criar

o duarte nunca mais publicou nada. é uma pena porque era um bom artista. ficamos à espera de novas criações em breve, não é duarte?

PLAN 9 - Abduction. DAY 4 IS ON !!!

Plan 9 - Abduction

Hello, welcome to the empty room. You’re just in. It has four walls, a ceiling and a floor. The ceiling is painted white and a there’s lamp, a white lamp. The walls are white as well as the floor.

You are wearing some sort of overall like doctors and nurses do - Quite white dare I say.

You can’t see it, but you’re as white as a sheet. The walls look thick.

You see no windows and no door. It’s a closed room.

Day 1

You can barely see, who are you kidding? It’s all a blur and you have no idea why the hell you were brought there nor how.

There is a pile of white boxes and white cans all piled disorderly in one of the white corners of that white room.

You are feeling woozy and after stumbling about around the room, you let yourself drop heavily on the mattress laid on the floor; White mattress, white sheets, white blanket. You’re hooking up fast on that point. Goddamn white.

You’re sleeping like a mollycoddle, smiling comfortably at the smooth touch of your white pillow on your rosy white cheeks.

You don’t recall being a fagot; neither will you ever remember sleeping like one. It’s the drugs kicking in while you’re asleep. It must be.

Day 2

It’s morning, at least for you. Rise and shine. You pick out what seems to be people singing on the outside of your room. They’re repeating the word white second after second in some sort of psychotic religious chant. You’re not sure it’s real. You still feel kind of stoned. That stuff must have hit you pretty hard.

Or is it just that maybe you’re still stuck on that dream you had last night before being brought here?;

“Fooling around like crazy with a red wig on your head. Wearing white stockings, drinking heavily from a glowing bottle of red whine and sucking smoke from a hand-rolled cigarette. All that, on a white room with that fancy white and red lamp on the ceiling.”

Given that they drugged you to the bone, no wonder would you think anything but you were still sleeping.

The voices have stopped. You feel quite awake now despite your slight vegetative state. No cup of coffee, no scrambled eggs, no bacon, no goddamn cereal. You’re starving. And your sour dry mouth, gosh.

Your brain is kind of slow and so are you. Slow in your movements, slow pace.

There’s no breakfast but the possibility of a poisoned one.

You stare both at the boxes and can piles; If only they weren’t so white. If only there were labels on them… With that you could let your cautious mistrust aside and pretend it was safe to check them out…

Gosh, are you thirsty. You were thirsty even before you were hungry, you just don’t remember it. It’s not only logical, but biologically logical. What does it matter what you remember when you’re stuck on a bloody white room.

By the way, you’ve fallen asleep in a flash again. You were hit by a tranquilizer dart, yet had no time to realize it.

Day 3

“Just woken up from another fucked up nightmare.”

Your forehead is pouring water like a cascade and you’re desperately looking for something that isn’t white. An awkward feeling of anguish and fear strikes you on the chest and runs up your spine. The meds have developed on you some kind of paranoia (you think), and it is certainly coming clearer to you as you are completely into freaking out about white stuff.

Everything is so damn white. You’re delusion is forcing you to and fro around the room along with that “Lucy in the sky” dizziness. You’re conscience is now speaking, you hear a voice in your head. “White ceiling, white floor, white feeling, What for? How come?, How do? How crazy are you? “.Wow.

Nausea strikes you down to a cosy white corner of the room. You stand still, but still white as a white sheet.

It’s been about 5 minutes since that last breakdown. You calmed down but you don’t feel hungry anymore. Maybe they fed you while you were logging Z's a few hours ago.

Though fed, you’re fed up about the tunnel vision on your retina. It is also taking part on your freaking out process, that’s for sure. It seems your notion of the time is distorted in some way.

You spend the rest of the supposed day sat down against those two white walls, they make a corner.

Day 4

“Dear diary, I am suffering from blurry vision”

No dreaming this time, at least that you remember. That White plastic box you’ve been using as a toilet is starting to impregnate the room with a vicious putrid smell. Even though you’ve on drugs, you’ve been being smart enough to put it next to the ventilation on top of a pile of boxes. The smell is …. It’s crap for God sakes!

You’re gluey carved eyes are wide open yet they’re not frightened anymore. Neither are you.

“ I be , passion for myself”

This “soberish” zen mood has just shown up now and yet it feels so good. Maybe you’re apathetic, maybe just tired, whatever… You’re feeling better than you were.

