Hello

Collection of unfinished writings by me

[tamotaroteam]

Aizawa and cat(I just noticed this is the first time I ever draw sensei) Btw this piece will be featured as a photo in one of our illustrations in our MHA fanbook “Sun-filled”(pre-order is up, you can check my blog or vitsit our website tamotaro.com/global-store/ for more details)

[kawaiikrisschan]

By your side

[lababito]

The Cow, pt. 2

(Part 1)

Joseph left before Mattie could tell him how grateful she was. She gasped and hugged Poncho tightly with a teary smile. Meanwhile, the cellist stumbled back into the Mini Hall of his world and found that the recital was just beginning. Throughout the program, he had been so preoccupied with Mattie’s piece that he almost lost focus on his own. He played Faure’s Elegy. At first he made some mistakes, but as the music progressed he played more into it. He made his cello sing with deep, full tones and impressive technical runs, which captivated the audience.

As soon as his number was finished, he went outside, looking for Mattie. The College was almost as silent as it had been earlier, only, he could hear the sound of vehicles passing outside. He turned around, and almost bumped into a tall, thin man.

"Joseph!" the man remarked. It was the Chairman of the Composition Department. "Congratulations! Good performance back there." He briefly conversed with Joseph then said he was pleased that the program was going perfectly as planned before excusing himself to the bathroom. Joseph learned that the friendly teacher was very particular about the order of things.

As soon as he was gone, Joseph paced in front of the Hall, slapping his forehead. "I should have known this would happen," he grunted. He went in and out of the door to the Mini Hall, but nothing changed. The Chairman gave him questioning looks when they passed each other again. When Joseph had had enough, he gave up and decided to stay inside for good. “She asks a favour and doesn’t show up. Fine,” Joseph mumbled, irritated. “I’m not the one needing help anyway.”

Joseph stayed near the door until the recital's last number ended. Finally, the Chairman was about to stand up to conclude the program, when something nuzzled Joseph’s left leg. He looked down and saw Poncho. “What the...” He gulped. He felt time slow down. The Chairman was already on his feet. Once he reaches the stage, Joseph will entirely miss the chance to play Mattie’s piece. She needs this! But the Chairman hates unplanned changes. Does Joseph dare?

Hastily, Joseph picked Poncho up and ran to the stage, past the Chairman, almost tripping. He signalled an additional number to the shocked professor, who looked at him most disapprovingly. Joseph sat Poncho on the grand piano, took his cello from the side, and fumbled for Mattie’s piece which was almost crumpled in his pocket. Inadvertently, he felt himself smile.

"Hello again, everyone,” he began, breathing heavily, his voice croaking. “I am happy to announce that we have an addition to the program. It is a piece composed by the late Mattie Cruz, and this is her most prized work: an untitled duet for cello and –” he cleared his throat “– and cat." He flipped the first page and continued, "I shall read to you the program notes attached.

"It is the tale of a cow – here represented by the cello – who wants to wander past the farmlands but cannot because she is bound to her master. So she asks the cat who climbs a tree every day to describe to her as vividly as possible what the distant pastures are like.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Untitled Duet for Cello and Cat by Mattie Cruz, to be played by yours truly on cello, and Poncho as cat."

There was loud murmuring in the hall as Joseph propped himself up on a chair with his instrument. Students left and right either cheered or hooted. Joseph heard someone say, “The composers have really taken it too far this time.” Although the people looked disbelieving, almost all of them had their recording devices out. He tried to ignore the fuss and just focus.

At first, everyone found the piece funny, especially when the cello and cat exchanged lines and the harmony was bare. As the music took shape, it began to sound like a light, melancholic lullaby. Everyone was most fascinated by Poncho’s melodious meowing which sounded so naturally musical, and her exact entrances. Sometimes she seemed to lead Joseph more than vice versa. She distinguished the themes of each of the landscapes, while Joseph set the mood clearly between musical passages with sustaining tones. At last it ended, cello and cat together, as gently as it began. The audience applauded, laughed, and cheered at the same time, amazed at the seemingly-impossible feat. When the Chairman went to the front to formally conclude the program, Joseph took Poncho and stepped outside before the restless crowd could scare her.

The College was completely still and silent once again, but Joseph was too excited to notice. “Great job!” he told Poncho, who meowed as he scratched her head. Just then, someone slapped his back so hard he almost fell face-first on the floor. He turned around, and immediately his frown became a grin. “Mattie!” That hurt, he would’ve added. “How do you feel?”

Mattie gave him a smile so warm it made the peace from within her seem to radiate. "I’ve never been better! I can’t thank you enough." She squatted on the ground and took Poncho into her arms. “I’m sorry we didn’t make it to the rehearsal, though.”

Joseph laughed nervously. “You two and your untimely entrances. But it’s alright, Poncho made it look like I was the one who needed rehearsing.” He told the composer how the performance went, and how the people reacted afterward. “By the way, in your program notes you wrote of a cow that longed for freedom. You were writing about yourself, weren't you?"

