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Sunday, April 28, 2013
Without Beauty.
I couldn't tell her that I slept with him because I wanted to be closer to her. I wanted to break a barrier between what I thought I was, and what I could be. It was her and her openness and her willingness to share with me that had changed me. It changed the way I thought, the way I saw the world, and the way I saw myself. I felt empowered when I talked to her, and I wanted to see the world the way she did.
It was my biggest mistake, thinking that she was such a free spirit nothing could bound her, nothing could hurt her, and that I couldn't possibly lose what I cherished of her. And this desire to become someone I wasn't, to become someone else I thought I could love because then I could be with her, was a poison.
I couldn't tell her though. She never asked why either. A feeling like that would be cheapened when I had to try to explain myself against her accusations, against her quiet understanding, mixed in with rage and hurt feelings of betrayal. I couldn't cheapen her feelings by explaining myself in a way that I couldn't, and in a way, wouldn't, understand. I haven't reached it yet. Not to that point when I could openly admit to myself that I was willing to try to be someone I wasn't. That I was curious about a world that was taboo to everything that I believed and knew.
It's a complicated feeling. Trying to find a balance between who you are and who you think you could be. But what if who you think you could be isn't really the person you're meant to be? How do you rationalize? How do you accept yourself afterwards? It takes a certain kind of person to break through those barriers to admit to themselves that it was just a part of the road to self-discovery. Others, who were stupid and brave enough to try something so taxing on self-understanding, end up living in self-destruction in pathetic attempt to forget regrets, to convince themselves that nothing ever happened.
She said not to regret anything. Not to become one of those people who self-destructed, who stopped exploring their sexuality, who saw sexuality as a curse rather than a gift. She was a free spirit, and she would hate herself, knowing that she's bound anyone's wings.
She forgave me (though not without proper consequences) only due to my naivety, on my absolute stupidity and blindness. After all, he was charming in a way that men never were: he gave a sense of respect and sincerity and security, where your insecurities fly out the window, despite not having any emotional attachments to him. He was the almost-perfect lover: detached, respectful, passionate, and giving. There was never a moment I felt used for my body. I felt empowered, a woman, and it was a freeing experience, to know that there was a possibility that sex didn't feel dirty afterwards. And I was one step closer to her. To someone I loved in a way I couldn't understand, loved and respected enough to venture deeper into an enigmatic world I'd been fighting.
I loved to tease her--it was something I didn't realize I enjoyed doing until I met her. A small tease built into something that hurt, that broke such preciously delicate trust. But it's too late now, to know that my family was right. Jokes and teasing never end well because feelings are hurt when the line is crossed. You can never uncross it.
She said she saw something beautiful in the situation. Free spirits always do. They see everything as an opportunity, of Fates realigning to bring something different. Good or bad didn't matter. It was something to experience, to learn from, to take in and become a part of. Victims can say that and they're benevolent souls of forgiveness and kindness. But when the perpetrator says it, regardless of how guilty they feel, they are unfeeling monsters. I feel like one. An unfeeling monster that chose hoes before bros, without even meaning to, without affection for the hoe. But doesn't that just make everything worse?
He was the step closer to her. And in all of my selfish self-discovery, thinking I could be closer, that I could possibly accept sexuality the way it was meant to be taken--without dirtiness; evil, sinful implications; or discrimination--I lost sight of the beauty of the things I cherished. I lost it all, thinking I could gain something else.
I wish I could say that I still felt like a woman, empowered, sexual, and proud. Instead, she's retracted back into her shell because upon discovering her, getting to know her, I hurt and distanced the very person that I wanted to be closer to.
It wasn't worth it.
It was my biggest mistake, thinking that she was such a free spirit nothing could bound her, nothing could hurt her, and that I couldn't possibly lose what I cherished of her. And this desire to become someone I wasn't, to become someone else I thought I could love because then I could be with her, was a poison.
I couldn't tell her though. She never asked why either. A feeling like that would be cheapened when I had to try to explain myself against her accusations, against her quiet understanding, mixed in with rage and hurt feelings of betrayal. I couldn't cheapen her feelings by explaining myself in a way that I couldn't, and in a way, wouldn't, understand. I haven't reached it yet. Not to that point when I could openly admit to myself that I was willing to try to be someone I wasn't. That I was curious about a world that was taboo to everything that I believed and knew.
It's a complicated feeling. Trying to find a balance between who you are and who you think you could be. But what if who you think you could be isn't really the person you're meant to be? How do you rationalize? How do you accept yourself afterwards? It takes a certain kind of person to break through those barriers to admit to themselves that it was just a part of the road to self-discovery. Others, who were stupid and brave enough to try something so taxing on self-understanding, end up living in self-destruction in pathetic attempt to forget regrets, to convince themselves that nothing ever happened.
She said not to regret anything. Not to become one of those people who self-destructed, who stopped exploring their sexuality, who saw sexuality as a curse rather than a gift. She was a free spirit, and she would hate herself, knowing that she's bound anyone's wings.
She forgave me (though not without proper consequences) only due to my naivety, on my absolute stupidity and blindness. After all, he was charming in a way that men never were: he gave a sense of respect and sincerity and security, where your insecurities fly out the window, despite not having any emotional attachments to him. He was the almost-perfect lover: detached, respectful, passionate, and giving. There was never a moment I felt used for my body. I felt empowered, a woman, and it was a freeing experience, to know that there was a possibility that sex didn't feel dirty afterwards. And I was one step closer to her. To someone I loved in a way I couldn't understand, loved and respected enough to venture deeper into an enigmatic world I'd been fighting.
