Istoryan Writers

[MrBiddle]

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Ok ra na, sir!

Ako gani suwat suwat bisag di jud kaayo ka antigo consultahi si Diem ay suhito kaayo na siya diri... mutabang pud siya kugihan sad mubasa og mu critique sa mga trabaho's uban

[promqueen]

ei,intresado ko ani?

why don't we group and come up with something like,say,chickensoup?

pm me puhlezzz...

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check my ramblings:
kariktan.wordpress.com

[diem]

@promqueen, I'd like you to refer to you the past posts in this thread because there were a lot of activities and announcements that could guide you through writerdom. And there will be more updates and announcements coming up.

As for collaborative efforts, that I'm not sure that we could push through with that as yet. Often a writer's work is solitary indeed. Will still have to see. But keep writing, keep on writing...

[gareb]

after the fiasco that was, i am quite interested where this is heading.

stickied.

[diem]

To W.W. Imagination has made us ever-brothers, Allies arm-in-arm always amblin' on into the Astounding.

Midnight found Hector Valenzuela hungry and tired.

A night’s worth of cramming the straights and corners of the citric acid cycle with all the related biochemical pathways made the student’s mind full and his stomach empty. A steaming jumbo bowl of beef wanton noodles would do it, Hector thought, but I would have to settle for barbecue and hot broth instead.

He closed his textbooks, pushed away from his table, slipped both feet into his dusty Converse and pocketed his wallet for the two and half-block stride to Mang Luz’s alley cantina.

Soon he was out the metal gate of his apartment building, his loafers’s soles clapping softly on the black asphalt. Posts of darkwood rose towering at street corners, each bearing one bright electric yellow eye. The light that glared out from these Cyclops gave the surroundings an eerie aura. The houses, walls, and buildings stood golden among the shadows. Through this strangeland, Hector walked calm and alone.

The young man found himself beneath the orange gaze of the dark towers. For a moment of moments, Hector felt a warmth that was both a welcome and a warning. He received the impression that the lamppost was appealing him to stay, to stay within the light. It was safe whereas beyond its bright rim, the darkness was dangerous.

Hector smiled like a child as he raised his face to the light source. He felt good, like bathing in natural sunlight. He was inclined to stay awhile just to humor this childhood fancy but he was out for a purpose.

Hector’s grumbling hunger settled the argument. He braved the boundary of light and walked into the waiting darkness.

He walked the upward asphalt slope into the corner and there it seized him. Hector screamed but no breath of his carried the sound. A pain colder than ice pierced his chest, shattered his sternum and clutched at his heart. Hector blinked, thinking how cold he felt. Then he thought no more. He felt no more.

“Hold on, young one. Hold on.�

Hector heard no voice but the words were clear in his mind as though he could read them. He had eyes. He felt for them and forced them open.

He saw a dim bare corner of a ceiling. He was in a room. How did he get here? Hector sat straight and felt a numbness holding his head. He turned and found his hand pressing to his head. It was his hand. He could sense the pressure but the sense of feeling it, willing it to move. There was nothing but numbness.

A memory brought Hector some residue of emotion: that piercing cold, the knife of darkness! Hector remembered the pain, touched his chest, and felt nothing. Nothing, save his fingers reaching into a deep cavity! Hector stood and bowed his head so his eyes could see what his hand sensed, a dark hole where skin, bone and his heart should have been!

The sight of such horror made Hector turn away and allowed him to realize his location, a morgue~! ‘migod! Hector’s mouth fall open and a low, mad cry echoes out from within.

Hector closed his eyes, shutting out everything. This is not real, this is not real! Just a terrible dream. Wake up, wake up, wake up. Our Father who art in heaven, hallow be thy name, thy kingdom come—

“Hold on, young one. Hold on.�

Hector slowly opened his eyes. He was still in the morgue, among other shrouded cadavers but also, there was a being. Someone is there, someone familiar. Hector looked up and saw his father beaming down on him.

“Dad? Dad~! Dad!�

Hector reached for his father who extended out his arms for an embrace. Eyes dry, Hector cried in comfort but that soon faded away for the embrace told him everything. The moment was a lifetime’s worth of explanation. The person holding him was not his father.

“I thought it would be sensible for you if I appeared to you as someone dear and familiar.�

Hector was calm now. He wasn’t afraid and he needed answers. “Who are you?�

The Being told him that a myriad of names and words were used as labels but for Hector, he would understand the words “The Angel, Death.�

“You are the Angel of Death? You have come for me?�

“No.� Hector thought the words were full of shame and pity, if Angels were capable to bear such things.

“You were meant to have a full share of Life. Descendants to nurture, to influence. In the Book, your name was engraved in gloria but the Promise has been broken but not by the Keeper nor by you the Beneficiary. The Golden Bowl is shattered, the Silver Cord nearly all but one thread unraveled but it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be this way.�

Hector tried to stare at the unfathomable injury. “What happened?�

“A crime, young one. One of a long series of diabolical acts stretching into the depths of this world’s history and will forge on into the world’s history that is yet to come. Unless, It is stopped.�

The Angel revealed to Hector the ancient dark moment that, through a millennia and more, led to his gruesome death.

Hector stood at the edge of a colossal edifice, one of hundred that appeared like mountains of white rock before a dark endless sea. He and the Angel moved unnoticed through this celestial city, among peoples of a forgotten culture whose bodies shone gold, silver and bronze.

Hector asked what was the name of this place, this time that the Angel revealed. The Angel spoke, “Your Age knows this city as a Myth… this is Atal’nths of the Time Hyperborean.�

Hector became silent as the Angel led him to a grand stairway on the face of what appeared to be a Tantalean pyramid that overwhelmed the horizon, its apex hidden by the clouds.

