A hum filled the air with an industrial flavor. I didn't care for the metal tang in my ear. But the boss said stay in the corridor, so in the corridor I must stay. He didn't specify where or how exactly I should stay, so I stayed slouched against the wall, my feet braced wide apart. The floor was wet-steel slippery. I didn't feel like introducing my ass to the floor just yet.
Not just yet, I reflected grimly. So the boss had heard about "the incident". Figures. Who hasn't? Even my old lady neighbor, Mrs. Trinidad, thought she should tell me that I should apologize to them. To them? To whom? I wanted to question the geezer. But in the end, her rheumatic hand spasms softened my heart and I let her pass with just one threatening poke of my butterfly knife against her soft old lady belly.
Waiting was never one of my favorite things to do. While I held up the wall, there were so many other things I could have been doing. There were plots to hatch, crimes to mastermind. Waiting made my brain stupefy. Stupefy. You like that? It's my word of the day. The boss always told me that I should have something to fall back on once the plan fell through. Yeah, he kinda always knew that the plan would never work out in the long run. So he encouraged me to learn stuff. New things like words of the day and nice poetry.
Superheroes bantered with arch-villains before hauling them off to jail. The boss was a visionary. He believed that even henchmen deserved to utter a nice turn of phrase once in a while too.
But that had all been before "the incident".
"The incident" where one henchman got too smart for his own good.
So now I had to stew in a metallic miasma of fear and the hum of cutting machines. Waiting.
Forgiveness is a prima donna, a coy virgin, a broken heart.
The sound of a doorknob turning was as sudden as a gong. I straightened up my posture and brushed some dirt off my shoulders. Nerves were suddenly too exposed. My stomach was a hornet's nest.
It was time to woo the cook.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Since, my friends, it seems like we've run out of story ideas, I found this interesting list in an RPG page. These are story plots we can use. I'm thinking, maybe one number per week? Starting from no. 1 "Supplication"? Watcha think?
The Basic Plots
Each short plot description starts with the title of the plot pattern. After a hyphen the main characters to be found in the plot are given, separated by commas.
1. Supplication - Persecutor, Suppliant, a Power in Authority
2. Deliverance - Unfortunates, Threatener, Rescuer
3. Revenge - Avenger, Criminal
4. Vengeance by Family upon Family - Avenging Kinsman, Guilty Kinsman, Relative
5. Pursuit - Fugitive from Punishment, Pursuer
6. Victim of Cruelty or Misfortune - Unfortunates, Master or Unlucky Person
7. Disaster - Vanquished Power, Victorious Power or Messenger
8. Revolt - Tyrant, Conspirator(s)
9. Daring Enterprise - Bold Leader, Goal, Adversary
10. Abduction - Abductor, Abducted, Guardian
11. Enigma - Interrogator, Seeker, Problem
12. Obtaining - Two or more Opposing Parties, Object, maybe an Arbitrator
13. Familial Hatred - Two Family Members who hate each other
14. Familial Rivalry - Preferred Kinsman, Rejected Kinsman, Object
15. Murderous Adultery - Two Adulterers, the Betrayed
16. Madness - Madman, Victim
17. Fatal Imprudence - Imprudent person, Victim or lost object
18. Involuntary Crimes of Love - Lover, Beloved, Revealer
19. Kinsman Kills Unrecognised Kinsman - Killer, Unrecognised Victim, Revealer
20. Self Sacrifice for an Ideal - Hero, Ideal, Person or Thing Sacrificed
21. Self Sacrifice for Kindred - Hero, Kinsman, Person or Thing Sacrificed
22. All Sacrificed for Passion - Lover, Object of Passion, Person or Thing Sacrificed
23. Sacrifice of Loved Ones - Hero, Beloved Victim, Need for Sacrifice
24. Rivalry Between Superior and Inferior - Superior, Inferior, Object
25. Adultery - Deceived Spouse, Two Adulterers
26. Crimes of Love - Lover, Beloved, theme of Dissolution
27. Discovery of Dishonor of a Loved One - Discoverer, Guilty One
28. Obstacles to Love - Two Lovers, Obstacle
29. An Enemy Loved - Beloved Enemy, Lover, Hater
30. Ambition - An Ambitious Person, Coveted Thing, Adversary
31. Conflict with a God - Mortal, Immortal
32. Mistaken Jealousy - Jealous One, Object of Jealousy, Supposed Accomplice, Author of Mistake
33. Faulty Judgment - Mistaken One, Victim of Mistake, Author of Mistake, Guilty Person
34. Remorse - Culprit, Victim, Interrogator
35. Recovery of a Lost One - Seeker, One Found
36. Loss of Loved Ones - Kinsman Slain, Kinsman Witness, Executioner
from: http://www.rpglibrary.org/articles/storytelling/36plots.php
The Basic Plots
Each short plot description starts with the title of the plot pattern. After a hyphen the main characters to be found in the plot are given, separated by commas.
