”
* * *
“I don’t understand”, Crimson says, still not believing that it’s even possible. She begins doubting her humanoid’s reliability and thinks maybe buying the iMan3000 is not a bad idea at all.
“Listen. I assume you know your history. But I’m afraid what they uploaded to your brain is not entirely true. Gender War was a set up. The male candidate was supposed to be the winner but they…”
“Wait, who’s they?”
“Feminazi, a group of extreme feminists. They hacked the computer to make it appear that they were tied. They also influenced the female candidate into thinking they had been cheated.
“Ok, which they eventually won”
“Yes, but not after capturing my ancestor”
“Wait, what? They won when they produced that synthetic sperm”
“That’s another of their lies. The geneticists weren’t able to do it. So they captured one man and hid him in a lab.”
“You don’t mean..”
“Yes, for lack of a better term, they milked him. He had been the father of thousands of children. And before he got old and well…impotent, one of his sperm they used to reproduce another man. And that has been the procedure ever since.
“Isn’t cloning less…hmm…primitive?”
“Cloning is a myth like many things in this world”
“And you will be…”
“I’m their latest human male”
Outside, fireworks are already starting. Crimson checks the time. Its 11:50 in the evening. She forgets that in a while it will be New Year. And more importantly a momentous event will be happening. She can already feel the earth grunts as it makes its last movements.
And then amidst the sound of the fireworks, a police siren bellows.
“I thought you didn’t signal for the police?”, the male asks, panicking.
“I didn’t”
“Then who?”
At that instant, Crimson’s humanoid quickly moved behind the male and put him in a headlock.
It looks at Crimson with a look of jealousy
“I am the only man for you”
“Intruder here inside”, it shouts to the police
The police forced the door open
“Wait, he is a human”, Crimson yells
“We know”, answered the officer. We work for the genetics lab. We’ll deal with you later.
The police takes the male and heads outside
“You will not kill?”, inquires Crimson’s humanoid
“No”, answered the police.
As they were about to mount the vehicle, Crimson’s humanoid jumped behind them produced a saber and stabbed the male in the chest.
11:59 pm
…3
The male lands on the ground
…2
Blood runs on the pavement and gathers falling confetti
…1
As the earth takes its last step, the last male took its last breath
While the fireworks echo throughout the Pangaea Ultima, and while the citizens are buying their latest iMan model, Crimson looks at the last man and frowns at the irony.
November 19th, 2010 at 23:57
“Teneneneng teneneneng teneneng tengteng…” ang sabi ng telepono. Sa isang madilim na kwartong amoy Baygon, isang babae ang nagising. 2:56 ng umaga iyon, pero kung advanced ang orasan ninyo 3:14 am talaga.
Nairita siyang bumangon sa kanyang kinahihigaan at agad naghanap ng twalya upang punasan ang buhok niyang nabasa sa sariling laway. Bahagya siyang nagsisi dahil nakalimutan niyang magsipilyo nung gabi matapos kumain ng burrito.
“Hello Charlotte?” ang sabi niya sa telepono, may tonong parang nireregla.
“Mars? Angie? Gising ka ba?” ang sagot ng nasa kabilang linya.
“Oo naman bakla. Hindi ako tulog. Nanonood pa ko ng Home TV Shopping e, naintriga kasi ako nung bagong panghiwa ng patatas tsaka dun sa nativity cross. Tsaka ala-una kasi ako ng tanghali natutulog talaga para hindi ako lamigin.”
“A ganun ba. Mabuti naman. Meron na naman kasi akong bagong misyon para sa iyo. Yo. Yo Yo (echo effect).”
Biglang nagising ang diwa ni Angie. Bumukas nang kanya ang TV sa kwarto niya at tumugtog ang Diva music video ni Beyonce. Bumukas ang mga bintana sa kwarto at humangin ng malakas, tinangay ang mga kurtina. Feeling niya nasa pelikula siya. Nawala ang natitirang spirito ng antok sa kanya, parang yung epekto pag pinitik ka sa ngipin.
