XIII-XV:
I shal remain momentous
achieving this quest of 4.0
i'll see
They'll see.
4.27.2006
They were chasing after me.
It was the same hallway.
The hallway at 79 NM, 5th floor,
Academy of Art University.
The classrooms, restrooms, GD office, were in their location,
not a slight change.
BUT it wasn't the GD department.
Instead it was of a maternity-labor wing in some hospital.
Now I remembered. They were chasing after me because I saw a pre-matured borned infant lying on a pool of blood on a humongous-sized toilet in the restroom. (Before, I asked a personnel about the unusual size of the toilet. the response was that the toilet was meant for impregnanted women with huge ass.) I said I was afraid of it-the bloody infant. They were chasing me, with the infant in their hands. There were two infants in total. The elevators won't come for me. The emergency stairway was packed. No matter what, I couldn't escape 5th floor. I kept running.
I ran and ran and ran and woke up.
That was a dream I had last night.
It was the same hallway.
The hallway at 79 NM, 5th floor,
Academy of Art University.
The classrooms, restrooms, GD office, were in their location,
not a slight change.
BUT it wasn't the GD department.
Instead it was of a maternity-labor wing in some hospital.
Now I remembered. They were chasing after me because I saw a pre-matured borned infant lying on a pool of blood on a humongous-sized toilet in the restroom. (Before, I asked a personnel about the unusual size of the toilet. the response was that the toilet was meant for impregnanted women with huge ass.) I said I was afraid of it-the bloody infant. They were chasing me, with the infant in their hands. There were two infants in total. The elevators won't come for me. The emergency stairway was packed. No matter what, I couldn't escape 5th floor. I kept running.
I ran and ran and ran and woke up.
That was a dream I had last night.
Wandering along Market St, a lady with flimsy white drapes around her paced slowly outside Utopia Cafe. She looked confused and weak, and seemed rather bedazzled. The tangible, striking non metallic mineral on her palm stared at her. They glittered in the afternoon sun. Some had been broken down into pieces. She counted, and counted again, and again. 1, 2, 3, 4, err.. 4, 7, 8, 8, help meThe same recurring number bothered her; she aint a fan of digits, forget about counting. Penniless at the same time, she sat down and begged.
What are these stones? she wondered, and shut her eyes. Unfamiliar bitter scenes appeared in mind. She remembered the profuse needles, the fluid running through her veins, her spine would ache every twenty-two minutes, and there were white figures everywhere, the room itself looked pretty white.She then sang to herself; a melody of Besame Mucho.
A clinging sound interrupted her thought. A quarter fell into her filthy can. She put away the stones and decided not to dispose them. She grabbed the quarter. An old Madame with Spider Lilies came by to her. Yuck! Not those flowers, run! She struggled her feet up and was about to flee when the Madame pulled out a five dollar note.
"Please, take this,"
She said nothing and reached out to the money. But withdrew them back.
"Here," the Madame said again, this time smiling, thrusting the money closer.
She felt safe.
Madame wouldn't hit me with needles and bitter fluids. She hummed the chorus of Besame Mucho and took away the money. At an instant, the stones in her pocket vibrated. Slowly at first, then became stronger, and soon, they were bouncing about within her pocket. They bounced like a maniac and exited from her pocket. The stones flew about them and were glowing. They looked like strobe lights with neon colors. Bewildered, she stared at the Madame, who was grinning by now.
"Those are gems, ma petite," the Madame exclaimed, wide-eyed.
What are these stones? she wondered, and shut her eyes. Unfamiliar bitter scenes appeared in mind. She remembered the profuse needles, the fluid running through her veins, her spine would ache every twenty-two minutes, and there were white figures everywhere, the room itself looked pretty white.She then sang to herself; a melody of Besame Mucho.
A clinging sound interrupted her thought. A quarter fell into her filthy can. She put away the stones and decided not to dispose them. She grabbed the quarter. An old Madame with Spider Lilies came by to her. Yuck! Not those flowers, run! She struggled her feet up and was about to flee when the Madame pulled out a five dollar note.
"Please, take this,"
She said nothing and reached out to the money. But withdrew them back.
"Here," the Madame said again, this time smiling, thrusting the money closer.
She felt safe.
