The epic failure of X

X:  It’s not your fault.  Its I who cant play the game anymore.  At least not with u.

Y:  So it’s done?

X:  What are your thoughts?

Y:  Ok.

X:  I asked what are your thoughts.  I wanted to talk.

Y:  Why?you couldn’t wait?

X:  Wait for what?  Will u pick up pls?  Texting isn’t that decent for me, email as well.

Y:  Well you already said what you had to say right?I’m with parents, I can’t talk

X: Yes.  And all u can say is “change of plans?” seriously.  I’m just really the 3 week plan?  Again this isn’t ur fault.  I initially signed up for it til it became too obvious.  One day, ul miss me. 😦

Y:  Ok.sorry.

X:  I guess…its okay.  I hope Zebra is still alive.  Goodnight.

Exercise #5: The Closet: Apartment 28

Write a story in which the narrator is snooping around an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend’s apartment because he or she still has the key 500+ words.

—

Apartment 28.  This door.  I wonder how old the door is as I slowly rest my hand on it.  What year is it?  One night away because of some silly insecurity, and I suddenly feel very old.

As I walk into our apartment, I make sure that in my silence, even I didn’t exist.  I will not ruin this surprise, like how I always ruin our Sunday afternoons.  Quickly, I place the sunflowers, her favorite of all favorites, inside the vase on top of our dining table.  And just like that I am in the middle of expectations and this space.  As I run my fingers through the dining table, I connect the dots on her skin.  As I pass through our sofa, I twist to fit the mold she is in, and she wraps me with her arms to give the warmth our sheets couldn’t live up to.  And as I walk toward our bedroom, the gods help me, I see her standing, the glowest of the glows waiting for me, removing her French twist as she waits for me impatiently.  I am beyond in love with this muse.

Door opens.  Laughter.  A man and a woman.  Oh fuck.

My heart started its own race, only there was no other competitor.  Calm down.  IN YOUR SILENCE, YOU DO NOT EXIST!  I don’t know why I’m in such panic! So much that I have to seek refuge from the closet nearest our bedroom door.  And just like that, I am in the middle of reality and freshly pressed trouble, inside this dark closet.

“Did you know Paul’s soccer game is this Sunday?”

“Oh alright, gotta move poker night then,” said the stranger.

I try to make sense of what’s going on.  With a little ray of light, I peek only to see bits and pieces.  Shadows, movements walking back and forth, noise of the TV, getting some envelopes? It’s difficult to see. And seriously, why am I hiding in my own closet?  How will I now get out with dignity & ownership?

Then there is silence.  I try to peek again and I now see a third of her face, kissing a half of his lips.  My hands are starting to shake.  My body is sweating, and yet I feel very cold inside.  In my confusion, disbelief and this friction of managing my stress and rage, I couldn’t think of anything except: The flowers, they’re for you.  I swear to god, I am about to cry.

I decide to escape from the darkness.  I know outside is where clarity is.  As I quietly slip out of the closet (like this is definitely the most embarrassing thing I could’ve ever done in my entire existence and presently, non-existence) I see her face look straight at me as I interrupt the apartment with my closet mess.   Loud as my noise may seem, the stranger strangely didn’t mind and continues to hug and cradle her.  She on the other hand, continues to just stare at me in secret and in awe.

“What are you telling?” I asked myself.  Shall we start throwing things at each other now?  But it was too silent, like I don’t exist.

I bend a little to check the dining table, giving her the cue for the flowers.  Outrageous as the scene may be, she would’ve at least understood that I was there to say I’m sorry.

But there are no flowers.

“Hey, how do you feel like moving in to a new place, like in a really faraway place?  Like have a new door, ya?” I heard her whisper to the stranger as she continues to stare at me with wonder.

Exercise #4: No Ideas But Things: Sad Things

Write a brief story told only in images- concrete, simple, visually efficient movements and details.  300+ words

—

The laptop, 3 in 1 white coffee, her mobile, a cup of Chinese noodles, a book she cherishes from some book sale, a five peso coin for a cigarette and a blank page. A blank head, a blank soul, 67 words and the lack of imagination.  She raises the book, hoping for some new tricks, but no sufficient inspiration.  What is.  Death?  Love?  Success of another?  Salvation? Hope and the polarity of things?

