Because I was absent when our professor gave out instructions, I wrote the wrong horror story. I was supposed to write it accordingly to the pitch that our group submitted (the plot about the plane crash and people getting stranded in an island—much like the TV series, LOST). I used the same characters, though. So without further ado, here it is. 

*BTW, this is the FIRST PART (the horror story) for the group fiction. 

—-

          “Four canned goods, and…three granola bars.” Lola declared, frowning in deep concentration as she counted the remaining food they had in her bag. Her younger brother, Leo, stood beside her, staring out at the ocean. They were only able to salvage Lola’s bag—Leo’s must have been destroyed by the impact when the airplane they were riding crashed into the sea. Around twenty of them were lucky enough to survive and swim to a nearby isolated island—Lola and Leo included. Two days later, Lola still woke up from the dreams that replayed the horror of the crash in her head.

            “We’d have to share them to the others,” Leo suggested quietly, his eyes shifting to his sister’s. He cocked his head to the other survivors, who were gathered around a bonfire made by Gavin. A couple of other survivors also had some food in stock, but they can be counted on both hands. They had to look for food around the island if they wanted to live long enough until the rescuers came.

            Lisa, a professional-looking woman in a blouse and a pair of slacks, passed by them. She looked at the two siblings kindly. “There’s already some fish for dinner,” she said. “You can save those for tomorrow.”

            Lola zipped her bag close and set it aside, right beside Lisa’s jet-black trunk. So far, Lisa and Gavin were the only ones she’d been able to talk to and familiarize with. Gavin was the one who lent Leo a couple of shirts and trousers twice Leo’s kid size, but it was what they had. Still, Lola found it hard to build up trust with strangers, and didn’t let her guard down.

           She stood up and held Leo’s hand, and together they walked over to where the group was. They feasted over the eight fishes Brian and John caught in the afternoon, and a couple of purple-looking plants that Blake said were safe to eat. Lola tried a few leaves, but Leo had no appetite at all. Most of the other survivors enjoyed devouring them. Afterwards, they all slept early, except for Gavin, Lynn, Brian, and a few others who stood outside as watchmen. Every four hours, a new batch of watchmen would replace the previous one. Only one survivor had a tent where four people can squeeze in. Lola and Leo, being the youngest survivors, slept inside, with Mia and Lisa beside them. The others camped outside the tent.

            Leo stared at the ceiling of the tent, avoiding his sister’s eyes. “You okay, Leo?” Lola asked worriedly. Leo had always been calm and together; at ten, he was more mature than kids his age. But Lola might have expected too much out of her calm brother—he was still a kid, and he was still unexposed to a lot of things. She wondered just how much trauma he had gotten from the airplane crash.

            “Yeah,” Leo whispered. “I’m fine.” It had gotten silent inside the tent, and after a few minutes, the chatter outside hushed, as well. Only the crackling of the bonfire nearby could be heard in the silence. Lola ran her hands through Leo’s hair, humming him to sleep. But in a few moments, she herself drifted off to dreamland.

            It seemed as if she was only able to doze off in a few minutes. When her eyes opened, it was still dark; the fire, however, had died down, and Leo was nowhere to be found.

            “Leo?!” Lola gasped sharply, jolting up in panic. Mia and Lisa were fast asleep, and it was dead quiet in the island, except for insect wings and the rush of waves to the shore. Lola adjusted her vision, re-checking Leo’s side of the tent. Realizing she wasn’t seeing her brother there, she slipped through the opening of the tent and began to wildly look around, not bothering to wake up anyone else.

            Brian stirred. “Wha—?”

            Lola turned to him, eyes half-teary. “My brother’s missing,” she hissed at him.

            Brian sat up, shaking himself awake. “What?” He asked in a voice above a whisper.

            “He’s missing!” Lola repeated, then, deciding he wasn’t worth the wait, she sped off into the direction of the woods.

            “Lola! What in hell—” Brian cursed, running off after her.

            Lola tore through the leaves and branches blocking her path. Her cellphone was destroyed during the airplane crash, and she absolutely had no flashlight with her during the ride. She had to completely rely on the light of the half-moon above, and already she was tripping over tree roots. “Leo! Leo!” She cried, her voice turning hoarse from the lump that her throat threatened to choke her with. “Leo!”

            “Lola!” Brian called from behind her. He grabbed her shoulders to stop her from running. “You shouldn’t have run off like that, just all of a sudden.” He said, then grabbed a thick tree branch from the ground and began fidgeting with his pockets.

            “My brother is freaking missing. Of course I’d run off like this! If you have any more brilliant pla—”

            The branch caught fire from Brian’s lighter. Both their faces lit up in the dark. “Yeah.” He said. “I do.”

“There aren’t many fishes in our area,” Brian explained. “D’you know the rocky shore that Gavin told us to avoid? That’s where John and I fished this morning.”

            “So? What are you trying to say?” Lola asked as she followed Brian through the woods.

            “The thing is, when we got there this morning, this pathway,” Brian gestured to the trees and bushes around them, whose branches seemed to have been torn off in order to clear the path, “was already here. As if someone’s already gone through. Mia also said that one of her knives went missing this morning.” Brian climbed up a big tree root and jumped down. He helped Lola slide down the root. “You see these fresh cuts?” He pointed at the skinned trunks of the trees. “Must have been quite a jungle.”

            “What’s that got to do with my brother?”

            “Must have been him. I saw footsteps in the sand near the rocky shore earlier.” Brian said. They stepped out into a clearing, and then, there, in front of them, was the rocky shore. Lola peered through the darkness. No soul was around. “Brian…there’s absolutely no one here.”

            Brian walked farther into the shore, waving his torch around. Lola followed suit, careful not to trip over a rock. “Where are the footsteps, at least?” Lola asked impatiently. “What would Leo do here? Are you sure about this?”

            But all of a sudden, Brian pointed into the darkness. “There’s a figure—there!”

            Lola turned her head sharply, making a beeline for Leo. Brian was right. There his brother was, some fifteen feet away, his back to them. “Leo!” Lola cried out, her voice breaking. She tried to run after her brother, but Brian held her back. “Stay here.”

            But even before Brian could make a step, a voice behind them asked, “Lola?”

            Lola and Brian both whipped around to see Leo looking at them, slightly bewildered, but seemingly safe and sound. Brian started. “Leo—what—who—?”  

