Warning: Poisonous Pens Treading.

[15.09.08] Reduced to Increments.

2009-09-14T09:07:00.000-07:00

[ r e d u c e d t o i n c r e m e n t s . ]

Hi. Kill me.
Hell week for Demise, here we come.
(Kami ni Chino at ni Theia.)

date&time. 15 September, 12:13AM

location. Chino's apartment, Filipina
mood. Sane and energetic, luckily.
agenda. Type draft for 'Demise', edit images for the book.

the story.
Tuesday. I dread I'll have to mutate back to my student persona in a matter of hours. There is this staggering project me and my two-person production team have to accomplish this week - the completion of the draft for Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery (bold is bold, don't fight it). If you'll just take time into looking at some slow progress, here's some news:

We wrapped up the ninth story, Bid Me Goodbye.
Chino's swing illustration was tastefully done in complement
to the faux script story. (Trust me, when I meant the ninth, I didn't mean we're down to four more. ._.)

For some reason, I felt like making a fictional avenue in Los Angeles for the story. So there. Marseilles. I know it's a place in France,
but I'm geographically dumb, so yeah.

--------------------------

[ e x t r a c t i o n , p . 1 0 ]

BELINDA.
(smiles, raises SLR camera to her eye)
Oh, smile to the camera, Jerry!

Jerry candidly smiled. The shot was perfect – a yellowed, sunny image of a man, the focus readjusted to blur the park background, with the right contrast of the sunray on his left, and a vibrant shade of light on his body. Belinda smiled, as with all the perfect shots she had ever taken.

BELINDA.
(looks down flatly, scans and readjusts the controls of the camera)

I was a robot without you in my life, Jerry.
But routine loved me more than you did.

--------------------------

Fierce. Haha.
But revenge always gets things its way, so the story's more or less disappointing. I dunno. I guess I'm pessimistic at this point, but being a cynic does wonders, no?

Publishing date, here we come!
*enter Justice League music prompt*

._.

[19.08.09] Where is my Sunny Day Syndrome?

2009-08-18T08:34:00.000-07:00

There was something looming in the air tonight. The way it brushed on my hair, the way its cold drift made its way to my face - it makes me anticipate of our meeting later. I can’t wait to see him again, to touch him, to caress him - to kill him with the dead fact that I still love him, and I’m not walking away.

He’ll be sorry he turned me down.
~ Contentions

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 108.
Tuesday, August 19, 2009, 11:37 PM

Migraine makes one futile.

Didn't accomplish anything on my calendar of activities for this day. I'll do my best tomorrow, though. Hahahaha. :D

That's it.
Kala mo ang haba ng sasabihin eh, no? XD

[18.08.09] Contentions.

2009-08-17T10:29:00.001-07:00

Sadness is joy's lost fragment, if not its identical twin.
~ Bones

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 107.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009, 1:12 AM

To motivate me further, I devised a handy jolt of initiative for myself for the book:
a black-and-white calendar of activities.

Last week, my writing for Demise got so bland that I wrote off two very short stories under the same context, only this time they didn't take that much prep time as these primadonna short stories for the book. The two, Bones and Sid's Discourse, are products of a bored evening, so I hope you get a hang of them. Hahaha. Click on the links on the names to read them.

Next, if I get the luxury of time, I will be off to writing the suspense short story Contentions.
Haha. Me 'contentions' ba kayo dun? :D

Off to revising Dahlia and Midnight. Haha. Goodluck! XD

Sid's Discourse

2009-08-17T10:21:00.000-07:00

Sid’s Discourse
Pol Singson

'Come on. Stop obsessing over that Ed Banter novelette.'

Sid peeked over his printed copy of Someone's Discourse, Times New Roman size 10 point five on all sides, to an exhausted Niña, who just came from the grocery store, buying plump oranges and leeks for her classroom experiment on osmosis. He continued reading with the seventh page.

'Says here that fixation with someone is a one-way road to frustrations,
but I doubt it's always the case.'

Niña rolled her eyes, like she always does when Sid infers with his readings. The heated oven shrills with whisked water from the pan, and the fragrant smell of olive oil fills the kitchen area and the lounge. Hard to have a bookworm housemate, she thought. He's a bigger geek than she is, nulling the common thought that girls are bigger fans of idle reading than dumb, blockheaded boys.

'Care to tell why you thought so?'
'Well, it's to say that human reflex tells us to either feed on our obsessions or refrain from obsessing, which either case is unhealthy, because it's rather sickening to-

His words blurred to her ear, like a professor's raspy voice droning to oblivion. She minded her cooking, murmuring 'uh-huh's from a distance. Her sauce turned out sweet and runny, until the very last minute she was dumbstruck with the realization that she was preparing Italian pasta, and pasta doesn't need sauce. Ulp. Me and my big, fat trap.

'-and there was this girl I met in my Speech Development class, and she was mulling through her notes, so I thought-

No, not his girl-scavenging again. God, I wish I had stones for ears.

