LitWit Challenge 3.1: The Staircase
Is it August already? Then it’s time to launch the third cycle of LitWit Challenges, brought to you by our generous friends at National Book Store.
This week your LitWit Challenge is this.
“Huh?” you exhale, squinting at the screen, “What is that?”
Why, it is a staircase. Not just any staircase, but the setting of the story you are writing for LitWit Challenge 3.1.
Your assignment is to write a story in 1,000 words or less that takes place on this staircase (You may ignore the sign). The story can be of any genre—mystery, thriller, romance, horror, comedy, historical drama, anything. It can be in prose, free verse, rhyming couplets or iambic pentameter. Its characters may be human, feline, extraterrestrial, alive, or dead. In short you have total freedom (except for the setting and the word count) and few tasks are more paralyzing than whipping up a story with no guidelines (other than the 1,000-word maximum, which will be enforced on pain of death/disqualification).
Post your entry/entries (We accept multiple submissions) in Comments. We will accept your stories until Sunday, 8 August 2010. The winner will receive this set of books:
The Man In The Yellow Doublet, a Captain Alatriste swashbuckler by Arturo Perez-Reverte
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, a.k.a. the novel upon which Blade Runner was based, by Philip K. Dick, and
The Global Warming Survival Handbook by David de Rothschild.
These should take care of your reading requirements for at least a week (though the Reverte is like hot buttered popcorn).
Go. The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by National Book Store.
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Speaking of staircases here’s a good rewrite: Christopher Nolan’s Implementation.
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First entry: Marilou’s tale of senatorial shenanigans. And we’re off!
August 2nd, 2010 at 21:46
Rushing up and down the stairs were people of varied distinctions: senators, vendors, thieves, judges, sluts among others. How were they able to come together in just one place? Beats me! This is my story and this is a dream. Anyway, the lady senator who is known for her mouthful of quotable that never fails to entertain deadline-beating press people, bumps into Aling Talya- I suppose that could be her name, she who held court over the buildings of UP Diliman during Lean Alejandro’s years as student-activist. She, whose children were strategically assigned to each and every college with their bilao-full of banana cue to sell. The senator would enjoy a stick of the sweetened saba if she only cared to stop but she was rushing to make a scene anew at the Senate even before her chronic fatigue syndrome makes its presence felt at dusk. The thief could be mistaken for a former Cabinet secretary- do you still wonder why their faces are interchangeable now? In this country, it has long been the truth-commissioned or not, thieves and government officials look very much alike.
The slut looked familiar-she wore a very expensive-looking terno at the recent SONA. Why, she is wearing her usual gear now and she is very much her element as she intentionally sways a hip towards the passing judge who throws her a wink. The two have gotten together not just once. She would brag that she actually did him a Monica Lewinsky underneath his bench while he tried to hear a case. Case was immediately dismissed, for obvious reasons.
The staircase suddenly shakes and for a few seconds all that rode it could not immediately comprehend what was happening. The old wood underneath and around them gave out a chilling sound akin to bones breaking apart and soon enough the characters whose one leg are either stepping up or down froze in fright. They all look up to recognize yet another danger: the enormous chandelier above them dropped not a few crystals. The slut got bruised on a breast by a fragment. The noisy senator felt her fingers bleed as she tried to take out broken pieces of lighting from her mesh of hair. The judge wished he had his robe on to cover his face. The thieves immediately tried to run for cover but instead tumbled upon one another. Everyone came crashing halfway down the enormous staircase. The senator cried: “We are going to die!”
And the wood stopped making that awful sound while the injurious crystals ceased dropping. Like a bloody artwork that would surely win in a backwater painting contest in the 19th century, the tableau of this country’s socio-political life lay hugging the staircase that led neither up nor down.
August 2nd, 2010 at 23:49
Portrait of Neil Simon’s ‘Sunshine Boys’ As Filipino Art Curators
Already the sun is showing signs of fashionable boredom. The room is awash with fabulous pastel hues that smell dusk, our favorite time of day. To us, it signals a life after office.
“Wait, are we sure about this?” I thought I heard a gasp of suspended disbelief from one of the antique portraits.