            Lola immediately ran to his brother, running her hands around his face, shoulders, and arms. “Leo—Leo, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

            Leo opened his mouth, but Brian gave a cry. Lola turned to see a little kid around Leo’s age, with black, spiky hair, a torn arm, and a bloody torso. She froze in shock and terror. Leo held his hand out. “Don’t!” He yelled. “Don’t—he’s—he’s not—you’re seeing his—”        

            Brian swore aloud, his hands shaking. He held out the torch in defense. Leo shook his head as he neared the kid. “Don’t—he’s—he’s a ghost. His name’s Dean. He was with us.” Leo explained in a rush, gulping. “He died in the plane crash. His body—threw into the air—it landed here. Near this shore.”

            Brian had to sit down a rock, his face chalk white. Lola’s hand flew and covered her mouth. “He just wanted to have his body buried,” Leo told them nervously. Dean hid behind him, looking a little concerned.

            The colors from Brian’s face still hadn’t returned, but Lola was in deep thought. Leo took advantage of the silence. “I was looking for his body. Dean can’t cross over.”

             Lola was still digesting how his brother went to lengths just to help out a ghost. She bit her lip nervously, wondering if she was even dreaming. Leo looked at her pleadingly. “Dean won’t hurt you. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. His parents have already crossed over. He suspects that they have already crossed over.”

            Brian was the first to speak up. “Alright.” He said, his voice surprisingly steady and firm, despite his colorless, nervous face. “Alright. We’ll look for the body. And we’ll look for it now.”      

            And that was the first time Dean spoke up. “Thank you.” He said in a timid voice, shyly looking up at Lola and Brian. His mouth was turned into a sad but grateful curl, exactly what a child would have looked like if his fate has been unexpectedly, helplessly cut.

            The group tirelessly searched the shore and the woods for around two hours until they found Dean’s body sandwiched between the tree roots of a mangrove tree. Brian and Leo courageously pulled it into safer ground, not minding the stench and the decomposed look of it, while Lola dug up a grave deep enough for Dean’s body. Brian and Leo carefully put the body into grave and covered it with soil. As much as Lola wanted to put flowers on Dean’s grave, she couldn’t find flowers anywhere, so instead, she tied together purple, yellow, and green leaves that she found lying in the woods with the help of a newly-lit torch by Brian. She placed them neatly on top of Dean’s grave.

            The group stood back, studying the grave. Dean had his lips shut tight, until he said once again, “Thank you. I’m really grateful. Thank you.”

            Brian nodded. “You’re welcome.”

            Leo looked at Dean sadly. “Do you see it now?” He asked, his voice hopeful for his friend.

            Dean was looking at the empty space above his grave, and he nodded. “Yes. And my parents—they’re right there. Waving for me to come over.” He smiled, finally at peace as he walked towards his grave.

            Brian and Leo both waved at him. Lola grinned, mouthing the word goodbye. Dean smiled at her, looked at the empty space where the light was supposed to be, then, looked back at Lola. “I forgot something.” He said, locking serious eyes with Lola.

            Suddenly, his face contorted. His eyes slowly turned black, his mouth and teeth darkened, and his pale complexion started producing cuts and bruises and blood. His hair thinned, and his whole body deformed into an irregular, horrifying shape. His whole body looked cursed. When he smiled, blood and ashes from his mouth dropped to the ground. He grabbed Lola’s arm, his fingers burning marks on Lola’s skin, and said in a high-pitched voice, “I’ll have to take you with me.”

            The hairs on her neck and arms stood up. Lola struggled and screamed, trying to snatch her arm away from Dean’s grasp. Dean fought to pull her closer. He was impossibly strong; Lola couldn’t even move an inch. Brian and Leo were laughing in strange, magnified voices. Everything suddenly turned eerie. Lola closed her eyes, still screaming and crying, until she heard different noises—the crackling of fire, the rush of people, screams and yells and cries and bellows—and she woke up, heavily sweating. She had been dreaming.

            “Lola—Lola!” Leo cried beside her. “We have to get out of here, fast!” He said, pulling his sister out of the tent. Mia and Lisa had already escaped. The commotion going outside slowly dawned on Lola’s senses, snapping her fully awake. She grabbed Leo’s hand and slipped out of the tent. Heavy smoke surrounded the area, and Lola could hear Lisa’s voice. “Come on, here!”

            Lola let Leo lead her to Lisa. Before they escaped to the woods, she got a glimpse of what was happening.

            The survivors were killing each other.

—-

I know it’s boring. 

So I wasn’t originally the one assigned to this part, but my groupmate had exams and all that stuff, so I caught the assignment for him. This is kind of uhm…8 pages on Word. And it’s a part one.If I continued it all the way to the end, it would have taken me 20 something pages. Wow, I gotta learn writing short stories. o_o 

This is untitled. I was actually absent when Sir Quina gave the instructions for this one, so I’m not completely sure if I did anything right.

Anyway, here it is.

—-

            The gravel crunched under the car’s wheels. Mr. Rafien Damer, a lawyer who worked at one of the firms in New York City, had decided to move his family to an area in Manhattan, where an old Victorian house used to stand. The family who lived in it—the Pendeltons, he had met them—sold it over a year and a half ago. He had the house eradicated to replace it with a more contemporary glass structure, almost identical to the other houses in the exclusive neighborhood. Just a week ago, his wife, Lorraine, had their furniture pieces shoved into the house. Today was the day of moving in.

            Mr. Damer’s 17-year-old daughter, Lola, hopped out of the car and frowned upon the house. A senior in highschool, she loved dressing up in bohemian and hippie pieces, and saw the world through her camera. Her younger brother and only sibling, Leonard, was 12, experimental, and more mature than kids his age. Unlike most older-sister-and-younger-brother myths, Lola and Leo were actually pretty close with each other.

            Leo walked up to where his sister was, and they stood there, gazing at the house for a full moment. Mrs. Damer sneaked up behind them and put her arms around her children’s shoulders. “There you go, sweethearts.” She said, smiling up at the house. The brim of her hat touched the top of Lola’s dark brown head.

            Lola shrugged, not glancing at Mrs. Damer. “It feels weird.” It was nearly evening; the sky was a struggling mix of purplish-pink and night blue. The air was getting colder. Lola brought her hands to her shoulders, hugging herself.

            “Hm?”

            Leo looked up at his mother. “No more strange things?” He asked. While the house was being built, there had been reports of pieces of wood and basic building tools missing. At first, they thought a spirit was lurking around the area, but then, no one saw anything, nor was anyone harmed, and three months into the construction, the strange happenings stopped. It was dismissed as thievery, since the stolen materials were that which could build a small wooden house (“Must have been a treehouse,” said their head architect, William Vons) but no one caught the suspect.

            “None, none. You have nothing to worry about,” piped in Mr. Damer, giving his kids a warm smile. “It’s perfect.”

