story

Query at the Single Gloves Gate

Posted on by vonulsa

single-gloves

__Does it still hurt?

He stood as he pulled his pants up.

__What does?

__Your knee.

He lifted his right leg and extended is foot forward. Again, and then once more.

__ I’m fine. I can walk, so I’m good.

As the door of our room slammed shut, the only thing I could hear was the rustling sound of our thermal pants and the light thuds of our footsteps as we walked towards the elevator. It hummed along the piano music faintly drowning the silence between us. I could hear his breathing while he tapped his fingers on the railings of the elevator and the buzz of the engine seemed to compliment it.

He insisted that we take the train to “the gate” despite the condition of his right knee. He’s exhausted, so am I, and I know he’s pushing himself a little too hard. Three days ago, he had just flown in to Madrid and within five hours, he was on board a plane to Reykjavik. From there we hiked mountain ranges, walked miles and miles of frozen land, and endured low temperatures he’s never experienced before.

When we were still together, I promised myself that I’d take him to Iceland once the right time presented itself. The time came, but it never occurred to me that we would come as visitors and not as a couple. We remained friends, though we still do the things we did before. Only less passionate, more regretful. Sometimes painful.

Tomorrow, he returns to Madrid, and he may never want to see me again. He had no more reasons to, I fear. While I hope this won’t be the last, I have enjoyed the last three days spending time with him. We slept on the same bed, made love, kissed, and last night, we watched a film in Icelandic without the subtitles on. He fell asleep on my shoulder while I stayed up as long as I could.

As I woke up to my freezing feet in the bright early morning of Reykjavik, I realized that he had curled on his side of the bed with his back against my thigh. I slid down to lay my body against his. This woke him up, of course, as he threw the blanket over us. I turned to him to wrap my arms around him, expecting him to push me away, but I was too sleepy to remember what happened.

__We can take the cab, you know.

He gave me a weirded-out look and smiled bitterly. The biting cold of the air outside was familiar, but it was nice to see some sunlight. I had never been so thrilled to see my shadow on the ground.

__There’s more stories to be seen when you ride with locals. You can take a cab, and I’ll just meet you there if you want…

Stories, stories… It’s what he always wanted. On our anniversaries, dates, and on his birthdays, all he wanted were stories. I thought he was easy to please, but I was wronged easily. Some stories made him so depressed he would not talk to me for days. Some made him so happy he’d shower me with sweet texts, and on many times, he wrote me letters.

The ride lasted faster than I thought. Neither of us had ever been here, but an avid traveller that he is, I knew he’d already figured out how to get to “the gate” even before he landed in Reykjavik. The same cool air greeted us as we exited the train, and I followed his lead around the exhausted pavements. He led me to where the streets rested, far for the sunlight to reach. The streets were quiet, as most streets in this city were, yet I was beginning to feel lost and far.

__Ah.

He stopped walking, and I almost bumped into him.

Across the street, straight to our left, was a rusty gate. Its walls were painted white, like the plate tied on it. To miss it would be difficult, as most walls on this street were painted in gloomy colors, as if mimicking the moods of the skies. As we crossed the lonely street, the sign became clearer.

“Single Gloves,” it said.

I looked at him, to see his reaction. It was the familiar smile he puts on whenever he becomes one with something or someone special. He smiled at me, and I tried to smile back.

__This is it.

Thousands of miles from his home, somewhere in the depressed streets of this arctic city, he seemed to have found the antidote to the false joy he’s had while spending time with me. I could not find the reason why he was brightened at this moment, but I enjoyed it far better than hearing his laughter.

He walked backwards to lean on the parked car. The sound of his bag being unzipped was the loudest sound I could hear, louder than the faint bustle of the busy street few blocks away. He pulled out his notebook, and at the sound of his retractable pen, I began to disappear from his presence.

I was not sure if I was hearing his pen dance across the paper of his journal or if I was just imagining it. Usually, it wouldn’t take him too much time to write something down when he needed to, so I stood there struggling to keep warm as I stare at the gate.

The bottom part of the sign looked torn, leaving the “g” of the “gloves” look more like a “q.” There were wooden covers inside it, like a reverse scaffold, with the smell of paint, as if someone had just painted its inner walls. Probably. It was too dark to tell what’s inside as if the gate asked light to keep its secrets.

He was still writing.

There were gloves of different kinds covering the spikes of the old gate. Some were just hanging, some on the ground. One was pink with a neon yellow lining whose middle finger covered one of the spikes and another, of brown leather, with its thumb up. There was a gray right glove dangling from the index finger and another gray one on the ground. There was a puffy blue glove smashed into the coils of the gate, a black one, a maroon, and a darker brown. The more I look, the more gloves I see.

My eyes were glued to the gate now, and I felt him walk up beside me.

I looked at him. He’s now smiling at me. I smiled back and asked him.

__What… is this?

I looked back at him, and his smile was gone, though he was looking at the gate now.

__It’s a gate for single gloves.

We were both watching the gate now. Quiet, beside each other, but obviously far away.