“Seryoso ba ito bakla? Baka naman patatabasan mo na naman sa akin yung kepkep shorts mo. Siguraduhin mo lang na business ito kung hindi sasakalin kita ng sarili mong hair extensions.”
“Tanga. Tatawag ba ako ng ganitong oras kung hindi seryoso. Tulog na nga ako e, nagising lang ako kasi may tumawag din sa aking informant.”
“O ano raw?”
“Mars, may gustong umubos sa lahi natin.”
“Gaga. Tunay na babae ako.”
“A basta. Limang parlorista yung natagpuang patay kaninang 2:37 am sa may Quezon Ave. Lahat sila may nakatarak na ano sa-“
“HOMAYGAD bakla. Namatay sila sa sarap?”
“Bruha. May nakasaksak na mga broadsword sa puso nila.”
“Broadsword?”
“Oo.”
“Yung parang…”
“Yung parang kinokolekta ni Jessica Zafra? (Yung parang kinokolekta ni Jessica Zafra!)” sabay nilang nasambit.
“Shoot sa banga,” ang sabi ni Charlotte. “May pumatay sa kanila. Sa may Visayas Ave. din, dalawang gym buddies ang natagpuan kaninang 2:42 am na nakahandusay sa tapat ng Kowloon. May nakatarak sa dibdib, mga broadsword din. Ang balita e pamintang durog yung dalawang yun.”
“O e sino raw ang may kasalanan? Baka naman ano, natapilok lang silang pito.”
“Hindi, may nakakita sa salarin. Isang callboy sa may Maharlika. Nag-iikot siya sa Circle nun nang nakita nya yung lalaki. Julio Valiente ang drama ng lolo mo, nambabato ng patalim sa mga beki. At sa puso ang puntirya ng sadistang frog.”
“Sino si Julio Valiente?”
“Ah basta i-Google mo na lang. Pero sinusundan ngayon ng informant natin yung salarin, kakatext lang nya sakin. Papunta raw siya sa Hardin ng mga Rosas. Feeling ko, ito rin yung serial killer na tumira sa mga kapanalig natin sa U-belt, yung nabalita nung isang linggo. Walong bakla ang nakita sa isang eskinita dun, lahat may nakatusok na barbeque stick sa puso. Wit ko bet ang trip nito teh, sumasakit ang bangs ko.”
“Okay sige. Magsashampoo lang ako at magche-change outfit na ko pagkatapos.”
“Bakit ka pa magsashampoo?”
“Basta. Sariling ritwal ko yun, para may effect kunyari.”
Pagkatapos maggugo at magbihis ay umakyat ang babae sa bubungan ng kanyang bahay sa Katipunan. Hindi pa sumisikat ang araw at tahimik pa ang lahat nang sinimulan nyang tumalun-talon sa ibabaw ng nga building. Patungo siya sa Hardin ng mga Rosas, isang compound na medyo malapit sa kanyang tinitirahan.
Nanakbo siya ng mabilis suot ang kanyang catsuit. Mula sa kanyang apartment, dumaan ng Ateneo, Miriam, tsaka kumaliwa sa may C.P. Garcia Avenue, ang daan patungo sa Hardin ng mga Rosas.
Maya-maya ay napagod na siya at biglang tumigil sa pagtakbo.
“Taxi!!! Taxiiiii!!!” sigaw niya habang hinihingal sa gilid ng C.P. Garcia. Ngunit walang nagsakay sa kanya. Merong mga bumubusina pag nadadaan sa tapat niya pero walang nagsasakay.
“Mga damuhong ito,” sabay naglakad patungo sa loob ng subdivision.
“Teneneneng teneneneng teneneng tengteng…” ang sabi ng telepono.
“Charlotte! Nandito na me. Anong sabi ng informant mo?”
“Mars, sa unang building sa kanan, sa fifth floor.”