Madame wouldn't hit me with needles and bitter fluids. She hummed the chorus of Besame Mucho and took away the money. At an instant, the stones in her pocket vibrated. Slowly at first, then became stronger, and soon, they were bouncing about within her pocket. They bounced like a maniac and exited from her pocket. The stones flew about them and were glowing. They looked like strobe lights with neon colors. Bewildered, she stared at the Madame, who was grinning by now.
"Those are gems, ma petite," the Madame exclaimed, wide-eyed.
4.24.2006
4.22.2006
I was a victim of a sleepy, obese man in the sardined-packed Bus 38L today.
The man was half asleep.
Yes he was conscious.
At certain intervals though, he would opened his eyes, checked the stop, and dozzed again.
Problem for me was,
he was always leaning to his left;
right where I was sitting.
There wasn't any choice.
The only seat was that.
And I was with grocery bags.
So sit, please.
And he was sleeping throughout the route. He wouldn't get off.
Man, he was heavy!
I was laughing all the way.
Yohan was laughing too.
The passengers were laughing at us.
"HAHA, what an unfortunate journey for em."
Lord knows! He was so pitiful, I wouldn't mind him snoring off beside me.
Yohan said his left arm was so soft, and fleshy.
yes, his obesity prooved it all.
I wandered through my playing cards and would not let her be one of sixteen vestal virgins
The man was half asleep.
Yes he was conscious.
At certain intervals though, he would opened his eyes, checked the stop, and dozzed again.
Problem for me was,
he was always leaning to his left;
right where I was sitting.
There wasn't any choice.
The only seat was that.
And I was with grocery bags.
So sit, please.
And he was sleeping throughout the route. He wouldn't get off.
Man, he was heavy!
I was laughing all the way.
Yohan was laughing too.
The passengers were laughing at us.
"HAHA, what an unfortunate journey for em."
Lord knows! He was so pitiful, I wouldn't mind him snoring off beside me.
Yohan said his left arm was so soft, and fleshy.
yes, his obesity prooved it all.
4.20.2006
4.18.2006
4.17.2006
4.16.2006
4.15.2006
Magazines makes us hate ourselves!
It's true. When we look at all the mags full of thin women with large breasts, small waists, and long legs with firm skin, we feel worse about ourselves and our bodies.
We are actually less satisfied with ourselves after looking at mags because the women in there are "perfect," and we don't look exactly like them. We feel fat, ugly, out of shape, and unfashionable.
Who would look at a woman like me, each of us wonders, when there are so many beautiful women like the ones in the mags? Their make up is "perfect," their clothes are "perfect," their skin looks "perfect."
And do you know why?
Because NONE of those images in the mags are real. ALL of them have been digitally changed/improved to airbrush out kin imperfections, wrinkles, and textures and shave a little bit off thighs, arms and waists, all in the name of creating an IMAGE, a false representation, of a "perfect woman."
It's true. When we look at all the mags full of thin women with large breasts, small waists, and long legs with firm skin, we feel worse about ourselves and our bodies.
We are actually less satisfied with ourselves after looking at mags because the women in there are "perfect," and we don't look exactly like them. We feel fat, ugly, out of shape, and unfashionable.
Who would look at a woman like me, each of us wonders, when there are so many beautiful women like the ones in the mags? Their make up is "perfect," their clothes are "perfect," their skin looks "perfect."
And do you know why?
Because NONE of those images in the mags are real. ALL of them have been digitally changed/improved to airbrush out kin imperfections, wrinkles, and textures and shave a little bit off thighs, arms and waists, all in the name of creating an IMAGE, a false representation, of a "perfect woman."
4.09.2006
Rika Putri
2nd Draft
Narrative Storytelling
Mar 31 2006
Teardrops of Heaven
The evening sun had just set, its tangerine color illuminating Baiju’s rice field which spread not more than a thousand square feet. Being the only man who was able to carry on the family’s name, Ghunan Baiju had been cultivating the crops since the day he turned nineteen. For Ghunan, it had always been a routine working in the field. There wasn’t much of an enjoyment aside from watching the seeds grow into crops. Nonetheless, his crops gave constant, remarkable output each year. He had always been proud of it. Stood adjacent to the field was Baiju’s wooden altar which housed the family’s ancestors for the past century. The wood that was once mahogany seemed to be washed out from the rain and moss had started to grow. The altar looked somehow spectacular. Ghunan brushed off the remaining soil on his arms and lead Mumba out of the field. The black male ox trudged beside Ghunan with his back loaded with ropes and a wooden mattock. Having devotion in Buddhism, Ghunan made a stop at the altar and whispered a few prayers.