“Young one, this is the Ziggurat the Dragon. The Truth of All Temples. The Fount of Knowledge. Come, come in haste. The moment is coming.�

The Angel, who Hector saw as his father, held out his hand and Hector clasped it. Swift as a second, they reached the Apex of the Ziggurat, into the doors the entered, into the Eye of the Dragon.

Hector saw a lair made of gemstone and glittering granite. The floor, walls and ceilings were etched with huge hieroglyphics. At the center of this awe-inspiring architecture was a concave pit of molten fire, bordered by four altars and four thrones.

“There, do you see by the Crown of Fire?�

Hector followed the Angel’s guidance and noticed a man of gold standing before the pit but the fire’s brilliance bore him in shadow so that Hector could not see his features.

“See, listen, feel, and know Young one. Once there was a man who sought all virtuous knowledge. When he thought that fount was spent, he quested into the Shadow to solve Secrets and unmask Mysteries. But there was so much more for the Chasm was deep and grows deeper still. He understood that there are some places the Light of Virtue could not reach but that he only needed Time, more time, an Eternity to fill himself. So he sacrificed his Light and succumbed to the Shadow to be of the Shadow.�

Hector saw the golden man fall into the Crown of Fire and with a bright flash, the light was extinguished and burned no more.

An artic darkness came. Gone were the huge hieroglyphs, the walls of gemstone and granite. All that remained to Hector’s knowing was him and the Angel, glowing like moonlight against the darkness.

“There, there by the ashes of the Crown. There, there, see and know your Enemy.�

Hector strained to see and was able to distinguish a thing emerging, a thing darker than the darkness already there. Hector recognized it and became afraid.

“Do not fear young one, this thing has no power over you, now.�

A speck of light punctured the deep night, followed by another, and another until the morgue reappeared in all its sad grimness.

The Angel spoke again, “The man who was reborn as Shadow did obtain Time but the Gates of Eternity are not kept unlocked for long. So once a century, the Thing requires a Key to wind back the Mechanism of its Existence on this Realm. Once a century, the Thing takes the Key of Karma from the sons and daughters of Humanity.�

Hector looked down to himself, saw the window to the darkness on his chest. He closed his eyes, the darkness he could still see.

“This thing, this parasite clung to the Wheel of Life. It took only the Weakest of Human Turns so it was allowed that it became an Agent of Karma. Like all things, it required a place to be. It did not do any harm to the Engine of Fate. But Ages has made it arrogant and confident. It deviated from its nature and now, it made a terrible error. A mistake that would lead to its undoing.�

The Angel placed the Father’s hands on the shoulders of the Son, like the real father would in pride. “You would have been one of the Wheel’s greatest of Turns. A life of immeasurable value, a worthy destiny. Because of this sin, you are now a Wraith, a shadow of Light.�

The Angel produced some clothes for Hector which the young man donned his naked dead body as he listened to the Angel’s instructions. “The parasite must be destroyed. It has become a menace to the Engine. You are granted the right and might to do such, justicia divina. These materials will clothe you as normal in daylight and hide you as shadow of night, that only those who will serve your purpose can see you.�

“How can I find it?�

“It has what was Yours and what will be Yours again.�

Hector emerged out of the service door of the morgue into the daylight. A convenient car window showed him to be alive like nothing ever happened but the young man he was aware no longer a man, no longer human. He feels nothing and knows only his terrible desire, justicia divina, vengeance.

The Wraith stared out to the street. Traffic was now becoming more active, the urban Babel was slowly roaring with noise. He reflected on the last words of Death.

“It has what was Yours and what will be Yours again.�

It came to him as something truly missed. He heard it beneath the engines rumble, the people babble, the other hearts beating. He felt his own pulse, distant and faint, but his own pulse none the less. It was calling for him, longing for him.

His heart is somewhere out there. He would find it and the Thing that took it.

Hector moved through the streets of the City, silent and shadowless. No one appeared to noticed that he was not breathing, his footfalls had no sound, and that he cast no shadow. The Living saw but did not recognize for Hector.

If they only fully grasped the truths of Life and Death or gifted with the sight within sight perhaps they could sense the wonder and the danger that was his presence but they would not realize his true worth unless they are able to serve his terrible desire in some way.

Hector decided that he would not involve any unaware innocent in this hateful quest but he did have some conflict concerning the knowledge that he now owned. His sight was released, he realized that Life was a mere dream— a beautiful mist that covered over a dark, malevolent abyss. How delicate was that mist and how threatening the abyss was, ready to swallow all the infinite souls in an instant once the mist dissipated. They should know, shouldn’t they? They should know.

A thought came, it is not my place to tell them. Someone will warn them, as it had been, now, and ever will be. Someone always warns them. Yes, the Secret Voice, the Sacred Whisper, the Conscience-constant that tells one to always remain in the Path of Light, stay in the light.

Oh why I just didn’t stay in the light for just a while longer? Hector moaned with regret, remembering the whisper that fateful and fatal night. Why didn’t I listen?!

The regret struck Hector. It was a piece of his humanity coming back. He sensed his heart close, an audible drum beating in good rhythm. It was near, very near. There was something else, too. Hector recognized the corner of the City he wandered to. There was that building space in front that in a few hours into night Mang Luz would come on his tricycle, bearing benches, tables, full pots of broth and his grill.

