"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 2

This entry was written by j, the original can be found here.

 

Oh fucking hell. Pablo thought.  Is nothing sacred anymore?  It's my goddamned honeymoon for Chrissake.  Can't they even wait until it's over?

Of course he noticed them.  True, he's distracted than usual, smiling wryly to himself, but artists, even the laziest ones, have a keen eye.  Details, it's all about the details.  He certainly didn't appreciated it when they first showed up at Concorde Square.  Romance is fucking hard work with these bastards around.

"Mm?.. " he responded sleepily to Lea.  

"There's someone at the door!"  she whispered more frantically.

"Someone?" he sat up slowly.  His mind raced and wondered how he'll play this out with Lea.  

"Yes, I heard noises...." Lea's voice trailed off and she looked a bit embarrassed.  "I.. I don't mean to sound melodramatic, but I'm almost certain someone knocked.. but it was only one time and I.. I'm not sure..." 

Three fucking times Pablo mentally corrected her.  First time when they were in the balcony kissing, second time when she was about to climax and the third time at fucking 2:15am.  

"Let me check.." he started to get out of the bed when she put her hand on his chest.

"No.." she said, "I'm sure it's nothing.. I.. I just need a glass of water."  And she stood up and reached for her robe.

Pablo pretended to yawn and shut his eyes.  He could hear the rustling of her slippers as they made their way to the kitchen.  The faucet running.  The glass laid down on the counter tile.  Her sighing.

Even in the dark he could see doubt on her face and relentless curiosity that needs to be satisfied.  Perhaps she didn't mean it but he knew she kept secrets from him.  He half wondered if its was because she knew he kept secrets from her as well.

He thought about the long scar on her thigh he discovered months ago.  "I was such a tomboy when I was a kid I got that jumping over the fence" she said.  He trailed his tongue over it and nibbled her skin.  Whip?  Knife?  He thought of the options.  It definitely wasn't the fence.

She was trying to be quiet now.  He almost felt the air move when she crept up to the front door.  She might actually open it and check out what's going on.  

"Lea?" he called out.

She stopped in her tracks and quickly returned to the bedroom.  She removed her robe and went back to bed with him.

She nuzzled under his arm and sighed.  Soon she was asleep.

He knew they slipped the key underneath the door and she found it.  Goddamit.

 

 

 

"Multiply Untitled Story by multiple writers" Part 1

 

Lea was admiring the waterlilies in the purple pond when she heard the television. Or, what she thought was the television. They sounded like muffled yelping and distant raining. Maybe she had left the television on.

 

The noises were inching closer. Somebody was definitely calling away. Lea was distracted and decided to wake up.

 

Lea fluttered her eyes open to the dark of the room. The television wasn't on.

 

She did not remembered turning on the television before sleep. Lea could not even remember sleeping. In fact her head felt heavy. It was alcohol. Lea remembered it had been a bottle of champagne. Intoxicated, she and Pablo had discussed art. After all they were in Paris for their honeymoon. She loved it when her groom spoke with fiery passion and gesticulations on Rembrandt and Van Gogh. If Pablo had knew about her dream, he would have claimed that Lea was in an Monet's painting! Pablo had lived and breathed art.

 

Lea heard something trailing off like the wails of police sirens. She couldn't believe she was right here in Paris! Pablo had chose France and Spain for their honeymoon. It's the 'Picasso Journey', he proclaimed. He had wanted to follow the artist's development from Paris to Madrid and Barcelona.    This was their first night in Paris and everything had been wonderful. They had cruised along the Seine river in the sunset and had dinner on the Eiffel Tower. Drunk and madly in love with one another, they went back to their hotel and had crazy rockstar sex.

 

Lea closed her eyes and smiled widely. Two whole weeks of Picasso, wine, sex and shopping, she would need all the energy she could muster. Maybe they could even conceive a child in the most romantic city in the world...

 

Then in the dark, she heard a sharp rap on the door. It had left swiftly the way it had came, almost as if she had imagined it. But the residual blunt in her ears had cast a sturdy ripple that stirred her awake.

 

Lea sat her tired eyes up and waited for a second knock. Or a buzz. Or a voice informing her of a room service she hadn't ordered. Their room was classically kept, with exquisite wallpapers and an large oak door. It had a bolted cylinder lock and had to be opened noisily with an iron key.

 

Maybe a guest had walked past their room and brushed against their door. Lea listened for slamming of neighboring doors or the metal cage closing for one to get into the tiny elevator. There were none, save for Pablo's snoring by her side.

 

Lea turned in the bed, sandpapering the blankets and faced the door. It remained ten feet away, solid bolted with a thin ray of light streaming beneath it. The uninterrupted light showed that no one was at the door. It must had been the sound of water pipes in the bathroom by the door. Old buildings do that sometimes. Hotel Violette was at least fifty years old. Lea had read the hotel's history at the reception while Pablo was checking them in two nights ago. Pablo had difficulty in communication as he spoke little French and the elderly receptionist spoke minimal English and was quite deaf. Lea swore that she could remember the name of the receptionist. His name had sounded like a cough.

 

'Jacques.' Lea smiled triumphantly as she closed her eyes lazily and snugged the covers closer.

 

Maybe old Jacques was making his rounds along the corridors.