At last, the cigarettes came (she didn’t know that a 5 peso coin can buy 2), but no lighter to ignite a quick-burn desire and pleasure.  Only an Ernest Hemingway quote : “There is nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” 

Pictures of her mother, the sister she loves the most, her adorable niece, the lovely friends from ten years ago, a torn page from a magazine on secrets of sexual charisma and this poem written on a dirty sheet of paper she got along the road one evening while walking with a man.   Lyrics of songs she made way back from her college days and pictures of her youth and innocence, to the indescribable now.

An empty glue, an empty glass, an empty cup and a guitar with lose strings.

And the door.

The short hand of the clock points to 2.  She should be asleep.  The phone rings (this must have shocked every sad thing in her room).  “It’s been three years,” she whispers.  “Are you finally coming home?”  But it was a busy line.  Even too busy to ring.

Suddenly it occurs to her that she’s tired of waiting.  She’s tired of thinking when that door will open again.  She’s tired of the secrets of the past and how she is the only one feeling this.  She’s tired of being misled to certain happy endings when they never existed in the first place.  She’s tired of being that accident just because once she needed that comfort and she has allowed herself to compromise.

The love we choose to receive is the love that we think we deserve.  And that is the most ironic thing in this world.

She woke up, lit her first cigarette and started cleaning her mess.

Exercise #3: The Unstable Self: Now that I’m Lying Naked Beside You

Story that alternates between I and the he or she, making sure you don’t confuse the reader with the switches.  500+ words

Published July 3, 2012

—

I suddenly thought of the time when she would toss and turn around, under, above, all over, in and out of bed at midnight, 2 in the morning, until suddenly she needed to wake up when she hadn’t even slept.  Then she goes to work half alive, at the edge of sanity.  Where the saddest of the saddest smile and pretense are the only things she wore, the only things that made sense. Where everyone is a ghost and the only real ones are her friends, there are about four of them, honest enough to say that she smelled like trash.  Try having that for three years then you know you’re living in a nightmare.  And you want nothing but just to wake up.

Of course, everything might have just been a pure but real exaggeration.  I was young.  I was 20.  And I was in love.

After eight years, that little girl is now known for her remarkable sense of independence and faith.  Life is beautiful and…responsible since then on.  The only problem is how do we distinguish freedom from fear?  She would’ve been too naive to do so.

Now she understands that the price for freedom is fear.  I suddenly thought of the time when she would toss and turn around, under, above, all over, in and out of bed at midnight, 2 in the morning, until suddenly she needed to wake up when she hadn’t even slept.  Now that I’m lying naked beside you.  She thinks that a kiss meant forever, I say a kiss is just as sweet as it can be.  She says that she’s in love right from the moment she saw you, I say you’re somebody that I used to know.  She says that if it weren’t you, there would be no one else, I say people come and go.  She asks what have become of you ask I kiss.  I ask, what is wrong with you?  What is wrong with me.

The price for freedom is fear.  Fear from the idea of being enslaved by emotions, the idolatry, the death of self just to be with someone you know would leave you one of these days. Fear of losing who I’ve become just because you know you can be shattered once again.  The fear from being weaken and vulnerable when you can choose not to be.  The fear of being left behind, just like how it was before.

Then am I free after all?  Sometimes, I look back at the times when it feels like there is more freedom in being reckless than being responsible.  And I miss her and I want to be her.

Now that I’m lying naked beside you, there is her presence in me.  As I look at you, I am reckless with every kiss and every touch.  And I think I do like remembering how it feels for something or for someone again.  At least I do feel something now.

When we wake up, I might just be myself again.  I guess this little girl just wanted to say hello.

Exercise #2: Imperative: 2 am

Short story made up of imperative commands.  505 words

Published December 24, 2010

—

Wake up to her demand that you to check out what’s going on outside the bedroom as the Rottweiler’s barks imply that there aren’t only human intruders in the house, but also some intergalactic creatures that cause the present outrage.  And after you’ve concluded that the dog just saw shadows of cats, go back to the bedroom, sit by the end of the bed and look at her.  Light a cigarette, you are not sleepy.  In fact, you haven’t been sleeping.  No, do not scratch your head, nor feel like you’re some push–over-amateur losing his masculinity.  Instead, look at your fingers and remind yourself that you are til’ death bonded to this beauty and that everything that you do shouldn’t  merely be just out of obligation but out of love that was ordained by god.    

