Revived at long last!  Our busy office schedule had put back our writing exercises perennially down the priority list of our to-do’s.  Well today we finally got around to doing a quick exercise, and by quick I mean 60 seconds quick.  This one was hosted by Maya.  She pointed us all to a website:  http://oneword.com where a single word is flashed and then you have to type down whatever goes through your head.  Extemporaneous writing if there is such a thing.

 

You should try it out yourself.  Don’t say you don’t have time for a 60 second exercise.  Nobody’s that busy.

 

Today’s word was ‘Idol’.  Below is what I wrote.  I had wanted to end with "...Cory Aquino's life and humility." but had to respect the time limit. 

 

 

 

There are people who consider themselves an idol for others to emulate. More often than not, those who fall in this category are those the least deserving of that title.

This becomes more punctuated in the light of Cory Aquino's example.

I hosted this week’s writing exercise.  The instructions I emailed are below:

 

The Philippine election season is nearing.  Trapos (traditional politicians) will once again be in the spotlight.  To be expected will be the mudslinging, character assassinations and dirty politics that follow the perverted golden rule – He who has the gold (and the guns, and goons) rules! 

 

Enough of that!  The Filipinos deserve better.  In less than 400 words, write a speech announcing your own candidacy for the country’s highest post on a platform of ‘change’.  Be convincing and inspirational.  In short, do an Obama. 

 

Turns out, this exercise was much harder than I thought.  Our reading ended up getting delayed by one week.  Our heavy workload didn’t help.  Below is what I put together.  Exactly 400 words by the way.

 

 

 

I am a Filipino -- inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future.  So starts Carlos P. Romulo’s famous ode to our nation.  The opening line was written many years ago.  With the bleakness of our country’s future, it may as well have been written yesterday.

 

Yes, we are inheritors of a glorious past.  But nothing about our present is.  Just read the news.  This in spite of a president named Gloria.  If anything, it is exactly because of Gloria that our future is uncertain.  Then again, that is exactly what being hostage means.

 

But we can’t give up and remain hostages.  True, the Filipinos did elect Gloria for a full term in 2004.  We deserve what we get.  Then again, there is the argument that we never did vote for Gloria in that election.  It was stolen from us courtesy of Garci.  But what did we do about it?  We decided we wouldn’t let another actor sit in Malacañang and collectively looked the other way.  We deserve what we get.

 

I say now we are hostages only if we choose to be.   This coming 2010 election, we need change. Out with the trapos, in with new politics.  Out with corruption, in with transparency and genuine good governance. 

 

My name is Orven Enoveso and I offer myself in service to this nation as president if given the honor.  I am not a traditional politician.  In fact I hate politics in the traditional sense of the word.  But I would like to see the government working again. I know you do too. 

 

One of the things I’ve learned in the corporate world is that if you can’t trust others to do it right then do it yourself.   Here I am now, eager to do it myself. 

 

I don’t lay claim to an Ivy League economics degree nor am I of elite pedigree.  But I know I can do better.  A lot better.  For starters, I won’t steal, I won’t cheat, and I won’t kill journalists.  Just doing those will be a huge improvement. 

 

Let us heed the call of the times – volunteerism, understanding the issues of the public, being involved in politics, sacrificing personal careers to serve the people.  Our times call for true public servants.  And I would like to be one.  Together, we can do great things, and this nation can be glorious again.

 

Maraming salamat po.

This week’s writing exercise was given by Mark.  Below was his emailed instruction:

Use an anagram for inspiration.

Visit http://wordsmith.org/anagram/ and enter your full name to generate a list of anagrams. Now choose one of the anagram results as your title and use it as an inspiration for a poem, short story, or essay. Word count should not exceed 350 words.

Enjoy!

My name, Orven Enoveso, yielded only less than a hundred anagrams.  Too few.  Probably owing to the two v’s in my name.  Others here who’ve tried it got a lot more hits because of their longer names and low score ‘scrabble-letters’.  One got more than a thousand results. 

