DP: Choose Your Adventure

love-fantasy-21659420-1920-1200Write a story or post with an open ending, and let your readers invent the conclusion.

Darwin, 1942;

I held her to my chest as debris scattered all around us; chunks of plaster and concrete hit my back as I tried to protect her from its devastation, my suffering nothing against what I had to face, my protection irrelevant to what is true. Her hair was wet against my skin, her green eyes bearing into mine. Beside the hurt she felt as her broken body seemed to make her realize, her eyes spoke of something entirely different. Something only I could understand. Overhead, Japanese fighter planes cut through the skies as everything around us were obliterated by its expelled fury, the rain now nothing but a soothing calm to chaos. A layer of wet to dire consequence. An alternative sheet to mask powerlessness. I held her close as another series of bombs crashed into buildings further away, the sound too hard to bear, the screams and gunshots more horrific than I imagined. They were coming this way.

Her body spasmed only once as she tried to form ‘I love you’ with her sweet, full lips. The happiness in her eyes lingered on as the last breath escaped the body she shared with me; her hands tightened painfully around my arms before it relaxed. The slow but rhythmic pulse I felt against her back now only returned to her, torn away from my hands. I almost lost it. The rain washed the tears from my face as I screamed at the skies, yet its warmth stayed on my cheeks. Raw sobs slammed against my chest as my arms locked around her body, pressing her even harder against my chest, as if that act would ensure her constant presence even though she was no more. My heart began to spasm in arrhythmic beats as pain of enormous quantity surged through my entire body. The hurt was unbearable. The hurt was so much more than death. The hurt was an afterlife.

In the distance, drawing nearer, I could hear unintelligible shouts, abrupt bursts of unseen firearms, jingling sounds as glass broke and scattered to the ground, more women screaming, babies crying, hurried footsteps with owners just out of sight. Sobbing, screaming, my love resting on one arm now, I peered over my shoulder, ripped my gun from its holster, and . . .

How did it end?? 😉


DP: Call Me, Maybe

mobile-phone-artDescribe your relationship with your phone. Is it your lifeline, a buzzing nuisance, or something in between?

Oh, my phone is nothing but a nuisance, most definitely. Probably because I have a short temper when it comes to those specific devices that only lives to annoy me. I never activate any sounds, so I can’t hear anything. Ever. Weekends I leave my phone somewhere in my bedroom, never to be seen again until Monday morn. It occasionally meets wall, floor or teeth; its longevity never seems so guaranteed when in my hands. For emergencies, which I never get, everyone is almost always at home, so no lingering danger there. The basic reason I use my phone is to store Ideas of anything I think of at any given time if I don’t have a piece of paper and a pen at the ready – convenient enough. The second is storing all my favorite kinds of music, which I listen to when pedaling on the bicycle. Other than that, pretty much as useless as a bag of potatoes wired together to charge a lifeless battery. 😉

I’ve seen some people really involved in that little piece of technology that their eyes seemed glued to the encasing. It reminds me of a book I’ve read of Dean Koontz where a scientist injected some chemicals into human subjects as to make them super beings, its dire consequence something too horrific to comprehend. Some of the subjects got entangled with their computers, their limbs fused with the electric system inside, making them unresponsive yet hostile; their eyes silver orbs with data running down its surfaces. A very chilling book. Fiction, of course, but chilling, nonetheless. With these cell phones and smart televisions and eBooks and stuff that’s going round, I do wonder where all this will end, if you catch my drift . . . 😉

DP: Shipwrecked

111701k5-plate45Read the story of Richard Parker and Tom Dudley. Is what Dudley did defensible? What would you have done?