'-she was staring my way, so I thought she liked me, but common preconceptions as said by Banter here are mere reassurances of self-validation, and bouts of erotomania are unavoidable, and-

Erotomania? The word registered to her head and an image of a fish with wings appeared. Her glum thoughts vaporized and blended with the sauce she was mixing, since she resolved to make tomato soup with it anyway.

'-so I approached her after class, and she said her name was Mildred-

She giggled. Mildred. What a name.

'-and I asked her if I can, maybe, just maybe, we can go out sometime-
are you still listening?'

'Of course I am,' she said. Wow. Sid is one hell of a laughtrip. Niña went on with boiling the pasta, approximately taking five minutes more, now resolving not to mind Sid's ranting anymore. He wouldn't notice, after all.

______________________________________

'Wow. You cook well.'
'I haven't cooked since Attila the Hun, you know. You should be glad.'

Sid talking with herbs and pasta in his mouth, Niña indifferently gauging the taste of her work, the dim Friday sky smelled of sweet nightouts and barhopping. Yet Niña had to stay for the early schedule of her preliminary finals at seven in the morning tomorrow. Being stuck with nerdy Sid is no less of an insult, either.

'-she looked like my old elementary crush, you know, and whenever she smiles-'

Okay. I'm not listening. She ate the remaining strands of pasta and thought of something else to block this blabbermouth's sweet nothings.

'-but at four, we parted ways after our date, and she crossed without seeing the streetlight, and it's still red, and I had to shout STOP! but she heard me too late, and by instinct I ran and pushed her to the side, and I was hit by a truck, and then I went home just today, I got this copy from the library for Mr. Barnaum's class tomorrow, so I hurried and-'

She had a discomforting feeling down her stomach.
'Uh, Sid, will you excuse me for a minute?'
'Oh, sure. Take your time.'

It can't be the mint. Or the parsley. Or the olive oil. Something spoiled Niña's stomach, and by the looks of it, she must have used the wrong ingredient or cooked it the wrong way off the recipe book. Or either way, she must be allergic to Italian pasta! She went inside the restroom and locked herself inside for about half an hour.

______________________________________

When she relieved herself of constipation, however, the dining area was empty. Sid was nowhere to be found.

'Sid?'

Approaching the table, she noticed that Sid's plate was untouched. Impossible! He finished his meal before he was telling the - I'm not sure which part - but he was finished!

The light at the lounge was open, yes, but the reading was not at the sofa. Her instinct - and God knows how she feared that instinct - was right; the photocopy was inside Sid's bag, near the shoe rack.

Minutes before six, a telephone call from the girl, Mildred, confirmed her suspicion.
She dropped the dial in shock.

Sid's copy of Someone's Discourse was turned on page seven, with a highlighted last line.

'More often, people do not listen. But by speaking, it is much better to have said it than never have spoken at all.'

Bones

2009-08-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

Bones
Pol Singson

Sadness is joy's lost fragment, if not its identical twin.

Under the waiting shed, I wait for the rain to stop. If the winds were right in telling, it would take me around twenty four minutes before I get home on foot. The callous afternoon winds foretell a gloomy sky; compared to exactly eight days ago, when I last walked with you back home, the street to Albardado never felt this cold. Reaching the third store, a pet shop, you often motivated yourself by coming inside and checking if any of the random critters you named - Scruffy, Lila, Garbauch - were already sold to some unsuspecting customer, and you made it a point to touch them (though Kaswel always bit you!) while I impatiently tap my foot until the bright sky withdraws to an indigo hue. You wouldn't be aware of the time unless I told you that your mother had already passed by to buy packed chicken and herbs down the market and you are needed for preparing an extra late but extra special dinner with me.

I was never the talkative, artsy type; you know that. It's just that I see you, and I feel an increasing will of the self to share whatever happened to me, in school or at the neighborhood basketball court, like how that jerk Jerry 'accidentally' splashed orange juice on my white shirt - of course you know I punched him square in the face. And then you would tell me how the girls found your new puppy, Bones, very cute and stout, its little triangular ear folds limp on both sides. You always took pride on the only animal you resolved to buy from the shop - Kaswel must be very jealous of Bones. You would giggle, and I couldn't help but stop reacting, just to contemplate on how beautiful you are. You stop too. I smile, and we both laugh from our stupid pauses.

Come Monday morning this week, you surprised me with a little cake for our anniversary. It was a circular caramel-flavored dessert with both our names under what I assumed is your stick drawing of the two of us (perhaps you asked the cake decorator for you to personalize it?). You tried so hard putting the names smack at the center that the -ley in my name was already off-center. You said sorry. I kissed you.

I always looked at you as this sunny being, a flower that never withered with rain, sleet or snow, and though you tell me all your agitations - with your mother, with me or with your girlfriends - I never knew what bothered you until two days ago. I was practicing my freethrow when your mother called me. The gym was buzzing with players, but her sobbing voice singled out my hearing. My left hand twitched and dropped the phone. Two minutes later and I was at your doorstep, and I sped to your bedroom only to choke myself with what I saw.

