for those who haven’t forgotten

Chance Encounter

a flurry of skirts in the crowd, supposedly indiscernible from the identical uniforms all around-

memories blurred by time and space, etched as deeply as the sound of your name, someday to be swept away-

a glimpse, no more, of the smile rarely seen in my context-

As I catch your eye out of pure chance, wondering who’ll break contact first, but before I can even finish that thought, you’ve already walked away.

How did I not upload this earlier

Writer’s Craft (7)

Some bullshit written to flatter the teachers that I (apparently) am familiar with their PC methods of overcoming writer’s block, accompanied by obnoxious story prompts trying to capitalise on the trend of people romanticising mental illness. Which is damned messed up of them, but hey, as I approached the portfolio deadline, the whole thing just turned into one gigantic ‘screw you!’ 

And it’s been months since I last edited this, so it’s not going to be great. The first paragraph pains me enough.


You sit alone in the dark with the intense computer glow. Even as you rub your tired eyes and down another cup of heavy-duty tea, the bright glare is superimposed onto your eyelids, as a reminder you don’t need.

The cursor blinks, once, twice, patiently waiting for you. The only way to make it go away would be to drag your tired fingers across the keyboard and complete the sentence.
Your story is adrift in your mind, and you are almost tempted to just let it go after numerous attempts at catching it. But that would make you feel like a murderer.

Unfortunately, the writing bug just refuses to take the bait.
The old enemy is upon you again. ‘Writer’s block’ is too nice a name for it. You resort to tried-and-tested methods to try and get rid of it.
Ask yourself about anything, even if it doesn’t get you anywhere; that was the advice you’ve gleaned from evenings of sifting through websites to improve your productivity. So the questions begin to ask themselves. Who is this girl? You trace an outline of her in your head using words, phrases, whatever gives her some form. No decent writer would want their characters to be self-inserts or flawless paragons sorely in need of a personality. Why is she on the rooftop? You give her a path there, setting the location before the story has officially started, and you give her reasons. You remind yourself about the three Golden Words: ‘show, not tell’. Well, you will show them, all right. What rooftop is that? You build it up piece by piece, giving even the rooftop a backstory, paint a skyline behind her with your pen. The computer lid is down, and its harsh light has been replaced by your trusty desk light.
Your words seem to flow again, the blockage washed away by a flood of ideas, and you take the chosen ones as if they were threads and weave them together into something that resembles an art form (you hope). Your handwriting is messy enough to spill onto the surrounding lines, a sea of crazy characters more closely related to ancient Egyptian than the English Language. It’s laughable compared to the thousands of fonts the computer could give you, but this is much better.
And now you know what to do, and your character is so much more. She’s your muse, a vessel of storytelling. You are glad you didn’t butcher the story.
You see her with her head cleanly shaved, dressed in a clinical white gown that reeks of somewhere, no, not exactly the hospital. Painting red marks onto her arms, you show the audience what has happened to her. Although you’ve always had difficulty creating cast members to fit the story, this one slips into her role like a comfortable old glove. Her eyes are unnaturally bright, however. Her gaze speaks of vague thoughts and unanchored minds, of queer sights that only she can see.
You sit in the dark with your table light pointing down at your notebook, the pen gliding across it with little jerks as your hand struggles to get it all out before giving in to the exhaustion.

You remember you once wanted to be an artist when you were young, but your little stick figures and crooked trees failed and you found a new love, forgetting the previous dream. But you should ask yourself, am I not an artist now, as well?
The story is nearly complete. Your idea has been trapped in a skeleton, and you flesh it in, watching something of yours actually come to life.  You reopen your MacBook, still hot to the touch, and when you finally finish your piece, the sky is notably lighter but you could not care less. An empty space at the top is waiting for you to give it a crown. Ctrl+B. Your old friend the cursor nags at you to hurry up so it can go to sleep. You replay the different scenes in your head: the pain, the realization, how the colors of her story fade to black in your mind as she begins to fall apart towards the end. And then you smile, and then, hear the familiar clicking sound of your keyboard as you quickly tap out a single word to top it all off— Glitched.
Months later, you again find yourself burning copious amounts of midnight oil with a new story, this time about a girl who went too far down the rabbit hole.

ridiculously long title for a change

I’m Totally Not Miserable At All

Well, colour me disgusted, because the blood just went all over the place. I don’t mean to be overly graphic, but have you seen what happens when someone rips the lid off a running blender?
There’s pieces of you everywhere, all because of one badass little ranged weapon. You’d have liked to own that launcher, I think.

BTW, this isn’t what I meant when I said I want you all over me.

Your remains are bleeding into the ground. No poetic last words, definitely no teary hug. Not a final confession, apology, insult, no truth to cap it all off. Just a heap of ground meat that the rest of us can’t even eat.

Oh, look, there’s a finger pointing in my general direction and also slightly to my left. SYMBOLISMWTFOMFGGENIUS!!!! Yeah, yeah, you accuse me, and I know what you’re thinking. I was standing beside you, both of us seeing the gun, me in a great positive to sidestep just a bit and be hero for the day. Knee-jerk for me, also simpler for me because it’s you. Let myself blow up in your face to save your face from being blown up? No problem.

So, ‘betrayal’ is the final verdict? Try: ‘cowardice’, ‘fear’, ‘slow reflexes’. What an expressive language English is. I don’t believe in the afterlife, but there’s hatred somewhere in that pretty head of yours, now resembling a jigsaw puzzle. Not suitable for those ages 3 and below or those who are terrified of having their crush’s brain explode in front of them.

