Hey. I have nothing new to report today, and have no time to come up with a fresh post thanks to revision work. So I'm just gonna post the poems and story found in my final Crewrit (creativer writing) portfolio. I know I'm not much of a writer, that's why I can only write for blogs. But oh well, that's life.
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I) Poems
The Neophyte
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Among the masters I claim no likeness,
To do so would be sacrilege on high.
Compared to theirs my poetry's vastness
Is without charm and better left to die.
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My mind's untrained in the songs of the soul
And ignorant of the hymns of the heart,
My words fall short of noble beauty's goal—
Much better called paltry leavings than art.
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But of the Skaldic Mead I seek some share—
In this goal perhaps, I presume too much.
For poems must catch eternity's glare
In ways possible for mortals to clutch.
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But the masters have shown much greater feats
By minds that partake of deific grace.
Knowing this, I dream my poem can theirs’ meet,
Or that at least I learn some of their ways.
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Lemuria
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As Lemuria sank below watery depths
Did its legacy vanish forever?
For all that's left of the land's its name
And the city will now be found never
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Of Lemuria we once were thought a part--
A child of the Atlantis of the east.
Rome's works were nothing compared to its art
Which rivalled even those of Greece.
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Yet more than Lemuria, our nation's lost
A portion of its immortal soul,
Just as Lemuria’s vanished forever,
Our nation's lost sight of its goal.
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For a paltry 30 pieces of silver
The heart of this nation’s been sold--
It has been given to the colonizer
In exchange for nothing more than fool's gold.
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They help us in smiting our "enemies"
"Enemies" who perhaps have best reason
To oppose the puppet state that we have
And its master who earns from destruction.
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Why did we cast lots with the invader?
'Tis a mystery I can't unravel
And now our workers are first to suffer
From the error in which we're entangled.
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Ours is not the nation that was once thought
A part of the mythical Lemuria
Past greatness’ now emptied into a drought,
Our past now lost to amnesia.
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Was Lemuria sunk by colonizers?
Arguing this point is unneeded.
For that which sank below watery depths
To recover we have not succeeded.
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Salvation Inc.
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The business of putting words in God's mouth
Is one that's most profitable indeed.
Since for many their brains seem to fly south
When faced with "miraculous" word or deed.
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Yet this business is nowhere close to God
Who has already said all that He must.
What we've got to do in life is trod
The virtuous roads 'till we’re to dust.
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Salvation is never a business deal
In it there's no money to be made.
Swindlers selling grace in the end just steal
From those who are unsure if they're saved.
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Be never fooled by those who desire
Nothing more than cash and not salvation.
They can never light the spiritual fire
That will save you from utter damnation.
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Orchids
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People are like flowers
They grow, bud, and bloom
Flowers can come in all shapes and colors
And all are equally beautiful.
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Yet there is one flower set apart
A deviant from nature's design.
It flourishes where its peers could not
And only with utmost care can it shine.
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Isn't it funny how orchids live life?
How they see others' hell as heaven?
How they’ll grow on rock sharp as a knife
Yet die in the soil of a garden?
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Orchids thrive where water's rare
And wilt when it is abundant.
They require constant, tireless care
At the hands of a caring confidant.
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Most people are roses, yet some are orchids.
Both species have beauty to display.
But they cannot grow in the same pot
For their beauties can't grow the same way.
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II) Short Story
A Banquet
He had it coming. Had he not been too nosy, he might still be alive today. I had no choice but to kill him. A violent man I am not. I have killed but a mere person—a congressman perhaps, but still just another man. One life means little in the grand scheme of things. “When a tree falls in the forest? Does it make a sound?” environmentalists would say. Likewise, when a man falls by bullet, does it stir the order of the universe? I am but the avatar of death, a messenger of nature—an archangel who brought about the inevitable dissolution of but one politician whose wealth I found much too alluring to be left alone.
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To be fair, he had been very kind to me and I perhaps murder was too harsh a punishment. He, congressman Horacio M. Camandag was a crook and thief like the rest of his kind. Pork barrel would disappear instantly into his bottomless pockets, and he was a tax evader. But to me he had always been kind. I was his secretary after all, and his only real family. His wife perished years ago of a nagging sickness, and he has no child. All of his affections were mine and mine alone. This is not surprising as I was his adoptive daughter. As a child in the war-torn south, the congressman found me all alone in my ravaged village after an encounter between government troops and rebels. He was a lieutenant then, not the general-turned-politician he is now, and had the heart to take me in as his own. He had to pay for his sins, he would always say, and had no choice but to take me in. His remorse would have not let him do otherwise.
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Or so the story goes. This was the story he would relate to me all the time, which made me immensely indebted to him. I did everything for him: cleaned his house, did his laundry, and balanced his accounts. I loved him and he loved me.
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Upon my eighteenth later, when I entered the university of his choice, I learned everything—the circumstances behind my adoption and my parents. I, by then, had begun performing secretarial duties for him in my free time. My job then was to re-organize his records, which contained everything from his combat records to his baptismal and confirmation certificates. As I sifted through the records, something caught my eye: an aged article from a newspaper which narrated the truth about the day I was adopted.
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It turns out that then-lieutenant Camandag was a hotrod, a Rambo. He attacked my village thinking it was a rebel encampment, and acted without sufficient intelligence. His men acted on his orders and razed my village to the ground, killed everyone I knew, and left me alone without friends or family.
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What I saw next was most disturbing. Later on I found a picture of a soldier—him—celebrating after this successful “raid.” They had implanted upon a stack of “rebels” a Philippine flag, incongruously waving triumphantly atop a hill of the innocent dead. The then-lieutenant was standing on two bodies on top of the hill: the bodies of my mom and dad. I may have been only five then but I was old enough to tell who my parents were. For all I know, this man who was now my “father” may have killed my family. I will never know and never found out. All I know is that this man deserves to die for his grievous sins.
