| filial piety |
[Mar 15, 2007 * 5:34pm] |
|
note: Again with the drabble-writing. I still can't choose which one is actually okay enough to pass. Agh.
firefly's glow
The acacia tree's branches are heavy with blossoms, but all she can smell is the sweat pooling on his neck. The wall is rough against her back; his chest is rough against her breasts. Above her, fireflies spark and dance as he splinters something inside of her.
Later, she lies on her bed, wetness cooling on her thighs. He neatly tucks the blanker around her shoulder and brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The naked lightbulb overhead casts a shadow on his eyes; he whispers, "That's a good little girl. Now kiss your daddy goodnight." [100 words]
|
|
| you talkin' to me? |
[Mar 14, 2007 * 2:01pm] |
|
title: What You Lost
word count: 125
Adam dated only long-haired women. There was ponytail-ed Sheila, curly-maned Joan and stick-straight Mickey. When his co-workers joked, "You've been brainwashed by all those shampoo commercials," he just smiled and continued to text sweet nothings to waist-length Myrna.
After dancing with braided Steph, he went home, toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket. He knocked gently on the bedroom door before entering.
Treading soundlessly over a tangled snarl of cords, he knelt down next to the bed. A tiny middle-aged woman huddled under a blanket, clear plastic tubing snaking out from under her parchment skin. Her watery, sunken eyes squinted up at him. The ventilator by her bed hissed rhythmically.
He stroked the grizzled stubble on the top of her head. "Hey, mom, it's me, Adam."
|
|
| one hundred one. |
[Mar 14, 2007 * 10:41am] |
notes: I think this project may have driven me insane. OH WELL. It's entirely possible that one of the stories I've posted on LJ will be the one I'll eventually pass.
thrilling heroics
"He's got a gun!"
Screams. Crash. Thud. Broken bottles of spilled milk. The nervous clatter of the cash register. Okay, okay, don't hurt me!
A boy stood in front of an old woman, her bulky purse digging into his back. Lord almighty in heaven what's going on there?
The man wasn't wearing a mask.
Local boy dies in robbery— what a noble sacrifice— such an example for us all— a memorial built in his memory— he will be dearly missed—
He ducked. Behind him, his grandmother crumpled to the ground, a surprised look frozen on her face. [100 words]
--
heartbreak kid
First, he asked: you come here often?
Then, he asked: can I have your number?
Then, he asked: would you go out with me?
Then, he asked: how about a second date?
Then, he asked: how about you come inside and we'll talk?
Then, he asked: do you love me?
Then, he asked: was it good for you?
Then, he asked: you think I'd actually want to marry you?
Then, he asked: why are you still here?
Then, he asked: what the hell are you doing with that?
Finally, he said: oh god please baby put that down! [100 words]
--
colegiala
They were the only ones on the poorly-lit overpass. The man with the tattered jeans and leather jacket carelessly stepped on puddles. The young girl in a school uniform walked gingerly, not letting her shiny leather shoes get the slightest bit dirtied.
The girl's eyes darted nervously over to the man. She took in the moustache, the half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, the hard lines on his face. His eyes were hidden by his unwashed hair.
Suddenly, she spun to face him. Her books were clutched to her chest. Her other hand held a gun pointed at him.
"Wallet and cellphone, please." [100 words]
|
|
| if you say that you will. |
[Mar 13, 2007 * 6:11pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
enthralled |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Shawn Michaels - Sexy Boy |
] |
title: Space Restrictions
word count: 273
notes: Another short-short. Whoosh.
There was only a foot of carpet separating the two of you. If you wanted to, you could reach out towards him, rub warm skin with your cold fingertips until the fine black hairs on his flesh stood up. You could place your palm against his pulse, feeling the minuscule change in the speed of his heartbeat. You could trail your way up his arm, leave half-moon marks on the soft flesh inside his elbow that no one but you would notice.
But your hand stayed still against the bedcovers and he slept on, probably dreaming of songs and rhythms and melodies, while you stared at the ceiling and wondered. Eventually you fell asleep, fingers buried in your hair seeking warmth of a different sort.
And when the morning came and the two of you were inside the elevator to the first floor, you smiled at him with all of your desperation aching in your chest. He didn't see, though, because the doors slid open and the cameras almost blinded him with their harsh white lights. The burly security guards kept the reporters at bay while you scurried towards the limo that would take you to the arena. A part of you wants out from all of this, wants to say something and damn all else, but the wanting and the waiting were nothing compared to his laugh when you told him a joke, his arm draped over your shoulders while your hands glided over your guitar onstage and a foot of carpet separating the two of you.
You, a boy who fell in love with a boy, could wait and want forever.
|
|
| screaming infidelities. |
[Mar 13, 2007 * 6:52am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
awake |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Sugarfree - Kung Ayaw Mo Na Sa Akin |
] |
It's strange how you only learn new things about people after they're dead.
