tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79909841271585504572024-02-07T18:41:03.811+08:00Psychosis of a WriterPsy-cho-sis [sahy-koh-sis] (n.) - a mental disorder characterized by symptoms, such as delusions or hallucinations, that indicate impaired contact with reality.Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-47611347400770574872013-05-28T23:16:00.000+08:002013-05-28T23:16:49.669+08:00Lucky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">Some people just have all the luck don't
they?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">Life can be so unfair... So very unfair...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH"> </span> </div>
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<span lang="EN-PH"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<span lang="EN-PH">For fraternal twins, me and my sister look
remarkably alike. As kids, it's been our little game to wear each other's
clothes and see how long we could fool our relatives and friends whenever they
would came over. We would secretly giggle each time they'd get us wrong, and
would laugh at their reaction when they found us out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">Of course, this didn't sit all that well
with our dad, strict as he is. Mom would try to reassure him each time, saying
something about it's only a joke and that he shouldn't take it too seriously.
Every once in a while though, he'd catch us putting on each other's clothes and
he'd get really mad, yelling something about how he didn't raise us to be like this
and that this isn't how proper people should act. Mom would be there to
restrain him as usual, though I never really understood why he got so worked up over it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">I mean, what's so wrong about me putting on
my sister's clothes and her putting on mine, right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Whoa, your sister was right! You look
exactly like her!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Remarkable for fraternal twins isn't it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“I'm sure you get teased a lot because of
it don't you? You looking like your sister and all... But damn, the resemblance
is really remarkable!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Wait... Uhhh guys... What are... What was
that you said? Fraternal twins?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“It means we were born from different
embryos that just happened to both be fertilized at the same time. It's more
common than identical twins; in fact, most twins are fraternal and not
identi... cal... Um... Billy?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Um, sorry... You... Uh... lost me at
embryo...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Hahahahaha!”<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">We did fairly well for kids that were a
little different from the norm. You'd think me and my sister would be teased
constantly, but between her friendly nature and my disposition for noisy
banter, we made a lot of good friends. Of course, we were still teased and made
fun of sometimes, more so me than her, but it really didn't matter much to us.
Amidst everything though, we grew up into well-rounded individuals, and (not to
be arrogant or anything) with above average features too! She became really
popular with the guys in high school (which I envy sometimes, I wish I was
popular as her too...), and I became a prodigious student of sorts. I guess my
jealousy was unfounded after all, but it still bothered me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">Why can't I be like her, even if we look
and act almost exactly alike?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Are you... busy? Can I talk with you about
something?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Hmm? I am, but we can talk, of course!
What's this about?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Well... It's about Billy...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">Billy was the idiot friend everybody can't
help but have, and everybody can't help but love. He is the kind of friend who
will never fail to make you laugh, either deliberately or unintentionally. He
has this knack for making himself look stupid, even if he wasn't actively
trying to. Even when he has his “genius moments” (which he has surprisingly
often), he still manages to make himself appear dumb. It makes you wonder if he
intentionally acts dim-wittedly or he really is just an idiot, though I think
I'd put my money on the latter and not the former.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">But that's what I like about him. Too bad,
he already likes somebody else...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Oh... That's... Great, isn't it? He's a
nice guy and all, and he's very funny too!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Yeah... But, I dunno... He's really not my
type...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">Give him to me then...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“W-well... What do you intend to do?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“I dunno... That's why I'm asking you... Do
you think he'd feel bad if I... Um... Told him off?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-PH">He did.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">My sister told me Billy would be waiting
for her by the ice cream shop in front of school, two days from then. She told
me she'd reject him, but she'd try to be as discrete and as civil about it as
possible. As for me, I don't really know how I should feel. To see him hurt
hurts me twice as much, but to see him happy with another hurts me much the
same. But then, even if my sister does reject him, there would be no guarantee
that he'd... Love me. Even if I look almost exactly like my sister. Even if I
act exactly like her. Even if I am as nice as her, as friendly as her, even if
we were able to fool our relatives all the time with our silly little game...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">I cannot be her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">It was obvious Billy had been deeply hurt;
I've never seen him as sad as he was the day after my sister rejected him. It
would take a few more days before I got to talk to him again, and a few weeks
more before we were able to return to our usual noisy banter. Of course, he was
still awkward around my sister; it was obvious that being around her hurts him
still. He would try avoid her if he could, but, for some reason, because of
that we began to hang out more often with each other. My sister was kind enough
to keep her distance, and as weeks grew into months, me and Billy grew closer
and closer together.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-PH">Maybe... Maybe I have a chance after all...</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-PH">Putting on my sister's clothes felt
nostalgic. It was as if we were again playing the game we used to play when we
were little. Of course, this time, it was different; I wasn't trying to fool
anybody. Billy asked me if I wanted to go to the arcade with him, since nobody
else could go and because he was bored. He also told me he had been thinking
about something ever since my sister rejected him, and that he had something
very important to say to me. I had to sneak my way out of the house for fear of
my dad, but even the nervousness I felt then could not match the nervousness I
was feeling as I headed to the arcade. What was on his mind? What did he want
to tell me? Would he even be able to recognize me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">My heart was up my throat when I saw him.
Had I known what would happen then, I would have spat it out and kicked it
away.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Wh-why are you here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Huh? You told me to come right?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“W-wait... Is that... You?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Haha, remarkable right? How we look almost
exactly alike. Do my sister's clothes look good on me?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Billy?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“G-get away from me... Mother was right
when she told me to keep my distance from you!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“What?!?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“No, I never want to see you again! You're
a perverted demon! A freak!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Wha-what are you saying? I thought... I
thought you had something to tell me...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">My vision began to blur. Was it confusion?
Anger? Tears?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Yes, I did. I did have something to tell
you. I was going to ask you if you could help me court your sister properly!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“I thought... I thought... All this time...
You were being nice to me because you... Liked me-”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Like you? I was only being nice to you
because you reminded me of your sister! Besides, how can a guy like me ever
like someone like you?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-PH">Mom had to restrain my father's anger, but
I couldn't even hear him yelling. The pain must have numbed me too much to even
care. I imagine he'd be fuming, and maybe this time mom wouldn't be able to
stop him. Maybe this time he'd really kick me out, after all, he didn't raise
me to be like this, to be a perverted demon, or a freak. Maybe. But I just
cannot bring myself to care.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“You should've told me you were borrowing
my clothes. So who were you playing a prank this... Time...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">My sister was speechless for a moment as I
glared at her, my eyes burning with anger. I know it's not her fault, but why
am I so angry at her? Why does it all feel so unfair? It's all so very unfair!
What does she have that I don't? What's so different that the boy I liked would
love her and not me? We look almost exactly alike, I'm as friendly and as nice
as her, heck, people couldn't even tell us apart if we wanted to. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">So why can't Billy love me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“Wha-what happened?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“A-are you okay?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">“B-brother?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-PH">Yes. That's why. I'm a fool to even think I
had a chance. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-PH" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-PH; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: HI; mso-font-kerning: .5pt;">“...Some people just have all the luck don't they?”</span></div>
Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-1854599388991433792013-03-06T23:06:00.001+08:002013-03-06T23:36:05.237+08:00Hare Menjou<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
My heart belonged only to you</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This love remained forever true.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Though you always looked far ahead</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Seeing you smile; I was content.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I wished you'd share your pains with me;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'd bear them with you happily.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And while your love, I'd just covet</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I only wish you don't forget...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That you need not cry, I am here,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You do not need to look my way.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Be still, just let go of your fear,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And I would heal your pains away.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQBVtnIIJEFDCzZrC9zv9gr2XDahAAzBjFmZ1ijblltLwJb2OxptqLhyphenhyphenoqPya7Wwg1qIwHVqRJ_FQZqh33QEAuc3aiaArqQHnBJJXzSKtjVTrIiG_QS2q_ishZ2R25CCWUQOG1Pf3UcSQ/s1600/Hare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQBVtnIIJEFDCzZrC9zv9gr2XDahAAzBjFmZ1ijblltLwJb2OxptqLhyphenhyphenoqPya7Wwg1qIwHVqRJ_FQZqh33QEAuc3aiaArqQHnBJJXzSKtjVTrIiG_QS2q_ishZ2R25CCWUQOG1Pf3UcSQ/s320/Hare.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>
