winning the bet

(A continuation from on the edge post! ^_^)


I took a step.

And I felt the ground disappear from me.

I was going to drown in the soupy, airy sea of misty grey.

I knew I was going to die – images of my baby sister flashed through my mind’s eye. Who would take care of her now? Who would keep her safe? Even as I fell, I closed my eyes to the inevitable…

…grab to my wrist?

I gasped loudly as my right arm felt it was popping out of my socket. Just as quickly as I plummeted, I was yanked straight right up and over. Another cry escaped my throat when I slammed into a wall of heated muscle and fell to the ground. Solid ground.

The woodsy smell of him made me realize that I was saved, and my breath did not come back for a few moments as that fact crept up on me. I wasn’t going to die. My mind started to return to reality as I took note of what was happening.

The first thing I noticed was that there was a tight, vise-like grip around me. His arms were hugging me, keeping me close. His chest was slowly heaving; I could actually feel myself go up and down as he breathed. As my face was set against his chest, I could hear his heart as well. It was beating rapidly, the faint thud-thud-thud almost like the frantic rhythm of the bass drum. I risked lifting my head up and saw him looking straight at me.

My eyes widened at what I saw in his expression: the same intense burning was there, but there was another layer as well. It almost looked like…fear? And it wasn’t the kind of oh-my-god-I’m-gonna-be-in-trouble fear, but something else. I could not move as we stared at each other. Then, it seemed that the distance between our faces seemed to decrease.

My eyes went even wider. “Shit!” I cried out. He started when I wiggled out of his grasp and scrambled up to my feet again. I shot up and out towards the castle.

When I reached the poker table, I collapsed on top of it with my lungs heaving again, but this time it was from the exertion. I closed my eyes to feel the soft caress of velvet and was quiet for a few moments. “Well, that’s quite a sight,” a voice drawled.

My head whipped up and turned to look at him. I then realized that I had lain my upper body on top of the table, and my rear was directly placed at the castle’s entrance. He could plainly see the shape of my bum!

I quickly straightened up and turned to look at him. His face was calm and his eyes had lessened in its intensity, and yet I was still nervous. Who won?

I risked it. “I won.” My voice echoed in the empty hall, and it was almost a surprise that my voice didn’t crack. He stood just a few paces in front of me, but I did not budge an inch. And just to make sure he heard me…

“I won.”

The Ogarra Project (Primera Ni)

Our mother died while protecting us; she gave up her own life to infuse what was lost in mine.

She tried to raise a rebellion against the Zopellons a few weeks after their invasion. But, they were still too strong, and we were too unfamiliar with how they fought and what weapons they used to mount any formidable defense. As the meagre troops we gathered valiantly fought the enemy off, mother pulled me and Ara, my infant sister, to safety. We ran into the nearby woods. “Protect your sister, however you can,” she told me as I carried the slumbering babe in my arms. “You and her will be able to get our people out of this misery.”

She was to say something else, but suddenly the ground beneath us crumbled. The next thing I knew, we were on the ground several feet down, my sister was crying loudly beside me and my mother was dead. My clothes were all bloody, and as I whirled to look, I knew the truth: I died in the fall, but she did the S’hura, a magical ritual only the royals can do in order to revive another of their family. The price was the loss of their own life. The shadows that swirled in my mother’s eyes were proof of that.

The Zopellons found us minutes afterwards. The cries of my sister and I were a beacon to them. As they closed in around us, I held my sister close to me, our tears mingling. Even as I began to accept my “second” death, a rage filled me like no other. One of the Zopellon soldiers opened his mouth to release his smoke, but I saw their leader stop him. He must had seen the glare I gave them, a glare a 12-year old should never have. 

“No,” he said, his voice a rasping whisper. He gave an oily grin. “We have use for them. They will live to serve us.”

That was my first step to revenge.

The Ogarra Project (Primera Ichi)

The sudden darkening of the skies was the only warning.

The Zopellons swooped in with their black night ships like ugly ravens dropping down to their unsuspecting prey. We never had a chance to even defend ourselves as their soldiers marched in and corralled our people. Those who resisted were met with instant death as black smoke spewed out of their mouths and enveloped those who tried to escape or fight, to be seen no more. 

My father, the king, was one of them.

The Ogarra Project

This is something that has percolated in my head after my latest visit to Mystic Brew to attend their OPM night. No, this has actually nothing much related with what I will talk about, but I want to credit this time for giving me this idea. 😛

I spoke with an office-friend about other possible future events of Southern Collective, a starting group of literary artists. She mentioned that there could be other events in line, but they are still in the planning stage. She also mentioned a possible film viewing of blossoming and/or indie film makers. This made me start to imagine a possible film project. Of course it may never come to pass, but dreams are always free, right?

I’ve been increasingly into progressive metal lately, and what’s interesting about this music genre is that a lot of the songs have a heavy narrative slant in them, if not an actual story. Also, whenever I would listen to any song, I would imagine my own story within the lyrics and melody. Somehow, the stories I make up have connected themselves with each other, and I think I’ve brought together an actual plot with some of these songs’ help. 