Did I do anything for you to act irrationally? I never saw the point. And yet when I came to school yesterday, Jerry confronted me at the second-floor corridor. He looked serious, teary-eyed, even. We sat down on a bench at the school yard and I listened, but I thought he better not play games with me, 'cause I ain't in a good mood. He said he had a thing for you. What the fuck was that? He also told me you liked him as well. I did not believe him. He even told me you've been going out for six months now! I kicked his leg, stood up, and blew his face witth my fist. I broke his nose, that bastard. When he fell down, though, he went on, with a hoarse voice, that he broke up with you on our monthsary because you called him on the phone, crying. You were pregnant with his baby.

Even though it's a bit like a blow in the gut, I was forced to accept the whole truth. After all, I found a clinical prescription at your garbage bin, and it's telling me more than what I needed to know. You could have just told me. I know I easily get angry at times, but I would never leave you! God, I miss you. Words fail to sum what misery I am filled with since that day. I love you. I always will.

(P. S. I kept the noose. And Bones misses you so much.)

[13.08.09] Murder on the Loose.

2009-08-12T22:49:00.000-07:00

‘If there is no hope for you to change, Miss Garcia,’ the dean said,
‘you might as well drop from school and go home.’

‘And you can go to hell,’ Dahlia murmured.
Lynch turned. ‘What did you say?’

Their eyes met, eyes of contempt, eyes of disdain.
‘You watch your tongue, Miss Garcia, or I’ll slice that in half myself.’
~ Dahlia, Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 102.
Thursday, August 13, 2009, 2:00 PM

For the whole duration of the story making process for Demise, I can as well say I have never been this productive. I guess that's a good thing. Haha.

The book is finally slated for a late August/early September release, and as of this time, progress is pretty much high. There is a new book cover (courtesy of the book's official illustrator, Chino Carlo Aricaya), and more publicity materials slated on the next few days. As of this moment, I am passing drafts of Midnight (to Sir Dennis Aguinaldo, who was very accommodating, thankfully) and Dahlia (to a professor I am yet to decide who) for critiquing. For the fund raising stints, however, with the help of some of my friends, the team managed to collect sponsorships from various establishments around the UPLB vicinity, as well as some solicitations from our alumni from ComArtSoc.

Whew. That's one hell of a week.

What I realized this week on the writing process is that it's really hard to proofread your own work, and make it concise. I read from an online writing guide that you, as an author, must never reduce your work to appropriate pieces, for it cuts your flow of imagination for the piece. It's more of a self-inhibition, which is why most professional authors hire editors for their works.

I will be more active on this blog on the next few days.
And I hope for one thing, though: that this FINALLY push through.

Love abandons reason.
Yea! XD

The Callous Exploits: Day 28.

2009-05-31T03:33:00.000-07:00

"Friends love misery, in fact.
Sometimes, especially if we are too lucky
or too successful or too pretty, our misery is the only thing
that endears us to our friends."
~ Erica Jong

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 28.
Saturday, 31 May 2009, 07:49 PM

One important thing about touching the audience, for authors, is the power to move.

Mitch Albom's writing style is simple yet effective, heavily relying on visuals and writing on a first-person experience to mold a fleeting atmosphere, the type that will be perfect for the story itself. I finished the book I've been putting down for a week, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, while on my way home in a bus last Friday, and I must say I am more than satisfied. Although the girl in the end (the fifth person, a young Filipino girl named Tala) seemed to talk as if still learning her language, the words did not hinder the progression of this moving story. I am satisfied by the end, especially, but I'm not up for spoiling. XD

I've been to Recto yesterday with a friend from UST, canvassing for probable printing presses and finding, as much as possible, the cheapest publication with the best quality produce. So far we've found one - with a net rate of 40 php per newstype page printing and 60 php for white page printing, complete with binding - and I suppose we could settle with that unless we find a cheaper deal somewhere.

Overall, 30K for 500 copies of white type is a hefty sum. Where would I get that much in a short span of two months? XD

This problem only drives me onto two resorts: either I settle with the newstype (and I would hate to see my books in gray paper), or smother my copies into a mere 300. Which, either case, I think I won't want to choose for either at the moment.

Wow. I'm stuck in a rut.

Currently at the draft of story 8, Frogs. I'm enjoying the storywriting experience. And at the start of classes on June 9, I suppose this draft's finished. :]

The Callous Exploits: Day 24.

2009-05-26T23:59:00.000-07:00

"Fairness," he said, "does not govern life and death.
If it did, no good person would ever die."
~ The Blue Man, Mitch Albom's
The Five People You Meet in Heaven

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 24.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009, 03:14 PM

I slept at around four this morning. Waking up with barely about five hours of sleep, I feel superb and very much motivated. My muse is back! But now, to delve away from Dahlia from now, I am writing the opening scenes for Frogs.

