Misfortune

Gabrielle Veilleux checked in to Building Society Bank.

He smiled at himself momentarily, staring at the text message as the television glared unnoticed. This was the third time Gabrielle checked into the bank. Ever since she started using Foursquare, she was determined to become a mayor of something, of anything. So, every day before work, during lunch and after work, she’d visit the bank to make a deposit, withdraw some money or just check her account balance.

Her third check in meant she was on her way home. Finally, he thought, my Gabrielle is coming home. He closed the phone and almost got up to check online just how close she was to becoming the mayor of that bank, but his thoughts were interrupted - BREAKING NEWS in big red letters had caught his attention.

A woman began to speak frantically but clearly: There is an armed man in the Building Society Bank. Police have now vacated nearby buildings and have surrounded the bank. A gunshot has been heard from inside. Police fear the worst.

Gabrielle, he thought, oh no, Gabrielle. He quickly stood up and ran around the house looking for a pair of jeans and his car keys. After moments of searching, he opted on running out as is: shorts, a stained t-shirt, socks and his cell on his hand. He ran. The woman’s voiced played in his head. A gunshot has been heard from inside. Did he shoot Gabrielle? Is she dead? No, he thought, I mustn’t think this. But his thoughts couldn’t diverge from the worst. He thought of her jumping in to save someone from a bullet and lying there, dead, a tragic hero.

But she must be alive, he assured himself as he turned the corner. Just two blocks, he whispered more to himself than the man he just passed by. He wondered if each passing second was her last. Or if any of it mattered. Had her time ended before his run started? He could hear the siren and see the crowd surrounding the scene, eagerly waiting for something to happen.

He felt his pocket vibrate but he urged on. He pushed men, women and children away; nobody was going to stop him. He got passed one cop, but reinforcements kept him at bay. “I must go in and see her,” he pleaded. “My wife, my wife is in there. Please, please let me through. Oh god, let me through…I need to see her.”

The police men ignored his cries but his wish came true. The man came out with Gabrielle in his arms, a gun to her face. “I will kill her if you do not allow me to pass.” The crowd sighed and his world collapsed. Why did it have to be Gabrielle? Gabrielle was crying and her nose was dripping blood. The policemen turned to face the man and he broke free. He ran towards her without thought. He needed her to be safe.

The man shot her in the head. He saw the last of her life in her face, until she fell to the ground, lifeless. He heard other shots and saw the man fall too. He reached down to her and put her head upon his chest. S’il vous plaît Gabrielle, s’il vous plaît ne pas être mort. Gabrielle, Je t’aime. S’il vous plaît dire quelque chose, s’il vous plaît. The blood began to seep into his shirt and he felt warmth. He felt her warmth. He rocked back and forth pleading with her body to make a movement. He felt something vibrate on her jacket and remembered his phone vibrating earlier.

He opened his phone and read: Si je ne m’en sortirais pas vivant, au revoir. Aujourd’hui, j’ai découvert que je suis enceinte. Je veux un garçon. Nous vous aimons Phillip.

Hot tears slid down his face unto the screen of his phone. He had lost two loved ones today. His phone vibrated once more; he subconsciously opened the text and began reading: Gabrielle Veilleux is now Mayor of Building Society Bank. (via)

Insanity

Your hands are moving up and down the air in an exorbitant manner. I sit in the front row, your back directly in front of me. Others are watching the show too, sprinkled around the music hall. You are playing the music of the observers, at the beat of stomping feet, hand clasping and impatient finger taps; the sounds of coughs, whispers and jeers mix into a symphony of sound. Your hands gently, but quickly, create a flow of music as the orchestra sits frozen, waiting for a minute gesture to grant them life.

The violinists spring into life with an eerie sound that fills the hall. My heart begins to beat faster. Your hands follow my heartbeat in speed. The violinists play faster, faster, faster. A cellist begins to play at my heart strings. I could hear your heartbeat; it’s thrusting against your chest at the same beat as mine. I listen more intently. The whole orchestra wakes up with a cacophonous sound.