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Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-61089244398250331302013-02-14T01:59:00.004+08:002013-02-14T01:59:54.140+08:00My Valentine!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Would you please be my valentine?<br />
Please just say yes and don't decline!<br />
I promise I'd treat you diff'rently<br />
From all your lover wannabe's!<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Because if you'd choose to agree,<br />
That, for today, mine you would be.<br />
I won't give you the moon or stars,<br />
Nor would I give you choc'late bars!<br />
<br />
I would not give you diamonds,<br />
Nor expensive lavish garments.<br />
And surely not a dinner date,<br />
Nor a fancy flower bouquet!<br />
<br />
Because anyone can buy them<br />
But then leave you sad and alone<br />
Instead I'd write for you a poem<br />
And promise you'd always and forever be<br />
<br />
The one I'd love to call my own!<br />
</div>
Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-75434753654325175892013-01-27T04:27:00.001+08:002013-01-27T04:27:08.858+08:00Dinner for Two<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would you indulge me for a minute while I tell you a story? It’s not awfully long, and it wouldn't leave you sad or depressed; it might even make your day if your day hasn't been made yet, although I highly doubt that. Still, I’m sure your minute is important and is not something to be wasted, so I’d tell the story the best I could, and I hope you find some measure of enjoyment in it, somehow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It starts like this…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mama, how was work today?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hmm, well, it’s the usual, I guess…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“Oh? Weren't you going on last night about how the new girl Amie was trying to make a good impression by awkwardly stealing the scene from the higher ups?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ha! Well, she got what she deserved!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And what she deserved… Is something that happens usually I assume?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ha? What do you mean?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh nothing…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a typical home, in a typical subdivision, lives a typical family, sharing a typical dinner. The typical serving of freshly cooked rice, the typical chicken <i>adobo </i>(chicken simmered in vinegar and soy sauce), and the typical side of greens with <i>alamang </i>(shrimp paste); all very typical, and the mother and daughter sharing the meager meal was no expectation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Toni, how’s your work been? You’re pretty mum about it recently, any problems?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Eh, well, there’s the obnoxious little kid, George. I told you about him before, I think. He failed last term and he was making it seem like it was my fault that he did.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well? Why did he fail anyway?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s irrelevant. But the obnoxious thing about it is he’s suddenly involving his parents. He was going to file some sort of grievance against me to the school board.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ha? Well that’s really… Obnoxious…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fucked up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ma, you don’t have to hide it from me you know, haha, I know that was what you wanted to say, I saw you stopping yourself! No point pretending to be a good parent here, hahaha, we all know you’re very… Expressive, hahaha!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hahaha, well, that’s definitely something you took from me! And yes, that’s indeed fucked up!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know! Normally I don’t really allow myself to be affected by such things, as I can very easily just present my records to the school board, but this student claims he has connections within the university administration, and he keeps threatening me that he can have me booted out on a whim…”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And so? I wouldn't think that sort of thing would bother you either…”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah, well, it doesn't I don’t care if he’s the son of the University President, heck he can be the son of the Philippine President for all I care! But I’m just worried, you know, about the kid. What kind of relationship would he have when he grows up…”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And at that, silence fell upon the little dinner table. Only the tiny clinking of the <i>kubyertos </i>(table settings) could be heard; refined and almost harmonic. After all, she was her daughter, and she wouldn't raise an illiterate wild woman, no sir she won’t, as she would often very proudly exclaim. And a fine graceful woman her daughter did turn out to be, a delicate but strong character loved by many and hated by few.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her daughter finished first, but waited on her so she can gather the plates up for washing. It was her turn tonight to do the dishes.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rush of the water against the dirty plates broke the pensive silence. That and a curious question.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“How are you and Michael?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Huh?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I said how are you and Michael? It’s been a while too since you last talked about him. He hasn’t done anything to hurt you or anything hasn't he?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hahaha, no ma, we’re fine! I just can’t see him as often recently, that’s all. All the term-end work is keeping me preoccupied, so he’d just have to wait, hahaha!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hahaha! Well, I’m sure he understands. You've been on for how long now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uhh, hmm, seven, maybe eight years now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wow… That’s… Impressive…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was indeed, for her at least. And once again, silence fell upon the two. They were a perfect picture of family: a caring mother and a dutiful and industrious daughter; what more can you ask for? And as the final plates were wiped dry, the daughter kissed her mother good night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow, both of them would wake up. Whoever woke up first made breakfast; while they normally took turns with the house chores, they do not take turns for breakfast preparation so as not to be late for work. Breakfasts are normally quieter than dinners, although it was not completely devoid of chatter; they just couldn't talk as much in the mornings for the same reason they do not take turns with breakfast preparations. Then after making sure they were both ready for work, they would leave, her mother taking the family SUV and her on her personal sedan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They would go through their day, and then reconvene again in the evening, doing the same typical things in the same typical house in the same typical subdivision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why do I tell you this story? Well, I don’t know either myself. Apologies for those expecting an unexpected ending, but sometimes a story-teller would only want to tell that: a typical story, simple and ordinary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Isn't that what we all wish for in the end anyway?</div>
<br />
</div>
Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-41922655549340064192013-01-18T14:10:00.000+08:002013-01-18T14:10:23.272+08:00Ironclad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What do you hide behind the masks?<br />
Is a question nobody asks<br />
For we know who you really are<br />
Fool that fancies himself a star<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Why put on a suit of armor?<br />
Nobody asked for a savior!<br />
You could instead spend your millions<br />
To dine in fancy pavilions<br />
<br />
Ah, but the answer is simple<br />
For a torn heart that barely beats<br />
Why be a savior or a fool<br />
When you can be a genius,<br />
<br />
Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist...</div>
Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-36387700514412691402012-10-26T01:53:00.001+08:002013-03-06T15:38:34.619+08:00The Better Man<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"This is the second time you've failed this year! Why don't you take after your brother huh? Look where he is now, don't you want to be like him too?"<br />
<br />
I couldn't stand it anymore.<br />
<br />
"Young man, where do you think you're going? Don't you dare turn your back on me!"<br />
<br />
I have to get out.<br />
<br />
"Robert! Robert! Get back here! When your father hears about this..."<br />
<br />
I'm suffocating...<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
My room had the fortunate circumstance of having a balcony with a folding fire escape ladder that leads to the rooftop of our house. When peaceful dinners turn into heated fits (which they often do), there's no better escape. Up here, I feel untouchable, unreachable; detached. Up here, I can see our entire neighborhood, and pretend that I'm not myself. I have this hobby that I play, if I'm not deep in introspection, where I imagine myself living out the moments of some random neighbor. I would look at their house, spot someone talking to someone about some mundane thing I'd rather not know, and pretend I was there, in their stead. I would try to imagine what was in their minds at that moment, what they were thinking of, how they felt. It would distract me from my own woes and worries, pass the time, cool my head.<br />
<br />
Or sometimes, I just take out my phone and see if anyone messaged.<br />
<br />
Of course, no one did.<br />
<br />
Even if I already texted her like five hundred times.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I like to think if I was better off without her.<br />
<br />
She just adds to my worries sometimes.<br />
<br />
Troubles come knocking no matter how much you try to avoid them. Be really good at something and people would begin to pester you and pick on you every damn time you fall below their expectations; like you're some sort of broken property that needs to be fixed. Be really bad at something however and people would pester you and pick on you much the same way, egging you on with what they think is reinforcement and encouragement but are in reality no more than stinging words, eating away at whatever confidence you might have had left. And heaven knows what they'd do if you remained mediocre. You just can't ever please these people with a life you'd think was your own.<br />
<br />
So really, why bother?<br />
<br />
"Hey, I thought I might find you here!"<br />
<br />
"Oh, hey dude, whats up?"<br />
<br />
"Nothing much. Heard your mom going berserk again. Failed another subject or something"<br />
<br />
"Yeah... But I tried really hard though. I just don't know why she couldn't see that! She berates me as if I didn't do my part, like I did not study at all, but I did!"<br />
<br />
"There there... I know you did, chill..."<br />
<br />
John is my next-door neighbor and a childhood friend of mine. We've known each other ever since we were very young, and he had been the unfortunate recipient of my worst rants and ramblings. I don't think he minds though, as he always wears that impeccable, almost inviolable smile. We used to go to the same school, but his father enrolled him into an exclusive school for boys sometime during our elementary years. I think that was the only time I ever saw him without that almost signature smile of his, but he seemed to cope rather well. If anything, that was also the time when he discovered my habit of hanging out on the rooftop of our house, so we hung out together most of the time after that. I guess that somehow helped him cope up, but I didn't really mind. He was always very patient and very supportive -- you really couldn't ask for a better friend -- and it was the least I could have done.<br />
<br />
I checked my phone again. Of course, there was nothing. I'd been hoping for naught, but the worst part is the fact that I even hoped in the first place.<br />
<br />
"She's not replying again isn't she?"<br />
<br />
"Yeap... I don't even remember anymore why I fell for her in the first place..."<br />