“Dear ancestors,” he started. “Was I a good farmer in my previous life? I mean, will I never live a city life, have a city job?” He paused, then looked down at his worn pair of canvas shoes which he won at an annual lucky draw held in the village last November. “I can’t let this fate live in me forever!”
The thirty-nine-year-old man sighed and continued his way home, shielding himself from the glaring sun with his gray cotton handkerchief. Mumba let out a low grunt, bobbing his head in a rhythmic left-right flow. For the last five years, Mumba had always been working with the Baijus after his mother, who died a year after he was born. Ghunan glanced over his shoulders. Sultan’s three-storey mansion stood out from afar. Sultan was a rich, powerful man in the village. He was no leader, but everyone would think twice before stepping on his toes. A rumor said that Sultan drowned a thirty-year-old woman just because she turned down his dinner invitation, and another said about him keeping poisonous snakes in his garden. Stories kept aside, Ghunan was having serious trouble under Sultan’s control for the past three years. Every harvest season, Sultan got to keep sixty percent of Ghunan’s grown rice or else he would rage out of control. So, Ghunan agreed on this and soon they made a deal out of it. However, gauging at this season’s output, there would never be enough rice for his family if Sultan were to take most of it. Earlier in the day, when they met, the conversation went like this:
“Anytime you ready, Ghun,” Sultan said with almighty gesture.
“Output’s too little this season. Can’t make it.” Ghunan said, trying hard to sound less offensive.
For a second, their eyes met. Neither of them blinked nor breathed. Ghunan sensed utter disappointment in Sultan’s eyes, which then slowly turned to fury. “You might want to think twice, Ghunan Baiju,” Sultan hissed.
After putting his tools away and making sure Mumba was tucked into his stall, Ghunan entered the house. The tired man suddenly realized that he forgot to fix the front door’s latch again, which had been broken a week ago. Altani would kill me, he thought resentfully. He could smell the fragrance of cooked rice and garlic. There was a sizzling noise coming from the kitchen. Altani was cooking dinner.
“Let’s go to the city!” Ghunan cried out to her.
“Sure,” she said.
“I mean, let’s move to the city, Al,” he corrected.
Altani glared at him. A definite sign for ‘no joke in the house.’
“C’mon Al, it’ll be new. I’ll get a new job, you’ll cook in a new kitchen, Naran can go to a public school.”
“Why?”
This was when Ghunan felt that it was the perfect time to tell his wife about Sultan. He told her.
“What?” she exclaimed, wide-eyed with the narrowest frown Ghunan had ever seen in her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Naran stood at the kitchen entry, listening to his parents’ conversation. He did not want to move to the city, he had made friends here. What will happen to Jana and Janti and the boys with hundreds of marbles at the playground, if he were to leave?
“Papa, I don’t like the city.”
Ghunan and Altani looked at each other. Altani felt sorry for Ghunan, but at least she and their son had formed a team to reject Ghunan’s city solution. She was not a city fan either. The endless roads, the difficult city names, pollution, car horns, people, ugh, city people are just snobby rich and unfriendly. Forget the respect for us villagers. After all, this was Ghunan’s unlucky fate to have to deal with Sultan. No way he’s dragging her entire life out of here. He ought to have a better solution.
Ghunan rested at the altar after work, thinking about his wife and son disagreeing with him. He picked up three incense sticks and lit them up. “Maybe you guys were right. I wasn’t born to be in the city. But Sultan…” he stopped praying. He just mentioned Sultan’s name. He couldn’t face the fact that he was afraid of Sultan. Was that why he was so desperate of running away from Sultan? Above him, the sun gradually set, creating an eerie gloom in the altar. Ghunan sat down at on the cool, dusty floor. Just then, a dark shadow walked briskly passing the altar. Ghunan peeked. The shadow made a left turn at the corner of the altar.
Sultan walked at a fast pace. His black cloak, which he had worn to cover his features swung from side to side. His heart thudded, not because he was nervous⎯he would never be nervous. He walked too fast⎯he had to be fast. It was dark when he approached the house. Just a swift task and I’m done for the day, he thought. The butter knife he had clenched in his pocket moistened. Sultan was surprise to notice the broken latch on the door. He smiled to himself. Looking around, he found no sign of Ghunan returning home. He must still be busy eating his rice off the crops, he thought bitterly. Sultan brushed his thick gray hair and entered the well-lit house.