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and that statement still rings true. Anyone would have done what Dudley has done – eat the man, that is – although ‘digging in’ could have been more discreet. I rather would have let natural causes take Parker’s last breath, even if that meant me starving half to death. I would not have killed him; inhumane and evil as it is. However, Dudley did perform a mercy killing and relieved Parker of any other pain or ailment or whatever else he had. He did do him a favor, if you look at the situation from that perspective; in conclusion, he relieved Parker of his pain and consequently sustained the rest of his crew and his own hunger for a while. This post reminds me of another story, true, as well, of the 1972 Andes flight disaster about the plane that went down with a team of Rugby players. Those events later became inspiration enough to produce a film, Alive, starring Ethan Hawke. A good film, actually, but gross. A few years ago I had to write an essay in Geography class about being shipwrecked and what I would have done surviving the ordeal, taking everything like astronomy and whatnot into consideration. I used ‘drinking urine’ as something as replacement to water if I had none, though my teacher never thought that funny. I did . . . then. So I think what Dudley has done is justifiable to his will and responsibility to others to stay alive, although I think the manner in which he did what he did is not defensible to any natural, human law. Some would see him as a hero. Some a killer. Such is life.

DP: In a Crisis

5586.previewHonestly evaluate the way you respond to crisis situations. Are you happy with the way you react?

Fight or flight. I’m somewhere in between leaning towards flight, I guess. I freeze, my mind becomes scrambled and impairs any thinking whatsoever. No, I don’t necessarily like what happens to me when in a crisis. Like I said in a previous post, I am scared of confrontation, any kind would fall under the same category. Like entering the store minutes after a robbery where a girl pushes us into the office, locking the door. Bad timing, but I flew into the office and just stood there, rooted to the spot. The second was when a man shoved his fiancé away from him. Now there is something I can’t tolerate. I lost all senses and took to the streets, thinking I was back in my home town of all places, heading towards the house of one of my best friends. Of course, and two hours later, I found myself in the middle of nowhere. I have to admit, I had some alcohol in my system before the incident, the cause for my apparent bout of madness, except that I saw the shove as a big crisis. The third was when confronted by a big dog. My friend was at the hospital tending to her mother, and I had to get into the house to stay the night. It was dark, the dog was new to the place, and I am scared of big dogs. So I fought with myself for an hour before I had enough courage to enter the house. The dog growled at me and I froze, but it ran off to the front yard in wait for someone familiar to come back. After my friend arrived home, though, it suddenly wanted to attack me, and yet again, I stayed rooted on the couch, too scared to move. It’s cowardly, I know, but in a crisis, instincts kick in, and instincts can’t be helped. It’s the body’s way of figuring out what to do next instead of heeding to rational thought. How many heroes did not remember what they did after something of tragedy happened? The same for those who chooses flight instead of fight. I don’t like my response at all, but maybe someday it would do more good than not. By the way, that dog’s name is Luda, and we’re big tjommies today!! 😉

DP: 1984



You’re locked in a room with your greatest fear. Describe what’s in the room.