__It’s a gate for single gloves.

__I heard you the first time.

__I know.

I sighed, and he chortled. We stood there for a few more minutes until we silently decided that it was time for us to go back. He was content, and I was still confused. We spent the rest of the day hopping from one shop to another as we made our way back to our hotel. We were exchanging stories over the local food and local shops, watching the Icelandic folks spend their day without us, pretending we did not exist. It was all happening to quick for me, as our last night together crept near.

That evening, I found him watching the late gray night of the city as I stepped out of the bathroom.

__What’s the matter?

__Nothing. I’m just tired.

__I know.

He walked towards me, lightly limping.

I was two inches taller than him, yet he easily planted as kiss on my lips. I felt his skinny arms wrap my half naked body.

__Thank you.

He whispered.

 

The following morning, with the sky still dark, I felt his arms still around me. We were naked under the sheets, and though I could not see his face, I knew he was already awake.

__Will I ever see you again?

My question seemed to startle him. I tightened my embrace. He looked up to me.

__’Course you will.

He leaned in to kissed me.

There was a long pause before he finally broke the silence. He slid off the bed and started packing. I watched him do it quickly as I fought the drowsiness. In about two hours, he’d be on a plane and I’d be alone for another day.

As soon as he was ready to leave, I tried to put on clothes – my underwear at least – and said my goodbyes. I wanted it to be more special, thinking that this will be the last time we were alone together, but it turned out like we were still living near each other. We would be in the next few months, but after that, it could be worse.

__Are you sure you don’t want a cab?

As always, he declined my offer as he kissed me, perhaps the last time. As the door shut, I crashed back on the bad and surrendered. For a few minutes, I tried to harness everything and put me to sleep but I just could not. I sat up and watched the same skies he was watching last night.

My feet brushed on something on the floor.

It was his glove.

He must have dropped it.

Quickly, I put on some more clothes and tried to run after him. I knew he’d be long gone, but there was a likelihood that he might still be reading a book while waiting for the next train to the airport.

I ignored the piercing cold air as I bolted out of the hotel doors and walked swiftly to the train stop. There seem to be more people walking around, but I easily managed to get to the stop. I could not find him, as I expected, so I dialed his phone number.

__Hello?

__Hey… You, uh… You forgot your glove.

There was an unfamiliar silence.

__Did I?

For some reasons, I knew he was smiling on the other line. I could feel it. Then I heard a light giggle.

__You’re smiling right now, aren’t you?

__Yes.

He giggled again.

__Yes, I am… I know you’re smiling too.

He hang up, and I started my way back to the hotel.

And so, the air of this Reykjavik’s uninviting autumn breath froze everything I was ever scared off. How I wish there was a mirror in front of me, for I have never seen what true relief looked like. Indeed, I was feeling it at that moment. I’ve felt it, and I’ve heard it – but I wanted to see it.

I put his glove inside the breast pocket of my coat. I breathed out a smile, and the cacophony of the footsteps of the passers-by started to become louder. The air remained criminally cold, with my hands shaking. All these I ignored for I have never before felt satisfaction as timely as this.

The Statesman

Posted on by vonulsa

“The Statesman”

September 18, 1776

Lower Manhattan, New York

 

It has been an eventful day, and I am elated to finally have the opportunity to go home. Concerned New-Yorkers have left me letters I have failed to read today, and I have denied requests to admit their presence in my office. I open the door to my office, and something peculiar greets me.

A moth?

The ochre insect perches on the edge of my cabinet in my office.  How can such insect find its way in this building and into my office? My heart skips a beat as the insect flies across the room onto the frame of my father’s portrait. If it were my real father, he would be laughing at his son in this very moment – William Montgomery, New-York statesman, a brave gentleman to live not far from the imminent dangers of the war, startled by an insect…

Quickly, I walk towards the window. I pull the windows open to set the insect free, but a sudden gust of cold wind rushes inside the room. Cruelly, the wind blows off the papers on my table, sending them dancing on the air and cluttering on my wooden floor. It is as if these unread letters are asking to be read.

Damn moth.

I proceed to pick up the papers scattered on my floor, all the way towards the drawers behind my chair. Underneath my drawers, a light blur of what it looks like a paper catches my attention upon kneeling down. Bending over, I reach for the dusty paper… only to find out that it is not just a paper. It is a pamphlet that I read not too long ago, and I can still remember the very words that, to this day, fill my heart with anguish. In fading ink on this yellowing paper are words largely written: Common Sense.[1]

My eye easily catches the phrases that to this day remind me of how this place used to be. “…The more simply any thing is, the less liable it is to be disordered, and the easier repaired when disordered.” An ambitious vision, Paine has. If he thinks that independence is the answer for an orderly nation, we are clearly in the wrong way. Thirteen different colonies are much more complicated than they seem, and to treat them as a simple few is a false understanding. A careful yet problematic optimism.

