face paint

Still quite a novice at applying liquid liner, but I am learning. :) Happy in this new adventure. Got this pair of Lime Crime liquid lipsticks and I am loving them. The formula is easy to apply, and it doesn't dry the lips. Pictured is the Wicked shade. I used Mac liner here, and the Urban Decay Naked 2 eye shadow palette on my eyes. Can you tell? I'm quite happy with this look I'm rocking? :)

to B or not to B: a Triptych

Blisterine

He sat there in the comfort of the bed, watching the rain prattle on the street.

The moments of lucidity were leaving him, slowly but surely, like a marching band on its way home after a long day playing at the town fiesta. He remembered nothing of the past, and the present flows through him as if he were a sieve, leaving small traces of what is that will soon wash away with tomorrow's waves.

The mirror in the bathroom showed him what he looked like: blue eyes, brownish red hair, regular features, except perhaps for a bottom lip that could be considered too full. His dog tag told him his name: W.C. Emerson, 9th Battalion.

His books lined the walls of his small apartment. He made lists, lots and lots and lots and lots, that come to mean nothing when he reads them again.

The mind that once held the state's most dangerous secrets is now empty.

The time has come.

-30-

Boulangerie Avenue

The baguettes were fresh when he bought them.

He meant to leave them for a day in the basket so he can make croutons with them for his French onion soup. The neighbour's dog came in for his daily lunch.

The radio was tuned to some station that played retro music, which soothed him as he exercised in the morning, cooked breakfast and lunch, and studied in the evening.

Moving to this town proved to be a blessing for him. It is quiet and the neighbours are friendly and generous. 

The old couple two blocks down always gave him apples and oranges from their yard when they were in season.  The family next door looks after his garden when he leaves town for business.

He never sees the mailman.

-30-

Bruise Lee

There were no ducks on the pond.

He is old now, alone like he's been most of his life.

Winter came and went without his knowing, because the snow does not come to visit anymore. Not since he left the military after the Last War.

The wine smelled sweet but it tasted bitter in his tongue.

"Could you find me?" he wrote in his journal. He could not remember who he was talking to in his head.

He remembers feeling this way, a long time ago, before he came to this place in Nowhere Ville, as the young like to call it nowadays. Remembering he remembered nothing. Oh what a pain in the ass, he thought. What was I supposed to remember to forget?!

The brown leaves told him, though, that Winter never forgot him. It was coming, it told him, he could feel it climb from his toes up to his legs, to his waist, but it stopped right there.

The sun shone instead.

-30-

Dystopia

We were the first generation born without God. 

He withdrew, after the Battle of the Underground, never to make Himself known to us, after the Human Race voted overwhelmingly against acknowledgement of Him. He was struck from history, Bibles, the ones that remained after the War, were all destroyed. Places of worship were imploded, and in their places were erected monuments to modern life:  beautiful, functional, efficient, empty.

We would hear stories of Jesus, the Son of God, borne of the woman Mary, and how his teachings weaned the world away from cruelty, and vengeance, and acrimony. But that is all that is left: secret whispers in the sewers and back alleys, never a topic for open conversation.

The last of the generation who outlawed God from society are all dead. It is frightening, but it must be said. They all died young, all of self-annihilation, bar none. The stories we heard from the dissenters all told us that the God who would not show Himself to us anymore was kind, benevolent and generous, the embodiment of Love itself, like a Father. But that is a concept that is alien to us. We do not know what a father is, for under the New Order, all in society are equal, there are no parents, no children, we are all just citizens. Citizens reared on perfect, empirical, scientific knowledge. Art is not encouraged. Free thought is punished.

So now we are without leaders. Without God. We are lost.

I am Sylvan. I now head the Special Force tasked with finding God. To be frank, my perfect knowledge is failing me now. None of technology we have on hand, the space explorers, the oceanographers and the archaeologists could give me a clue as to where to start. We do not have the priests and religious, who are all but a vague memory now. Not even a single Bible to help start our exploration. Finding God, at this point in Human History, would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. You know He exists, but how do you find Him?

I am on a race against time. The New Order is crumbling. Babies are being terminated. Fights break out every .08 seconds. What frightens me most is our advanced weaponry. It has become so potent that anyone who takes it to his mind to detonate the 13 War Nodes could reduce the entire Solar System to space dust. The only thing that stands between the diminishing human race and total extinction are the precious Diamonds we keep flowing steadily to the War Guardians. But loyalty is a foreign concept to us. We do not know exactly what it is now, so that anyone who offers the Guardians more Diamonds could gain control of the weapons easily. That is the New Order: the one who has more reigns supreme.

I come to the Library for the 1,377^th time this year. None of the books I have read offers clues. I browse through the S-Z section of the books on the fourth floor. This time, I pick a tome at random, instead of my usual wont of consulting my methodical list of books.