            Unlike the neighborhood they previously lived in, this one was more quiet and exclusive. Cabs were rare because everyone had their own cars; their neighbors were serious businessmen who had disciplined children and lights on 24/7. If they wanted a party, they could always host it in a hotel or hall in the city, so there wasn’t much noise except for the occasional barking of the dog or the sound of a vehicle running at five in the morning.

            The family of four pulled their luggage inside the house. The silence was eerie, but not that disturbing. Mr. Damer accompanied each of his children to their rooms. Once inside hers, Lola started unpacking. Mr. Damer made it sure that the design of her bedroom was specifically cozy—wooden walls, soft lighting, orange, red, and yellow drapes framing the window, four-poster wooden bed with velvet blankets and pillows. He knew she liked it earthy. She piled her clothes neatly in her wardrobe, put her study materials on a desk behind a bookcase, and placed her personal items on her nightstand. Mrs. Damer was calling them to dinner just as when she has finished arranging her things.

            Lola stepped out of her room. Yellow lights flooded the hallway that led to the stairs. The lights started blinking just when she reached the end of it. She paused. It stopped, flooding the hallway with brightness again.

            And then again. There. A blink. Twice. Once. Thrice. The hair on the back of her neck started to rise, and she dashed the stairs to get to the dining hall quickly. While half-running, half-walking, she realized the temperature has dropped tremendously.

            She was breathing hard when she reached the table. Her parents and Leo were already sitting, waiting for her. “Whoa,” Leo breathed, eyebrows raised in question.

            Lola looked at her dad, alarmed. “Are the lights in the hallway upstairs working properly?”

            “Were they blinking?” Her mom asked immediately.

            “Yes.” At this, Lola felt a sudden relief. She wasn’t the only one.

            Mr. Damer began dolling beef to his plate. “Must be broken. I’ll see them later.”

            Lola cooled down; they began talking about the house’s aesthetics over dinner, then, some new cases Mr. Damer was handling. After dinner, all of them went straight to their rooms, except Mr. Damer, who was examining the lights as referred to by Lola.

            Lola decided to do a bit of English homework before going to sleep. She stuck her iPod to a speaker and lowered the volume to set the mood. Over the music, she heard Leo’s faint laughing from his room, which was adjacent to hers. She thought him watching another How I Met Your Mother episode. It was initially introduced to him by a girl he liked in school, but he ended up liking it as well.

 

***

           

            Lola woke up with whispering in her ears. It was dark in her room; the digital clock in her nightstand told her it was fifteen minutes to six in the morning. She noticed the beads of sweet on her forehead and neck, even thought it was abnormally cold in her room. She felt for her lampshade and turned it on, slipped off the bed, and retrieved a sweater from her wardrobe. She remembered the whispering as she pulled on the sweater. It must’ve been part of a dream. What was she dreaming about?

            But Lola pushed it aside, pulled her blankets over her head, and drifted off to sleep again.

 

***

 

            “Okay. What have we got here?” Lola asked when she came to Leo’s bedroom the next evening.

            “Some English.”

            “You know I’ve never met a person who’s equally good in English as he is in maths.” Lola said out of the blue as she took Leo’s textbook.

            “Did you know? My science teacher said something like that last week. If a person was good in maths, he was also naturally good in English.”

            “Maybe that’s why he became a science teacher.” Lola shrugged.

            They pored over verb tenses and adverbs for an hour and a half. It was nearly dinner when Leo mentioned something that took Lola aback.

            “Whatever happened to the five monkeys you were telling me about last night?” He asked.

            Lola scowled in puzzlement. “What monkeys?”

            “The monkeys who beat each other up. Because they couldn’t get the banana on the top of the ladder.”

            “What are you saying?”

            Now, it was Leo’s turn to frown. “The monkeys. You were here in my room last night. Can’t you remember?” He asked. “Were you drunk or sleepwalking or something?” But he knew Lola wasn’t. She was completely lively when she dropped by her brother’s room last night.

            “I didn’t come here last night, Leo.” Lola said defensively. “I was in my room doing homework.”

            “Yes you did.” Leo said, his eyes half-closed. He usually did this when he was getting tired of repeating something, or being argued with for something he knew was right. “Actually, you were standing underneath a blanket when I came into my room and gave me quite a scare. But then you started laughing and I started laughing.”

            Lola remembered Leo’s laugh from last night, but she knew damn well she wasn’t part of the fun. “Stop joking, Leo.” She said in a dead-serious voice.

            Leo frowned deeper, offended. “Stop joking yourself. You were here!”

            “I told you I was not! You’re getting me nervous.”

            And then, from behind them, a young voice called out, “Uhm. I didn’t exactly want you to fight.”

            Lola and Leo both stopped, staring at each other in shock. Someone had just spoken in the room with them. Lola noticed the goosebumps that formed in her arms. It was ice-cold in the room. The color from Leo’s face had gone; he looked as pale as chalk now. She might as well have been staring at her own skin.

            Leo was the first to react. “Holy—”

            But then the voice immediately said, “Don’t—!” but Leo was already screaming. Lola, however, remained frozen. When she turned around, she saw a transparent figure of a teenage boy. She cursed under her breath when Leo ran out of the room, calling their mother. She faced the ghost, stunned. She could not even register his physical details.

            The ghost was trying his best not to make anything that could freak her out. This could be his chance. But then again, he had to be direct. “I need your help.”

            Lola felt as if all the blood had gone out of her body. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

            Seeing as Lola couldn’t react, the ghost was unsure if she was taking in what he was saying. But he just kept on. “I need to find my real parents.”

            And just when those words came out, Mrs. Damer came rushing in the room. Lola snapped her head to her mother’s direction. “Where is it?” Mrs. Damer asked breathlessly. She had a small bottle of salt in her hand. “Where is the ghost?”

            For a practical, grounded person like Mrs. Damer, ghosts were no scarier than ants. She always pointed out that reality was what was to be feared, and not spirits. She could kick a ghost’s butt and not even think too much about it.

            Lola looked around the room, still unable to speak. She didn’t know how to answer. She heard the ghost’s plead for help. Her mother could get him out of here in no time, and how could he be at peace then?

            Mrs. Damer began examining the room, not waiting for a response from Lola. She looked under the bed, opened Leo’s wardrobe, peeked into his bathroom. She even checked the curtains.

            “Are you okay?” Leo asked, coming up beside Lola. Lola shook her head. Leo’s eyes grew wide. “Did it hurt you?”

            Lola was looking down at the floor. “No. No, Leo. There wasn’t any ghost.”

            Leo’s heart was racing. Why was her sister speaking like this? “Yes there was. Is that you, Lola?”

            Now, Lola turned to Leo. “I am Lola, Leo. This is me. I’m not possessed or anything.”