I felt at ease writing Frogs this morning. The juxtaposition of the scenes were very fluid in my mind that I practically saw through the whole moment. Moreover, reading Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet in Heaven helped me explore the better possibility of developing my characters in the sanest way possible. Very neat, I must say.

And with a new cover art, I feel better. Haha!

One of the main predicaments I'm faced with at present is finding a suitable publisher for the book. All I plan for is to have the copies published, and I don't care whichever publishing house takes it in; I don't care about labels at the moment. :]

I'll be rummaging through publishing houses at Recto with my friend from UST this Saturday. That'll be a good start. :]

I'm a third through with The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It's a sumptuous reading experience. I heartily approve. :D

The Callous Exploits: Day 23.

2009-05-26T23:49:00.001-07:00

"Can I? Yeah. You bet I can.
There's a million things in this world I can't do.
Couldn't hit a curveball, even back in high school.
Can't fix a leaky faucet. Can't roller skate or make a
F-chord on the guitar that sounds like anything but shit.
I have tried twice to be married and couldn't do it either time.
But if you want me to take you away, to scare you
or involve you or make you cry or grin, yeah. I can.
I can bring it to you and keep bringing it
until you holler uncle. I am able. I can."
~ Paul Sheldon, Stephen King's Misery, Part 2, chapter 4.

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 23.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009, 06:21 PM

No progress. T_T

I am pledging to finish Dahlia tonight. I'll be taking it or leaving it. But I guess either way, I'll have to take it. I don't have a choice. :/

Meanwhile, I have come up with a preview of a tentative cover art for the book. This is just pretty much the idea of the cover, and this isn't the final version of it. I just got random pictures online and pasted them. :/

So here it is. :]

Basically, the idea is of a black-and-white image of a hand reaching to a typewriter. I'll have to expand on that.

Ciao! :]

The Callous Exploits: Day 14.

2009-05-26T03:14:00.000-07:00

"There is neither happiness nor misery in the world;
there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more.
He who has felt the deepest grief is best able
to experience supreme happiness.
We must have felt what it is to die,
that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life.”
~ Alexandre Dumas, French novelist/playwright, 1802-1870

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 14.
Thursday, 17 May 2009, 01:53 AM

The more I linger with the thoughts of materializing the stories,
the more I anticipate and visualize - and the feeling merely sends my muse back.

Salamat na rin sa mga kaibigan ko sa Kwarto Singko sa Filipina Apartment (sina Ynik, Mel, Vladz, Gemme, Jethro, Bam, Cha, Luis at iba pa) sa pagtulong sa aking panumbalikin ang muse ko sa pagsusulat.

Kahapon ay nagkuwento ako kila Gemme ng ilan sa mga kuwento ng Demise, particularly Dahlia (na parang nakuwento ko na sa iba't ibang tao for the millionth time), Red Things at ang pinakapaborito kong Checkmate. Sensible ang naging paguusap namin, given na sila as an audience were very critical in assessing the stories, basing them on comparative psychological degrees (lalong lalo na sa usapan naming malaman sa Checkmate).

Apat ang kuwento sa loob ng Checkmate; pero dahil na rin sa kagustuhan ni Gemme ay magkakaroon ng panlima - ang The Knight. Pero kaming dalawa lang ang magkakaroon ng kopya ng 'nawawalang kabanata' na iyon. Hehehehehehe. :]

Kababasa ko pa lang ng dalawang maikling kuwento ni Stephen King mula sa Nightmares and Dreamscapes: ang The End of the Whole Mess at Suffer the Little Children. Kailangan na rin ito bilang analysis sa effective storywriting.

Barilin ba raw ang isang bata dahil nagmumukha na siyang alien? T_T

I have to admit, magaling talaga si idol,
kahit saang anggulo tingnan. :D

The Callous Exploits: Day 4.

2009-05-06T23:50:00.000-07:00

'. . . affecting the audience is why one writes a play to begin with.
You don't write it for yourself, the actors, or the director.
You're there to do something to the audience.'
~ Lee Blessing

Mental Notes.
Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery DAY 4.
Thursday, 07 May 2009, 02:52 PM

Gad. It's becoming a serious source of migraine at the moment. But not that bad.

I'm in the middle of writing the first story, Dahlia, and I'm stuck with the predicament of introducing the last of the murders. I'm not sure if I will ever need to include the last kill, but I see that the aesthetic of the story lies on the completion of the plot, relying heavily on this one. Haha. Ang morbid ko lang talaga.

At the same time, I'm immersed onto reading more and more readings for points of reference. Last night, I saved web pages of good movie twists, and even *gulp* Korean drama plotlines. At the moment, I am enjoying the company of a book, Para Kay B, and in the writing process would reflect on how it would compare to the book I plan to publish.

After that, maybe Love in the Time of Cholera, Perfume, o Eleven Minutes naman. Hehe. :]

One Writer's Motivation.

2009-05-03T01:02:00.000-07:00

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo,
and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly,
I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight,
to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.