<br />
He laughed.<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"Nothing. Remember when you made me read that mushy love letter of yours? Dear Abigail. Has there ever been any flower quite as delicate and beautiful as you..."<br />
<br />
I hit him in the shoulder. He let out a playful protest, but continued teasing me anyway.<br />
<br />
He can be a jerk sometimes, but at least it got my mind off of my problems temporarily.<br />
<br />
I've been dating Abigail for more than five years now. It's surprising, in this day and age, how well our relationship has lasted, but it had its own ups and downs. She was the brightest in our class, and had always been the crème de la crème. So imagine my surprise when she accepted the love letter I had reverently wrote for her. I've been the envy of everyone ever since then, but I couldn't care less. I loved her and gave her everything I had. Whenever she needed me, I was always there, ready to answer to her every need. I felt I couldn't be any more lucky to have someone like her; she had become the center of my naive little universe.<br />
<br />
A universe that had so slowly and methodically collapsed that I did not notice until it was too late.<br />
<br />
After our fourth year anniversary, or maybe even before that and I just did not bother to mind, she began to change. It started when she demanded we see each other a little less often; she said she wanted to pursue her own a life, a life defined by her and not by the relationship we shared. Soon, we didn't see each other at all, and her text messages have begun to become more and more laconic and forced. Sooner still, she did not even reply anymore. Every once in a while, she would text me to make a request or to ask for a favor, which, of course, I foolishly obliged. She would be very nice to me during the duration of the request and would act as if she had missed me, the veracity of which my naive self did not even bother to think about. I was happy and she was too, and that was it. Problem was, after all has been said and done, she's back to her old self again, and the cycle begins anew.<br />
<br />
Ugh.<br />
<br />
Such is my life, a big cluster-fuck of unmet and misplaced expectations, coupled with indignation and apathy, fueled by random praise that seemed to hook me in just enough so I don't go wandering off elsewhere. It's unfair and it's all messed up, but it was my life, and I had no other choice but to live through all of it.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, I can't do anything but just be the better man. Even if doing so meant sacrificing myself for everyone else. Unfair, yes, but what else can I do.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Robert..."<br />
<br />
"Yeap?"<br />
<br />
"Tomorrow..."<br />
<br />
"Hmm?"<br />
<br />
"Ahh... You see, this might be the last day you'd be seeing me..."<br />
<br />
"Huh? What gives?"<br />
<br />
See? Now my best friend is going to leave me as well. How much more unfair can life get?<br />
<br />
"See, my dad... He enrolled me in military school. I did not want to, but he said I did not really have a choice in the matter. He says I needed some toughening up or something."<br />
<br />
"Oh... 's that so?"<br />
<br />
"I... Ahh... loved reading that letter you wrote for Abigail. You know, it's really good. And, well, I think you're a really awesome person, no matter what your mom or Abigail says. So please stop thinking the world has been unfair to you... Because if it had truly been fair..."<br />
<br />
"Huh? Dude, what are you saying?"<br />
<br />
"If it had truly been fair..."<br />
<br />
His eyes were wide and deep as they drew closer and closer to mine. As if by reflex, the world began to grow dark, and a moment later, a moment that felt like forever, an unknown and unfamiliar sensation filled my then torn and beaten heart.<br />
<br />
Was it confusion? Was it disdain?<br />
<br />
But then why can't I find the strength to withdraw?<br />
<br />
And yet why does it all feel so unfair? So much more unfair than how I felt all this time?<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry it had to end even before it could even begin... Please stop thinking the world is unfair to you..."<br />
<br />
"John... I..."<br />
<br />
"Because if only you knew..."<br />
<br />
"John..."<br />
<br />
"Well, I guess now you do... Farewell Robert..."</div>
Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-670545650953499262012-10-22T18:15:00.000+08:002012-10-22T18:15:05.965+08:00For now for now<br />
<i>And then morning would break;</i><br />
<i>Trumpets would sing triumphant.</i><br />
<i>Warriors would lay down their arms</i><br />
<i>And cheer for the battle they've won.</i><br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>The silent whispers would turn into shouts;</i><br />
<i>Skies would clear from the arrows hailed.</i><br />
<i>Of what was once uncertain and precarious,</i><br />
<i>Now clear and bold, vivid and unclouded.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh joy must it be, the bliss of victory,</i><br />
<i>From a battle well fought and won.</i><br />
<i>Relief would blanket the ground a-sundered,</i><br />
<i>Now renewed with hope that had been undone.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But now dear child, war is upon us.</i><br />
<i>Everything reeks of grief and sadness.</i><br />
<i>Do not give up, however; be brave young one,</i><br />
<i>For hope heeds not the hopeless.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
---</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Free handed today just to pass the time, I wrote this quick poem because everything just seems so dim and uncertain at the moment. I am certain however that someday things would clear up, and I just need to still my tumultuous thoughts and worries for now.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Do not give up, however, be brave young one,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>For hope heeds not the hopeless. </i></div>
Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-44904599035677601692012-09-28T12:00:00.000+08:002012-09-28T12:43:14.288+08:00The Boxer's Quest"Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten!"<br />
<br />
"The referee is giving the signal... Yes! The match is over! After twelve rounds of intense boxing action, we have a winner by knock out!"<br />
<br />
"Talk about a clincher, partner, that match went down the wire..."<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I've been boxing for five years; or, well, more accurately, I chose to box professionally five years ago. I told my coach back then that I didn't want to pursue a career as an amateur; I do not desire to compete in the Olympics or any such. I desire the limelight, I want to be seen. I want kids tacking my picture up on their walls and adults talking day in and day out about my most recent conquest, or debating how many rounds it would take to beat my next adversary. I want nothing but the glory and adulation of the millions, and cheesy gold medals aren't gonna cut it for me. I want to be the center of attention day after day after monotonous day. Call me greedy, call me conceited, but this is what I have decided on five years ago, and I will do anything to attain this "lofty" aspiration.<br />
<br />
"Are you alright?"<br />
<br />
"Y-yeah... What happened?"<br />
<br />
"It's alright... Take it easy..."<br />
<br />
"Did I..."<br />
<br />
"Worry about that later... We have to close your cuts..."<br />
<br />
It was a big surprise; six months ago was. It was no secret the champion of my weight class was nearing retirement age; the questions people were asking were no longer "if's" but "when's". He had been a great champion, but I couldn't really care less. I've been winning undercards megabuck fight after megabuck fight; pretty soon, my name was becoming a buzzword among analysts and pundits, blabbering about things like "potentials" and "bright futures" like they know what they're saying. Potential my ass, have they seriously been watching my fights? Did they not see how I obliterated Mister No-name number one in my last fight, or how I demolished Mister No-name number two's face the fight before? I deserve more than what they chalk me up for.<br />
<br />
Well, true to the old wives's adage, I got what I wished for. Caution had never really been one of my strengths.<br />
<br />
"Hey, hey, are you okay?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah... I don't exactly remember what happened however. What happened? How did I lose?"<br />
<br />
"A helluva knockout punch. It came out of nowhere..."<br />
<br />
"Huh... All I remembered was I was beating the daylights out of him, then suddenly, everything went black..."<br />
<br />
It was to be his last match before he retired. His promoter gave him the privilege to pick who he wants to be facing in the ring, but it wasn't just his promoter who got the shock of their lives when he announced his choice. Boxing websites went abuzz with the news; some branded him as a playground bully, his "eccentric" decision criticized as a way to end his career with an easy win, others hailed him as a true boxing hero who gives chances to the up and comers of the sport. It was all the same to me; I hated it all. The focus was on him; what about me? This is going to be the biggest match of my entire career, and all they can think about is praising or berating the champion? He picked me for fuck's sake!<br />
<br />
I'll show them.<br />
<br />
"Can we have a word with your ward?"<br />
<br />
"Please let us through!"<br />
<br />
"Hey, hey! What can you say about the match? The judges said that, had you not been knocked out, you were gonna be the winner via unanimous TKO!"<br />
<br />
"Please... Please... Leave him be for now... Can't you see he's still recovering? He will answer your questions later, please wait for the official press conference..."<br />
<br />
Training was all I had ever known. Training to become stronger. Training to become better. I had decided on the sport ever since I could put on a pair of comically over-sized gloves. The sisters in the orphanage had a hoot watching me brandish the heavy bright red gloves then topple over due to the weight. Teachers would either smile with beaming indifference or frown with concern whenever I shared my ambition in class. They clearly did not understand. When I was old enough to leave the orphanage, I found my home in a local boxing gym. The owner and head coach was kind enough to take me in; he taught me all I know about boxing and had become a father of sorts to me.<br />
<br />
Still, he could never replace what I never had.<br />
<br />
<br />
The press conference was about to begin. Me and my competitor was patched up as nicely as the doctors could. The questions would begin pouring soon, I better ready myself.<br />
<br />
I had seen him on television before, the rare times my coach had successfully goaded me into watching. He said it was something I should see, I might learn something from watching him. He certainly looked different when I first saw him in person -- he much more intimidating; I guess that's why he was champion, but I did not let that get in to my head. As he took the seat next to mine, however, he had a very different look. I couldn't really tell, but pretty soon, we were bombarded with the blinding flashes of cameras and the chaos of interviewers and news reporters squeezing and shoving to get their scoop, so I didn't bother much about it.<br />
<br />
It was then that the unexpected happened.<br />
<br />
"You probably didn't know. You wouldn't have any reason to..." he begun.<br />
<br />
"..."<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry..."<br />
<br />
Sorry for what? Why was he hugging me? Is he crying?<br />
<br />
I couldn't say anything.<br />
<br />
"It's been twenty two years... Look at what you've become... You've certainly grown..."<br />
<br />
Why am I crying too?<br />
<br />
"When I realized it was you... I had to... I called you out immediately. I had to see for myself it was true, if you were really who I thought you were... And I was right! I couldn't fight you properly... I was thinking... Hit me... Punch me... I deserve it... I deserve every bit of your anger and rage. But the way you fought, the way you stood; it had me going for a second. For a second, all my regret, all my grief, it all went away, and for the first time ever, I felt something I had been denied all these years..."<br />
<br />
<br />