I chose this book because it reminded me of the cherry trees that bloom in the Capitol after winter. It was covered in delicate red and white cherry print paper, and bears no catalogue number. Curious, and aware of the penalties of defacing Government property, I peel off the cover, which is Sellotaped inside.

Utopia by St Thomas More. My eyes widen and I utter an unconscious “Oh.” 

I have heard about Saints. They are holy men and women who follow in Jesus’ footsteps, even to the point of sacrificing their lives for their convictions.

I peel off the paper cover and call my lieutenant. I inform her of my discovery. We search the entire facility, but the book I have in my hand is apparently the only copy we have.

A blast rocked Southwest Perth. The War Nodes are being detonated. A miscreant picked a fight with a Guardian, who released the Armory in anger. The first explosion created a vortex at the Earth’s core and is sucking in everything around it. If all the nodes are set off, we’d only have time to save the Universe in 7.47 minutes.

I open the book. My hands are shaking. In desperation, I read the outer back cover. It had a painting of the Saint, and a brief biography. And the last line: “He never failed to find God in Prayer.”

Here is my answer. But what, or where is Prayer? We haven’t time for an exploration. The madman at the War Nodes was running amok and there was no one who cared enough to stop him. He could do as he pleased, even kill everyone, and no one would stop him, because nobody knew if it would be right or wrong to do so.

My heart was screaming, but my face was stony. My mind was blank. I couldn’t think of a rescue plan. My heart was filled with sorrow. Here we were, about to destroy the only place we call home, people in chaos, living a soul less existence. An unfortunate generation that will disappear without ever having known the Power that created it.

“If You’re there, still in the Heavens, as they say You are, please save us. I believe in You. I believe in You. Please save us, the children, they deserve to live,” my heart whispered.

Then a blinding light enveloped my lieutenant. Her name is Morgana. She was born with microcephaly, because her mother contracted the Zika virus during pregnancy in the outbreak of 3021. Morgana suffered from brain damage. She was never allowed to attend school because she was slow to learn. She was my friend from childhood, having been relegated to menial tasks because of her disability. I shared my lessons with her in secret because I discovered, she was able to learn if she proceeded at her own pace. She is now my lieutenant because her simple demeanor and easy laugh comforted me, especially during these troubled times. That, and she made a mean cup of Batangas roast.

A stentorian Voice issued from the light. “And so you prayed. And so it was declared. And so it shall be done.” I checked my monitor. The vortex stilled. The Australian continent was safe. The Guardians were stilled. It was as if the anger that possessed them left. I utter a heartfelt “Thank you, Father.”

“I was here all along,” the Voice said once more.

Morgana disappeared that day. But on the Library table, in front of her chair, was left a Bible.

The Pugilist and the Poet

To the Angels of God

I send this prayer

Watch over my husband

Keep him safe

And keep the music

Of my love

Alive in his heart

Wherever the winds

Take him.

She practically purred like a kitten, as his hands explored her bare back. It is the after math of their lovemaking, they lay on the antique four poster bed in his apartment above the telegraph shop in this busy part of town.

She turned her head towards him and smiled, her eyes sleepy. She grabbed his wandering hand, twined her fingers in his, and kissed him squarely on the lips. The sheet that stood between her Rubenesque figure and modesty fell to the floor.

She marvelled at his beauty. His salt and pepper hair was soft to the touch, and his face reminded her of the marble statues of the Roman gods she once saw while on a school field trip to Italy. They have been married for barely three months and frankly, she told herself, it would be difficult to get tired of this visage, which she looks for first thing in the morning now, after she opens her eyes.

It was she who started this postprandial ritual, on a noontime when she felt so hot she just had to take off all her clothes to take her siesta. The fan was oscillating noisily in a corner of their bedroom, and he chanced upon her in her naked state when he came up from his shop to change his shirt. He felt love should be made only when the sun is down and the moon is up, but she had other ideas. In twenty minutes, the neighbours in the next door building could hear them screaming in their satiety. They have quite gotten used to the racket by now.

They quickly got dressed this afternoon, on the verge of another fight. She is a poet by education, but she runs a coffee shop down the street, which she hopes to buy from the ailing dowager who opened it a few years back to amuse herself. He is a merchant, he imports gourmet cheeses, for which the local population have a predilection, and exports wines from his great uncle's vineyard in the neighbouring province. He opened the telegraph shop after learning the Morse code from the retired general who is their godfather at their wedding. He bought the equipment from the septuagenarian who wanted to invest in telephony shortly after Graham Bell invented it.

"I really don't understand why you feel you have to fight professionally," her voice was calm, but her eyes were throwing daggers at him.

"I told you. I just need to know, okay? I want to know if I'm good enough. Everything I have has been passed down to me by my family. I have to know if I can make it under my own steam, and this is my chance to find out," he explained for what he felt was the millionth time today through clenched teeth.

"But what about me? Do you feel I'm a hand me down, too? Doesn't what I want matter?" she changed her tack, letting the tears drench her eyes.