"Yes... My obsession with my work bound me in this fate; ironic, how the piece that caused my struggle depicted it. But I realize that I am happy not so much because people heard it but because Poncho finally made her stage debut.” She kissed the cat’s head then put her back down. “Well, that does it. Thank you for your help, Joseph, truly!” Mattie kept on thanking him as they shook hands. “Until we meet again. By the way, the piece is yours! It’s a token of my gratitude."

At last, Joseph parted from Poncho and Mattie. Although he was glad for those two, and proud of what he did, he felt a hint of sadness, wishing he could have known them better. Now back in his own world, he was surprised to see so many people coming to congratulate him, but he felt fulfilled because of something much more valuable than his performance in the recital.

Later, as Joseph was about to leave, an angry voice suddenly called him from behind. "Joseph!" the Chairman shouted. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

The cellist laughed nervously, but felt as though nothing could diminish the happiness that lingered within him. He walked toward the professor, ready to answer for his actions with confidence and a strangely comforting sense of joy.

[lababito]

The Cow, pt. 1

Fiction for Creative Writing 10

Last modified May 25, 2015

The Recital for Composers of New Music was set to begin in thirty minutes at the Mini Hall of the College of Music. Joseph had just entered the venue and was about to set up his cello onstage along with the other performers, when he realized he left his piece outside. He went to the stone benches in front of the Hall and found the papers he needed. But as he stood there, he noticed that the College was unusually silent, except for an occasional rustling of leaves. Not even the muffled sound of instruments from inside the rooms, or of jeepneys passing the Oval, could be heard. Although bathed in the golden rays of the setting sun, Joseph shivered at the sight of the empty building. He turned around, and suddenly there was a pale girl with short, shaggy hair and worn clothing in front of him, grinning from ear to ear and holding out more papers to his face. An orange-and-white cat was circling her legs.

"Hello! Can you play this for me, please?” said the girl.

"Woah!” Joseph cried, panting. “Who are you?”

"Oh, sorry. I'm Mattie Cruz. She’s Poncho." She gestured at the cat. "You're Joseph, right?” When Joseph nodded and asked how she knew, Mattie said, "I just know. I used to be a Composition major before I died." She said it as casually as one would comment on the weather.

Joseph stared at her in confusion. "You see,” she continued, “I needed a cellist so I opened the portal to the dimension of the dead for you, through that door." She pointed at the entrance to the recital venue. "Don't worry; everyone else is still where they are, in the world of the living."

Joseph gasped. He touched his face and arms. “Am I dead?”

"No, no! You can go back through it later." Mattie laughed. “Anyway, about this –” she handed Joseph the papers – “it was my composition in First Year. Can you play it later? I can't seem to leave this place until it's performed." She clenched her fist and gazed at the distance. "I always believed it was the most unconventional yet creative work anyone here has ever made.”

"It's a..." Joseph cleared his throat. "A duet for cello and voice. Great. Who's your singer?"

"That's the surprise," the girl replied proudly, lifting the cat up. "Poncho is my singer!"

Joseph's jaw dropped. "What! I don’t even – you want me to perform your piece unrehearsed, with a cat? That's...unspeakable!"

"Aw, shush. It’ll be fun! The people will see something new." Mattie kept on insisting, but Joseph was unrelenting until he was the one insisting he should already leave.

Mattie began to look vexed. "But I don't want to stay here until next year's recital."

Joseph stood still. Suddenly he understood the weight of Mattie’s request, but he simply couldn’t imagine playing with a cat. He and Poncho stared at each other for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said guiltily. Mattie ignored him and stuck out her lower lip.

Silence fell on them. Then Joseph scratched the back of his head and added, "Look. I really need to leave, but I think I could give this piece a go – if Poncho and I can try it once, after my number." He saw Mattie’s face lighten up as he ran for the door. "I mean, waiting and wandering for another year would suck, right, so... Open the portal for me again later and we'll see."

[lababito]

Successful Beginning

Creative Non-Fiction for Creative Writing 10

Last modified May 25, 2015

"Performances cause students to experience nervous breakdown. I wouldn't want to put my students into situations like that," said Prof. Martinez, the then-Chairperson of the Strings Department, when I asked her if we could hold our own recital. We, most of all I, have been waiting semester after semester for an opportunity to present the pieces we have been studying. After all, what's the point of being a performing arts major if you can't play in public? But as a Second Year student, it was something I only dreamed of.

Things changed in the second semester of sophomore year, when Prof. Martinez's six-year term ended and Prof. Manimtim was assigned the position. Immediately he acted on our utmost needs, and in November announced that a Chilean violinist named Juan Munoz would be visiting the College of Music to hold our department's first master class in five years. I was elated, so much more excited about it than any of the Strings majors. Immediately I wanted to sign up for it, so I asked him when he would be posting the sign-up sheet.

"I gave all six slots to the students who will be holding their solo recitals at the end of this semester," he told me. "Don't worry; when you become a solo recitalist, it will be your turn to play in master classes."