“O sig-“
“Dun nakatira yung crush kong prof nung college. Minsan, pag nahihirapan ako sa biology, pumupunta ako dun sa gabi para magpatur-“
“Hoy hangal, wag ka nang magmaganda. Ano na ang sabi ng informant mo? Nasaan na yung serial killer? Nandito na ako sa Hardin ng mga Rosas. Bilisan mo na at mainit yung suot ko.”
“Teka lang Mars, kukuha lang ako ng kalendaryo.”
“Ha? Para saan?”
“Basta. Ano bang date ngayon, Mars?”
“March 31.”
“Gaga. Kahapon pa yun. Nagpalit na ng buwan.”
(26 seconds na katahimikan)
Good morning Mars! Hihihihihi,” sabi ni Charlotte, sabay patay ng telepono.
“March 31.”
“Gaga. Kahapon pa yun. Nagpalit na ng buwan.”
“March 31.”
“Gaga. Kahapon pa yun. Nagpalit na ng buwan.”
Paulit-ulit nag-echo ang pag-uusap nila sa utak ni Angie. Agad siyang bumalik ng bahay para matulog. Hindi na siya nagpalit ng damit.
Nang gabing iyon, isang bakla ang natagpuang nakahandusay sa C.P. Garcia Avenue. Walang broadsword sa dibdib, pero may nakapulupot na makapal na buhok sa leeg.
November 20th, 2010 at 00:01
Oops, in my hurry I didn’t do the word count. Its over the limit. I will revise and repost. I hope I dont get disqualified as its already past the deadline.
November 20th, 2010 at 01:14
dibee: Since you were dragged into this, we’ll allow your over-the-limit entry.
November 20th, 2010 at 01:18
Hi Ms. Jessica, I tried but I was only able to cut down 200+ words from the original entry. This version is a little over a thousand (corrected grammatical errors as well). I hope you can consider.
Thank you
Crimson hovers above the city, looking down on the bustling crowd in front of the Apple Store. She circles above the building before deciding to land on the parking grid.
Crimson walks in front of the store which has a huge ad on their new product:
“…iMan3000 is the best male humanoid in the market. It boasts of 128 exabyte of internal memory, 120 zettaflops of processing speed and impeccable AI…”
At the end is the tag line: Much Better Than The Real One.
Clever, she thought, now nobody can sue them for false advertising given that nobody has seen a real man for roughly 500 years.
Has it been that long?
Crimson recalls the history lesson that was uploaded on her brain when she was 4.
* * *
In year 2012, an underwater volcanic eruption triggered unprecedented tectonic plate movements around the globe.
Geologists found out that the plate movements were causing an accelerated continental drift making the lands move toward each other.
The geologists predicted that at the end of the 30th century, all of the earth’s landmass will connect to form a single continent which they called Pangaea Ultima.
In year 2501, all the nation’s leaders signed a treaty that created a single nation and this was immediately followed by an election for the first ruler.
In year 2615, after more than a hundred years of relative peace, a war broke out.
That year’s election resulted in a tie between the man and the woman candidate. Both parties accused the other of cheating and the citizens were forced to take side. It resulted to the first Gender War.
30 years into the war, neither side was gaining advantage. Both recognize the implication of completely eradicating the opposite gender: end of human race. And this caused both sides to restrain their advances. Acknowledging this weakness, the women geneticists developed a way to synthetically produce sperm cells and later on they developed a way to manipulate human DNA so that artificial reproduction would always create a female.
With no reason to hold back, the women increased their forces and finally eradicated all men.
In year 2900, there was worldwide appeal to reproduce human males but this was disregarded by the leader saying that even if she approves, it is scientifically impossible. Geneticists supported this claim saying that male DNA records had been deleted.
To mollify the citizens, then leader proposed to create male humanoids.
* * *
Crimson asks around and she learns that it will be released later at exactly 12 midnight leading to the new year of 3001.
Crimson thinks about making a reservation but decides against it when she remembers her old but reliable and loyal humanoid: Nokia E-Man. Its linguistics algorithm is not perfect but its emotion program is faultless. Plus it’s a good house guard with its own arsenal of weapons.
