Tuesday, June 23, 2009

SHORT STORY: PLEASURE PRINCIPLE

Here's a literary composition I made last night. I hope you will all like it.



Pleasure Principle
A short stort by Earvin Charles B. Cabalquinto

I don’t have a name. And if ever I’ll have one, it’s going to be one hell of a lie. Of course, I won’t trade the enjoyment I get from anonymity. For a mortal who craves for freedom and decency, secrecy is thy greatest armor. 

The truth is, I live in the dark and inhale the dusts that contain and recreate my subtle identity. I only shed light from the peeping rays of the morning sun in my tiny window. I don't have a name. I am me.

I live in a house where mystery and hypocrisy are hung on the walls. Seeing other people gossip about my life totally excites me. I allow doubt play with their days. Okay. Let them consume their saliva on the big topical things. Let them assume realities far beyond their half-baked perceptions. Let them chronicle my silence in the midst of a storm. Let them believe what they believe is true. Let them perfectly sketch me on their minds: A low angel, a scavenger, a gypsie entity, or a bold star. To me, I will always be that popular and glamorous icon worth talking about. I am indestructible.

I possess magic. It’s not the typical black magic or a spell that can ward off hoaxes. It’s a power only I can decipher. Yes. I have the charisma and flair to bring men at their weakest. With my tempting smile and automatic grins, I can make even the smartest man on earth fall in a blinding state. For my rickety walls will always be ready to embrace a longing heart and a thirsty soul. The old rusty lamp is all out to splash joy among men who feel stagnant from their wives or girlfriends. The scented pillows and warm bed are wide open to deliver orgasm and end solitude nights. I devour men who keep me moan at my loudest. Yet, I keep still and controlling. I am discreet.

I hate words. They are arbitrary. Either they make or break you. But okay. I can’t ignore words. They’re inevitable. And so I learn to strategize. In a battle of accusations, I command words as my greatest ally. I use them to redirect attention. The usage of flawlessly chosen words solicits sympathy. And with extraordinary gestures and a lonesome face, I can escape a bloody crime. At the end, I never use “I” for there will always be “them” or “he/she.” I am innocent and will always be. There will never be an end in my controversial life. For “Commas” and ellipses” are my true friends. I don't point fingers. I suck my thumb. I am spontaneous.

Noise awakens my spirit. The “banging” compels the beginning of stories which I’m hoping not to be the star. I guess, it’s the loud decibels I concoct on every movement I make which bring my presence felt on the vast ground of obscurity. The intensity may collapse bridges, wreck bliss or corrupt fragile minds, but, I don’t give a damn. I am sensitive only to my territory and that is my physical self. I glorify my sexuality. I flaunt my vanity.I am a victim.

Tears hammer my Athenian grace. While I don’t see karma and suffering crawling on my life, I maximize my composure on feeding myself with stolen and fake attention. At night, before I sneak out, I face the mirror. I gently touch my face and my body. I brush my hair with a golden comb. I wet my lips for a possible kiss with a man I know will never be mine. And as I put powder on my cheeks, I hide what’s not worth revealing. The moment I hit the door and display my charm on the narrow road, all I know, I will never let tears once again stuck me in a rut. I will weep, not. I am harmless.

From time to time, I make love with the rain. It’s a cure to my worsening wounds. As I watch the rain drops conceal the truth on my window, I envy the water flowing in the nearby drainage. It’s glorious. It’s hypnotizing. And as the rain falls harder, I start to feel the rage from the outdoors like an aggressive beast ready to drown my body and carry me to nirvana. The lightning strikes and so I groan for all my past, present and future. A flashback of mementos only I can understand and an avalanche of truths which will always remain unspoken are my blanket to keep me sane and warm. Unlike the rain, my character will always be kept in a colorful wilderness. I am misunderstood. It's not history nor herstory. It's my story. Who are they to judge my moral fiber?

I don’t have a name. And if ever I’ll have one, it’s going to be one hell of a lie. All I know, I am a Goddess who will always be a God in the eyes of Evil.

- The Girl in the Attic

8 comments:

  1. Whoa! You wrote this? VERY WONDERFUL! *clap*clap*

    I will now stop thinking I would join NaNoWrimo (which btw, you should) because I CANNOT write like this!

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  2. Apes!!!!!!!!!!Salamat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Mejo inspired lang when I wrote this. Tumingin ka sa paligid mo, naghihintay ang mga subjects to be discovered!

    Nako noh, ituloy mo lang yang NanoWrimo. Sulat lang ng sulat. Mabisita nga yan!

    God Bless!

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  3. Hahaha. Ikaw pa? Hindi ka naman tinantanan ng mga yan ever.

    Btw, follow my advice. Join nanowrimo. Nanowrimo.org, register ka dun. You might even have your stories published!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Hahahaha!

    Sige nga at maicheck yang Nanowrimo.org.

    Salamatsssssss!

    ReplyDelete
  5. Btw, isa pa...

    blogtalkradio.com pwede ka gumawa ng sarili mong radio show online!

    ReplyDelete
  6. What an interesting piece! =) Nice one. Good thing, I am not the window, the pillow, and above all, the girl in the attic =).

    ReplyDelete
  7. Apes! Aba, interesting ang blogtalkradio! Ang dami mong alam na interesting websites! Bisitahin ko yan!

    ReplyDelete
  8. Shiels!!!!!!!!!!!! Thanks!

    Mabuhay ang mga literary muse sa ating katawan! Indeed, there are a lot of stories to tell and share to the world!

    ReplyDelete

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