“I don’t know about you but, it looks like we can do it here.”
“Right here?! Are you out of your diminutive mind? We are in the Master’s Hall. ” This time, I am certain I am hearing a stifled chuckle.
“We haven’t tried it here, yet, have we?”
“Not with the lights on, I guess.”
“We can keep it on, if you want.”
“What I want is to get down to it and be done with it.” I have to squint at a particular portrait of a tribal soldier who uncannily resembles Rene Salud. The bitch looks mockingly surreal.
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
“That thing.”
“What?!”
“That thing, over there, in the middle. “
“Huh? I don’t see anything but a sign.”
“I know and it says, “Two steps at a time will keep the podiatrist away. Three or more will snap the gird of your undies.””
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing if it weren’t planted right smack in the middle of a museum staircase.”
“Can’t a museum put up a sign that alerts you of health problems?”
“This is a museum of antiquity not a pole dancing bar, ferchrissake.”
“Look, any bar can put up a sign on the impending Armageddon and I wouldn’t give a damn shit.”
“I would.”
“Of course you would, you’re the Queen of Kvetch.”
“Oh come on, don’t start, Duchess of –”
“Ha-ha! Say the word again and you’re dead as your stringy hair.”
“Kitsch…”
“There you go. I’m outta here.”
“Kitsch…chie Benedicto. Yes! You look every inch like Kitchie Benedicto. After the diet mishap.”
“I don’t think this is going to work. No, not this time.”
“Okay, I am ready.”
“Oh yeah, but I am out.”
“No you’re not.”
“What do you mean I am not? I just said, I’m out.”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m out! I’m out! I’m out! That’s it, Krungkrung Gonzales!”
“Stupid gorilla, you’re not out, you’re still here.”
“Oh yeah?! I may be here, but I am technically out.”
“You’re not because you can’t even spell technically kitsch…chie Benedicto!”
“You’re spritzing stinky saliva on my face again. Now I really should be striking you out.“
“That officially makes us members of Out. Welcome back!”
“Back to where?”
“We used to be in with the In Club but since we’re both out of it that means the Out Club is in, and that’s where we’re in now.”
“Okay, but stay out of my way.”
“I can’t, we’re the only members.”
“Can’t we function away from each other?”
“We can but that’s per Dominatrix Decree.”
“Who’s decree?!”
“The Club Dominatrix.”
“I didn’t know we already have a leader or something.”
“As mandated by the Club Constitution.”
“What consti… Who signed it?”
“The Dominatrix.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’d rather you stop this now or, you will be penalized for contempt.”
“This is outrageous!”
“That’s 500 pesos for questioning the Constitution.”
“Do I have to pay now?”
“George-Michael-cash or, Boy-George-community-service, you pick one.”
“Will take the latter.”
“Okay, follow the sign.”
“What?!”
“Do as the sign says: “Two steps at a time will keep the podiatrist away. Three or more will snap the gird of your undies.” For your offense, it will be five times up and down the staircase if you choose two steps, and three for three.”
“But where’s the podiatrist?! Wait, no way!”
“There will be harsher punishments for repeat offenders.”
“I can do three steps down and two steps up. How many trips do I have to make?”
“Would I know? You’re the Treasurer.”
“I am?!”
“Now that’s negligence of duty.”
Suddenly, a strong draft knocks the sign off. We had to get it moving. A new world beckons as night falls upon us like a young macho dancer slithering down a pole.
“Can we do it now? It’s quarter to the Director’s arrival.”
“Okay, I am waiting.”
“No, I am waiting. It’s your turn this time, remember? Go, go, go, the staircase is all yours.”
“Okay, just give me a good spiel.”
“Alright alright, catwalk already… Ready? Ladies and gentlemen, our model is wearing a leather gown designed by Mama Rene of Maypajo, Caloocan…”
Fashionista, how do you look? Fashionista how do you…
August 3rd, 2010 at 12:13
I waited for what seemed like ages.
You said you would meet me by the statue on the staircase overlooking the main entrance of the university hall at 9 o’clock.
I was there on the dot, with my knapsack and handcarry luggage. I was running like mad from the tram stop on the way to the university hall, very excited to meet you and make the great escape I have ever made in my entire life.