 

To fully assure herself that she could go back to dreaming, Lea decided to check the door again. It was a preservation instinct of hers; checking gas before leaving her house, logging on emails before sleep or texting her assistant before the end of the day to reassure that she was infallible and invulnerable. The urban lioness in the downwind. Lea looked at the door for the final time and saw something disturbing enough to sit up straight as an arrow at the edge of the bed. Pablo groaned in protest as he rolled over to the other end. 

 

The light beneath the oak door was disconnected. A pair of shadowy feet broken the line of light.

 

What was the damn time? Lea breathed heavily. Suddenly the room had became claustrophobic. Three, four am? She remembered Pablo bringing her back to their room around midnight. Had they locked the door? Completely? What if the spring in the lock was loose and the door was not fully locked? Was their lock an easy lock to pick? All you need was a hairpin. Maybe they should have gotten a hotel with cardkeys in the beginning. Lea thought about Nellie from accounting. When Nellie had her honeymoon in Switzerland, someone tried to break in unsuccessfully. Nellie's husband had the chair against the doorknob. The person fled when the chair was making too much noise and woke Nellie's husband. The shadow beneath the door stood still. Lea focused her sight on the brass doorknob, half expecting it would be agonizingly twisted to open. Then burly men with accents would rush in with shinning knives and plastic cables. There were nothing viable in the room to defend themselves with. Maybe Pablo could still hurl the table lamp and put up a fight, but they would eventually gut him like a lamb and spilled his blood all over the velvet carpet. This was Europe after all. Crime did not exist with solely with pickpockets, tourists had been kidnapped, raped, organ-harvested and traded off as sex slaves.

 

The shadow as if read her, moved away from the door. The horizon of light resumed uninterrupted, running from one end to another seamlessly.

 

Lea sat there staring. She realized that the alcohol in her body was completely purged by both adrenaline and her running imagination. She could felt her forehead moisten. What now? Is the person still there? Is he pretending to leave? Would he return again when she sleeps?

 

The only way to find out was through the peephole.

 

But Lea didn't want to look through the peephole. What if she saw something? Something or someone just leaning close to the door and stared back through the concave lens. Eyeball to eyeball.

 

'Pablo, honey!' Lea hissed and shoved her husband's shoulder. 'Wake up. Now.'

 

'What is it?' Pablo mumbled to his bride. 'Is it morning already?'

 

'Someone's at the door.'

 

 

505

Grand Taoist Master = GTM

Before the GTM went into the top of the mountain, before he stepped into the cave to meditate, the GTM did before he waved his disciples goodbyes and before he would enter a ten year trance that would promise enlightenment, he bought with him only a change of robes and his grass slippers.

And ten dollars.

'Why ten dollars?' Tze Wen, his youngest disciple asked the GTM before he went off.

'So perhaps I can purchase a bowl of noodles when I complete my training in the mountains.' GTM replied.

Tze Wen pressed on, 'But a bowl of noodles only cost two bucks, master.'

The GTM smiled and replied, 'Read more news, you idiotic calf. Inflation will kill us all.'

With that, the GTM went into the mountains.

Wile the rest of the sect went on with their business, Tze Wen though naive decided to wait for the GTM at the foot of the mountain. He read everyday.

At only the fifth year, Tze Wen caught the GTM coming down from the mountain. GTM was unshaved, smelly but oddly radiant.

'My master, you have anticipated that it would take ten years before you could gain enlightenment and nirvana, it has only been five years. I know because I read the news everyday. Have you already been enlightened or are you giving up?' Tze Wen asked.

GTM just smiled and asked to be lead to town.

In town GTM used his ten dollars to purchase a pack of cigarettes instead of food.

'Why are you smoking? It's forbidden in our sect.' Tze Wen surprised. 'What happen?'

'I have reach enlightenment.' GTM traded his clothes with the stable boy. 'My enlightenment is that there is no more enlightenment. This is it. Live your life now.'

GTM completed his sentence by throwing off his grass slippers and smoked his way into the crowd.

 

 

Heartbeats After Midnight

It's exactly midnight.

All Lin could think about is how thin the walls are. Paper thin. Even with her television exploding away canned laughter, she could hear the sobbing through the walls.

That was not all Lin thought about. She had wondered about the crying and had searched the next doors for other occupants. There were none. After a while, Lin stopped wondering and got used to the sobbing in the walls.

Lin has also wondered about the midnight. Time to die, innit? Eight minutes more. If sunlight takes eight minutes to reach Earth then this is the last of the sunlight that the other hemisphere is receiving. Then go ahead, inhale all the oxygen you could get and keep your lungs filled and brains alive. It's silly. But when the world is ending, everything sounds either silly or trivial. You don't have to learn anything new.

The world is ending, time to die, yes, time to die. Yes with lots of asses. It had took humanity an entire day to stop panicking when the news was announced two days ago. And the routine of violence and looting and petty crimes were quickly replaced by the need to happy one last time. Once more, forever more. And boy, did these dying people did bouts of stuff that defied morality. Free fall babies, everyone of them. Some embraced occults regardless of absurdity and logic. Who needs logic when you are dying? We all fight to cling on the ankles of religious promises that could give us an afterlife. Lin for one has engaged in a mass orgy six hours ago. It didn't helped anyone though, everybody just ended up weeping instead. 