~Richard Wright, American Hunger, 1977

Mental Notes.
03 May 2009, 04:39 PM

I have finally decided, at 18 years of age, to publish my own book. :]

It is an anthology of short stories with a common theme, with a tentative title (which, by the looks of it, may be the final title) of Demise: Thirteen Short Stories of Love and Misery. The short stories are comprised of thematic ideas ranging from frogs to falling objects, but what’s unusual with them is that they do not make up your typical love story – that is, if they are love stories at all.

The plan is that there will only be a limited number of copies to be released in Los Baños for all of them, and they will be out of print forever. Bwahaha.

The tentative date of release will be around August, as for according to the schedule of activities of this project, I will need the first three months for my drafts to be critiqued by the most distinguished writers and personalities within the campus. I have a list of prospected people in mind with me as of the moment.

Whatever the outcome is, one thing’s for sure:
It’ll be an assurance of my identity as a writer.
So help me God.
Hahaha. :]

DEMISE: Thirteen Stories Of Love and Misery.

2009-04-29T07:26:00.001-07:00

“Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.”
C. S. Lewis

Adik lang talaga ako nung araw na nagcommit akong magsusulat ng labintatlong kwento mula sa isang kantang kinahiligan ko isang hapon. Pero hindi ko maitatanggi na kapag nainspire ako, kaya kong gawin ang kahit ano.

Nasa karakter ko bilang isang manunulat na ang pagsama ng ideya ng pighati, sa iba't ibang paraan, ay isang napakahalagang salik sa pagusad ng plot ng katha at sa pagtatatag ng naghaharing damdamin sa kuwento. Kaya naman sa kaadikan kong paglabas ng isang antolohiya ay hindi maiiwasang magincorporate ako ng malalaking mga bahagi ng mapait na hanging aking nararanasan sa paggawa ng mga kuwentong ito.

Sana ay katuwaan ninyo ang mga banghay na inyong mababasa. Sa ilalim ay ilan lamang sa mga kuwentong lalamanin ng aking pinakabagong antolohiya, ang Demise: Thirteen Stories Of Love and Misery. At para naman hindi ko maibigay ang mismong mga plots nito, magbibigay lamang ako ng ilang teasers para sa mga ito. Hehehe.

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Glass shards fell from the building, and with them fell an actress, a woman, a star. Ramon could vividly remember that night. It was just as he envisioned it to be. He mumbled. "Yes. I wanted to see her fall from that window, the highest floor of that building, just like the shooting star to me that she is."

Demise. A very personal, psychological short story dissecting the mind of a serial killer stalking a famed actress, who is his childhood friend.

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"I will never leave you. I promise. From this road, turn to the left, then run to the nearest bell tower that you see. Climb up the staircase, hide. Wait for me there." From where they were standing, it started to rain. The girl felt the urgency to flee, but she could never leave him in the hands of the most dangerous man she has ever known.

Claustrophobia. A young girl falls for a boy who turns out to be the brother of her molester.

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The woman slips, and falls down the stairs. Her tightened screams were muffled by her fall. She catches a rail, but fails, and instead falls off the next two floors. There was something with this accident that was very familiar with Dahlia, something distant, something beautiful ... she could hear the woman's bones crack at the back of her mind, and she would smile.

Dahlia. A vivid childood incident alters a girl's mind-set and compels her to like falling objects.

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He gripped her brown locks and banged her head against the brick wall. Blood trickled from her head and his hands. Horrified, he scampered for her skirt and quickly wiped his bloodstained hands. He slid his hands inside the pockets of his overcoat and fled from the scene. The bloodstain on the wall left a dark, sparkling dye that reflected the dim lights of the sidewalk lamps. It was midnight.

Midnight. A man kills his wife and does the same with his concubine.

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Ten-thirty. With the sidewalks wet with rain, nothing seemed to change, since I last came here. Or at least that's what I remember. I can recall seeing him standing there, smoking his troubles away, and he was in a red suit that burned my eyes. I am waiting for him to come back. I can never be sure of what waits for me here, but all I know is that I like him, and will spend the night with him.

Red Things. A woman wakes up with an amnesia and an interest for collecting red things. She builds back her memory of a man she likes, and resolves to meet with him, only to find that the man is her rapist, who made sure she was dead.

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"DON'T DO IT! I KNOW YOU! PLEASE!" The line dropped dead. She assumed he is now in a taxi headed to her apartment, so she dipped her toes back to the pool, and motivated herself once again to continue her initial plan of killing herself.

10:03. A woman's attempt to drown herself is intercepted by her longtime lover, who rushes to her aid. She succeeds.

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Sa susunod na post ay ilalabas ko ang pito pang kuwentong susunod sa lineup ng antolohiyang ito, kabilang na ang Headlights, Frogs, White Handkerchief, Noise/Overture, Checkmate, A Swing at Monster. Kung may mairerecommend pa kayong iba pang ideya (o kung me bayolente kayong reaksyon tungkol sa mga kuwento ko), post na lang kayo. Hehehe.

