Tag Archives: fiction writing

two by two – Chapter 8

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He wanted to talk to her but didn’t know how to begin. He did not want to look overtly anxious, and yet he was obviously anxious. Part of it was his urge to find out if she was the right one that matched his gossamer imago, and more of it was his untamed machismo that even his arete, the harmonious combination of moral integrity and physical discipline, could not surmount. In the age of Amazonian resurgence of matriarchy on the crest of #MeToo campaign, the subject matter of indomitable feat of virility could be highly volatile, incriminating even. But Hector was being none other than a man himself and going against the nature would turn him into a closet monster or a spectacular hypocrite.  Besides, Hector was an artist who was unafraid of following his heart according to the True North of Nature. He belonged to the race of the untethered, the bold and the beautiful, and he knew it. All of it, all that he had was working toward his wish to speak to her, the mysterious woman sitting three seats away from him.

 When it reached the zenith of the urge, Hector couldn’t hold it any longer, and it finally erupted from his lips: “Excuse me, miss. I forgot to bring a pen with me. Do you have a spare one by any chance?” It was the best excuse he could think of because the woman was writing in her notebook. She seemed startled at first by a strange man’s request for a pen, but soon her fear of a stranger relented at his polite manner handsomely juxtaposed with his sonorous voice and beautiful eyes that radiated both warmth of the soul and allure of the flesh. Iris was always sagacious of people’s characters, which was her gift and curse of the Fates, and she saw genuineness in this strange but beautiful man’s eyes in an aura of charisma, a mythological power ascribed to the Olympians and select hybrids of mortals and immortals. In a phantasmagorical display of the Greek heroes and gods, Iris was filled with mysterious confidence that gave her a status which fuses the capricious power of a fairy with the sensuous charge of femininity. She finally fished in a pen from her pencil case and gave it to him. “Thank you, Miss. These days people do not seem to carry around a pencil case.” Hector thought that he talked too much and instantly regretted it. But it was a reflex of his heart that knew better. It was working slowly, the kindling of the amber that was beginning to grow. No, my dear reader, it wasn’t that usual playboy’s antics, that sleek glib of a smooth operator because Hector wasn’t the sort. Nothing namby-pamby about Hector’s sensitive nature, nor the supra-abundance of the embryonic courtship that might not even develop with fanfare. But nothing could be further from the truth – the truth that both Hector and Iris were votaries of aesthetic pleasure, the cult of Psyche and Eros, the seekers of Eleusinian Mysteries in their own rights.

Iris wanted Hector to go on, to take her on, to lead her on. Despite her instant bestowal of confidence, she was still wrapped up in her own clock of anonymity and invisibility like a fairy who was visible to the mortal eyes when she wanted to. A fairy whose sentiments were different from the mortals and who could be both impish and angelic according to her whims and caprice. For a fairy by nature was amoral and could fashion in whatever forms she would prefer. Thenceforth, Iris was lamenting that a fairy at the time of her birth did not bring her a gift of beauty that could captivate a man of her heart. Surely, she was told beautiful, sultry even, but her resemblance to Cassandra was the sine qua non of her solitude, although she would like to insist that it was her voluntary choice. The grace and the harmony of her features would make a beholder think that they were aesthetically proportioned, yet she wasn’t exactly a Helen of Troy for whom Paris, the prince of Troy, left his nymph companion in distress and for whom thousands of ships launched to win her love. Alas, poor Iris! I knew her, my dear reader. I commiserated with her spiritually. I should have cast glamour spells on her so that she could be instantly gorgeous at that time. But would it be a kind of beauty she really wanted?… I wondered. I questioned: then, would Iris- a lesser beauty, a confused fairy, and a distressed Cassandra- make this mysterious man interested in her soul until they became two by two and about went they? In this fey meditation, her spirit was pivoting ecstatically from the mind’s castle and swiveling in wonderment. Iris was secretly invoking the power of all the fairies in the limine spheres, the slice of seacoast between low and high tides, a deepening foliage between field and forest, and the slope-land between plains and mountains.

Episode VI – Ramen soup for the soul

Ramen night   (Click here for the ramen dinner)

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It’s a frightfully cold night tonight; so cold that it will freeze your toes out if you forget to wear your socks or have holes in your shoes. Boreas. god of the North wind in collaboration with the White Witch are at their zenith to in this time of the year and orchestrate the symphony of arctic winter in Avonlea, where the little residents gather together at home to warm their bodies and jettison their sprites from frigid cold.