That hit home hard. Only students in Third Year were allowed by the curriculum to be recitalists, in preparation for their Junior Solo Recital. That meant I'd have to wait another year before I could get the chance to perform. Nevertheless, I continued to look forward to the master class, which was an event unlike anything we've had in a while.

The night before the master class, I played with the orchestra at the annual performance of George Frederic Handel's The Messiah. Unfortunately, many students reported that their valuables had been stolen from the dressing rooms, and it so happened that Pamela, a violist for whom the last slot had been reserved, had lost a large amount of money. The following day she left her slot free before leaving for her provincial home as soon as possible, and Prof. Manimtim offered it to me.

I suddenly felt a rush of emotions. I couldn’t get myself to celebrate the fact that Pamela had given her slot; yet I was both excited to perform, and anxious because I wasn't prepared. I rummaged through the pieces I brought with me, and realized that the easiest one I could play needed an accompanist – which I did not have. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it, so I hesitantly rejected the offer and sat back, waiting for the program to start.

Soon the master class commenced and Prof. Juan Munoz stepped forward with his first student. While the student was performing, I observed that the Chilean violinist was not as tough or strict a teacher as I thought he'd be. When the student made mistakes, he patiently corrected her and taught her techniques that could help her play more easily. So it was with the second one, at which point I began to take note of the main things Prof. Munoz looked for in a performer: sureness in playing, precise intonation, and a very deep sense of oneness with the music. While the student displayed adeptness in technique, he urged her to immerse herself into not only the notes but also to what they spoke of. "Collectively, a piece of music has its own character, but each section within it has something different to say," he said.

I began to build confidence. Perhaps I can still play something worthy to him when my timeslot comes up. Finally, I decided to push through with it, and told Prof. Manimtim that I'll find a way to muster up enough courage to stand in front of everyone.

I stepped outside the room with my violin and musical piece and began to warm up. I then realized I would be wasting time if I simply played the notes printed on the music sheet; I must think about and absorb the music, truly feel and learn it by heart, if I want to deliver it effectively. I sat down and sang the piece aloud with as much emotion as it required before I tried playing it on my instrument. The outcome surprised me.

At last, it was time for me to go back inside the room. In a loud and cheerful voice, Prof. Munoz asked me what my name was and what I was going to play. I told him in exactly the opposite manner, softly and timidly, "I'm Marian. I will be playing the Second Movement of Henryk Wieniawski's Violin Concerto No. 2." I apologized for not having a pianist to accompany me; he said he understood and beckoned me to carry on with the piece.

When everyone in the room had settled down, I stood in the center, set my feet slightly apart, and placed the violin on my neck. At first I found that my fingers had gone cold again. I put my left hand where the first notes would be, ignoring how it shook, and struck the string with my bow. Thus the flow of sound began. The slow main theme started softly, and I breathed with the music's pulse so as to relax myself. The tension gradually built up, at which point I began to apply more vibrato and pressed the bow down more heavily on the strings. From my peripheral vision I could see that Prof. Munoz was moving with as much emotion as I was. The music grew louder and the tones thicker, until it reached its highest point and I felt something stir inside me as though I was about to sob. I felt gooseprickles all over my back and arms. Even as the dynamics decreased, my heart continued to pound as the music has not loosened its grip on me. Then, slowly but surely, it began to thin out at the highest note, and my feet were once again flat on the floor. I spent the length of the bow, and ended quietly. And then, in the silence of the room, all of us present released our breath as one.

The small audience applauded heartily, and so did Prof. Munoz. "That was so beautiful," he said under a whisper, breath-taken. "Your tones sounded like velvet. You are my smallest student today, and with the smallest voice – yet you have the biggest tones."

My vision was blurry from the overwhelming feelings of nervousness and joy together. He went on to teach me techniques that can improve my playing: he first made me repeat the main theme while his hand pressed down the tip of my bow, then later asked me to imitate the sound without his weight. Despite complimenting my tones, he wanted me to take it a notch higher and learn to play even louder, as loudly and beautifully as I can. We then experimented with bowings and fingerings, and decided that I can already do off at this point. The people applauded for the last time, and I joined them as Prof. Manimtim concluded the program, thanking Prof. Munoz for spending his afternoon with us and sharing what he knew.

The repercussions of my performance that day did not make themselves felt immediately. It was long after words of thanks had been given (especially from me to Pamela and Prof. Manimtim) and compliments had been exchanged, that I learned that my fellow students had begun to trust me with more opportunities to play in front of an audience, whether it was with an orchestra, a chamber music ensemble, or as a soloist in recitals and concerts. It was as though all of the chances I was looking for before finally came to me. Yet it was also through those subsequent performances that I learned that the true artist works not only to serve him- or herself, but also others; that art flourishes when it is shared and practiced with people, because it creates within the artist a sense of purpose that is not merely individualistic but also universal. From being a sophomore student that only sought attention, I learned to become a more holistic, interpersonal musician, thanks to one performance opportunity that came to me by accident.

