19 Aug 2010
by Jamesin Prose Tags: 2010, Prose
“Is that how an English Major is supposed to report? You’re not even one sixteenth of what an English Major is supposed to be.” the English Literature professor said after the last member of the group read his report – a sign that he did not prepare. Her words stung and cut deep, leaving Mr. Lontoc astonished.
The worst thing that a person could’ve said to him rang in his ears. It was not directed to him particularly, but to his whole group, yet he could not help but be humiliated. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been, as he did his part and even tried his best to save the group mates who did not do theirs, but the insult was too strong to be taken in stride, much less ignored.
How could he not be humiliated. He was proud of being an English Major, and telling him that he was not even one sixteenth of what an English major was supposed to be was like telling him that his education was of no value. It was like telling him to go jump off the 7th floor of Perfecto building because his studies were worthless since he could not even be a fraction of what he was supposed to be. What he was meant to be.
As the bell rang, Mr. Lontoc stood with weakened knees and tingling hands. For a moment his blood circulation stopped, and the restoration of the flow startled and hurt him at the same time. His mind went blank and seemingly, his neurons ceased to function. His eyes did not see, his ears did not hear, and his skin could not feel the coldness of the wall he leaned on as he walked. He felt even more feverish than he already was.
The pain he felt was foreign to him. It was not quite like a broken wrist, dry bones, or even a heartbreak. He could not define what is was like, because it was the first time he ever felt it. He could not place the right words to describe it, but ironically, he would never forget it. The pain was seared on his consciousness and the words tattooed on his senses.
04 Jul 2010
by Jamesin Prose, Rants Tags: Rants
I started writing my novel the summer of 2008, if I’m not mistaken, and since then I’ve accomplished not more than 15 short chapters. I always knew that writing a novel; formulating a half decent plot, characters, and all the other elements of the story would be quite a task, but I never anticipated it would be… excruciatingly difficult. That doesn’t include the hell called editing yet. I have to admit that writing a novel is really, really fun (it’s the kind of writing I enjoy the most), but at times I just get writer’s block, and getting over that block could be really hard.
Nevertheless, those blocks aren’t enough to make me give up because finishing a 2000+ – 3000+ word chapter is really fulfilling. Nothing beats the feeling you get after you read a book chapter you wrote yourself, no matter how shabby it is. I guess one’s own work will always make him smile.
I hope to finish my novel in the next three years (proof reading, editing, and reediting the edited version included), and I hope I get it published in the next five. And I hope in the next eight I’d be a best selling author. Heck, That’d be a great accomplishment for me before I’m 30! So pray about it with me, will ya? :)
Here are tentative prologues of Pupil/Carnival Eyes (I haven’t really decided on the title yet). I hope they’re good enough to catch your attention. Maybe you could even help me decide which one to use.
Vorspiel
Nothing could have prepared him for the pain he felt, and nothing could be done to make him feel better. Not the cigarette in his fingers, not the apple vodka on the table, and not even the beauty beside him whose arms were wrapped around his neck.
When star shaped, film like things appear on your pupils like contact lenses, nothing and no one can soothe the hell you go through. Nothing. All you can do is wait for the worst to be over and look for Shiromi: the only person they say can help you.
Part 1 – Prologue
“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
I have often thought of dying, but I’ve never given much thought to the possibility that I would take away life. Now, as I hold the flail that will escort this man to the other side, I am uncertain that what I am about to do is right. Taking a life away is a mortal sin, no matter what justification.
I’ve killed another of the Omega. I really am a fool.
- Denzel Lyonhart
P.S.
If there are plagiarizers out there reading this post, please don’t even think about copying! I’m well aware of my rights dude.
24 Apr 2010
by Jamesin Prose Tags: Prose
He’s been a smoker for so long, he can’t remember when exactly he started smoking. When he was twelve perhaps? He can’t remember when the first time he puckered his lips and breathed nicotine was. All he remembers is that he didn’t cough like first time smokers usually did; the smoke did not seem alien to him. In fact, his body seemed to accept it. Like oxygen.
He’s been a drinker for so long, alcohol is his water. He has a beer with his lunch, a gin after dinner and for good measure, he shoots tequilas right before dosing off on the living room couch. He laughs and jokes around, claiming that he’s just waiting to die of liver failure. Not many find that funny.
He lost his virginity when he was seventeen, to a girl four years his senior. They were from the same college, the same course. He coerced her into saying yes with sweet nothings and two bottles of red wine. She had his kid. He ditched her. Then he banged other girls. He thought it was his responsibility to deflower every pretty virgin he found. And he did. The clueless girls just couldn’t say no. And they got gonorrhea.
What a jack, right? You might be thinking that he’s one of the biggest douches on the planet, and you’d be right. He is a douche. A plain old douche bag. But nonetheless, I love him. That’s real smart of me, I agree, but I can’t really help it. I love the guy. You don’t think so? You’re right. That’s just what I want myself to believe. It’s what I try to convince myself of. But I’m sure I think I love him, at the very least. Or more certainly, I’m infatuated with him. Was infatuated. ‘Cause he looks good. He looks like a hunk straight out of GQ. He’s smokin’. Figuratively and literally, as I’ve mentioned. He’s got those deep-set brown eyes that could make you feel stark naked despite your wearing three windbreakers one over the other. And a smile that could make your knees melt like cotton candy in your mouth. Plus the abs. The abs that are pure beef. And the tan. And daring pompadour. The worst part is that he knows how and when to use these qualities to his advantage. The devil.