I loved to tease her--it was something I didn't realize I enjoyed doing until I met her. A small tease built into something that hurt, that broke such preciously delicate trust. But it's too late now, to know that my family was right. Jokes and teasing never end well because feelings are hurt when the line is crossed. You can never uncross it.
She said she saw something beautiful in the situation. Free spirits always do. They see everything as an opportunity, of Fates realigning to bring something different. Good or bad didn't matter. It was something to experience, to learn from, to take in and become a part of. Victims can say that and they're benevolent souls of forgiveness and kindness. But when the perpetrator says it, regardless of how guilty they feel, they are unfeeling monsters. I feel like one. An unfeeling monster that chose hoes before bros, without even meaning to, without affection for the hoe. But doesn't that just make everything worse?
He was the step closer to her. And in all of my selfish self-discovery, thinking I could be closer, that I could possibly accept sexuality the way it was meant to be taken--without dirtiness; evil, sinful implications; or discrimination--I lost sight of the beauty of the things I cherished. I lost it all, thinking I could gain something else.
I wish I could say that I still felt like a woman, empowered, sexual, and proud. Instead, she's retracted back into her shell because upon discovering her, getting to know her, I hurt and distanced the very person that I wanted to be closer to.
It wasn't worth it.
Friday, April 26, 2013
ALL there is
IN ALL THE care
AND honesty
AND love
nothing beautiful ever comes of it
and when the time comes
the whirlpool becomes strong
and whirls and whirls and whirls
and the light starts to fade
and die
and the stars start to pulse of energies of the massive cosmos and
you start to wonder why anything was ever anything and the light shines and shines and then it
bursts
and as light shakes the foundation of the building you're standing atop of waiting for the sun to explode along with it
you feel the earth quake and sink and cry
and the building begins to fall
but you didn't want to die
you hadn't planned on dying
you were just trying to imagine what it would be like to fly
everything is crumbling as you fall
plummeting straight into the dark abyss of unknown
all because no one cared that you were suffering
and wondering what it would be like to fly
and now you would
but you really didn't want to
you really didn't
BUT there's no choice now
AND you close your eyes and flap your wings and click your beak
AND the wind swallows you whole
AND YOU BECOME a beautiful butterfly
AND honesty
AND love
nothing beautiful ever comes of it
and when the time comes
the whirlpool becomes strong
and whirls and whirls and whirls
and the light starts to fade
and die
and the stars start to pulse of energies of the massive cosmos and
you start to wonder why anything was ever anything and the light shines and shines and then it
bursts
and as light shakes the foundation of the building you're standing atop of waiting for the sun to explode along with it
you feel the earth quake and sink and cry
and the building begins to fall
but you didn't want to die
you hadn't planned on dying
you were just trying to imagine what it would be like to fly
everything is crumbling as you fall
plummeting straight into the dark abyss of unknown
all because no one cared that you were suffering
and wondering what it would be like to fly
and now you would
but you really didn't want to
you really didn't
BUT there's no choice now
AND you close your eyes and flap your wings and click your beak
AND the wind swallows you whole
AND YOU BECOME a beautiful butterfly
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
both of them.
In the waves
of the forbidden
lies truth
courage
fear
In the mountains
of the all-knowing
lies the future
desires
sins
In the depths
of the unknown
lies music
melancholy
dark kisses
and
hatredlove
indifference
in the face
of our graces
everything left
open and bleeding and unmended
and it's okay
this squeezing of your chest
swollen arteries
and tissue paper love notes.
he finds his socks and
puts them
on his
hands
because they protect his beautifully man
-icured
nails that run
d
o
w
n
your beautifully made up fa
ce
both of them
and the
for-all-unknown
is left behind
sobbing in wretched pieces
and no one left to care
for the concentrated
saturated
bled-dry
uterus
of the forbidden
lies truth
courage
fear
In the mountains
of the all-knowing
lies the future
desires
sins
In the depths
of the unknown
lies music
melancholy
dark kisses
and
hatredlove
indifference
in the face
of our graces
everything left
open and bleeding and unmended
and it's okay
this squeezing of your chest
swollen arteries
and tissue paper love notes.
he finds his socks and
puts them
on his
hands
because they protect his beautifully man
-icured
nails that run
d
o
w
n
your beautifully made up fa
ce
both of them
and the
for-all-unknown
is left behind
sobbing in wretched pieces
and no one left to care
for the concentrated
saturated
bled-dry
uterus
Saturday, April 20, 2013
When It Was Done [1]
A child entered our home. He was small for a 6-year-old with straggly copper hair, bald patches only hidden when his hair fell just right. Thin, with a round belly, and one missing toe. But what my wife couldn't stand were his eyes. She, using her colorful, flouncy words borrowed from her romance novels, described them as "smoldering embers drowning in a dusky sea."
There were whispers of our desperation, our direct involvement, our ignorant and blind kindness. They followed me to the office, in the car, in traffic. They followed her into grocery stores, into our garden, into the dark corners of our wine cellar. At first, we were tolerant. Why were people so cruel and heartless?
And then we became one of them.
Our transformation wasn't immediate. It was a slow-spreading virus. There was no cure, and death was expected. As for whose death, I'm not quite sure. What was certain was that, if there was a God Almighty, He was punishing us. And would continue doing so.
She's always wanted children. Even before we got married, even before I thought about children outside the world of bad taste, outside the "good ol' days." She was the kind of little girl that played house every day, pretending her stuffed animals were her children, and these children were obedient and always ate their vegetables because she was an amazing mother.
