Tears Dry On Their Own

This time, I tried to flex my neurons a bit in creative writing by composing a love story. HAHA. Yes, you got it, love story. This will be my first entry about the genre. Just.. hmm.. enjoy? haha.

TEARS DRY ON THEIR OWN

Safrollah A. Khalid

               She was the glamorous, famous “It” girl of New York City with curls and blonds like those of Marilyn Monroe, and alluring body that seduced all soldiers of World War II. It was the height of glamour and prominence and industrialization of New York.

                Behind the tinted windows of the black vintage limousine, silver flashes sparkle around the car in adjunct with the clicking and swishing of the camera. She gazed upon the crowd of enthusiasts ready to jump when she gets out of the black engine. But no, someone caught her attention; her eyes were fixed to a red haired guy with grey beret, striped vest, and a worn out tie. She remembered him – he, of all, the one who left her tears dry on their own.

               It was twenty past ten in the evening; buzzing of running cars, bottles crackling, cats purring in the alley; and in the middle of it all, there she was – pacing down the dark corners of the 250 year old street of Manhattan. Three, four men were following her. She sensed it; shadows were at her tail, stalking her. She can’t contain the adrenaline flush deep inside her, she ran with all her heart, but so did the thugs. They played a cat and mouse chase, and ran with all her breath – breaking the heel of her left stiletto. She dashed, she gulped, she was afraid.

               And at an instant, she smacked to a tall, fiery haired guy coming out from the bar. He eyed her and asked, “What’s a young lady doing in the middle of the night in a dark street like this?” She didn’t answer; instead she looked around, sensed if her stalkers were still following her. But no, there was none. But she knew deep inside, someone, somebody did follow her before she met the red gentleman.

               He walked her to her humble abode. The lady, without hesitation thanked him. She slid her hand to the right pocket of her faux coat reaching for the house key and felt the cold tingle of the silver metal. Before she can pull it out, the gent asked him if they could go out sometime – for the benefit of knowing each other, as acquaintances. But she turned him down. Profoundly enough, she knew, she knew that it was him; the hero she’s been waiting for. But still, she hesitated.

               She woke up early this morning; breathing deeply, sweat trickling down from the golden locks of her baby hair, her cheek flushed with redness. She dreamed of the thugs, and of him – the tall, red haired guy from the pub who saved her and walked her to her home, to safety. She got out of the house covered with thick vest for warmth; it was the end of autumn, chill is in the air. Cold damp breeze brushed her thin-skin cheeks. She walked to the library, planning to read some stuff about arts of cooking for she was exemplary and a chef-in-the-making. On her way, she saw a young man lying dead in the back alleys of a building surrounded by scared and curious New Yorkers. She knew right away that the victim should have been her. She didn’t stop any further, she continued walking down the library.

               Piles of books were in the rightmost corner of the lobby, “Those books might be the new arrivals.” she thought. She paced down the recipes and cookbook section, and immediately got the “Of the Arts of Taste” by A. C. McCormac. She must have known what book she needed most, and it was this; a blank cookbook of words and letters a cordon-bleu only recognizes, without any picture, and type-written. She headed to the reading area when out of the blue, she saw him again – slender, hair fixed and combed to the back. He had black gloves and a leathery-like vest with red cravat hanging down his neck.

               She was uncertain if she would call him. But her decision was broken when the chap saw her, and instantly approached her. “What’s a young lady doing in a library?” The gent was shocked of himself of this out-of-the-sense question. The lady immediately understood that the question was just a justification to start a conversation, no matter how awkward it was. But she didn’t tell him, for it was an instant passport for ‘farewell then milady’ tête-à-tête. Instead, she thrilled him. She gave him a meaningful eye glance and a smile, smile that confirmed she’s happy to be there, to finally meet him and talk to him without fear of being followed again.