I ended up having to develop my own anagram because I didn’t like what the website produced, hence my title, and work, below.

 

Noon’s Eve Over (350 words)

 

The glare of the chandelier grew stark.  Zoe liked it that way.  Staring straight at the amber glow strained her eyes, just as she wanted it to.  It helped her stay awake.  She tugs at her crumpled blanket, pulling it to her chin to shield her fragile frame from the icy November breeze blowing through a half-opened window.  “I must not fall asleep.  Not yet,” she whispers to herself as her eyes trace the soft undulations of the curtains dancing to the breeze. Her faint words echo in her thoughts, like a lullaby floating softly across the room.

 

Numbness creeps in. “Aaaaah!” Zoe wakes up shaken.

 

A deep sigh, a quick toss of the blanket and she is off the bed.  The tiled floor feels cold against her bare feet as she shuffles towards the ornately framed mirror.  Brushing aside unkempt hair, Zoe is shocked to see her weary eyes.  Her now gaunt face shows the strains of her nightly distress.

 

It is day forty of her ordeal.  The dream, always the same dream, had been haunting her every night at midnight, the witching hour, or as she likes to call it, noon’s eve.  There was no escaping it.  She had tried every night to stay awake just long enough for midnight to pass but always failing, always waking up to her own horrified screams. 

 

“Run away.  Run away!”

 

She finds an open door, and tracks the faint moonlight marking the end of a long corridor. 

 

“The balcony!  Need to reach the balcony!”  Her walk quickly gives way to a sprint.  The air caresses her determined countenance.  She reaches the open door at the end.  The moonlight bathes her pale skin in a faint glow as she pulls herself onto the railings in one fluid motion.  She pauses and stares straight down.  The wind here is fierce and bites at her sallow cheeks.

 

Numbness creeps in. “Aaaaah!” Zoe wakes up shaken. 

 

She loses balance and steps into the night.  She falls to her end.  Thankfully.

 

Her dream will no longer haunt her because it has finally come true.

From Guile, this week's exercise host:

 

This dialogue exercise evolved from a previous one by Luida. It involves writing something that is made up ENTIRELY OF DIALOGUE, but in short story form (NOT MORE than 350 words). That means, you absolutely CANNOT adapt the format of a play (e.g. JUAN: Good morning...). Also, you absolutely CANNOT use speech modifiers (e.g. ...said Juan, Juan said...). Your piece should be made up entirely of sentences in quotation marks. And your piece must reveal something about the characters, the setting and the conflict/plot only through dialogue. A tip: One way to distinguish each character is to make them sound unique in their lines of dialogue, that way your reader won’t be confused who’s saying what. Here's an example:

 

 

After Dinner

(312 words)

 

"Need help?"

"Sure, sweetie. Grab some of that and put them on this tray. Then put mayo on top of each one. Don't pick the burned ones."

"Okay. So, what do you think?"

"About what, dear?"

"Come on, you know what I'm talking about."

"You mean, what do I think about that schmuck sitting on our dinner table back there?"

"Mom! He's a nice guy."

"You said the same thing about the last guy you brought here. And look what that jerk did."

"That was different. I was young then. I didn't know any better."

"And I supposed you're older and wiser now? Tell me, have you ever thought about what you're getting yourself into? I mean, just look at him! God, what will the neighbors think? And your Dad--how am I ever gonna tell him we raised a doofus with the worst taste in men in the universe?"

"Will you keep your voice down? He might hear you."

"I doubt it. Done with that? Get more from the fridge. And some mayo, too, this one's almost empty."

"Could you hand me that other tray? Thanks. Look, Mom, I know he doesn't look like it but he's a great guy. Once you get to know him, beneath all that arty stuff, you'll like him. I know you've got some kind of phobia about people with alternative means of livelihood, but believe me, this one's different. He's actually opening his own tattoo shop next summer."

"Oh, I'm absolutely jumping with joy hearing that."

"Mom, please, I could use a little support here. I'll deal with Dad but I need you on my side on this."