These were his common walks to class and the apartment building that was once his shelter. As he moved on, urged by his beating missing heart, Hector thought more and felt more, emotions and actualizations filling him. These were his life, his days, and now he was cast out onto the fringes of his rightful reality. To be reduced, to become something other that no mother or sibling would call flesh and blood—- these and more melded into a cold anger within Hector and he didn’t stop. As his heart drummed hotly in some strange thing’s chest, Vengeance was being tempered like a blade within Hector’s awakened subconscious.

Hector stopped for he saw a friendly face, and another. He saw them laughing and smiling, youth in all its purity. His friends, his living friends, were moving towards the way to his apartment building but Hector did not approach them, for he was nailed to where he stood by the sight of his own Living self walking, laughing, and smiling among them~!

So, this was the nature of the Parasite. Once it takes a heart, it assumed the memory, identity, and existence of the heart’s true bearer. Now it lives and lies at the same time. The dark thing has taken his heart, his life and now was enjoying them~! This was too much~! Only his innocent friends’s presence stayed the Vengeance that gleamed murderously in Hector’s being.

Hector shrouded his presence more carefully lest the Dark thing had secret means to detect him. His stealth would be more potent at night when the material he was given will transform him as part of the unseen darkness. Hector learned the virtue of patience and stand for his prey.

It was not that day, nor the day after that Hector had fulfilled his terrible desire. It was on the third night when the 12th hour found the Wraith waiting on the edge of light glaring down the very lamppost that marked his slay ground, the place which was both his earthly tomb and Wraith’s womb. It was the fitting form of execution, to unleash the punishment on the very scene of the crime.

As sure as he knew his own body, Hector saw the Thing coming along, driven by the hunger that always struck after a night’s worth of studying.

The Wraith pulled at the strands of the deep darkness as his cloak and became nothing. He watched his Form moved into the circle of light, raising his eyes to the affixed bulb, breathing a moment (Hector’s breath!) before walking to the rim where the Wraith waited.

Now~! Hector seized the Thing and stabbed it with Vengeance’s dagger! The Thing screamed soundlessly but Hector sensed the Vulcanian volume of its pain. It was not blood that erupted from the Thing’s chest. What was flesh soon oozed into some weird, black muck that writhed and wormed on Hector’s arm.

Hector pressed deeper and deeper, he could hear his own heart as if it were beating within him.

I am coming, Hector called out.

He saw his heart, hot and angry against the black much, the dark matter. With his free hand, he claimed his heart and pulled it out from the Abyss.

Hector stepped back, his warm heart in one hand, the frozen blade of Vengeance on the other. He stared down at this Abomination of Reality, watched at the foul shadow slime crawled out of its shattered human shell. The Giant Dark Slug gaped wide, a mouth of wet, discharged fangs and thorny teeth lunged menacingly at Hector.

Hector slid away from the vicious lunge and stepped back.

Instead of escaping into the sanctuary of night, the Slug turned back to the Wraith. It needed the Heart now more than ever. It’s hurt, wounded and desperate. It must exist! Tendrils discharge from the thorny mouth, roping Hector’s limbs. Hector’s Vengeance was swift and sharp as focused light, it tore the tendrils sending pain back into the Slug’s body.

As the Slug howled in Siberian silence, experiencing the Agony of Ages, Hector clutched at his heart and sensed it was slowly beating… a countdown to the endless sleep. Hector felt the promise of perpetual peace, the heart was returned rightfully home and Hector was healing into Humanity.

It was an unguarded moment which the sluglike Thing took. It coiled itself like a spring and spat at the healing cavity on Hector’s chest. It pushed itself in, the desire to exist braved the burning light from Hector’s heart. Hector tried to seize the muck, to pull it out but it was too late. The Thing grafted to the core of Hector’s being and now turned the Wheel of Fate into its Victory!

Hector felt himself being swallowed into no-being when a strong vital force saved him free from his black demise.

“It is done, young one, the Circle has been linked. The Lock is now complete.�

Hector saw that there are now three of him present in the circle of damp light. The husk of humanity fallen in death, the Wraith-Thing now assuming the cloak of the Living but truly of non-death, and this… what is this… what have I become now? What happened?

His father, the Angel of Death, appeared beside him. They watched from a window. They were on the edge of reality, beyond the Turning of Time.

“The Way is not of Waste�, the Angel explained. “It knew the Secrets, it bore great power. Now it is trapped in an instance that is outside the Flow of Time and there it will remain until all its dark energies are spent. The human husk will be reborn as the Wraith, it will hunt down its stolen heart from its Dark Host and this vicious wheel will turn and turn until the Thing becomes weaker and weaker. Ultimately, the Thing’s being and energia essencia will dissipate into the Engine of Fate where All Things Come and All Things must return. Once that happens, the loop will correct itself and merge again with the Time stream.�

“Is there any other way?�

“Villions, countless, endless are the options and opportunities. One for example will have you as the Wraith hunt down the Thing to the End of Ages, to battle within the Ultimate Conflict between Light and Shadow. But that was judged to be too grandiose for the Standard. This is better, more cost-efficient and inevitably effective.�

“What am I to do now?� wondered Hector’s subconscious.

“You are a free soul. All is your home now, None is your Boundary. You can if you wish come with me and I will be your Guide. I can reveal to you wonder beyond wonders, the horror of horrors.. or you can stand here by this Window, watching the Loop continue on until the final moment when you can return to the Life that was taken, to the Life you were meant to live.�

It took a thought for Hector to decide. “I will come with you, Father then when it is time, I will return to the window.�

The Angel led Hector’s consciousness to the Door, the titanic Threshold of Truth that waits for All of Creation’s children to pass through Uninitiated and return Reborn in Revelation when it is the Time.