The colonies, disordered and separated, are struggling to construct their own constitutions. The artisans in Pennsylvania are battling with the merchants, farmers, and even brewers for a representation of their interests in the colony. Pennsylvanians are challenging the conventional notions of privilege and rank while appealing for a new political equality that does not depend on the traditional association of political rights and property. I also remember the news from Maryland, how the people protested against the inexperienced delegates in their constitutional convention. The delegates are still debating about the reductions in legislative terms, the design of a true senate, and the senatorial term limits.[2] Clearly, the colonies are not – or, shall never be – ready for a new government. This nation the Patriots envision to be united are separated and disorderly before the British forces could even destroy it. And as I believe, so it shall be.

As I leaf through the papers of the pamphlet, another phrase catches my eye. “But as the Colony increases, the public concerns will increase likewise.” Well, of course, I thought. The public concerns will also be the very same thing that will falter the progression of the colonies towards independence. Perhaps Paine is blind to the fact that some people will be of advantage, by nature or by right, and such fact will separate them from the disadvantaged. As a new government rises, an opportunity arises for some undeserving people to claim their rights under the new constitution. There is no equality because if everyone is equal, there should be no man starving today. If everyone is equal, no man is entitled to larger ownerships of land. Some people are just born without the luxuries of what the other few can afford, and the privileged cannot be held accountable for such imbalance.

I have heard that James Madison and George Mason IV are struggling to integrate the demands of their people over the colony’s new constitution. Their colleagues are not likely to agree on the suffrage for tenant farmers and every housekeeper. The landowners themselves fear that the value of their properties will deplete under the new constitution. As for my family here in New-York, the value is the least of my concerns – I have worked hard to maintain our property only to lose it because of the ensuing war.

As I look outside my window, I can see towering naval ships docking on Brooklyn Heights. The fast setting sun is illuminating the East River, and the lowering clouds are blurring the view beyond the bed. My family used to own that piece of land and beyond, at least a quarter of the distance to Coney Island Creek from the western tip of Brooklyn. We made our fortune from the occupying merchants who have conveniently set up their establishments close to the Brooklyn Heights docks, the final destination for many European trade ships.[3] I took over the property when my father died. The merchants and traders profited well until the rebellion broke, forcing them to flee. Failing to generate sufficient profit while facing large taxations, I was forced to sell my family’s land early enough before the British soldiers took over it and made it their base. I stare at the distant ships docked and imagine the large British militia. With the advances of experience and of numbers, the British forces sent Washington and his troops in retreat. The last thing I have heard of them is that they retreated farther up north, refusing to give up.

I suddenly hear a cacophonous sound of footsteps approaching my room.

“Mr. Montgomery?”

“Mrs. Wilson?” I am surprised by her sudden appearance. She notices the papers scattered on the floor and asks, “Is everything all right, Mr. Montgomery?”

“Yes, yes,” I answer as I quickly rush to pick up the letters on the floor. Emily Wilson is the wife of my colleague, Robert. They used to own lush lands in Long Island, but are now enjoying their remaining properties in the city and further upstate. The Wilsons are also known for having the most slaves in New-York, hosting several slave auctions a year.

“If I may ask,” I say as I stand up, “What brings you here, Mrs. Wilson? The night is fast approaching, and I am certain Mr. Wilson will want you inside the house at this time.”

“Call me Emily, please,” she replies. “I was expecting my husband to be home at the usual time he does, but it worried me when it has been an hour passed, and he hasn’t arrived yet.”

“I apologize, then, Emily. Mr. Wilson left not too long ago after we talked. I believe that our long conversation was what kept him from coming home on time.”

“So he has talked to you about it, then?” Her eyes widen with curiosity.

“I am not quite sure what you are implying, Emily.” She steps back a few steps to look around, making sure nobody hears what she is about to say. “The British forces,” she whispers, walking towards me. “Word has it that they are pushing further up north, Mr. Montgomery. Maybe in a few days, perhaps tomorrow! Are you not aware?”

“Pardon me, Emily, but –“

“You don’t know of it?”

“I’m afraid not…” I become nervous all of a sudden. I feel fear from within.

“The loyalists,” Emily starts, “have been much empowered by the words of Thomas Hutchinson.” I ask, “The former governor from Massachusetts?”

“Yes,” Emily answers. “He has published a rebuttal[4] challenging the notions of the Declaration. It’s not the reason for the aggressive movement of the British forces, but it has empowered the loyalists to assert their beliefs on the Colonies. The crown’s supporters have but more reasons to retain control over the colonies!”

“In the said papers, Hutchinson refuted the words of the Declaration. He wrote that it did not appear that there was any regular plan formed for attaining to Independence. What position is he in to say so, Mr. Montgomery? Our statesmen are experienced, and they are venerable men for representing the beliefs of the people. He also exposed how people here are rather divided themselves on their views on the independence.”

“What also enraged was his suggestion that slaves must be freed in order to uphold our idea that all men are created equal! How dare he! The slave are not even born here!”

“He also said,” Emily goes on, “that the King’s intentions of limiting trade with all parts of the world and imposing taxes without consent were no good reasons to revolt. What then is a good reason? He thought that our Patriots are unacquainted with the nature of government. That the colonies are not ready to be independent, that we lack knowledge to form a stable government and have a stable economy…”

“I can go on and on, Mr. Montgomery!”