Sultan must not have noticed him hiding in Mumba’s stall. Ghunan had figured out that it was Sultan, and quietly tracked him down. He crept in the darkness and stooped low. From the little stall window, he could clearly see Sultan entering his house. Silence then.
For a moment, Sultan felt a slight dizziness being in an unfamiliar building. He found no one around. Perfect, he thought happily to himself. The boy should be somewhere alone in the home. The house, although small, had a weird structure; there was no hall, but a hallway with several doors, each leading to a room. Just then, a woman walked out of the first room on the left. Must be the wife, vulnerable soul, he thought. No. Not her. But she screamed when he saw him. Her two hands cupped over her mouth and she dashed into the hallway. Sultan ran after her, but she had entered into another room and silence fell again.
Trembling, Altani gasped for air. She was horrified to see Sultan in her house. She ran immediately to Naran’s room and locked the door. Her little boy was puzzled, and she was sure he had heard her scream. Looking at his mother who had closed the windows clumsily and now pacing up and down, Naran burst into panic and started sobbing. He clutched Altani’s skirt tightly and whimpered. Altani ushered him into the old wooden cupboard, huge enough to hide the both of them. Now, dark and quiet, Altani listened for Sultan’s attempt to break the door down.
Ghunan was stunned. He wouldn’t want to hear that scream twice. He grabbed his mattock and sprang out of the stall toward the house, which was empty then. He cursed the broken latch and blamed himself upon his unfortunate. Sultan was gone. Ghunan hurried in and checked every single room. The kitchen door was left open and the windows were wide open. He was about to check if Sultan had climbed out from the window when another scream tore off. It seemed distant. Ghunan ran to the last door, but it was locked.
“Shit! Altani!” He forcefully shook the doorknob several times and pounded at the door. “Altani!” he was shouting now. There was no response and Ghunan felt his brain squeezing in him. He was suddenly sweating even more. He stepped back and swung his mattock toward the brass knob. It worked! The door flew open. To his outrage, Sultan was now seizing his wife and son with a shiny weapon against Altani’s throat. Naran was wailing and screamed hysterically when he saw Ghunan. Altani was wide-eyed with terror, crying out to her husband for help.
“You’re miserable now, Ghun. You’ll be alone now. Just like me. Yes, alone and sad!” Sultan exclaimed. His face flushed with aggression and was breathing heavily. It felt as if the oxygen in the room had been vacuumed and Sultan felt an extreme pain stabbing his heart. His grasp loosened and he could feel the woman and boy breaking free. His knees weakened and there was a sudden blackout.
Traumatized badly by the incident, Ghunan was speechless. At least Altani and Naran were by Ghunan’s side now. He was relieved they weren’t going to leave him in an ugly way that soon. They huddled together and Altani was still trembling. It all happened so fast that Ghunan wished all of it was just a bad dream, and he would wake up soon. In front of them, Sultan had collapsed, his big heavy body occupying the room. Ghunan couldn’t tell whether Sultan just passed out or away. All of them leaped out the room and Ghunan called the village chief, who called the hospital. Soon, appalled from the news, the village chief and other villagers crowded around, and an ambulance arrived.
Between the commotions, Ghunan managed to tell the village chief everything from Sultan’s extortion to his bad crops to Sultan’s break-in and threatens, until the paramedics interrupted them that Sultan had just suffered from a sudden heart attack. But he wasn’t dead.
Unless Sultan died in that heart attack, Altani knew she was no longer safe living in the village anymore. After recovering from the hospital, Sultan was going to return home and what? Kill them all? Then a thought came to her mind.
Ghunan was so thrilled Altani had decided to move to the city. He could see the desperation in her. That was three days after. But the very morning after the incident, Ghunan had visited Sultan at the community hospital just outside the border of their village. Ghunan wanted to see if Sultan had realized his mistakes in life. Of course this was unlikely to happen, but Ghunan thought of it as prudent for the welfare of other villagers. To his surprise, Sultan apologized!
“I could’ve died…” he wheezed. He looked so vulnerable on the hospital bed. He wore a pale blue hospital gown and his gray hair was messed up from laying down.
“Gee Sul, you’ll die eventually. But if you’d just be nicer to everyone⎯anyone, even to yourself, you’ll die feeling good.” Ghunan sat on the straw chair next to him.