Mom, dad and I went to my aunt's father's wake yesterday afternoon. While I drank diet soda that left a funny aspartame taste in my mouth, the adults exchanged quiet condolences. It was excessively, ridiculously cold in the room, prompting me to mutter to my mom, "I bet they keep the A/C on high so that we'll feel what the guy in the box feels."
I barely evaded her swat on my shoulder.
Dad leaned forward towards my aunt. "How's the second family?" he asked.
I cringed. Dad, what kind of joke is that?
My aunt didn't look offended. "They're not allowed at the wake, but we'll let them go to the funeral as long as they don't make a scene."
What the— My eyes darted to the coffin, then to the floor. I carefully pretended that I wasn't listening.
"It's like with Angie's father," my dad said, pointing to mom. "At least there was no huge scene over who gets to inherit what, right?"
I remembered my grandfather as an old man with coke-rimmed eyeglasses. In his last few months, he was always accompanied by a very pretty female nurse.
My uncle butted in. "Dr. Acorda's marriage has been annulled, have you heard?"
Mom said, "Really? Why?" Dr. Acorda was a friend of her, and the chief of staff at the hospital where my mom work. She was a very nice lady and my mental image of her was somehow very purple-y.
"It turned out that her husband's mistress already had two kids from him."
"Oh my, I thought it was just a fling."
"The kids weren't too happy about it, but Dr. Acorda's just relieved that it's over."
We stayed at the wake for a few more minutes after that, then my dad got up to leave. The healing mass was about to start; I think he was half-afraid that he'll interrupt the priest in the middle of his homily to debate theology.
"Healing mass?" I whispered to mom. "What, they gonna resurrect him from the dead?"
I wasn't fast enough to avoid the smack this time. My uncle overheard and volunteered to shake the coffin to "make it look realistic".
Mom and dad were still talking about the "second families" of their relatives while we drove home. When my father revealed that his grandfather also had two families, I suddenly wondered if adultery had a genetic component.
"It's a good thing your grandfather didn't have a mistress," my dad told me. "Then again, he won't have anything to pass down to them!"
We burst out laughing.
|
|
| attempting to. |
[Mar 10, 2007 * 2:31pm] |
|
title: The Awkward Rhymes
notes: A short short story (less than 500 words). Does this make sense? No.
--
They were shoulder to shoulder on Jon's couch. Jon was in a gray sweatshirt, bare feet peeking out from the tattered edges of his khakis. Stephen's tie was loose and his sleeves were rolled up. He had a mug in his hand, and he noted with mild disgust that it was empty.
Jon noticed. "We're too old to get drunk at 2 am."
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you—" Jon ignored the pointed stare at his gray hair "—but I am still in the prime of my life."
"Yes, male pattern baldness is so macho. Gets all the ladies at the nursing home hot and bothered."
"Ooh, that burns. It's good to know that there's still a part of you that isn't soft and doughy."
They stared at each other for a few moments. Jon turned away first, his shoulders shaking. Stephen added a point to his mental tally of, well, he lost count after 2001, but he still added it. It was then that he noticed them.
"Woah, Jon, you have wings." He tilted his head and regarded them. "And they're looking kinda frumpy. Didn't those feathers come with a special shampoo?"
But Jon was still shaking, and Stephen knew suddenly that it wasn't from repressing giggles. He gently eased away the hand covering Jon's face and felt dampness on his fingers.
"Hey," he murmured, brushing a knuckle across the furrows on Jon's forehead, "what's wrong? Do I have to call you and leave bad jokes on your voicemail?"
Jon shook his head wordlessly. Stephen waited while Jon wiped at the snot dripping from his nose and cleared his throat twice. He looked at Stephen with red-rimmed eyes and Stephen stilled. Jon looked so weary, wearier than Stephen had ever seen him (even that time when Stephen had been fired from his job for showing up at a pride parade). He caught Stephen's hand in his and kissed the palm gently.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You have wings, you're crying, and did I mention? You have wings."
Jon's eyes were on their tangled fingers. "I have to let you go now."
"What are you—"
Jon smiled like a goodbye. "Don't go into the light, Stephen. You'll fall and break your hip."
—we have a pulse!" And then there was light, bright light, much too bright and soft at the edges. Stephen tried to open his mouth, but all that came out was an inarticulate sound.
A green-and-flesh blob swam into view.
"Welcome back, Mr. Colbert. We lost you there for a moment, but—"
|
|
| all the king's men. |
[Mar 8, 2007 * 4:57pm] |
title: Walls Of Jericho
word count: 203
Her neighbor was a rock star.
Every night, she'd hear him practice with his band. They laughed and yelled and she could imagine the beer bottles littering the floor. The low hum of the bass guitar lulled her to sleep.
When their album came out, she bought a copy to support them. She was too busy to sit down and listen to it, but it didn't matter. Every night the band practiced next door, going through their sets. She thought she liked track five the best.
Her boyfriend was a huge fan. He screamed and flailed when he found out who her neighbor was. At his insistence, she went over and knocked.
Her neighbor the rock star opened the door. He ushered her inside and poured her a glass of juice.