            “Oh, yeah?” Leo cautiously stepped back from Lola. “What’s the fruit I hate the most, then?”

            “Oranges.”

            “But we saw a ghost, Lola.” Leo said.

            Mrs. Damer piped in. “What is it, Lola?”

            “No. That was my voice that Leo heard.” Lola said, now pretending to crack up. “I was practicing voice-acting. Ventriloquism. Something like that.”

            “That’s creepy,” Leo said, even if he didn’t believe her.

            Mrs. Damer now looked from Leo to Lola. “Look, both of you. Let’s not kid around here, alright? A ghost is serious. If there is one, we have to get things fixed as soon as possible. Have a paranormal expert and a priest over.”

            Lola was still acting out her laughter. She shook her head, snorting. “No, no, I was just joking. I got both of you punk’d here.”

            Mrs. Damer gave her a glare, as if to ask, are you serious? while the expression of disbelief in Leo’s face was still evident. Lola began apologizing, hoping for the sake of the spirit that they would be eventually convinced—or just get tired of it. Some half an hour later, Mrs. Damer declared that she will go to bed then, and left them the bottle of salt in case of another ghostly appearance.

            Leo turned to his sister when their mother shut the door. “Okay. Spill it.”

            “No ghost.”

            “This is my room, Lola. You gotta be honest with me.”

            “You know, if there is, you mustn’t be his favorite.”

            “And you are?”

            “No.” Lola said exasperatedly. She sighed, plopping down Leo’s bed. “Okay. There is.”

            “Then I’ll sleep with mom and dad tonight.”

            Lola glared at him, but that was the least of her concerns. “This ghost needs our help.”

            Leo looked nervous. “You shouldn’t go giving favors like that! For all you know, they could be lurking you into something.”

            “He sounded genuine.” Lola explained. “He said he needed us to help find his real parents.”

            Leo rolled his eyes at this rubbish. “They could be ghosts, too. Or demons in disguise.”

            “I see those supernatural movies have guaranteed you enough imagination.”

            He tsked. “You’re too naïve, Lola.” He said, throwing his hands up. “I’ll leave you here. I’m going to mom and dad.” He said, obviously annoyed.

            This made Lola hesitate. Now a ghost was making them fight. But Leo was out of the room before she could even come up with another act. And even if she did, he would never believe her anyway. So she sat alone on the bed, her guard on, in case the ghost would pop out in front of her and make her jump to her feet.

            But it never did.

            Lola felt herself being watched. She sighed. “Just…come out. But do it gently, okay? Don’t scare me.”

            She waited a few seconds, and was about to give up when a figure slowly emerged from Leo’s wardrobe. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him, and then another when he looked up at her. The hair on her arms and neck stood on the end. She couldn’t believe she was doing this.

            Calm down. Calm down. She said to herself.

            The ghost bit his lip. For some reason, this helped Lola calm down. The ghost acted human. She could see through him, but he was not so transparent that she could not make out how he looked like. She could. He had curly, bronze hair, something only a few guys could pull off at school, thick eyebrows, green eyes, thin lips, and a very tiny mole under his left eye. He had just the right built of a soccer player, and he was dressed in a plain white shirt and khaki pants. He looked like her contemporary.

            “How old are you?” was Lola’s first question.

            “I was 16 when I died.”

            The last word hit Lola hard in the head. For a moment, her brain was able to convince her that the ghost had a gentle human figure, not like the bloody ones she saw in the movies. “What’s your name?”

            “Liam.”

            “Liam what?” Lola asked. “We’re supposed to find your parents, right?”

            “Liam Carter.” He answered. “Well, if you’d just allow me to say this, but my biological parents would definitely not be Carters.”

            Lola nodded, slightly embarrassed. “Right.” It was not like she was in the right state of mind yet.

            There was a pause, and then the ghost said, “You’re pretty brave.”

            Lola ignored that. “How did you die?”

            “I had cancer.”

            Another swish in her insides. Just when can the cure to it be found? “Didn’t you lose your hair during chemo?”

            He nodded. “I did. But I stopped receiving medication.”

            “Why?”

            “In rebellion. I found out I was adopted.”

            This was getting a bit too much for Lola, but she had to calm herself down. She couldn’t afford anyone to freak out again. “You lost your life for that?”

            He looked sensitive about the question. “I’m sorry, but I’d really like to think that I was the one who experienced being given away by his real parents here.”

            Lola threw her hands up in surrender. “Okay. Okay, sorry,” she said, almost sourly, but he had a point. “What I meant was, your family could have been hurt about it.”

            Liam looked away. Clearly, he wasn’t going to answer.

            Geez. She was trying to help. She huffed in irritation, but asked, “How come you’re here? Just got lost? Were you visiting random houses or something?”

            “No.” He said. “We’re the previous owners of this place. My dad sold the land to your dad.”       

            Lola formed a small o with her mouth. “So you were the one causing all the trouble?”

            “What trouble?”

            “The missing construction materials.” Lola said. “And maybe the lights blinking last night? And being my doppelganger?” 

            “Oh,” Lola could see a small smirk form in Liam’s lips, but it vanished too quickly, that she wasn’t sure. “Yes. I did that.”

            Lola frowned at this. “Okay.”

            It took a moment for Liam to realize she was looking for an apology. “Okay. Sorry. I wanted to build something with the wood. And I wanted to talk to your brother about the same thing, but he fell asleep right away.”

            Lola shrugged. “Never mind.” She said, not entirely convinced, but just not that interested, either. “What’s your issue?”

            “I can’t cross over.”

            “Because of that unfinished job?”

            “Yes.” Liam nodded, now serious. He crossed his arms to mean business. “I’ll have to find my parents. It’s quite a complicated operation, but any help I can get, I’ll appreciate greatly.”

            “Alright.” Lola said suddenly. “No. Wait.”

            “What?”

            “This would be an agreement.” Lola told him. “Like a contract.”

            “A contract?” Liam asked, a little startled.

            “Yes. A contract. An agreement. Something done with conditions.”

            Liam frowned, but then got her drift. “Oh. Okay. So you have conditions?”

            Lola had to roll her eyes. “Of course. Haven’t you seen my brother get angry over this?”

            She was surprised when Liam half-smiled—not out of mockery, but out of admiration. “You’re really close.”

            “Yes, yes.” Lola said, waving that away and searching Leo’s open schoolbag for a piece of paper and a pen. “Can ghosts write?” She asked, scribbling her conditions on the paper.

            “Can’t. I’ll blow my signature.”

            She stopped writing, looking up at him. “I’m sorry?”

            Liam let out a whistle. “Well, blowing. It’s one of the effects of this energy we have. Like lifting objects without touching them.” He explained. “And writing.”