Hector Valenzuela felt something cold brushed his chest. It gave him a slight shiver and made him look down.

“Gah~!� The student stammered out, leaping a quick two steps back as he saw a shadow on the illuminated concrete which was not apparently his and not belonging to anyone else in sight.

The pool of darkness faded into the light, as if it was never there.

Hector blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly so tired, as if he studied for a thousand years yet a strange elation filled him. Though his origins and his family resided on another island, this moment in this Corner of the City felt like finally coming home.

Hector shook his head. He must be that hungry. The young man went off into the dim street towards Mang Luz’s street cantina for the barbecue and broth. He was calm and alone, however Hector noticed that the stars seemed to shine a lumen brighter in the abysmal heavens of Eternity.

[MrBiddle]

NON SEQUITUR

A story by Paolo S. Macachor


"You're small, I'm big. You're young, I'm old.
I'm smart you're dumb."
- Harry Wormwood, MATILDA by Roald Dahl


Damaris, 11, was cradling a 7 year old boy in her arms as if comforting a younger brother. The boy was crying and Damaris was on the verge of tears too... Her face was caked with ash and rubble, as if she's just survived an explosion. Well, she did but only after experiencing the fallacious thinking of an adult who didn't know that not all things necessarily follow. Damaris was young, yes after that declarative statement of her age, there can be a BUT or an AND to link a clause to further describe those of youth but a perfect example of this is as follows.

***

She could not have been more certain of the man who was dressed
in a black pants and coat. She thought she almost saw a peek of a clerical collar. Damaris
was dressed just as he was, for she wore a sweater for a top, having come in a skirt didn't
lessen the chill manifested on her legs, and certainly the new psychosomatic coldness that
came to her, as she saw the middle-aged fellow abandon a suitcase. The man did that almost
obviously deliberately after a short episode of relaxation at the bench.

After using the Ladies room, Damaris had witnessed the suspicious fellow and immediately
returned to her parents' table. Well, actually her foster parents. At age 8, when both her
biological old folks have succumbed to from the grim reaper. (Personifying Death, there).
Her new guardians were Mr. and Mrs. DeVito. Then, the young lady with a sense of urgency, said
"Mom, Dad, I've seen a man just leave his suitcase on a bench... over there", Damaris pointed
to the area, obscured by a wall, but where the bench was stationed behind it, "He musta
done it on purpose 'cause before he left, while reading the paper, he had it on his lap!" Her
substitute parents exchanged looks, but rather deadpan, Daddy replied, "Damaris, I'm sure
there's nothing to be alarmed about... for all we know he could be the restaurant's manager." Damaris wasn't reassured. She knew something was very wrong. For the record, they were
eating at Bethlehem's Eatery... Damaris noticed a booksale on glass display near the counter.
Their food hadn't arrived yet. Damaris excused herself once again and checked the display.

She saw the books, UNMASKING PARANORMAL CHRISTENDOM by Mara Quaid. By the same author, she also saw a book titled, IDOLATRY OF THE ADOLESCENT LORD? Damaris's brow furrowed. She remembered the suspicious man in black to almost be a clergyman as she might have seen hints of a collar.

***

Reverend Bunsen entered his congregation filled with sacramental statues of Mary
Magdalene, Jesus, and the Adolescent Lord - the statue resembling the child Christ, dressed
in a blue robe, and a red garment over blue pants. In addition, the statue was adorned with
golden ornaments. He prayed for forgiveness for what he has just done. Bunsen was a member of the proliferating sector called the Ecclesiastical Body of Paranormal Christendom. In it's establishments, paranormal events were said to occur were miraculous healings and messages of peace are spread, purported to be that of the teenage version of
The Messiah. The international sector has its congregations everywhere, and rivaling standard Roman Catholicism, much of the faithful has converted to the practice, because they believe it is God's way of revealing himself in the end times.

Kneeling before and between one of the pews, he said, "For it is your will that the lives
may be sacrificed for maintaining the holiness of your name." And he meditated on the mysteries concerning the Adolescent Christ, hoping his petititons would be heard.

***

Damaris was still looking at the display of religious books of the bondage breaking genre, there was one titled, PARANORMAL SECTOR - THE INCREASE OF GRAVEN IMAGES? Damaris took a breath and returned to their table, where their meals were ready and waiting for them. But the young girl was anything but hungry. Mr. DeVito then had to say,
"What do you know about terrorism, Damaris? I don't think you have any idea about the integration of economies and the implications of ecclesiastical discord, do you?" Damaris frowned. She wasn't paying attention. "Damaris, I can assure you, that man didn't leave a bomb!"

Damaris was uneasy. For one thing, it's strange how her new parents didn't know about the anti-"Paranormal" affinities this restaurant had, considering they were very zealous members of the new age sector. Her biological parents, who raised her with the proper values.... and doctrinal issues were Christians. By this, Damaris wasn't in favor of people going by the names Lutheran, Baptist, Marian, Pauline, Paranormal, Seventh Day Adventist and et cetera because it is common sense to know that as followers of God, we should only go by the name of the one who is Messiah. And here she was, being lectured and rebuked by her know-it-all foster dad who believes in the logic that because Christians didn't have as much (supposedly) scholarly knowledge as the Paranormal sect, they didn't know better, and in the same way, Mr. DeVito has always promoted the thought that because Damaris was young... she knew nothing. And this adult arrogance was taking place during their lunch time.
"Damaris, are you listening to me? The fact that you are only 11 means that your judgment is poor... compared to the instincts of an adult... As a fifth grader, are you already taught what 'matters of consequence' are?" Damaris issued in inward, mental sigh of frustration. She has read THE LITTLE PRINCE by Antoine De Saint Exupery, that portrayed the adult mind as proud and boastful, concerned only of matters of consequence when in fact what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Damaris noticed a 7 year old boy in the restaurant. He was with his parents too, presumably his TRUE mother and father, but it wasn't that which disturbed her. It was the possibility that she might be treading on a wired battleground of religious disputes, about to be blasted to smithereens if she didn't act fast or convince her foster folks that they were in danger. Damaris hasn't taken a bite, her folks were now devouring what the waitress has served (both were dressed for protection against the cold as well, by the way) and they seemed to have an apathy they were unaware they possessed. But Damaris's mind remained elsewhere, on the 2 other families who dined, on the 7 year old. My goodness, just 7 years old and he has to die this soon. And not to mention herself! She was just 11!