I am astonished how I have not heard of this particular speech. Hearing Hutchinson’s words somehow assures me that I am not the only one in this colony. I believe in his discernment, and I am with him. The Colony must find resolutions other than war and deficient independence. At our present state, with each colonies dealing with issues impending their progress to establish their own governing body, we need the King’s rule and not his armed forces. As colonies, we lack the capacity to govern.

“If the rumored attack was not what you and my husband talked about, then – “

“We had a lengthy discussion about moving up north, and to carry the affairs for the constitutional convention up there, far from nearby troops. But about the impending attack, that I have not heard of.”

“Then go home at once, and leave town as soon as you can! In two days, Robert and I are taking the most we can with us. Your family is welcome to stay in our estate.”

There is a brief moment of silence before I can speak. “Emily, I am afraid I can no longer carry on as statesmen.”

“Mr. Montgomery!”

“I have carefully and deliberately thought of it, and I believe the moment is now. The intentions of the Patriots have cost my family and me the things we have worked so hard for. I believe that this war for independence will not justify the innocent lives lost, the dreams shattered, and the hopes that disappeared. I find it no reason to cut our ties with the king when he has done nothing but to stagnate the system we used to have…”

“Emily,” I look into her eyes, “I do not agree with the taxation the king has been imposing, but I certainly cannot agree that we have done our best to represent our voice. Perhaps Hutchinson is right – we may not be ready to take matters in our own hands. Or perhaps we are not meant to be at all. I know that there is a way, but the war is fast expanding and finding a peaceful resolution is not in our eyes anymore.”

“But… the convention… you agreed…?”

“Robert encouraged my delegation, and that was the matter of our conversation before he left today. I could not find a reason to reject his proposition, but deeper inside me, I could not find a reason to move forward.”

“Does he know about your decision?”

“I told him that I shall give my answer tomorrow.”

There is a long brief silence, and we look into each other’s eyes. “The people trusted you, William. They have expected you to represent them, to give them a voice in the new constitution.”

“It’s not an ordinary task to accomplish, and Robert knows that!” Upon notice that I am raising my voice, I struggle to keep my volume low. “The delegates from the other colonies have been struggling to create a constitution that will be fair for everyone, and it is not favoring them. With the war coming, things will be just more difficult, and it is a situation that I do not want to find myself in. I will not risk my present freedom for a freedom that I may never enjoy – freedom that the Declaration promises. Though I may not get back what I have lost, what I have failed to keep, I want to keep what I have safely and securely. I trust that there will be a peaceful compromise – one that shall prevent bloodshed and overbearing duties.”

“What about Jane, your wife? Your daughters Abigail and Elizabeth?”

“I believe my sister will welcome us in her home in Boston, as she lives alone with three slaves. I shall ask Jane’s brother to supervise our property here while we are gone.”

“Emily,” I look at her and hold her shoulders, “it is not my intention to reveal these things to you. Robert is a good friend of mine, and I revere him immensely as a statesman. I respect his beliefs, and your beliefs, but it is just so unfortunate that I cannot stand by him at this time. Perhaps I have been serving the wrong people, or perhaps the people chose the wrong man to represent their voices. I have no confidence for the union of the colonies, and my vision prohibits me to sincerely serve the people of this colony.”

“I trust that Robert will understand,” I tell her.

She holds my risks and pushes my hand lightly, and says, “He will understand, but he will be disappointed.” She turns around, leaving me staring at my wooden floor. As the sound of the door closing echoes through the room, the moth, still perched on my father’s portrait, is shaken. It flies around the room and lands on my desk, right by the stacked papers.

Grabbing the closest piece of paper from me, I slowly spread it across my hand. With the paper on my palm, I strike the moth with great might that I almost feel the table move against the floor. The moth is crushed, and I notice – once again — that the paper isn’t just a piece of paper.

My fingers are spread over the letterings, but I can clearly see what is written. Common Sense. I crumple the pamphlet, pressing it firmly against the table to clean off the crushed parts of the poor moth. I crumple it into a ball and look at the yellowing paper as I walk towards the window.

As if the moth has the capacity comprehend human speech, I say to crumpled paper balled in my hand, “The window was open long enough,” I throw it outside the window carelessly, and hear it lightly land on the silent street of Manhattan.

“You could have flown out.”

 

[1] By Thomas Paine, published 10 January 1776.

[2] See Rakove, especially section four on “Consequences.”

[3] See Brooklyn Heights Association, sections 1 and 4.

[4] See Hutchinson, pages 1, 4-6.

DRAFT — TIME SENTENCE — Preview of another chapter

Posted on by vonulsa

ABOUT TIME SENTECE:

” Time Sentence convicts criminals to be deported into the future through a light-speed bullet train. In the hopes to eliminate the criminal gene, the Federate State and Union of Nations hear various cases of felony and even misdemeanor, carefully sentencing those that are proven guilty of their crimes beyond reasonable doubt. There are no clues as to what really happens when the train travels back in time, until the 4/15 incident, when a group of intellectual young adults are accidentally transported back in time with vengeful and cunning criminals. Both sinners and victims will find the truth behind the centuries-old Time Sentence. They will struggle in different worlds of different times, to survive in their present’s past to save their future selves.”