When her sister died from an accident--details were vague--we were already aware that we couldn't have children. Gizelle was open to the idea of adopting her nephew. We spent a considerate amount of time preparing for his arrival, decorating his room with airplanes, child-locking the oven and drawers. She was excited, as grieving as she was of her sister's death. It would be, as she said, "a breath of fresh air."
We woke up the morning of Scotty's arrival to a sky of black and purple clouds. God-sized gunshots rumbled across the sky, and lightning struck the sky in anger, or in fear. Gizelle was worried that Scotty would be afraid of the storm and hopped out of bed to call her bachelor brother, who would be bringing Scotty to our house from his home in Maine.
I got dressed for work. Scotty wouldn't be at our house until 7. I would be back from the office by then to welcome our new son into our home.
"Hey Brandon, give me a call when you get this. It's storming here, so please be careful. Be sure to give Scotty extra attention! Love you, bro. See you soon!"
I left for work. It was a typical day. Broken fax machines, broken printers, broken office-romance-hearts. I was looking forward to returning home.
Stuck in the storm, I didn't get back to the house until 6:30. Gizelle was on her way to finishing making dinner when there was a phone call. I picked up and said hello five times. No answer.
"Who was it?"
"I don't know." I frowned. "Must be this storm. If it was important, they'll call back."
7 o'clock rolled around. And then it became 7:30. By 7:45, Gizelle had called Brandon over thirty times with no answer. The doorbell rang, and we ran to open the door.
A child entered our home. He was small for a 6-year-old with straggly copper hair, bald patches only hidden when his hair fell just right. Thin, with a round belly, and one missing toe. But what my wife couldn't stand were his eyes. She, using her colorful, flouncy words borrowed from her romance novels, described them as "smoldering embers drowning in a dusky sea."
"Scotty? Scotty, where's Uncle Brandon?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Gone."
"How did you get here?"
Silence.
His blank eyes left me shuddering, as if a cold, skeleton hand had traced a malicious trail up my spine, all the way up to my throat.
"Come in, come in." Gizelle was less sensitive to the creepy vibes the kid was sending out with his impassiveness. Her motherly instincts took over. "Let's get you dried off, you poor thing. Come here and wait. Harold, go and grab a towel from the closet, please."
The skeleton released its grip on my windpipe and I went to grab a towel. I didn't like this feeling. I should go out and find Brandon. I tossed the towel to Gizelle and promptly dialed his cell phone. It rang once, twice.
"Hey, it's Brandon. Can't come to the phone right now--"
When Scotty turned 16, he ran away. We all breathed a sigh of relief. All except Gizelle. But I was glad. The skeleton disappeared the night Scotty took our old station-wagon--the one he'd been working on for several years--a small suitcase, and some food.
He stunk of death. Of darkness. I expected light and life to reenter our lives after he left. But the feeling, the stink, never left the house. And we were never the same.
There were whispers of our desperation, our direct involvement, our ignorant and blind kindness. They followed me to the office, in the car, in traffic. They followed her into grocery stores, into our garden, into the dark corners of our wine cellar. At first, we were tolerant. Why were people so cruel and heartless?
And then we became one of them.
Our transformation wasn't immediate. It was a slow-spreading virus. There was no cure, and death was expected. As for whose death, I'm not quite sure. What was certain was that, if there was a God Almighty, He was punishing us. And would continue doing so.
She's always wanted children. Even before we got married, even before I thought about children outside the world of bad taste, outside the "good ol' days." She was the kind of little girl that played house every day, pretending her stuffed animals were her children, and these children were obedient and always ate their vegetables because she was an amazing mother.
When her sister died from an accident--details were vague--we were already aware that we couldn't have children. Gizelle was open to the idea of adopting her nephew. We spent a considerate amount of time preparing for his arrival, decorating his room with airplanes, child-locking the oven and drawers. She was excited, as grieving as she was of her sister's death. It would be, as she said, "a breath of fresh air."
We woke up the morning of Scotty's arrival to a sky of black and purple clouds. God-sized gunshots rumbled across the sky, and lightning struck the sky in anger, or in fear. Gizelle was worried that Scotty would be afraid of the storm and hopped out of bed to call her bachelor brother, who would be bringing Scotty to our house from his home in Maine.
I got dressed for work. Scotty wouldn't be at our house until 7. I would be back from the office by then to welcome our new son into our home.
"Hey Brandon, give me a call when you get this. It's storming here, so please be careful. Be sure to give Scotty extra attention! Love you, bro. See you soon!"
I left for work. It was a typical day. Broken fax machines, broken printers, broken office-romance-hearts. I was looking forward to returning home.
Stuck in the storm, I didn't get back to the house until 6:30. Gizelle was on her way to finishing making dinner when there was a phone call. I picked up and said hello five times. No answer.
"Who was it?"
"I don't know." I frowned. "Must be this storm. If it was important, they'll call back."
7 o'clock rolled around. And then it became 7:30. By 7:45, Gizelle had called Brandon over thirty times with no answer. The doorbell rang, and we ran to open the door.
A child entered our home. He was small for a 6-year-old with straggly copper hair, bald patches only hidden when his hair fell just right. Thin, with a round belly, and one missing toe. But what my wife couldn't stand were his eyes. She, using her colorful, flouncy words borrowed from her romance novels, described them as "smoldering embers drowning in a dusky sea."
"Scotty? Scotty, where's Uncle Brandon?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Gone."
"How did you get here?"
Silence.
His blank eyes left me shuddering, as if a cold, skeleton hand had traced a malicious trail up my spine, all the way up to my throat.
"Come in, come in." Gizelle was less sensitive to the creepy vibes the kid was sending out with his impassiveness. Her motherly instincts took over. "Let's get you dried off, you poor thing. Come here and wait. Harold, go and grab a towel from the closet, please."