No doubt about it being dark. So dark that it felt like being in a sensory deprivation chamber, except that I felt a cold draft on my skin, meaning there had to be some ventilation. Some way out. I have been in this room for at least two hours, not knowing how I got here or what might have happened to lead up to my present predicament. I had felt around the room to check for any other doors in addition to the locked steel door against which I’m leaning now, but all I got was bare concrete wall. There also weren’t any source of light present to add some features to the room, thus accepting complete and utter darkness as reason into which I might succumb mentally. Earlier I heard scuttling noises. I thought it might have been imagination for I did not hear it again. Was I beginning to lose my mind? As the mildewy draft became colder and colder, prickling my skin, the more I became conscious of the fact that all kinds of insects might be climbing out of that vent, into the room. Now the way out seemed more a threat than salvation. My fear of insects, spiders especially, seems even more relevant than having a way out but not being able to see where it is. That is the creator of frustration. That fear kept me where I am, locked into fight or flight position. The first attack occurred on my left arm; a beetle-like sting as sharp legs punctured skin to climb even higher to reach my shoulder. I slapped it off with an involuntary yelp, heard a sharp click as insect met floor, and I ran for the middle of the room, even though I wasn’t sure where I was or what part of the room I crossed when I moved. Was it me who did the moving, or the room? A scuttling noise sounded just as I halted, the sound inspiring fear to boost the rhythm of my heart. The scuttling noise got closer and closer, got louder and louder, until I felt something running up my jeans with a weight that meant BIG. Big. I screamed and tried to slap it off, but it avoided my hand like a skilled soldier, climbing higher ever so faster. From the corner of my eye, something started to glow. I ignored the glow and kept on slapping at the insect, now nearing my heaving chest. Finally my hand obliterated something hairy, and I shook the remains from my hand. Cold currents of electricity pushed through my entire body as I realized what might be happening. I turned my head to follow the glow, growing brighter as other sources joined the first. Soon, the entire chamber was alight with a soft blue illumination, generated by the huge backsides of hundreds of fireflies. Now, as beautiful as they are, observing from a safe distance with somewhere to run to might something happen, seems like a good way to go, but in here, locked away with the pests, they seem more malevolent. However, I did not know just how malevolent when I saw that every inch of every four walls surrounding me was covered with every species of insects I know, and some I haven’t seen before in my life. They were crawling around each other, over each other, staining the floor with life, enclosing the ceiling above me, locking me away in cold, hard fear instead of a simple room with a ventilation system now covered by insects. Sweat drowned me, irrational fear sent shivers up and down my body and released some pressure from my bladder. Soon, soon every insect would sense the presence of life within their obvious domain, one single organism small enough to attack as a unison. With that thought I screamed high murder (something behind me imitated my scream) and I ran for a piece of wall the insects has left uncovered. My survival instinct at its best, I scraped at the insects, looking for the vent out of which they crawled, scraped at them, killing most, killing, most. The blue light flickered for a moment before all was as dark as when I woke up. I ended my frantic search as silence dole the next hand. My breathing was hard, my heart like someone at the door. Their silence taunted me, prolonged my agony. I could feel their breathing on my skin. I could feel their eyes puncturing my soul, scrutinizing the delicates inside. I felt their presence as if clinging to me. They will not take me alive. I don’t know what this sick game entails for anyone outside looking in, but I ain’t gonna play. I’ll fight. They will pay . . . I listened. I watched the dark. I waited. I felt. I screamed.

DP: Helpless

helpesless8trackscoverHelplessness: that dull, sick feeling of not being the one at the reins. When did you last feel like that –- and what did you do about it?

I honestly cannot recall any moment in my life where I actually felt helpless. Not that I have that type of clean slate on my history files, but I just cannot remember. What about the moment I fell down a slippery flight of stairs with my sister’s three-year old daughter in my arms? Helplessness can be counted in moments, too, and not always over long periods of time. It had been raining earlier that day. What day that was, I cannot remember. The second floor hallway was flooded as and we decided to take a trip to the mall. The rain has stopped by then, giving us that window of opportunity to go. I was carrying little Didi, walking in front. I survived the first flight down, and reached the landing between floors. Usually I waited for my sister to join me before I continue descent, but not that day, no. I slipped on the first step down, landing on my buttocks and lower back. It did not end quite there. Because of the flood in the hallway, the water has found its way down the stairs, naturally. As result to my obvious carelessness, I slid down the entire second flight, feeling the raps of pain as I hit each step, all the while clinging to little Didi; fear the dominant party obliterating all other senses. There was definitely helplessness. I slid down with no useful arms to break the slide or bring myself to a stop. It was like an avalanche has no certain point of depletion. My arms were tightly wrapped around her body, joints locked. I feared for her safety, helpless to stop whatever might happen to her on the way down, completely selfless. Now, I love my sister’s kids as I would do my own one day, but the fear and constricted sense of responsibility having been sitting in my arms were enormous. That is why I do not carry kids around anymore. Not that I am ashamed of what happened, it could happen to anyone, but the fear of something like that ever happening again made me reluctant. I was so cross with myself when I finally got up, the girl still in my arms, intact. Didi was not even crying, for heaven’s sake. My sister was laughing so hard that her eyes began to sting and burn as result to running mascara. Later I laughed at her, too. Karma is a dog. Someone else tried to help me up but I quite forcefully and angrily declined. I was still in shock at that time and regret being rude, but hey, who could help that when the probable life of a minor was at stake? That was the worst bout of helplessness I could remember. Ever.