Five years ago, I made a conscious decision to fight professionally. Back then, I craved the limelight, I craved attention. I wanted my picture to be tacked onto the walls of kid's bedrooms and my name to be the talk of everyone, chatting endlessly about my recent conquests, or debating how many rounds it would take for me to beat my next adversary. I wanted the glory and adulation of the millions; cheesy Olympic gold medals weren't going to give me that! It might sound greedy or conceited; but I will bet you my life I would do anything, fight through everything, just to attain this "lofty" aspiration.<br />
<br />
That was what I thought. But I knew. I had always known. I was craving for something, I was. And today, I got what I have always truly wanted.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry. I don't deserve to be called your father, but I think I deserve to be proud of my son."<br />
<br />
"..."<br />
<br />
<br />
"Good job son. I'm proud of you. I really am."Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-64066510042648189582012-09-27T23:51:00.000+08:002012-09-27T23:51:39.931+08:00UranometriaYour touch, your grace, your beauty<br />
I see through frosted window panes<br />
Of winter, of sadness, as autumn fades<br />
And white crystals settle in for the season.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Your warmth, now gone, just light<br />
Remains; traversing the distance of space<br />
And time. How sad must it be, to travel<br />
Alone, without neither soul nor sound.<br />
<br />
Oh why, must your light bequeath<br />
On me, unworthy, of such brilliance -<br />
Of utter majesty. Wasted on a fool<br />
Like me; a mortal replete with idiosyncrasy.<br />
<br />
Why must I long, I crave, to gaze<br />
Upon you, my love, my light. My lantern<br />
A midst the darkest hours. And yet<br />
How cruel;<br />
<br />
Uranometria. Alas, only your light<br />
breaks through, the emptiness of space -<br />
<br />
Nothing more...Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-14255472445993198042012-09-13T22:42:00.002+08:002012-09-13T22:43:17.322+08:00Call from an Angel"Hello"<br />
<br />
"Hello. You called again."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, is now a bad time?"<br />
<br />
"No no, it's just that, it hadn't been long since you last called..."<br />
<br />
"Don't you want me to call you anymore?"<br />
<br />
"No no, not that..."<br />
<br />
"Then what's the problem?"<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
In truth, there was no problem. If it had been up to me, I'd rather be talking with her than dealing with the crazy people in this household. Mother can't seem to stop yelling, and father just takes it with nary a whimper, whiskey shot in hand. We don't see each other eye to eye, and we prefer it that way; I've grown accustomed to taking an alternative route around the house than to walk past the living room or the dining hall, where my mom or my dad would normally loiter. Like rabid animals, I'd rather not risk it; because like rabid animals, they were bound to snap at anytime. Loose canons, and I'm always the unfortunate target.<br />
<br />
"No, nothing really. Say, what was it you called me for anyway?"<br />
<br />
"Um... Nothing really. I've got nothing to do here anyway, so I called."<br />
<br />
"Is that so?"<br />
<br />
Life can be rather unfair. Fourteen years ago, there was a fourth member of this dysfunctional household. Well, soon to be fourth. She was to be my little sister. In truth, I was a little too young to remember, but I remembered it quite well. She was to be named Alyssa, a bundle of joy for my parents, who had remained childless for a time. I was five back then, a young boy who did not know anything about kids or parenthood. All I was was an excited child who just cannot wait to have a playmate, somebody to share my toys with, to feign responsibility with. But it wasn't to be. She had not even had the chance to see this world, to open her precious little eyes.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it's rather lonely here. That's why I call you often, dummy..."<br />
<br />
"Hey now. Well, since you called, anything you'd like to talk about? School maybe? Has that crush of yours ever talked to you yet?"<br />
<br />
"Hmph! Foul! Can we talk about something else?"<br />
<br />
"Haha, well, think of something else to talk about!"<br />
<br />
The calls started three years ago. My parents had already devolved into who they are right now, and the household had started to become a disheveled mess. I had been skipping school, had been with some bad company, smoking, drinking, partying; the regular rebellious teenager life they like to hate in the news but they like to love in the movies. I couldn't be bothered by the dichotomy; the contrasting viewpoints of these adults can go suck themselves. All I was back then, and I hadn't really known at that time, was someone who had been seeking for something. That something had remained a mystery to me; maybe I as looking for attention, for appreciation, for love -- maybe I was looking for life itself. It had been that way for quite some time, until the calls began.<br />
<br />
"Hmm, well, how about what you ate today for breakfast!"<br />
<br />
"Me? Uhh, well, mom as usual couldn't be bothered to prepare a proper breakfast. She's once again fuming mad with dad over the same dumb things. I tried that recipe you told me the other day, in secret of course. Mom would blow her top if she found out..."<br />
<br />
"Aww, hmph! In that case, I forbid you to cook any of my recipes if you wouldn't be sharing them with your parents!"<br />
<br />
"Woah, hey! Let's not go there alright?"<br />
<br />
The calls had been a life saver of sorts for me. I don't really know how it happened, but soon enough, I had begun to look forward to the calls; I even memorized the times when she would call me. At first we were a bit apprehensive, but as time went by, we got comfortable talking to each other. I found out she was five years my junior, a girl who studies in the same school I used to go in. I haven't really seen her yet; we can't really call each other at school and we really hadn't bothered to set an appointment. We were simply content with the calls, and sooner or later I found my life slowly turning upside down. She'd give me unsolicited advice, which I appeared to hate, but secretly clung on to. She'd share with me some recipes (she says she's a good cook), and would help me with my homework. And yes, I began to attend school again. She had supported me every single day in those three years, and she would call me on my cellphone on each. She had been some sort of a lighthouse in a rough sea, guiding me as I navigated my way through.<br />
<br />
And a pretty bright lighthouse at that.<br />
<br />
"Ugh, fine, tomorrow. Definitely."<br />
<br />
"Is that a promise?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, it's a promise."<br />
<br />
"Are you sure? You're not lying now are you?"<br />
<br />
In truth I had been, but I can't now.<br />
<br />
"Fine fine, you caught me... But this time for real."<br />
<br />
"Then I'm glad."<br />
<br />
I couldn't sleep at all the whole evening. It felt to me that something was off with what she said. Doubt maybe? But she had never doubted me before, not that I've given her any reason to. Was it fear? Fear of what? Or was I simply over-thinking things. Still, a promise is a promise.<br />
<br />
And then I received my very first text from her.<br />
<br />
"You better live up to that promise alright! Good night!"<br />
<br />
Morning came at last, coming earliest to me. My folks are gonna wake up in an hour or so from now, I better hurry up and make do with that promise. It would be easy for me to just lie to her when she asked, but for some reason, I just can't. The shame of lying to someone as genuine as her; it's just too difficult to fathom. Might as well just get this over with. I already know how this is going to turn out anyway.<br />
<br />
"Son..."<br />
<br />
And here we go...<br />
<br />
"Son..."<br />
<br />
Can't you guys see I'm busy preparing something for you? I knew this was a bad idea...<br />
<br />
"Son!"<br />
<br />
"What!"<br />
<br />
"Son... Me... Me and your dad..."<br />
<br />
"..."<br />
<br />
"When we saw you... Getting up early... Son... Son..."<br />
<br />
She was crying... And I think I am too...<br />
<br />
"We're... Really... Sorry... Son..."<br />
<br />
"..."<br />
<br />
"We've been selfish... Son... We're really really sorry..."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
That afternoon, she did not call. She'd normally call me at around twelve in the afternoon; it's almost one o'clock now and she had not called me yet. I tried calling her, but she wouldn't answer. I had been very eager to tell her what had happened during breakfast, how after fourteen years we finally shared our first meal and how mom and dad survived without arguing. It would be a long time still before we can mend all the rifts and fractures that fourteen years worth of mutual animosity had wreaked between us, if we even could, but we were determined to try. While no words were said during breakfast, it wasn't as tense as I thought it would have been; invisible as it may be, I'm convinced that what I saw was hearts reconciling, making up for fourteen years worth of anguish and pain.<br />
<br />
This would be the second time she would send me a text message.<br />
<br />
"Hey, good job! And here I was thinking you'd break your promise! All jokes aside however, I'm glad, I really am. I don't really know what else to say. Please don't forget me okay? I love you, brother! Tell mom and dad I love them too, alright?"<br />
<br />
I wanted to reply, but I know she won't get it anyway. I just said a teary-eyed silent prayer.<br />
<br />
"Thank you... Alyssa..."Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-31366672531843482812012-09-13T01:19:00.003+08:002012-09-13T01:20:05.081+08:00The Man Who Lost His Precious Treasure"Sir, have you seen my most precious treasure? I seem to have dropped it somewhere..."<br />
<br />
"Sir, can you help me find my most precious treasure? I don't seem to remember where I last put it."<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, would you please help me search for something?"<br />
<br />
"Anyone? Please? I really really need this treasure..."<br />
<br />
"Help me... Please?"<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Out in the streets, in front of my little homely apartment unit I share with three strangers, there's a boy; a very young boy, maybe ten, eight at the youngest. He looks like he's not from around here; or more precisely, he probably doesn't live in this neighborhood, it seems. He stays outside almost the whole day, but mysteriously disappears around evening, right before people begin to call it a day, only to reappear again the following morning, always doing the same thing, asking the same questions.<br />
<br />
"Could anyone please help me search for my precious treasure?"<br />
<br />
I'm a factory worker, or, well, used to be a factory worker -- I got fired four days ago. I had been planning on moving out sometime soon, maybe move back in with my parents. My savings are about to run dry, and without any reliable source of cash, there really hasn't been much of a choice. The bills, the rent, food and potable water; it's amazing how fast one's basic necessities can burn up one's cash. I haven't told my roommates about this yet, I reckon they'd be pissed when I do; we divide the rent equally among ourselves, but I often end up paying a lion's share of it -- on an indefinite promise that they'd pay me back the next rent. In fact, I haven't really told anybody about this yet; call it pride, call it denial, call it anything you want, I just couldn't.<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, can you spare some time for me please? I just really need to find something, please?"<br />
<br />
The boy had been a welcome distraction the past days. I hadn't seen him before I got fired, probably because I was at work for the better part of the day. I normally leave last among the tenants of this mediocre apartment unit, cleaning out the trash of whatever last night's revelry was, and would arrive before anyone else, sleeping early to avoid any shenanigans my pad-mates are wont to indulge themselves in. You could say I'm sort of like a housekeeper, but I don't really pride in the fact.<br />
<br />
"Sir, have you seen my treasure? Sir? Wait! Please don't leave!"<br />
<br />
It's about living in the present, so they say, but getting by the present takes more effort than living itself. The factory doesn't exactly pay well, the benefits are far and few in between, but it puts food on the table. And its worrying about tomorrow's table that had made me unable to live in the today, I just can't; the moment I do, I fear I won't have anything to eat or drink for tomorrow, and the day after that. So you end up just swallowing whatever shit the day throws at you, hoping that tomorrow would be better, but already knowing -- expecting -- that it won't.<br />