The skeleton released its grip on my windpipe and I went to grab a towel. I didn't like this feeling. I should go out and find Brandon. I tossed the towel to Gizelle and promptly dialed his cell phone. It rang once, twice.
"Hey, it's Brandon. Can't come to the phone right now--"
When Scotty turned 16, he ran away. We all breathed a sigh of relief. All except Gizelle. But I was glad. The skeleton disappeared the night Scotty took our old station-wagon--the one he'd been working on for several years--a small suitcase, and some food.
He stunk of death. Of darkness. I expected light and life to reenter our lives after he left. But the feeling, the stink, never left the house. And we were never the same.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
FFOct21 - Flash Fiction 6
Jordan was at the Temple of the Heavenly Mother. Large marble steps led him past a stone dragon spitting water, under the large red arch, and through doors guarded by large heavenly spirits. They stood by the door, fierce eyes accented with red eyeshadow and strong--unplucked--disapproving eyebrows. The stone carvings on the walls, depicting various animals and defeats of demon spirits made his insides churn.
His aunt gave him nine lit incense sticks, "We will be going to nine different statues. Bow, say a prayer, and then stick one stick in with the rest."
As he followed through the crowds who had taken their weekends off for this little pilgrimage, his nose stung of the smell of the incense. He could hear soft prayers from those kneeling on the worn, red cushions they place in front of the fruit offerings.
They stopped in front of a large statue first, its dark face shielded by rows of shining white pearls, dangling from the old, golden crown. He began to wonder if they were real. If they were, how much would those large pearls cost?
"Isn't the Heavenly Mother so majestic?" his aunt sighed.
"Why is her face black?"
His aunt shot him a look, and he pretended to look as if he was praying really hard to the Heavenly Mother.
Isn't that racist?
He heard the clatter of wooden objects thrown on the ground, and he turned to ask about it.
"A method of fortune telling," his uncle said. "You ask the Heavenly Mother yes or no questions, and depending on how the crescent moons fall can mean 'yes', 'no,' or 'you don't need to ask'."
"'You don't need to ask'? What is that supposed mean?"
"Means you already know the answer. You can ask the same question again if you really want to hear the answer. Want to try?"
Jordan shook his head, and followed his aunt to nine different shrines. At each one, as he bowed to the statues at a ninety degree angle, incense held perpendicular to his forehead, he didn't know what to say. Thanks for everything?
As they finished praying to the nine spirits and gods and Bodhisattvas, his aunt and uncle wandered off to a nearby room where spiritual prophecies were being made. He could hear the chanting, the loud murmurs, and the sound of a something hard hitting flesh.
"Come see!" his aunt whispered to him.
He shook his head and walked back to the Grand Hall.
He eyed the wooden crescent moons resting on the tabletop. Each crescent was flat on one side and round on the other.
"Have a question for the Heavenly Mother?" asked an old monk, head shining under harsh lights. He had a pleasant enough smile, if his teeth hadn't blackened and fallen out. "Hold the two moons to your chest, ask your question, and drop them on the ground."
The two moons hit the floor in a clatter, and the two flat sides were facing up.
"That means "You don't need to ask"." The monk's eyes were hidden beneath long eyebrows. "You can ask again if you'd like."
Two flat sides of the moon faced up.
"Perhaps ask the question in a different way." The monk sounded surprised.
Two flat sides of the moon faced up.
"It's all right." Jordan took a step back. "I guess I don't need to know."
As he waited for his aunt and uncle, he sat next to the water-spitting dragon head.
His fingers were stained red by the stems of the incense sticks, and he felt ashamed for wanting to wash his hands. He could hear prayers muttered at the large steel incense pot, and he watched as the ashes from the incense glowed red and faded as the wind took it up higher and higher. The sounds of the bells, and the clattering of wooden moons drowned out the sound of the knife sawing away in his chest.
His aunt gave him nine lit incense sticks, "We will be going to nine different statues. Bow, say a prayer, and then stick one stick in with the rest."
As he followed through the crowds who had taken their weekends off for this little pilgrimage, his nose stung of the smell of the incense. He could hear soft prayers from those kneeling on the worn, red cushions they place in front of the fruit offerings.
They stopped in front of a large statue first, its dark face shielded by rows of shining white pearls, dangling from the old, golden crown. He began to wonder if they were real. If they were, how much would those large pearls cost?
"Isn't the Heavenly Mother so majestic?" his aunt sighed.
"Why is her face black?"
His aunt shot him a look, and he pretended to look as if he was praying really hard to the Heavenly Mother.
Isn't that racist?
He heard the clatter of wooden objects thrown on the ground, and he turned to ask about it.
"A method of fortune telling," his uncle said. "You ask the Heavenly Mother yes or no questions, and depending on how the crescent moons fall can mean 'yes', 'no,' or 'you don't need to ask'."
"'You don't need to ask'? What is that supposed mean?"
"Means you already know the answer. You can ask the same question again if you really want to hear the answer. Want to try?"
Jordan shook his head, and followed his aunt to nine different shrines. At each one, as he bowed to the statues at a ninety degree angle, incense held perpendicular to his forehead, he didn't know what to say. Thanks for everything?
As they finished praying to the nine spirits and gods and Bodhisattvas, his aunt and uncle wandered off to a nearby room where spiritual prophecies were being made. He could hear the chanting, the loud murmurs, and the sound of a something hard hitting flesh.
"Come see!" his aunt whispered to him.
He shook his head and walked back to the Grand Hall.
He eyed the wooden crescent moons resting on the tabletop. Each crescent was flat on one side and round on the other.