Your hands bend the sound into something beautiful as the orchestra speeds up. Allegro. The sound feels like a river, flowing endlessly out of your hands into me. I submerge myself into it and I feel at home.

With a flick of your hand the sound abruptly ends. The orchestra returns to its frozen state. Then it begins once more, the anticipation for sound; the need to hear more and the yearning to leave clash inside of me. Your hands continue to move up and down at the sound of sweet manipulation and I’m left listening to the music of silence. (via)

Memory

You’d always look at me when we slept together. I felt the warmth of the sun and your smile beam on my face. You began to kiss my forehead.

I ran towards my brother. “You’re dead!” He was too fast for me. Something flew from behind him. It was a black orange, tainted with mud. It hit me in the eyes. I continued blindly running towards him; I knew the place, I’d be alright. I crashed into a pole. My forehead had to be sewn.

I felt your breath on my hair. I suppressed a smile. Your lips met my cheeks. I couldn’t hold the smile any longer. Your lips made a path of small kisses leading to my lips, leaving behind a trail warmness created by my blushing. When our lips met, I felt your smile and I couldn’t help but smile even more. Our tongues met and began to do an intricate dance, a swordfight for dominance.

“Where is my mom?” My aunt hadn’t the slightest idea. She left the kitchen and I was sitting on the kitchen table, alone. I want my mommy, I thought. I jumped off, biting my tongue. A part of my tongue tangled, left unnoticed. Hours later doctors will sew my tongue together. They feared I wouldn’t speak properly.

I whispered, good morning while our lips parted for seconds. It became more passionate. I could feel your heartbeat on me. I could feel your happiness, but I knew long before the kiss was over, long before we were over, that we’d end up separated.

I knew that as your lips pressed against mine you’d become another scar upon my face. I knew then, that you will soon become a distant memory, someone I’d vaguely remember in my old age. (via)

Free

We were snuggled deep under his bed sheets. I lay there, smiling and thinking about last night. His hand was over my breasts and he was soundly asleep. I thought about how he gently caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. He’d take off his shirt and I’d follow, showing my breasts with erect nipples. He kissed me. He licked me. We made love. The aftermath was just as amazing. We laid there exhausted, never taking our eyes off one another.

He whispered: What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?

I didn’t know it then, but that memory will haunt me for the rest of my life. That idea would form itself in my most vulnerable moments. It would creep up on me like a lioness on a gazelle completely unaware of the danger nearby. No matter how many times I tried to push it to the back of my mind, his voice will resonate in my head – “What happens,” he began again, “when two unstoppable forces collide?”

I didn’t answer. We fell asleep – no other words were uttered that night. The memory of that night will be with me the morning after, during our disputes, when I was happy or sad…it would come at me, forcing me to think of answer. What happens when two unstoppable forces collide? First I heard it in whispers and the more I thought about it the louder the question will become. It was as if I were standing in the middle of train tracks and the question, the train, sped its way toward me. What happens when two unstoppable forces – before the collision, I’d wake from the trance.

We were arguing again; his screams broke the trance.

Drive

I have an array of stories ranging from erectile dysfunction to a suicide note, but I lack the drive to write them down despite how many details I’ve thought out.

I lack a lot of drive actually. There are days (even weeks) where I don’t want anything to do with sex. I skip school habitually because I have better things to do (like sleep or Disneyland). I start tens of projects most which never see the light of day after day one. I get bored too easily, moving on to the more interesting project.

Mostly, I lack the drive to think of something creative for the word ‘drive.’ (via)

Infinity

In a letter to his boyfriend, a friend of mine wrote: “I want to be with you forever - in life and death. We will be eternal like stars; rising and falling at the beat of the sun.”

Normally, such feelings are naive - foreign even, but those words reminded me of my very first date. I remember feeling something. I’m not sure what I felt; It was a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. I recognized happiness too, it wasn’t as strong, but it felt like it was sprinkled on there to help me swallow the emotion.

We went to a very Hollywood picturesque first date, the fair. On my way there, my iPod played Blink 182’s “First Date.” I felt this surge of unhappiness. Why would I be asked out? Why all of a sudden? Are the feelings mutual?