His icy countenance melted, then he gathered her into his arms as tenderness for his flame haired wife washed over him, "Oh my baby, you know you're my angel. You know I don't feel that way about you." He was only eight years older than her, but he sometimes felt it was twenty, the way she could will him into submission like a wee babby.

"But if I win this fight, we'd easily have enough to finally go on that honeymoon on the Island," he said, cupping her chin between his forefinger and thumb, as he kissed her tears.

"Oh, alright, but let it be said that I give my acquiescence under duress," she smiled, but her heart fell to the floor. A feeling of foreboding enveloped her as she pretended cheer. "Hey, I'm testing a new cake recipe. I made a cheese cake, with all that leftover cheese from Christmas. Want a slice?" He nodded distractedly as he kissed her on the forehead. "Bring it downstairs, let's have tea, darling. I'll go ahead. We'll make it quick. You don't want to be late back for work."

They made more love that night, barely sleeping. She whispered all the sweet nothings she could think of as they satisfied each other's desires. When it was dawn, he fell into a deep slumber. She herself couldn't sleep, content to watch him as he drifted off to dreamland. "Arlie," he mumbled, reaching out to her side of the bed. "I'm here, love," she smiled sadly, climbing back under the covers to spoon with him.

The title holder for boxing in their town was Maurice O'Connor. He was ruthless and he played dirty, but nobody thought to stop him because it made for good entertainment. He doesn't believe in KOs and TKOs. The referees at the annual town fights were paper tigers, all afraid of the towering hulk. He didn't stop until his opponents were half-dead. Which is what they were after he was done in the ring with them, bar none. Some were crippled, worse, most suffered brain damage. She feared for her Santi.

The town celebrates its Patron Saint's feast day every year with a carnival, a food fair, and the big boxing fight. Santi was physically prepared for the fight, but Arlie doubted if he was mentally. His ripped body trembled as he sat in his corner in the ring, reciting a Hail Mary to ask for blessing. O'Connor always took his time coming out, the better to incite intimidation in his opponent's heart. He clearly was master of his game.

Arlie sat in the front row, invoking all the saints she could think of to protect her love. She kept praying, "We are still young, dear God, we have so much of life ahead of us. Please give my husband strength and courage. Please protect him."

The fight started after what seemed like an eternity to Santi. That he was landing blows did nothing to build up his self confidence. He was faster than O'Connor, younger and stronger, but his heart was afraid. O'Connor was raving mad. He'd lose by the point system if he did nothing to get the upper hand. He tripped the younger pugilist, who suffered a bad fall. Then he rained blows wherever it would land on Santi, as he tried to get up. Arlie anticipated the kick O'Connor was going to land on her husband's chest. Before he made contact, she went up to the ring screaming and covered her bloodied husband with her frail body. O'Connor's foot landed on the side of her stomach. She felt blood gush between her legs as she lost consciousness.

She came to in the hospital. Santi and their godfather, Gore were by her side. Her parents and two younger brothers were on the next boat on the way to the peninsular town in which they lived.

Santi  was crying. He took her pale hands in his. "Oh my stupid baby. I'm so sorry. I should have listened to you." Then he sobbed uncontrollably as he held her in his arms. Godfather Gore rubbed his godson's shoulders, making comforting noises.

"I think I should tell her. You're in no state to talk," the elder man said. Santi nodded sadly, unable to keep his emotions in check. "You were eight weeks pregnant, Arlie. We lost the baby. They had to take out your uterus. You'll never be able to bear children again." Gore relayed with saline soaked eyes.

Tears fell from Arlie's eyes. She clung to her husband. "How does this make you feel, my love?" she asked Santi. "I'm just so grateful you're alive. You'll be my only baby, my darling. I'll love you and take care of you for as long I live," he whispered into her shoulder. "Then, I'm okay. I'm okay as long as you're okay. Can we spoon? I've missed you,"  Arlie replied. Santi climbed into the narrow bed, to the consternation of the nun nursing his wife, sad but happier than he felt in a long time.

O'Connor was chased out of town after his "showing" in that year's fight. He miscalculated, underestimating their intolerance for cruelty to women. Boxing was outlawed, and in its place was instituted a children's fair in honour of the innocent life that was sacrificed to put an end to O'Connor's atrocities in the boxing ring. 

Arlie and Santi were the recipients of a miracle. Arlie decided to spend part of her savings to fill up their fund for their honeymoon to the Island after she was declared fit to travel by her doctor, in spite of Santi's vehement opposition.

Upon their return, she suffered from morning sickness. A visit to the doctor confirmed she was pregnant. Her uterus grew back unexplainably.

They named their firstborn Raphaela, after the archangel who helps people find true love.

"For if my love wasn't true, I'd probably have let O'Connor leave you half dead," Arlie argued to quiet her husband's objections, who wanted to call their daughter Arlie Junior.

They had two more sons after Fiel, as they call their daughter.

Arlie is now pregnant with twins. 

-30-