She walks back to the parking grid, mounts her Segway3000 and flies above the city.
On the way home, she sees a Robot Police chasing a humanoid. Robot Police was established 50 years ago to impound stray humanoids and humanoid fugitives whose circuits went awry.
Crimson can’t determine if it’s a stray humanoid or a fugitive, either case, she decides to avoid them and heads toward her house.
* * *
Crimson is sleeping when he hears a loud bang on her door. She views the screen for the door camera. On the door is the same humanoid that was being chased by the robot police that afternoon.
Crimson turns on the speaker on the door.
“Walk away now and I will not signal for the police”
“I beg you please help me. I need a place to hide. I am not a fugitive if that is what you’re thinking. Ask your humanoid to scan me”
Crimson walks to her humanoid and disconnects it to the charging post.
“There’s a humanoid in the door, scan and report if you detect any anomalies in its circuit”
The humanoid walks to the door proceeds with the scan.
“Circuit not detected. Not a humanoid. It’s a human”
* * *
“I don’t understand”, Crimson says, still not believing that it’s even possible.
“Listen. I assume you know your history. But I’m afraid what they uploaded to your brain is not entirely true. Gender War was a set up. The male candidate was supposed to be the winner but they…”
“Wait, who are they?”
“Feminazi, a group of extreme feminists. They hacked the computer to make it appear that they were tied. They also influenced the female candidate into thinking they had been cheated.
“Ok, and they eventually won”
“Yes, but not before capturing my ancestor”
“Wait, what? They won when they produced that synthetic sperm”
“That’s another of their lies. The geneticists weren’t able to do it. So they captured one man and hid him in a lab.”
“You don’t mean..”
“Yes, for lack of a better term, they milked him. He had been the father of thousands of children. And before he got old and well…impotent, they used one of his sperm to reproduce another man. And that has been the procedure ever since. “
“And you will be…”
“I’m their latest human male”
Outside, fireworks are already starting. Crimson checks the time. Its 11:50 in the evening. She forgets that in a while it will be New Year.
And then amidst the sound of the fireworks, a police siren bellows.
“I thought you didn’t signal for the police?”, the male asks, panicking.
“I didn’t”
“Then who?”
At that instant, Crimson’s humanoid quickly moves behind the male and puts him in a headlock.
It turns toward Crimson with a look of jealousy
“I am the only man for you”
“Intruder here inside”, it shouts to the police
The police force the door open
“Wait, he is a human”, Crimson yells
“We know”, answers the officer. “We work for the genetics lab”
The police takes the male and heads outside
“You will not kill?”, inquires Crimson’s humanoid
“No”, answers the police.
As they were about to mount the vehicle, Crimson’s humanoid jumps behind them, produces a saber and stabs the male in the chest.
11:59 pm
…3
The male lands on the ground
…2
Blood runs on the pavement and gathers falling confetti
…1
As the earth takes its last step, the last male takes its last breath
While the fireworks echo throughout Pangaea Ultima and while the citizens are buying their latest iMan model, Crimson looks at the last man and frowns at the irony.
November 20th, 2010 at 10:06
Thanks for letting me in over-limit Jessica. As for the book drive, I’ve got some good books collected already and I’ll get more over the holidays. If there’s anyone else around here who can help collecting, that would be great. Thanks for passing on my greetings to Justin, we should catch up when he’s free.
November 20th, 2010 at 10:10
@jessicazafra: Yeah, I didn’t want to be too dependent on Harry’s photo so I had to keep looking at an alternate source of inspiration – http://worldcupsexualfrustration.tumblr.com/post/1616431144/yoann-with-a-child-hot-damn-i-think-my-ovaries
November 20th, 2010 at 11:46
hi ms. j. i know this entry is super late, is more than 1,000 words and cannot stand a chance against pussy kamagong. but i’m sending it anyway because i would not know if there’s another chance it could get read by you. besides, i like the way a character was stabbed. the implement is original, i think.
saling-pusa na lang. :-)
—————–
Blood
“Do it for me anak. You uncle needs you. Please??”