***

The suitcase was still rested on the bench, for some reason no worker or passerby in Bethlehem's Eatery has noticed it... inside, was a mechanism programmed to detonate the C4 that Reverend Bunsen has constructed... the clock was ticking, but unlike the movies, this device had no clock. Zoom back from this complex machine to ---

***

Damaris, she picked up her fork and managed to take a bite of her meal. She took a deep breath. She let go of the kitchen utensil and got up... her foster mom called out, "Damaris stop!"

***
Reverend Father Bunsen went on with his petitions to the Lord. He babbled a litany of despair and anxiety to receive forgiveness, "Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy. Father have mercy, Son have mercy. Mister Adolescent One, have mercy on me, O Lord."

***

Damaris went straight to the table where the seven year old boy and family were dining. She recklessly pulled the young boy away from his seat, taking off with him to which his parents cried out in surprise and anger!

Damaris scuttled with the boy, towards the exit of the eatery, there she passed and saw the man's rectangular case still on the bench, if this was false alarm, Damaris was more than prepared to take reprimands and scorn from those who misunderstood.

They scurried to the parking lot. "Hey what are you doing?!", demanded the seven year old. To which Damaris replied, "I'm sorry but I think we need to do this!"

Off they went and farther from the restaurant. And as they continued their escape, a giant explosion rocked the area, the parking lot, Damaris and the boy trip, but guard their fall with their arms. Smoke rose from the area of demolition, covering Damaris and the boy. The two younglings coughed out the discomfort of being enveloped by the malignant cloud... They managed to get back on their feet, still inside the foggy residue of the explosion, onto fresh air and sun... well, sky actually, as the day was as gloomy as the moment.

Damaris took a series of deep breaths. The boy was still coughing. Had this been her parents, her biological mother and father left in the blown-up
eatery, she would have wept instantly, yet as much as she felt she owed the
recently late DeVito couple, she felt calloused because of their lack of displaying affection and family love. The boy started to cry. He bawled with the abandon of a neonate. "My God, I was right.", whispered Damaris to herself. She offered her younger acquaintance her embrace and began to cradle him as she sat at a nearby sidewalk, where she saw people from all over the establishment, from boutiques to pharmacies have began to step outside to witness the aftermath.

In no time did an ambulance arrive and paramedics went to check on Damaris and the boy, they put on her face an oxygen mask and asked her to display her reaction to trauma. "Hey don't worry about me!", assured the brave 11 year old lady, "The boy - it was him who lost his folks... goodness, he lost them." Able to relate, as she had lost hers when she was but two year older than the boy was now. She had confirmed that the boy was not seven, but was in fact six, a year short of her guess. Damaris fell asleep, not comatose, not traumatic unconsciousness but out of being instantly subjected to an event that gave her immediate fatigue. Orphaned once more, Damaris knew - and thought as she drifted into sleep that she would have to go back to the St. Van Dyke Home under the care of nuns. Despite feeling the envy of some to have 2 older folks to look up to, and despite the brokenness of losing both your mother and father, she also knew happiness at Van Dyke, she had plenty of friends and despite the fact that they could only eat ice cream every Christmas and can make trips to the cinema only once every six months, she knew that the recent event that was meant to malign and cause victimization had bought her the ticket to return to a familiar and happy place. No, to set the record straight she never wanted to abandon the DeVito couple, being with them had a lot of its ups... and as you've seen a lot of its downs, being able to eat in restaurants and certainly more ice cream and movies, but she felt better and unrestrained happiness and belongingness at St. Van Dykes. Because of the new tragedy, there she would go again! In her sleep, and obscured by the oxygen masked no one noticed the ghost of a smile that appeared on her face. The smile that accepted and transcended trauma, the expression that was grateful for life's benedictions.

THE END

[diem]

Friends and casual acquaintences have asked me questions about writing and I've answered based on the limits of my abilities, knowledge and experience. Here are some of those questions and my personal answers...

Could I be a Writer? How does one know?

Are you an avid reader? Do you enjoy reading? Do you consider it as one of your life’s greatest pleasures? Do you feel a certain consistent envy at established writers? Do you wish to write as well as them? Do you ever in your spare moments feel the birth of ideas in your mind, the thoughts aligning themselves automatically into phrases, sentences, or paragraphs?

Do you dream every night of writing your first story or your first novel and every daybreak, your first thought with your first breath declares that you want to write?

If your answer to all these questions is a sure YES~! Then, of course, you could be a writer-in-the-works. Often, those with the passion possess the potential. One cannot be certain however unless one tries, strives, and survives.

How do I start to be writing? How do I become a writer?

Simple, we start with the first sentence. The work of a thousand words begins with the first one. So start writing the beginning, work yourself towards the middle and try if you could reach your ending.

