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101 Word Fictions: We’ll Find Out

Marcelo didn’t know what to say to Vita when she asked whether she was picking the right door. Who has answers to things like those anyway? Marcelo surely did not anticipate questions about train doors ever in his life.

“We’ll find out,” Marcelo quipped almost too quietly that Vita had to step closer to him to ask him to say it again.

“We’ll find out.” Marcelo mouthed the words again. He paid attention to the way he said it as he noticed that Vita raised her eyebrows and looked intently at his lips.

“We’ll find out,” Vita agreed, nodding her head.

This is the long overdue continuation of this couple’s First Meeting.

I (Vita) am doing a Fiction in 101 Words on my Livejournal. You can send me ideas by leaving me a comment on my blog. :)

Merger

(Dear V)

This is for today, when you’d be tired, and when you’d look for something to read to take away your dull eyes and carry your imagination to your bedside, or better, to your favorite corner.

I’ve taken to reading again; and this time, I take it with preciseness to absorb every letter and word and sentence, and read it again as the series of images spring forth shapes with the literal only I can know.

The water I drink today tastes funny—it tickles my tongue, and slowly passes through the nerves at my feet and back up again to swirl in my head.

On my monitor, there is a post-it inked with a scribbled word—focus, to script, italicized and spacious kerning between each letter. It is written off-center to make your eyes work to move around the little square paper and focus; focus on the swirl and curves and the smoothness of rounds without corners.

Underneath the note, the air in between seeds your image, spreading and engulfing like a fog, with a scent of rain and dew, telling me that you are here even if you are not.

I drink from my mug again. It is warm now and it still tickles. I can feel your wet lips.

office letters: at 2:47

Dear Ms. V,

Actually, it’s softer on the tongue to say Missus V (Mrs. V), but hey, anyway.

On top of things, there’s not much to say and it gets boring from here. Everyday and every day we tell affectionate ‘I Love You’s or sometimes throw tantrums. We could live with that, can we? And apart from the whispers, the occasional hugs and touches.

We’ve grown apart with human contact, lately and we’re almost officially a-one-year-couple, with things that could or might turn sour or depressing or hopeful or grateful or optimistic in the months to come.

We all know what that is about.

I don’t want to think about that until I get there because I know I can live with loneliness and waiting. The waiting should be enjoyable, because there’s something to look forward to; not when you’re bored together, physically.

Sometimes I run out of thoughts or metaphors because there is only one plain thing is love. As cheesy as it can be. And we can make all the movies and music and poetry and art and language, and still we have this enormously simple theme.

Cheers,

M

your letter to your one and only vita

I don’t know, but lately, I miss you more, wanting to see and touch you. If you might have done that cat-hair gayuma thing, I must say that it worked. Absolute approval, I suppose. Like five thumbs up, if you had them. Sometimes I feel the need to write something sweet and poetic to make you notice me and smile. To see an email pop in your inbox, I know, it should whirl your hair. I miss that expression, that kid-like fancy; when I pinched you too much on your arm it hurt, I can not make words more for the silly-ness of you and my emotions.

With glee and heart-shaped smiles.


—-
kind of weird that I send emails to your work mail. I feel like I’m your client or something.

Train Strains (This is a hacked post from Marcelo’s entry)

12 May

I hate trains. It’s my daily commute, and it has been a part of my life for some 10 odd years already. It was my awakening to the rabid commute to the farthest school I have ever been in, my A to B in the shortest amount of time, on regular hours. We push heavily starting from the steps on towards the ticketing, the balcony, then everywhere. The people, the masses, the multitude. It doesn’t stop.

I used to take the bus / FX / jeep in the pre-MRT era. I loved it, and love it still. But the time convenience just affords my reality that I am always in a rush; about the perplexities of my uncommon existence, and the rush to stay still.