[lababito]

10

Exercise for Creative Writing 10

Last modified May 25, 2015

I was the first to step outside the retreat house. It was five in the morning, and the moon was still shining overhead amidst the stars. Four of my friends followed, but I had gone trotting ahead in the wide open yard because I could not hold my excitement. It was the first time in my life that I was allowed to go outside a building at an ungodly hour without the fear of ungodly adult scolding.

The stillness of Tagaytay's predawn air enveloped us in coldness, what with our freshly-washed hair, but we welcomed it because it was something we never experienced in Manila. For most of the time I was wandering about alone while the others were taking pictures. When I wasn't focused on covering as much space as I could walk on, I was standing still and looking at the night sky. Its clarity and purity of color was mesmerizing. I never thought I'd see the sceneries I always read about in books, of a luminous moon surrounded by countless stars, every single one of which you could see.

I walked as far as the edge of the retreat house's lot where a tall wooden fence lined with barbed wires stood. Through it, there seemed to stretch an endless field of pineapples. No one went there, not just because it was almost an off-limits area, but because there was nothing else around it. But in the event of the sunrise, it gave me the best view. So I stood there from five-thirty in the morning, waiting for the slightest change in color.

And then it happened. The once-deep, dark blue sky lightened with a faint pinkish-purple glow from the horizon, past the pineapple field. Then a thin band of warm colors appeared, stretching out on both sides. The red saturated gently as the light spread in all directions, making half of my view look like a massive rainbow gradient. I looked behind me and saw the moon and the stars still hanging brightly on a purely violet backdrop. Turning back, I beheld the soft rays of sunlight shooting upward behind the silhouettes of faraway trees, and the once-shadowy wisps of clouds appeared with hints of pink, orange, and purple. I took a few steps back to see all that was happening, but the sky was too vast to view from just one direction. The mere idea of being under that myriad of hues took my breath away. On one end, the sun's rays broke through the clouds and expanded, as in a child's drawing, and on the other were the faint glittering stars and the waning moon.

And then, as slowly and quietly as it all began, the night lights faded as the sun's reds transformed into yellow-gold. I took the time to breathe it all in, feeling the gentle warmth of the morning on my cold goose-prickled skin. I walked back to my friends without having said a word about where I had been and what I had seen. They were too excited to show me their photos, while I tried to come up with words that could at least vaguely describe the emotions I felt. I couldn’t; I was overwhelmed.

Two days ago, I came into that high school retreat burdened by a remorseful loss in the National Music Competition for Young Artists, held the week prior. My mind was filled with nothing but self-pity. Yet, for one silent hour, I felt as though the sunrise purified my pain; perhaps it was this pain that made the experience more than something I desired, it became something I needed. It brought me closer to finding God than any activity during the retreat was able to do. I was baffled when I realized how selfish I had been all this time, and how I had become like everyone else who has forgotten that such wonders happen every day yet so few of us notice and talk about them.

It was singularly the most moving encounter with nature that I have ever had. Full stop.

[lababito]

Picture, pt. 2

Created April 23, 2014

It’s been three months since he disappeared. He said he would return after the first month, but there had been no sign of him elsewhere. No one looked for him, no one cared about her caring about his whereabouts. While everyone acted like Ken never existed, they treated her the same way. Despite this she decided to move in to the lone cottage situated just inside the forest where his picture was, quite far from the rest of civilization. She knew that he had left behind an incredibly important responsibility and there was no one else who was willing to take it on. The cottage was his workplace and his house for quite a time, alone. She decided to stay there to look after all of his possessions and creations until he comes back- if he does.

Every day since then she has been visiting the back of his cottage. She remembers that on the first morning she roamed it, it seemed vibrant and alive; for as far as she could walk there was bright green grass that glimmered with the glow of the sun, trees that stood tall and sturdy, birds that sung in their branches, and flowers of so many kinds blossoming upon each turn of the eye- on shrubs and bushes and on the ground, accentuating the foreground with striking colors and giving it an exotic kind of fragrance whenever a gentle breeze came. And the wind always came from the direction of the mountains, carrying a wordless song over unseen rivers and wider forests, sounding almost as though it was blown over the mouthpiece of a flute. He made this… This was his creation. He nurtured this place with the music of his heart, and sincere beauty was what it gave him back. How can he not love himself for this? she thought then.

At the start, each morning was a pleasant surprise with a new arrangement of things: the picture outside was moving, but like a diorama that stayed when she was wide awake and moved when she was asleep. Oftentimes she would visit the center of that pure, humble garden in the middle of the wild forest, where Ken used to play his flute to awaken the picture.

Things have changed drastically since that first week. The trees and its smaller cousins have shrunk in size even more, becoming paler and wrinkling, their leaves thinning out as though it was already winter. The birds have gone too, and so have the dragonflies in the morning and the crickets and fireflies in the evening. Almost nothing new grew except for the vines that crept up around the cottage; it became eerily quiet.

Only the flowers have retained their color, so she came to know them more with each day: blood-red poinsettias and carnations, bright yellow chrysanthemums and star-shaped daffodils, violets and bluebells and the red bells of the amaryllis, orchids and bougainvilleas in tints of lavender, pale yellow, and pastel orange, and so many other wildflowers with many-colored, various shaped petals. They were like warm stars of life against the barren, banal backdrop of brown leaves, greying trees, and fog.