<br />
"Hey, can you hear me? Please? Anyone?"<br />
<br />
The boy seems so desperate. At least he has something to live for. Still, he should probably just give up. There's no way anyone would pay him any attention; a young kid, barely old enough to be running around on his own, looking for a fantastical "precious treasure"? No one would seriously pay attention to that kind of misbehavior. That kind of bullshit. There's just no way. He's just wasting his time.<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, ma'am! Wait! Ma'am! I just want to ask you something! Please?"<br />
<br />
I wonder what my father would think of me. I've been a failure. He enrolled me in a decent school, worked his ass off just to see me through, and where am I now? A factory worker turned jobless piece of trash. Maybe that's why I'm too afraid to tell anybody about my predicament; I don't want to be judged. And yet, all the more do I deserve to be; what have I done to change my situation anyway? I've always just accepted the fact that there is only one way to where I need to go, and this does not go where I want to go. Wake up, eat, work, sleep; those were the only steps to this merciless path, anything outside that is frivolous and unnecessary. Anything outside that would lead you no where. Risks are only for those who can afford it, and I can't.<br />
<br />
"Sir, ma'am! Have you seen my precious treasure around here somewhere? Have you? Oh, have you?"<br />
<br />
The boy. He's beginning to get in my nerves, spouting the same nonsense everyday. Can't he just see that there's no way he can find his precious treasure, if it even exists? I bet this precious treasure of his is some toy he'd seen on TV, or some stupid imaginary thing he thought of and thinks is real! I bet his precious treasure doesn't really exist; a figment of his imagination. A fake. Fantasy. Fiction! He should just go and do something productive and concrete -- the factory doesn't hire kids like him, but he can at least work as an errand boy in some local deli! That way, he could earn himself some cash, rent an apartment with three strangers and live peacefully, just like everybody else.<br />
<br />
He should just give up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Sir. Sir! Can you help me find my precious treasure?"<br />
<br />
"Precious treasure? Well, I'm not really sure what you mean, can you tell me more about it?"<br />
<br />
"Hmmm... It's really really big, really really bright and really colorful too! I can't really say what it is, but it's something really really important to me, and I seem to have lost it a few days ago. Will you help me find it sir?"<br />
<br />
"Sure... Let's find this treasure together... What's your name little guy?"<br />
<br />
But I already know. I had known all along...Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-64718631640553811442012-08-21T04:24:00.002+08:002012-08-21T06:47:48.525+08:00Motions of the Worn and the Used<br />
<br />
Moving takes time, takes pain,<br />
From one corner of the room to the other.<br />
Running, walking, crawling, struggling;<br />
Clawing at the ceiling just to get by.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
The world tosses you one way<br />
Pushes you the other, a never ending spin cycle.<br />
Alone, most of the time, bells ringing;<br />
Guitar tones drowning out cries of agony.<br />
<br />
You fight to earn your keep, a battle.<br />
A war, between the you of tomorrows,<br />
The you of today, and the you of days gone by.<br />
Wanting their time in the limelight.<br />
<br />
But you pick up the shattered fragments.<br />
Because that's the only thing you know how to do.<br />
And then it's back to the painful motions, the grinding;<br />
The day to day struggles that make and define you.<br />
<br />
Because that's the only thing you know how to do.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
My emo days are not big favorites of mine, but days of yonder past have weird ways of kicking you in the back, reminding you of times when you're not really sad, nor angry, just jaded and bored of the day to day menagerie. I guess today my past has caught up to me, nostalgia maybe or reminiscence. It does not feel great at all, but it takes you back, pulls you back.<br />
<br />
I guess recently my source of hope and my source of joy has been... Distant. But to be more accurate, it's more like I'm distancing myself away from my source of hope and joy, deliberately or otherwise. With the way the world works, the way it spins, it's harsh realities, you get caught and you forget. You remember how reality bites, how reality sucks, how things just has to go the way it's going because, hey, it's the only thing you know how to do.<br />
<br />
And that is very very saddening.<br />
<br />
I miss my guitar. I miss singing worship songs to myself (I'm not a very good singer after all), moved to tears by how the lyrics speak to me and how the notes and the chords all ring aloud in my heart and resonate with my soul. I miss that happy, warm feeling that I used to feel when I play those songs, when I feel like someone is actually watching over me and supporting me.<br />
<br />
It's weird, really, how God works so differently from the world, and how stupid one would look to the world if one chooses to follow God. Worries and problems, they don't disappear, and God wouldn't always directly solve them for you. However, you get this confidence - no - this peace. This peace that you just instinctively know - reassured even - that someone out there will take care of you and help you out.<br />
<br />
And all I really needed to do was to go back to Him.<br />
<br />
I really hope this would be the last grimly themed poem I would have to write in a long while.Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-77043705933550959122012-06-02T14:36:00.002+08:002012-06-02T14:36:54.064+08:00Paradiso<br />
Gold and bronze and clay<br />
Paints the shining horizon.<br />
Courtesans swing and sway;<br />
Fending synthetic passion.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Red and gold liquid aplenty<br />
With the noise of brazen folks.<br />
Ecstasy fills the windborn city<br />
Of palatial courts of cedar and oaks.<br />
<br />
Mighty roars from trumpets long,<br />
Grey skin wrinkled and cracked.<br />
Chanting hymns, a frenzied song;<br />
Battle lines drawn, ready to attack.<br />
<br />
First fell the gate, a grisly spectacle.<br />
Then trampled screams, like an infant's cries.<br />
Grey clouds billowed, flames roared and crackled;<br />
As the fallen sung, "Welcome to Paradise"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
It's been awhile since I last wrote anything, so pardon if I'm rusty. Erika Carreon, a literary genius friend of mine had a dream about writing a poem about cities and elephants, so I thought, hey why not? What came out of that mental exercise is this. Enjoy!Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-87808152853310706082011-10-03T00:25:00.000+08:002011-10-03T08:36:45.478+08:00BittersweetsWarm sunshine filled the little amber bedroom. The sheets never felt better against his calloused, worn out skin. He lifted his comforter up a bit, to shield his eyes from the intense rays and the revelations of his reality. But he couldn't deny what is; it bites, but there was nothing else he could do. Right now, his only option is to get up and face the painful motions of the sunlit day.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
The long walk to where he worked was filled with all sorts of awful. Canals filled to the brim with fetid spoiling refuses of society, pockmarked roads that rival his own downtrodden pimpled face; it makes his long walk a journey, and an unpleasant one at that. Jeepneys ply the roads, their drivers yelling their lungs out for their family's next meal; he could take them sure, but it would be a waste of his hard-earned money. They say life is a battle, thrift would be his battleaxe.<br />
<br />
It wasn't even exactly morning yet on everybody's agenda, but to him, it might as well be night, when he could finally feel the warm embrace of his old, beaten comforter. If only the day would end right there and then, no, if only his life would end right there and then, so he can finally receive his promised eternal bliss with the Maker. He never cursed Him in his twenty-five year life, but if there would be one thing he'd curse about it, it'd be his life itself.<br />
<br />
His coworkers greeted him with warm smiles, as warm as a bonfire in the Antarctic. Everyone was abuzz with the day's work, and no sooner had he entered the building, he was abuzz along with them. Papers rustled everywhere, pens blazed mad against the crisp morning breeze. The old fan in the middle of their shared office space hadn't worked in years, yet the December gale was enough to chill their coffees before they could even finish them. They won't throw them away though, that'd be a waste - they wouldn't even throw away the cups they used, at least until the end of the day.<br />
<br />
There was no water in the dispenser, as it was every week of the month except the first; tap water would have to suffice. He'd need every help he could get, even if it meant risking ulcer, diarrhea, amoebiasis, leptospirosis or colon cancer. He'd welcome them if he could; his intestines have grown a level of immunity against such malefactors. Well, that or burning his throat out, and that'd add a level of misery to his already sad life - at least death would take him faster.<br />
<br />
He knows his friends don't look down on him, but he can't help feeling like he's at the bottom rung of the proverbial ladder. They may not look down on him, but being as low as he thinks he is, it's not so difficult to look down on himself. And if he could look down on himself, what more other people, which is especially true about his family. Threatened out of his house, he bit the bullet anyways. His naivete got the better of him, youth and idealism is a cruel and deadly combination. He finds joy in what he do, sure, but that's what he says when he wants to convince himself to continue living whatever life he's living.<br />
<br />
And what a life it is. What a life indeed.<br />
<br />
The door gently groaned ajar. It would be what, the thousandth time now that the door has opened? It's a miracle its tattered face and loose hinges had managed to hold it in place for that long; it might have even exceeded the number of times it was tested to open and close. Sooner or later though, it would crumble, and he knew it with a degree of certainty equivalent to how certainly disdainful his day was going to be.<br />
<br />
"Good morning sir! Kamusta po kayo?" smiled a little girl.<br />
<br />
"Oy ser!" laughed a young boy.<br />
<br />
"Sir!" beamed yet another.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, he lost the urge to go back to bed just yet.Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-76505353263028536252011-09-25T04:33:00.000+08:002011-09-25T04:33:43.195+08:00Because you chose her"You said you love her right? Then why are you here with me?!? Hehe..."<br />
<br />
Oww oww oww! Too bright! Morning sunshine... Too bright!<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Well, more like afternoon sunshine; it's around twelve in the afternoon already, far too late for a guy like me to be waking up.<br />
<br />
Tak-tak-tak-tak...<br />
<br />
Huh... must've been from last night. I probably drank myself to sleep or something; the guys probably left me once they figured I'm not gonna budge till late in the afternoon... Speaking of afternoon... Waaay to early to be waking up when you're having a hang-over... Or something...<br />
<br />
"Hey, you're back! Have you made your decision yet? Well? Have you?"<br />
<br />
Woah, must've dozed off... What time is it now... Quarter past two? Already?!? Damn! Shouldn't I be doing something right now?<br />
<br />
Hmmm... Mmmhh... Mmmmhh... Yaaawn...<br />
<br />
Getting up is such a pain though. Besides, the comforters feel exceptionally warm and comfy today. Fifteen minutes more...<br />
<br />
"Hey, where did you disappear to? I was looking all over for you! So... Have you decided?"<br />
<br />
"Huh... Wha- What are you talking about?"<br />
<br />
"Hmf!"<br />
<br />
"Ow! Not my shins! What the hell?!?"<br />
<br />
"Oh... Sorry, did that hurt? So you must've really forgotten... Don't you remember who I am?"<br />
<br />
"You... Wait... You are..."<br />
<br />
"Yes! That's right!"<br />
<br />
"Wait, I don't remember who you are..."<br />
<br />
