Great expectations

Gonna show his GF next time.

Galileo was wrong. The sun is not the centre of the universe, family is.

Naming our kid (old doodling)

This was something I dug out from my Doodling Files. I thought this site might need some colors. FYI, my boy was named nothing of the above.

I am Not writing a zombie story

After submitting my entry for National Arts Council's 2011 Golden Point Short Story competition, I stood at outside the entrance and it was poetically drizzling. I knew that I would not be shortlisted for any prizes. But then again, I knew that a week ago. Somewhere between rewriting another 5,000 words of utter frustration and researching for my school assignment which was another 2K, I had almost gave up. Why bother when you know you won't win anything? The idea of my story was interesting to begin with (Honeymooners caught in zombie apocalypse), but a test-read with pals on the first draft have shown that it was illogical, poorly executed, possessed zero character sympathies and was structurally messy (like my room). Why bother to continue something so miserable and unsalvagable, wasting both time and effort?

One has to start somewhere, innit?

As I stood in the Mountbattenian drizzle, I knew that I have won, well, metaphorically just by sticking with it. I have learned so much, I suspected far more that what costly writing classes could offer. And there in the drizzle when everything was done and sealed, when I was expected to go back to the mundane and predictable routines of my daily life, because I have 'unclogged my pipes', 'got it out of my system', 'pre-middle age crisis' or 'skeletons put to rest' – envisioning pallbearers lowering down a tiny coffin filled with my manuscript, word processor and Thesaurus into a shallow grave and the priest had said something about moving on and being in a better place, probably in investment banking...

I was already thinking of my next story.

Over the week, I have learned three important things on writing:

"Multiply Untitled Story by multiple writers" Part 5

This entry was written by Owen. The original can be found here.

 

As Pablo sat in the train that was vibrating to the uneven metal tracks of the Paris Metro, he thought of two things - how amazed he was that he was now travelling through the hellish darkness of the Paris underground (surely, he thought, hell doesn't come much closer than this!) , and how long he would take to reach the Arc de Triomphe.

Pablo heard the wheels screech for the third time, as the train pulled to a stop and the driver yelled "Étoile!", and stepped out of the carriage to heave a rusty lever, about the length of his arm that was beside every carriage door, to let its passengers out.

At last. Pablo stepped out of the carriage and huffed and puffed as he walked up the stairs where he could see daylight again. God, he thought to himself, and then scoffed at his invocation of the supernatural. Well, God or not, at least I'm finally out of that bloody hellhole. The only place where he wanted to find himself claustrophobic, he decided, was with Lea in a broom closet. He made a mental note to suggest that to her later in the day.

As he stepped out of the station he made out the Arc de Triomphe. Such an irony of a name, Pablo thought to himself. Napoleon had commissioned the building of the Arc to celebrate his triumphs - but was defeated more than two decades before the Arc was completed. Stepping ever closer to the Arc, he found himself drawn by his occupational hazard. The intricacy of the carvings, the sheer grandeur that the architect Chalgrin was trying to express - he hated grandeur, but he loved the intention of Chalgrin (or Napoleon?) and how wonderfully it was carried out.

He was supposed to do something here - he remembered, clutching that flat, squarish object he removed from the hotel room - but he was dazzled by the architecture.

He was standing underneath the Arc when he heard a familiar rasp from behind.

"Enjoying triumph, Pablo?"

Pablo knew who it was before he turned his head. The silhouette had betrayed what the owner of the voice had certainly wanted to achieve - a surprise. The man was dressed in a well-cut dark suit with a matching bowler hat, covering his rotund figure and framing his rather round but unpleasant face. All dressed to match the times, thought Pablo to himself. Prim, proper, and boring. But this was no way to talk to a potential buyer.

"Monsieur Montmartre," Pablo took off his grey flat cap and made a little bow, half in feigned respect and half in annoyance. "How nice to see that you are also here to take a little bit more glory away from Bonaparte's legacy."

"I am not," growled Montmartre, adjusting his bowler hat with one hand that was attached to a very short arm and with his other arm fishing rather uncomfortably into the inside pocket of his jacket and eventually brandishing a cigar, "A man who basks in glory of any sort."

"No, I presume not," chuckled Pablo. "But you would allow your son on frivolous adventures with me so that he will be preserved in my painting and for you to show off to your friends and family?"

The hand on the cigar clenched a little too tightly and still-smouldering ash started spilling out. Picasso was not at all a humble man, despite his destitute beginnings, burning his own failed artwork to keep himself warm in a room without heating. Now, however, with Gertrude Stein as his ardent fan, Montmartre was facing stiff competition in buying the art that he loved. Pablo now had a newfound desire to speak to people willing to pay an exorbitant fee for his few strokes of a paintbrush.

Pablo was about to give what he thought would have been some choice words when something collided on his stomach and made him fall to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. After he finally caught his breath he stared at the cause of his falling down - a boy no older than twelve, wearing the same type of cap that Picasso loved so much.

And he realised something.

"They sent you?" Pablo whispered in disbelief.

The boy nodded. "They want it back," he said, adjusting his cap and dusting himself as he stood up. "And I have a message for you. From him."

"I was talking to him, boy," Montmartre's rasp sounded almost comical when he raised his volume, hardly what he intended to do. "Wait for your turn."