But you were not there.
It’s very unlikely of you to not show up on time. So I gave you the benefit of a doubt, and I waited for one hour. Then it became two hours. Three. Even four. I waited until I was no longer counting the hours.
Students and faculty members passed me by, coming up and down the staircase on their way to class. Many would look at me sideways, perhaps wondering what I was doing there. What is this woman with a handcarry luggage doing standing like that by the statue? I must have looked miserable every time a minute passed by without you showing up.
I tried to call and text you, but there was no response. Did I get the date and time right? I checked my diary planner, and got assured that I got it all right.
By 6 p.m., I left our rendezvous site — by the statue on the staircase overlooking the main entrance to the university hall. I couldn’t believe it: I waited for you for nine straight hours. It can only be mad love, I said to myself.
It was only then that I realized that you were not coming. With a heavy heart, I boarded Tram number 11 that would take me home.
Leaving Hans, now dying slowly but surely of brain cancer, was not an easy decision, Godot. He loves and needs me, but I don’t love him anymore. Not after meeting and falling in love with you — online.
I would forever cherish the thoughtful comments you left on my personal blog, where I chose to be vulnerable to the whole world. And yes, how could I not love the e-mails of concern you sent my way every day? You made my otherwise gloomy days bright and colorful. I felt important again.
But why didn’t you come today? Why didn’t you answer my phone calls and text messages?
As the bedridden Hans calls for me from our bedroom, I go online and compose an e-mail in our home office:
“Dear Godot,
I waited for you by the statue on the staircase facing the main entrance of the university hall today, for nine hours. But you didn’t show up.
I am not mad at you (who can be mad at you?). Just wondering what happened to you. Are you okay?
I tried calling and texting you, but there was no response. Anyway, I just want you to know that I have not changed my mind — far from it. I would still run away with you and live with you in Munich if you haven’t change yours.
Ich liebe dich.
Yours forever,
Monina”
And so, here I am again, waiting. Waiting for my beloved Godot.
August 3rd, 2010 at 12:56
Oops, “signals life” (par. 1); “Masters Hall” (par. 4). Sorry.
August 3rd, 2010 at 19:52
Great Expectations
At fourteen, Jay and I were in the early, furtive throes of young love while enrolled in a centuries-old, nun-run academy. Three months into the relationship, we decided it was time for our first kiss, having hurdled clammy handholding a fortnight earlier.
Compared to the milestone of two weeks ago, a first kiss needed more coordination and planning. Location, location, location was foremost in our thoughts. The girls’ restroom at homeroom time was considered too risky, and the creek underneath the bridge too absurd. Meanwhile, the library, which was my idea, was just too hot and dusty—it would totally just kill the moment, Jay declared.
We finally settled on the most likely spot: the uppermost steps of the east stairway leading to the typing room. The old wing of the high school department was slowly being converted into college classrooms, and since the west stairway was more accessible now, the nuns had recently closed the doors to the eastern entrance, barring anyone from going down the east stairway.
The east stairway took you up two flights of steps, both separated by a large landing. Where the first set of steps pointed north, the second set pointed south. And while the first flight of steps was visible from the ground floor corridors, the second stairway leading to the second floor was not, and was in fact a cul-de-sac of sorts now that its doors were locked from upstairs.
We set our rendezvous for the afternoon’s first subject and, having slipped away from music class armed with breath mints we nonchalantly meandered to the stairway. As luck would have it, a typing class was in full swing, and the considerable ruckus of keys against platens was a comforting clatter.
It was an old, elegant stairway, with intricately designed steps the color of old brass, beige and rust and carved, ornate filigrees on the banisters. Skirting a sign on the landing, we settled ourselves on the topmost steps, where the floor-to-ceiling window behind us swathed the stairway in a beatific, early afternoon light. We both had the same thought (it doesn’t get any better than this!) and immediately held hands, declared mutual unwavering affections, smiled and puckered up.
It was a slow, definitive, wet kiss. And it was short and claustrophobic. It made that stairway spin and magnified the silence that had blocked away the sounds of that school-day afternoon.