            Lola raised her eyebrows.

            Liam nodded shyly. “Really.”

            “O-kaaay,” Lola said slowly, finishing the contract. “I have three conditions. One, your behavior, which co-exists with condition two, which is your cooperation.” She folded her arms over her legs. “Look, I’m willing to do this, but I need you to cooperate, to give details, to help out. To not snap me with any attitude you might have. To argue sensibly, if we’re ever going to do that. To be honest all the time. To not have anyone or anything hurt in this mission. And to apologize for whatever mistake we might make.” She said. “Of course, I’m going to do the same thing to you.”

            Liam stared at her blankly for a moment, which made her feel like she was being studied like an animal in the zoo. “What’s the third one?”

            “The third one is to not ever forget this pact we’re making, unless you have no other choice once you go to heaven or hell or wherever and they brainwash you there so you can forget life’s pain and experience ultimate happiness or something.”

            For a second, he looked like he was going to laugh, but he kept a straight face, and then said, “Okay.”

            “Sign first.” Lola said, holding up the paper in front of her, with the details facing him. He just stared at it, then, his eyes moved to look at hers. “Done.”

            Lola turned the paper to her and studied his signature. The signature wasn’t in ink; it was more like a deep scratch in the paper. The letters looked geometrical, lots of lines and sharp edges, and very few curves. Even the C looked like a triangle. She looked up at him, then, back at the paper. Since the first and second condition required his honesty, she didn’t doubt the signature. She took Leo’s pen and signed under Liam’s signature.

            Then she laid the paper on the floor, in the middle of the gap separating the two of them. “I don’t know if you can shake hands.” She said.

            “You’re really formal.”

            “Only because I’m talking to a stranger and a ghost.”

            “You got your point there.”

            Lola held up her right pinky finger. “Hold up yours.” After he did without question, she said, “I swear to abide by all the conditions stated in this contract.”

            “What if I don’t?” He asked, seemingly out of curiosity.

            “It’s your loss.”

            He shrugged. Lola scowled. “Look, are you willing to do this?” She asked, a little angry. She’d been serious here since earlier. “Because if you aren’t, you can stay here forever. I don’t give a damn anyway.”

            “Whoa, cool. Relax.” Liam said, his eyebrows arching. “I was just curious. I was wondering how much courage you have.”

            Lola tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes at him. “When did you die?”

            “Three years ago.”

            “Three years ago.” Lola nodded. “That means you would have been 19 now. If ghosts don’t mature, at least be mature for this mission.”

            Liam just had to smile. “Alright.”

            “No kidding.”

            “No kidding.” He said, holding up his pinky finger higher. “Deal.”

            Lola gave him a serious business grin. “Deal.” 

—-

It isn’t scary. Haha!  I just didn’t intend this to be scary. I couldn’t come up with a plot good enough to make a really scary story out of. So, yeah. Pretty simple plot, too. I’m looking forward to writing the part two (although it wouldn’t be part of the schoolwork. Just something personal. Yet again.)

Here’s a bit of introduction (because I’m doing it whether you will read it or not): I was really, really upset over the holiday season. As in, upset. And I’m normally a very Christmassy person. I used to be more excited for Christmas than my own birthday until this, well, this holiday season. So this got me thinking why I was not excited for Christmas 2011—more especially, why I seemed to hate it, which I never in my life expected to experience.

Around 11 PM last December 21, this dislike of the holidays (which I hopefully won’t experience come next Christmas) gave birth to a character, a boy, who I originally named Ronnie in mind but eventually named Charlie. Charlie Gambon, in full. This boy hated Christmas. And with him came my first non-YA story, Not Another Holiday. I am actually serious about this one. I mean, really, I need to get more writing exercises—personal ones. I’ve decided to set aside my unfinished novels for summer, because no matter how much I want to write it already, I won’t be able to concentrate so much on it during school. In the meantime, I’ve decided to write short stories. I’ll extend to novelettes if necessary.

Anyway, for the first item, we were required to write a character sketch. There were instructions of it being in the form of a curriculum vitae, much like a simple character profile, but I decided to do a short interview. I had to shrink the interview to 400 words because that was the word limit, but given the chance, I’d write some three or four pages for Charlie’s interview. So that said, this one wouldn’t be as informative. Anyway. 

Sub-intro here (goodness, I talk too much. Well, I write too much, to be exact).

*Nick Elvie from The Fiction Insider interviews Charlie Gambon, the boy who hates Christmas. Charlie has strawberry blonde hair, light brown eyes, and fair skin. He stands at an 11-year-old’s average height. And yes, I invented him. Here’s his opening blah-blah: 

Alright, everybody! This is Nick Elvie from The Fiction Insider. Christmas is just around the corner, ain’t? I’m sure you folks are getting all hyped up for it, what with all the lights and carols around. But the excitement is not the same for this boy. Unlike the rest of us, this little guy hates Christmas and he’s been grumpy about it ever since he’s in diapers. Let’s see what he’s so upset about. Everybody, give it up for Charlie Gambon from Not Another Holiday!

*And then Charlie goes up to the stage, giving the people a tight smile and a small wave. He has strawberry blonde hair, tiny, light brown eyes, fair skin, and stands at an 11-year-old’s average height. He is dressed in a grayish-brown sweatshirt and pants.

Item #1: Character Sketch

Nick: Hello, Charlie!

Charlie: Hullo, Nick.

Nick: How has it been lately?

Charlie: Well it’s been really, really busy around the house and it annoys me.

Nick: Oh, why is that?

Charlie: I hate Christmas.

Nick: I heard you were born on the 25^th of December. In 2000, wow. Don’t you like your birthday?

Charlie: No, no. I don’t like it either. My birthday is Christmas. Don’t know if you get the point.

Nick: Well, maybe we’ll save it for later because we’re not in the same boat yet. Tell me about your family first.

Charlie: Well, my dad, Ronald, writes for the newspaper and my mom, Carol, is an interior designer. I have a younger sister, Rhianne, and a baby brother, Chris.

Nick: Wonderful. How are you at school?

Charlie: Good. I like soccer a lot. I’m trying to get into the school’s junior team this year.

Nick: That’s nice, that’s nice. Best of luck. Tell me what else you’re into.  

Charlie: Right, well, my mom says I play videogames too much. And I also awfully like riding the bike. And swimming. We always rent a beach house during summer.

Nick: So you look forward to your summers?

Charlie: Yes, I look forward to my summers.

Nick: Well, I think we ought to dig up that thing about the winter holidays. When did you start disliking Christmas?

Charlie: Since I realized that it’s also my birthday.