Of all kinds of soup that can provide both delicacy and warm to the body and the soul of the Avonlea residents, they have chosen Ramen unanimously because (1) you can cook it in 10 minutes by putting the ramen noodle in the boiling water with ready-made seasonings in it; (2) there is a variety of flavors you can choose, such as vegetable, beef, chicken, and shrimp; (3) you can mix it with lots of creative additions, such as dumplings, battered eggs, cheese, minced scallops, tempura, fried shrimps, or tofu to your liking; and (4) a package of instant ramen noodle is pleasingly inexpensive. Hence, it is nicknamed – somewhat endearingly- “a poor soul’s victual” in some Far Eastern countries, such as Korea and Japan.

So here the repast of ramen noodle soup for the family. Tom is especially good at cooking a delicious bowl of the noodle soup for his friend Fred and himself.  The night is still young and  cold, but their home is warm and cozy. It seems that “God is in his heaven, and all’s well with this world.”

Episode V: Spaghetti Evening

A Spaghetti Dinner  (Click here, and it will take you to the House where you can read the dinner story with pictures of the characters.)

PROLOGUE

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Last thursday was a spaghetti evening at Mrs. Lompstrompf’s house, where Sally and Mathilda lodged. Sally was still recovering from a serious case of abscess on her neck due to her weak immune system for being anemic. The medication Dr. Humbug had prescribed to  her was Ajaxcillin/TMP 800/169 MG TB, which was to be taken twice per day. It’s an antibiotic, and Sally took 2 tablets a day religiously with her hands supplicant for a quick healing of the wound. The effect of the medication dovetailed with its name derived from Ajax the Great, a towering figure and great warrior of valor and strength fighting alongside Achilles and other famous Greeks against Trojans. One portant tablet would make Sally dizzy and her stomach feel light. No feeling of hunger would be shed over her. In a way, Sally thought this could be an opportunity to  lose some weight.

But Sally was prabably not meant to be thin because she could not resist the wonderful aroma of Mrs. Lompstromfp’s spaghetti. Mrs. Lompstrompf had receipts from her old Grandmother in Norway, the land of fjords and the Norse gods and goddesses, where her relatives were still thriving on their homemade dairy products.  Her spaghetti surpassed the most authentically Italian made one in flavor, texture, and contents filled with genuine affection for cooking and caring for whoever would taste her culinary blessing.

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So Sally gladly joined the dinner table with Mrs. Lompstrompf and partook in a convivial conversation. She talked about her Web log activities, how much she liked writing anything that came to her mind, such as poetry, novellas, and book reviews although the works published were not widely recognized. Upon hearing this from Sally, the good old Norwegian lady gently encouraged Sally’s somewhat downcast spirit by saying, “Sally, but your writings are all original, written bottomless from the bottom of your mind. And besides, you are writing in a language that is foreign to you when all these other people write in their own tongues. ast out literary, grammatical, and syntactical inhibition when you write. Be like Hercules whose confidence equals that of gods and goddess.”

With this inspiring word of advice and encouragement from the saintly lady, Sally suddenly felt a rush of appetite that had been quelled by the antibiotic agents, thus joyously enjoyed the delicious spaghetti. Anything coming from Mrs. Lompstrompf was opposite to deceit, flattery, and lie. She talked only truth like an oracle at Delphi. Surely, the spaghetti tasted better than ambrosia or nectar.

fa8e830c9e8170c16507cc49b7b0aeb7And what about Mathilda, another boarder? She was in her melancholic mood again, so she stayed in her room. It’s not that she felt uncomfortable with both of the ladies but that it was her nature to be solitary once in a while. She was by  the way a writer like Sally. Both Sally and Mathilda kept their traveler’s notebooks in which  they wrote their journals and drafted what they would post on their Web logs.

So it was a nice warm Thursday evening dinner. Sally’s spirit was emboldened by Mrs. Lompstompf’s truthful revelation, and her wound on the neck seemed to heal considerably. Sometimes, everyone needs good food for the mind and the body because as the ancient Greeks said, “Mens sana in corpore sano.” (A sound mind dwells in a healthy body.)