Resources and time aside, I’d like to make my own music video based from a variety of these songs (progressive metal, Jpop, what have you) and create an mv story. The songs will be the ones pushing the story along, as I have envisioned the plot to be. 

Again, I’m not sure if this will pan out, but it’s still nice to have this mental experiment to occupy me aside from the thesis proposal I’m working on. I can only work on the storyboard and/or script, though; I have no bluidy fricking idea how I can look for a director, actors, venue, and all that chutzpah in actual film-making. 

Nevertheless, I’ll have future post on what’s been called song fics. These are stories inspired by existing songs. I’ve seen this done with some fan fic sites, but I’m not sure if there are any original stories that came out from existing songs. I’d still like to think there are. Anyway, I’ll post these song fics in a story cycle to fit whose character I will be focusing on (there’ll be two). These will then serve as a foundation to whoever would like to be interested in these stories and would be willing to collaborate with me.

Here’s to hoping! 🙂

a purging

I will peel you off, old skin.
Wrinkled, dry, useless
You have outlived your function
and have started to confine me

I start small
a light itch, really
I feel a crackle of
dried up sensations

I dig in more
and press against something sharp
I draw blood
but I know it’s working

I see a flap, an opening
and I grab it with my hand
with one yank
I start to pull


A scream leaps out
as the skin brings more blood
more tears
I rip faster, harder



I’m vulnerable.

My skin is raw
oozing with pink and red
I take a deep breath

I am free.

killer beauty

I saw this in my News Feed in FB just now, and I just got excited by the line. This was taken from “You sick bastards” page. It’s such a bad-ass comment I just couldn’t resist using it. 😛


The bodies were sprawled on the floor like discarded bits of cattle, limbs and heads akimbo. Colin wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he tried to calm down his breathing. These thugs were tough to beat, but not tough enough. Still, the bastards gave a rough fight. He looked at the cuts and bruises in his hands and swore through pursed lips. 

She was a beauty, they said, the daughter of one of the drug lord cartels. She has been locked inside her room since she was 12 because of her father’s fear for her. He thought that her beauty would cause unwanted attention to her, bring the nasties closer, especially his colleagues with their perverted wants. He had her secluded and locked in tight.

Not anymore soon, though. He was paid mucho bucko to get the girl, who’s probably 18 now. She’d be legal now, anyway, so the dad shouldn’t be worried about it anymore. The dad would probably know about it hours after he would get the girl; the old prick was in Honduras for a “business” meeting. Sasha sure as hell should make sure that she fucked that old bastard till kingdom come as he needed all the time to get away. 

He had his Colt in his hand as he walked up the stairs. No one else in the vicinity, so he focused on remembering the way to her bedroom. A quick left then three doors down the hallway.

The hallway itself was dim, almost as though it was already night time. It was quiet, too quiet. He lifted his Colt in front of him, tense and ready.

Then, he heard singing. It was like the tinkle of a bell on a warm summer’s day. The first time you smelled bread coming out of your mother’s kitchen. A quick splash in the cool, clear waters of a lake. He stopped and closed his eyes, letting the song take him. He smiled. Perhaps when he got her, he would have to have some fun with her first. The client would never know the difference, if he’s careful enough. 

There, this door. It looked darker in hue than the others, but it was from the other side of the door that he could hear the voice. He could almost see her face as she sang. 

A light touch on the doorknob told him that it was locked, but that soon was remedied when he gave it one hard kick. The door gave way after three tries with splinters flying all around. Even as he kicked down the door, he thought that the singing didn’t stop.

The door fell down with a loud bang, sending wood pieces everywhere, and he paused at the doorway.

She was a goddess.

She was sitting near a floor-to-ceiling window and behind her was a garden. It was as though the background framed her perfectly in the middle. She was wearing a long dress, its ends trailing far below her feet as though it was a huge fish tail. She was reading a book when the door fell in, and she looked up at him. Colin noticed that she was not even perturbed by the fact that her door’s already in splinters. The ends of her dress fluttered as though a soft breeze blew in, but the windows weren’t open.

“Hello. Welcome to my home,” she said, her voice as cool as a spring fountain. She laid the book aside as she regarded him, and the ends of her dress fluttered even more. Colin was confused; why was her dress moving when there wasn’t any wind?

She stood up, and even that movement was so graceful it made him stare at her. “You’re here for me, aren’t you? I’m so sorry, though.”

“Not as sorry if you don’t come with me,” he said. He took a step towards her. “Come along now, girl. Someone’s very interested to see you.”

“You mean, you’re very interested to see me,” she countered. The hems of the dress seemed to crawl towards him, and he took a step back in surprise. “What the fu–?” 