All this she reflected on that morning, in the same spot where Ken used to play his flute, after she had stopped playing her own instrument to sit down and breathe. She took her violin and stood it up on her crossed legs, holding it down in position with her hands on the scroll. Then she bowed her head over her hands, closed her eyes, and listened.

When she looked up, it was already dawn. She saw, through translucent hints of orange from the rising sun, that everything around her had turned grey. The trunks, barks, and roots of every tree and vine, and almost even the ground, were as colorless as they were devoid of life - except for the flowers, which had happened to smell sweeter. It made her want to cry. What is happening to Ken’s picture?

"I’ve been long gone," a voice painfully familiar to her suddenly said from behind. The leaves shuffled under the approaching footsteps, barely echoing off the trees for the forest was almost completely silent. "I have abandoned this place; nothing that was attached to me before could continue to live."

Mattie turned around to see Ken, dressed exactly the same way she last saw him. His dark hair remained the way it was, he was in the same grey-green shirt and dark blue sneakers, and she could smell him from where she was. She looked him straight in the eye, and it made her chest hurt so much that she wanted to cry but couldn’t. An air of unease rested on them as Ken beheld his surroundings. “But I was taking care of this place so well,” he murmured almost to himself.

He inhaled deeply, his breath shaking. “I never knew I could make this picture as good as it turned out. I was so wasted on my own. Everyone else was painting better pictures: bigger trees, grand castles in the distance, y’know that stuff. They could attract winged lions and giant wolves and tame them with their songs. It was always fuller in the other makers’ pictures. But then I came across this grey, dying land, and I… It lived. And it made me happy…It made me happy, Mattie.”

Mattie was so stunned she could not react in any way. The place was dying when you found it, and you gave it life. And now you’re leaving it to die again? she wanted to scream at him. Because of me?

When Ken made to move towards her, she stepped away from him.

"Mattie," he called out, apologetically. There was so much hurt in his croaking voice. Mattie shut her eyes once more, and she knew she was crying, but no tears ran down her face. "These flowers remain only because you are here, Mattie. When I knew you, I never realized that my music could awaken them. This may have been my picture, but the flowers were always yours. Mattie…"

Suddenly a cold, biting wind gushed into her face, and Mattie awoke to reality this time. She looked at her violin, which she had leaned onto in her sleep, through a blurred and teary vision. The pictures in her dream were still so vivid, as were the emotions that pierced her heart. This time when she put her instrument down she cupped her face and cried.

[lababito]

Picture, pt. 1

Created April 23, 2014

She stopped playing even before the musical phrase ended, and put her violin down on the ground. Then she stretched her arms and hands upward, joints snapping softly, muscles easing. She sighed.

She looked around; the scenery had not changed. The trees had not moved nor changed color, no flowers bloomed anew, the grass was still dry. The distant mists still covered the glorious mountain ranges that used to shoot up from the picture northward, sending her the same responses to her song since she had arrived, in sad, longing whispers. Although she tried to play a new melody everyday or improvise old ones, they all somehow felt strange. That was not good for the picture; all around her things were dying. Even the wood on her violin was turning pale, making it sound young and immature the way new violins carelessly speak. Once she stops filling the picture with sound - sound that it can feed and live on for many decades hence - it will die. Apparently Mattie's own ideas have begun to wither too.

It was because she felt guilty and wistful and helpless. She was empty inside. He did not love her - he never did; but it was not his love for her that she wanted, it was his love for himself. He was clinging onto her too much, clenching her too tightly, without realizing that he was already hurting her. He wanted, needed, someone to fill him so that he will find a reason to love himself; but his desires ate him up like acid, blinding him and keeping him away from everything else that could have given his life a purpose. It drenched her of energy and time; whenever she tried to make him understand that sating his own body will not give his soul peace, each approach made him want to keep her more to himself.

She thought of him: in a shirt that he used repeatedly, smelling of sweat and beer and smoke; his wavy hair tussled up in a mess; his frail, uncared-for physique...and his eyes. So lost and yet so filled with a depth that she could not fathom. He will be as nice a guy as any living human being could be on the face of this planet, if that was what it took to get her. No...

The memory of him in this dying, forsaken place brought tears to her eyes. Ken, you need to think of the picture. You need to bring it back to life... You have to come back.

[lababito]

Corn, pt. 1

Created: April 8, 2014

"Hiya! Hiya!"

The mighty prince was short and stout but his heart was plump with courage. He bravely swung his little sword in the air to fend off the Green Foes of the forest. On tiny feet they scampered away and hid into the bushes and up the leafy trees, until their bronze slitted eyes peering through the spaces were all that could be seen. The Green Foes were not actually evil creatures; they were little squirrel people that had brown leather skin, which they usually cover in leaves when they separate themselves from the plants, and they only like to show their eyes to passers-by. This has scared people who tried to shoo them away, but there were always little leather squirrels hiding in the treetops that cunningly dropped objects on them. Thus they came to be called foes - and mistakenly green ones.