Sultan stirred, fiddling with the clean white bed sheets. He blinked, suddenly tearful. “I can’t…” he sniffed, “…I d-d…I don’t think so. Everyone hates me. You hate me,” he said. He was in between sobs now.
“C’mon Sul.”
“I’m the village legend. Evil legend I must say. Can’t change that.”
“Then give them a chance. Start with me,” Ghunan said, clearing his throat. “My crops,” Ghunan started, his eyes fixed on Sultan’s. “Take care of them for me, for I won’t be around anymore when you return. Harvest them good, Sul. They have feelings too.”
Sultan eyed Ghunan curiously. He too wanted to flip everything into a better state. The fact that he almost died last night was a sign⎯a significant chance for him to erase away all vicious plans, and start restructuring his characteristics from scratch. There was nothing difficult about that was there? Where is Ghunan going? He did not feel like asking. He knew it was his fault he’s leaving. Maybe it’s for the best. He’d love to wish him best regards upon his new journey. Sure, he would take over Ghunan’s crops. Nothing difficult. Already, he made plans to apologizing to every single member of the village. He would practice smiling warmly in front of the mirror. Still, it seemed simple. For the first time, he felt good. His heart started to beat steadily, and his hands were no longer numb. He shut his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, giving Ghunan the best smile ever.
2nd Draft
Narrative Storytelling
Mar 31 2006
Teardrops of Heaven
The evening sun had just set, its tangerine color illuminating Baiju’s rice field which spread not more than a thousand square feet. Being the only man who was able to carry on the family’s name, Ghunan Baiju had been cultivating the crops since the day he turned nineteen. For Ghunan, it had always been a routine working in the field. There wasn’t much of an enjoyment aside from watching the seeds grow into crops. Nonetheless, his crops gave constant, remarkable output each year. He had always been proud of it. Stood adjacent to the field was Baiju’s wooden altar which housed the family’s ancestors for the past century. The wood that was once mahogany seemed to be washed out from the rain and moss had started to grow. The altar looked somehow spectacular. Ghunan brushed off the remaining soil on his arms and lead Mumba out of the field. The black male ox trudged beside Ghunan with his back loaded with ropes and a wooden mattock. Having devotion in Buddhism, Ghunan made a stop at the altar and whispered a few prayers.
“Dear ancestors,” he started. “Was I a good farmer in my previous life? I mean, will I never live a city life, have a city job?” He paused, then looked down at his worn pair of canvas shoes which he won at an annual lucky draw held in the village last November. “I can’t let this fate live in me forever!”
The thirty-nine-year-old man sighed and continued his way home, shielding himself from the glaring sun with his gray cotton handkerchief. Mumba let out a low grunt, bobbing his head in a rhythmic left-right flow. For the last five years, Mumba had always been working with the Baijus after his mother, who died a year after he was born. Ghunan glanced over his shoulders. Sultan’s three-storey mansion stood out from afar. Sultan was a rich, powerful man in the village. He was no leader, but everyone would think twice before stepping on his toes. A rumor said that Sultan drowned a thirty-year-old woman just because she turned down his dinner invitation, and another said about him keeping poisonous snakes in his garden. Stories kept aside, Ghunan was having serious trouble under Sultan’s control for the past three years. Every harvest season, Sultan got to keep sixty percent of Ghunan’s grown rice or else he would rage out of control. So, Ghunan agreed on this and soon they made a deal out of it. However, gauging at this season’s output, there would never be enough rice for his family if Sultan were to take most of it. Earlier in the day, when they met, the conversation went like this:
“Anytime you ready, Ghun,” Sultan said with almighty gesture.
“Output’s too little this season. Can’t make it.” Ghunan said, trying hard to sound less offensive.
For a second, their eyes met. Neither of them blinked nor breathed. Ghunan sensed utter disappointment in Sultan’s eyes, which then slowly turned to fury. “You might want to think twice, Ghunan Baiju,” Sultan hissed.
After putting his tools away and making sure Mumba was tucked into his stall, Ghunan entered the house. The tired man suddenly realized that he forgot to fix the front door’s latch again, which had been broken a week ago. Altani would kill me, he thought resentfully. He could smell the fragrance of cooked rice and garlic. There was a sizzling noise coming from the kitchen. Altani was cooking dinner.
“Let’s go to the city!” Ghunan cried out to her.
“Sure,” she said.
“I mean, let’s move to the city, Al,” he corrected.