All broadcasting ceased transmissions two days ago with the breaking of the news. Nobody works anymore. All forms of transportation halted and Lin was struck in her rented apartment a continent apart from her parents. Since then, Lin could only watch Friends season one to ten on her DVD player. It has been her favorite show, Lin has used it to brush up her conversational English when she first came here to study. These guys were her only friends in the four corners of her apartment when she was afraid to meet real people. At the edge of Earth's time line in a foreign country, it's only right that it gives her the comfort of familiarity. Her surrogate siblings whom never failed to put a smile on her face. It kept her away from the memories of her own parents and their fights. The canned laughter went on drowning the ghostly crying of the walls, the burning of the streets and the very thought of midnight. Her favorite character was Phoebe. She had wished she was more like her.

The message was simple. The sun is prematurely dying from a Q-ball infection. It will collapse under it's gravity from it's core at midnight. Six more minutes left until the tails of the last sunlight touches Earth. Lin had heard that everything will be bright forever.

Lin reached for the remote control to fast forward to the last six minutes of the series finale and she found the answering machine blinking in the heap on the coffee table.

She paused the television and switched on the machine.

'Hey Lin, this is Jojo here. Have you heard the news? Don't believe what you heard. It's not true. Remember what we talked about the other time, this is it! The country's so fucked that they have to engineer more lies to distract us. I don't believe that the news ain't coming back. You'll see. This is a fucking conspiracy. Just like when they told us they had landed the moon and shit like that. The sun's imploding now? Fuck that! I will check on you again. But probably try to stay indoors instead for now.'

The second message came on.

'Lin baby, are you there? (Hysterically) Pick up the phone! This is mom. Pick up your goddamn phone!'

The third.

'Lin? Are you there? Pick up the phone. Mummy's so worried about you. (Groaning) Try to catch the next plane back, whatever it is, just come back so we could all be together. (Sniffling) I'm contacting Koon too. Whatever it is, just come back. I missed you kids so much. Call me to let me know you're safe, hon?'

The fourth.

'Hey little sis. Did mum called you? Yea, I talked to her a bit. I'm not going back. I'm not going to see him, not even for the end of the world. Oh my god. (Chuckling) I can't believe this is it. You know what? I think it is not a hoax, it's erm, it's real. Oh god. You think praying will help? (Chuckling nervously) I can't believe I'm saying all these, can you imagine? Listen, little sis, you got to watch over yourself. Are you still with that jackass boyfriend of yours? Well, go to him. Don't be alone at this time. I will come over for you as soon as the flights are up, if they are up. Contact me to let me know if you are safe. If you want to go back, I will go back with you. Love you.'

The fifth message.

'Hello, erm hi Lin. (Pausing) This is Nick. (Pausing) I just want to say I'm sorry for everything. I really do. (Pausing) Please forgive me, I need you to. (Pausing) I'm sorry about the baby. (Pausing) I'm so sorry about the abortion. (Pausing) I'm sorry for hitting you. I'm so fucking sorry now. I'm so stupid. I know now. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. (Pausing for the longest time) Please.'

The sixth.

'Little sis, your bro here. (Hissing fiercely) Do not attempt to venture outside, lock yourself in! This is getting pretty fired up here. They are lynching anyone with an uniform. It's anarchy out there! Arm yourself, lock yourself in! Beware especially the folks from occults, they are the worse! I'm coming for you...'

The seventh message.

'Oh lord, where are all my children! (Screaming) Mum here, Lin, it's mum! I missed you guys so much. Please call us.! I know you hated your father. But please let begone be begone. (Sobbing uncontrollably) Oh lord oh lord oh lord oh lord, I can't stop crying. (Sounding more distant) It's all your fault, Kai! What kind of a father are you! To beat your children so much that they resent you to the inches of your pathetic life. You drove my babies away from me! I hate you. I never thought I would say this, Kai, I hate you. You ruined this family, you happy now? You god fearing man, you have always place Him above all of us. Now your god is gonna kill all of us. Get out of my house! I don't care if the mob gets you and I hope they do! You stay away from this house! (Turning back) Oh Lin baby, please phone home, I'm sorry for everything. I am so sorry for this family!'

The eighth message.

'Lin, Jojo here. This is too much for me. I took all the antidepressants. (Smiling) I just want you to know how much of a friend you had meant to me. I want to be honest and loyal to the end. Be safe. Goodbye.'

The ninth message.

'Hi. If you are listening to this right now, you are cordially invited to join the hundreds of us outside the city hall for our exit ceremony. It will be pain free and everyone is welcome. Do join us if you share the concept that as human we have the right for a dignified death, at our own pace and method. Do join us if you simply just need some company. We all are family now. Good luck.'

The final message.

'This is Dad. I've always loved you.'

By then, Lin was half sprawling to the floor with her claws gripping the wooden edge of the table so hard that her metacarpal veins were popping red. She brawled her lungs out in epileptic cries of whichever short or long howls she could afford her tiny frame to generate. She cried and cried so hard, as if she trying to cry herself to death. As if she was being born. Tearing her hair and pulling the skins of her elbows, Lin demanded pain to accompany her sorrow, she thrashed around hysterically, not remembering what upset her so much in the first place. There were too many factors. Accumulating, it is the horror to live for this moment.

She has become the ghostly cries of the walls.

'One more minute!' Someone has shouted from the streets.

Lin laid on the floor and held her breath. She blinked away the magma tears. There was a knock on her door.

'Who...who is it?' She went to the door disoriented and nervous.

