Return of the Writer

If God was real, he has a weird sense of humor. If the platypus was a gag, then randomness is his punchline.

See, I've been in a slump lately, seven months to be exact. I had encountered this twice in the past, and all of them lasted the same seven months (no kidding). I would be in a writing binge, up until a publisher rejects my stories. Then dejection and depression and distraction buries that momentum.

When I'm not writing, I'm gaming. I like gaming. Gaming and writing are always close to my heart. But like jealous siblings, one of them wants my undivided attention. So it's this cycle, a two season cycle in this mental climate. I can't ignore one of them because I'd be miserable, like losing a child to a pool of sharks.

Randomness of the universe. I picked up Sims 4 a month ago and have been playing it non-stop. From a hardcore PvPer in Guild Wars 2 to a casual Simmer in Sims 4 (Simmer is a noun. It means someone who plays the Sims. Which one version, doesn't matter. Don't even get me started with their expansions).

With Sims 4, I crafted an alternate world, a grim universe that was inspired by Lovecraft. I applied all of what I've learned in writing, and the bug has its suckers deep in my vein. The itch is back. Good. I'm planning to write this Sims 4 story until I'm satisfied with its ending. Once I'm done, I'm back at drafting stories, practicing with prompts and sending them off to publishers.

I believe my last test as a writer is taking the rejection, eating it and moving on. Carpe Diem. Yada Yada. 

Halloween

Ali hid under the table and sat on the kitchen floor. She stared at the open doorway that led to the living room, waiting for the sun to creep down and settle the day. The guests began to show up, appearing out of thin air and materializing from head to toe. Their bodies were translucent like vapor and glowed amber against the radiant dusk. Ali looked at the new arrivals and searched for a face she trusted. When a teenage boy made eye contact with her, Ali turned away.

"Ali, come out of there," said her mother Olivia. Ali pushed herself to the base of the table and grabbed the front legs of the chair in front of her, using it as a shield from anyone who dared to disturb her.

"No!" said Ali.

"I hope she's not scared of us," said Grand Aunt Colleen who appeared next to Olivia.

"No, she’s just shy.”

“That is so cute,” said Grand Aunt Colleen. She stooped down to look at Ali. “Hi Ali, don’t you remember me?”

Ali struggled to identify Grand Aunt Colleen; it was hard to identify someone with a see-through face. When Ali recognized the dragonfly hairclip and the plump physique, Ali remembered. Last year, Colleen was the loudest and the rowdiest of the dead relatives. Colleen had consumed a bottle of wine, a bottle of Jack Daniels, three bottles of Guinness and a glass of Long Island Iced Tea. Ali could never forget the smell of Grand Aunt Colleen’s breath. Ali raised an arm and waved at her to say hi.

The Woodcutter

The woodcutter finally found the tree. It was the tallest of the forest, yet the thinnest of all.

But he wasn’t here to chop it down. Five days ago, after arriving at the forest with the company, the woodcutter had been dreaming about this tree. The woodcutter identified it, and was certain that it was the same tree.

He had ventured alone to find it. He had left the camp at 4 o’clock. Armed only with a flashlight and a new axe, the woodcutter trekked the forest for three hours. He didn’t know where he was going. He was only guided by a need to find this tree.

Jump

 Rupert was a rich man, a dying man, and an old man. But a Fortune 500 rich man nonetheless.

He looked down at the river. The sound of the rolling water echoed in the canyon, filling the silence within his mind. His heart raced, and his legs began to shake. Heights was one of his fears. Today he was to conquer it.

"Are you ready Mr. Gold?" said the bungee instructor behind him.

Rupert didn't turn around. His eyes were fixed on a single rock protruding in the middle of the river. It was alone, and there were no other rocks like it.

Pancakes for Breakfast

Fag. Homo. Queer.

The words were heavy; they dragged Quincy's soul deep into depression. He struggled against them, but they were too painful and too hateful to shake off.

Mud and blood speckled his shirt. Blood had crusted beneath his nostrils, and a bruise shaded the pale of his cheek.

Tears fell from his eyes like a storm, forming beads on his chin, then falling to his shirt. The sniffs and sobs, vibrating within the dry air, echoed off the bathroom tiles.

Quincy sat on top of the toilet with the lid closed. The light, which hung loose from the ceiling, threw a sallow hue against the pallid room. A bottle of vodka stood nearby, looming by the edge of the sink. He turned to it and found his reflection warped, skewed and broken.

Quincy, who was too young to drink, grabbed the bottle and took a careful shot. It tasted like fire, burning down his throat and engulfing his stomach in a swirl of heat. Yet the taste was liberating, soothing. And disgusting. The uncontrollable sobs and the flow of tears slowed down – probably the reason why adults drank such nasty stuff.

Quincy turned to his right hand, holding a bottle of pills, unlabeled. It contained the answer to his pain and to the hate he had endured all his life. The fag, the queer and the homo would finally be silenced.

Rapture for Apples

I sat there, peering through the gap. My brothers and sisters were stacked on top of me, raving about how great it was to be harvested by the "giants." Some cried with joy, some brimmed with ecstasy. And once they were picked up by the giant hand, they would yell and scream in a frenzy -- they were finally becoming part of the "giants."

I was in the bottom of the heap, glad that I was last in line. While everyone else were in thrall of being eaten, I was repulsed by the idea of it. It was wrong. I didn't want "to become part of the giants."

"I've been chosen. I've been chosen!" cried one of my brethren, nestled by the great hand, washed from a shiny branch, then bitten with a loud crunch.

Cursed

Chloe sat alone inside the train cabin. She was calmed by the stillness of the night and the silence in the air. She looked outside the window. The station platform was empty and was free of rubbish. She looked up at sky and found it empty: free of clouds, free of stars and without a moon to lend its light. Nothing caught her eye outside. She focused at her faint reflection, outlined by the window.

She was young, no older than nineteen. She had blond hair that was unwashed for three days. Her skin was dry, and her lips were chapped. She had no intention to look pretty. It wouldn't matter. It didn’t matter anymore.

She bit her right knuckle, suppressing the grief that began to swell within her. She closed her eyes, but found herself in a flood of memories. She wanted nothing from it. She strained her eyelids and tightened her lips. She tried her hardest not to see him, not to see Richard anymore. Within the sea of her mind, Richard surfaced. He was smiling and winking at her.