"Whatever. Here, you take that while I take this one. Careful with that."

"Wait. How do I look with this on?"

"Disturbing."

"Thanks."

"Gotta hand it to you, though. His folks are filthy rich."

"Mom!"

 

Be creative. You can use any genre (horror, comedy, sci-fi, detective, fantasy, etc.). Remember, not more than 350 words.

 

Below is what I came up with:

 

 

“These chairs can’t stay still.”

“They’re meant to do that.  They’re called swivel chairs.”

“I’m guessing that’s so you can turn to your seatmates for more intimacy.  Hi, I’m Michelle.”

“Sherwin, nice to meet you.”

“So? Aren’t you gonna ask me if I come here often?”

“Actually, I was…”

“So ask me already.”

“Ok.  Do you come here often?”

“No, this is my first time here.  And I’m thinking I should if you come here often yourself.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“You can thank me by buying me a drink.  Sorry, maybe that was too forward of me. ”

“Not at all?”

“Listen, this place is swell and the food smells great but I live nearby.  Maybe you’d like to crash at my place for a little party, just you and me.  What do you say to that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.  Good times, but a little more private.  So how about it, cowboy?”

“Tempting offer but I really was just about to leave.  Paid for my tab already.  Busy day for me tomorrow.”

“Aw, too bad.  Are you sure you want to pass this up?”

“I’m afraid so.  Hope you don’t take offense.”

“You’re so proper.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Ok, here’s the thing.  My name really isn’t Michelle.  And I don’t really live in the neighborhood.  I’m from the university and we’re doing this psychology experiment about flirting.  Behind me on the table over there is my associate with a video camera and right here in my bag, is a tape recorder.”

“A psychology test?”

“Yes, we’re conducting experiments on how males respond to ostentatious flirtation from females.  And let me just say that you’re our first test subject that hasn’t responded positively to my invitations.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Actually no.  For everybody else we tested, it was all so predictable.  So tell me, am I not your type?”

“You’re actually hot.”

“Ouch!  But not hot enough for you?”

“Actually, I’m gay.”

 

Imagine a life cut short into 750-1500 words. This is a writing technique called the personality sketch, which is commonly used for feature writing in paperbacks but has gained popularity in more mainstream media such as newspapers, magazines, periodicals, etc. Here’s an example of a special section published in the New York Times featuring the lives of people who died during the September 11 terrorist attack.

 

 

Glenn Kirwin was fit.  Triathlon fit.

 

Over the years, he competed in a number of triathlons, and though he stopped the endurance events after the children arrived, he kept himself in enviable shape.  “He was a fitness freak,” said his wife, Joan.  “He did 50-mile bicycle rides.”  When they were dating, she tried to keep up but it was hopeless.  “I once did 30 miles with him,” she said, “but I couldn’t sit for a week.”  

 

Mr. Kirwin, 40, lived in Scarsdale, N.Y., and was up at 5:15 in the morning to catch the 6:30 train to New York, where he was the head of product development at the eSpeed division of Cantor Fitzgerald.

 

It was usually 8 at night when he arrived home.  It was his practice, though, to always do something with the children, Miles, 10, and Troy, 7, before they went to bed.  He would read them a story or play checkers or engage in a game of Go Fish.  Sometimes they would go outside and play catch or shoot baskets…

 

 

Choose a person that you know (or create one using your imagination) and write a glimpse of his or her life, personality, idiosyncrasies, etc. Personality sketches usually use anecdotes, direct quotations, physical description, etc., but for the purpose of this writing activity, we can be more “creative” or “imaginative.”  Write as you please, and introduce us to that person in no less than 200 words. :P

Below is what I was able to put together.

 

Jess James is a great rock singer.  Probably the best in the band scene right now.  “Deep and soulful” was how his manager, Eddie Velasquez, described his voice.  I discovered him playing Stone Temple Pilot covers in this small club called Smithereens in uptown Cebu.  Becoming an instant believer, Eddie has since orchestrated and managed Jess’ successful career spanning eleven years, six albums, numerous singles and countless club appearances all over the country.