Meanwhile, seeing the Green Foes hide away made the princeling proud. He thumped his fists onto his chests, head held high, saying, “I just fended off the enemy! Now my mighty garrison can cross the forest unharmed.” Behind him trailed three kittens: a shaggy orange one with barely a red made, the other with short fur colored shimmery silver from ears to tail, and the last and tiniest whose coat was a layer of little golden waves - all with tiny wings sprouting from their backs, following him wherever he went like ducklings following their mum. He brought them to show to one of the servants of the Corn Castle, the pretty one who was just about his age and had a liking for baby felines. The princeling sighed as he thought of her.

Although he has walked a long way he kept himself constantly attentive. A bit of movement from either side will prompt him to brandish his sword and challenge the creature hiding. Overhead, the sun was beginning to rise, giving the late summer morning sky a rainbow tint. Autumn was near, and while the leaves have barely changed color the weather was already dry enough to allow plants to produce sound easily when shaken. He and his kittens walked steadily, plants atop swaying, never losing the track; and yet their walk wouldn’t seem to end. The little princeling was beginning to feel anxious; why can’t he find the path that leads to Corn Castle? They said the sight would be obvious and he would need no help, but at this point he was almost completely clueless. “Help?” he warily asked his surroundings. “Help? Somebody? Please?”

Suddenly, there was a rattle from a large bush nearby, and again the princeling stanced himself. “Except if you are a foe!” he announced as the kittens huddled to his feet. Then out leapt a Green Foe - but it wasn’t green, and he didn’t look like an evil foe! It was a leather squirrel bigger than the rest he had seen earlier, looked older, and had quite a comely face like his old uncle’s, save for the absence of a thick grey beard. “I offer help,” it said, “on one condition: you will not threaten my people anymore throughout your journey.”

The little princeling put his sword down and asked, “What kind of help? And, who are you?”

“Who I am does not matter; but I know where you intend to go,” the uncle foe said in a tone that sounded almost full of wisdom. “Korngold Kingdom, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes” (“I thought Corn Castle? Must be the same?” he thought). The princeling put his little swordling back into its oversized scabbard which hung from his belt, and picked up the trembling kittens into his arms. Uncle Foe began to skip through the forest swiftly as they followed behind. Past tall trees, shallow streams, tangles of hanging vines, and a vast number of bronze eyes peering at them they went. Slowly the forest was beginning to thin out, and they began to see the blunt tip of the castle in the distance. They ran and ran, until at last they came to a long wall that extended as far to the left and the right as the eyes could see: a barrier of stone about three feet wide, covered in humongous leaves of corn, encircling the whole of Corn Castle.

They stopped, panting for breath, and looked, speechless, at what appears to be their destination. There was a pathway before them, paved with gold shimmering kernels (now the princeling understood why everyone was telling him it was obvious) and framed on both sides by rows of many-colored shrubs and wild flowers. It led to a low arch in the middle of the wall, made of old gold with carvings of vines and leaves creeping up its edges as though they were real. The kernel pavement ran past the arch and down to the castle grounds, where every possible shade of gold could be beheld.

And finally, there was Corn Castle; it looked literally like a giant cob of corn, its bright yellow kernels actually spacious rooms stacked above one another. These visible outer rooms served various purposes: most of the upper ones that were open outside were used for sentry, and the higher-roofed ones in the middle and lower floors that had tall glass windows, as entertainment rooms. A bit to the right, facing North, the princeling couldn’t make it out clearly but he was quite certain that the ornate balcony railing from which faded flags and other pieces of tapestry hung was of the Queen’s room, the grandest room of all. The whole structure looked all the more grandiose against the pastel backdrop of the morning sky, with the pure rays of the young sun glistening on its facade.

But the company was only coming from the Southeast side of the hidden fortress. The princeling had heard once before that the view facing North was a famously mythical scenery that only the people living inside Corn Castle can behold, for there was no entrance to the castle from that direction, nor a way to see what was beyond it from the South. “Maybe that’s where the giant corn fields are… and beyond that, perhaps, is where the griffins come from,” the prince thought, brushing the heads of the litter of kittens in his arms, then gazing towards the North, curiously, contemplatively. “Have you seen the North?” he asked Uncle Foe. He saw that the little old creature was also looking towards the same distance, but with a hint of sadness in his eyes.

Uncle Foe gave him but a sideways glance and said nothing about it. “Let’s move on” was his reply, and he went as swiftly as they had come.

[lababito]

sample 6

Created: March 17, 2012

He found her seated by the well, combing her hair with her fingers. Slowly the braids unfolded into sheer waves that fell down to her hips, highlit copper red when the sun hit it. It fell to frame the slight curves of her body that her usual garment of chainmail and armor had always concealed; even then in man’s clothes she was already so beautiful to him. Now she sat before him in a plain gown of thin silk, her hair down and shining in the sun, like the grown woman she should be. I would have given you the seven continents, I would have made it all ours, so that wherever you went I could go too.