"Is this about the noise? I'm terribly sorry," he said anxiously.
"That didn't bother me!" she laughed. "In fact, I wanted an autograph, if you don't mind."
"Oh, good!"
"Make it out to 'Ted', please?"
"Ted? He your boyfriend?"
"Yes," she blushed. "We met when I bought your album."
That night, the band didn't practice next door. Her neighbor the rock star moved a week later.
|
|
| classroom exercise # 8 |
[Mar 6, 2007 * 10:32pm] |
notes: In 10 lines or less, write a dialogue-only story of a situation unfolding. I chose "nun tells mother superior she's pregnant".
"You called, Mother Superior?"
"Ah, yes, Sister Theresa, sit down. I just got a disturbing report from Sister Joan down at the homeless shelter. It seems that knitting needles and a few feet of pink wool had gone missing there after you visited."
"Mother Superior, I can explai—"
"No need. You will confess to Father Gomez. Afterwards, you will be on solo scrubbing duty for two months, breakfast, lunch and dinner. No gloves, only the scrubbing brush and steel wool."
"Yes, Mother Superior."
"Although, I am curious. Seven feet of wool isn't enough for a pompom, let alone an entire cap. What are you making, a shirt for an extremely tiny person?"
Pause.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God."
"It was Our Lord Jesus, Mother Superior! He came to me in my dreams and showed me great and mighty—"
"I will not hear of this, Sister Theresa! Sister Carmel, escort Sister Theresa to the infirmary! Sister Maria, bring Father Gomez here at once, and the new gardener as well, the one with the full beard."
|
|
| classroom exercise # 7 |
[Feb 6, 2007 * 4:25pm] |
|
title: Discard
word count: 250
notes: Rewritten. Like, a lot. (The power of revising compelled me!)
As I dodged a pair of scampering street kids, the heel of my shoe caught on some loose gravel and in doing so, I almost stepped into something soft. 'Soft' was definitely not a regular feature of the mean streets of Philcoa, and I stopped to get a closer look. It was a stuffed toy in the shape of a weird alien-bug thing, like a teddy bear with an oversized head and anorexia. It had a prominent purple nose, beady eyes and a bright red X for a mouth. It used to have white fur, but I supposed that years of grimy little hands and the unidentifiable brownish stains that permeated the sidewalk hadn't done it any favors. The bright green X on its abdomen also served to highlight just how mangy it is. The toy lay sprawled half-under a rickety fruit cart, as if it had been carelessly dropped, then aimlessly kicked here and there until it reached its final destination. Against the concrete-and-dirt ground, the weird alien-bug thing seemed both ridiculous and mildly threatening. I glanced up at the darkening sky (where was the mothership?) and at the mass of humanity around me (any terrorist-y types in the crowd?) before realizing that I was the ridiculous one in this tableau. Everyone else was buying meat and fruits, walking, talking, moving while I stood here, static and unmoving, gaping at a stuffed toy some idiot kid had probably dropped. Quickly, I stepped over the thing and strode away.
|
|
| classroom exercise # 6 (story machine) |
[Feb 1, 2007 * 6:07pm] |
title: The Miserable Teaser On Quickly?
notes: A story writing machine exercise. Kinda like madlibs, only less sexy results. I wrote the sentences starting with the letters 'A' and 'M'. Unedited and typed as-is.
Adam stood in the middle of the hallway, waitng. But he was slowly getting sleepy coz he had been waiting for so long. Cursing words he ran out of patience and prepared to go out of the building. Dieter is not yet around, late again for sure. Every friday night, Dieter stays a little longer in his office to finish off his paper works. Friday night are party nights but the party won't ignite if the two haven't got in sight. Gazing upon the clock, he wasn't sure if could make it. Heaving a satisfied sigh, Dieter starts saving his final draft when suddenly, the power goes out. It was all a bit confusing, so he decided to just take a long walk. Just as he was about to go out, he saw a lady dressed in black pass by him. Keeping quiet, Adam tiptoed and followed the lady. Lust filled the entire body and soul of Adam and he decided to forget all about Dieter. Making his way down the stairs, Adam didn't hear the door opening behind him, Dieter calling, "Adam? I'm done." Noticing his friend behind him, Adam turned guiltily and stuttered. Owlishly, Dieter eyed Adam and asked, "Whats wrong?". Pacing the street, Dieter didn't see anyone. Quietly, Dieter continued walking. "Reduce yourself to ashes, old friend.", Dieter mumbled. Suavely, he brushed his own hair with his hands while still looking at the seemingly mysterious girl. "Total hottie," Adam whispers, discreetly pointing at the girl. Uninterested, Dieter continues walking. Violently, Adam threw himself at the girl and his hands landed on all the "right" places. "X-factor, you really have!" said Adam in between kisses. "You bastard! How dare you?", the girl slaps him hard which makes him instantly drop from cloud nine. Zen master that he is, he composed himself and barked, "I never said that I love you!"
notes: Okay. I lie. There were sexy results in this story, although in the most unsexy way possible /woeface
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|