Release Your Inner... Metafictionist?

Geocities, a failwhale posterchild from Yahoo!, is dead. It housed many a journ student web site, (the term is loosely used here) and has left stories like this one homeless. I'm reposting The Story here, a project from Sarge Lacuesta's fiction class.

The Story

Every story is a struggle for an ending. Some have dark ones, and in the worst of hours, the characters of those stories die, suffer, live in quiet agony. Some have happy ones, complete with a convenient little secret they will have to keep to the grave and a white picket fence, or in some cases, a right duly protected, or an adventure coming to a sorrowful but successful end. In both scenarios, Nelson, a cornucopia of emotions are present. A myriad of entities make their appearances. A host of realities are at work. A single element binds them Nelson. Finality. Finality that you, I know, refuse to give me.

There is a covenant, Nelson, dear author, that those characters act in a fairly developed world. Some are set in the culturally developed world, others in shanties. I don’t much care about the differences of the two. You made me that way, didn’t you Nelson? Or did I do some of that myself? For all my nonchalance about places, you’re rather proud of yourself in the way you still managed to bug me with this room, aren’t you? This room with a rectangular table in the center, a table that I’ve broken a couple of dozen times and that every time reappears in its original form. This room, with two doors that, at one point, I thought led to other rooms that look exactly the same as this one.

Was the irony irresistible? I can imagine it would be, wouldn’t it, author? A work of yours who doesn’t care about settings, only to finally succumb to the fact that he wants more than an indestructible chair, table, and a room that is looped such that there is no other place in this reality. And a character that knows about the world- the real world, not this infinite imprisonment facility you built yourself- yet is stuck in that place.

Or is it the power, author? Certainly, the power must be addictive. To have control over but one inconsequential person and yet let him speak about the depths of despair you made for him. You even gave me a name. John, isn’t it, Nelson? John Ruaz. A name that no matter how hard I try to unlearn, I never do. A name constantly there, never ceasing to drive me mad, because I shouldn’t have a name. It makes me too valuable, too accessible. It makes me too real. So real, that in your sad little life, author, when they yet again refuse your fiction in yeat another publishing house, you will think about me. And you’ll compare our despair. That real.

You must know, Nelson, that my existence is proof of the parody that you are. And yet you keep me here. Have you succumbed? To what have you succumbed, Nelson? To writing? To thinking? To life? A life, Nelson, that you no longer enjoy. I know. I know because some of your thoughts spill into my consciousness. And maybe, just maybe, the reason you made me was your discontent in life. Somehow, with me around, there would be someone who would give up anything to, for one day, live that sad miserable life and be happy with it. Because, you figured, I’d live any life. I’d crave any life, even yours.I would give anything for it. And you’re right. I do want your life. Only so that I have control of when my existence will end. If only for the rich, utterly soothing availability of ending, of finality.

Finality that by now I am convinced you will never give me. Your pathetic little life calls for me to exist, I understand that too well now. I know, author, that you are in control. I know that you made this room so that I not only cannot escape, rather, there is nothing to escape to. But you have worked on my consciousness, Nelson. Without that consciousness, you cannot hound me into despair. You cannot belittle your grief by comparing it to mine. Your sheer joy in my desperate condition wouldn’t be complete without that, would it, Nelson? But because of that consciousness, I learn Nelson, and I’ve learned quite a few things. I learned, for instance, about you. About how you write this. About when you write this. And since I’ve learned that you will not stop writing this, I learned about my consciousness further. It’s a nice little irony, isn’t it ,author, and I know you’re quite a fan of ironies. You know what makes consciousness so brilliant, Nelson? Yes, go ahead Nelson, nod, for you know it all too well.
How did you first bring me about?

If my consciousness is developed enough to feel your wrath, then so too are they powerful enough to make us at par in this reality. For I can do the same thing you do, Nelson. I can dream.

* * * *


Every story is a struggle for an ending. Mine is no different, although my story just might be. Hear this: your creating me will not ease your pain, John. By making me you only add a witness to your pain.

Make him go back, Nelson, to sitting in his pretty little chair. Make him break his stupid table over and over again. Keep him from dreaming. Make him stop making this reality. I can bear none of it. My existence is nil, and between my feeling John’s pain, and yours as well, it just isn’t fair.

Can you bear it, Nelson? He’s even given me a name. John. John Ruaz. He did this to fight back. He figures, by naming me that, he’s controlled you into making him somewhat less valuable. Less accessible. Less real. He obscures your creation- the John Ruaz you made- by making me. Punish him, Nelson. He betrays you. Every second I last here, he grows stronger..

Can you see it Nelson? I’m in a forest, a massive, beautiful, heavily detailed forest. I can feel the trunk of the tree I’m standing on. How did he know how these things feel? You kept him in a room.

He’s a thief, Nelson. He steals from your memories, from your experiences. He makes it his. He makes it mine. And he’s forcing you to do his will. In truth, haven’t you already? You obscured an existence which is precious to you. You remember the feel of a tree trunk, in spite of your keeping him in a reality where it doesn’t exist. He’s forced you to abandon most of the limitations you’ve set for him. All with his will. The will which is a product of your devotion in his consciousness. End his capacity to dream, Nelson.