 

Known as Jessboy to his close friends, he is currently the lead singer for Ang Miserables, one of the most respected acts in Cebu’s band scene today. 

 

Unlike most band vocalists, Jess James started out singing ballads in school programs.  Hard to imagine now, but he actually sang pop songs popularized by Martin Nievera when he was still in elementary and high school.

 

The shift to rock music came naturally to him.  Although he had that voice, he clearly wasn’t a balladeer.  Underneath was too much attitude and edge.  Jess James eschewed wearing anything with a collar and much preferred jeans, sneakers and tight shirts. 

 

A songwriter also, Jess James writes pastiches of pained emotions and struggles that reflected his troubled past.  But his music is not all dark and emotional.  His pop sensibilities show in lyrics that paint love and celebration.  Jive magazine writer Anne Hillcox sums it up aptly: “He is an amazing and playful lyricist.  What set him apart though is how he connects with his audience.”

The writing pool has been swamped of late with projects.  So much so that we've kept postponing our writing exercises only to find out in horror that the last one we did was five months ago!  We've since vowed to do it every Wednesday morning instead of Friday afternoons.  Wednesdays being a less busy day of the week for most of us.  So far.  Hope the trend holds.  And hope we can get back on track to keeping this regular.  Millions of my writing brain cells have died of atrophy.  Time to get back in shape.

 

This week's exercise was hosted by Jovir.  Below is his email:

 

Supposing you or someone you know, or a character has been given something new to wear (clothes, shoes, etc.).

Describe it, showing how it feels or what it means to you. Here's a sample from M. Scott Momaday's Novel House of Made of Dawn in which shoes the character thinks at first are beautiful, begin to feel ridiculous to him:

 

He was wearing a pair of brown-and-white shoes which fat Josie had given to him. They had belonged to a man for whom fat Josie's daughter had worked as a housekeeper in the city. The man died and his widow gave away his clothes. The shoes were beautiful, almost new, thin-soled, sharply pointed, with angles and whorls of perforation. There were metal taps on the heels, and the leather creaked. They were too large for Abel, but he wore them anyway, had waited a long. Time for the occasion to wear them. And now and then in the bus he looked at them, would slide the instep and toe of one and then the other along the backs of his legs to removed the dust and bring out the shine, would flex the soles to hear them squeak.

But the shoes were brown and white. They were new, almost, and shiny and beautiful; and they squeaked when he walked. In the only frame of reference he had ever known, they called attention to themselves, simply, honestly. They were brown and white; they were finely crafted and therefore admirable in the way that the work of a good potter or painter or silversmith is admirable: the object is beautiful in itself, worthy of appreciation as a whole and for its own sake. But now and beyond his former frame of reference, the shoes called attention to Abel. They were brown and white; they were conspicuously new and too large; they shone; they clattered and creaked. And they were nailed to his feet. There were enemies all around, and he knew that he was ridiculous in their eyes.

Fire away with 200 words minimum.

 Below is my effort.

New Blues

 

Dark blue never looked so good.  Dark blue never felt so good.  I had always wanted a pair of Levi's 501 jeans ever since I outgrew my 511 baggy jeans and my silvertabs.  I know, what was I thinking?  Bootcuts and skinny jeans have cycled back in style over the years but baggies probably never will.  That would be a heinous fashion crime if there ever was one. 

 

Now, buttoned-up and in front of the mirror, I like what I am seeing.  Snug.  They hugged my thighs like an inflated blood pressure sleeve.  They felt new and they were.  I had saved and spent a small fortune – P500. That was a lot of money back then, never mind the exact year.

 

Shifting my weight to one side, I notice how the pant twists on one leg bringing the side seam smack in front.  This nuance is normal I suppose.  I bend my knees almost to the point of a full squat and conclude I still needed to get used to the tightness on my crotch.  It wasn't uncomfortable, just different.  I'm liking different.