'I heard you crying.' Came a gentle voice.

Lin opened the door and saw a boy her age, he has been crying too.

The boy hugged Lin and their weights sent them onto their knees. They sat by the misty doorway flanked by desolation of the corridors that seemed to stretch on without ends.

'Hold me please.' The boy whispered into her ear, like the last important secret of this world. 'Don't let go.'

Lin put her fingers through his sandy hair and replied, 'I won't.'

Cold freezing darkness seized upon them and though the baring blackness all they could sense were each other heartbeats. Soft pebbles into the ripples. Calm and fearless.

Then there were lights everywhere. Blights flooded the forests, every windows, the lonely machines in the mills and the frowns on people's faces. Blights filled up lakes and hearts and arteries and songs and question marks and the bodies at the city hall.

In vast whiteness, the answering machine is no more.


 

Kasmilah

An arrow of the road, the smoky run-down car sped through the deserted passage of gravel and dust, begging to stop. The filth of its mechanical waste bled into the morning spectrum of numbing sunshine and beauty. Richard biting onto a dead cigarette was driving with his right hand while his injured left, wrapped with folds of bloodied bandages hung out of the window to dry in the wind. The sunny dawn was alive only because of the death in the vehicle.

Kasmilah was at the back of the car, holding her son's head in her lap, caressing it. Her hair was in her wet face, her hair was everywhere.

Kasmilah ignored the short bursts of sunlight and fixated on the flapping of Richard's bandages in the breeze. She saw the eyes of the driver through the side mirror. Richard's eyes had been serene now, almost glassy like a doll's. Kasmilah wondered how long did it took for those eyes to slimmer after a murder, or even any else’s to. Richard's eyes had been licking with vile trepidations when he had bludgeoned the National Guard to death yesterday’s morning. They had been trying to get through the Public Health Checkpoint and there was trouble. Trouble was a shameless host, inviting death everywhere these days. Now he could live forever in her heart as the defender for he could just surrender, but he didn't. He had killed for her. Or did he ever? Everyone for himself, even if murder, especially murder. Then, will Richard kill her? Those young eyes. Alive for only the meanest stuff in this hell. And in this hell, anything goes.

But he wouldn't. Kasmilah had the pistol. Panting from his blood lust of killing the National Guard, Richard as if knew he had transcended into something bestial, unleashed from primal cages of reasoning, knew that if survival was the sole excuse then no one would be safe from him. He handed Kasmilah the Guard's pistol. Five bullets intact. Five times over.

Coming to a junction, they saw more cars on the road. Survivors of the 'Grip'. They were heading to the North. Word had spread that the Communist North had the cure. It was only five weeks ago that Hans Scolofey had declared that he found the vaccine too. The zealots renewed God, the bacteria had begun to fry in pure oxygen, people recovered and tons and tons of bullshit like that. Richard reeled his choking and sputtering vehicle into the direction heading towards the beach. 

In the cool evening, under the blanket of stars, their car was dead like a rock. Miles of grassland stretched endlessly in the darkness.

Kasmilah mouthed, 'That's that.'

Richard ignored her and restarted the engine for the thousandth time. Sweat reeked from his pores and veins turned at his temples.

Kasmilah put her hand over Richard's shoulder, her softness sunk into his heaviness, 'It's over.'

Richard stared wrathfully at the night skies and mumbled, 'Get the torch.'

He got out of the driver seat and fetched Sal from the passenger seat, away from his mother.

'Don't touch him!' Kasmilah screamed and pointed her pistol at him. 'I'll shoot you. I'll shoot your brains out! I will shoot you, shoot you, shoot you.' Five times over.

Richard held the young Sal in his arms and walked on the gravel of blackness. 'Get the torch.' He repeated. Little stones crackled under his shoes echoed against the trinity of shrouded darkness. Under the pale moonshine they walked on foot to the sea.

When they were tired, they sat by the road side catching their breath. Wordless, the night was only filled with insects and bullfrogs. A jeep had drove by, Richard jumped at the chance to hitch a ride. An old woman had loaded her jeep with supplies peered out of her car at them. 'The sea? What for? There's nothing at the sea. No ships, no shit. You want to die there, you walk there. You could be there at dawn. I'm not nearing folks like you. What you got there? Wanna trade? I have eggs.' The crone asked.

Kasmilah withdrew to stroke her son's hair.

The hag took a long look at Kasmilah and her son and grinned her yellow teeth, 'Your kid. Sick like the others?'

Kasmilah shook her head.

The crone realized what Kasmilah meant, spat at their feet and sped her jeep away, away from death.

'Come on.' Richard got on his feet to take over Sal. 'We can reach there by dawn.'

The crone was right. They had reached the sea at the time that the sun began to flower the horizon with golden petals. The sea was unaffected by the Grip, sodium scented and breeze breeding. It was the ideal place to reborn and relive. Richard took off his shoes to feel the brown sand between his toes. The little rubbles of nature held false promises of hope and salvation, of help and future. But Grip was nature as well; the bacteria thrived on the very same elements as those of the sea and the sand. The cosmos of enemies and friends wrapped together in the same bed covers. Furthermore, nature spewed characters like Hans Scolofey and his lackeys, which so believed in genocide. They breathed the same sea and sand in their lungs and would stand to awe the sight of nature if they were here. Everything belonged together, righteous or not. Richard wore his shoes back and began to work.