For about a month now, I’ve had this strange relationship with trains. I will be there in the morning, waiting for her to arrive, amicably sitting and retaining my last thoughts from the night before. People walk passed; some stare at me. I look back without flinching a smile. Like I let my eyes gorge their silly thoughts, and silly dresses and silly walks. Then she arrives, sometimes on time, and mostly, not. Sometimes she arrives with a full hedge of life in her; those of turmoil, or those of gleam. And sometimes, there, empty, to be devoured by people just like me, to squeeze every inch of themselves and make her full, and let no other man come inside. I am selfish to want to get in right at that moment. I can wait, I know. But I am always in a rush.

Inside, there is a mad sea of feelings. The hot and cold air swirl around and meet at some gully. Perhaps on my nose, or my lips where I can taste the foul air in the morning. Sometimes the air brushes my hair, and sometimes the sun glistens in my cheeks, and yours as well. Mornings can be a bit weary sometimes, especially for me, for lack of energy, from the nights I’ve spent exhausted, on your precious back. I can smile, and smile back at her. Because I know I am safe, inside her heart, where she turns and follows her rails. I notice eyes twitter around and look for others. Their stories, their lives, intertwined without knowing. Our lives. Back and forth. I’ve set my feet apart to stand still and sway gracefully inside her vessel. We dance, she and I, although she doesn’t want to admit it. We enjoy balance amidst her rocky ride.

But just as every good passing moment comes, I arrive at my station; where I get off, and where I head out to graze and ponder my resiliency of un-attachment.

Beyond this, outside, people ruin the moment. We ourselves long for hurt, the urge, the shove, the persuasion, the want to antagonize, and so forth. I love the push. I love the riot. I love the turmoil. Hell, I wrote songs about it.

After that, once you’re out, it’s all calm, like anything never did happen. Just sweat on your brow, to know that there was that ride.

I used to hate trains sometimes, on what a wreck I can feel, from what can be made from a fleeting mad love affair.

Dear Marcelo,

See, the problem with me is I am too onomatopoeic. I hear the sounds of things in my head that aren’t supposed to make sounds. Perhaps I am just too imaginative.

I fell in love with you on a Wednesday. I heard my heart go “Oh Oh Oh” like The Pixies from “Here Comes Your Man.” It was singing and I didn’t have a chance to turn it off or tone it down. I kept on singing with it until it sounded too melodic and booming that I couldn’t help myself but to sing with it.

Yours until,
Vita

emotionalalgebra:

because there are no fireworks when we.

emotionalalgebra:

Today is Noah Webster’s birthday, 17 October.

Cheers to all the words!

Today’s favorite word:
orthography [awr-THOG-ruh-fee]: the art or study of correct spelling according to established usage.

Marcelo and Vita met one Tuesday, on the train.

It was late at night and Marcelo, who had been working the whole day, acted sluggish and sleepier than usual. Then he saw her—this blur of a girl, who was talking to herself aloud.

It was that moment.

No, it was not a moment of magic. It was more like a moment of luminous curiosity, as he watched the girl in blue move her lips. And though there was nothing particularly attractive about this awkward girl, Marcelo noticed her while she contemplated—quite loudly—which train door to choose. He watched her as she tilted her head from side to side, her hair quite tousled from her tilting. He noticed too that, instead of getting angry, she pouted silly faces when she was pushed. He chuckled reflexively as she made faces at the doors she didn’t like. He felt she understood this girl’s eccentricities, the way she treated train doors with so much animation as if they are going to be kind to her if she smiled at them more, as if choosing the right door is most crucial to her breathing.

He smiled and then looked away from her. It was enough for him to see this blur from afar, it had been enough to have awakened him from that sleepy night. But when he turned to his side, she was there standing a meter apart from him. And, she must have noticed that Marcelo was looking quite intently at her, she turned to him and casually exclaimed as if in anticipation for his most honest answer,

“I hope this is the right door.”

She paused, her eyebrows suspended in quizzical expression, waiting for him to say a word.

First date. ♥