But before you do start writing, there are some matters to consider. Just three points which I fondly call M, M & M.

1) Medium – like any artist, we writers have a wide array of options on what to write ON. We could write by hand through pencil on paper, or through pen on paper. There are many types of pencils, pens and papers. We could also punch our way through writing by pressing on the keyboard or a typewriter.

There is a select few of writers who would dictate their stories, tell rather than write, on a recorder or to a stenographer. The writer character Alex in the movie Alex and Emma is a clear casual example. The acclaimed novelist Sidney Sheldon dictates his works and so did Brian Herbert and Kevin Johnson recorded their countless story discussions and had these put into script for later review when they did their Houses of Dune trilogy.

Medium can also mean the form of writing. Would you like to write in poems, narrative prose, essay articles, screenplays, drama, or blogs? Try your hand at each, then take your pick and stick with it until you’ve mastered it.

Another aspect of Medium is in what language one should write in. The answer is simple, what language is most comfortable in writing? What language suits you best? Is it English, Filipino or Bisaya? Could it be Spanish, French or Japanese? Could it be a hybrid of both? Basically, when we first begin our trek in the world of words, let us use something familiar and easy to grasp for ourselves. Write in the language you feel at home with or you are confident you are a master of.

So as you can see there are many ways to write, what matters is what works for you best. Please remember that writing can be hard work. Time and again, it can become a chore. So better start learning how to make it easy and comfortable for you now before getting into the discipline of writing. Right now when you have chosen your means of writing, I’d suggest you stick to it until you become a master of it. Better be a master of one medium rather than a master of none.

I will use myself as an example, I am most able in writing when I used a word processor on a computer because my own handwriting is at times, schizophrenic. I prefer writing in narrative prose(short stories, scripts) because at heart I’m a storyteller. Now I’m working my way up from short stories to longer works. In time, I might accomplish a novella. I write in the English language for the simple reason because I am better educated about it rather than the Filipino Language. Another reason is practical ambition. If I wish to be a popular and renowned author then English is the best way to go.

2) Material – what should we write? Like Medium, we do have worlds of choices concerning material to write about. For most of us aspiring writers there can be only one deciding factor first, we write what we know. Write to your heart’s content first. Writing is a means of expression. So express yourself. Surely what matters most to you can be important to others, that’s the human condition of connection. So write away about your day, or your favorite life experience, or your idea on a romantic story, a thriller, an essay maybe. Write what you know.

Once we’ve already evolved from aspiring to acceptable, then maybe we could aside from writing what we know, know what we write. This includes research and study of certain aspects of a topic. Let’s say, I want to write a love story between a doctor and his lady patient. Due to the young woman’s chronic condition, she has little time left so the hero tries to save her life. I have no medical training whatsoever and if I were to be a responsible and professional writer I would do the necessary research about diseases, medical treatments and jargon in order to make the story more realistic, more reliable for the reader.

Write what you know, know what you write.

3) Mode – This was meant to be MOOD but then again, a true artist is both master and servant of his craft. When one loves one’s Art, no Service is too great or small. Mood can be a factor if we allow it to be but I declare to you now that a Writer is not meant to be a creature of mood. So get out of your head the pathetic excuse that one cannot write when one is not in the mood. If you do so then you’ll end up with nothing but a blank page. Write~! Write, get yourself out of the Mood and drive into the Mode. You must set a time for yourself to write undisturbed or a quota of a number of words/pages.

There are a lot of wannabe writers out there, millions in fact. The only difference between them and those handful few who rose to fame and/or fortune is because those writers who are famous and/or filthy rich write, write and write, by mood and beyond it. They are in the Mode, they have their discipline and thus they become in demand for they deliver the goods.

Mood can inspire, but the Mode makes you a writer. Set your writing schedule, define your discipline now.

Okay. I think I am ready to write my first piece. What else should I know?

Here are some tips for you to guide you in your writing.

Write simple, Write specific. Writing is a means of expression, of communication. By writing simply we make less mistakes that can confuse and irritate our readers. Being wannabes, do not consider style of writing, strive to be understood first. If you are a sincere and honest writer, in time your style will come out. The purpose of writing, and its ultimate reward, is to share one’s thoughts and feelings clearly. So write simple.

Write Specific. When you have a story or experience to share in writing, don’t tell what happened; recreate what happened. Show, don't tell. Be specific in your writing. The more specific the detail, the more real the story or account will seem to the reader. The more detail in the story, the more interesting it becomes. Descriptions and technical details must be authentic; when the reader suddenly realizes that the writer made a mistake, the reader is jarred out his or her temporary acceptance of the story as reality

Revise, revise, revise, and revise. Revision is important. A writer can always do one more revision. Do at least TEN. Ernest Hemingway once said that the first draft of everything is shit. Unless you want to let people read shit, I humbly suggest.. No I implore you to be cautious with your first draft!

I’ve been there before. After typing the last words, I feel the overpowering urge to have someone else read it! That is a mistake~! It’s like allowing your newborn child to be let out in the streets to fend for itself! You as the writer must be the first reader. Read, review, and rewrite to your heart’s content! Check for spelling and grammar errors! See if one phrase sounds better or reads better if changed this way. Exhaust all possibilities, make your piece strong. Be your own worst critic or else you and your work will just be lambs before rabid wolves!

So be responsible, Revise, revise, revise, and revise!

To be continued....