Kasmilah held Sal by a coconut tree and admired the glorious sunrise over the jeweled ocean. She watched over her shoulder at times to see Richard working away. She was grateful. Sal's father should be here for the rites, he should be the one digging in the sand. She started crying. Why did she never have time to bring Sal to the beach before? The dry land was mere mass compared to the oceans and children should know and love the beaches. There were many things children should have the chance to explore, to learn and understand. But many would not live past their next birthdays. The Grip had hit the children the hardest. Their immunity was raw and unfit for such invasion of the meninges. With that she wept her heart out. For her son and all the mothers in the world.

Richard had a deep hole prepared and stood in silence as Kasmilah descended into the hole to rest her child. She was trembling with fits of sobbing as her hands crawled and pushed the sand over her dead child's body. She had refused Richard's help in the burial, was determined to see it through herself. Richard went to the water and smoked in the grainy breeze. Her crying had only gotten louder in time. Washed away into the sea.

They did not mark Sal's grave, leaving him to enjoy his peace. Folks had tried to bury their love ones all over the South, defying the mandatory rule to incinerate their bodies. Graves marked would be dug by law to burn along with the rest in the pyre.

They then walked in silence, in search for a shelter as rainclouds formed from a mist by the horizon. They settled in a ruined shophouse among the cluster of deserted beach haunts. The storm fell like silver coins. Richard took out a Campbell soup from his supplies and cooked it. In stony silence, they sat at a table and ate the stew. Hunger had always been an issue but not today. They ate only because it was the only sensible thing to do. Soon, Richard expected, they would part and would not see each other ever again. His role in her life had played its due. He watched the shadows jigged at the windows. Kasmilah boiled water and took Richard's bloodied hand and unwrapped the bandages. She cleaned the wound and re-bandaged it with bits from the curtains and held his hand for a long time. The thunders raged on, its discharges rapping onto the roof as if the most spectacular show had ran on Earth and the clapping went forever.

Kasmilah leaned closer to Richard and put his wounded hand on her heart. The love they made was quiet and tender, marking a contrast against the storm. They slept like pebbles in a waterfall, the first for many weeks.

Daylight bounced through the morning dews into the shophouse. The storm was over. Richard woke up to find Kasmilah gone. He had made plans for them to travel to the North. The country infested with the Grip was now torn even further apart by civil wars. Hans Scolofey's short regime was crashing down. That fascist fucker. Richard put on his clothes to ward off the freeze and attempted to find Kasmilah.

Richard found Kasmilah dead by the entrance of the woods. She had shot herself in the mouth. Richard gritted his teeth, his eyes swelling up as he held Kasmilah close. 'Shit.' He muttered in his trembling breaths, rasping as his chest tightened. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ He found himself saying as pearls of tears hopped from his shaking face. Maybe they would never get to the North at all. The genocide had gotten too many people. The wrath of God spared nobody. The nature He made out of His shinning hands, He had made the Grip too. With an intention to kill and made His children kill one another. He had made Hans Scolofey. He had made doom for Man. Maybe the North would kill them too even if they had made it there. To reject the infected. To reject the South for rejecting them. The North had been impoverished and outcast from the world. To reject the South justified everything. Democracy after all had shot to hell. The woods had appeared appealing. The freshness and the rotting mosses and greens. The cycle of life unaffiliated by Man. We had gone back to three hundred million years ago, thought Richard, where unmanned floras were the zeitgeist of this world. We are back to the Paleozoic period where ferns and corals ruled the Earth. We are all walking with our backs into the future where we would meet the past even as we walked further and further away from them. The circuitry existence. The ascension to the bottom. Soon, we would fry in the air we breathe when the Earth had returned to its organic stage where the atmosphere, our Teflon was doused with hyper-oxygenation, the fumes by Alpha of birth. In chemical euphoria, we danced forever in flames.

Richard put the pistol in his mouth. He could taste Kasmilah's blood. Same warmth, different orifice. No anticipation should be greater than ending your life. He gave the trigger a squeeze. It was that easy. ‘That’s that’ He thought he had heard Kasmilah said. Suicide was no longer ritualistic, like everything else around Man, it was made convenient like making a drink or changing a channel. It was made so everyone had the right to sought death. Richard wondered if he would ever live long enough to hear the bang in his head. The fireworks of his smearing brains. The magnificent red on the magnificent green. But there was none. He felt his eyes roving with curiosity and disappointment, his ears listening to the living sounds of the forest. He pulled the trigger again with spite this time, hurting his palate with the gunpoint. He wanted his insides to feel the gun, the bullet tearing his nerves away. And again. And again until he felt the pistol was snapping apart. Click! Click! Click! The barrel was empty. Five bullets. One for the maiden. There should be four bullets intact. He could die four times over. But the gun was empty. Kasmilah had discarded the rest of the bullets, leaving one for herself, fully expecting that Richard would use it. Kasmilah had not committed her suicide in the shophouse was her way of not scaring Richard, not robbing him of her gratitude and love. She had wanted Richard to live on.

1. Vivi

2. Dara

Dara

The television was the jumpy moon in the cave of his apartment. The measly device completed with a prehistoric VHS player was his only window to the fallen society. Fallen prey to only themselves. Seven weeks of quarantine, bounded not an inch further than two city blocks had drove the pacing man to streaking roots. His loneliness had turned into despair. He had never mastered the art of solitude and was always dependant on the intimacy of humanity. He needed to get out.