Yeah, so I watched while you got shot. ‘Sacrifice’ is a lame word, overused by emo 13-year-olds writing dark literature on MySpace.

You’re thinking all of this as you go on your merry way. Your heart is smashed, those elegant fingers dipped in your own blood, what a sight- beautiful because it’s not me lying there.

‘Dude! How’d she die??’

‘Blasted with a really powerful gun.’

‘And you stood by and watched! Aren’t you even a little bit guilty, especially since you like her?’

‘Listen to me. No, listen, don’t sneer at me and turn your nose the other way. Imagine if I jumped that gun for her. Imagine her standing amongst my bits and pieces wondering why she isn’t blown mile-high into the sky. Her mind slowly playing the memory of me throwing myself in front of her. A literal meat shield.’

In an alternate universe, you stood there while lucky me, I’m dead and so are my feeling organs. No guilt, no sadness, not even a little. No, because you’re the one feeling all of that. You get? No matter what you think of me, I won’t do that to you. I won’t sacrifice myself for you, so that you’ll live and remember what your friend did to earn the remainder of your life.

Call it sick logic, but it’s my logic, and what other school of thought am I supposed to follow?

So please, even if you’re dead as a stick (an exploded stick? Pfft, sometimes I make jokes, and this is what happens), please understand. Listen to me- and just don’t…

…don’t think too badly of me.

‘Eyy, I’m sayin’, you should’ve just done it anyway.’

‘Shut up. I’m gonna go vomit somewhere else. Clear this mess up, and burn it or whatever.  You believe in reincarnation, don’t you? She oughta come back as something that’s evolved bulletproof armour.’

((Not mine, obviously))

The very first time I remember you, you are blonde and don’t love me back.
The next time you are brunette, and you do.
After a while I give up trying to guess if the colour of your hair means anything.
because even if you don’t exist, I am always in love with you.
I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together,
when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me.
I love how you play along with my bad ideas,
before you grow up and realize they are bad ideas.
(And in our times together I have many bad ideas.)
When we meet as adults you’re always much more discerning. I don’t blame you.
Yet, always, you forgive me.
As if you understand what’s going on, and you’re making up for
all the lifetimes in which one of us doesn’t exist,
and the ones where we just, barely, never meet.
I hate those. I prefer the ones in which you kill me.
But when all’s said and done, I’d surrender to you in other ways.
Even though each time, I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder
is this the last time?
Is that really you?
And what if you’re perfectly happy
without me?
Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you. It’s only fair
that I should be the one
to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes
until I find the one where you’ll return to me.

Screw Literature

I butchered a villanelle written for English Literature because I dislike writing structured poems. I might post that in a bit because this site is an archive, anyway.


It always begins the same, voices on the ascendant
Why yes, we’d very much like to get a rise out of each other
Harsh silence follows the slamming of the door

Pounding cobblestone and gravel to forget
Haunting the same old, same old places
I know you won’t be here when I return

Pick up the phone and then put it down
Pick up the phone and then shut it down

Accept the offerings; the climax wanes
Wordless thanks making up for lack of warmth
As expected, your gifts are still the same

It’s classic–sweetness after the storm
You remember how to play this, don’t you?
‘GAME OVER: >Continue or >Continue’

And finally we mark a mental date
Waiting for the next spark, I lie quietly
But I suppose I wouldn’t know anyway
But I’ve grown used to the endless hate anyway

Look, I know it’s a lame title (Transformice fanfiction)

Death Incoming!

The true meaning of ‘doomsday’. Humor and ‘horror’.

It’s all over. Today, I die. Oh, cruel world.

One by one, my tribemates disappear. Pixels melting away into the void that is my final destination. The TV blares music for nobody to listen to. Even our brave clan leader, even him:

‘Goodbye…’ I wouldn’t forget the despair written across his face and in his eyes and across his paws and tattooed on his belly.

It’s so empty. Those plush sofas are still warm from the mice that had just unwillingly vacated the scene.

Same in the vanilla rooms. I climb the wall all by myself, nibbling on the cheese- my last meal.

Nobody to share it with.

I think of my girlfriend. My mistress. My best friend. My clan leader. Who’s kinda hot. Even the dumb tribe newbies I was planning to haze by chucking cannonballs at them.

I will miss you all…

The sky is crumbling, oh, no shaman can help us now. Perhaps our Goddess will finally descend from the heavens to save us all. Or maybe, this is her doing. What if she’s doomed us all? We’re not worthy of her holiness. Not worthy of her holy wings. They’re larger than any I’ve ever seen. They’re beautiful. I want wings so badly. What was I talking about?

If the fury of the gods were to manifest itself, is there anything anyone can do about it?

I accept my fate.

• [SERVER] The server will restart in 2 minutes.

Happy 25th of July

Probability

(…)

This tiny slice passed to each other and handled so delicately, timing each and every pause, glance, and bated breath.

A spar? More like a fluttering of words, branching out into categories or endings; no backtracking now.

I am a hypocrite; I hide behind my veil of hidden meanings, weighing the words, while trying to decipher you, and I don’t know who I should blame when I fail to do so.

such cruelty, spinning round and round within the different pathways. Who?

I do not know the numbers. Is this the last such exchange? Possible, this dictates another ending/a different route to take/the same old, same old

I cannot see it. I cannot see you.

Working hard to get rid of the sugar, I present my thoughts, or so you think. Or so I think.

Can I replay this? Can I save this? Can I do it all over again?

I do not know, and I walk away, still imagining consequences.