larry-potterWhisper

29 / M / Russian

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Silent TreatmentI was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk. I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii. I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement. I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”. I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber. At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc. Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain. But now, my walls have done it. Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes? Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation. And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry! I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body. Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction. When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight. / I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color. Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin. The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away. It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes. It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse. Urgh! That’s why I hate cats. Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it. But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned. I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I. / I have learned to cook since I was ten. My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation. And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since. This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet. I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it. Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs. Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my diabetic snack attack. A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

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Accounting 143In my heart, you are an asset / But in my mind, a liability / You are an entry I can't forget

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VestigeA cumulonimbus caused the gloom that day. It went shedding drops of rain that looked like bead of pearls glittering in the grey autumn sky, vanishing as they plunge on leafless laurel trees and solitary cypresses. He watched them dance to pitter-patter on every umbrella that opened towards the heavens, their colors of rich black calling out to such empathy. Finally, the drops kiss the graze of withered grasses and thirsty dandelions, reviving their foliage and greenness. Slowly, the rainfall collect to become one with soil and mud crawled down to the six feet depression where a coffin was laid. It was white like ivory and carved with elaborate insignias as a token of love and undying memories. Soon, it was all covered with crimson roses that carry the last parting words of the bereaved. The priest waved out his hands above with mournful eyes, lisping his beseeching of earnest favors while spades of loam filled up the burrow. He saw faces of despair around the pit, gasping for reprieve and sympathy. If only the rain could also bring back her life, he implored. / This, in his senses, was belongingness. This, in his heart, was death. / It had been two long weeks since Roxanne’s death and Vincent couldn’t get his feet back on the ground. He still couldn’t believe he had lost her and that their seemingly endless love has flown away from him for all eternity. He’d make believe that this was all just a dream and at some point of this nightmare he would finally be unchained and awakened. Days became niches of shackled memories that kept haunting his love-fletched soul and nights were nothing more than a requiem of lovelorn longings that still linger in his mind. He remembers it all, the feel of her name on his lips, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her laugh. Everything is still as fresh as the dewdrops of June and as vivid as the most cinematic imagery a mortal could immortalize. The ultimate fight of this melodramatic transition was to remain whole when all the strength Vincent has built up begins to crumble by a mere reminiscence of the tragedy that gets freeze-framed from beginning to end over and over again.

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Sinan (Drum)They say, in the wheel of life, you'll spend half your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the bottom. I guess they got it all wrong. I believe life is a crooked tire that can never roll up and down. Pretty sure, it is nailed to the ground where weeds could grow to entangle it forever. Until now, what they keep trying to say remains a puzzle to me. Perhaps I can never understand what they mean. Or maybe I just won’t. Why? Because from the moment our eyes opened for the world, we’re already stuck down below and I’m afraid we’re trapped here in this limbo for all eternity. / We’re just simple people living an ordinary life. Like every family who seeks refuge from the storm, we do have a place we call home although it’s not much of an architectural delight. However, for some reasons, I find our roof appealing like a real work of art. Patches of cardboard embellish the underside while a combination of tarpaulin and ad posters works in harmony to provide an extended shelter. On bright mornings, we’ll wake from the sunbeams piercing through its many gaps. On rainy days, however, the sound of raindrops falling from the gaps down to our water containers serves as our wake up call. / To jumpstart ourselves for another day’s challenge, we could either eat breakfast (if there were any), or just sing our skipping meals away and spend the rest of the day with sacks of scraps and rubbishes on our back hoping to make a good deal with Mr. Gomez, the junk shop proprietor. He reminded me so much of my father but without the alcohol problem and violence, though. During nighttime, we bring with us our drum to sing carols on the lonely streets. If our feet become too weary to walk, that’s the time we head home. We rush all together, eager to count the coins we’ve collected that night. We make sure to put a plastic cap underneath two of our table’s feet so that it won’t lean uncontrollably and spill the tiers of ten, five and one peso coins we’ve dedicatedly piled over. Then the next part does the trick. A portion of our collection for the night goes straight down a big jar and joins in the many others which fill more than half of the container. The remaining part is used to buy supper to save our hungry tummies from

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Band-Aid For The HeartI once had a **Simple Plan** / To bribe a lady for a **Kiss** / With a **Nickleback** in my hand

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IronicWe cut trees / Then make papers / Where we write posters

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Arachnophobic SpidermanI've had a taste of my father's medicine / But it wasn't in any way a cure. / It stung like the strongest kind of heroine

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Anatomy of LoveYou are the systole to the diastole / Of my four-chambered cavity / You are the pulmonary rhythmic control

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The Versatile MatriarchThe comfiest human bed warmer I ever had, / My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad, / The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums,

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I Grew Up Rooting for the Bad GuysSo much for superheroes saving the day; / Every good guy's epilogue is a cliche. / Tedious compulsory celebrations

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