"Have a question for the Heavenly Mother?" asked an old monk, head shining under harsh lights. He had a pleasant enough smile, if his teeth hadn't blackened and fallen out. "Hold the two moons to your chest, ask your question, and drop them on the ground."
The two moons hit the floor in a clatter, and the two flat sides were facing up.
"That means "You don't need to ask"." The monk's eyes were hidden beneath long eyebrows. "You can ask again if you'd like."
Two flat sides of the moon faced up.
"Perhaps ask the question in a different way." The monk sounded surprised.
Two flat sides of the moon faced up.
"It's all right." Jordan took a step back. "I guess I don't need to know."
As he waited for his aunt and uncle, he sat next to the water-spitting dragon head.
His fingers were stained red by the stems of the incense sticks, and he felt ashamed for wanting to wash his hands. He could hear prayers muttered at the large steel incense pot, and he watched as the ashes from the incense glowed red and faded as the wind took it up higher and higher. The sounds of the bells, and the clattering of wooden moons drowned out the sound of the knife sawing away in his chest.
The End.
Offer freedom and gain a lifetime of respect
happiness love devotion immortality
Force a leash and gain a lifetime of
fighting struggling hating
and the end
I didn't want the end
because I respected
wishes of someone
I cared for
it's
all
bro
ken
now
i
'
v
e
ne
ver
bee
n
m
ore
e
c
s
t
a
t
i
c
happiness love devotion immortality
Force a leash and gain a lifetime of
fighting struggling hating
and the end
I didn't want the end
because I respected
wishes of someone
I cared for
it's
all
bro
ken
now
i
'
v
e
ne
ver
bee
n
m
ore
e
c
s
t
a
t
i
c
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
FFOct16 - It's All About POV 4
4:25PM
4. Again. She's on the bus again. It is getting irritating. I know I should have told her sooner. I know I should have been firmer and crueler to her. But whenever her eyes water like that, I just let her in.
"Just don't disturb anyone."
I try to be cruel, but I feel guilty later.
I put the gold band of promise in my wallet.
I can't help myself.
4. Again. She's on the bus again. It is getting irritating. I know I should have told her sooner. I know I should have been firmer and crueler to her. But whenever her eyes water like that, I just let her in.
"Just don't disturb anyone."
I try to be cruel, but I feel guilty later.
I put the gold band of promise in my wallet.
I can't help myself.
Monday, April 15, 2013
FFOct15 - It's All About POV 3
4:50PM
3. This was the last bus to Taipei for the day. My professor at the hospital had me in his office the past hour, discussing my dissertation.
It was all real important stuff.
I don't remember what we talked about.
I hate being the last one on the bus. It's embarrassing. Even more so when there aren't any seats left.
"Why don't you find a seat?" the driver asked.
"There aren't any left," I replied.
He was quick. First there weren't any seats, and then all of a sudden a seat on the back was vacant and a cute girl was hurrying up the aisle.
"There's a seat," he pointed. He turned simply as the girl pulled out a stool and seated herself next to him.
"Uh,"
The driver was heading back to his seat, and I hurried over to mine.
When I got off, I turned to thank the girl for giving up her seat, but the doors banged closed behind me and the two drove away.
3. This was the last bus to Taipei for the day. My professor at the hospital had me in his office the past hour, discussing my dissertation.
It was all real important stuff.
I don't remember what we talked about.
I hate being the last one on the bus. It's embarrassing. Even more so when there aren't any seats left.
"Why don't you find a seat?" the driver asked.
"There aren't any left," I replied.
He was quick. First there weren't any seats, and then all of a sudden a seat on the back was vacant and a cute girl was hurrying up the aisle.
"There's a seat," he pointed. He turned simply as the girl pulled out a stool and seated herself next to him.
"Uh,"
The driver was heading back to his seat, and I hurried over to mine.
When I got off, I turned to thank the girl for giving up her seat, but the doors banged closed behind me and the two drove away.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
FFOct14 - It's All About POV 2
4:27PM
2. I got on the bus and noticed the young bus driver from yesterday. Decent-looking wearing a crisp white shirt and black trousers. Thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes. If I was 40 years younger, I'd be attracted to him. I made my way to the second seat behind him. I saw the young girl from yesterday as well, silently making her way to the back of the bus.
She was pretty with small eyes, but a cute smile. Yesterday, she had gotten on the bus and said directly to the driver, "Big brother!" -- drawing out the 'r' at the end in a series of fluctuations. Should foreigners hear her, they would assume that she was whining. "Why didn't you pick up the phone? I've been calling you every day for the past week!" She drew out the 'e's in 'week', lips curling into a pout.
There were a few of us on the bus, our attention caught by the girl's impressive use of vocal cords.
He didn't answer for a moment before muttering out of the corner of his mouth: "What number did you call?" When she recited the number to him, he said nothing.
I didn't expect to run into them again today.
When a young man caught the bus last minute, I was surprised the driver let him on. We were going on the expressway and it was illegal to stand on the bus. There were no more seats available.
That didn't seem to stop the driver, however. He stood from his seat, strode towards the middle of the bus, and gestured for the girl to come up front. She was obedient, silent, and quick. The boy smiled at her apologetically and seated himself there as she grabbed a stool in the front next to her "big brother."
"Why would he ask her to sit on that uncomfortable stool?" an older woman behind me asked her companion.
I recalled the incident and laughed.
2. I got on the bus and noticed the young bus driver from yesterday. Decent-looking wearing a crisp white shirt and black trousers. Thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes. If I was 40 years younger, I'd be attracted to him. I made my way to the second seat behind him. I saw the young girl from yesterday as well, silently making her way to the back of the bus.