This still doesn’t mean you're in a see of roses. If only you had something you could use in order to keep trace of your sanity, if only a cheap newspaper to peruse… a cup of coffee, ah that brownish dry taste of coffee…

Maybe talking to yourself would do the trick, you. Well, thought and done, you begin having strange monologues imagining whatever you’re imagining and you end up laughing on the floor.

It’s no use, they must have kept drugging you while you were asleep। You don’t make no sense at all, but you aren’t even near to realize it.

Fact: You’re soberer than you’ve ever been in this room. How about that for a change?

“I want something to feel the real deal, you know, to squeeze my loneliness and to live together with the sharks and the whales and the dolphins and the cats. Mice! Mice! Mice!All these goddam nice mice, ha haha hiha, hahahaha”

And so another day goes.

Duarte

'Further Instructions'

One more contribution from the land of creativity. This time, an intriguing story of a man named Robert waking up with a breathless pace, the poor man. Check it out. It’s short it’s cool, its creative. Thank you Albano.

Further Instructions

With a breathless pace Robert woke up, his heart almost jumping from his chest. For a moment, he sat on the side of his bed trying to appease his out of control breath. This had happen many times before, waking up in the middle of the night with his chest pounding like he ran for miles, and for no apparent reason. He wondered as to why this happened; A dream perhaps? How cliché, he thought, but that wasn’t it.

Regaining his sense of balance, he slid himself slowly off the bed, trying not to wake Sam - even though she sleeps like a rock. The bedroom only had a faint light that came from a half full Moon. He could barely find his way through the room. As he walked around barefoot looking for his overpriced but incredibly rewarding slippers, he couldn’t help himself from forcing his iris to open and glance at his majestic minimalist wooden bed.

There she laid faced back, covered to her waist by a white sheet. The way her tight white tank pyjamas accentuated her back and shoulders in a dazzling contrast with her long hair and slightly tanned skin, made Robert feel every drop of blood flowing through his heart, in a way that almost made him smile.

The flickering of the kitchen lights as they turned on remembered Robert to cover his eyes. He immediately switched to a softer yellow light that bounced of the walls making it feel a whole lot warmer.

The kitchen itself was a big room Robert had made for his love of cooking. It had only two walls and an enormous glass window that made up as a third wall leading to the backyard.

He prepared himself a warm lemon balm tea with some butter cookies and sat by the kitchen’s centre counter in a black wooden stool.

What happened tonight was not unprecedented, and this was one too many for it to be an isolated event. He instinctively felt like a frog – if you put a frog in boiling water,it will immediately jump out of it, but if you put it in cold water instead and gradually heat it up, he will slowly boil to death…

Still, he couldn’t place it and decided to talk to Sam about it in morning.

Robert then finished his tea. It was time to go back to bed.

He switched off the lights and gave a glance at the kitchen engulfed in the pale moonlight. As he turned to climb the stairs, he thought he saw something in the backyard. His eyes were tired and it was misty that night, it was probably nothing. But as he got closer, the image was slowly taking the ghostly shape of a man.

As he drew near the glass he was standing in front a man wearing a black hood. He could barely see his face, not enough to see who he was. He didn’t think much of it. There was nothing around the house for several miles, probably someone that got lost.

But Robert suddenly felt that something was misplaced, apart from the stranger in his backyard. He stood there calmly in the mist, with the residual confidence of an empowered person. It was when Robert was admiring the precipitation on the edge of the hood that he followed a weightless drop of water fall, but before it hit the ground his eyes had focused on another thing. A tremendous rush of blood clashed in Robert’s heart. The man held beside his leg a gun.

Sensing Robert’s fear, the man put on his face a light smile. Slowly moving the gun up, he pointed it to Robert’s face, so that he could see the barrel. His smile grew bigger as he watched him take a step back in awe. He motioned for him to open the living room door. Taking a few trembling steps, he went for the door and opened it.

‘Hello Robert’, the man said in a soothing voice.

Recognizing the voice, Robert’s fear for the gun dimmed to nothing and a new one surfaced from a much deeper level.

written by Bano

Thoughts from War

That's right folks, our bloggin bloggy is in a war mood! Ratatatata . We've had the great pleasure to be handed a new story by a neighbour of ours.
Has the "Terrible Two's" imagination fountain dried up? Stay tuned to the blog for further developments.
Please relax and enjoy another war story written by a young girl nicknamed just_me ...

Silence. No, there’s no silence. That’s just me trying to mentally escape from here. The nights are the worst part of the day. Everything is quieter, except for the babies crying from time to time. The sound of death is stronger than ever. Sometimes, the woman sleeping in the bed next to mine wakes up screaming, but that only happens on the worst days.