Nick: Why do you not like Christmas-slash-your birthday?

Charlie: I get to share it with everyone, you know? It isn’t so different. It’s like everybody else’s birthday. Maybe you have to experience being born on December 25 to feel it. It’s like having someone forget your birthday but a bit worse.

Nick: Oh, I’m not so sure, Charlie. Why do you think did Santa choose you as the event planner for the holidays?

Charlie: I have no idea. Do you?

Nick: Nope. That’s why I’m looking forward to the story.

Charlie: I wouldn’t look forward to it if I were you, though.

Nick: Ho, ho, ho, let’s see how it goes. Thank you for this short appearance, Charlie. I don’t think you want me to wish you happy holidays?

Charlie: Nope. Thank you, Nick.

***

The second item has an 800-word-limit. I’ve already started a bit of the story and pulled out an excerpt from it. So this is a scene. The line, “Sitting there was…” refers to the advent wreath sitting on the toilet seat.

 Item #2: Scene or story involving a character

“MOM!”

Sitting there was an advent wreath, a green, circular thing wrapped in a red ribbon. Charlie was way past understanding how enthusiastic his parents were about Christmas. He heard a shuffle of steps from outside, and then, a knock on the door. He opened it right away. “Why is this on the toilet seat?” Charlie asked in an irritated, hurried hush.

Carole’s eyes grew large, and then, shrunk back to their normal, almond shape. “My, of course, dear, you can always remove it.”

“…not even necessary,” Charlie murmured, rolling his eyes. He shoved the wreath on the pink basket that stood beside the sink, pushing it between a couple of magazines and a newspaper.

“Why don’t you come outside and talk with a few visitors? Fiona and Drew came an hour ago,” Carole said, drumming her fingers on the edge of the door. “But you were gone then,”

“Yeah, mom, but can I have some privacy for a second?” Charlie asked flatly.

“Oh! Oh, yes, yes of course.” His mom shut the door quickly. Charlie stared at the toilet bowl. Really, he was just planning to sit on it to be alone for a few minutes. Dinner will be served soon, and the visitors would be gone by then. He threw a furtive glance at the wreath, then, grabbed a copy of Us Weekly and absentmindedly flipped through the pages, waiting for six o’clock to strike. He could hear a bit of laughter from downstairs, some more chatter, and then, the setting of plates and forks and knives on the table. A moment later, he heard his father call. “Charlie-boy! Come on down,”

Charlie threw the magazine back to the basket and flew down to the kitchen. Roast beef and ham were waiting for him. A bowl of vegetable salad was on the table, too. Ronald was already putting Chris on the high chair. “Charlie-boy, Charlie-boy, sit down. Rhianne!”

“Coming, daddy!”

Charlie slipped into a chair. Carole was bidding goodbye to the last couple of visitors at the front door. A melody of Winter Wonderland was going around the dining room, merrily singing to their ears. A minute later, Rhianne appeared from the living room, her wavy, brunette hair feathering all the way to her waist. A huge smile was pasted over her face. Charlie frowned. “What happened?”

“Kyle was here!” Rhianne said breathlessly.

“Ho! That new kid?” Ronald joined in.

Rhianne turned rosy pink. Charlie couldn’t even smile. He didn’t like interacting with their house’s holiday fans. Chris began slapping his hands on the table, demanding attention. “No, no, no, Chris don’t,” Ronald tried to say, grabbing his small hands.

Carole entered the dining room with a cheery spirit. “Well, I see my family has already settled,” she said, sitting down beside Charlie.

Chris gave a small shriek. “Must be hungry,” Rhianne said knowingly.

“Let’s give our thanks,” Carole announced, clearing her throat. “Dear Lord, we give thanks for this meal, for this night of sitting down together in peace and joy as we receive Your blessings.”

“Amen,” Ronald nodded. Chris snickered, waving his hands around.

“Alright,” Carole sighed, dolling beef to their plates. “Chris will be getting a blueberry cheesecake. No beef for you, sweetie.”

“And all of you should get salad.” Ronald reminded. “Vegetables are good.”

“Ew,” Charlie and Rhianne chorused, their faces scrunched up in disgust.

“I have something to tell you all.” Carole said. “Actually, your father and I have talked about this.” Her lips curled up into an eager smile.

Rhianne stabbed her fork on a piece of ham. “What is it?”

“Can you pass the ham, Rhi?” Charlie asked. The roast beef seemed saltier than usual, and his tongue was looking for something sweet. Rhianne carefully passed him the plate, then looked back at their mother. Charlie was helping himself to a couple slices of ham when Carole announced, “I’ve decided to host the neighborhood Christmas party on the 25^th.”

Charlie dropped his fork at once. Rhianne went to an eruption of cheers, and Ronald had on a wide grin. Chris seemed to sense the tiny celebration, so he began slapping his hands on the table again, going, “Ta-da-da!” Carole looked graciously around the table.

“No!” Charlie protested, his face furious. Everyone stopped smiling and looked at him. Carole pulled her eyebrows together, worried. “My dear, I know you don’t—”

“Yeah, I don’t, mom.” Charlie pressed. “I don’t. I don’t like Christmas.”

Ronald brought his hands together and put his best fatherly look—the sympathetic kind. “Charlie, this would be a great celebration for all of us. At least two dozens of people suggested this.”

“December 25 is my birthday. It’s my birthday.” Charlie emphasized, equaling his parents’ stare with his. The last Christmases had already been bad enough.

***

I know I need to polish the story. The scene above is a fresh draft, the first one I made. I have yet to learn how ten-year-olds think and talk and act. I have yet to sympathize with the characters, and with Charlie, of course. I have yet to know how I can deliver the story well from a third POV. I have yet to select my words carefully—how I can make the language more family-friendly. I have yet to consider so many things—as in, should I imply some spiritual thing in it? How can I make Charlie finish his mission in the story? Stuff like that. I have yet to transform this one.

BTW, apologies for wrong grammar. I especially note the tenses. I used to write in past tense (and third POV, mind you. I grew up with Harry Potter. But I’ve learned to love the first POV for YA stories.) until recently, I read four consecutive novels written in present tense—I’m reading the fifth present-tense-novel now. So yep. Kind of trying to settle that.

4. Begin weaving together elements from steps one to three to make a narrative or story (1200 maximum word limit.)

A bit of an explanation at the end if you’re interested.

—-

Sunday, 2 AM

            My eyes are wide awake, but my mind is turning to mush. My notebook sits in front of me. I have eight tabs opened, all containing information about the Reproductive Health Bill that I’m supposed to digest for biology class.

            I shut the computer down. Maybe I can squeeze in a few hours of sleep. I put my phone on a 4:30 alarm, then, try to doze off.