Altani glared at him. A definite sign for ‘no joke in the house.’
“C’mon Al, it’ll be new. I’ll get a new job, you’ll cook in a new kitchen, Naran can go to a public school.”
“Why?”
This was when Ghunan felt that it was the perfect time to tell his wife about Sultan. He told her.
“What?” she exclaimed, wide-eyed with the narrowest frown Ghunan had ever seen in her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Naran stood at the kitchen entry, listening to his parents’ conversation. He did not want to move to the city, he had made friends here. What will happen to Jana and Janti and the boys with hundreds of marbles at the playground, if he were to leave?
“Papa, I don’t like the city.”
Ghunan and Altani looked at each other. Altani felt sorry for Ghunan, but at least she and their son had formed a team to reject Ghunan’s city solution. She was not a city fan either. The endless roads, the difficult city names, pollution, car horns, people, ugh, city people are just snobby rich and unfriendly. Forget the respect for us villagers. After all, this was Ghunan’s unlucky fate to have to deal with Sultan. No way he’s dragging her entire life out of here. He ought to have a better solution.
Ghunan rested at the altar after work, thinking about his wife and son disagreeing with him. He picked up three incense sticks and lit them up. “Maybe you guys were right. I wasn’t born to be in the city. But Sultan…” he stopped praying. He just mentioned Sultan’s name. He couldn’t face the fact that he was afraid of Sultan. Was that why he was so desperate of running away from Sultan? Above him, the sun gradually set, creating an eerie gloom in the altar. Ghunan sat down at on the cool, dusty floor. Just then, a dark shadow walked briskly passing the altar. Ghunan peeked. The shadow made a left turn at the corner of the altar.
Sultan walked at a fast pace. His black cloak, which he had worn to cover his features swung from side to side. His heart thudded, not because he was nervous⎯he would never be nervous. He walked too fast⎯he had to be fast. It was dark when he approached the house. Just a swift task and I’m done for the day, he thought. The butter knife he had clenched in his pocket moistened. Sultan was surprise to notice the broken latch on the door. He smiled to himself. Looking around, he found no sign of Ghunan returning home. He must still be busy eating his rice off the crops, he thought bitterly. Sultan brushed his thick gray hair and entered the well-lit house.
Sultan must not have noticed him hiding in Mumba’s stall. Ghunan had figured out that it was Sultan, and quietly tracked him down. He crept in the darkness and stooped low. From the little stall window, he could clearly see Sultan entering his house. Silence then.
For a moment, Sultan felt a slight dizziness being in an unfamiliar building. He found no one around. Perfect, he thought happily to himself. The boy should be somewhere alone in the home. The house, although small, had a weird structure; there was no hall, but a hallway with several doors, each leading to a room. Just then, a woman walked out of the first room on the left. Must be the wife, vulnerable soul, he thought. No. Not her. But she screamed when he saw him. Her two hands cupped over her mouth and she dashed into the hallway. Sultan ran after her, but she had entered into another room and silence fell again.
Trembling, Altani gasped for air. She was horrified to see Sultan in her house. She ran immediately to Naran’s room and locked the door. Her little boy was puzzled, and she was sure he had heard her scream. Looking at his mother who had closed the windows clumsily and now pacing up and down, Naran burst into panic and started sobbing. He clutched Altani’s skirt tightly and whimpered. Altani ushered him into the old wooden cupboard, huge enough to hide the both of them. Now, dark and quiet, Altani listened for Sultan’s attempt to break the door down.
Ghunan was stunned. He wouldn’t want to hear that scream twice. He grabbed his mattock and sprang out of the stall toward the house, which was empty then. He cursed the broken latch and blamed himself upon his unfortunate. Sultan was gone. Ghunan hurried in and checked every single room. The kitchen door was left open and the windows were wide open. He was about to check if Sultan had climbed out from the window when another scream tore off. It seemed distant. Ghunan ran to the last door, but it was locked.
“Shit! Altani!” He forcefully shook the doorknob several times and pounded at the door. “Altani!” he was shouting now. There was no response and Ghunan felt his brain squeezing in him. He was suddenly sweating even more. He stepped back and swung his mattock toward the brass knob. It worked! The door flew open. To his outrage, Sultan was now seizing his wife and son with a shiny weapon against Altani’s throat. Naran was wailing and screamed hysterically when he saw Ghunan. Altani was wide-eyed with terror, crying out to her husband for help.