How many times has she heard this plea before? What did the bastard do this time?
Eva is still sore. When her mom called, she was in the middle of a meeting with the law firm’s Greek clients, the brothers Aristotle, Artistides and Aristophanes, who wanted to ease out their partners in Kronos Shipping Lines Inc. “It’s a matter of life and death daw ho,” said the firm’s telephone operator when she took the call in the conference room. Eva knew that her mother used the word “emergency” again.
Eva was sore not so much because she would be missing the details of Oplan Ari, a compromise name reached after the brothers almost came to blows for each insisting on using his name. She was irritated because she was then busy trying to catch the furtive glances being given her by the ship captain who came in his immaculate uniform. Apparently among the crew he was the only one siding with the Greek brothers in the power struggle for control over the company. Did Eva just see a wink before she was startled by the intrusive message?
On her way out of the closed-door meeting, she noticed the most senior associate Crissy, Eucrecia Pamaligsa in real life, giving her her usual smug and sunken look. Eva knew from Crissy’s expression that she had noticed the ship captain too. That realization gave Eva less reason to be annoyed at her mother. On top of that, she felt a little mischief because Crissy would have to take over the mundane task of documenting the meeting, a work dedicated to lesser mortals, Crissy would always say, because of all days today was the day the secretaries struck over unmet demands for salary increases.
“Ma, this better be good . . . “ While listening to her mom, Eva unconsciously traced the dusty spines of a 50-volume reference material that’s supposed to teach lawyers how to prove facts but that nobody in her firm reads. “Your Uncle Emong, he’s in the municipal jail of San Isidro,” her mom began. For the nth time, Eva wanted to say. But she merely sighed, resigned to her usual role of a passive listener. She knew the futility of interrupting her mom when it came to her Uncle Emong’s numerous brushes with the law. After her parents were gone and her siblings would not touch her uncle with a ten-ft. pole, Eva’s mom had decided to become her youngest brother’s unofficial guardian and fiercest protector. Eva calls this “transference of affinity,” her mom’s way of making up for an absentee husband and a miscarried son.
“Your cousin Iking will meet you at the pier on Saturday,” her mom continued. As was her wont, Eva merely bit her tongue. She knew better than to argue with her mom. She didn’t want to see another dramatic calisthenics ala Ate Guy and allow her mom to feign any more non-existent heart ailment. Eva had to prepare an alibi for her absence from the firm just in case her trip to the province would extend until Monday.
The bus left the Edsa terminal at 3:00 a.m. of Saturday. Eva prepared for the 8-hour grueling ride ahead. She brought out her thick jacket, a neck pillow and an iPod. But this last one did not have any chance against the blaring B-movie in Blu-ray pirated disc that the bus conductor played when the bus got past the NLEX toll gate. Milla Jovovich was in a high mood, preparing to kill a million people in two hours.
At the edge of the town before San Isidro, the conductor announced that the bus would have to be ferried by a barge. Turned out Typhoon Juan left the place in ruins and the bridge connecting San Isidro to the mainland remained unrepaired for lack of government funds.
At the San Isidro wharf, Eva almost did not recognize her cousin Iking, who had grown so lanky since she last saw him. But she still recognized the patrician nose and slightly curly hair courtesy of Spanish soldiers who had sought refuge in this little town when they they were overrun by the Americans and who later got married to the locals. Iking’s countenance reflects the weight of his father’s numerous sins and shame. He can barely look at people straight in the eye when being talked to.
Halfway through the boat ride – a shortened route to reach the house of the barangay captain who volunteered to bring them to the police station in his stainless steel jeep – Eva was ready to vomit. She was tired and hungry and sea sick at the same time. If not for Iking who insisted on bringing her knapsack, she would have fallen flat on her face out of sheer exhaustion on the arid, sun-cracked road during the one-kilometer walk that they had to take before they could even reach the Kapitan’s house. They had to pass by the old cemetery where people according to some folks get drawn by a ball of light, follow it unknowingly, and end up lost and being found three barangays away, after two days of walking without food and water. There’s an engkanto, they say and to avoid being smitten by the ball, you have to walk fast and not look at any of the graves beside the road, especially the one with the open tomb that kind of invites people inside. Eva wanted to sprint. On second thought, she momentarily thought of testing the old tale. After all, her uncle could use some more time in prison, if not a long time, even a lifetime.