"Count Montmartre," Pablo said, "There is something important going on here, and if you are looking to buy my painting for what I believe is a pittance of what you can actually offer..."

"We're running out of time," said the boy nervously.

Pablo handed him the object, and bowed. "Thank him for my enlightenment," he said, and smiled. The boy smiled back, and handed him the package.

Then, a gunshot.

The boy's smiling lips were broken, in a sudden, ugly manner, by a trail of fresh red blood that spewed out from his mouth. As he collapsed onto the ground he saw an unmistakeable shape of a person's body with one hand on a smoking barrel just outside a cafe across the road. He could make out that body from a mile away, and he still thought it a compliment.

Lea.

A second collapse; this time, Montmartre had fell, most likely faint from the entire experience. His lips were quivering in fear.

He was certain it was Lea, as certain as he had been inside her at 1.30 that morning.

Had she found out his secret? Did she now realise that genius could not possibly be created, that he had sought a shortcut out of his desperation to become famous?

Pablo Ruiz Picasso stepped away from the Arc, and bolted southwards, towards the River Seine. As he felt the whiffs of air that accompanied every bullet that was fired he knew he just had a very close shave. When can I ever trust a woman? He thought absent-mindedly to himself, as he tried to run faster than the bullets that tried to catch his heart.

Was it Lea? As he panted and thought about it, he started doubting his initial certainty. She's got a figure, but I might have been mistaken... could have been a fucking whore from Pigalle. He did not have time to think. Pablo knew he wouldn't die - not yet anyway - but he thought that there was no purpose in letting the world know yet.

The bullets stopped, and Pablo felt thoroughly relieved to see the faint traces of dawn spring out from the east end of the sky. She decided not to trail me. For now. Pablo allowed himself two deep breaths and slowed himself to a more comfortable jog, but stopped and clutched his sweaty head in horror when he realised that he had left something terribly important at the lion's mouth.

The idol, he thought miserably. It's in the hotel.

 

 

"Multiply Untitled Story by multiple writers" Part 4

This entry was written by Ann. The original can be found here.

 

Lea did not really fall in sleep. She was holding the key in her left hand, and tucked it in the pillow under her head. She knew exactly what was that for. She crossed her right arm over to Pablo's chest, and held him tighter, closer to herself. Time is short, she sighed slightly. 

She felt Pablo's hand that was under her neck, gently held her wrist and moved her arm away. He then carefully pulled his hand out for the curve of her neck. He got up and stood at balcony. She turned her face to look at him standing in the dark. He smoke a bit. Threw the cigratte down on the floor before he finished it, and stepped on it. It seemed like he thought of something. 

Pablo went to bathroom quietly, went out with something in his hand. Lea could not figure out what exactly it was. Squarish and flat. He put it down on the living room table, walked toward side of the bed Lea slept on. Lea was surprised that he was already dressed in a T-shirt and probably a pair of Jeans. He bended down and kissed Lea on her forehead. Lea lifted up her hands and held on to his neck, "You are going out, now?".

"I will be back in a minute" He padded on Lea's nose, and lowered down to her lips. "Just sleep on a while more".

Pablo left with that 'thing' he took out from the bathroom. 

Lea waited for another 10 minutes before she washed up and dressed up herself. She took out the key and put it in her purse. before she closed on her purse, she saw the tiny pistol she always brought along wherever she went. How would I wished I could be any other girl, who could raise up a family for the one she fell in love deeply. She smile, yes, she has fallen in love with him. She shouldn't but she did. That was not in the plan.

She held tight to her purse and closed the hotel room door behind her. She turned back and touched on the number plate. I would remember these few months for the rest of my life. She told herself. 

Walked down through the corridor with firm steps, she knew, she needed to do it, no matter how unwilling she was...

"Multiply Untitled Story by multiple writers" Part 3

This entry was written by lianchye. The original can be found here. 

The instruction was specific:  'This package must be delivered personally to Pablo, and to him alone.  No witnesses."

He arrived in Paris and spent several days tracking down the man named Pablo.  Finally he located him.  But he found out Pablo was not alone.  He has a woman with him.  Somehow he has to get Pablo alone or at least no one to witness him handing over the package.

That night he approached the hotel where Pablo was staying.  He waited for him to return to his room.  It was way past midnight when the man showed up.  The way he walked, the way they both walked, suggested they'd been drinking heavily.  The female companion was with him.  He waited for them to settle in.  An hour after the lights were switched off, he knocked on the door.  Once.  Loud enough for someone still awake to hear it.  Then he stood away from the door and waited.  There was no response.  None was expected yet.  He counted the seconds.

Ten minutes later he knocked again.  And he waited and counted another fifteen minutes.  Once more he knocked.

Perhaps the woman is still awake and Pablo cannot risk it.  If that is the case, he'll have to wait and try again.  Another hour.  Or until morning.   No it cannot be in the morning.  This mission is too risky to be carried out during daylight hours.  He'll have to wait until nightfall again.

He approached the door again and raised his hand.  His hand froze before it reached the door.  Forget it.  Tonight's over.  Another knock and it will raise suspicion.  Pablo is a careful man.  That's how he survived this long.