“You’re miserable now, Ghun. You’ll be alone now. Just like me. Yes, alone and sad!” Sultan exclaimed. His face flushed with aggression and was breathing heavily. It felt as if the oxygen in the room had been vacuumed and Sultan felt an extreme pain stabbing his heart. His grasp loosened and he could feel the woman and boy breaking free. His knees weakened and there was a sudden blackout.
Traumatized badly by the incident, Ghunan was speechless. At least Altani and Naran were by Ghunan’s side now. He was relieved they weren’t going to leave him in an ugly way that soon. They huddled together and Altani was still trembling. It all happened so fast that Ghunan wished all of it was just a bad dream, and he would wake up soon. In front of them, Sultan had collapsed, his big heavy body occupying the room. Ghunan couldn’t tell whether Sultan just passed out or away. All of them leaped out the room and Ghunan called the village chief, who called the hospital. Soon, appalled from the news, the village chief and other villagers crowded around, and an ambulance arrived.
Between the commotions, Ghunan managed to tell the village chief everything from Sultan’s extortion to his bad crops to Sultan’s break-in and threatens, until the paramedics interrupted them that Sultan had just suffered from a sudden heart attack. But he wasn’t dead.
Unless Sultan died in that heart attack, Altani knew she was no longer safe living in the village anymore. After recovering from the hospital, Sultan was going to return home and what? Kill them all? Then a thought came to her mind.
Ghunan was so thrilled Altani had decided to move to the city. He could see the desperation in her. That was three days after. But the very morning after the incident, Ghunan had visited Sultan at the community hospital just outside the border of their village. Ghunan wanted to see if Sultan had realized his mistakes in life. Of course this was unlikely to happen, but Ghunan thought of it as prudent for the welfare of other villagers. To his surprise, Sultan apologized!
“I could’ve died…” he wheezed. He looked so vulnerable on the hospital bed. He wore a pale blue hospital gown and his gray hair was messed up from laying down.
“Gee Sul, you’ll die eventually. But if you’d just be nicer to everyone⎯anyone, even to yourself, you’ll die feeling good.” Ghunan sat on the straw chair next to him.
Sultan stirred, fiddling with the clean white bed sheets. He blinked, suddenly tearful. “I can’t…” he sniffed, “…I d-d…I don’t think so. Everyone hates me. You hate me,” he said. He was in between sobs now.
“C’mon Sul.”
“I’m the village legend. Evil legend I must say. Can’t change that.”
“Then give them a chance. Start with me,” Ghunan said, clearing his throat. “My crops,” Ghunan started, his eyes fixed on Sultan’s. “Take care of them for me, for I won’t be around anymore when you return. Harvest them good, Sul. They have feelings too.”
Sultan eyed Ghunan curiously. He too wanted to flip everything into a better state. The fact that he almost died last night was a sign⎯a significant chance for him to erase away all vicious plans, and start restructuring his characteristics from scratch. There was nothing difficult about that was there? Where is Ghunan going? He did not feel like asking. He knew it was his fault he’s leaving. Maybe it’s for the best. He’d love to wish him best regards upon his new journey. Sure, he would take over Ghunan’s crops. Nothing difficult. Already, he made plans to apologizing to every single member of the village. He would practice smiling warmly in front of the mirror. Still, it seemed simple. For the first time, he felt good. His heart started to beat steadily, and his hands were no longer numb. He shut his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, giving Ghunan the best smile ever.
4.03.2006
hey peeps, new skin's up.
it's V A S T .
depicts so much about my life now.
went on a coast-trail hike with Terry n Yohan.
It was up in Point Reyes.
oh man, it was one hell of a fun.
it was tired, of course.
that's considered hell too.
but you will
n e v e r
imagine how beautiful it is (or it might be)
Alamere Falls is.
i mean, it's there, in front of you.
you see it.
you geta see it,
after all the hard walk,
the never ending 7.5 miles of pacing.
pictures up.
enjoy (:
it's V A S T .
depicts so much about my life now.
went on a coast-trail hike with Terry n Yohan.
It was up in Point Reyes.
oh man, it was one hell of a fun.
it was tired, of course.
that's considered hell too.
but you will
n e v e r
imagine how beautiful it is (or it might be)
Alamere Falls is.
i mean, it's there, in front of you.
you see it.
you geta see it,
after all the hard walk,
the never ending 7.5 miles of pacing.
pictures up.
enjoy (:
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