She was pretty with small eyes, but a cute smile. Yesterday, she had gotten on the bus and said directly to the driver, "Big brother!" -- drawing out the 'r' at the end in a series of fluctuations. Should foreigners hear her, they would assume that she was whining. "Why didn't you pick up the phone? I've been calling you every day for the past week!" She drew out the 'e's in 'week', lips curling into a pout.
There were a few of us on the bus, our attention caught by the girl's impressive use of vocal cords.
He didn't answer for a moment before muttering out of the corner of his mouth: "What number did you call?" When she recited the number to him, he said nothing.
I didn't expect to run into them again today.
When a young man caught the bus last minute, I was surprised the driver let him on. We were going on the expressway and it was illegal to stand on the bus. There were no more seats available.
That didn't seem to stop the driver, however. He stood from his seat, strode towards the middle of the bus, and gestured for the girl to come up front. She was obedient, silent, and quick. The boy smiled at her apologetically and seated himself there as she grabbed a stool in the front next to her "big brother."
"Why would he ask her to sit on that uncomfortable stool?" an older woman behind me asked her companion.
I recalled the incident and laughed.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
FFOct13 - It's All About POV 1
4:35PM
1. What a horrible day. The bus is crowded. It is going on the expressway, and we are lucky that the nice young men sitting in their seats had given them up to move to the back. We are headed back to Taipei after a day spent at the hospital getting our monthly check-ups done.
The bus driver is a young boy of his mid to late 20s. Good-looking with his large eyes and thick, arched eyebrows. Sue is sitting next to me, complaining about the doctors in Jilong. How they always had cold hands and always ushers them out quicker than the pretty young ones that come for their expertise.
The bus closes its doors and began moving when there is a sudden lurch. Sue keeps talking, but my eyes are on the bus doors that swings open almost violently.
An apologetic smile is cast at the bus driver, and the boy is breathless as he surveys the bus for a seat. There are none.
"Why don't you find a seat?" The bus driver's pretty-boy face was matched with a deep voice.
"There aren't any left," the boy smiled sheepishly.
I watch as the driver stands up from his seat, walks to the middle of the bus, stop, and beckons to a girl seated in the back with one graceful -- arrogant, even -- finger.
Sue stops talking to watch.
The girl stands up in a flash and moves to the front of the bus.
"There's a seat," the driver points to the vacant seat. The boy gazes back at the girl, who had seated herself at the small stool next to the driver's seat.
The bus began moving again. No words were exchanged.
"Why would he ask her to sit on that uncomfortable stool?" Sue asks appalled.
"Kids these days," I shake my head. "Chivalry is dead."
1. What a horrible day. The bus is crowded. It is going on the expressway, and we are lucky that the nice young men sitting in their seats had given them up to move to the back. We are headed back to Taipei after a day spent at the hospital getting our monthly check-ups done.
The bus driver is a young boy of his mid to late 20s. Good-looking with his large eyes and thick, arched eyebrows. Sue is sitting next to me, complaining about the doctors in Jilong. How they always had cold hands and always ushers them out quicker than the pretty young ones that come for their expertise.
The bus closes its doors and began moving when there is a sudden lurch. Sue keeps talking, but my eyes are on the bus doors that swings open almost violently.
An apologetic smile is cast at the bus driver, and the boy is breathless as he surveys the bus for a seat. There are none.
"Why don't you find a seat?" The bus driver's pretty-boy face was matched with a deep voice.
"There aren't any left," the boy smiled sheepishly.
I watch as the driver stands up from his seat, walks to the middle of the bus, stop, and beckons to a girl seated in the back with one graceful -- arrogant, even -- finger.
Sue stops talking to watch.
The girl stands up in a flash and moves to the front of the bus.
"There's a seat," the driver points to the vacant seat. The boy gazes back at the girl, who had seated herself at the small stool next to the driver's seat.
The bus began moving again. No words were exchanged.
"Why would he ask her to sit on that uncomfortable stool?" Sue asks appalled.
"Kids these days," I shake my head. "Chivalry is dead."
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
FFOct10 - Flash Fiction 4
Girl sees boy on the bus.
They smile at each other.
What happens next?
A. The girl's too shy. They sit in silence. Boy gets off the bus. They never see each other again.
B. The boy is shy, but the girl engages him in awkward conversation while she texts her boyfriend. He asks her out; she rejects him without a second thought; he gets off the bus, goes to a nearby pub and asks for a beer. They never see each other again.
C. The boy is a football player at the local high school. He's had his eyes on the rival school's lead cheerleader for a while. He talks to her and falls in love, but the girl is dating the rival quarterback. She's attracted to the boy, but weighs the pros and cons, and decides her future is safer with the rival. She lets him down gently and gets off the bus. He quits the football team. They never see each other again.
D. The girl admires the quarterback. She musters the courage one day to talk to him. They hit it off well--she doesn't know he's quit the team or that he was in love already. He uses her as an ego boost and an easy A in Biology I AP. He takes her virginity and hooks up with the class president. She finds out and due to a family history of clinical depression and attempted suicides, she hangs herself from the football goal. She never sees him again.
E. The boy is sad. He feels guilty. The girl notices his sorrow and comforts him. They fall in love and get married. They have two beautiful children and great, challenging, high-paying jobs. The boy gets on an airplane for a business trip in New York. He hates flying, so he takes a couple of sleeping pills before the flight. He didn't know the plane was hijacked or that the hijackers rammed the plane into the World Trade Center. He dies on impact, peaceful in sleep. He never sees her again.