It was a very weird feeling; lights flickered, cars seemed to slow down to a halt and breathing took hours. It felt endless. Like if in that moment all that existed were my feelings. There were many highs and lows throughout this frozen state.

A wave of fresh air hit my face and the moment passed. The date ended and days went by, mere seconds compared to that emotion. The worst part of this whole experience is that I’d have to wait an eternity, to sit through a wretched hollow, to feel it again. (via)

Breathe

Breathing is ephemeral. I find the act of breathing interesting. During the inhale and exhale of breathing, many noteworthy events can occur, but at the same time nothing can happen. A breath of air is in essence useless, but it carries life.

In an effort to catch my thoughts, to translate the impulses of axons into words, I decided to hold my breath. I thought if I can freeze this moment, if I can stop in the middle of the journey, I’ll be able to collect my thoughts, to reach a conclusion.

Sadly, my lungs cannot stop the unavoidable and I have to take a breath. If I had to get my point across, if I had to convey the complexity of my thoughts I would have to be concise. But my thoughts race too fast for my fingers to keep up; they’re always turning a sharp corner, chasing an obscure tangent thought.

But it’s still not enough and any second my lungs will give in. I’ll finish the journey, a little bit closer to the end of the thought maze but never finishing. And just when I exhale, I’ll be wishing for another breath. I’ll be wishing to hold on a little longer so I can get closer to the end of that thought. (via)

Beauty

The only image I think of when I read “Beauty,” is of me love struck during high school. I used to think I was in love. It was beautiful, in a sense, but mostly naïve. I felt like this school girl swooning over the captain of some team that wouldn’t give me the time of day. Eventually, I found closure with myself.

This (the actual post), is an excerpt from a poem I was writing. It’s funny that I seem to still lean towards Athena’s side when in love. It’s almost as if I have this obsession on becoming her embodiment.

I remember it clearly & when I confessed
It felt like I was reciting a summary from my heart.
The written word from my soul was like a Classic
Written a century ago about life’s mysteries.
As words came out of my mouth
I felt every anxiety, every fear & every joy.
The essence taking over my being, and
Although I knew the prophecy of the Oracle
I, like Oedipus tried to run from faith

Intelligence & Love fought one another
Athena in the east
Love in the west
Oh, but love’s superficial skin-deep wounds
did nothing to the strength of thought’s shield

Now you know why I don’t write poetry. (via)

Innocence

It smelled of sweat and body lotion. The music drowned the whole place, emitting this sound that acted as a pulse to the party. It gradually increased in speed, taking the participants from sensual to sexual in an instant. He didn’t like this place.

He lingered in the front, taking in all the room. Another man pushed him forward, urging him to find a suitable worker. He hesitated. Eventually he managed to take steps forward, eyeing a woman in the back swaying her hips back and forth. It was hypnotizing.

“Ah,” the man yelled, “I see you love them blonde.” He finished his boasting with a powerful brotherly blow to the back and a wholehearted laugh. They continued their path towards the woman, stopping to steal a few glances at the other workers. “Welcome Boys,” they’d say, “fancy anything?” He looked ill. He didn’t want to be here. The other man was glassy-eyed. He was in heaven. “You can fancy this,” he’d say, grabbing a hold of his dick and thrusting the air in front of him.

The woman continued to dance and he couldn’t help but stare. The other man whispered something that was drained by the music. She gave a weak smile. She received a wad of cash, and the other man followed a brunette that just passed by.

“Sit down,” she said, in a forced way. “I can tell it’s your first time.” She danced on top of him. Thud. She faced him and smiled, taking off her bra. Her breasts were beautiful. Her nipples were pointed. Thud Thud. She continued to dance making –Thud– her breasts gently hop up –Thud Thud Thud– and down. Thud. His heart was deafening. He could’ve sworn she was dancing to his heartbeat.

She gave a surprised “ou,” –ThudThudThud Thud Thud– as she grinded on his crotch. Thud. He had a hard on and a small wet spot was rapidly increasing. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in his ear. Thud. She unzipped his jeans and took hold of it. He caught his breath and his heart had stopped. In that moment he wasn’t alive. It was all too much. She moved her bikini bottom to the side showing a shaved vagina. He whimpered.