Infatuation is a dangerously funny thing. It’s completely different from true love in every aspect you can think of. Or I can think of rather, because I don’t really know what you’re thinking. Infatuation makes you think you’re in love with the guy, even though you’re really not. Infatuation makes your emotions do the talking and your hormones the leading. And it makes you’re brain agree with your emotions and hormones. It makes you focus on his good looks, and it tunes out all the rest of his jackness.
It’s really stupid you know, how it can make the dumbest jack seem like Barbie’s Prince Charming. How it can make you think that you’re sure you love him. Unconditionally and irrevocably. How it can make a shiny, sparkling blood sucker seem like the god of perfection to a damsel-in-distress teenage girl who trips over her own foot. And how it can make my smokerdrinkerpromiscuousdouchebag of a guy seem like the perfect match for me. ‘Cause I’m bearing his second kid, after aborting his first kid. His first kid with me that is.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that infatuation is danger without the warning signs and yellow tapes. When you think you’re in love, think again. Take a rain check. Trust me, you don’t want to give in and regret it after it’s too late to do anything about it. You don’t want to be stuck with a smokerdrinkerpromiscuousdouchebag of a guy who you have no choice but to think is the perfect match for you.
- Venice
23 Mar 2010
by Jamesin Prose Tags: Prose
I hate this feeling I have. A hopeless admiration I don’t quite understand. No good will come of it. None at all. She walks by without taking a second glance. I on the other hand, stop. And I stare. It is an enigma. a devastating enigma. I expect too much from someone I’ve only observed within ten paces. I find myself pathetic; lured in by someone who only roused my curiosity. I wonder, is she even as beautiful as she seems to be? Tell me, for my senses may be playing tricks on me.
I’m tired of this, but unfortunately, it can’t be helped. I know she does not notice me, so why do I even care? That does it. I’m acting like an imbecile, trying to catch her attention in vain. She walks confidently and with poise, in a straight line, never looking back. I suppose that’s why she never will notice me; I am always a step behind.
I give up. I can’t win. For a dirt bag like me, she’s someone I can only admire. She is a painting in the Louvre, to be viewed only at a distance. She’s simply amazing. We have a one sided love affair with the universe between us. It’s not appealing at all. It is a tragedy on my part. I want to end it but I just can’t. Having her in my mind is a wonderful sensation.
22 Mar 2010
by Jamesin Prose Tags: Prose
I first look at my subject passively. Then I take a second glance, this time looking at it more keenly. I am interested. After a very long minute, I smile, excitement painted on the face that was only moments ago, so detached. The process has already begun.
Neurons transmit all the information I am looking at to my brain. In turn, my brain processes this information and orders my body around. I write. From time to time I pause and toy with my pen, listening to the music of nature, beholding the beauty of my subject. My thoughts begin to spin and my emotions take sudden swings. The gate to creativity opens, and I eagerly cross the line between reality and fiction.
Through my imagination, I free my self of all hindrances and relieve my body of the chains that bind me to the ground: limitations. The wind inside of me blows violently and I lose myself to love, grace, and freedom. For the time being, the clock’s immortal ticking is irrelevant. This transcendental world is all that matters. It is all I have in mind; all I care for.
I find thrill in the blank sheets in front of me, and the only sensible thing to do is to fill them up. Fill them up with my new found love and freedom. Art is created as I do so; as I pour my soul into the strokes of my right hand. In strides of ink my piece is formed, more and more captivating as I dismiss impossibilities as plausible. This is the climax of my pleasure, all in five minutes.
Inevitably, I lock the gate to Lala Land and snap back to reality, pleased. I am fully satisfied.
04 Oct 2009
by Jamesin Prose Tags: Prose
I leaned on the edge of the desk, holding her gaze that penetrated like murder. Eyed her steadily, munching on a pear. She obviously had the urge to cry, but pride held back the tears. Her expression was not frightened, unsurprised; officious even, like she was a very powerful woman who was not to be fucked with. But inevitably, she faltered, like a child’s faith crushed and money thrown down the drain. Her head dipped, hands shook and her shape receded before my eyes.
I closed in, knelt before the bed on which she sat, allowing her to cling, allowing her to placate herself. She wept on my shoulder, silently retching. She was a mess; worse than a library missing a book, or a paperback lacking a page. She swallowed each sob painfully and shuddered as she inhaled from her smoke.
“That horrible message…” she murmured, clutching her mobile phone. I stirred, too brusquely, perhaps. “Why so cold?” she inquired, glaring at me with fiery, yet desperate eyes. I did not respond, but stayed where I was. She fondled my hair and kissed me, hammering her mouth against mine.
It felt like cashmere; her lips were smudged with a pasty, brown substance, almost the color of her wonderful skin. Her diamond teeth and lurid gums sought mine. My heart raged, but I hesitated. Reserved, I broke away. The pass was a new and unexpected turn; dreamy, inevitable enough, but alien. Altogether different.
There was a warm and musty silence, like in a caravan, traveling under Summer’s heat. Diagonal smoke from her cigarette was spangled by a thousand grains of dust, highlighted by a shaft of Autumn sun. She stubbed the cigarette and let out her last smoke, smiling at me bitterly. I squeezed her leathery wrists, pecked her cheeks and said goodbye.
As I walked away, I could hear her hoarse moans and feel her heart break. It pained me, but I had made a decision. A decision to save her, but would ironically, leave her bleeding.
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