Here is another preview chapter

————————————————————-

Vasilly and Kiko

I was sure I was not the only one who could not sleep. Sven, my rather quiet roommate, had dowsed off almost immediately after the dinner. It’s already two days into the conference, and we have not had a decent conversation yet.

I felt the elevator slow down after about twenty levels, and a loud ding almost made my ears bleed from the brief silence.

“You startled me man,” Vasilly, the hulking eighteen year old from Australia, said.

“The elevator did,” I replied.

“You’re one of them, too?”

“One of who?” I elected to go to the grand balcony to catch some air and view the city lights against the sky night. The Cassiopeia Tower stood as the third tallest building, with 170 levels. The engineers of the Ultrain stayed here while conceptualizing and blueprinting the train. If I remembered correctly, they also engineered this spiraling tower.

“Everyone seems to be a braggart of smart arses.” Vasilly said, putting both his elbows on the sill. I stood next to him while we stare down into the busy world. It was 23:00 hours, and the city buzzed with tension and beamed overly with electricity and colors.

“Oh,” pursing my lips and avoiding eye contact. Strangely, the night seemed to be warm, and the air rather humid. “Everyone’s quite intellectual and assertive, I agree, but I think I’ve accepted that fact way before I got here. Smart people exude annoying exuberance. I mean, you read everyone’s biography, right?”

Vasilly shook his head. “Only the pretty girls,” he answered as he popped open a soda. “And you’re of them, then,” I replied. He gave me glinting eyes and a silly smiled. He became even more attractive, I give him that. I looked back down the city. We were like angels in the heavens, overlooking what looked like hell in the pool of warm yellow and red lights.

“Where’s your roommate?”

“I have no clue,” he answered, chugging what I think half of his drink.

“Who are you roomed with?”

“Maximillian Lukeforester,” he said with such high honor for perhaps, the most prominent of the Select Scholars while downing the rest of his drink. “He’s pretty cool but too much of a rich dickhead bastard.”

People call him Xim, grandson of Hernan Lukeforester, the physicist behind the Ultrain. Smart, rich, powerful, handsome, domineering – he’s either a heroic being or the most heinous villain. He was selected not because of his family ties or political network. Xim is an intellectual genius. He could challenge me in math and put up a good fight, he ripped his rival’s career in public oral defense, and of course, his knowledge in history of time is spectacular.

“You cannot shove a better personality to someone who’s got everything. Like my money and neuron infested roommate.”

“I am very much impressed with the countless terms you can describe anybody,” I said, amused and for some reasons, elated. I turned around and, leaning my back against the sill and elbows still on them, I looked at the sky. Now it felt like hell looking up. “And with your gorgeous accent, it’s even much better sounding.”

He laughed for a bit. “What about your roommate? Who is he?”

“Sven Lum,” I answered, feeling he was looking at me. I held my gaze into the sky. “We haven’t really talked, and he seemed to be living hours ahead of me. He’s up before I am, and gone before I decide to be.”

I slid downwards and landed on my buttocks. I took off my cuff links and loosened my tie. Vasilly sat down beside me, unbuttoning his shirt. His bowtie laid nicely undone on his shoulders. A nice patch of brown hair was exposed on his defined chest.

He held out his hand saying, “Vasilly Tripp.” I took his hand and shook it firmly, “Francisco Agoncillo,” I said. “You can call me Kiko.”

“So, why are you here?”

Taking in a deep breath and closing my eyes, “I’m just really good in math, I think. Not useful as your medical expertise.”

“You did read all the bios!” I felt his eyes on me. I straightened my back against sill and relaxed my shoulders. They all felt amazing.

“Of course, Vasilly. I thought it would be helpful.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

I looked at him, who now had the same position I had – eyes closed, shoulders down, and back against the sill. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. “I came up here thinking I could catch some sleepiness left from the city. I really could not slee—“

His lips found mine, and his hand caressed my chin. A jolt of tension and ease erupted from spine to my neck as I become attached to him, even for a brief moment that should have been a lightyear. Before I realized this, I was kissing him back. I put my hands behind his head, and we kissed for a longer time. Half of our backs were still leaning as we awkwardly, passionately kissed.

Two Select Scholars making out in the prestigious Cassiopeia – what else could make a better headline tomorrow?

I pulled out and regretted it soon after. We were sitting down again, back straight and shoulders down, as if nothing happened. We were both staring at the balcony across our side, and the air started to cool.

“I’m sorry, “ he started to say, but I held his hand.

“I am happy you did that. I am happy I could not sleep.”

I felt his head turn to me, and he grabbed my hand. “I know you followed me here. I know from the moment you saw me that you liked me, right there and then.”

False. I admired his physique, and I fell for his magnetizing masculinity, but I did not know what kind of person he is. Except for what the bio of him that I read.

