Oh, I dunno. I was just exploring my old blog for tidbits and reviewing my own style. I was a lot more productive when I was younger I guess (although my rate of posting here in Mizahar is far speedier than my blog rate) since my mind was fresher and more pregnant with ideas. Kidding aside, I am NOT an old man. But I feel way beyond my years. Experience -and a whole lot of imagination and conditioning, or lack thereof- can do that to somebody. Add to that the burdens of school, and your brain gets fried. This is a relatively recent piece, ironically, for school, although its for last semester. I thoroughly enjoyed this class, although the work is a bit lackluster due to my lack of motivation. I just kinda threw up flails on this one. But nonetheless, I'd like to share it. Or something. Now, the background of this is quite simple. As much as I love world history, there is no culture and history more interesting and more important to me than my own. And who doesn't like ghost stories? Centuries worth of tales and legends bind our heritage together, and since I find other sources lacking, I decided to make my own rendition. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Eternal Trinket (a short story)
 One night when I was walking along the seashore, I caught sight of the blue full moon that kept itself hidden within the confines of the smoky gray clouds. The sea smelled of the earth’s true essence, and for some reason its back and forth motion washing over my sand-covered feet comforted the nostalgia of sadness I felt as I held that stained parchment in my hand.
It seems so long ago now when I met this angelic beauty while I was out gazing over this very same horizon. She was standing over the edge of the sands, seemingly waiting for something to take her away from there. Her white robes flashed in the sunset rays like the flames of an ethereal element, and the way she clasped her hands together in her long contemplation could have resulted in a pristine masterpiece had any man with an art set and talents to match them come along. The flashes could have come from the heavens, for the moment she opened her eyes to the call of the sunset, I felt that heaven was real for the first time. I did not see her again for a while, until I found myself facing a rather unusual situation.
Everyday that I stayed in that small town in Batangas, I would venture out into the sandy white beaches to gather little seashells as leisure. In a stroke of luck, I was able to pick up something that was quite unusual to find in a sandy beach. My eyes beheld, amongst a myriad of shells a golden locket, rusted and scratched with age. When I tried to pry it open with my bare hands, it remained fasted to its lock, so I resorted to using a hammer to break it open. The lock gave way, and inside I found a beautiful portrait of a familiar face, with a locket round her neck.
The picture could have been taken a hundred years ago, judging from the style and the nature of it. Looking at the portrait, I saw a pair of ebony eyes that seemed to sparkle even as a picture, jet black hair that was braided in a meticulous manner much like those of early Filipinas, and a radiant face reminiscent of a carved angel in a cathedral. ‘It’s her!’ I thought, the fact exploding in my head like a grenade. Perhaps she was looking for this locket, which is why she had stayed on the beach. Though some pieces of the thought did not add up, such as the age of the locket and the amount of time it seems to have been submerged underwater, I paid no heed and went to look for her.
I asked around the nearby barrio for any woman matching the description I kept in my head, only to be met with curious and peculiar looks. Then I was referred to an ancient woman who seemed touched by my inquiries. This woman was the oldest in the barrio, having lived for at least 90 years. Upon showing her the portrait, her eyes widened and her mouth twisted into a hollow gasp, even though she let out no sound. ‘I know her’, she said in a hoarse voice afflicted with age, ‘there is an old house at the edge of the woods beyond the barrio. Look for her there’. When I asked about the name of the lady in the picture, she remained silent, staring into open space, mumbling something incoherently, as if she was scared out of her wits.
The house she described was not merely old; it was so decrepit and run down with vines that I could barely believe that such a woman would live there. It seemed like it was going to crumble into dust the moment anyone touched it. Yet I felt a strange feeling when I did, like something just broke inside my heart. I peered into he broken down door, and lo and behold, it radiated with the light of a tranquil sala with mahogany furniture and varnished floors. A great chandelier hung over the great staircase that fronted it, and the smell of rich oil filled my senses. I rubbed my eyes again to see if I was dreaming, for a chill ran down my spine in the notion that it was too surreal, too contrasting, too unbelievable to comprehend. As I did, the doors creaked open, and the lady appeared, dressed in an outdated but lavish filipinana. She was holding a candle in her hand, an unearthly smile touching her lips. I was both awestruck and terrified, yet her expression was obviously one of surprised pleasure.
She invited me to come in with a graceful wave of her hand, pulling the doors open so that the total magnificence of her abode shone over my disbelieving head. The moment I stepped foot into her polished floors I felt a tremendous feeling of anguish and despair, though I could not explain where it came from. Deciding that it was best not to stay too long, I pressed into my pockets to retrieve the locket.
‘Maam, I think this is your–’ the words refused to come out of my throat, and I gulped them down in shock; the locket, which was so rusted and gnarled with age and affliction, was a flashing gold before my eyes. She approached me and held it gently in her hands, the smile on her face disappearing with the rust. Her gaze was broken however, as she turned to face the portrait of a handsome and powerful looking man hanging over the sala room, his handsome mestizo features illuminated by the invisible fire that was burning inside the building. Her eyes began to streak with tears, ones which seemed to me like blood, which dripped over a letter which she took out from a small ivory casket. She moved towards me, more floating than walking, and held the letter up for me to read. I was too shocked to move, to breathe, or to even blink, yet my hands involuntarily took the paper and skimmed over the words. When I gazed back up to ask her what it was about, she was no longer there. The howl of the wind was all that I heard in response, and the icy cold I felt ran back and forth over my senses. The house was again run down and decrepit, the furniture gone, the darkness seeming to want to devour me. An inexplicable aura of madness rushed over me, and I scampered back home in terror.
It has been many years since that mystic night, yet I kept the letter she had handed to me with a half-baked sense of ownership. I held it up over the waters, the ink barely readable now. The blood was hers, and the letter spoke volumes about their haunted past. According to the old woman, whom I revisited the day after that event, she was the lady’s great nephew, and she had taken her life out of shame and guilt over the powerful looking man’s heartbreak, stemming from her liaison with another man. The words at the end of the letter summed it all up for me; ‘..the next time you fall in love, be careful with your heart, for what your heart beats is mine as well, sweet Margarita’. - Antonio, 1901′ |
Or if Avalis crowns me as the new Goddess of Divination, why not? I am not sure if I want to play a goddess, though.
by Chaelnomyl on February 24th, 2010, 7:14 am 
The distant throbbing clearly pounding for my head’s demise