1. Supplication - Persecutor, Suppliant, a Power in Authority
2. Deliverance - Unfortunates, Threatener, Rescuer
3. Revenge - Avenger, Criminal
4. Vengeance by Family upon Family - Avenging Kinsman, Guilty Kinsman, Relative
5. Pursuit - Fugitive from Punishment, Pursuer
6. Victim of Cruelty or Misfortune - Unfortunates, Master or Unlucky Person
7. Disaster - Vanquished Power, Victorious Power or Messenger
8. Revolt - Tyrant, Conspirator(s)
9. Daring Enterprise - Bold Leader, Goal, Adversary
10. Abduction - Abductor, Abducted, Guardian
11. Enigma - Interrogator, Seeker, Problem
12. Obtaining - Two or more Opposing Parties, Object, maybe an Arbitrator
13. Familial Hatred - Two Family Members who hate each other
14. Familial Rivalry - Preferred Kinsman, Rejected Kinsman, Object
15. Murderous Adultery - Two Adulterers, the Betrayed
16. Madness - Madman, Victim
17. Fatal Imprudence - Imprudent person, Victim or lost object
18. Involuntary Crimes of Love - Lover, Beloved, Revealer
19. Kinsman Kills Unrecognised Kinsman - Killer, Unrecognised Victim, Revealer
20. Self Sacrifice for an Ideal - Hero, Ideal, Person or Thing Sacrificed
21. Self Sacrifice for Kindred - Hero, Kinsman, Person or Thing Sacrificed
22. All Sacrificed for Passion - Lover, Object of Passion, Person or Thing Sacrificed
23. Sacrifice of Loved Ones - Hero, Beloved Victim, Need for Sacrifice
24. Rivalry Between Superior and Inferior - Superior, Inferior, Object
25. Adultery - Deceived Spouse, Two Adulterers
26. Crimes of Love - Lover, Beloved, theme of Dissolution
27. Discovery of Dishonor of a Loved One - Discoverer, Guilty One
28. Obstacles to Love - Two Lovers, Obstacle
29. An Enemy Loved - Beloved Enemy, Lover, Hater
30. Ambition - An Ambitious Person, Coveted Thing, Adversary
31. Conflict with a God - Mortal, Immortal
32. Mistaken Jealousy - Jealous One, Object of Jealousy, Supposed Accomplice, Author of Mistake
33. Faulty Judgment - Mistaken One, Victim of Mistake, Author of Mistake, Guilty Person
34. Remorse - Culprit, Victim, Interrogator
35. Recovery of a Lost One - Seeker, One Found
36. Loss of Loved Ones - Kinsman Slain, Kinsman Witness, Executioner
from: http://www.rpglibrary.org/articles/storytelling/36plots.php
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Sleepless
There is a drip drip dripping in the night. It echoes against the walls, through the halls, through windows and open doors, into bedrooms and against the eardrums of the sleep deprived. Louder in the silence. Louder than the multitude of the night's population, chirping, croaking, creaking, calling in the darkness, making their unseen presence felt.