She jumped up and down making sure that he was completely in her and then almost out. His moans were now louder than his heartbeat. Ahh Thud AHH Ohh Yes Thu-OHH. She too was enjoying herself. Her moaning was fast and constant. He didn’t want this to end. He couldn’t breathe, she was getting louder and then…and then, it was over. A minute had passed.

She got up and began to walk away, cum dripping down her leg. He reached out, grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Wait,” he begged. “It can’t just en- We can d- Can I at least have your name?” He wasn’t sure what to say to her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, coolly. “It was my first time too.” (via)

Dark

“What you see is what you get,” seems to be my life motto.

From the moment I moved west, I’ve gotten more and more solidarity. I ate alone during lunch time on my first school day. It didn’t change as the year progressed. People avoid me at all cost.

It’s almost as if I have a highly contagious disease that spreads throughout my surrounding. The halls part as I walk by, I’m not school royalty, I’m a jester. People point and laugh. They push me. Once they beat me.

They speak to me slowly and loudly, implying that I can’t understand English. I have an accent. It doesn’t help the situation. Outside of school is no different. The stares I receive at the market. I’m not here to steal.

In the elevator women grip their purses tighter and men grip their women closer. All these little details add up, their actions become patterns and I understand how I’m viewed.

Yes, what you see is what you get: if all you see is skin a shade (or two) darker, then that’s all you’re going to get. (via)

Light

A spider crawled up my leg; I didn’t think much of it despite being terrified of them. It traveled from my toe to my calf at an alarming speed and it multiplied in size much faster than it traveled. Soon it was larger than my hips, its fangs oozing out a slimy green substance. I lay motionless.

I picked up my sword and slashed it in half in one swing. It splashed green liquid all over me, dissolving my clothes. This was the sixth daughter of Arachne I’ve battled. They were out to gain the approval of Athena. Athena had long urged my father, Apollo, to be rational, to kill me. The gods disapproved of demigods. Some sided with Athena, and pleaded Zeus to destroy me, but Zeus having fathered many demigods decided to stay out of it.

Apollo had come to me when I was 16 and told me to brace myself. The gods were planning tests to prove my worth. If I had passed them all, I would be able to live among the gods. I continued to lie on the floor, the spider’s body next to me. Sometimes I wished Apollo didn’t court my mother. Sometimes I wished that during nights like these, I was killed by the spider’s pincers. This wasn’t for me.

But in the darkest of nights, there was always a strange shimmer of light, a sign from my father. It was as if he was telling me that everything will be alright. With the rise of my bow, a ray of light will pierce the night, pierce my enemies; a ray of hope that I too, one day, will enjoy the acceptance of Mount Olympus. (via)

Love(less)

One of the few things I fully understand about myself is how I view love. I have this very idealistic view on love, and despite that, I avoid it at all costs. (Okay, maybe not all costs; the sporadic lovely moments are truly welcomed).

Unfortunately, what I see as true love is something I find truly boring. It’s nice but I need some unbalance in my (love) life. I want love that is more beast-like than human; a love that feeds upon our passions, our physical beings and our minds. I want to be filled with anger, angst and ardor. I want to feel emotions ooze out of my lover’s pores. I want to make the taboo love we share the norm.

Ultimately, these desires have taught me one thing: I have to love the ugly parts of me first. I need to wear my insecurities with a smile. Although I’ve come a long way, I don’t think I’m ready for such a huge commitment.

I need to escape my life. I need to run away to a foreign country. I need to bask myself in the unknown and find something worthy of knowing. Ah, that’s what I call love, diving into the black abyss and finding light. (via)

An Introduction

"A Hundred Scripts" is a project, that I hope will allow me to write more regularly. The idea stemmed from another blogger, Kevin, who posted 100 words to write about. I decided to take those words and create "A Hundred Scripts." The idea is to write whatever comes to mind about the 100 themes.
Therefore, 100 Themes, 100 Scripts.