               He was a playwright, deprived of family affairs. He lost his mother from a fire when he was still twelve years old and his father was alcoholic, abusing both him and his mother. They left him at once and moved from Trenton, New Jersey to the residential locale of Brooklyn, New York and stayed there until his mother died; unfortunately, he was left all alone, fending for himself. He worked as a newspaper deliverer from house to house and only gets ¢79 a day. But he was a good writer; “opportunity always finds you” he affirmed. A school down the lower Manhattan examined one of his articles. He was real good, remarkably skilled. He got the scholarship and studied for three years until he was accepted for their high school. He became the executive editor of their publication and a minor playwright for the theatre club. He dropped out of school and found his first job in a local theater – Masks and Wisdoms. He gained popularity in the neighborhood and to other less known New Yorker playwrights. But time and experience molded him, an emerging threat to other playwrights – they tried to take him down. Tell stories of infamy about him, but none can surpass his talents, no matter what rumors of inept is gossiped about him. The only thing the people recognizes is what they see and what entertains them, not what the playwrights are.

               She was glad she met him. She knew this is the man – hair as red as that of the leaves shedding during autumn, blue eyes that of winter sky, a smile brighter than the summer sun, and a spring flower budding to its full magnificence ready to endow charms to all ladies it comes across.

               But he knew too, that she was a fragile gold not to be messed around with. A beauty envied by the Goddesses of the old, a star fairer than a candle flame, a ripple in an undisturbed lake, and a pink blossom floating through the air – as delicate as a twig and as gentle as a sea of swaying prairie.

               For awhile, silence greeted them, deafening them. It was as if an understood etiquette not to talk. They spoke for five hours now, exchanging words of adoration. The red haired gent broke the long continuing silence with a sigh. “Maybe I should go?” She nodded in return. Then there, they departed once more.

               She hoped they would meet again. And he hoped, they should have stayed longer. That silence was a sign, he thought. They left the soul of their love to the hands of destiny.

               Flashes blinded her. Her driver was talking to her. She came to her senses, she was too far recollecting what the past was. Reality came banging to her head. “Madam, are you going out now? The guards are in place.” He voiced. She came out, in all her glory, in a golden dress covered by a fox fur. She was the Lady of the Sun. Yellow from head to toe. The flashes made her shine in a New York night – gleaming and center of attraction. She was praised, like a Goddess of the old.

               She gazed to the place where he was standing, but he was nowhere to be seen. She lost her strength to walk down the red carpet. It’s as if all her insides were sucked out. But no, he was standing there – near the car. The aficionados must have covered her sight. But their eyes locked, intimate as it was. The urge of love rushed through their veins, the same feeling they felt few years ago. There, stared eye to eye at each other and with the same meaningful smiles, they knew.. they knew that they wouldn’t let go of each other again.

FIN

Friday the 13th Entry: The Rebecca Black Song

Once upon a time, music was imperative, a necessity.

”Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday. Today i-is Friday, Friday (Partyin’)! We-we-we so excited! We so excited We gonna have a ball today!”

(the comments of the actual video uploaded in YouTube were all deleted)

               SERIOUSLY!? Who sings “we we so excited!”!? What just happened here? Can anybody, somebody explain me the very context of this song? A 13 – year old who can’t decide whether to assemble at the back or the front seat? A girl who happened to wait in a bus stop but would be picked up by her friends? A song that informs us that Thursday is before Friday and Saturday, and that Sunday after it? And yes, we got it, your friend is on your right. Then? What’s with it?

               135 million views, 2.7 million dislikes (and still counting), and was, is a subject of extreme controversy and parody – Friday by Rebecca Black. Wow, so much attention for a typical Californian teenager. Truth be told, in valid records, this song could have gone multi-platinum. I can’t hide away the feeling of being stunned with this actuality.

AND REALLY!? It was covered by a mega-hit musical TV series in one of its episodes?

               The tune of the song doesn’t bother me and the 2.7 million dislikers, it’s just that, the very MEANING of the song is, MUST be essential. The lyrics fall short in giving the real importance behind it. The video took the audience into changing dimensions and lyrical recitation, which is by the way necessary for the people to understand. She could have given us a music that deals with the dilemmas surrounding a usual teenager – not the usual lifestyle of a teenager in a dilemma.

                I cannot blame Rebecca Black for her notoriety in Friday, blame Gaga and the rest of the pop newcomers for shooting a flare into the night sky – songs with no sense, repeated syllables, and over-the-top videos. SERIOUSLY? (..for the nth time!?)