Nurses come and go endlessly. Poor dears… they try really hard to reach everyone here. But there are not enough of them to meet the need. They work until they can’t go on any more because we, the injured, are more than many, more than the hospital can shelter. And every day brings more (or ‘more arrive’). And many leave… lifeless.

I try to sleep. But again the images come back to my mind, over and over again: the summer day, the shop full of people, happy people enjoying their sunny weekend. I was at my post by the the till? The cash register?. Suddenly, a strong noise, fire coming in my direction, I’m projected into the wall and the ceiling falls, covering me with stone and dust.

The next thing I remember is being here surrounded by people whose names I don’t know. We don’t talk (to each other) very much . We just suffer and cry together. That’s all that is left to share. Most of them have bad injuries, like a missing leg, or burns, or sometimes they are so damaged that they’re only waiting till death comes take them.

I was told that 4 or 5 young men got into the shop with bombs attached to their bellies and chests. This fight between countries… and these young people, with so much energy, so many ideas boiling in their minds! And they do it in name of God! I wonder where God is now and if He is enjoying this show of destruction and pain.

This is a living hell- people dying, suffering, screaming, children without parents, parents without sons, wives without husbands, people losing their homes.

I don’t understand why we must go through all this. Sometimes I wonder “Have I done something wrong? Do I deserve all this pain?” but nobody can answer me.

Every single day I wish to press rewind and go back to the time when I was happy, when we were at peace, when all my sons were alive. I used to spend hours watching them playing and singing in the living room. They were all so beautiful, so peaceful. I miss them so much… Our house was like a dream, like a doll’s house. The walls were so white that it almost hurt your eyes, and the big windows let the sun come shining through, lighting up every little space. And you could feel the scent of lavender coming from the balcony. Every person who stepped into that house could feel that we were happy. Then the war started. We moved to a shelter with another eight families. My two older sons died. My daughter ran way to some country far from here. I haven’t heard from her since then.

The nights here seem endless. It’s hard to sleep with all these people coughing, crying, agonizing. But it is better to hear this than hear nothing at all, because these sounds say that people are still alive.

I don’t even know what day today is. Here, days seem all the same, it’s hard to keep track of time. But that is not important. I only know that this war has gone on for too much time. Sometimes I think that people wouldn’t know how to live without war. I guess that when you are living in hell, there is a point when you forget what it means to be happy and what the definition of peace is. People say that time heals anything. I bet those peoples have never been through something like this.

The sun is rising again, thank God. Everything looks better as these dark shadows fade. Day’s are empty of any meaning, except for that day, the day that everybody is expecting. The day that will bring the peace we all wish for.

Written by just_me

Cheating Death

Can you feel the wind on your face?
Can you feel the soft dry breeze blowing on your face, the hot air flowing through your cheeks? You should keep your eyes semi-closed to prevent the thin desert sand from entering your retina and forever ruin you accurate visual perception.
You may never be a shooter for the army.
Maybe that’s the whole point.
The thought of what you’ve left behind crosses your mind for a few seconds, then comes a smile.
Sometimes I wondered how beautiful can things get. They can’t get much more beautiful than this.
Have you ever been to the desert?
It doesn’t get more beautiful than this.
Yesterday I left home, I needed a break, some time off you know? Don’t we all?
I also needed not to get caught by the military police. This was my second problem: war.
She wants me there, I don’t want to be anywhere near her.
I can’t figure what it would be like to be trapped in the desert with a machine-gun in my hand, not knowing where I am, what I’m doing, where I’m going.
Neither of us would.
New recruits are always pawns in a war, sacrifice.
Can you transpose yourself to this reality?
Bombed cities, gun shots every minute, screams, dodging bullets, evading bombs, cheating death…
I can’t, and I won’t.

This is why I’m in this car. That’s why all of us are here, with the upcoming war we were all called to serve the mother land… Yeah, like the mother land ever did anything for us.
This is not our war, why should we fight it?
Today, throughout the desert you can see an as-long-as-you-can-imagine caravan of cars. We are all literally and metaphorically on the same road. Ridding whatever gas powered vehicle you could find to evade a war about gas.
By the way, here in the backseat to my left is Kate, in the front, on the wheel is Coop and leaning on his shoulder is Andrea. Us four go way back.