He reined his horse and tied it to the tree next to where hers was, on which a black cloak hung upon its back.

"Everytime I go looking for you, you are always in a different place," he said, sighing.

"And you always find me." She smiled as she stood up, pattened her gown, and curtsied. "My lord."

Riding at dusk, only in a bedgown and a cloak. Does she know what she's doing? It was so easy to see through her gown. Had it been another man, she might've been in danger.

He observed the place as he walked toward her. Tall bare trees towered over them, their thick long branches spread out so wide that they tangled among themselves. Dry long vines hung down and surrounded them like a loosely woven curtain, and leaves of fiery colors were scattered everywhere, a sign that autumn was fast approaching. "How do you even know where to find these strange places?"

"I don't. I just ride into them," she replied. She cleared the space beside her of leaves and dust and droplets of water, and offered him to take a seat.

He didn't sit, though. He could smell the air as the sky has just barely begun to dim. Cold and wet. It smells like rain is coming. It was not a fortnight ago when he was running after her in the willows by the lake, for she had escaped from the castle again and ridden as far from it as was safe. Just as he was about to catch her, immediately the rain began to pour on them like an angry elder's scolds, and they slipped and slid on the mud. She pulled them both into the lake and wouldn't get up until the rain stopped pouring. I don't want to go back, Cedrick, she had told him then. Let's swim to the bottom of the lake, and perhaps we'll find another world past the water, where we can live a life away from them. By the time they got up their skins were wrinkled and pale, and they rode back home shivering wet beneath their cloaks. The next day they were both shaking with colds.

[lababito]

Amie, pt. 2

Created: March 17, 2012

The company was leaving so early in the morning that Denis found himself swaying quite sleepily on the back of his horse with eyes half-closed. No, Amie- ...the people are cheering and praying a safe journey for us. I should at least look enough as Sir Eric's squire should. As Lord Mander's eldest son, Sir Eric, with his brothers, followed his lord father's grand wheelhouse. Denis trailed shortly behind him.

Beside Sir Eric rode Lady Alyssa, his bethroted and Amie's sister, whose nameday was the cause of their visit to and celebration in this castle. Her sisters, including Amie, rode behide Sir Eric's brothers. And Amie's having a casual friendly conversation with Sir Ethan, as she has with so many other knights. But she never spoke to Denis. She avoided squires as though their average rank were a contagious disease to the acceptably highborn. But I saw her talking to Malec after practice last week... Perhaps she's just sick of me.

Why does he still care about this girl anyway? There are so many other ladies out there who have the same blonde hair and blue-green eyes as her, the same complexion, sweet-sounding voice, manner of walking...

No, Delara was different. She looked like Amie, like the thousand other girls in Greenhaven, but she was different in a thousand ways... Denis remembered the way her blonde hair and green eyes shone whenever she told him things, and her same sweet-sounding voice still rings in his head up to now. But his half-sister was long dead, and he never wanted her as he wanted Amie.

Wanted? What he wanted from Amie was the feeling of life that suddenly disappeared from him when he lost his sister. But Amie's coldness kept reminding him that although they had the same face, their souls were as different as ice and fire. And knighthood would not change any of it.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted when he saw Amie riding toward him. No, it's Sir Eric she's riding to. Or her sister. Not Denis.

But she slowed her mare to a trot just beside Denis's horse, and shone him a subtle smile. Denis felt spit and a thousand words get stuck in his throat, but he managed to say, in a croaking voice, "Good morning to you, m'lady."

"I learned from Sir Ethan you had a sister that looked like me," she started as though she did not hear him greet.

"I had one," he replied, "and she looks hardly any different from you. But she died three years back ... Not to mean offense, m'lady."

Amie suddenly looked forlorn and affected. "Oh, I'm sorry! I did not mean to bring it up, I did not know... I pray she is happy where she has gone, Denis."

"Did Sir Ethan not tell you?"

All sad emotions flew from her face at once, and a blush crept up her face. "Oh, no, he only mentioned that I was lovelier than her. Did you know that he liked her once, too? Oh but he said that since he wasn't able to marry your sister, he could ask his lord father to marry us!"

Yes, that bastard Ethan once snuck his way into Delara's room and would have done away with her as he pleased, had she not slept in mine that night. You are all he deserves, m'lady.

"Denis?" Amie called out, and he realised he was staring blankly into her face without speaking. She gave him a weird side-glance and turned her horse towards Sir Ethan. Abruptly they were conversing and laughing again.

Denis could feel a sudden dizziness hit him square in the head. He hung his head down and closed his eyes, and half-slept through the remainder of the way toward the city gates. When he awoke, Amie was gone.

An emptiness inside him almost swallowed him into madness, and suddenly he wanted to ride away from the company as far as his horse could bring him, back home if it was possible.

It is not. A drop of rain landed on his nose.