F. She's crying, holding her children close. They're still too young to understand. They keep asking her why Daddy wasn't coming home. She can't answer because she's crying too hard. The boy gives her a handkerchief and gets off the bus. She never sees him again. She raises the children on her own, put them both through college, and they emerged as the top of their class, and soon the top of their field. They both get married and she sees her beautiful grandchildren every holiday and some weekends. She falls victim to a heart attack in her late seventies. She dies, and they see each other again.
Moral: you live, you love, you die. The end is always the same. But it's interesting anyway.
They smile at each other.
What happens next?
A. The girl's too shy. They sit in silence. Boy gets off the bus. They never see each other again.
B. The boy is shy, but the girl engages him in awkward conversation while she texts her boyfriend. He asks her out; she rejects him without a second thought; he gets off the bus, goes to a nearby pub and asks for a beer. They never see each other again.
C. The boy is a football player at the local high school. He's had his eyes on the rival school's lead cheerleader for a while. He talks to her and falls in love, but the girl is dating the rival quarterback. She's attracted to the boy, but weighs the pros and cons, and decides her future is safer with the rival. She lets him down gently and gets off the bus. He quits the football team. They never see each other again.
D. The girl admires the quarterback. She musters the courage one day to talk to him. They hit it off well--she doesn't know he's quit the team or that he was in love already. He uses her as an ego boost and an easy A in Biology I AP. He takes her virginity and hooks up with the class president. She finds out and due to a family history of clinical depression and attempted suicides, she hangs herself from the football goal. She never sees him again.
E. The boy is sad. He feels guilty. The girl notices his sorrow and comforts him. They fall in love and get married. They have two beautiful children and great, challenging, high-paying jobs. The boy gets on an airplane for a business trip in New York. He hates flying, so he takes a couple of sleeping pills before the flight. He didn't know the plane was hijacked or that the hijackers rammed the plane into the World Trade Center. He dies on impact, peaceful in sleep. He never sees her again.
F. She's crying, holding her children close. They're still too young to understand. They keep asking her why Daddy wasn't coming home. She can't answer because she's crying too hard. The boy gives her a handkerchief and gets off the bus. She never sees him again. She raises the children on her own, put them both through college, and they emerged as the top of their class, and soon the top of their field. They both get married and she sees her beautiful grandchildren every holiday and some weekends. She falls victim to a heart attack in her late seventies. She dies, and they see each other again.
Moral: you live, you love, you die. The end is always the same. But it's interesting anyway.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
FFOct8 - Flash Fiction 3
His days are numbered.
"You're dying soon," says his doctor, who had long blonde hair and smelled of strawberry jam. She was pretty, but not very sensitive. "You should live your life as you've always done."
He wakes up. Makes his bed. Brushes his teeth. Pours himself a bowl of cereal. Eats said cereal. Gets dressed. Goes to work.
Types up stuff about stuff. Eats lunch. More typing. Some phone calls. Says good bye to the pretty secretary. Goes home.
Sheds his clothing. Calls in for pizza. Eats pizza. Watches a movie. Falls asleep. Wakes up, puts in some porn, masturbates, falls back asleep.
His days are numbered.
"You're dying soon," says his doctor, who was not very sensitive. "You should live your life as you've always done."
So he does.
"You're dying soon," says his doctor, who had long blonde hair and smelled of strawberry jam. She was pretty, but not very sensitive. "You should live your life as you've always done."
He wakes up. Makes his bed. Brushes his teeth. Pours himself a bowl of cereal. Eats said cereal. Gets dressed. Goes to work.
Types up stuff about stuff. Eats lunch. More typing. Some phone calls. Says good bye to the pretty secretary. Goes home.
Sheds his clothing. Calls in for pizza. Eats pizza. Watches a movie. Falls asleep. Wakes up, puts in some porn, masturbates, falls back asleep.
His days are numbered.
"You're dying soon," says his doctor, who was not very sensitive. "You should live your life as you've always done."
So he does.
Monday, April 8, 2013
FFOct6 - Flash Fiction 2
She was stuck in her room. She was over seventy, possibly over eighty. She wasn't quite sure. She didn't quite care because she didn't want to know. It was hard for her to get out--her husband had died over ten years ago, and she had no real business with the outside world.
Once a week, she would see her friends for lunch. Every Monday at the same little restaurant, ordering the same dish of food, talking about the same ol' "remember the times when..." stories. She looked forward to them. They were constant, never changing, always blissfully stuck there in perpetual memory. Her money was dwindling, due to various trips to the hospital for her failing eyes, knees, liver, and migraines. Her interest in her ceiling waned. And her appetite was slowly diminishing. But her friends stayed the same, and so she felt the same, and that was what an old lady needed.
She lost interest in shopping when she realized that a woman her age couldn't wear fishnet stockings anymore without getting disapproving scowls and wild assumptions. She realized that a bit too late, but -- she shrugged -- she had a great time wearing them. And dangnabbit if her legs weren't still fabulous enough to wear them!
She misses shopping, but she doesn't like the old-lady fashion nowadays. The skirts are too long, and the blouses are horrendous. She wears white now. All white. Like an angel.
The door opens and she moves her gaze from the ceiling to the intruders.
"It's time to take your medication, Auntie Penny."
They always call her 'Auntie'. She insisted on it. After all, "Grandma" made her sound and feel old.
"Don't struggle now, Auntie. You'll hurt yourself. Just open your mouth and swallow."
“Can I go shopping?” she asked them.
They didn’t reply.
She misses shopping. She wears white now. All white. Like an angel.
And she hates it.