Owww! Damn it, that was my shin you dumb... Wha? My room? Wasn't I... Wasn't I at school or something? And damn it, next time I'm not putting my dumb bells where they could crash on my legs...<br />
<br />
Wait a minute...<br />
<br />
Three thirty in the afternoon?!? Wait, now I remember! Darn, I have to go pick her up, she must be waiting for me! Where's my stuff? Where's my stuff?!?<br />
<br />
Darn it all!<br />
<br />
Thud!<br />
<br />
"Hmmhh... huh? Where am I?"<br />
<br />
"With me... Isn't that enough?"<br />
<br />
"He-hey wait! What are you doing? And why the hell are you naked?!? And what are you doing on top of me?!?"<br />
<br />
"Hee hee... So you'll never have a reason to leave me anymore... See, aren't you being excited too? Your heart's thumping real quick, and I don't even have to feel your chest to figure that out..."<br />
<br />
"Wait... That's not... That's not it! She- she's waiting for me! Get off me!"<br />
<br />
"Tsk, too late... Ahhh... Damn... This is too good to be true...."<br />
<br />
"Get off me!"<br />
<br />
Gah! What the... What the heck?!? And crap, that hurt! Better tidy up later... Owwww... Damn it, no time for that, I told her we'd be meeting by four, and its now... What?!? Quarter to four already?!?<br />
<br />
Must hurry! Must hurry! Damn it, where are my shoes?!?<br />
<br />
Riiiiing! Riiiiing!<br />
<br />
Hello?<br />
<br />
Hey, where are you? Are you going to be late again? You promised to meet me by four!<br />
<br />
Sorry! I'm really sorry! I just woke up! Had a strange dream too... Well, I'd tell you all about it later, I'm dashing right now, I'd be there in a jiffy!<br />
<br />
Hmph... Whatever... I knew it... Well, take care then- Wha... What was that?!? Hello?!? Hello?!? Hey, are you still there? Hello?!?<br />
<br />
"Wha... what's this?"<br />
<br />
"Finally awake..."<br />
<br />
"Why are all those people lined up like that? Mom! Dad! Hey! Hey! Wa-wait a minute... isn't that?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, that's her."<br />
<br />
"Hey, hey! Sorry I'm late! I'm here now..."<br />
<br />
"You should've just chosen me when you got the chance. Now what do you have to say for yourself, making her cry like that?"<br />
<br />
"Huh? Why can't I reach them?!? Why can't I come over to them, she's crying, I must... I must do something... She must be worried sick! I said I'd meet her by four, what time is it?"<br />
<br />
"Well, it's too late now..."<br />
<br />
"Hold on, aren't you that bitch who kicked my shin and tried to rape me?!?"<br />
<br />
"Pfft, and you still don't know me don't you?!? Well, no matter, you've got the better part of eternity to know me now! Heehee... You're all mine starting today..."<br />
<br />
"Hey... Enough already! This really isn't funny..."<br />
<br />
"Haha, I know... I wouldn't be laughing at my own funeral wouldn't I?"Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-44151836980148725842011-07-09T23:39:00.000+08:002011-07-09T23:39:09.144+08:00Truck?"You seriously aren't expecting me to jump this truck over this don't you?!?" Robert exclaimed, pointing frantically at a steep overhang. Apparently he had a truck, and he had to jump the truck over the crevasse. For an arbitrary reason he wasn't entirely sure either.<div><a name='more'></a></div><div>Rob was in his twenties, or at least, that's how old he thinks he is. He can't really tell, and neither can anyone around him. Nobody even knew the name of the place they were in, nor what time it was. All Rob knew is that he had a truck, a big freight trailer type truck (maroon; this is a fact he seemed to be very fond of), and he had to jump it over an overhang. Ever heard of the phrase "rhyme or reason"? Well, apparently, that phrase has long ceased to apply.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"But how are we gonna go home hun?" Charlotte goaded. Rob knew he had to listen.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Charlotte was Robert's girlfriend, or so they seem to posit. Both never knew each other really well, nor knew why they were in a relationship in the first place. All they knew was they're lovers, and as the girl in the relationship, Rob had to listen to Char, whatever it was she requested. And if charms, wiles and persistent goading won't work, she knew anyway that Rob wouldn't be able to resist anything she asks.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Ugh, well, okay... Damn it, why do I even have to listen to you..." Rob muttered, the latter half trailing almost to the point of in-discern-ability. Of course, she heard; that's what girls are wont to do.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Just drive!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>And drive he did. The old can that passed for a truck seemed too clunky and dilapidated to even be running, but he couldn't be picky. If he doesn't know the reason why they were there, he didn't have the right to complain about anything. He will jump the truck over the overhang, and he will do it, because he didn't have a semblance of a choice anyway. Like a slow motion highlight reel made real, the old hunker sped up and sailed past the cliff into the waiting road below. Or dropped.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Dropped seemed more appropriate. And yes, I forgot to tell you, they were in a road or street of some sort. And for no reason at all, there was an overhang on the road. I don't know either, it doesn't make any sense to me as well.</div><div><br />
</div><div>If you've ever ridden a roller coaster, then that's exactly how it felt for Robert and Charlotte. Pigs can't fly (no matter how many times broken romantics and Minecraft players insist they do) and neither can trucks. Metal crashed against metal crashed against rubber crashed against concrete as the truck came rumbling down the street below. Miraculously they survived, and so did the truck (but Robert didn't get to find out if indeed they did). By the way, in case you were wondering what kind of truck Rob and Char were in, it was one of those heavyweight freight trucks with a box like engine bay with a square radiator in front. Yes, it doesn't make sense, but really, does anything?</div><div><br />
</div><div>You know what happens though when people seem to fall aimlessly down a deep steep cliff, for no reason at all?</div><div><br />
</div><div>They wake up.</div>Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-15862496786095553752011-07-01T03:06:00.000+08:002011-07-01T03:06:49.410+08:00King's QueenHis cloak felt heavy, his cowl was still warm. The slayer lies slain, but so is my dear King.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
His might encompassed valleys, plains, gullies, rivers, oceans and tides; his domain reaching as far and vast as the rays of the sun. At his word - no, at his mere thought, wars are waged and won in his name, kingdoms are lost and lands are claimed. His contingents wore no vain extravagance nor fear or pity; no sooner would they draw blood as they raced to the battlefield on fleet footed steeds as they would plunder upon the vanquished and the fallen. Thus was his reign; thus was his power. Thus was the Ice King of the Hoarfrost North.<br />
<br />
Flame touched, the traitor lies dead. He was burned, no, incinerated. He dared raise his dagger against the heart of the King, but he feared not the hands of the Queen.<br />
<br />
My people are his people, joined to his in royal matrimony. His conquest of the Burning South almost led to the siege of the home town of my people. I had been the last among the line of the Fersaears, regarded as a princess but accursed as a woman in a land of blood-crazy barbarians. It was then an easy price that my people paid for their freedom under a foreigners reign. The Ice King, then a prince, accepted the gift quite delightedly, smitten by an uncommon face. The striking features of Kriev women, while neglected among their race, was a philter to the foreigners.<br />
<br />
How long has it been since my hands last saw flame. How long has it been since my mouth last uttered the words: age-old, archaic, euphorically satisfying. Krieva would be pleased at the work of my hands today.<br />
<br />
Worshiped and feared by the people of Kriev, Krieva is an enigma, a conundrum upon the barbaric and uninformed - characteristics of my people. Some say she was the last dragon, some the sun. The Old Mogul, the last of the true royalty of Kriev, further doomed the lore of Krieva to legends and myths; told around wartime bonfires to stoke the inner flames of Champions and Blood Seekers. He feared that knowledge would lead to complacency, and thus weakness.<br />
<br />
I know better.<br />
<br />
Krieva was more than the blazing orb that brought light in the passing of day. Krieva was more than the explosive force of Vulcan's fiery forge. Krieva was more than the surge of might and courage that flowed through the veins of Champions and Blood Seekers.<br />
<br />
Krieva was, is and will always be Fire herself; her cries are mightier than any hand-made flame. The traitor would testify, had he the breath to speak.<br />
<br />
The King's hold would soon diminish, his influence would pass along with his breath. Kings of Hoarfrost never wear crowns; what use is a crown in the biting cold of the North? No, his crown was his life and his inerrant authority was his scepter.<br />
<br />
He would have no successors. He was like I was - last in the line of royalty, and yet it bothered him not nor did he bother me. This is why I have grown to admire him so much, even if his ways were vexatiously different from mine. While my ways are of burning, pillaging, warring and haste, his was of cold, infallible, overpowering calculation and strategy. Thus was the ways of Ice King; structured and latticed like the permafrost beneath his feet, and as unrelenting. Like fire in slow motion, he would overcome, conquer and consume, moving his troops in clockwork precision. His mind was a reflection of his rule; his icy machinations was matched only by his icy disposition.<br />
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Yet, despite his algid eyes and even more algid demeanor, his heart knows mine and I know his. For even the mightiest of glaciers melt in the face of the fiery sun, and the hottest of flames die out to the chill of winter.<br />
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This trespass today will not be forgiven, nor will it stand unpunished. Retribution would be served. May Krieva have mercy on the perpetrators of this revolt; may their blood boil faster than their lives would be extinguished. For only pain would provide them with company; reprieve has long since cowered behind my flames.<br />
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For my dear King now lies slain. He was the breeze that kept my flames in check.<br />
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Now my flames have none to stop them; now my flames can do nothing but burn and consume.<br />
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Long live the Fire Queen.Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-71606252109921807712011-06-26T05:51:00.000+08:002011-06-26T23:14:30.917+08:00A Moment More"Hahaha! That's actually pretty funny! You'd make an awesome comedienne..."<br />
<br />
"Haha really? Wait, wha-?"<br />
<br />
The tree house wasn't quiet tonight, as it was ever other evening. Soft warm orange light painted the walls gloomy, but the laughter inside the lonely shack betrayed whatever sad atmosphere the little candle induced. It was a happy day for Antoinette and William.<br />
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"Your hand feels warm..."<br />
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"Yeah, it has been. You know how it is when I'm with you Toni."<br />
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"Haha, and here I was, thinking I'm the one with monthly visitors!"<br />
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William Sybill was born to a traditional family of five. The fact that he was two years older than his younger brother, who was two years older than the youngest, never fail to convey this fact. His father was always away for work; if they were fortunate, he'd come home after six months bearing toys and other fancy habiliments and ornaments. Chocolates too, which he loved to the death. His mother was a busybody, always involving herself with work somewhere else. She would push herself everyday, but Mrs Sybill was only doing it for her family; after all, she wouldn't bother firing and hiring maids at a regular basis if it weren't for the good of her sons.<br />
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"Ahh, Will, you're such a charmer..."<br />