Vassily Tripp: gifted in Chemistry and Physics. Medical School at fifteen. Vassily, who mutated a mutated HIV strain that researchers now are utilizing to battle early stages of the disease.

I felt his fingers in between mine as our palms met. He turned his head back to the balcony across. We could hear the hum of the elevators and feel the slight sway of the building as the night breeze cools the air even more.

We kissed, and so what? It was nothing but recognition of how you appreciate a physical beauty. A kiss is gratitude. It’s not a symbol of feeling or emotion – it’s rather a symbol of wanting a tangible beauty. You kiss because you can see, not because you can feel. A hand feels more love than what a kiss can show. While a kiss can give a multitude of wondrous emotions, none of which is love.

“How did you know I was –“

“Stop,” I cut him off as I let go of his hand. “I was attracted to you, yes. But that doesn’t mean I want more.”

I looked at him, “I’m glad we did that. I am.”

I let go of his hand. He stood up and looked down on me. “What does that suppose to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

He waited for my answer, standing there like a mannequin. Eyes on me, I feel.

“You know what that means.”

I looked at him, and he looked back. “I am not even sure if that was real.”

“What real?”

His eyebrows met and he walked back towards the elevator. He pressed the button, and then silence.

“You know what, Kiko?” he started, as the elevator dinged. “How much you know affects what’s real about what you know.”

I sat there, senseless. As he entered the capsule, he said, out loud, “I hope you have enough hangers in that closet, deceptive fagg—“

It was not the buzz of the breeze nor the fading, resonating business of the cars hundreds of feet below. It was not the cool heavens above that made me deaf, nor the heat of the midnight blaze the melted my hearing.

It was the long, alarming ding of the elevator that drowned the word that described what I fear I am.

The Last Of Olga

Posted on by vonulsa

She was seven years old when her father left her. The thick mahogany door before her muffled her parents’ boisterous quarrel. They argued so often that she could picture everything in front of her. A slap, and a whine were all it took. She remembered Russian, her father’s last words, as he scrambled out of their tiny apartment, leaving her mother in tears and pain. And physical pain.

Olga didn’t do anything. She sat at the corner of the room, behind the door. She hugged Mildred, a doll she got three years ago. Mildred was wet with her tears and sweat again, perhaps the third time this week. She grasped Mildred like it was her key to reality, but Olga hoped that this was all just a dream. And most of her knew it was not.

 

Three years later, days after her mother killed herself, Olga was sent to the orphanage eight miles from her house. It was the first time she went outside the complex that far, and it was the last time she was going to be in there. Olga never cried since then, as if pain only resided with her in her cramped apartment. She never felt pain anymore because she was used to it. Her father abused her so often, and her mother’s irresponsibility taught her how to overlook pain, and pass its suffering like a blink of an eye.  Her mother would let her starve, leave her crying herself to sleep, and would only help her heal her wound by reaching for the band aids up the cabinet, too high for her reach. It was the only good thing her mother taught her.

 

One day, Mother Aga took Olga to the market with her. It was crowded and dirty. The smelled sickened her stomach, but it was all right. Mother Aga was talking to the pharmacist when she let go of her hand. Looking around, she saw the most peculiar of things. She’s never been in a place with so many people, so many eyes flashing and passing by. She saw them look back at her.

 

Before she knew it, a big, hulking man grabbed her feet and caught her back as she collapsed. Mother Aga’s image whizzed past her, and all eyes shot her a look, and all eyes blurred away. She did not cry, she did not scream. It was an easy steal for him. She could not remember Russian anymore, but she remembered that the man smiled at her in the car as they drove farther and farther. He was petting her, combing her hair with his fingers. He was the man that will change her.

 

For ten years, she would be begging the famous streets of the country for money. Along with tens of other children strategically placed in almost every nook and corner, she would beg tourists, students, foreigners… anyone. She’d get money, and when she learned how to dance after watching some moves in the television, she would dance for them. She would be Joseph’s favorite beggar, and she be his wife.

She would learn how to read and write.

 

She would be his wife.

She would learn how to use the computer.

 

She would be his wife.

 

She would learn how to use a gun.

 

Because she was Joseph’s wife.

 

The night came when she found a dating website that would connect her to the father of her son. Richard, a lonely business man from North Dakota, looking for someone to love and live with. They would exchange emails, and pictures. Sometimes, even more pictures. They would chat behind Joseph’s back, and they would fall in love.

 

In under a year, Olga was completely in love with Richard. In a week, she planned out an escape, outsmarting Joseph’s goons with a supposed trip to the markey. She rode a taxi all the way to the airport, and left the country of pain and past behind her.

 

Wren, her son, rushed with her in to the airport. Again and again, she would look around to make sure that she was not being followed by any of Joseph’s men. Two years of living with, and loving, Richard, they have had series of threats. Dangers loomed everything, and their lives were at stake. Two months ago, Richard was killed, and all Wren knew was he was in the business trip in Qatar.

 

She had a gun, with two bullets left. Enough for the two people running after them.