Let’s called him Richard.

Richard shuffled the room with motives and temperaments, suggested a hunt in progress. The television went on undaunted by the lack of love, it’s projectile lights contoured and fucked with both speed and sound. He had turned on the news a while ago, which after he had gotten bored of masturbating himself to old Japanese pornographic videotapes. The Internet was cut off for two weeks now, part of the Hans Scolofey’s intervention for Internal Security. His administration had to stop the jitters of conspiracy theories from reaching more households. Big brother is watching you.

‘Eighteen additions to the Public Healthcare Checkpoints had installed over the nation with adequate medical resources in aid to combat further transmissions.’ The television crackled, ‘For the safety and the welfare of yourself and your love ones, it is mandatory to register yourself or your love ones with the Checkpoints should you present with the following signs and symptoms…’

Richard peeked into the fridge. The ration of electricity had stretched the expectancy of the perishables to its max and had them dying in his pantry. At least he had eggs. But he wasn’t looking for food. The apartment was a dump, just the way Dara had left it before the outbreak.

Dara.

Richard felt a muscle tightened in his guts. Where on Earth are you? Dara. I missed you so much. Eighteen hours ago, he had contacted Dara’s household since the family had been evicted from the Hotspots. Dara’s mother had only muttered that her daughter was dead and put down the phone. Richard hadn’t been feeling like himself again. The news had promised that the quarantine would end soon, the disease would die quickly, that people would be okay again, and the vaccine was found. Seven weeks! No one is okay, the disease is in this room with him and Dara was dead!

Dead!

Fuck it. He wouldn’t believe it. How can someone be so alive in his head be dead? Dara is not dead. She can’t be. She is the only thing that holds him together in the womb of his own flat. She is the embryonic fluid, encompassing and divine. Don’t plug a hole to drain her out, please, not today, not ever!

‘Persisting fever, fatigue, muscle spasms and coughs. Sudden onsets of seizures or syncope. Rigidity of body parts. Photophobia. Phonophobia. Rashes over lower extremities. Breathlessness. Hallucinations. Headaches.’ The television quacked.          

He had saw the face of Dara in every limited faces he had seen. The moaning and the thrashing pornstars, the nape of their pale stomachs, their fluttering eyes of ecstasy, their brown and black and blonde hair. He heard her last said words of fury beating against the chest of the wall like an imprisoned butterfly and her gritted sentences the carbon monoxide sapping the sweet air. He needed to get out. He had his papers, his fitness seal, his cloak and his mask. He needed a weapon. Hopefully for self defense. The quarantine was strictly enforced on martial laws. In the cyanotic rush of public outrage, the people had propelled in pigheadedness the Reformative Socialist Hans Scolofey to fill the power vacuum abandoned by the incompetent ruling party. Hans Scolofey had proved himself to be fascist in his new lawmaking. The terror regime under the even more terrible plague stricken South had caused the citizens of their freedom and him his occupation.

Richard pulled out a power torch from the stack of belongings in the closet. He felt the burly weight of the metal, stark black and heavy in his hands. Someone rapped on his door. Richard stood in disbelief. A sound that was man made, not of nature, science or fantasy. He moved only upon hearing it for the second time. ‘Who is it?’ He called out in his quivering lips. He wrapped his fingers around the torch. It must be the military. This apartment must have been zoned. Zoned for eradication. The stories on the Net, that stuff about ridding everybody, it must be true.

‘It’s unit fourteen.’ The sound was crumby and grainy.

‘Huh?’ Richard moved closer to the door and barked. He put his eye to the peephole and saw that it was a brown girl with a child in her arms.

‘I… I lived down your left. Unit fourteen? I’m your neighbor?’ She explained.

‘What do you want from me?’ Richard barked again.

‘I… I need something. Well, it’s my boy.’ She said with much effort. ‘I haven’t got anything else to feed him other than the milk. I was wondering if I can get some food from you? Anything? Maybe an egg?’

The son looked very small and tired in her arms.

‘What is your name?’ Richard asked hastily, ‘You said you lived on the left, what is your name? How come I have never seen you before?’

‘Does it matter? Sorry. I’m Kasmilah.’ She introduced herself. ‘This is my boy, Sal. He’s four.’

Kasmilah. He almost sank to his toes from listening to her name. Nobody had talked to him in weeks. He would remember this name for years to come.

‘Kas… Kasmilah.’ Richard said to the door. ‘Turn away, please. I have no food here. But I have many sharp things in the house. I will use them if you don’t leave this minute.’

Silence.

Beneath the door, the shadow shifted and disappeared.

‘The government is urging the people of the South to be patient.’ The television squeaked, ‘The vaccine has been developed and clinical trials had been proven very positive on human agents.’

‘Shut up!’ Richard roared at his electrical moon. ‘Shut the fuck up! There is no cure. This is no hope! There is no vaccine! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’ He threw his torch into the television, ruined it and sat in the darkness for the longest time.

 

Vivi

Let's call him Richard.

Of course that wasn't his real name. His folks wanted to name their firstborn Richard, but decided against it in case he grew up not liking it.

He had mentioned that the name sound like an old man would have.

But Richard was a bitter old man trapped in the soft flesh of a young boy. That's why let's call him Richard.