She actually sighed, her face pensive. “Again, I’m truly sorry,” she told him. “But that locked door you kicked in? It was for your protection and others like you, not mine.” And all Colin saw next was a flash of silk white and the splash of his own blood on the cloth.

for him

how in the world did I lose six pounds?
it could not be walking up the stairs every morning
it’s only two flights to the office
neither is it with lifting weights twice a week
I should have gained more muscle than lose weight
it could not be walking less than a kilometre home
all I got for it every time is a sweaty back
now I remember
it’s from thinking of you the entire time
I do these other activities
thinking too much translates into

nervous energy that burns

[Disclaimer: I’m NOT a poet. Poetry is a huge personal Waterloo. In fact, a few years ago, I was traumatized from writing poetry (THAT would probably be in another post…someday). It’s only a few weeks ago that I’ve tried my hand again in this genre, and this is one of them. I’m still not confident, though. Any feedback on this particular piece? I’m certainly looking at this one as a work-in-progress.]

on the edge

“Go, my lovely doe. Run.” I glared at him again, but he met my anger with a smile. Then, I turned.

And ran like hell was at my heels. By the looks of it, there WAS a demon chasing after me.

I grunted when I pushed the heavy oak door wide enough to let myself through. Outside, my legs brought heavy thuds on the ground as I ran as fast as I could. My breaths clouded up as I ran, swirling with the slight fog that was still around. ‘Punyeta siya‘ I cussed in my head, thinking of a flying mace hitting the bastard’s forehead. How the hell did he know that I was on the track team during my high school? That memory felt such like a lifetime ago and almost literally a world away that I even had forgotten about it until he mentioned it.

‘The guy’s a shit-crazy stalker’ I thought. I couldn’t let my energy burn out so quickly, though. I needed to make my way around the castle and back inside before he could catch me. My anger with him will not help me at this time. I didn’t hear anything else, only my panting and the stillness of the air. He must be far behind. I didn’t think he could even easily run with the muscled bulk he had. I risked a glance behind me.

He was only a few yards away. I could actually the movement of his thigh muscles as he ran towards me. He even had a grin on his face – the bastard wasn’t even panting!

Putangina!” I cried and turned to run away again. I was gasping in panic. He could NOT reach me! I made my way among some shrubbery, and I could hear him call out but couldn’t make out the words. All I could think of was to get away from him. Away from his glances. Away from his grins. Away from the heat that he generated in me.

The sudden emptiness of space in spite of the near-blinding fog was the only clue. I abruptly skidded to a stop and heard the rattle of stones and dirt as I stepped on a cliff’s edge. I looked down to see only grey mist and a sob escaped my throat. I REALLY hate heights.


I slowly turned around to see him just a few paces away. The thought of seeing his chest finally heaving was satisfying to me, but there was something different in his eyes. They were wide and he was staring at me differently. He did not have that intense, burning look he wore awhile ago.

Was it…fear?

He held out his hand to me. “Marie, come to me,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. “Step away from there slowly and hold me hand.”

I wanted to, but I couldn’t. My phobia with heights nailed my feet to the ground. And I didn’t want to hold his hand. If I did, then that meant that he caught me and I’d lose the bet. I never lose. I WILL never lose. I felt my head slowly shaking to refuse him, to refuse his anchor. I took a step.

And I felt the ground disappear from me.

I was going to drown in the soupy, airy sea of misty grey.


[Gee, I’m in a bit of a roll here. Remember what came before this? Well, this is obviously the continuation. Let’s have a bit of a…cliffhanger, shall we? Man, I suck at puns…]


The scream that tore out of me was just as painful as the wings pushing out of my back. The skin tore open like a wet envelope flap that let go as something heavy fell out. Blood and bits of flesh splattered all over my back, the bedsheets, the floor. There was a strange, wet ripping sound that went on and on until the wings extended to their full 10-feet span.

I pressed my face to the pillow, my tears soaking through the fabric. I needed to take deep breaths, but even those were like hot knives searing into my lungs. There were other whining, high-pitched noises. I was to realize later that I was doing those noises while crying.

“Silver steel,” a dispassionate voice said, and I knew Dr. Martins was still there. She will always be there to observe the changes happening to me, perhaps even until my moment of death. “This is a new color, but fitting for you, Lyr. It fits your personality completely.”

Even as my chest was heaving, I could actually feel the lab assistants’ swabbing against my feathers. My eyes went wide. “Positive for poison,” one said.

“Be careful then,” Dr. Martins said. “We don’t want to have any accidents. Don’t we, Lyr?”


[Note: play the song first and read this while the song is playing.]


“Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s just like sleeping.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know. But I’ve done it before, so you can see I’m fine.”

“I guess so.”

“That’s a good girl. Now, let the shadows wrap around you, take a deep breath and close your eyes.”


“Then, allow yourself to die.”

[That’s not the English shine you’re seeing in the title there. It’s actually pronounced shee-ne, the Japanese word for death. I’ve always liked creepy songs like this one; it makes the imagination run wilder. And since I’m a closet Goth, this piece actually makes me happy. It’s actually matching the frustration I’ve been having since early this morning. What’s your take on music like the one playing now? Send me your thoughts! :)]