Ayun lang. Bilang isang panapos na linya, ito lang ang masasabi ko: PAGIBIG NGA. MADUGO NAMAN. Hehehe.

Ten Ways to Kill a Cat, and Then Some.

2009-04-29T07:25:00.001-07:00

Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain
Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain:
As, painfully to pore upon a book,
To seek the light of truth, which truth the while
Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.
Berowne, Love's Labor's Lost (Act I Scene I)

Sometimes we dwell too much on killing ourselves that we often forget that more people deserve to die other than us. Haha. But isn't it a bit more convenient to instead plot for someone else's death other than ours?

Most of us would resolve, and I attest to this fact for I know a lot of people who think like this, to get their frustrations across, maybe from a hated professor, an intimidating orgmate, an irritating classmate or simply a nutty little brother, by visually thinking of torturing them slowly, while in a distant reality we are with them and they would say 'Oy, anunanamanbainiisipmojan! Lalim ng iniisip mo e konti lang naman neurons mo! HAHAHAHA!'.

So why not exploit these ways one by one?

To put our deliberation to a more euphemistic degree, let us display our homicidal thoughts into a more user-friendly approach by using a cat as our experiment. It's also a good measure if you are thinking of helping in decreasing the feline population in this world.

Think of the cat as your most hated person (or if you don't consider the person a person, it will also do). Illustrated here (with our handy kiddie chart courtesy of DeviantArt) are ten effective ways to kill a cat, followed by its otherwise morbid descriptive translations, effectivity circumstances, target persons and procedures for execution.

[1] The Body Fold
Otherwise Known As: Recoiling
Target Persons: Your Most Hated People
Effectivity Circumstances:
Make sure no one comes to their aid when you commence with your plan. Haha.

Procedure: This is the most subtle of all plots. To execute this, you need a very pungent poison or acid (strychnine is strongly recommended, as with the Psycho movies). Devise a plan to have him/her ingest the poison (via juice or drink), and watch him/her wince slowly in pain. Soon enough, the poor bastard will fold just like a handy jackknife. Sweet.

NOTE: Effective for would-be gymnasts or most probably just students with chronic bouts of LBM and constipation.

[2] The Towel Twist
Otherwise Known As: Arm Wringing
Target Persons: Hard Hitting People (mga taong may mabibigat na kamay)
Effectivity Circumstances:
Purchase a very strong glue/adhesive at your local hardware before doing this.

Procedure: Get a metal bar from a dilapidated classroom (or any other strong bar will do). Apply purchased glue/adhesive in large amounts. Approach the person and ask if it is okay to let him hold the bar for a second while you tie your shoelaces; MAKE SURE HE HOLDS THE BAR WITH BOTH HANDS. When it sticks, get a cloth, hold the bar, then twist forcibly as you would with a vault. Do it repeatedly until the limbs snap off.

[3] The Tail Pull
Otherwise Known As: Decortication
Target Persons: Perverts (mga manghihipo)
Effectivity Circumstances:
The bigger piece of torn flesh, the better.

Procedure: Perverts are said to 'show their tails' when misbehaving. Cut their tails off by using a sharp object (a scalpel is ideal) to tear their flesh apart. When confronting them, pretend to slap them (there is a superglued cloth on your palm), then cut their face and peel the cloth off. Simple as 1-2-3.

[4] The Head-n-Tail Stretch
Otherwise Known As: Mechanical Severance
Target Persons: Two-Timers (who deserve to be torn to pieces)
Effectivity Circumstances:
Plan for this very well. May take one whole day to execute.

Procedure: Find a way to make the victim fall unconscious. In the meantime, tie his limbs to four pulleys in a room, then slowly activate the pulleys. Shall I continue? Haha.

[5] The Arm Tug of War
Otherwise Known As: Basic Body Mutilation
Target Persons: Exes (Ah, sweet revenge. Haha)
Effectivity Circumstances:
Person must be upright and in an armspan stance.

Procedure: Plot a friend to act as the victim's boyfriend or girlfriend. Given that you are the ex, you should both corner him/her somewhere and pull his/her arms, one arm each. From out of a nearby bush, there should be another friend wieding two butcher knives ready to run and splice through the the shoulder joints to cleanly detach the limbs.

[6] The Whisker Swing
Otherwise Known As: Scalping
Target Persons: Terror Teachers (preferrably those who would pull your hair)
Effectivity Circumstances:
Make sure she does not have her hair put in a bun.

Procedure: Wear a mask, then sit in on one of her classes. After her class falls asleep of her lecture, act as a madman and pull her hair towards the door. Then close the door, locking the hair through. Pull with force.

NOTE: If the hair on her armpits are of the same length, pulling it will also do.

[7] The Ear Yank
Otherwise Known As: Pig Ear Laceration
Target Persons: Ignorants (people who would dismiss your opinions)
Effectivity Circumstances:
Person must be in a very close range.