We then headed downstairs, smug as Cheshire cats. On the way down we took time to read the sign on the landing. “Beware of dead ends.” And that was that.
August 3rd, 2010 at 20:49
Knock. Knock.
Mrs. Robinson smiled. “They’re here.”
Everything is all set: freshly-baked muffins, chocolate chip cookies, a pitcher of thirst-quenching orange juice, and of course, a room filled with books. Yes, books. Every afternoon, kids from the neighborhood would go to Mrs. Robinson’s home to read books from her library. A teacher during her younger years, Mrs. Robinson finds satisfaction in imparting knowledge into the minds of young children, especially now that she no longer has a family of her own.
As soon as the door opened, seventeen children from nine to fourteen years old ran inside. It was like the once quiet house turned into a noisy preschool classroom as the children cheerfully greeted Mrs. Robinson. “Go ahead, my sweet little angels, go upstairs and read any book you like. If ever you want something to eat, food will be waiting in the dining table.”
You may think that all of the kids who regularly visit the place are all interested in the knowledge and fun that they can acquire in reading. No. Kia is different from all of them; very different. The girl hates books. She hates reading. She hates talking to Mrs. Robinson about the book she had read for the day. But she still has to go there every day. Kia needs to go because of the food. She needs to act as if she enjoys what she is doing or else she might not have anything to eat for the day at all. Kia’s mother and two siblings died in a car accident. Her father, who was driving when the accident happened, blamed himself and turned into an alcoholic. Kia stopped going to school to work on the streets to support herself and her father. All of these are unknown to Mrs. Robinson, who moved into the neighborhood months after the tragedy.
In spite of her hatred towards books, Kia still picked one of it from the library and went straight to the staircase going to the basement, a place she knows that no one will ever go to. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?” she asked aloud.
“You are supposed to read that, uhm, thing.” Kia turned back and saw Mrs. Robinson smiling at her. “That’s a great find, Kia. Do you know that that book used to be my daughter’s favorite when she was your age? Give it a try; I know you are going to like it.” With that, she returned into the living area to attend to the other children.
Surprised, the 13-year old girl read the title of the book: A Cup of Love for my Mother. She flipped through its pages and before she knew it, she’s already reading the book; and not just reading but she is reading and having fun at the same time. She knows that the other kids are already eating with Mrs. Robinson but she does not mind. She stayed there in the staircase, not caring anymore about the dessert prepared for them. Then, someone tapped her.
“Kia, did you like the book?” the stranger asked.
“I’m not yet done with it and I don’t know if I can finish reading it today.”
“You don’t have to finish reading a book in order to find out if you like it or not. Reading is like love. Love at first sight. Do you believe in such thing?”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Leah. The book that you are reading, do you know that that’s my favorite? Oh, silly me. Of course you wouldn’t know that since we’ve just met minutes ago. And this place, this staircase, this is where I usually read too. We have so much in common.”
Kia and Leah looked into each other’s eyes and giggled. They don’t know why but they both giggled. Leah helped Kia finish the book. They analyzed it together, talked about the characters, and made their own out-of-this-world endings.
“I need to go home now,” Kia announced. “The other kids might have left already and I need to return this to Mrs. Robinson.”
The smile in Leah’s face faded. “If you will leave this staircase, you will never see me again.”
“I did not know you can be that emotional,” Kia answered with a laugh. “Don’t worry; we can always see each other next time. You can go to our house or accompany me in working in the streets. We can borrow more books from Mrs. Robinson and read it together and…”
“You don’t understand, don’t you? Kia, I am serious.”
The girl did not know what to say. Yes, she does not understand. Then, she heard a voice from the top of the staircase.
“Kia, are you still there?” It was Mrs. Robinson. She turned back and saw the old lady approaching her, and when she turned again to look at her friend, she was already nowhere to be found.
“Mrs. Robinson! Mrs. Robinson! Have you seen Leah? She was just here a while ago.”
“Honey, I know all the names of the children who go here in my house and I can tell you that there is no Leah who went here today. Maybe you are dreaming or something?”
“No, ma’am. Leah was here. We even discussed this book together. She’s this girl with curly, brown hair, almond eyes, and… There! She looks exactly like that girl in the picture.”
