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Works

To make my job even more compicated and much more time-consuming, I unwittingly decided to put up a ‘Works’ page. Here you’ll all see fragments (or maybe wholes) of my works, and just… enjoy them. However, if you guys do steal this shit right here (no matter how crappy my work is) I can sue you for theft of intellectual property =3

So fuck off you bastards who have no love for the arts whatsoever and are only here to fucking take my shit.

Enjoy, have a nice day =)

A Habit of Decomposing

Writer’s Note: This was one of the fragments that I had submitted to the Malate Literary Folio. I literally pulled this out of my ass in about 2 hours and 30 minutes. Enjoy the unedited, fucked up short story.

Laughter. A distant memory of sugar coated happiness. As his sunken eyes stared at the only light source in the room, his hands  for something on the end table beside his couch. He found it. The small plastic bag on his right hand comforted him instantly. He tore his eyes away from the TV and with shaking fingers, tore open a small hole in the bag. The sounds from the game show on the television faded into the background. His heart raced. Shaking fingers collected the scattered white powder, an army knife cutting the powder to scatter them once again. He rolled up a twenty peso note and inserted one end in his nostril, the other on the line of coke powder. He snorted it in.

His heart raced even faster, his eyesight sharpened. The room was a mess; the beer cans that littered the floor were illuminated by the blue television light and clothes were strewn across the floor. Who even cared? This was his happiness… He picked up the half empty Black Label bottle and chugged the liquid down. Johnny Walker… Yea, that’s his name, Johnny. Euphoria overcame him, this was the life. Oh god yes, this was the life. No crying, over-dramatic wife, no whiny daughter to tell him what the hell to do. This was his paradise– the darkness, the vices.

Knock, knock! A voice came from the other side of the door.  ‘Daddy, please! Please come out of your room! It’s been three days!’

John stood up and staggered over to the door. While his legs jerked over step by step, he took a syringe out his pocket and emptied the rest of the packet inside the liquid filled syringe. He shook it and readied his arms by tying the rubber strap. He leaned on the door. ‘Julie, go away!’ he barked. He inserted the needle into his arm. Bliss.

‘Daddy’ called out his daughter, ‘Please, come out, mommy is crying…’ Julie’s voice faltered. John could hear her muffled sobs through the door.

The last of the cocaine solution disappeared in his arm. He looked up and blinked hard, ‘Stupid girl! Go away!’ The sobs fainted as he heard her slippers scuffle on the ground. Relieved, he went back to his couch and sat down, taking another swing of Black Label.

Knock, knock! John, without taking his eyes away from his TV screamed again,

‘Damn it Julie! I told you, not now!’

‘This isn’t Julie, Mr. Custodio,’ said a man with a deep toned voice, ‘We’re here to help.’

‘Eh?’

The man on the other side kicked the doors open. The light blasted into the dark room temporarily blinding John. Two men in white suits came in, swiftly seizing John by the arms and dragging him out. As his legs lifelessly scrapped on the floor, John was brought into the light, the sound of sobbing grew even more intense. His sunken eyes took in his grieving wife and daughter and the white car outside his door. What caught his attention and continually rang in his head was the one word written in red on the car’s doors– Rehabilitation.

An extract from ‘Paranoia’

Author’s Note: ‘Paranoia’ is another short story that I’ve completed. This, which I’ve posted up, is only a fragment of it– the rest is being edited by the editor, and hopefully she’d like my final product.

From the cold darkness outside, I stepped into a dull, hot, orange- lit room. The door closed behind me. Long pieces of wood were nailed to the walls, serving as crude shelves. Christ, both the infant and the middle-aged man, stood on those shelves in various parts of his seemingly joyful life. In every figurine, his smile was omnipresent; the poor light however, casted shadows that covered his face. Bernard and Carl went upstairs. I, however, wandered around some more, picking up and setting down the delicate religious objects. Looking below the shelves, I studied the bowls of red scapulars that depicted the famous crucifixion of Jesus. Every bowl had about fifty or so packets that each contained the identical red scapulars, with a piece paper on top of the pile. They  read, ’50 pieces’.

‘Mmmm.’ Breaking away from my trance, I investigated the origin of the sound- it wasn’t too hard. Inches away from my feet was a woman who was (I deduced) in her mid-thirties, sleeping on the floor, naked. Beside her was Neil- another friend of mine- lying down with a big smile on his face, his lower half covered by a towel. Laughter emanated from up the stairs. In between the loud confusion, I heard Bernard shout, ‘Oi! Are you still down there? Come on up already!’ I threw another glance at the temporary couple and swept the area once again. Above the shelves stood crucifixes, hundreds of dying saviors looking down on me with tearful faces, almost as if judging me.  I walked up the stairs.

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