Procedure: We have two proposed ways, given that one sunny day, you are nicely talking to the person and he dismisses your thoughts on a given matter:
[1] Fool around and nibble his ear. Then bite it off. This is the Mike Tyson stance.
[2] Fool around and pull his left ear. Pull out a cutter and slice it off. This is the Van Gogh stance.

[8] The Limb Dislocation
Otherwise Known As: Joint Fracture
Target Persons: Kleptomaniacs, Perverts, Bullies
Effectivity Circumstances:
WARNING! Be physically fit to execute this plan, or otherwise hire a professional to do so.

Procedure: For these wrongdoers to be prevented to do anymore harm, their limbs must be tied to each other. Do a 'Doctor Quack-Quack' type of limb displacement (if ever you play that knid of game when you were young), then leave the victim there until he/she dies.

[9] The Feline Slingshot
Otherwise Known As: cannonball
Target Persons: Social Climbers (and Posers)
Effectivity Circumstances:
Advise the person to remove their high heels before doing so. Or it may also do. Haha.

Procedure: While talking, pretend to give a friendly hug. While locked in an embrace, put a baby rocket at her back. Face her, and bid her goodbye. Count to five.

[10] The One-Hair Hang
Otherwise Known As: Rope Harness
Target Persons: Vain People
Effectivity Circumstances:
Secure a tree from which to exact the deed.

Procedure: It is your call on which limb or body part to tie, only make sure the knot is secured. Lasso the unaware person with a rope secured on a tree, then pull. The person will suffer from embarrassment, much grave than death itself. Haha.

Foo. This isn't really much of a morbid type of thinking.
Just plain, dark humour. Come on. Haha.

Midnight.

2009-04-29T07:23:00.000-07:00

This is a piece of fiction I made last night.
Its flat, pitch-black theme was an incorporation of the bleak atmosphere manifested from a random song i listened to from our PC playlist. The plot may suggest strong violence, and so I hope this not be too sickening. :]

Downtown, where yellow street lights would flicker and the shallow yelping of dogs disturb the silence of the neighborhood, a girl runs for her life. The pain from her black stilettos did not stop her from evading the man that chases her. The man, meanwhile, merely walked, drawing pleasure from the sight that his prey flees from his otherwise inescapable power. She stumbles and sobs. Groping her way to a nearby wall, she succumbs to her frail, weak disposition. Inch by inch the man stepped on towards her. His eyes were flickering, maddening red, as he extends his long, agile arms. She shrieked in fear.

He gripped her brown locks and banged her head against the brick wall. Blood trickled from her head and his hands. Horrified, he scampered for her skirt and quickly wiped his bloodstained hands. He slid his hands inside the pockets of his overcoat and fled from the scene. The bloodstain on the wall left a dark, sparkling dye that reflected the dim lights of the sidewalk lamps.

It was midnight.

Coming inside a seven-storey apartment, he muddled for his keys and unlocked the room on the third. Inside, a woman sits by the window, waiting for him. She crossed the short distance between them, with nothing on but her silk top and a panty. His palm reached for her neck, and they kissed. For a moment. Then she pushed him away.

"You smell of blood."
"Yes I do. Why?"

She eased down and sat on a stool, perplexed but nevertheless not surprised by the news. He kept on.

"Where were you last night?"
"Bar. Got bored of waiting for you. So I took a callboy inside the restroom."

A gnashing grin formed where his mouth should be. The woman lit a cigarette and puffed.
"Who did you kill this time?"
"My wife."

The prostitute paused, glanced at him, and asked,
"Why?"

"Because she was cheating on me. While I was away, she used our house as a haven for her man-whores."

Barefoot, the woman approached him. With a small, mocking tone, she eyed him and said,
"How about me? You pay me to sleep with you. Then I see other men if I want to. We're no different to your wife."

The man clenched his fist. His eyes were the raging, burning, angry red as before.
He closed in to her, and as his shadow swallowed her, he grips her hair ...

Three Minutes.

2008-09-20T05:39:00.000-07:00

Today.
September 20, 2008.
8:33 PM.

Wrote two short poems for Humanities 1 class last Thursday.
I finished typing these at the stroke of 10:03 on the laptop watch.

Now that's what you call cramming. XD

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

SOLITUDE

I feel
the winds drift
away from the lands
away from memory
to a gale
where dreams stay
to contemplate
misery

Sitting on one side
of a filthy road
basking underneath
the heat of the sun
frying me
like sundae
on Wednesdays

I squint upon
gazing at the horizon
and so I hear
the minute keys
of a distant piano
that never existed
but blares on

Everything sinks in
yellow skies
tranquil puddles
grasses sway
to the turbulence
of the breeze
and the fact
that I feed
on solitude

When in fact
it feeds
on me

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AND A LAPTOP

Living in a dormitory
I am accustomed
to sharing my college tribulations
with my five roommates
and after four months
I discover
it was better this way

Three minutes after ten
and I still succumb
to type a poem
and I fear
that by exploiting my material
I will seem
all too amateurish

Four open windows
on my left
and a sleeping Drew
on my right
and then
just then
I begin to feel
the urgency
to rush
to Humanities class

A poem ends here
but not my hopes
of exulting my words
for as long as there are hands
and a laptop

I am alive

Solitude & And A Laptop. © Adiktus08. 2008.
All rights reserved.