[thisbe.ara]

hi guys.. m so glad this thread is still alive. i was in hibernation for a few months.. might be in hibernation still.. just wanna say that your writings inspired me a lot. i do have scribbles every now and then. i always keep it. i am more into feature writing because i can express myself better with it..
gosh, how are you guys?? gareb? giver_bert? blade101? waaaaaaa... miss you guys. just wanna share with you this article i made for my wab.. hehehe..

Of Love handles and spits...

i am a coffee girl, i always am.. back in my first job, i have always been associated with my coffee mug.. but then tonight, i decided to drink milk.. so that i can sleep. it has been so long since i've had my insomnia attacks and believe me, i do have this habit of dragging people along when sleep doesn't want to knock on my doors. oh well, angelic as i am (oh puh-lease, spare me the reactions, i'm all alone here at 3am!), i don't wanna spoil the snores of my brothers and my sister. i might as well blog out my emotions.
which made me think. ahhh.. emotions. aside from being dubbed as the coffee girl, my reputation has not been minimized to decaf, thank God. i have also been acclaimed as a sensitivity goddess (self-acclaimed, of course!). along with my sensitivity is my innate character to feel.. and react.. and i remember this one crazy afternoon with my wab (see, all the baby talk?) lito.. we tried watching you've got mail but decided not to (thank God for the poor download). instead, we kind of like talked. and i am overwhelmed by my sweeping emotions of just looking at him and feel insanely happy-- the way he crinkles his eyes, and tickles me to death (arrghh.. i hate that guy.. yeah right!), and just plain smiles at me, or takes my picture when m not looking (or acting as if i'm not.. vanity is a virtue, or so i thought).. and i said to myself, "woah there missy, you gotta hold your horses or maybe you're just embracing your emotions again.. ".. you see, i've been more than careful to give in to my emotions now (believe me..). after a million buckets of tears and heartbreak, i guess that pulled the sense out of me. but then, there he was-- my wab.. and i forgot about my yitty-yatty vows of never ever going to feel immense love again. but then, i want to be objective about myself.. what is this about him that makes me feel so good? hmmmm.. okay, here's the deal.. i have this habit of not being able to keep track of myself, so if i chatter on to more than 6 reasons, i might be out of my mind.. so you keep count, alright? ok, go.
1.) well, for one, he listens to me.. as in really listen, not just some deaf ear or the obligatory kind of way.. he has been my source of guidance and support and well, listening to me is a very hard job, as what my so-called friends say. but they do stick around, so i might have good topics, dont you think?
2.) we have this natural ease and flow. like, we don't have to say anything or analyze things just to understand things or understand each other.. we just do. i mean, i do understand him for his being vain and all.. and he understands my temper.. and there's never a dull moment with this guy (talk about the snorts, that would fill in the empty air).
3.) i feel good about myself when i'm with him. meaning, i don't have to compromise into changing myself when i'm with him and he has been encouraging me to do better. in the same way, i have been doing the same. oh yeah, i love myself more.
4.) i trust him. whence trust is almost like getting jupiter to make neighbors with earth, he might have done that. he has taught me to trust myself and trust others. i believe that he has the best intentions. and though our past (his, mine, ours) has a lot of tinges there, it doesn't dictate me or him and i love not having to doubt whether he's having some good time with a girl (or a guy, oops.) and some big shot chick with fake boobs and crooked eyeliners (oops sorry.. no plans of hitting someone.. )
5.) he has trust and faith in me-- yep, it doesn't go one way, baby. he doesn't have to check up on me if i'm fooling around with my neighbor or my officemate (oh come on, me? this angel?give me a break). he believes in everything i do and encourages me to do more, to strive more and be the best that i can be..
6.) he pampers me-- like a princess. not spoiled.. it's more of a celebration of the woman that i am, that he respects me and that i need some pampering..the way he talks and the way he stares at me, i know that i'm different from any woman in his life. i feel like i am not a being treated as a ghost of his past or i am being moulded into an ideal girlfriend.. i am different in his eyes and that, my dear.. is very important.
7.) we have a common ground-- we love massages, we love food, we love vanity.. wehehhee.. but we have a lot of differences as well and we love to meet in the middle just to make it work. he hates poetry, i love it. i love reading, he sleeps in the first paragraph, believe me. he enjoys bodybuilding, i loathe muscles and worship on love handles. see? common ground is respect. we both have that for each other.
8.) i am a part of his world-- no pretenses. what he is around me is what he is with other people. when he farts, he farts.. he spits on my face (for fun..in the beach).. now isn't that sweet, spitting on the face? wehehehe.. i love his world and i know that i don't have to pretend or be another person when he's with his family or with his friends. the spontaneity is there in his world of which i am a part of.. and yes, his world is not summarized with spits and farts. bleh.
9.) he sacrifices for me-- not just as an obligation but as an act of love.. he fetches me at work (sometimes), carries my bag and things (and my world) even without me asking.. the best part is, he has sacrificed his temper just so we can set things right (never fight fire with fire.. in this case, i am always the fire)..
10.) i believe we will be forever friends even if he's not my man--he has been my friend since time immemorial, i can't imagine not having him in my life as a friend. we laugh together, we tease each other (baboy! heh! batig nawng!dakog tiyan) to death, tickle each other, fight over petty things, get things right a few minutes after, fight over food, watching cartoons together... having him is like having your most favorite cake with extra toppings and cream and ice cream, or just having 20 warm brownie cups all by myself.. weh!
wait.. were that 10 reasons already?? make that 11 as i haven't included he is really cute and handsome and really macho (feeding the ego..warning! warning!) okay, i'm out of my mind. i am in love. i love him. to hell with analysis. to hell with what other people say. i am happy. to not be able to see that is being more insane than i am now. might as well open your eyes. and now it's 5am and i am smiling my damn face off. blame it on the milk. i'm going back with my decaf.