The two went down the basement and picked the picture. Everything in the basement was in its perfect place except for the picture which was mysteriously found in the basement floor. It was like someone intentionally placed it there so as Kia can easily find it.
“Kia,” Mrs. Robinson said with a pale face, “This is the photograph of my daughter, Leah. She died almost a year ago. My daughter fell from this staircase, a few steps away from where you were reading her favorite book.”
August 4th, 2010 at 10:54
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN (or HELL PERHAPS)?
I used to run up and down that stairs. My brother and sister, too.
But then Mom would yell at us, “You might fall down, we don’t have emergency funds for hospitalization”.
Then we would search something in Dad’s gaze. We’re not really sure what we’re looking for. Defense perhaps. Defense against Mom’s forever ranting but Dad would just shrug his shoulders.
I used to run down that stairs. My brothers and sisters, too.
“How many times do I have to tell you I love my family, will you stop listening to Aling Kare”, I heard my father shouting.
“After all this years, after all the sacrifice I’ve done just to raise this family this is what I’m gonna get”, Mom yelled back.
Then silence. Deafening silence. Then I run down the stairs, behind the cupboard or sofa but my brother and sister were already there, hiding, safe from our world’s harshness.
I used to run down that stairs. My brother and sister, too. My brother first.
“Where are you going?”, Mom asked.
My brother never answered the question. He ran down the stairs as fast as he could. Then he never came back.
I used to ran up and down that stairs. My brother and sister, too.
“After I raised you up, this is what I’m going to get?! Bastards!”, Mom shouted up the staircase.
My sister just shrug her shoulders and hug me tight then ran down the stairs as fast as she could.
Then Mom turned at me and yelled, “If you’re going to leave this house, do it now. You’re all the same.”
When my brother and sister left the house, I looked at Dad’s gaze but I never got the answer I was searching for. Never.
I used to ran up and down the stairs. My father, too.
“I never wanted to do this but your Mom….”, I never figure out what Dad was trying to say.
My Mom just looked at him intently. Dad just shrug his shoulders. Then he ran down the stairs as well.
I used to ran up and down the stairs nowadays especially when I hear Mom’s screams of pain. The doctor said we need to increase the morphine. I just shrugged my shoulders as a sign of approval. There’s nothing we could do about it now, the tumor in her brain was spreading fast.
I used to ran up and down that stairs. There are lots of things that need to be fixed. Every room must be clean. The kitchen must be repaired. The buyer is almost here.
I ran down the stairs for the last time. I looked up. No one’s there.
August 5th, 2010 at 20:12
Who is this old lady carrying a turquoise venetian-blinds-screened basket, to block my view of the stairs?
I put into this journal that this indubitably septuagenarian is into something covert in this ship. She’s been here long enough to have surely rendered what might have been her instructions from something CIA-esque.
That lady is oldie! More sugar squares please, Mama.
Or are guns part of this epic ship’s sly cartel and some of those inside this lady’s big plastic sort of purse?
There are signs now Iran is doing nuclear. Pakistan’s flood might not be as innocuous as media suggest. God, should’ve just stayed home and google-mapped all this.
Or is her sitting on the stairs now the second sign before somebody approach her and retrieve the lost data she stole from rooms?
I spell foods. I am lucky boy.
What is she to sit there and us here forced to be dressed? Kind of smug.
And transfer it wireless to Central and de-script its HTML to get why, I don’t know, Pakistan is still doomed?
Lumber! Sea blue! Stairs! Mama whats’a trebuchet?
She’s surely Filipina, that skin looks like pre-botox Charice.
And initiate spies to the location and hold that thing that’s surely a gun to, say, a President’s wife?
Is that a gun she’s about to pull out?
Unless that isn’t, which is most likely the case, as no piece could look like that mushy and fit in plastic wrap, like some stringy food?
It’s in a packet. How strange for her to palm it and probe.
That man is a guard!
And this approaching guard is signal the plan’s abort?
This guard has no gun. Strange he’s approaching this lady without one. Finally to pull her out there.
And that lady’s standing up an admission all’s at fault?