Eyes are marvelous things. We all have a pair. Some of us have 20-20 vision, others need contacts/glasses, some, unluckily, are partially or fully blind. Despite that, they are still marvelous things.

They are the way we see the world. We all perceive everything differently. To introduce myself - I would have to let you understand the way I perceive things.

I need contacts. The time I feel that I can truly see the world is when I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror taking off my contacts. When I take off one of my contacts - a whole side goes blurry. I begin to mix the perfect vision of one eye, and pure blur. It becomes a fuzzy image, that’s what I love seeing.

You see, when I see my fuzzy reflection, I am able to blend what could be and what is. I blend my reality and my imagination. That’s how I perceive the world: a realist with a pinch of imagination.

I am a realist that adds color to the black & white world through his imagination. Occasionally I would blend the two, creating a fuzzy beautiful world. (via)

Population Risks II

This is a continuation of this post.

Immediately after the man finished talking a woman appeared on screen. Thank you for your patience, the game will begin shortly. She seemed too happy about the game starting. Now if your last name starts with the letters A-G please follow the red path. Some of the floor panels began to glow red creating a path that lead to a room in one of the corners.

"That's us," my brother said. "C'mon. Michelle I'll see you later, okay?" He kissed her and we followed Andrew along the red-lighted path. If your last name starts with the letters H-J please follow the blue path. If your last name starts with the letters I-P please follow the green path. If your last name starts with the letters Q-Z please follow the yellow path.

Outside of this room, the world continued to move on except for the families of the players. After being chosen, the World's Army will visit the closest living relative. Our mother will have to suffer holding Life Cards once more. When I was 10 years old she had received an interesting little card. It shined red for two days. She'd sleep with it. She'd eat with it. She would take it with her everywhere. When the light finally went out, she stopped eating. She didn't speak for a month. At night I'd hear her cry.

When she finally began speaking, she told us that Father had abandoned us. I believed her until my 18th birthday. My best friend, Jessica, had been chosen. I was going over to her house to surprise her with tickets to Instant Gratification, her favorite band. Her mother answered the door, sobbing and clutching a Life Card that shined red. "She's been chosen," she said. "Why would they do this? Why?" I held her for hours as we both cried. Jessica didn't survive. I never confronted my mother for fear that she would have to live through father's death once more.

In the room we were suited up with customized clothes each featuring our respective colors. Our jacket had a special crest that shined red. They told us that it monitored our health: once it was out, you were dead. We exited to another room, as big as the first one, containing 10 different exits each closed by a see-through wave like pattern. People were now in groups, some holding a special gun that shot the Instant Cement. We met Michelle, Salvador and Christen once more. They were wearing yellow suits.

The woman from before once again began to speak: The game will now begin. I hope Lady Luck is on your side tonight.

10. A little girl began screaming, "Mommy, mommy, I don't want to play anymore. Please, I'm scared."

9. Michelle and my brother were holding hands.

8. "We'll stick together alright?" I said, as everyone nodded in agreement.

7. A man in the corner began laughing hysterically.

6. My heartbeat was deafening me.

5. People began shuffling towards the exits.

4. A scream could be heard outside of this room. It sent chills down my spine. It was definitively not human.

3. The lights on the outside were turned on and we could now see the 16th floor of the structure.

2. I heard a loud screeching. It sounded like someone was scratching out nails on a chalkboard.

1. The wave-like pattern disappeared and the doors opened: The game has begun.

Ephemeral Images

He sat on the chair knowing that it was his, but feeling as if it belonged to another man. He felt uncomfortable – the creases left here were much too small, much too deep and much too happy. The pictures around him wore a thin layer of dust. He no longer cleaned the house in fear of losing its odor. Once he read that the sense of smell was closely tied in with memory. That passage stuck to him, it stuck to him like his daily rituals after the incident.

Every day he would sit on that chair for hours, leaving a crease, knowing too well that tomorrow he wouldn’t recognize the man that sat there now. He would stare at the television screen, absent of images, for hours, thinking, analyzing and reliving the incident. Every four days he would smoke. He didn’t enjoy smoking – it didn’t calm him, instead it was his way of loving the worst of her. During those hours of thought, the only time he would stare away from the screen was to see a puff of smoke. He’d see shapes and images, much like one would with clouds.