Welcome in.
As you can see we aren’t very happy, despite the incredible sense of freedom.
We left everything, I mean absolutely everything.
You have a desperate feeling of survival when your friend enters through your house breathless saying you’ve got to leave town.
"They are after you!" After everyone.
At this point your brain presses “auto-pilot”, you just shovel whatever comes to your attention as necessary into your backpack and close the door on your way out.
Survival mode.
Your mental timing of you exiting town is no more than 10 seconds.
When conscience comes to you, you are already 100 miles away from your life.
Life as you knew it just ended.
This is hitting the “pause” button in our lives (at least our legal lives) for who knows how long.
We stop existing.

We plan to survive doing whatever we can do. Sara has brilliant ideas, Coop knows mechanics and Kate knows absolutely everything about everything (kind of a walking encyclopaedia).
Me? Well, I’m good at planting stuff. Geology and botany are my specialties so I can tell what you can and can’t do with a piece of land.
Useful stuff to survive.
What about you? Get a hat and put in on the ground, don’t worry, we’ll teach you to juggle…
You’ll make it.

By the end of the second day of our journey we started to get our status report on the radio.
“The refugee caravan is now 3miles long and heading towards east…”
It was also heard that they were starting to hunt us down like dogs. From what I’ve heard some have already been caught.
Forced into the army.

Is this thinkable? Hurt you until you agree to hurt others?
Some mother land.
Coop hit’s the gas harder.
“Those sun’sa bitches will never catch us!”
Do you know what a B-1B Lancer is? You’d know if you heard the deafening sound of one. Well, just imagine looking back to a loud noise a see a fleet of military aircrafts in one of those fancy triangle formations heading towards yourself, ready to drop fifty bombs on your head.
All of this for war.
Presidents love war.
(Why don’t presidents fight the war?)
This is why I’m in the desert with a machine-gun in my hand, not knowing where I am, what I’m doing, where I’m going.

Can you feel the wind on your face?
I keep my eyes wide open.

Welcome madame et monsieur to the Grand Opening Event of the Creativewritingdisorganization blog by the "Terrible Two". We sure wish that you knock yourselves out here by the pleasure of reading and writing. Here's the first story. Hope you enjoy it. Tah tah

the tale of One

Little Jenny was, albeit her sad expression, a very pretty girl. So was Lucy, the Stevensons’ daughter.

Jenny

On her daily walks wandering between home and school, Jenny would often escape into the woods, urging to let those sour noises behind, fading away in the wind.
The forest’s smells awakened some exquisite power inside her, as she would often delve into the madness of running as fast as she could among the trees and the bushes for hours.

She was running from herself it seemed. Something had happened in her life that had caused huge damage inside her.

The Void had been a tormenting presence ever since then. She was looking for freedom, but no freedom feeling had come along lately.

It had been getting tougher for her as the months went past her.

She’d started giving up hope as she couldn’t manage to come out of that damn hopelessness. No matter how fast or how much she’d run her tiny chest was often assaulted by shadows of emptiness and despair.

The poor kid …

Lucy

Since early childhood, little Lucy had felt a little despise for ordinary people’s town life. Not that she wanted to escape somewhere or from her own self; she would rather play in the woods, alone, dancing with the butterflies, waving her rosy tiny frail arms to the rhythm of nature’s symphony.

Sweet Mother Nature’s enchantments fulfilled her urge to live and so did the time she spent playing along with her friends along with the happy moments they’d share.

She’d always felt a bit different, but not an outcast or anything like it.

A sad day would come along every now and then, but she was happy. That was part of life.

One day Lucy slipped, and took a deep dive, and found herself living on another land…

Thoughts from the woods

The Trees had never seen as nice two girls as Lucy and Jenny before. “Trees are older and wiser than man” – A usual verse in local folklore stories.

They booth lived near the woods and were the same age; born on the same day.

The woods were pretty thick, with huge hideous trees which completely dwarfed the surrounding bushes and vegetation. It had animals, rocks and all the things that take to give a forest its own and magical identity, specially the one regarded on this tale. Wise trees, dumb trees all lived together on that same greenish place where one could hear the sigh of the wind in the trees, the Woods.

The trees used to feel quite confused as both girls were constantly mistaken by the animals as if they were twins. Although the differences between them would come up very clearly, their physical resemblances would at times appear confusing.

They looked similar, so the animals didn’t care much. But trees were a little wiser.

The Cave

In the centre of the forest there was a cave, “deep it was” - the old tales said. Its entrance was mysterious yet inviting as any cave is, especially to young minds who are always seeking mysteries.