And why’s she strying to let the guard see inside the basket. My god this is a drug deal!
Or this simply could just be a sidelined opium deal because nowhere’s greater to do a bong than in a ship where even boredom’s free?
I put into record I’m an officious jerky witnessing something just as illicit.
And her handing out the packet and him/her proffering money the exchange?
Somebody should mouth-read what they’re saying.
I smell fuud. Hey…. Am I silly Mama, am I silly?
Nay…pritong itlog nalang. Inutang na lahat ng supot paras bertday ni Ben. Pati ang pansit mo.
August 7th, 2010 at 04:25
The Staircase
In that instant when Heaven was once again connected to our earthly plane of existence, all was right with the world. There were no wars, no diseases, nobody died (17 people actually resurrected: 7 in hospitals, 5 in morgues, 3 in coffins, 2 in urns), nobody was forced to suffer fools gladly and all crimes of fashion were forgiven. But that link only lasted for all of twelve seconds, enough time for the gates of Heaven to open, the Angel Sevincent to get thrown out, skitter back in, unsuccessfully try to grab hold of several heavenly metal fence railings and get thrown out once more while the words “And Stay Out” were sung by an invisible choir. The gates of Heaven closed and humanity was once more alone and flawed.
The Angel Sevincent’s first thoughts were about his newly de-transubstantiated chin, which must have collided against something hard when he was first thrown out. Rubbing it, he finally got to notice the earthly environment he was in. So, this is what having physical eyes feels like. And this is how it is to look at three-dimensional space, he thought. Not too shabby at all what with all these browns and corners and disjointed disjoints. And the place seemed comfortable enough. Oh, wait, did he say three-dimensional? He looked closer at the atoms of air surrounding his body and began to count. One… two… three… seventeen dimensions apparently, he corrected himself.
He finally noticed the multi-planed characteristic of the ground in this world. This was what the other angels had long remarked on. And truly, it was indeed strange. From what he’d heard back inside the Pearly Gates, though, this world should be filled to the brim with sentient beings. Where were they? And does the way this world seems constructed indicate that the sentient beings in this world all possessed different heights? He closed his eyes and scanned for minds in the area. “Yes, yes, I am detecting several individuals of good moral– Aaaiiieee!!!!!”
It occurred to him that closing his eyes while heading towards the direction of these other minds was what brought him to this predicament. He lay broken on the ground at the foot of this… ‘staircase’. That was the word he gleaned from the minds of these ‘humans.’ But could it be not really his error but the staircase’s malice that caused this? Yes, yes, of course. After all, didn’t he and a bunch of other angels all manage to balance on the head of a pin that one time they got bored? And so these staircases were probably just simple instruments of pure doom and betrayal, serving only their one function which was the exhibition of human frailty.
In that moment, he understood humanity and everything that they had to contend with. He was human and in full possession of human sentiments. He placed a fist over his chest and began to strike at himself repeatedly. Fuck you, then, Mr. Staircase. Fuck you, he thought.
The angel’s broken bones mended themselves and he stood. He had learned his lesson, fulfilled his mission. He can go back home now to share to the rest of the heavenly host his findings.
The gates of Heaven opened once more and all was right with the world. The Angel Sevincent stepped through and disappeared.
“So, did you find out what those things were called and whether or not we should build some of those here?”
August 7th, 2010 at 06:53
She brushed out of the right-wing of the lobby and carefully trotted down the stairs—skin-tight gown, high heels, and all.
A breathless husband—unbuttoned shirt and hurriedly clutching his pants—was at her elbow.
“Wait! Honey, talk to me! Where are you going?” he demanded.
“Out!” she shot back.
“Out where? We’re barely halfway through the tour!”
“None of your business.”
“What do you mean by a crack like that? I am your HUSBAND!”
It was a marriage that was doomed from the start.
While surprise engagements were made public in large hotel function halls over lavish food and drink, theirs was announced through SMS (with free text and PasaLoad) with all the surprise of an untipped waiter.
While wedding ceremonies were done in churches full of people, theirs was held within the confines of their best friend’s house—a gay man “who was such a dear” by taking care of the wedding expenses and didn’t charge a thing.