He lies in bed, longing for sleep. Sleep is slow to come tonight, as any other. In a bed not his own, with borrowed pillows and linens, under a roof generously provided, graciously accepted, but with no sense of belonging to him, he wills drowsiness to come to him. But slumber is slave to no will, and chooses not be found.
A baby wakes in the night. Waking in hunger perhaps, in discomfort, for this afternoon's meal has finally worked its way through. She cries for her mother, for her father, for anyone to give her succor, rescue from this immediate discomfort. Her wails weaving their way through windows, against walls and under doors, waking parents, ignoring others, but assaulting he who has yet to succumb to sleep.
He stares at the ceiling. He has memorized the pattern of the shadow that the light throws through the window. Unwavering in the fluorescent glow, its stillness punctuated by the flutter of wings, now and again, seeking warmth and wonder, until a quick flick of a tongue, and mini-mashing of a toothless maw returns stillness to the shadow. He lies still, flirting with the edge of sleep, but unable to go all the way.
The howl of mighty engines rule the streets tonight. Along the empty mountain road, racing in the dark, past houses, homes, and their resident guardians, who join in with staccato barking, yelping and growling. Frustrated with their fate, envious of the freedom the men in their machines are so keen to take advantage of. They yap, yip, bark and howl in discontentment. He hears them, yet he hears them not.
He has found in himself the stillness that has eluded him. He listens to each of the nights sounds, songs in turn. He is giving himself up to this nights concerto, listening for the lullaby that he knows will lead him to the land of dream and fitful sleep.
The air-conditioner hums this lullaby. It breathes in the warmth and exhales the cold, humming, humming, humming all the while. A steady drone, still movement, comforting constant cacophony, carefully carrying the weary beyond the walls of wakefulness and into sleep and dreaming beyond.
He sleeps tonight. And will wake to a new day, but not until the morning, only hours away.
He lies in bed, longing for sleep. Sleep is slow to come tonight, as any other. In a bed not his own, with borrowed pillows and linens, under a roof generously provided, graciously accepted, but with no sense of belonging to him, he wills drowsiness to come to him. But slumber is slave to no will, and chooses not be found.
A baby wakes in the night. Waking in hunger perhaps, in discomfort, for this afternoon's meal has finally worked its way through. She cries for her mother, for her father, for anyone to give her succor, rescue from this immediate discomfort. Her wails weaving their way through windows, against walls and under doors, waking parents, ignoring others, but assaulting he who has yet to succumb to sleep.
He stares at the ceiling. He has memorized the pattern of the shadow that the light throws through the window. Unwavering in the fluorescent glow, its stillness punctuated by the flutter of wings, now and again, seeking warmth and wonder, until a quick flick of a tongue, and mini-mashing of a toothless maw returns stillness to the shadow. He lies still, flirting with the edge of sleep, but unable to go all the way.
The howl of mighty engines rule the streets tonight. Along the empty mountain road, racing in the dark, past houses, homes, and their resident guardians, who join in with staccato barking, yelping and growling. Frustrated with their fate, envious of the freedom the men in their machines are so keen to take advantage of. They yap, yip, bark and howl in discontentment. He hears them, yet he hears them not.
He has found in himself the stillness that has eluded him. He listens to each of the nights sounds, songs in turn. He is giving himself up to this nights concerto, listening for the lullaby that he knows will lead him to the land of dream and fitful sleep.
The air-conditioner hums this lullaby. It breathes in the warmth and exhales the cold, humming, humming, humming all the while. A steady drone, still movement, comforting constant cacophony, carefully carrying the weary beyond the walls of wakefulness and into sleep and dreaming beyond.
He sleeps tonight. And will wake to a new day, but not until the morning, only hours away.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Whisper of sand against parched eyelids,
I am dry-eyed. There is no oasis,
No mirror on the ground, just the sun
Crying heat. Bleeding heat on naked skin
Turning flesh to weeping wounds.
Tell me where the camels water.
I must follow however far the horizon
Calls with a vow of succor and
A cupped palm full of rest.
Turn me from the illusions that vow
But never coalesce. Turn me from d
owned bodies and bleached bones
That reanimate when the sun is high
And as full as an eye brimming.