Never mind that she reminds you that the two of you are good as dead with each other and that being with her is your daily dose of silent but deadly torture.  You know for a fact that she was a very loving woman who had a good, free spirited heart;  very talented- in fact as a former theater actress, she has always been the glow and the only glory of the show.   Remind yourself that you have to convince the ‘responsible you’ that after seven years of marriage, you have been an excellent provider to the family, working as a corporate whore, and that even if you try to pleasure yourself with your secretary, you still want to serve her best not only in bed but also on the kitchen floor if she would want it.  That you are trying to make her happy by being there for her and you want to tell her everyday that it’s going to be alright, that you are still the marvelous personalities, the golden couple the city could ever have even if you haven’t been permitted to live the life you dreamed of.   

You know this is somehow your fault because no matter how much you romanticize, you think those dreams are immature- the dream to resign from the real life. So repress your and her essence, and deny yourselves the right to go against the dictates of the society.  To be different.  To fulfill your life mission to do something that you were always meant to do, like perhaps write, sing or act.  Anything else except be clones of the regular people of the society.  Instead, stay to be like the other couples in their late 20’s or 30’s who decide to marry and have a house somewhere in the city just because they want the future to be settled.  Consequently, be miserable with the 24 hour work to feed the baby you made because it’s the only thing that makes you feel like a man now.

Now, look at her again and remind yourself that it’s you who decided to cause the despair and the emptiness of the house you’ve worked hard for.  Then, try to sleep. Beside her.

Exercise #1: The Reluctant I: The Grocery

In this exercise, I used the pronoun I, me, or my only two-three times.  600+- words

Published December 24, 2010

—

It is a sunny Friday morning.  The window behind my bed made sure that the sun’s rays would permeate my thin chiffon off-white curtains to reach my toes.  Right amount of warmth, and at the same time, the Christmas wind surround me and my room. What a comforting hug.  I needed that.  Today feels lucky.  Like today is just about a good combination of the simple things you’ve been wanting for a year now- that fine weather, the not so early but not so late time to wake up, the fact that there’s no work (perhaps only familial obligations), the chance to wear the newly bought sandals, time for that good, aromatic coffee.  The news reading for today is solely for leisure and not due to the need to be informative.  And yes, that once in a lifetime chance to just stare in space.  It’s okay now, it’s perfectly fine to just stare in space and those favorite rainy-day-marks that scarred your ceilings; favorite just because they seem to add character to that plain white ceiling.  And who wouldn’t love character?  Isn’t it that’s why you’ve gotten his attention in the first place?

But of course, everything that was just mentioned ran for around 20-30 minutes.  If you stay with your Mother for the holidays, she will make you realize that you’re living in her kingdom and therefore, there are tribal rules and obligations to be followed.  These dictates you say are definitely far from what you’ve established for yourself; for what you’ve established are rules and obligations that are out of the norm and relate to independence, competition and whatever it is that will make you feel loved.  Obligation #1:  grocery shopping for the Christmas eve food.  Get up.

On the way to the grocery,  thoughts of plausible things to happen like ‘Oh ma’m, we ran out of this and that’ or ‘Sorry people, no more parking spot’ entered.  Mostly, though, thoughts of what food to serve, Chinese or Italian?,  and the inevitable question of  where the heck is he now, or rather- they, and what could have they been doing, penetrated.  Shit.

The groceries today hold the whole humanity of this planet.  The families- the unit to be dreaded- are right in front of my eyes.  This particular grocery is huge and busy like how the stock market looks like on a regular day, packed with people scuttling their way to the goalie: the cashier.  Christmas songs tried to entertain the whole place, but they are just irritating.  In the carts are mixtures of what we regularly buy like cooking oil, bread, and toilet paper and those that are occasionally bought like red wine and some unusual kind of cheese.  These busy people are like ants bumping at each other, hurrying home to bring the beads of rice to feed their family. Amidst their helplessness to the Christmas rush and last minute shopping, their motivation to win against this war and get that last pack of roasted chicken is very evident:  they want tonight to be extra special.  That the moment the clock strikes 12 o’clock, there are only two things to do and that is to eat good food and be with the people they love and cherish.

In the cashier, the line is like a 2 hour traffic jam and  the delusions to have their kind of Christmas eve presented themselves.  Almost there, actually.  (Cheers to them.  All cheers to them!) If only I weren’t the mistress.    

Cashier asks if I’ll pay using cash or card.  The card suddenly made me think of my debts.