While mothers-in-law dabbed eyes from tears of joy, theirs wore black suits and armbands to the reception.
“What are you so sore about?” he asked. “Look, if it’s about what happened back there, I’m sorry.”
She stopped on her tracks. “Only an idiot unashamedly strips off his clothes in public!”
“But a cockroach ran up my shirt!” he reasoned.
“A small plastic cockroach that belonged to some prankster kid,” she pointed out.
“Okay, so maybe I overreacted . . . “
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were showing off!”
“Honey naman! Now you’re the one who’s overreacting. I bet you would do the same thing if that stupid kid so much as dropped a toy cockroach down your bust.“
“You may be right,” she affirmed. “Although I wouldn’t dress down in front of 24 single young women with concave stomachs, six gay men with lascivious eyes, and seven rich cougars in a perfectly civil museum tour.”
“ Honey naman . . . I didn’t mean to . . . “
“’I didn’t mean to’ does not cut in,” she added. “If I knew beforehand that you were an exhibitionist, I wouldn’t have married you!”
At this point, the husband had had it.
“You’re the one who had to marry a basketball jock who always gets product endorsements requiring showing off skin! Heaven knows I’ve put up with your constant nagging,” he retaliated.
“I’ve never complained about your product endorsements . . . only that it would be over my dead body!”
“You always threaten to self-destruct when I do things that don’t please you!”
“You think I’ve forgotten your fling with that derma clinic staff? And another thing,” she added “Your mother had no right to wear black to our wedding reception!”
“Those have nothing to do with this argument! You’re an impulsive, control-freak, revenge-seeking . . . “
“That tore it. I’m going home,” she said with a cold front and calmly continued down the stairs.
“Honneee! I’m only saying these horrible things because I love you! I don’t know what I would do without you,” he chased, promptly himself knocking down with a sign at the bottom of the stairs.
His wife shot out of the building and called her lawyers for an appointment.
On June 30, 2010 at about 11:55AM, the wife was spotted with a brother and three sisters at the Quirino Grandstand—without her husband.
August 8th, 2010 at 08:19
Hanging up here in the ceiling for more than a millennium would bore anyone to tears. If I knew that I would spend eternity staring up at the Medici family’s portrait, I would have hanged myself in some Roman bath designated for the ladies. I don’t think any man would tire of those views!
But alas! Here I am, arrested for worshiping Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and sentenced to death by hanging. Stupid Christians and their prudish ways! Bah! Why we had such a great time in my day. We had parties and orgies and unicorns riding virgins… Oh wait, I think I was drunk that time…Wait, I think it was Pegasus riding a virgin…or was it a minotaur? Anyway, here I am. A ghostly specter doomed to people watch up high.
Sometimes things actually happen below. The staircase where I hang is isolated and things could get pretty interesting, if you know what I mean.
There was this one lad, who seemed to be waiting for someone, and wouldn’t you know it, it was another lad! They kissed and hugged! In my day, I’d heard that aristocratic men had relationships with each other but it was just too weird for an ordinary man like me. I shudder at the thought!
I was quite delighted by a lady who sat on the stairs for a whole hour. Her skirt rode up to her thighs and I could have sworn I actually saw her black underpants at one time! From decade to decade, I saw how skirts get shorter and shorter. I even appreciate the man’s pants women wore that cling to their delightful curves. What I don’t like is that they seem to get thinner and thinner! I remember my sweet Lavinia’s curves and luscious bosoms were like soft melons I loved to lay my head on. Oh how she cried as she watch me twitched from my noose.
I realized that there are a few people who could see me. I enjoy watching their face turn to white as I wave to them! I waited to see if they would pass by again, but they avoid coming here I guess.
Most of the time, though, its just poor wenches and lads carrying heavy books with worried looks on their faces passing by. I guess this is the library part of the school. Bah! Libraries! We did not much care for libraries back then! Why, all the learning you need, you experienced first hand.
As for me, I get lonely, of course. I keep wondering when Pluto would notice that he’s missing a soul. I wonder where I’d go? Asphodel Meadows, I think, certainly not Tartarus…hmmm… but I did do naughty things behind Jupiter’s statue once…