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That was not all that drove me to kill him. As his secretary I was privy to his private matters and to all his paperwork. I knew how much he had at the bank, an immense amount that far exceeds that of his politician’s salary. I also knew that I was technically his next of kin, his “daughter” who had by now taken his name. By killing him I was not only ridding myself of the killer of my village, I would also be enriching myself with his voluminous riches. Call me mad if you will, but it was by now his riches that I wanted the most. Vengeance achieves nothing on its own, except perhaps the redresser’s own peace of mind. But with money one can manipulate the order of the world, control governments, syndicates, and nations themselves. Grandiose dreams, perhaps—but infinitely more useful than mere peace of mind. Besides, as a young woman of twenty, I had dreams to fulfill and a future ahead of me—a future which in this capitalist world would no doubt cost me.
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And so I prepared his last supper. He was used to my cooking, and I knew his tastes well. He loved fine wine, Italian pasta, and exquisite soups. I had laden the table with the finest Cabernet Sauvignon, delectable Minestrone with which he was infatuated, and of course with the finest variants of pasta arrayed with a wide variety sauces from the strong flavor ala putanesca to the subtle charms of pasta al pesto.
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Dinner was held in the dining hall inside his home. I adorned it for the occasion and set upon the table the golden candelabra which his wife had found so romantic. Also I had set the centralized air-conditioning to a gentle 27 degrees centigrade to keep things cool yet not chilly. And of course, the atmosphere would not be complete without music, and I kept the soothing yet dramatic sounds of the ballet Swan Lake playing through the sound system, which was centralized as well.
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When all was in place, I called him downstairs from his study upstairs. Of course he could scarcely contain his delight at the sight:
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“Julia, what is this!” He let out a joyful curse at the sight. “I knew we were having European cuisine tonight, but this is excessive! You spoil me, my daughter!” He said, as his gelatinous belly, fattened considerably ever since he left combat, jiggled in joy.
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“Why daddy, ever since when was a daughter barred from giving her father happiness?” I retorted with a faked smile. “Did God not command us to honor our father and mother? Where is the sin in the honor with which I now, as you say, ‘spoil’ you?”
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“I guess, but this is beyond charity! This is generosity bordering on the salivific! It is as if I raised an adopted a girl which grew into an angel of kindness.”
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“You kid me daddy.” I said, this time with a feigned chuckle. The fool expected nothing. Events were progressing to my design, and by the end of that dinner I would kill him without him even knowing.
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I fed him bite after bite of the pasta. On top of that I would fill his glass chalice with the Cabernet and kept the wine flowing. He was Bacchus and I his valet. In half an hour he was drunk.
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Little did he know that I laced his drink with trace amounts of Sodium Pentothal, acquired using his bank account. This was a drug which acted as a tranquilizer in large doses but as a truth serum in smaller amounts. Granted, it does not really forbid its drinker from lying, but it greatly depresses one’s central nervous system and makes him more prone to make revelations he otherwise would not make. I had much to learn from him.
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“Hehehehe.” He was laughing incoherently. His drunkenness was beyond what I had expected. No matter, he was to die that night anyway, and what he said after his laughter died further cemented my resolved to put him away. I had asked him nothing, but the drug proved more effective than I expected. He started drinking without even thinking—partly because he trusted me greatly, partly because of his inebriated nature.
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“You know, Julia, it’s sad. I had hoped you’d grow into a beautiful, seductive young woman—someone I would not mind toying with all night. It’s too bad that you look like an australopithecine.”
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I let a soft, trick laugh to ease his nerves and assure him I wasn’t offended. I had been called monkey and primordial before in school, but “australopithecine” was new and I wasn’t used to it. I hated it. I was anything but primitive, and my ingenious plan to kill him vindicated me.
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“I had such high hopes for you. Your mom was a beauty. Oh yes, a beauty” he said with a belch.
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I stopped at his words. My mother? How did he know my mother? I asked him what he meant as soon as I got over the shock.
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“Oh, your mother provided me endless enjoyment in my free time. There is little for a soldier to do in his free time but play around. I met her when she agreed to be our informer, reporting to us enemy troop movements and the like. However, she decided to marry and return to her village, effectively leaving me. I had hoped that you would grow to be as charming as she was, but instead you took after your gorilla of a father. What a shame. I really wanted something more than a secretary.”
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So, I was raised to be a sex toy, but ended up looking like my dad. All this time his kindness for me was due to my being a potential sex-object. That was it, he was going to get it.
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“Daddy,” I said. “Here’s the coup de grace, a rare wine, the Chateau Margaux.”
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“I don’t understand a word of French you said.” He belched. “But whatever! Let’s have it!”
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And so he had it. I gave it to him: a more potent dose of the truth serum I had given him earlier. It would put him to sleep then stop his heart. Within minutes he was dead.
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I then proceeded to steal his checkbooks and bank papers from his study upstairs. The plan was to report the crime to police then withdraw all his assets. The purchase of the drug would be traced to him and not to me for it was his account I used. It would look like a suicide. Fingerprinting would yield no results either, for neither of us was an outsider in the house and thus our prints would naturally be found everywhere and would not seem suspect. It was fool-proof. I would not be found out.
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And in fact, I was never found. I beat a hasty retreat to the States and never was the crime connected to me. Now, seventy years later on my deathbed, time has come to tell the truth to all. I hated living without knowing the truth and cannot myself leave this deception unsolved. Was what I did was right? Maybe it was wrong? Not even the vast wealth I inherited from the congressman would give me the answer to those queries. I have no regrets though, as I myself during that banquet found out the truth behind all. And to me, that is all that matters.