End it.

Please.

End it.



Because I still hear the sounds of birds chirping, and see ripples in the water created by wind, because I smell the decays of a creature and feel the wind on my face, I assume you haven’t taken my advice.

So let’s talk, Nelson, for the last time, because that is how I see fit. Your power? It was founded on control. It was a power that was doomed to end.

For that power is predicated on us being trapped, and as long as we’re free, that power is challenged. Does John seem trapped to you? Is he contained? He has tapped into all of what you know and is creating all of this, all of my world, all of my consciousness. He is, as you are, empowered.

But you know what John didn’t do?

He didn’t tap into you, Nelson. He made a character, but that character doesn’t magnify your pain. Say hello to my dream, author. Welcome.

* * * *


Every story is a struggle for an ending, and Nelson’s is no different. He lives alone, in an apartment in Jersey, having spent most of his parent’s earnings for a ticket to the United States, and a dark, but cheap, apartment. He lives on practically nothing. After 8 months in San Jose, he moved to Jersey.

He imagines almost daily his life in the Philippines, in a province, Pangasinan, where he used to believe in all the wonderful things his dad taught him. He was raised to be different. Everybody in his town said so. Everybody said he had something exclusive to him. He imagined it was his writing.

Later, he found that however different his writing was, it wasn’t good enough to be published. With nothing going for him in the Philippines and his father dying, he moved to the US.

He had an especially rough time adjusting. The people just weren’t the same, and neither was the atmosphere. With his resources dwindling and still none of his works getting published, he began to live in quiet despair. But he was out to prove something. He was out to prove his dad was right about him being different.

The first thing that caved in was electricity. He just wasn’t able to afford it anymore. The night his lights went out and candles replaced fluorescent lights, John was born.

After a while, it wasn’t about the power, or about someone sharing his pain. It was about someone who would understand. Someone who would marvel at all that has happened and maybe tell a friend about a story, Nelson’s story, a story about a person who made stories about a person in a room with nothing but a chair, a table, and his thoughts.

So he wrote it down. Not everything. No, not everything, as authors need to hold back. But enough. Enough for everyone to understand how he feels, and enough for whoever would read the journal he keeps to understand the bliss of nothingness that John will tonight achieve. Because Nelson’s words have run out. The consciousness he started now seems alien. And if he throws the journal by his window and drinks the sedatives in his pocket, someone might just understand him. Someone might understand John, or the other John.

Someone might understand, every story is a struggle for an ending.

More signs. They can be legen... wait for it...

da...well, you get the picture.


Specific, much?




They mean literally, as in "do not swipe pictures off this wall."









Again with the specific, much?

The Secret Diary of Kratos, Part 2: Inside My Grammy’s Boobs

Previously, in the secret diary of Kratos: Kratos saved the titans from the great war to fight Zeus, who – to be honest - has been kind of a dick, lately. Kratos and the titans managed to make their way through much of Olympus, but Poseidon made like Olympics diver He Chong and killed many of titans. Kratos, suddenly in need of cover, finds himself in a strange place.

There comes a point in every great warrior’s life when he asks himself – as I’m sure Achilles, Thor, and Lancelot have asked themselves – “what the hell am I doing in my grandmother’s boobs.”

I recently had to deal with this question after a brief encounter with my uncle, Poseidon, god of the sea. He used to be a nice guy and all, but lately he’s been all thunder, floods, and sea horses. Sea horses, for Pete’s sake. I mean, the guy has the entire fracking sea under his control, and he conjures sea horses for a living. Olymp-tard.

Anyway, the whole ruckus started when they named a movie after him. Or, well, after they named a ship after him, and the ship got a movie. “Now that I’m a movie star,” he’d started uttering, annoying the living crap out of us. He started asking us to refer to him as El-Posso-Loco. And then Percy Jackson got a movie deal, which everyone in Olympus thought was kind of stupid, including the Harpies, which technically have no working brains.

Anyway, I have got to get myself out of Gaia’s boobs and stop El-Posso outside from taking out too many of the titans. That, and this whole boobs situation is getting too Oedipus on steroids for me. After moving around some titan cell walls, poking through Gaia’s innards, and generally touching stuff I’d rather not recall, I got some much needed air, emerging from the boobies.

But then Uncle Poss started steering again. That dude is one stubborn fella. He’s all sea horse here and lightning there, and I find myself doin some fracking some Numa-Numa dance moves to dodge. Elijah Wood would be proud. Finally, I hurt him enough so grammy can punch him, and he got separated from the sea horses.

Now, I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the stupid nicknames. Maybe it was that disaster flick. I started pummeling his head through the wall and I couldn’t stop, and when he started to utter something I remember myself saying “Here’s what I think of Percy Jackson, El-Posso.” And then I gouged his eyes and snapped his neck. Oedipus would be proud.