[charmz_fire]

im not a writer nor im not into writings... but i always love to read and read and read... And I do appreciate good writers for the stories they write, articles and news taht they shared, for thier perception in life and bravely expressing thier feeling towards to the situation or a particular person...

keep it up writerssss......
m dreaming to be one!!
but dont have enaf talent and skills for being one!!

[diem]

@charmz_fire, as I posted before and I will post again.. those who have a passion often possess the potential. And as the founder/philosopher of Objectivism and novelist Ayn Rand once wrote "Writers are born, not made". Nobody can write as a baby. Therefore the talent comes from loving the craft of writing and the required skills can be earned through study, practice, and hard work because Writing is work. To be better at it, is hard work.

Here are some contests that people might be interested in. Please take note that the contestants entering must be from 6 to 17 years old! Please pass these along to any young aspiring writer or school

Rice is Life: A Short Story Writing Contest

The Asian Rice Foundation and the Alpha Phi Omega Service Sorority, in collaboration with the Department
of Education, invite participation in a short story writing contest, under the theme "Rice is Life." The
contest aims to make young Filipinos aware of the significant of rice in and rice farmers in lives of
the Filipinos' past, present and future; and to come up with books for children aged 10-15, one in English,
another in Filipino, each containing the three winning entries.

The contest is open to all Filipino high school students ages 12-17 and enrolled during the schoolyear 2006-2007. The deadline for submission of entries is Oct. 16, the World Food Day. Accomplished application form together with the short story and its illustrations must be submitted on or before the deadline to Asia Rice Foundation College 4031, Laguna. Winning entries will be announced by Dec. 6.

The revised guidelines of the contest and application form can be downloaded at www.asiarice. org or maybe
requested from Dr. Carmen M. Paule, Asia Rice Foundation at tel/fax: (049) 536-2285.

++++++++++++ +++++++++ +++++++++ +++++++++ ++++

Mga Kuwentong Pambata ng Papica: A Short Story Writing Contest

Have you ever wanted to be a published author? Do you love to tell stories to your family and friends? Do
you have some amazing stories that you would like to share with other kids? Would you like to earnP10,000. 00 as the winning prize for your story?

Write and illustrate a story and you could become a published author! One winner will be chosen from each
region. All winning stories from each of the regions will be published together and available for sale to
the public. Proceeds of the sale of the book will be used to purchase school supplies and children's books
to be distributed throughout the country. This project is the first of its kind, "a book for kids, by kids,"
designed to raise reading awareness and appreciation.

Contest Theme

There is no contest theme. Let your imagination run wild! Tell stories of interest that happened to you,
your friends, or your relatives. Write imaginary stories about things you heard at home, school or your
community. Tell animal stories or tales. Write about your most embarrassing moments, your funniest and
saddest moments. What were you afraid of as a kid? How about spectacular events in your region that will
capture your reader's imagination? Ordinary events that you want people to know about your town, barrio
or city. Write about friendships, music, weddings, funerals, sports, food, the market, careers, clothes,
pets, your hobbies — the choices are endless.

Contest Rules & Judging

One winner will be selected from each region!!! Each regional winner will receive P10,000.00, a certificate, a copy of the book containing your published story and a box full of books for your reading pleasure.

- Contestants must be between ages 6-12 at the time of contest deadline
- Entries must be an original unpublished work of the author
- Length: Maximum length of 1500 words. Entries beyond the 1500 word limit will be judge only on the first
1500 words submitted
- Entries may be typewritten or handwritten. It could be in English or Tagalog but not a combination of
English and Tagalog.
- Maximum six (6) illustrations (artwork) per story.
It is not necessary that the stories be illustrated or contain artwork. However, illustrations would be helpful to aid in the publication. All writing and artwork must be the work of the child entering the contest. FPPFI retains the right to alter, modify, add or change the illustrations or artwork submitted with the entries
- Entries will be judged on originality, creative expression and storytelling. Structure, grammar and spelling will be taken into consideration
- All entries must have a completed entry form attached. Entries with missing or incomplete entry forms will be disqualified in event of inability to notify and gain parental release
- One story per contestant will be allowed Entries will not be returned and become a property of the Francis Padua Papica Foundation, Inc.

Contest Deadline

All entries must be RECEIVED by SEPTEMBER 15, 2006 at 5:00 P.M. Entries must be mailed to:

Mga Kwentong Pambata ng Papica
Backroom Inc.,
Unit 207 #116, CRM Bldg.,
Kamias Road cor. Kasing-Kasing St.
Quezon City, Philippines

Tel nos. (632)435-1098, (632)435-1120, (632)435-1108,
(632)928-0717 Fax no. (632)435-3808

No faxed or emailed entries will be accepted.

Now this is open for all writers of any age..

PHILIPPINE GENRE STORIES: We are looking for a few good stories.

Ones that catch a reader’s attention and captivate them so much that they lose sense of time and place in the real world because you, the writer, have drawn them to other times and places, ones of your own creation.

We are a small publishing firm based in Manila, Philippines, and we hope to receive quality stories with something about the Philippines in them. The stories could be set somewhere on any of the archipelago’s 7,100 islands (give or take a few—is it high tide, or low tide?). Or they could be set anywhere else: in another country (real or imagined), in another time, under the sea, in a haunted house, on a plane, on the moon, in outer space,…but they should have something about the Philippine culture or people woven into them.

For more information on our submission guidelines, please check out philippinegenrestories.blogspot.com.

Thanks!