 

“Mommy, I’m tired,” Wren began to complain. His clothes were wrinkled and worn out. Looking at his handsome son, she saw herself from the past. She was crying, hoping for it to be over. It hurt her to him like this, Did her mother feel the same way?

 

“I know, son.” They sat down on the bench in front of Gate 33. She could not get inside because of the gun in her bag. Outside was danger, but with her gun, there was escape. She took it out slowly, looking around and around for Joseph’s men.

 

“Is daddy going to meet us there, mommy?” Wren asked.

 

“Yes, honey,” She said. A tear trickled down her left chick. She couldn’t believe it. She promised herself not to cry, not to feel pain or sorrow. But she had the gun. “I’m so proud of you, Wren,” she said, as her voice started to tremble. She pursed her lips, and she had two bullets left.

 

The men were in Gate 31 when they saw the mother and child. It was going to be a smooth massacre. Just a prick of the poison and the task would be complete. But Sylvan, the man behind the other, had a gun that would make this even more messy. Joseph had told him to do the job at all cost. He would take care of their families, and sons and daughters. Just make Olga pay for what she had done.

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Few yards before them, Wren caught his sleep in an instant. He did not feel his mother’s aim, nor her movements. He would not hear the next sounds, and would hope to see his father’s gorgeous face when he wakes up, after the long flight to Qatar.

They stopped by the next bench and carefully poised the move. No thought was given to the camera above them, no hesitation was mixed. People around gave no notice, and treated them like nothing but awaiting passengers. They were few feet away when two loud gunshots were fired.

Blood was on the floor and the people scrambled in fear.

Olga was free, and so was her son.

Sylvan and his partner were on the floor, by the bench.

Olga was free, and so was her son.

The guards aimed at the people on the bench.

Like that of her son’s, it was the last of Olga.

The Workers of the Cloud Factory

Posted on by vonulsa

Greeting Sara, the sun was inescapable. It greeted her from her windows and reflected the brightness of the day back into her face. Closing her eyes shut was not going to help, she figured. How can timidity bring such laziness upon her? The frightening reality that her everyday life was this never faded. This boredom kept her back to bed, and away from it at the same time.

It was time to wake up.

Her body dragged her off to the kitchen, and the food satisfied her morning hunger. Toothpaste and brush cleaned her teeth, and more water quenched her thirst. Without even remembering her nametag and to pack her lunch, Sarah was on her way to work.

It was the day of the strike. As a cloudmaker of the biggest factory in the country, exhaustion was her lunch and sweat was her drink. It was no easy job producing cloud. Hours and hours you would swivel and spiral clouds like cotton candies, hoping that they’re dense enough to make rainbows and contain enough rain. And, watching out for the wide, gaping floor-to-ceiling windows of the vent made the job more like a daredevil feat. Sara’s heard about the hundreds of people who died from extreme enjoyment of creating clouds that they trip over and fall off from the tower. She had seen bodies plop like water balloons.

She didn’t even make them. She was no cloudmaker like Lyndon and Quick, or the couple Liliana and Gaston. She was just a feeder. Once the clouds are ready for the sky, she just had to make sure they come out at the right level. So her falling off the cloud tower was not even a problem at all. She was at the lowest of the lows, and her problem was jus tripping over the metal bar. She was no danger hugger, not a death cheater.

Maybe she arrived early, she noticed. The entire place was dead silent. Even the wind didn’t whisper anything, and she felt it pull her back. Telling her to not go inside, and just go back home. She considered, but no.

What did people do when they strike, really, she thought. Only few mobiles were parked outside the tower. The huge spire before her sounded like everyday – the churning and the chug, the whistling and the screaming. Beyond that, silence.

Screaming. She heard someone scream, and she knew who it was.

Oganna’s loud screams, even from, who knows, eight vents up pierced through her ear and almost shattered her spine. The image of her yellowing teeth and big, bulking shoulders came to Sara’s mind. It grounded her, planting her feet stuck to the ground, paralyzed in fear. She could smell Oganna’s musty locks, oily and shiny at the same time, just right above her shoulders. She could picture her everyday routine, and everyday she noticed just one thing: Oganna never stepped foot in her vent. Ever.

This, she had always wondered about. Oganna would always pop her head upside down, through the spiral staircase of the tower. One would faint in shock and fright if one saw her creepy face like that. All other workers had close encounters with Oganna. She’d heard people vomit due to nervousness, while some people just felt disgusted in her presence. The hot atmosphere of the tower made everyone sweat, and Oganna’s fat-filled physique would boil along with her dissatisfaction with the workers’ produce. She would scream at everyone. Her scream so distinct that Sara could hear it synched with her scream at this very moment.

How did people strike? Where were the people in the first place! Where were her co-workers?

Panic ate her thoughts and rightful thinking. Oganna scared her. Not that she was abusive or something. It was the mood she always brought to work. A beast of action. She forced people to work hard – really hard. Ever since she supervised the tower for the feeders, rainbows had become rare, almost extinct. The pressure Oganna gave ate up people’s great energy and exhausted their bodies, keeping their focus away from rainbows. Clouds were important, and rainbows just futile. They were cloudmakers, not rainbow makers, Oganna would say.