              And mind you, the line between making a lyricked song and making a disco tune is so thin to the point that we won’t be able to feel the meaning behind every melody. In the first place, why was music invented? To give us a higher ground to elaborate what we feel? To just throw a good disco sound and dance along with it? Or to make money? Ask yourself. You see, there are two kinds of music in industry, one that really touched you and one that left a “Whaat!?”-impression on you that you either laugh at or cry to. Music has evolved through time; and I admit, it’s inevitable; just be ready for the next hit (..as I was off-guard.). One minute, it’s ra-ras and the next, it’s dum-dums.

P.S. I do admire Rebecca for holding out the hate mails and death threats thrown at her, and still cope-up to walk down the streets. Wow, that’s a lot of pressure for a 13 – year old; capable of not crashing down in the hot seat, standing firm and manage to stay in the frontlines with all the burdens of pressure. Well, it’s your right. It’s not a sin to make music (But next time though, make music WITH prudence and purpose.).

No offense to Meyer’s Followers

I don’t intend on starting an opinionated comparison with a sugarcoated preface. I would point out flatly and straightforwardly the awkward comparisons between two best selling authors of our time.

I’m aware that many people keep on comparing Stephenie Meyer to another critically acclaimed best seller J.K. Rowling for her work Harry potter with the Twilight saga. Im like, “What? It’s like comparing an ant to a lion!” Everything is unparalleled! From point to point choice of words, the sequencing plot which the story revolves, the very theme of the chronicles, the characters, and the way they both wrote the story.

It’s VERY different.. in fact, a thousand year different. I don’t get it why a vampire is compared to a wizard? Why a story of friendship to a suicidal teenage dream love story? And to an amateurish US based film to a British-made expensive and clearly high – graphicked one. (I’m not being biased here; it’s just what I noticed.) And I once read in a youtube.com trailer comment for The Deathly Hollows Two, “When you insult Twilight, you insult something that a person has liked for a few years but when you insult Harry Potter, you insult someone’s childhood. ” It makes sense right? For over 7 years, Harry Potter top-grossed every country and almost got the admiration and attention of the public eye. But I also can’t blame Twilight for the notice it had in the society, a vampire love – stricken to a human, which all teenagers fantasize nowadays. Twilight also gave new meaning to the increasing fame vampires and werewolves all get in Hollywood; after the movie, these vampire series and movies alike just popped out of the blue.

BUT the very point is, IS IT EVEN “THAT” COMPARABLE? Will you care on looking at the storylines of both books? Believe me, I read both of them, and still, none of the two can REALLY compete to the real universe of writing a book perfectly and without flaw. The genre of the two is way unrelated, except for the certain twists in fantasy; wizards, vampires, and the like, Harry Potter focuses on the values of friendship and family. Whereas Twilight spotlights the twists and bits of fantasy romance – eternal and forbidden love, and the risks between them. I just don’t get why the fans of both houses are fighting over it (Noticed it in fan sites, twitter, tumblr posts, and other social networking sites)? PLEASE, if you compare something, compare the comparable. Don’t just jump out and cut their throats with “Twilight is better because..” “Harry Potter is way way good than..” And again please, READ BOTH (or better yet, watch) BEFORE PUTTING THEM IN A SCALE.

For the adult – contemporary bookworms out there, I recommend THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS (wizards and vampires are both in it), and THE HUNGER GAMES TRILOGY (action packed, but this one is on the post – war team.)

Chasing Pavements

I can’t take away the fact that friends are, every so often, the ONLY people who can rub out all the grief-stricken memories that happened to pass right in front of you, the eye itself whirling at your very core. This write-up is all for you. I value the pavements we all chased.

               Coldness enveloped my whole body – deep in the blanket under its very warmth. The alarm clock was ringing it’s batteries out and I actively opened my eyes with enthusiasm, this is it, I’ m going with them and leave every bit of my problems here.

               I wore floral patterned polo with blue jeans matched with white Nikes. And packed the things I would probably need and walked out of the house breathing deeply, inhaling the fresh morning breeze, focusing my senses to my nostrils – every speck of the gentle wind, the atmosphere was perfect for a sunrise walk. The mood of free will came over me, peace was all around. I swear I could have smiled to anyone who I crossed with along the way.