And she hates it.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
FFOct4 - Flash Fiction 1
Just a ten minute bus ride. My father's sitting in one of the handicapped seats. Handicapped meaning you're physically unable to stand, you're old, or you're pregnant. He doesn't look old, but he feels it, so he sits down. The rest of the bus is full. I stand by the window behind the last row of handicapped seats.
I plug my headphones into my 4-year-old iPod Nano--I don't even remember what generation it is. Whatever generation, it's not the new one, so it's old and has some sort of unfixable issue, or so says the lady that I took my iPod to when their storefront falsely advertised "REPLACE. UNLOCK. REPAIR. APPLE PRODUCT." I should have known that "APPLE PRODUCT" meant the one: iPhone. It's all the rage in Thailand these days. Or the world in general.
I'm listening to a track that played during an apocalypse film I watched earlier in the year. It starts off with slow breathing and I'm staring out into the busy streets of Taipei. People are walking and driving and riding and running. It's about four o'clock, so traffic is starting to get a little heavy, but the buses have their own lanes, so the traveling is smooth on our part.
We stop and a foreigner walks onto the bus, looking at home in a black T-shirt, khaki trousers, and dirty-white sneakers. He was young--probably between the age of 20 and 28. I've gotten worse at determining age. He looks like a mix between Daniel Radcliffe and Ben--whom I met in Thailand and is currently a Christian missionary. I couldn't tell what his nationality was. I didn't care.
I stare back out into traffic. The drums are starting to sound faster, and the music louder--the climax of the first scene of the movie was coming soon. I'm starting to see people as little plague bombs. One wrong circumstance, and an outbreak is going to occur. And it's going to occur here, right in front of my eyes.
I don't want to think about it anymore, so I stare at the foreigner's black backpack for a while before I registered the Canadian flag sewn onto it. The song stops--I press the repeat button. The breathing starts again, the bus stops, and I walk off in the direction of my aunt's apartment, feeling like I'm the only one in Taipei who can defeat the virus resting dormant in the citizens' bloodstreams. Under the right circumstances, the viruses will activate. The young Canadian will turn and he'll have the strongest thirst for blood. My father will be slow and an emotional threat.
Which one would I shoot first?
I plug my headphones into my 4-year-old iPod Nano--I don't even remember what generation it is. Whatever generation, it's not the new one, so it's old and has some sort of unfixable issue, or so says the lady that I took my iPod to when their storefront falsely advertised "REPLACE. UNLOCK. REPAIR. APPLE PRODUCT." I should have known that "APPLE PRODUCT" meant the one: iPhone. It's all the rage in Thailand these days. Or the world in general.
I'm listening to a track that played during an apocalypse film I watched earlier in the year. It starts off with slow breathing and I'm staring out into the busy streets of Taipei. People are walking and driving and riding and running. It's about four o'clock, so traffic is starting to get a little heavy, but the buses have their own lanes, so the traveling is smooth on our part.
We stop and a foreigner walks onto the bus, looking at home in a black T-shirt, khaki trousers, and dirty-white sneakers. He was young--probably between the age of 20 and 28. I've gotten worse at determining age. He looks like a mix between Daniel Radcliffe and Ben--whom I met in Thailand and is currently a Christian missionary. I couldn't tell what his nationality was. I didn't care.
I stare back out into traffic. The drums are starting to sound faster, and the music louder--the climax of the first scene of the movie was coming soon. I'm starting to see people as little plague bombs. One wrong circumstance, and an outbreak is going to occur. And it's going to occur here, right in front of my eyes.
I don't want to think about it anymore, so I stare at the foreigner's black backpack for a while before I registered the Canadian flag sewn onto it. The song stops--I press the repeat button. The breathing starts again, the bus stops, and I walk off in the direction of my aunt's apartment, feeling like I'm the only one in Taipei who can defeat the virus resting dormant in the citizens' bloodstreams. Under the right circumstances, the viruses will activate. The young Canadian will turn and he'll have the strongest thirst for blood. My father will be slow and an emotional threat.
Which one would I shoot first?
FlashFiction October 2012.
The next couple of posts were written on the joint blogger site for what POW called "Flash Fiction October." They will be posted on 'Creative Clarity' the way they had been posted on the other site.
They have not been edited.
They have not been edited.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Home.
time to go home.
see loving faces again.
warm hugs, caring hearts.
shoulders to cry on. hearts to
confide in. no more loneliness or tears.
guns in christmas sweaters.
still there. hidden there.
locked in a box
blackblackbox
covered in scratches
nails blood screams
fear
fear
fear
time to go home.
to protection. to denial.
warm hugs, caring hearts.
no more loneliness or tears.
[Originally posted in joint blogger account on March 16, 2012.]
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Guilty Pleasure.
and the day passes by and I keep wondering why why why
and then it stops and my ear pops
and everything is solved
with a
piece of
cheesecake
and then it stops and my ear pops
and everything is solved
with a
piece of
cheesecake
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
This.
you and I?
we gotta talk
it's about you and me
and how I'm not feelin' what you're feelin'
and we had fun and all that
but it's time to say goodbye.
I ain't bein' insensitive. just honest.
It's what you wanted.
Honesty.
This isn't what I wanted.
Committment.
we agreed on this.
but I didn't agree to this.
and life goes like this
and we just gotta deal with this.
it's done
and we're done
and there's nothing left.
Monday, April 1, 2013
At a Standstill.
Shed my last tears (fy)
last night
I (my) but
I can't (lg) but
(IW)
(IW) burn (yl)
and (IW) no longer
(c)
Maybe (ny)
Still in a (ss).
[Posted on joint blogger site on Thursday, March 12, 2012.]
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