A bottle of soft drink and a native cake called binungey awaited Eva in the Kapitan’s house. Her aunt, Iking’s mother, was there to fill her in about the case. Emong had been on the run for two years now, she tells Eva. He got into a heated argument during a tong-its session in the neighboring sitio. During a free-for-all, the 18-year old son of the owner of the house, who tried to break the melee was pushed away by a wayward jab and landed on a farm plow that was kept inside the shed near the century mango tree where the men were gambling and drinking. He died instantly, pierced in the neck by the pointed part of the farm implement that was newly sharpened in time for the planting season. Everybody pointed to Emong as the culprit.
Eva needed only fifteen minutes to freshen up and change her sweat-drenched shirt. The water from the burnay, a big pot made of hardened clay, was ice-cold. The first splash on her face felt heavenly. She closed her eyes. She didn’t know how long she was doing that when she got startled by a little boy staring at her, partly hidden by the curtain that served as the door to the makeshift bathroom. The boy scampered away.
The road to the municipal jail wasn’t any better. For at least five times, Eva and Iking had to get out of the jeep because it could not maneuver the steep inclines or the deep craters and potholes on most part of the street. Brisk-walking would have gotten them earlier to the police station but Eva thinks, judging from the stories that he told about how he acquired it, the Kapitan derives much pleasure showing off his reflector sticker-covered jeep to his constituents.
The Chief of Police was out when the group arrived at the municipal jail. He had gone investigating some cattle rustling in the area, they were told. He had strict instructions not to let any prisoner out without his presence. Eva insisted on talking to her uncle somewhere private, telling the police on duty that she would be filing some motions in court for him to be allowed bail. Can we call his mobile phone, Eva asked, handing her own. The policeman grudgingly did as told but after one try, he gave back Eva’s phone. “Out of coverage area daw.” If you want, you can wait for “tsip” to come back, they told her.
Exasperated, and not wanting to spend another day in San Isidro, Eva contended herself talking to her uncle while he stands inside the cell, in full hearing of the rest of the prisoners, about six in all. Eva saw the various tattoos on her uncle’s arms and neck, testaments to all the time he went in and out of prison. One particular writing stood out. It says: “Catch me if you can.” It was ritten on the body of a cobra on the verge of striking with its fangs.
It wasn’t me, her uncle kept insisting. It was an accident. I was winning two thousand pesos and somebody was sore. They did it on purpose, egging me to fight them. I did not even get my capital. I am sorry Ludy died but I swear I did not touch that boy. Eva almost pitied her uncle, who seemed genuinely remorseful.
The mention of the name “Ludy” must have stirred some memory in one of the prisoners, a dark, brooding man with shoulder-length hair, because suddenly shouted “Emong? You’re Emong Camacho??” In a flash, he jumped on Emong and stabbed him on the chest. All that Eva could remember were her hysterical screams and the blood spurting on her face. She must have passed out.
The next thing Eva knew, she was on a boat on her way back to Manila. It was pitch dark when she left San Isidro and all she could see were the flashlights of early fishers trying to get their first catch of the day. Kapitan had assured her that he would take care of getting the services of the funeral parlor.
The investigation is still hazy but apparently the crazed man who killed her uncle had a small tip of a plow smuggled to him. Somebody said that a few days ago, they saw Ludy’s father make a quick trip to the jail.
Her mom does not know it yet. Eva dreads the moment when she would have to tell her. It was good the signal in San Isidro was bad; at least she had a reason not to call her mom after the incident happened. For the moment, Eva could only concentrate on the sound of the motor boat and the faint sound of crickets.