            This is the day.

 

Past 4 AM

            I can’t remember if I woke up from the alarm or not, since my phone is set 20 minutes earlier than the wall clock in the room. I glance at my phone.

            Abby, wake up.

            I knew she would be texting. I type a message back. My fingers have long since learned to type the right thing without my mind fully awake.

            I watch the little screen announce the message being sent, then, bring me back to the message I wrote.

            I’m awake.

 

9:55 AM

            My eyes open for a fraction. I’ve fallen asleep, yet again. The first thing that registers in my mind is to grasp the dream I had so I can write something in my dream journal. Among all the dreams I had the past week, this is the one I actually remember after waking up.

The second thing I remember is my phone. I sit up carefully and look around. I find it under my pillow. Seven messages. Five from C. They’re on the way.

 

11:30 AM

            In front of me are my dream diary, a pen, and my voice recorder. I’m staring at the gray, PLAY symbol, which actually functions as Start Record. How do I start this? How do I talk about a friend who passed away?

 

2:02 PM

            I need to get this started.

 

2:13 PM

            My eyes drop down to the page I had written my dream on. I’ve been waiting for him to show up in my sleep ever since last Saturday. Instead, I dreamed of a robber pretending to be Spiderman in an orange suit. He stole a pair of priceless sunglasses from Queen Elizabeth II. I was able to snatch the sunglasses away from him and return it to the queen. A bonus is getting him jailed.

            In this rubbish of a dream, I find inspiration.

 

2:44 PM

            Guilt. Heroism. Farewells. They sound beautiful and strange and painful weaved together.

 

3:45PM

            What if chances for life can be bottled up in flasks?

What if copies of it can be produced, each one worth more than an expensive car and mansion and diamonds and gold combined together, but can still be bought by those who are rich enough to, or those who just need it so badly?

            Today, I had a dream about getting back a pair of sunglasses for Queen Elizabeth II from an evil Spiderman. A few hours after waking up and soaking myself with some sanity, I start to think, what if life can be bought like sunglasses? What if it also gets stolen by Spiderman?            I would have done it, you know. Been the heroic figure. Grabbed that flask. Handed it to you. Saved your life. We all would have done it. It was something that belonged to you.

 

            I stop the recording. Play it. Delete it. That’s not inspiration.

            I try again. But as I try, I can’t stop recalling what happened.

 

4:06PM

G had cancer as a baby. He survived it for 16 years, then, got diagnosed again. It was a few days before his highschool graduation when the symptoms were seen. They’d been practicing the graduation rites when he told C, his bestfriend, who I am much closer with than G, the headache he was experiencing. That was where it started.

            G and I weren’t very close, but we were good friends. We had enough friendship for me to be devastated by the news of his death. It hasn’t even been a year since his cancer got back, but upon learning that he had cancer when he was young, it was more understandable. The sickness, I mean.

            I stop thinking. I go to the kitchen and drink a glass of water. It’s a way to get me occupied.

 

4:40 PM

            I remember the argument I had with C a couple of nights ago.

            “Why are you using the word goodbye?” I asked angrily. She shruged it off, and I know it’s her way of saying that she’s mad at me for bringing it up, for reminding her of the pain. But I have my stand. I don’t want a goodbye with G. I want a see you again.

            Because, damn it, it’s the only consolation I can get around here.

 

4:51 PM

            I bite my lip. I try to stop my eyes from welling. C has sent me a message.

            Mass just finished.

            I know what’s next. I take a deep breath, try to think. Try to think. Try to think.

            And I decide. Pain kills pain.

            What would hurt more than remembering?

 

5:12 PM

            I visited G twice. The first time I did, it was a few days after his birthday. The second time, he was in his casket. It’s crazy how these things go. How life goes. Apparently, one day you can be spending time with your friend. The next day, he’s barely alive.

            I let memories flash through my mind. The sweet, young boy who I enjoyed stories with. I remember sharing with him my copy of Twenty Boy Summer. I was sitting in the school gym, reading, while the rest of the school howled and cheered for the program going up on the stage. But he approached me. “What’s that?” He asked. I showed him the book, and we read it together. He was fascinated with Matt’s death in the book. In there, the character didn’t have a choice.

            Of course we were all hoping that he’d get to survive it. He was a brave kid. Even if he wasn’t, how can you not hope for it?

 

11:12 PM

            I lie in bed, stare at the ceiling. Guilt finds its way to me. I should have visited him again. I should have prayed harder. I should have believed in miracles more.

            But that’s gone. His burial is finished, and C was there. All I can do is take comfort in the thought that he is at peace. It’s hard. Remembering how he lived. Wishing that he didn’t die so young.

Hoping for a sign that he’s okay.

 

Monday, 5:46 PM

            “Abby,”

I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around. There is H. We exchange embraces, then, she opens her bag and retrieves a book. I take it and look down at the light blue cover, now getting some light black and brown smudges. Twenty Boy Summer. I will never look at it again without remembering how, one day, he sat beside me while we pored over that book.

            And I think, G, you aren’t Matt. You had a choice.

           

6:41 PM

When I come home, a yellow butterfly is waiting on my bookshelf. It’s still and knowing.

            I smile. “I hope you made the right one.”

—-

All of the scenes here are true, except for the “Mass finished.” part and the Monday part. 

It doesn’t have much of a plot. I just wrote it in honor of the friend of mine who passed away, Giuseppe Cordero. I know I could have written it in another way, but my I just couldn’t find my creativity for that. Not now.

I don’t know if I depicted my emotions well, but I don’t think that’s what I’m exactly aiming for in the first place. What I really wanted to show was how I’m trying, and still trying, to contain myself despite all the feelings that are threatening to burst from my chest (which, I know, I wasn’t able to write out well). I’m the one in the middle, the one trying to find the reason she knows she shouldn’t question.

When I word-counted this in Word, it has an exact count of 1200. To be honest, that’s too short for such a goal for this piece. But I thought that I could use that to show how quick everything happened. How its reality pumps in and out me in between short periods of time.

I wrote the Monday part for a hopeful ending. 

1.  Write one or two paragraphs based on a resonant line, either from a poem, a song, a movie or a book that you love.        

I kind of wrote more about how I found it than how it meant to me. I wrote a bit of the latter in the fourth item.   

—-

                I was sitting in the CAL library, killing time. I brought The Possibility of Fireflies by Dominique Paul with me.  I never got tired of this book. It was so beautifully written that I just kept coming back to it.