It was during the mid-puffs that he would feel the most vulnerable. He opened his mouth slightly, yearning to offer comfort and the occasional warning to the girl in the smoke. No words were ever spoken, instead he only felt dryness. He felt as if someone was sanding his throat to smooth out his words, his emotions. That person was never satisfied with his work for he continued to sand.

He’d think about that as he walked upstairs to his empty bedroom. There were pictures on the stairs each bearing a happy couple, each mocking him as he made his ascent. He would absentmindedly rub his thumb on her face, cleaning all the dust. His face would remain untouched: he had never met Happiness. That was not him, for he only knew Despair.

Once in his bed, he would lay perfectly still, never disturbing her side of the bed. He would look at his ceiling wishing that exhaustion will guide him through the river Styx, past Cerberus and into Hades’ lair. He’d wish for Persephone’s story to be about her. Occasionally, he would slide to the edge of her side and smell. That would always ease his troubles.

When he finally slept he would always be woken by her screams. Her face of anguish haunted him. His shirt would always be soaking wet with what he hoped was sweat. Exhaustion made him get some rest, but he would never forget what he’d done. When morning would come: he’d go to work looking no more miserable than his co-workers, he’d read the paper, and he’d smile at strangers. He was a different man than yesterday. When he arrived home the ritual would begin once more.

This when on and on for years until one day: He was walking up the stairs, smudging her face with his thumb, as usual, when something caught his eye. He could’ve sworn the image moved. It had not. His finger had gone too far, it had smudged the man’s face. He was smiling, like her. There was a sudden dryness in his chest much like the one he felt in his throat when he smoked three days ago. He ran upstairs full of anger. He began to throw clothing all around the room, looking for an escape.

Once he found it, he made a leap into bed. He threw himself into her side, crying and screaming. He smelled her, licked her pillow and wrapped himself around her sheet. He wanted to take her all in. His last breath would be hers. As he exhaled, he brought the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger.

His last thought of was of her the night he murdered her; Happiness at last.

Monthly Music Obsession

Imogen Heap.
A spread for the artist that is currently my obsession.
Old or new - the purpose is to showcase the person behind the music.

Fringe Love

The cold wind brought me back to reality. I was lost in her blue eyes; deep like the ocean, filled with legions upon legions of adventures, emotions, and quirky characteristics. I had a bad habit of losing myself in her eyes. I would always joke around that I was a man lost at sea, navigating the harsh tides to reach the shore of her affection.

Her eyes were just the starting point: that cute little nose, the rosy cheeks and her curly hair, I loved it all. Even after years and years of knowing her, every day I’d find something new to love, some new route to lose myself in.

She was wearing a bright red wool coat. Her hair was down and straightened, and she wore a big smile on her face. She stood out from the winter wonderland behind her. Everything was white.

“Well aren’t you coming closer?” she asked, shyly as I snapped out of my dazed look.

“On my way honey,” I responded, gleeful for the invitation.

We hugged. Again, I lost myself.

As she spoke I came back once more: “You know I can’t stay like this any longer.”

It broke my heart.

“Can’t you drink something?” I pleaded. “Can’t you choose to stay human? Please, I want you to be with me, forever.”

“That’s the thing: I can’t beat science. I tried and tried, but I have to change back,” she responded.

I looked up, my eyes filled with tears, all tiny reminders of my adventures lost in her eyes.

Our lips met, igniting something inside of me. I grabbed her hair, pushing her deeper into my face. Our tongues danced with one another and we didn’t stop to breathe. The wind once again woke me from my happiness. I opened my eyes and saw her transforming. Her legs were no more; instead there were hundreds of butterflies flying in the direction of the wind.

I kissed her once more, with more passion, eager to remember her taste, her sulky lips and our love.

My hand lost the grip of her hair and I realized our time was up. She had turned into thousands of butterflies, each more beautiful than the next. Each containing those two blue dots that I often found myself lost in. Now, all that was left was a red coat and my broken heart.