The loud banging of the vent, sliding off, forced her eyes several floor up towards the tower. The dangling metal scraped the chrome wall of the tower, ripping the ears off of whoever could hear it. Screams, she heard. Her brute strength bent the thin metal doors, ripping them off from their bases. Ugly clouds shot through the opening, as if they were also scared of Oganna’s rage.

Oganna was feeding clouds by herself. Or not. There was smoke, but clouds she could not tell. Maybe a mixture, but still, she could not tell.

Sara quickly looked around for cover but couldn’t find anything. She walked far enough from where she thought Oganna couldn’t see her. And she was scared. She was scared early enough for Oganna to see her.

Terror chained her on her spot.

Screams. Oganna was red and mad. Anger erupted from her nose and her ears almost seemed to steam.

The dangling metal scraped the wall once more, this time with the wind, taking the chrome layer off. Oganna was letting the clouds go through without proper feeding. It could clog the whole tower or make storm clouds, but she didn’t care.

The world needed clouds, and she was determined to provide them no matter what. She knew of Oganna’s determination. It was her job, and she would do it no matter what.

The silent wind crashed against the clinging metal, and sailed the metal away like a polyp in the ocean. It flipped and flopped until a loud crash assured it landed on the ground. This, Oganna did again and again, descending all the way down. One by one, metal scraps were freed from the towers as clouds blasted through the vents. Or just smoke.

Sara braced herself for Oganna to crash open the last, bottom-most vent. She knew what was coming.

A loud crash, a screech, and the sound of wheel ripped through the metal door. Shards of glass flew everywhere as the mobile halted with a screech right in front of her. She was even more paralyzed.

“Let’s go!” Wilson shouted over the noises Sara could hear now. “Hurry!”

Her legs dragged her behind the mobile and jumped to her seat.

“ Put your hands around me!” he said, turning his head. Before she could hesitate, Wilson upped the speed. She almost fell, but she grabbed his shoulder just enough to drag herself up and put her arms around him.

“I knew you’d come, Sara!” Wilson said, his loud voice muffled by his helmet.

They stopped at the city lookout not far from the cloud factory. It was a park for everyone. At the edge of the cliff was a meadow of low grass. Today, the grass was green and the sun bright but not blazing. Together, they watched the bright blue sky. Wilson laughed genuinely and ignored the fact that he himself knew Sara was just forcing herself to enjoy the moment. Her smile shouted confusion and light laughter weighed the awkwardness of the situation.

“I knew you’d come, Sara.”

She nodded. She hugged her feet as they sat on the ground, watching the cloudless sky. Few minutes ago, they saw the last waves of clouds pass by the blue sky. It was a mess that entertained Wilson but worried her. The wind was still quiet. No whispers, no sound.

“ What will happen now, Wilson?”

“ I don’t know, find a new job, I suppose.”

Wilson stretched his arm as he collapsed on his back to get an even bigger view of the sky. The view slapped a smile on his face. He felt relaxed. Overjoyed.

“ We really don’t need clouds anymore, you know. That job is a joke.”

“ But what about the rain? And rainbows?”

“ Nobody cares about those, Sara.” He leaned on his elbows and looked at her, “ What made you join this time, Sara?”

“ I don’t know.”

“ You were her best cloud feeder, you know that.”

“ If I were, I wouldn’t be at the bottom,” Sara replied. “You’re the one who’s three floors above me.” The higher the feeder was, the better he was at feeding the clouds to the sky. The best clouds were meant for the highest level in the sky. Low clouds were bad, and the lower they got, the faster they diffused.

“ That’s right but no. Nobody cares about the middle. They care about what’s on top and what’s on the bottom. They love the moon and earth, and everything in between is forgotten.” Wilson lied down on the grass again.

With worried eyes, Sara looked up the sky one more time. She felt lost and misunderstood.

“ Everything’s going to be alright, Sara,” Wilson said, closing his eyes and breathing in freedom and life. “Nobody would notice that clouds have stopped moving until the next few days…. Don’t you like to have a little bit more excitement in your life Sara?”

“ We feeders get up and drag our butts to work every single day. Nothing becomes of us. We are underpaid. We would never make enough. Boycotting that useless scrap of a business that had sucked our lives would be the best thing ever.” Wilson talked and talked.

The grass swallowed the sound of her steps, and Wilson was too happy to notice.  Sara stood up moments ago. Not even trying to avoid making rustles against the grass, Sara walked casually back to the mobile.

The seat was warm and the steering wheel moist. She saw Wilson still down on the grass. Talking or not she didn’t know. She knew she had to go somewhere. She needed to go back, she thought. She had to, and she felt it.

“Sara! Hold on!” Wilson noticed now.  He stood up, slowly walking faster and faster towards her. “Where are you going? Hey, come back here!”

Sara sped off to the road and left Wilson screaming for her to come back. She’d come back, she told herself.

She’d return.Image