It was intended to start his story with him lying on back in his bed on New Year's Eve, the room was dark and he was just staring into the ceiling.

But that doesn't sound appetizing enough to begin a story, so let's start early at the eve of New Year's Eve. In an enclosed toilet of a karaoke club banging a prostitute from her rear.

It's not because I think sex sells, it was then Richard discovered that he didn't like sex at all.

The reason he was fucking that hooker in the ladies was that he doesn't like having sex with his girlfriend. He wanted to see if it was sex that repulses him or his girlfriend. That reason was of course one of the many excuses he had when he decided to pay Vivi the Hainanese prostitute for sex. I think he just wanted to be free from himself.

It was always the same for him in sex, middle of it, he was bored and he couldn't cum. Vivi was moaning away softy, clutching the skin of his backside. Another hooker was rapping onto the door, chiding them for taking so long, for she had wanted to pee. Vivi moved her perfect arse faster, trying to milk her client physically. Richard with resignation had too wanted the disappointing intercourse to be over. He asked Vivi to look at him while he continued to thrust. He wanted to see her brown eyes. Their eyes stared right into each others' while they moved beneath the maddening screaming of someone really wanting to pee.

That was the eve of New Year's Eve. He had told me the reason that he returned that immoral place of lust, false promises, diseased kisses and expensive desires was he had needed someone else to talk to. He said that he knew he was not attractive and he had no confidence, he could only pay for attention. For two hundred bucks, he could have five hours of attention from the prettiest women whom would never in real life paid him any decent attention at all. That was Richard playing the fool. His excuses. His girlfriend, Dara was beautiful. But I believe his part about wanting to talk to someone else. For the longest time, Richard had been a lonely person.

On New Year's Eve, he had returned from his work at the hospital. While the world ushered into the year two thousand and eight with fireworks and abhorrent countdowns, Richard was learning to blow circular smokes from his eleventh cigarette.  He was on his back against his bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark of his room. He was there quietly on his own, something that he doesn’t like doing much but was forced into character by unexplainable circumstances. He was there until the New Year’s sun came up. And he slept finally.

Richard hates to dream. He only has two kinds of dreams. One in which he was always locked behind a door and the other was always about seeing friends and lovers that had abandoned him. The two dreams had the same effect on him whenever he wakes up. He feels alone and wretched.

On New Year’s day, Richard was blissfully able to sleep a dreamless sleep. In fact he enjoyed it so much, he had decided to sleep through the rest of the day.

Richard was sleeping while the rest of the world started to get sick.

Seven weeks later, Vivi had called him up. They arranged to meet in her motel room. There were not many people on the streets now. Public transport was cut back to limit the risk of transmission. Richard’s sixteen minute taxi fare ran up to seventy five dollars. Like the current fashion, he went for his appointment with gloves and a face mask. Inside her room, Vivi was wearing her face mask too. She appeared relieved to see Richard. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses. That was not a good sign at times like these.

‘Like I say, I don’t have any money.’ Richard greeted Vivi void of expression.

Vivi invited Richard into the gloomy room for a sit. As he sat in front of the television blazing with the news, Vivi poured Richard some water. The coffee table was full of empty cans and cup noddles.

‘I will cut the chase. It’s not money.’ Vivi undressed herself and stood naked in front of Richard. ‘I want you to check me for the disease. I need to know. You work in the hospital, don’t you? Check me out. I can’t go to the hospital, I’m an illegal entrée. You have to do me this favor.’

‘How do you know I work in the hospital?’ Richard asked, remembering strictly that he had lied about his name, his age and his profession.

‘I saw you on the TV. You are one of the healthcare worker.’ Vivi answered, ‘Please. I will pay you.’

‘Even if I want to. It’s not so easy. You have to take blood sample, take a spinal tap or an MRI. You can't do it here.’ Richard rose to walk away.

Richard walked to the door.

‘Then why did you come?’ Vivi asked.

There were many reasons that Richard had decided to meet Vivi. He was curious, he was bored, he wanted sex, he wanted blowjobs, he wanted her breasts to suckle, he wanted her perfect hands to caress his hair, he wanted to feel Dara through her, he was lonely, he hadn’t talk to someone else in ages, he wanted attention, he was sick of himself, he was sick of work, he was sick of this life, he was sick of how the virus had infected everyone else, he was sick of the news, he wanted a human touch, a voice, any voice, soothing and warm, a warm body, a pair of eyes to look into. Someone real.

Richard decided not to abandon Vivi at this moment, returned to his place in front of the television and asked, ‘Wear your undies back. You don’t have to be starking naked.’

He could feel Vivi’s smile through their baby blue surgical masks.

Richard switched off the television of horrid soothsaying and lighted a table lamp near Vivi.  He had Vivi sat by the edge of the bed and felt her legs, he felt the icy smoothness of her thighs. His touch went from the trees of her arms to her neck. He could felt her heaving, her large chest panting. He grabbed her neck, digging his nails into the flesh. He tried to flex her head and sensed rigidity. He could smelt her shampoo in her brown hair. They were staring at each other, just like the time she was making him cum in the karaoke toilet.

‘Well?’ Vivi asked.

‘Take off your sunglasses.’ Richard ordered. He held the table lamp near Vivi’s face. Her exposed eyes immediately flinched as she drew quickly away from the light.

He had Vivi laid on the bed as he toured the table lamp’s light over her flesh.  ‘No rashes.’ He announced plainly.