               I’ve seen them across the road, one of my friends shouted “At last, he’s here! Let’s go guys.” The 2-hour trip underwent without second thought, without noticing the people around us, we were just happy we saw each other again for at least two years. For the rest of the road trip, we greeted each other, teased one another, laughed at our novelty jokes, remembered the days we used to enjoy, and asked one another how are they now and what keeps them busy. That road trip itself was incomparable and uniquely unpayable, I cannot do this with other people.. only to THEM.

               We headed to the rafting main office, and reserved for the next day. McDonald’s was near, so we ate there without hesitation. We planned our route, and decided where would we go and enjoy the day for the rest of the trip. It was agreed that we first stop at Quantum Fun, the arcade fare at the nearby mall. We played our hearts out, and acted like little kids, it’s a sure fireway to run from all the exhaustion laid down upon us, and mind you, all our coins were spent for tokens! Haha.

               Sweat trickled down our very neck. Our body was flowing with heat and everyone was pleading and kneeling for something cold, something that can replenish the thirst that burned our awfully dry throat. Seeps in empty bottles of softdrinks were everywhere, and at that very moment, we decided to go to Missy Bon Bon, a shop just outside the mall that offers desserts and ICE CREAMS. Yes, ice creams, the one we’re craving for a moment ago. We stayed, we cooled ourselves, and fixed our mind where to go next. We walked and goofed around until this photo studio shone in all its grandeur; we took some shots, posed and messed around, and finally recopied the good ones for remembrance. (The first three photos were taken there.)

               Kilometers away is a known destination among adventure goers, it’s a trip to the city mountain that overlooked the bustling urban in all its glory. But instead of hiking, we called a cab and rode to the top.. Lethargy and laziness was our ultimate best friends at the time, we just thought that hiking can take all our strengths away and not enjoy the view later in the sunset. But everything didn’t came out of what we intended, the supposed-to-be park is closed; it’s under RENNOVATION. What else can be direr than that!? Thankfully we didn’t even walk; it’s a blessing in disguise.

               So, what to do now after all the frustration? We made up our mind that we try horse back riding. We raced our horses to extremities; the lower part of my body was numb – I can’t feel anything, maybe due to the constant thumping motion made by the galloping horse. *It’s not our fault that it’s our first times*. We first stayed calmly professional, but the teenage spirit inside us kicked in. We dared each other for a race, a race worth having.. I thought to myself, “Things like these are the ones you get back on to when you’re old, the things you pass on and tell stories on your children and grandkids, that you rode your heart to the finish line with all your heart with a horse, laughing all your problems with friends and not mind the dirt on your face and the clown you have become, well, they are your friends in the first place.”

               The sun kissed its last rays to the eternal horizon, as if the sky was splashed with orange and yellow tint in a blue canvass. Tangerine skies, oh tangerine light, never say goodbye.

               We ate our dinner with all satisfaction. And eventually ended in a KTV bar, the lobby was surrounded by portraits of known musicians in the industry; from the queen of pop to the king, from RnB divas to rock and roll hall of famers, and from British bands to local celebrities. We sang, we danced, and we had fun. Oh, a night to remember.

              6am. My feet was curling up for heat, the air conditioner must have been turned on to high button. “Wake up guys, we must be at the destination by 8 am.” We were gathered to the vehicle that would take us to the rafting area. 40 to 50 minutes did take us to the rafting zone, and geared us up with the proper suits – yellow helmet and black lifejacket. *They even offered us some arm socks to block against sunlight to avoid sunburn.* We were first oriented on the rules and what-to-do-when-carried-by-the-river-current. But in truth, we didn’t even remembered the “so they say set of laws”.. we were all excited! And there, yellow aeroboats were ready for us, to take us on a 5-hour rafting in whooshes and rapids of white water foam.

               The feeling was intense. Adrenaline splattered all over and I could endorse it to death. ^^

               Taken as a whole, the undertaking of this trip was an accomplishment – I’ve forgotten what my problems are, and just enjoyed life to the fullest. There is so much to do yet. I love my friends, I love the trip! I have weaved a tale worth telling others, we promised at the very moment that years later, we will again meet and enjoy the company of each other again.

What is madness for the many, is logical for the few..