Is LifeHacking Easy?

2008-09-15T04:54:00.000-07:00

Today.
September 15, 2008.
8:04 PM.

ElBi life burns me out.
If not a flurry of activities here, due papers there.
You don't get to rest even for a wink.

I remembered for a moment that if I genuinely aspire to be
a well-adapted writer, I must start blogging.
So I did just that.

I was a blog enthusiast on my latter two years in secondary school.
Having two Friendster accounts, each had a blog of its own.
Reading my former posts, I felt a bit giddy,
but appreciated how I had come to grow as a writer.

I posted three self-composed declamation pieces in one sitting once.
I plugged the arrival of my works on the other.
Overall, outlets for writing frustration? Very much so.

To fuel my creativity,
I immersed myself to listening songs that infects me.
Maybe absurd, but by doing so, I form my works out of nothing.

Writing in secondary school is tedious and nerve-wracking.
I felt I was always compelled to write
to propose my advantage over others.

Haha. Times have changed.
Writing in tertiary school is exulting and therapeutic.
I'm compelled to write now
to materialize my appreciation to the world.

Yes. I'm pretty much content with the ElBi life.
Living as a Men's Dorm resident.
Brisk-walking for thirty minutes across the campus.
Ranting about my 'hell week' with my roommates.
Sharing handouts with my classmates in ENG2 and HUM1.

It's routine, but it's one routine I'd never abandon. XD

Desiderata.

2008-09-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

(Uh. Very existential, I know. Yet its power lies
not on its words, but on the hubris it depicts.)

~ DESIDERATA ~

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

(Booya.)

Desiderata. © Max Ehrmann. 1927.
All rights reserved.

A Foreword.

2008-09-06T01:32:00.000-07:00

Beware:
This blog page is a soapbox of epic proportions.
Inhalation of words may cause unexpected nosebleed
and various states of confusion. XD
Nevertheless, please do proceed.

WRITTEN IN CHALK
(A Writer’s Words)

You are reading this because of an inner motivation
that the writer of this essay willingly accepted and fueled.
But yes, in literal context, the writer of this essay is a writer.

Most will agree that writing is an effective form of expression.
But to a born writer, writing is more than an outpour of emotions.

You must have the right amounts of stating your purpose,
restraint, fervour and the power to magnetize your audience
to be an effective writer.
To scribble briefly, accurately and effectively is art;
To scribble verbose lines is pointless.

You are a writer; therefore you are an advocate of art.
You must influence your readers greatly,
and leave stigmas on their minds.

I write to exalt the bittersweet air of irony that my works
dissolve within themselves.
Without writing, I would cease to exist, and implode to bits,
for writing is what I live and breathe.
I write to purge the overflowing tides of happiness, misery, rage
and chaos that I sympathize with, but do not necessarily encounter.
I know how the planet works, simply because I made
my own interpretation of the world.
I know the machineries of beauty, of justice,
of how the rose bleeds when it is hurt.
I firmly believe in love, and the tragedy that lingers with it.
In every work I have made, there is no moment when I do not twist
the conventional belief of everlasting love, so to prove
that nothing is made perfectly.
I lay all my cards as a writer, but it is still up to my readers to interpret them.

Life is spontaneous; it is boring, but is surprising at the same time.
I write about life, but I do for what I write reflects the possibilities
not explored in real time, not in true life, and not outside my defenses.
Some want to be happy, but I write to show which part of happiness
spells grief, despair, anxiety and disappointment.
Anyhow, I am not biased; I also tend to write about gloom
spelled as hope, joy, compassion, and love.

In the end, I am but a vessel, containing a piece of an existence
most people have neither felt, nor tasted.
I am here, a writer, to impart a realization that one seeks
on a different perspective.
I believe that things, material and spiritual, are bound to influence us,
but to share life through writing is a worthwhile familiarity
that everyone should discern, absorb and enliven.
This is why I am proud to be a writer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello. This is supposedly my very first post as an online writer,
but to begin with, I am a seventeen-year old Filipino,
and a first-year ComArts student in UP Los Baños.
From this writing on, I will go by the name Adiktus08,
the pseudonym implied to depict my view of writing.

Para sa mga kaibigan ko sa Elbi at sa iba’t iba pang lupalop ng Pilipinas,
ito ang nakikita kong bukas na naghihintay sa akin.
Masanay na kayo … XD

Inaalay ko ito sa mga pinakamahahalagang tao sa aking buhay:
si Mama, Papa, Kuya Jikjik at John,
at sa mga pinakamatatalik kong kaibigan.
Alam ninyo na kung sino kayo.

-Adiktus08-