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"What did you just say?"<br />
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"Hmmm... Sorry, you just missed the train. Either you wait for the next one or wait for it to come back!"<br />
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"Aww, but I hate waiting for trains, they take forever and they're almost always full every time, I never get to ride on one without having my lungs squeezed shut!"<br />
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"Haha, that's the point!"<br />
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Lithe Miss Antoinette lived not so very far from the Sybills, but just far enough that they don't meet very often. She was a spiffy teenager a week older than William; confident, strong and quite <i>avante-garde</i>. The older of two daughters born to the Marrions, her height betrays her maturity, or it might be the other way around. Her mother and father ran their own little confectionery, a bright cheery place about a train ride away from their residence. They too were quite liberal and out of the ordinary, as much as they were loving and protective of their daughters.<br />
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"Toni... Hey..."<br />
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"Hmmm? Was I falling asleep? Sorry..."<br />
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"Haha, no, don't worry, you had a rough day I can tell."<br />
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"Why? Am I an open book to you?"<br />
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He could never really tell what's in the mind of Miss Marrion. For his sixteenth (or maybe fifteenth, Sybills were gifted with spotty memory), she surprised him with a peck in the cheek (the first obscurely romantic gesture he's ever received). He remembered giving her a little stuffed animal a week before, and maybe a little saccharine letter to go along with it. At times she would completely ignore him, for weeks on end; other times she'd be absolutely delighted if they could spend some time together. He's gotten used to it though, if only because he's grown to like Toni in a way even he cannot explain. To him, he'd wait an eternity if, by the end of it all, he can have a minute with her.<br />
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"Hey, isn't about time for you to go? Your parents would be worried sick..."<br />
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"Shouldn't you tell that to yourself, overprotected little charming man?"<br />
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"Haha, so I guess the train's back huh?"<br />
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"Wha- oh, so it's like that now huh! Take that!"<br />
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"Hey what?!? Cut it out! You started it!"<br />
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The little tree house on 21st has been the silent witness to the young twain's excursion. By morning, sunlight flooded the warm little shack; evenings was either darkness or a brave little candle flame. It was surprisingly watertight and durable for its construction, though the creaking floors and grated walls gave away far too many evidences of weakness. It mattered not for Toni and Will; it gave them privacy and escape, and that was all they really wanted. It was a nice foil to what they shared; battered, beaten and worn out but exceptionally and unexpectedly strong and persistent. Stubbornness is something the three of them have in common.<br />
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The dimming light signaled the end of their borrowed time together.<br />
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Wordlessly, they stood up, Toni first, and then Will. Toni took the little exhausted candlestick, holding it close to Will. He took her hand, curling his fingers around hers. Her fingers felt warm around the faux metal taper holder, a sensation he's grown to love. They've done this countless of times in the past, a bittersweet parting ritual. They'd stare at each other, waiting for the candle to burn out, light fading from their faces. They knew it was time to go, but need was less than want. She would rest her head against his chest as the light faded into nothingness, and she herself would fade into his arms.<br />
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But it would be different tonight.<br />
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"Toni... I... Can I?"<br />
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"Aww Will, you just had to ruin the moment? Way to keep it spontaneous!"<br />
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"Sorry..."<br />
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"..."<br />
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"Well?"<br />
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"Fine..."<br />
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The first they say is always the best. There will be nothing quite like the first time; it was the first after all, and thus is unique from the second, or third, or the hundredth. People describe by comparison, how then would you describe something that you have nothing to compare with? People describe by contrast, but what if there was nothing you can contrast against?<br />
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The light dimmed, danced, faded and died. The two knew what they had to do. But as they melted into each other, intoxicated but not overwhelmed, they knew for one night they could risk admonition, if only for one more minute, one more ephemeral moment together. Their eyes were closed, it was dark, but for them both, it was as vivid and bright as daytime, and as warm too.<br />
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It hurt them both to say goodbye, but for now they couldn't care less. For what is a thousand goodbyes compared to a moment of dream.Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-17251045722757500092011-06-25T05:13:00.000+08:002011-06-25T05:13:49.763+08:00Old TeapsieTic-tic-tic-tick...<br />
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Protests from a kettle of boiling water. The whistling spout has long since been deficient, from all the calcite deposits left after boiling liters upon liters of water. The incessant chattering would go on and on and on, stopping only when little Millie would take notice of the lonely pot, running and shouting excitedly at her mother.<br />
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"Mom! Mom! Old Teapsie is about to BLOOW!" she would say, her hands waving excitedly. Her mother, slightly annoyed, would pat her on the head to calm her down, then would take her time, fixing flower vases and piled bills before finally making her way over to the old steel gas range. Millie often kept watch, waiting vigilantly on Old Teapsie. Kitchenware has been an heirloom of sorts for the Wilkins; as new generations of Wilkins come and go, at least one would be left to take care of their old home. This generation, the title of keeper fell on Mrs. Fiona Grattam-Wilkins; by default as she was the youngest.<br />
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Mr. Steven Grattam was an huge bloke of a man; he definitely would've fit better in a football team than in a chic apparel shoppe, which he owned and ran. This was where he first met Fiona, fifteen years his junior. She was a teenager then, he thirty-two. She was the first to take a liking to him, much to his chagrin (he didn't want to be branded as a pedophile). Fiona would often visit; at first she made it such that her interest would seem to be eternally fixated on the trending clothes, secretly eyeing the then lonesome shopkeeper. As the years passed and the shop grew, she began having small talk with Steve. Slowly he warmed to her, until that fateful day.<br />
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Millie was born out of wedlock. Her mother raised her alone, as Mr. Grattam would often be away on business trips and on other business matters. She was a happy young lady, always full of energy, always a bundle of joy for the odd couple. She was a brave soul too, as whenever her mother would chastise her, she never cried. She bit her lip hard as her mother disciplined her, sometimes with a tailor's iron ruler, sometimes with a yard stick. Mrs. Grattam-Wilkins would regret it of course, but she knew it was her job. She hated harming little Millie, but Millie's bravery becomes her strength. She knew she has to, as does little Millie.<br />
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The old wood and clay bungalow in 24th East Westshire has been there for ages. No one exactly remembers when it was built, as it predates even Westshire itself, and thus predates its municipal records. One thing's for certain though, while it's definitely old, it's also very sturdy and stubborn, not unlike the Wilkins, who for ages have taken refuge within its quaint, semi-dilapidated walls. While appliances in the old home has been constantly replaced with each new generation, some old artifacts still remain.<br />
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One of which is Old Teapsie, the little iron tea kettle.<br />
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"Mom! Mom! She's gonna BLOW!"<br />
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Foooosh!<br />
<br />
Steam rushed out from Old Teapsie. Scalding hot water flew like hot needles all over the kitchen space. Old Teapsie herself flew like a rocket, ricocheting off the walls before finally hitting little Millie in the head. Sensing what just happened, Fiona rushed with uncharacteristic alacrity, nimbly weaving through chairs and other furniture, as much as her petite frame could afford her. She found little Millie lying unconscious on the floor.<br />
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"Millie! Speak to me, Millie!" mother took daughter into her arms, shaking her, hoping for a response.<br />
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Little Millie struggled to open her eyes. She had a huge bloody wound on her forehead where Old Teapsie hit her. Parts of her exposed arms and legs were red, blisters breaking from the boiling heat. Her clothes were all wet, but it did little to protect her gentle skin. She was breathing heavily, as if her body was asking her to stop struggling.<br />
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"Mum... Is Old Teapsie going to be okay?" whispered little Millie.<br />
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"Yes... Yes Millie... She's going to be okay..." Fiona said in response, her voice breaking.<br />
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"Then don't cry anymore mom..." little Millie's breathing became more relaxed, and less often.<br />