Swirling dust sounds emanated from the Cave as well as wind whisper sounds as if exhumed from their tombs. “The Cave of one speaks through the wind…”

The mist came down that night, the 13^th of November, as the two little girls were wandering around the woods at noon. Jenny running and crying, Lucy dancing and jumping around with the butterflies, they had booth gotten lost and found themselves standing face to face on a glade with no one else around.

The pond

In the middle of the Glade there was a pond. Its water was deep blue and the wind made it tremble, making little waves round the pond. It didn’t seem to have a long depth, and a strange magnetism was all over it, possibly because of the brightness of the blue water.

The pond had no fish, no plants, just water.

“Old mystery pond makes people wonder. Guess we’ll never know what’s inside it. Only the ones who gaze at it with strong will, will be able to take what it holds”.

As the girls were getting acquainted to the place, they saw a tiny leaf dancing on the water.

“No leaf would dare land on that water but the one which comes from the Mother tree.”

A lot of life stories had taken place in those woods, “the woods of One”.

The Mother Tree never spoke to the other trees or animals, but it was the only tree that had and would ever understand all that was going on.

“On behalf of giving people a way too make ends meet, the Mother Tree drops the golden leaf on the blue pond, and the Ones who deserve it get their chance.”

“Mother Tree has powers beyond understanding.”

As both girls were starring at each other as if they had met before, Jenny said:

- I feel alone, empty; I don’t want to drawn. I’m just trying to find my way around.

- Can you help me? Can you?…

Jenny was on a tailspin.

Lucy said nothing, felt nothing. No sooner had it happened than they were booth gazing at the water. The magnetism…

A green flash of light exploded out of the water making the girls feel each other’s emotions in equal halves. It made them shake and shiver, and when it stopped, they were booth feeling fulfilled by truth.

They heard whispers coming from the pond, calling them, inviting them in.

Leaves were swirling in the air, the fog had washed away. Jenny starred at Lucy as if she were looking in the mirror.

In a Leap of faith (or despair) Jenny went in, and Lucy, who had by that time figured out what was happening to them, drew a smile on her face and jumped in next.

The water felt warm as they were surrounded by it and sliding down a light blue tunnel that took them to a closed dry and dark place.

The tunnel had taken them to a cave. There was a ground scent in that place.

The girls realised they were wearing the same dress, made from the same cloth.

Jenny looked scared yet Lucy was smiling.

In the Cave

Jenny was appalled as she was beginning to understand too, but indeed too frightened to admit it. As that happened, Lucy, who had managed to keep a strange calmness, shouted out loud at the other girl:

- “Jenny you are me! I mean, I’m you, I mean, we’re one together! You’re my body I’m your true soul!”

And while that was being said, their figures were coming together as two frames condensing into one.

The new Jenny, let’s now say, Lucy, was finally made from flesh and bone again. She was no longer a ghost playing on the forest and living on the other side,

“the Ghost Land Side of people’s happiness is a place where people’s true souls go when it is taken away from them”.

That was the night, the right time, it was Jenny’s chance and she took it. After regaining her breath from the shock she walked through the cave’s tunnel that suddenly had become visible due to a sudden moonlight invasion of the place that was known in old folklore tales as “the cave of One”.

Then, the tunnel lead her to the forest again…

Now Lucy is on her way home although she had been lost before. She is no more feeling scared or despaired. There is no emptiness around her heart, no torment. She is feeling a feeble wind breeze on her face that is so fresh and as delicate as morning snow. The sound of her tinny steps on the ground smoothly cracking the little pieces of twig and pushing the fallen leaves closer to each other and to the ground is as expressive as if the forest is telling her life is worth living again.

By that time, the other side of the forest had already realized they’d lost a soul. So they celebrated another departure from their land to the land of the real life.

Then, for the whole night, the whispers in the Cave echoed “the singing of the Cave of One” once more, for another life had been revived.

“Hold them by the hand,

For Jenny won’t stay here no more,

The wind will blow, and whisper

‘till little Jenny’s gone

Lucy is the name,

Annie and Jack are screaming for,

Her destiny is now… in the Lap of the gods.

Little Jenny’s nowhere to be found.

And so may Lucy be blessed forever

by the magic of this holy ground “

.

Lucy had made it this time; from her hole into the glade where she could see stars in spite the clouds.

There are still many ghosts of people who wish they could return once more to real life, blessed by happiness. “They just have to find the cave of One”

“Everyone gets a chance to choose at some time or another… letting one’s urge become one’s will.”- In the book of One, our own book, our imagination, our reality, our life.

B.M.Duarte