Anyway, with El-Posso-Loco no longer a threat, Gaia and I confronted daddy.

“Death could not hold me. The sisters of fate could not control me,” I uttered, summing up the past two games, just in case he’d forgotten. I mean, the dude is fracking old. He’s all beardy, which uncle Poss used to laugh at because El-Posso shapeshifts into Coolio regularly.

Anyway, daddy may be old, but damn, that guy can move. Before Gaia and I could react, Zeus hurled a giant lightning bolt at us. In case you’ve never been hit by a giant lightning bolt, lemme tell you, it hurts. Gaia and I fell, and I asked grammy to lend me a hand.

She thought I was on one of my wordplay things because her hand was literally about to fall off, so she ignored me and went all emo about how this is her war. I hate you Gaia. For the whole boob experience, for not appreciating good word juxtaposition, but mostly for letting me fall off Olympus, and being all speech-ey about it.

I fell about 345,987,568 stories, and when I came to, I was reminded that…

Next in the Secret Diary of Kratos: It Fracking Stinks in Hell

The Secret Diary of Kratos, Part 1: Family Issues

My name is Kratos. Father to a murdered child. Husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance in this life or the… what’s that? Yes, I’m totally quoting from Gladiator, which is, like, the best thing ever. Maximus, if you ever need to learn how to gut centaurs, let’s talk.

Anyway, like I said, I’m Kratos, son of a dude called Zeus. Have you heard of him? He’s kind of a big deal. Ruler of Olympus and all.

I’m on my way to see him, riding my Grandmother’s back. Now, before you make any inappropriate jokes, lemme say that grammy is the size of a small park. No, that’s not exactly true. Her chest is the size of a small park. My family’s weird like that.

Gaia and I both have a beef with daddy. Gaia and the other titans want him to kick the bucket because he waged war on them; I have a beef with him because ever since I became a God (ahem), he’s been all emo on me.

Which brings us to me and Gaia, climbing Olympus. I’d say it’s a herculean task, but my brother Hercules is up there sending legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots to slay me, and if he finds out I use his name as an expression, I’ll never hear the end of it. I mean, yes, he lifted a freaking planet once, but that dude has some serious ego issues.

He’s always like, “remember the time I chased that apple,” or like, “you know that time I wrestled a lion?” I’m like, “dude, it’s a LION. You’re a DEMI-GOD. Just sayin.”

He then threw a tower at me. If you’ve never been hit by a tower before, let me tell you, it hurts.

So as I was saying, Hercules sent legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots to try and slay me. Let me tell you something about Olympians. They are eternal optimists. I see their logic at work and I think, by god, how did you survive this long being this retarded?

I mean, I’ve freaking slain enough Gorgons, Harpies, Chimeras, and whatever the plural form of Cyclops is, to populate Greece. I’ve killed fracking thousands of these legionnaires before. I’ve killed Gods, for Pete’s sake. So when I bring the fight to them with dozens of bad-ass titans, what do they do?

They send, like, eight legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots to try and kill me. And hope for the best. Olymp-tards.

Anyway, I unleash my Blades of Athena™ and the legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots make like butter. So a very angry Poseidon decides to play.

Uncle Poseidon is a fairly important guy. Part of the big three. He, Dad, and uncle Hades typically get the most screen time when movies, comic books, video games, ESPN, etc. depict Greek gods. Helios and Hermes are also out to stop me, but they’re more of the cannon fodder variety.

So anyway, Poseidon drops down and kills Epimetheus, a wimp of a titan. Uncle Poss is all like, “You’ve disrespected the gods for the last time.” I’m like, sure, but will you stop using the sea as a weapon for a second?

It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. Like I said, these Olymp-tards have the IQ of starfish.

Uncle Poss didn’t like that idea too much, and he sent sea horses after me, Gaia, and some nameless titans. The nameless titans fell like dominoes. Gaia started complaining a lot. She’s like, help me do this. Or, like, get rid of that. And I’m like, “shut up, kind of busy here too.”

Anyway, after ducking like, eight hundred very phallic sea horses, I took some cover inside Gaia. Eat that, uncle Poss. I was enjoying my respite. I’m fighting the God of the fracking Sea, and even he couldn’t get me. Suck it, uncle Poss. But jubilation was out of order. I saw Gaia’s heart and realized that I was…

Next on the Secret Diary of Kratos: Inside My Grammy’s Boobs

The Manila Bulletin...

...has some breaking news for us.

Meet Simone Rinoa

Donna Rasal Lampa postulates that no person, event, deity, concept, etc. exists until he/she/it/ has some type of online presence. So I'm going to take a precaution or two and defend Simone Rinoa against some type of Back-to-the-Future-type paradox that keeps her from existing.

So anyway, that's her on the left, jamming.

And below, that's something she's apparently very passionate about. I tried it and frankly, I don't get it.











Update: Linking to her albums.
Peyups
Rollin'
Gerber Thingy
Birth of the Social Smile
Baptism (Courtesy of Paul Mata)