‘Does that mean?’ Vivi asked anxiously.

‘Get back down. Do as I tell you to.’ Richard scolded. He had Vivi’s knees flexed, and then he tried to extend Vivi’s legs. She winched at the action.

Richard had finished his examination, ‘Like I say, you cannot tell if you have the virus by a physical. You have to undergo detailed medical assessment.’

‘Then what are you doing? Molesting me?’ Vivi asked angrily.

‘Ya. That’s right. I’m gonna go now and that’s nothing you can do.’ Richard grinned.

Vivi started crying. She switched off the table lamp and hid back inside her covers on the bed.

Richard ignored her crying and exited the room.

Richard returned twenty minutes later and found Vivi had cried herself to sleep under the blankets.

He pulled out a large plastic bag from the closet and started clearing out Vivi’s leftovers of cans and cup noodles on the coffee table. He made some coffee and turned on the television. He muted the volume and watched in silence.

‘Why have you come back?’ Vivi asked. Her hair was in her face.

‘I bought you some dinner. Eat them while they are hot.’ Richard said without taking his eyes off the news.

Vivi attacked the food hungrily. After her dinner, Richard brought a naked Vivi to the bathtub and started to sponge her feverish body with gentle ice water.  With a cigarette at the thin of his mouth, he washed Vivi’s hair with a bar of scented soap and massaged her back with foams and bubbles. He carried Vivi back to the bed with his arms where he lighted up another cigarette. Finishing that cigarette, he was in the covers with Vivi in the dark of the motel room.

They stared at each other in the covers with their arms around each other.

‘What is your real name?’ She asked.

‘Richard.’

She had slept very well that night, avoiding nightmares of abused childhood and the monsters with eyes.

Richard didn’t sleep at all. He knew his dreams of locked doors and lost loves have all the time in the world to wait, but his companion doesn’t have.

She had probably only a week left.

Darcy Goes To Work

Currently writing a short fiction called 'The Comedy Of Memory'. Despite the title, it was however not funny, at all. Want to write it decent and readable - testy, but trying. I'm posting an excerpt of the first draft, probably will bleach it again and again, probably will delete it altogether if it clash with the other parts. Am posting it because I sort of like how this one turns out.

Darcy Goes To Work

   Darcy decided that she had sat by the fridge long enough for the shadows to seep in from the window grills. It had begun to rain and the storm was matronly to care into every homes. Daniel's rage parasitic to the roving climate always invites rain without fail. Darcy had wanted to grin at her grim observation was hindered by the ungenerous black eye stinging on the right.
   What is the time now, Darcy wondered as she gotten up from the floor. She had work to get to. Avoiding splinters from the broken blender and the porcelain plates, she ran the tap at the sink. Daniel won't be back for hours, she would have to clean up the mess before he gets home. With a damp rag, she pried the bruises and blood off her discolored cheek with abrupt grimaces. Darcy wondered if they could afford another blender? Do they really need one? It's only good in making cocktails in this home. Alcohol always give Daniel an excuse to act up. The vicious circle with Darcy at its mercy. She also wondered if her body would ever get used to Daniel's rage?
   She thought about the times when she was being little, with Dahlia. Their father used the belt on them all the time. Time is a funny thing. Human is the funny thing, that it. With enough time, human can get used to almost everything. She had gotten used of the belt by the time she turned eleven and she didn't even winced once. Then their father had decided that the time for corporal punishment was over in their household and never laid another hand on the girls again. How funny humans can be? She ran away from a home that had decided not to beat her ever into this home that hits her every other day. The cycle again. Will Daniel come to that epiphany that her father had? Her right eye throbbed wickedly at that hint of suggestion.
 
   Mopping away the glasses and her blood off her kitchen floor, Darcy went for work downtown. It was a school night and the evening bus was packed to hilt. The shingles and the concrete roofs were drummed with the machinations of the monsoon. As Darcy had stayed before the school, she had a seat by the window staring listlessly at the wayward rain before the wet kids trampled onto the bus. The city cried its teardrops down her window panes. Her murky reflection showed a middle age woman, malnourished and black-eyed. Though the wind sewed her bones, it smeared a numbing frost on her epileptic cheek. Her eyes, uneven and seemingly hollow glared at herself in the splashing lights of the evening traffic had tried to explain that it had almost always rained whenever she was hurt was nature’s compensation for her inability to cry. It’s hard not to get self philosophical and spiritual when you are always with yourself. With no one to talk to. And when you have no where else to run and hide, you’ll seek comfort in that space, no matter how claustrophobic, will shelter a womb for you to crawl inside. Just to die in there so you could live another day. She looked to the urban infrastructures and its unnatural lights for an escape.
   There will be none, Darcy had decided long ago. She would have left Daniel if she could, but she couldn't do it. The sacrifices she had made for their relationship and they had gone through so much together.  She still loves the young poet. It was this love that burns her most than his rage. Perhaps if one day, both her heart and the clouds could stop crying, just like when she was eleven again, when the alligator belt with silver buckle stop breaking her soul, then she could be forever free from men. The groundhog days of Darcy Kathiravan are in prefect sync then, she thought, with all that ever will be in her future. Imprinted on every reflection on the windows, the buses, the gutter puddles, the moonshine and every broken blender was her future on the kitchen floor with Daniel and the thousand puzzles of glassware.