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She didn't even scream, she didn't even cry. And with the passing of the last generation of Wilkins to reside in the old wood and clay bungalow in 24th East Westshire, will be the tale of brave little Millie Grattam-Wilkins, who wanted nothing more than her mother's happiness.Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-25431574140771338472011-04-10T01:50:00.000+08:002011-04-10T01:50:01.441+08:00Ad Continuum Chapter 3 Episode 3<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px;">So after years in the making, its finally <a href="http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/099/b/b/ad_continuum_chap_3_episode_3_by_fifthstitch-d3dl19i.jpg">here!</a></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/099/b/b/ad_continuum_chap_3_episode_3_by_fifthstitch-d3dl19i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="720" src="http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/099/b/b/ad_continuum_chap_3_episode_3_by_fifthstitch-d3dl19i.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px;"><br style="background-attachment: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-position: initial initial !important; background-repeat: initial initial !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" />A little behind the scenes if you may.<br style="background-attachment: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-position: initial initial !important; background-repeat: initial initial !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" /><br style="background-attachment: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-position: initial initial !important; background-repeat: initial initial !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" />So yeah, this took longer than how I wanted it to, but you'd have to forgive me. It's not because I'm running out of ideas or story-lines or whatever, it's just that I really don't have quite a lot of time to spare right now, given that it's almost the end of the term here. Although, I must admit, the jarred publication pattern of this comic is taking its toll a little. I plan ahead a good number of episodes, but sometimes, if I take too long to actually make a new one, chances are, either the old idea would have been forgotten or I'd have a new idea and I would try to squeeze it into the plot. I'm trying to avoid that though, and I don't think it's showing too much. Does it?<br style="background-attachment: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-position: initial initial !important; background-repeat: initial initial !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" /><br style="background-attachment: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-position: initial initial !important; background-repeat: initial initial !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" />Anyways, I want to thank Kass, a really close friend of mine (really really close XD) for helping me out on this one. I know its a very tiny effect, but panel seven of the comic wouldn't have been possible without her help. She helped me extract BRS out of a photo I took, so I could do the whole "OOO Bash" effect there. Thanks a whole bunch hun! You should go and check out her page, she's a true blue artist, not like me who's a hodgepodge of aspirations and fairly-decent skills.<br style="background-attachment: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-position: initial initial !important; background-repeat: initial initial !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" /><br style="background-attachment: initial !important; background-clip: initial !important; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial !important; background-origin: initial !important; background-position: initial initial !important; background-repeat: initial initial !important; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" />And with that, I guess I'd just see you all on the next ride! Thanks so much for still reading and following this comics. Come summer vacation, I hope I could publish new episodes more often and on a more regular schedule.</span></div>Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-79139816137805651972011-03-19T18:25:00.001+08:002011-03-19T18:25:44.514+08:00Pining of the Mind No. 1Darkness filled the room. Wafts of lavender and grime floated along streams of draft and silent still air. It would be long before the room knows someone again; in the meantime, grief and dank humidity became its faithful occupants. Every once in a while, a note or two from an unknown source would penetrate the stark silence, sometimes even words, lyric and tune; reminders of life that once was, but now wasn't.<br />
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There lies within the room a lamp that had once known light. The lamp had once shown a tenant the way around the remorseful little room, but now no there wasn't even a soul to light it back up. Where it once stood as a shining reminder of life there once was, now it stands forgotten, frozen in purposeless repose.<br />
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Within that little lamp, there lies a strip of charred cloth; once it had been the wick that brought lavender alcohol to bear and burn. Now, the lavender alcohol is all but gone, the lamp dried and empty. The wick that once bought life to the little lamp now stands dead, brittle and black.<br />
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At the terminus of the little wick cloth, there lie the burnt remains of what was once beautiful. Reddish yellow flames used to dance and sway from the little wick cloth, but now, only a faint glimmer of yellow stands in a sea of dark gloom, holding on, staying alight but barely so.<br />
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Hoping for its time. A time which has now come.<br />
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The little yellow spark broke off from the terminus of the little wick cloth. It wafted down slowly, ever so faint, dancing but unseen in the little empty lamp. It began to burn brightly, holding to whatever little vapours of alcohol remained. The spark ignited, exploding into a little orange flame. It was faint, tiny, but it was enough. Drafts blew, knocking the little lamp, awakening it from its stupor. The little orange flame raged inside the little lamp, yearning to break free. Inertia rolled the little lamp over the ledge where it once stood, sending it careening into the ground below. As it stood broken, the little orange flame leapt and burned, setting the once lifeless room on fire. Where there was once darkness, there now stands blinding, burning light.<br />
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Where there was once a drought, there now stands inspiration.Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-19803138235425443532011-03-15T23:40:00.000+08:002011-03-15T23:42:36.863+08:00Ad Continuum Chapter 3 Episode 2Well, without further ado, Episode 2. Full view <a href="http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/074/7/e/ad_continuum_chap_3_episode_2_by_fifthstitch-d3boyvr.jpg">here</a>.<br />
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A little behind the scenes of you may.<br />
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So it finally arrives! After a very very long hiatus, the next episode in this (thrilling, epic, awesome) series by the (awesome, handsome, dashing) fifthStitch (please don't shoot me, I'm just a parenthetical annotator).<br />
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Anyways, not much to say about this one, although I did have a hard time making it dramatic. I wanted to convey some degree of drama in this comic, as it's a revisit to Mato and Yomi's past (Yomi has been murdered supposedly by Yuki). You may wanna read the previous episodes though, to "jog your memory" as Yomi said in the first panel.<br />
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Oh, and left to right takes priority here over up to down. This is especially true in the first panel of the bottom row of panels.<br />
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I really apologize for the delay in releasing new comics. Between Final Fantasy, thesis and work, I barely have time to release new episodes. Still, expect the next one to be made within two weeks, or maybe even less. I'd try to be more consistent with the comics, but I of course do not want to compromise its quality (however much it has).<br />
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See you all in the next ride!Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-24099025989694060932011-01-31T15:52:00.000+08:002011-01-31T17:19:09.354+08:00Ad Continuum Chapter 3 Episode 1So we begin anew, a new Chapter that is! The first episode for Chapter 3, and the first episode of the year! How very exciting~<br />
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Anyways, <a href="http://img213.imageshack.us/img213/2268/96342492.jpg">full view here!</a><br />
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<img border="0" height="720" src="http://img213.imageshack.us/img213/2268/96342492.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
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A little behind the scenes if you may.<br />
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If you're viewing this from my impeccable little blogger account I call <a href="http://fifthstitch-psychosis.blogspot.com/">My Psychosis</a> (or the comparably impeccable but not quite as impeccable blog of <a href="http://murakami-night.blogspot.com/">Murakami Night</a>), you would immediately notice how stuff have changed quite a bit, namely how you can now click on the image to bring you directly to the full view! Well, the full view link is still present if you're used to that, so yeah, it's not really much of a big deal I suppose. For the DA viewers out there, it's pretty much the same thing, so I guess this only directly affects a minute proportion of people who are actually interested about those sort of things...<br />
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Yeah...<br />
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Anyway, from now on, I'd be taking advantage of some of Blogger's new built in tools, primarily the Image Embed (Insert Image) tool and the Jump Break tool, which have become more and more user-friendly as of late. Gone are the days when I had to code these things manually, which strikes of another tedious list off of comic creation. Does that necessarily mean more comics? Not really. I'm still sticking to the one comic per week rule, seeing that now, more than ever, my time is on a very tight noose so to speak. Does this mean more regular comics? Hopefully so, since I won't be too lazy coding up the new blog post and I could focus completely on comic creation. I actually finished this comic late yesterday, but I was already so early in the morning that I wasn't able to post this up on time, seeing that I had to code stuff and make sure the Jump Break works and all that...<br />
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Anyways...<br />
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Yeahp! So enjoy the comic! Strictly speaking, this would be the first side-arc of my comic, but that doesn't mean the events are any less integral to the main plot. I'd rather think of it as a foil, an ominous little side-story that would speak volumes of the things to come. Hopefully we'd see more of Mato and Yomi's backstory, some more clues as to why the Riders are up and about, and why, if ever there is a reason, everything <i>is. </i>But for now, enjoy Ad Continuum's first face palm (frame 9). And if you feel like pointing something out, post a comment. I read and reply to all if not most of the comments, and it's nice to get feedback from people, especially those who are better at this than me!<br />
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I'd see you all in the next ride!Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-40609540803159923552011-01-09T03:08:00.000+08:002011-01-09T03:08:01.000+08:00WordsEternity, such a heavy word;<br />
Everlasting and untarnishing.<br />
Sure as yesterday had come to pass;<br />
But still uncertain if it will last.<br />
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Sincerity, such a lonely word.<br />
Such commitment; whole-hearted devotion.<br />
An intentional self-sacrifice;<br />
A shedding of pretenses, of masks and lies.<br />
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Anxiety, the word of fear and of longingness;<br />
Of the eternal wait between coming and going.<br />
Never knowing, never fully certain;<br />
Yet still holds on, faithful and trusting.<br />
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Distance, the word that seals and locks away.<br />
It seals emotions and dampens hearts,<br />
It shuts them tight, in fear of pain;<br />
For who knows when, they'd meet again.<br />
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And then there's love, a comforting word.<br />
That no distance can overcome, nor pain can destroy.<br />
That which sweeps away anxiety, and drives away fear;<br />
That of which can speak of eternity and remain sincere.<br />
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A word I vigilantly hold on to;<br />
A word that describes what I have for you.<br />
</span>Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990984127158550457.post-50752738519531475992011-01-07T17:12:00.000+08:002011-01-07T17:12:16.484+08:00OverturnA boat that rides the tranquil waves;<br />
A lake that sings melancholic hymns.<br />
Afar, a shore that signals beckoning hope;<br />
With huts that dot it with lights, beautiful homes.<br />
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There's fish to be had and a fire to stoke;<br />
Coals red hot, steaming noisy pots.<br />
There's rice to feast on, a leaf to eat from,<br />
And tiny stools to take the solemn meal.<br />
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The net had been cast, the catch was plenty;<br />
There were to be, a feast for everybody.<br />
But the winds blew strong, the gust was angry;<br />
The fishing lamp was nowhere to be seen.<br />
<br />
The night was black and the stars a-shining;<br />
The lake breeze sweeps, cool and refreshing.<br />
A peaceful sight, a silent retreat;<br />
For the fishermen, who never made it.</span>Ryan Dimaunahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05925080387820599232noreply@blogger.com0