This desert cannot be where this body
Rises from a shallow grave.
No way will these bones turn as white
As the full moon.
Tell me where the camels water
Or tell me there is an oasis, after all.
Buried under sand and salt
And wind and broken mirrors
And a sun that never forgives nor forgets.
Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng
I am dry-eyed. There is no oasis,
No mirror on the ground, just the sun
Crying heat. Bleeding heat on naked skin
Turning flesh to weeping wounds.
Tell me where the camels water.
I must follow however far the horizon
Calls with a vow of succor and
A cupped palm full of rest.
Turn me from the illusions that vow
But never coalesce. Turn me from d
owned bodies and bleached bones
That reanimate when the sun is high
And as full as an eye brimming.
This desert cannot be where this body
Rises from a shallow grave.
No way will these bones turn as white
As the full moon.
Tell me where the camels water
Or tell me there is an oasis, after all.
Buried under sand and salt
And wind and broken mirrors
And a sun that never forgives nor forgets.
Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The holes in the ceiling told Rovin that termites have gotten in after all.
The house was nearly finished. A new coat of paint for the walls and the installation of new doors would have been the last few touches needed to complete the renovations. But now, with termites eating the ceiling, he would have to put off moving it in.
Mentally tallying the cost of what's been done so far, Rovin scratched his head. Re-fumigation and a new ceiling would set him back some more, perhaps force him to dip into the money his father had left him. He had already spent all of his personal savings. He almost hated that this project was costing so much money.
But this had to be done. It cannot wait another month. God forbid, another two months.
Rovin stared at the ceiling and noticed a pattern in the placement of the termite holes.
It almost looked like a flower. Or a mouth.
Termites only eat wood.
Rovin decided that a minor termite infestation would not interfere with his plan. He would move it in by the end of the month.
A distant ringing started from somewhere to his left. He swiped at his ear, though he knew that a mosquito would not ring.
Rovin woke up when the back of his hand hit the near wall. Outside his room, he could hear the breakfast bell ringing. He got up to join the rest of the residents for breakfast. After that, group.
One more month, Rovin reminded himself as he shuffled after the schizo from the next room. One more month and he would finally put it away. And he could finally get on with his life.
Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng
The house was nearly finished. A new coat of paint for the walls and the installation of new doors would have been the last few touches needed to complete the renovations. But now, with termites eating the ceiling, he would have to put off moving it in.
Mentally tallying the cost of what's been done so far, Rovin scratched his head. Re-fumigation and a new ceiling would set him back some more, perhaps force him to dip into the money his father had left him. He had already spent all of his personal savings. He almost hated that this project was costing so much money.
But this had to be done. It cannot wait another month. God forbid, another two months.
Rovin stared at the ceiling and noticed a pattern in the placement of the termite holes.
It almost looked like a flower. Or a mouth.
Termites only eat wood.
Rovin decided that a minor termite infestation would not interfere with his plan. He would move it in by the end of the month.
A distant ringing started from somewhere to his left. He swiped at his ear, though he knew that a mosquito would not ring.
Rovin woke up when the back of his hand hit the near wall. Outside his room, he could hear the breakfast bell ringing. He got up to join the rest of the residents for breakfast. After that, group.
One more month, Rovin reminded himself as he shuffled after the schizo from the next room. One more month and he would finally put it away. And he could finally get on with his life.
Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng
Friday, July 2, 2010
Dreaming of Dreaming
Tonight I dream of nothing but you,
your arms encase mine
as we wrestle in the sheets
of things that had passed
and things that might have been.
Yet strangely, we have no cares,
no concept of time passing
except for this moment
of touching, caressing
reaffirming
that this dream
is real
and not just a dream.
Defying reason
we plunge into the unknown
foraging together
a path that was once familiar
and yet here we are
waking once again
in that moment when
we realize we are dreaming
and struggle to recall steps
to find where we had been
only to realize
that we are once again
in that moment
of realizing
that we are indeed dreaming.
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