[lababito]

Amie, pt. 1

Created: March 17, 2012

As he was passing the covered bridge between the Sister's and the Widow's tower, he found her seated by the window, combing her hair with her fingers and dreamily watching the boys practice in the yard below. The sounds of sword against sword, arrows being loosed and men shouting and cheering rang throughout the bridge, but Amie looked as though she was listening to an ensemble of musicians instead. He looked over from behind her to see the commotion.

"Fierce, aren't they?" Denis started. He found Lester and Malec practicing each other with blunted tourney swords. They were both squires like him, and were as diligent in practicing everyday. "If they practiced that hard everyday, they could be knighted someday." So will I.

Amie didn't so much as give him a sideways look. Before, it would have wounded him, but now he has become used to her indifference. He fell back, curtsied behind her and said, "If you would excuse me, m'lady."

He was about to walk away, when Amie called to him. "Denis, what time will you be practicing?"

"Just before sundown, m'lady." Would she see me practice too? "Will Sir Eric be practicing with you?"

"No, m'lady, he means to go hunting this afternoon with his brother and yours."

"Oh." She turned toward the yard again, and said nothing more.

"Good morning to you, m'lady." And he walked away.

-

That afternoon he looked up from the yard to the window of the covered bridge, hoping she would be there watching.

He found no girl, only a dove perched upon the windowsill.

"If it isn't dreamboy expecting his little girl Amie up on that window 'gain," his practice partner announced, with a jab of his blunted sword to his arm. The other squires laughed. "Well, lad, you better be thankful she ain't seein' you now, 'cos I'm like to make a misery out o' you."

From that day on, no one provoked Denis in the practice yard again, unless they wanted to get away bruised and bleeding.

[lababito]

Flight

Created: February 11, 2012

“Oomph!”

Every time Keith tripped on the uneven ground, Addy would only gesture for him to walk faster. It wasn’t an easy task to walk on unfamiliar territory that relentlessly wanted to trip him with unseen rocks, giant roots and falling branches. But Addy was as surefooted as he was strange to this place. There was never a time that it was her who did the catching up, but it was unfair that he did not know the Kingswood half as well as she did. Keith grunted.

“Stop grunting and keep walking,” she would command him, before running into the bushes and trees ahead and disappearing silently until he’d begin to fear that he’d lost her, but she would always just pop out of nowhere, usually behind him to startle him bad enough to nearly fall on his face. Thankfully, the worst he’d gotten was only a scraped elbow.

He went and walked and walked behind her, until Addy herself was pacing down to a walk too. For children their age, it was a gravely long walk to boast of. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Keith asked finally. “For all we know, we might’ve only been following our own tracks.”

"Just follow me and we’ll get there," she said, as she had said numerous times today in her small commanding voice. He knew that the reason why they were taking longer than she promised was because they had to take the track from Lord Mander’s castle where he lived. Normally Addy would walk from her house by the mill which was only about half the distance away.

Eventually the tracks could no longer be seen, and they found themselves standing before the openness at the end of the plains below. Across, they saw, at the foot of a low hill, the opening of a cave. They decided they would have to rappel down the steep stony edge using the vines that clung to it like ropes.

Once afoot, they lost sight of the cave again amidst the trees and shadows that loomed overhead, but Addy didn’t give so much as a second to think where to go; immediately they were walking north again.

It took only a few minutes before they finally reached their destination. “Hello?” Keith shouted from the mouth of the cave, into unending darkness. The walls replied to him with lolololololo, and a chilling gust of wind blew from inside. He shouted a dozen other words until Addy hit his arm and said, “I didn’t bring you here so you can talk to yourself. Keep quiet because something’s in there.”

Walking inside the hard, claustrophobic darkness seemed to be much worse than walking on the rocky tracks of the Kingswood. He lost his footing too often and it took time for his eyes to adjust. He kept on complaining how they should have brought lit torches with them, that finally Addy was forced to fall back and take him by the hand. Once he even fell in a puddle and pulled her in too, and probably the torch that he would have brought.

Suddenly there was a low growling sound from deep inside the cave that made the hairs on Keith’s neck stand. He wanted to ask Addy what it was and why they were going directly its way, but was afraid his voice might upset it more. On they went, and the growling grew louder and louder, until Keith began to see a pair of yellow glowing dots - eyes - watching them; lions’ eyes, golden with a droplet’s hint of the darkness in their black cores…and slowly Keith could see the edges of its teeth too. He realised he was clutching Addy’s hand too tight when she tugged at it without any hint of fear. Is she going to feed me to the lion?

…and then it leapt on Addy, and she gasped. And then she was laughing. She caught it in her arms and they rolled about, the lion licking at her face. “So it is you!” she said. “You recognize me!” It was a young lion, too big to be a cub yet too small for a lone hunt. Keith, confused as he was, could have thrown up out of relief. He wanted to scream at Addy and ask her how many more beasts in hidden dungeons is she making friends out of and keeping. But then he thought he eyed an unshapely hump - no, two humps - on the young lion’s back that… moved… flapped in the air. He thought he saw feathers, but he was certain there were no fowls there. Strangely, they moved exactly in sync with the beast's body.

Wings. The lion had wings…