                I scanned through its chapters again. All the scenes play in my mind like I was actually there. Ellie trying to struggling in her home, which her dad left, and where her mom lost it, who her sister constantly argues with. I was looking for inspiration, something to help me portray the young adult flavor in the novel I was working on, when suddenly, one line caught my attention. “I hate guilt. It is so useless. You sit there feeling bad about something you’ve already done. And in real life there are no take-backs. You can try a do-over, but the whole thing is tainted already.”

                Truest thing I encountered that day.

2. Recall a recent dream you had. Write one or two paragraphs based on that. 

                New York stretched out in front of me in my dream. It seemed like a mesh of modern-day New York, but with an old, Hollywood touch. The place I went into looked like Resorts World Manila, with all its polished floors and marble walls. But there were abandoned areas, like the theater we went to. It played old movies according to the category of the day. Horror. Cheap romance. Comedies.

               We were watching a horror movie that day, when I heard a commotion going on outside the movie theater. I rushed out of the movie house. In the hall, all the big time celebrities, well-known fashion designers and politicians were having a party—only this time, they were huddled up in a corner, eyes fixed on one figure on the wall next to me. I looked up. It was a Spiderman. It wasn’t Spiderman. It was a Spiderman. He had on orange skin instead of red. I had the nagging feeling he was a robber. Batman and Superman came to the scene, but were outsmarted by the fake Spiderman. Even the original Spiderman himself couldn’t throw the orange Spiderman down. I was standing to one side, alone, watching the whole scene, until the fake Spiderman dashed by my side. I grabbed both his hands and hurled him around, throwing him to the dark blue-uniformed policemen who were standing defensively in front of the people. I snatched the sunglasses he had in his hand. The policemen removed his mask. He had a dark brown, tousled hair, a bit of a mustache, and a rather young face. I sat in front of him, looked at him intently. I made sure that my eyes spoke all the messages. I sat there until the policemen took him away. I looked down at the sunglasses I’d grabbed from him. Someone told me it was Queen Elizabeth II’s. I looked for the queen, dazzling in a formal blue gown, and gave her the sunglasses. Four young boys, all with blonde hair, were around her. Grandchildren, maybe.

 3. Recall a problem you had or have with another person. Write one two paragraphs about that. 

Ahaha, way too literal, the way I wrote this.  

—- 

                I didn’t like my girlfriend’s last status on Facebook. It was a status for her bestfriend, who was a friend of mine. In there, she was saying how she never expected to bid him goodbye that way. You see, I hated the word “paalam.” Especially since I prayed every night and swore that I’d never use the word goodbye because I simply did not believe that it was already a farewell. I believed in an afterlife. Situations like this necessitated a belief in an afterlife. So I went to message her, “Don’t use the word goodbye.”

                Obviously, she got irritated. What right did I have, anyway? They were closer. So she messaged back an, “Ah. Hahaha,” and I know it’s her sign of waging a silent war with me. We sent short messages to each other and practically went to ignorance mode after that.

                 

 

So I am not entirely sure whether we have to post all four items up here or only the fourth item, because I kind of heard in class that Sir Quina wanted to see only the fourth item. But to stay safe, I’m posting all four.

Okay, so I’m really sorry to say that my first writing exercise came out lame. I really think it did. T_T So, I don’t know, I’m not expecting a nice mark or anything.

In the fourth item, which is sort of the outcome of the other three items, we were given a 1200 word limit. Thing is I’m not very good with thinking of short-range stories. News or feature articles I can work with, but never stories. Usually I always have too much emotion to say. 

But there’s this thing, you see. My friend died over a week ago. It was so quick, and most of the time I caught myself snapping out of trances of guilt and sorrow and hope. Sometimes it sinks in, other times it feels surreal. I don’t know if I portrayed it correctly in the fourth item, but I just squeezed all the best juices that I could. But don’t expect anything grand, because, well, I did rate it ‘lame’, didn’t I? I worked the 1200 word limit to my advantage. And the clues are the third and fourth sentences in this very paragraph. I don’t know if I ought to explain the literary devices I used—or, really, whatever you call that. I don’t want to spoil anything, but I’m a little worried that the audience may not appreciate it. I DON’T KNOW, OKAY, let’s just goooooooo. T__________T Start this!

Nothing. It’s just random. I minded writing a post about it because it doesn’t sound as cool as, well, the other blog titles here. o_o It was too boring to make my name as title, but I couldn’t think of anything else, because I don’t want my blog to be defined by its title, firstly, even if that ought to say something (as a title). It DID get inspired by this line, “Beautiful as a chance encounter, on an operating table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella.” It came from Les Chants de Maldoror by Conte de Lautréamont. Just the sewing machine and umbrella bit, actually, aha.

Two facts to start with: 

1) I already have a Tumblr account.

2) I didn’t use it because I was planning to make an official one.

Which goes on to say that my other Tumblr account, The Last Soundtrack, is a bit “informal.” Or something of that sort. Most of the posts there are reblogged posts that I found really nice-slash-hilarious-slash-incredible, and my original posts are usually short rants about the day, little philosophies, or quick emotional outbursts. Which is why I tag that blog informal. Plus, the url (aliceannah) doesn’t even relate to me. I just liked the name. It’s so classic.

The thing is, I have been planning to create an “official” blog at some point in the future. Something with my name on it, with longer, more sensible posts (not that I hated the short posts I made in my other account, but I at least would like to sound a bit more mature if I can help it). And since we were required to have a blog for our Creative Writing 10 class, I decided to do that “official” blog sooner than I anticipated. I’m not yet so sure if this really will be my official blog, because I have tendencies of not finishing things that come out not in the way that I had in mind, but, anyway, it will serve as my blog for the class in the meantime. Of course I’ll be adding personal posts, too. Let’s just see how long I can keep that up.

I originally made a Wordpress blog over the weekend for the class, but after learning that we can actually use Tumblr as a hosting site (I didn’t see it in the syllabus. Good thing Sir Quina mentioned that to us.), I immediately decided to write to the Wordpress staff to delete my account. I don’t exactly like owning too many accounts and like to keep my space in the cyberworld organized and clutter-free. Besides, I am so much more comfortable with Tumblr. I didn’t even know there was a difference between Wordpress.com and Wordpress.org.

Anyway, this blog isn’t an online diary. It’s an online journal. I don’t write diaries, whether online or not. I always have this dream of having my journals end up like Anne Frank’s diary, aha! Of course, I’d rant about my thoughts and feelings, but I’ll also write about the world I live in, and the issues wrapping the society today, or whether ketchup packet six is sweeter than ketchup packet four in McDonald’s. Occasionally, I’d talk about something that recently stirred me. For instance, I’m predicting that if I go insane enough, my next post will be about The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins. This blog can include just about anything. So, yep. That’s about it for the first post.