 

The ads proclaimed that no two pairs are ever alike because jeans grow on the wearer the longer it is used – creases, color fading, the eventual wear and tears on the tough fabric and all.  This piece of clothing needed breaking in and I decide to start right away.  I grab my wallet and my pager and head for the door.

A drunk sits next to you in a bar, thinks you are his or her close friend and starts confessing “the truth.”  Write about what “the truth” is in at least 200 words. 

 

Below is my effort.

 

 

The truth

 

Stepping into the bar, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimmed lights.  The familiar smell of nicotine greets me while I scan for a good spot.  Someone was sitting on my favorite stool at the far end of the room – an executive like me, judging from his clothes –hunched over his drink.  Too bad, I particularly liked sitting at the end where no one bothers you.

 

Suddenly, he swings around and walks away from the bar.  He walks right past me and exits through the front door momentarily flooding the room with an orange glow from the late afternoon sun.

 

“Mac, I’ll have one San Mig Light,” I declare while walking to the just vacated stool. 

 

A quick hiss and a pop later, the bottle lands with typical efficiency in front of me.  “You want a mug?”

 

I flip my hand up slightly to decline.  Mac knows I enjoyed my beer without the conversation and smartly leaves me to attend to the other patrons.  There aren’t many at this time. 

 

I scanned the room and count maybe five or so people all nursing lonely drinks.  Probably all avoiding the rush hour just like me with a drink or two before heading off for home. 

 

Then she emerges from behind the corner that led to the toilets.  You had to notice her because not many girls come in here, but also because she was a real looker.  As she strode across the floor, you couldn’t help but notice how stunning she looked. 

 

She had wavy cropped hair that perfectly framed her angelic face.  Her short but brisk strides bring her to my side where she sits down.  I feel slightly panicked at my unbelievable luck that she chose to sit beside me.  Her eyes kept wandering across the room like she was unsure of herself.  A perfectly manicured hand rests near mine.  Her skin is flawless even in the dimly lit bar.  She leans close towards me making me feel awkward at the invasion of my supposed solitude.

 

“I thought you’d left already, sir.”

 

“Sorry?”  I manage to mutter.

 

“Listen, sir, I know this is awkward, you being my boss and everything but I didn’t mean for this to happen.  I didn’t plan any of this.”

 

She obviously thought I was the executive who was sitting here earlier.  Looking at her admirable profile, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I wasn’t him.  Not yet at least.

 

“I want to be with you.  That’s all I want.  Even if you can’t be all mine.  I think – I think – ”

 

“Uhhm, miss, sorry but –“

 

She looks at me and stares.  Her doe eyes are deep and magnetic.  Yet they betray nothing.  “You’re not my boss –”

 

“Yes, I think you mean the guy who left a while ago”

 

“But you’re cute too.”  A long uneasy pause as we gaze into each other’s eyes.  “Where is he?”

 

“Uhm, he went that way,” I point the door behind me with my thumb while keeping my gaze fixed.

 

She stands up, and opens her purse and fishes out a calling card.  “If you find him, tell him I left already.”  She slides the card on the table with a finger, then walks away.

 

I am left frozen, not knowing what to say. 

She turns around to look at me one last time.  “Call me,” the hints of a smile breaking on her face.

This week's exercise was to write a press release on any event.  I suggested to the group to add a twist on the exercise by making our press releases about an offbeat or humorous story or event.  We all agreed.  Below is what I wrote:

iComm joins the PBA

After just one season with the Inter Call Center Basketball League, iComm International has announced that its young basketball team will be joining the Philippine Basketball Association, the country's premier basketball league and the most prestigious professional club in Asia.

"Because our fledgling team has shown lots of promise in just its first season, we have decided to take a quantum leap forward by going professional.  What better showground is there to showcase our team's talent?" Mike Tyler, iComm's president explains.   

The team is headed by Arman Colina as head coach and features All-Star players Jeffrey Padernal and Filomeno Villaruel. 

-------------------------------------------------

iComm's new testing facility for applicants in AsiaTown I.T. Park.  The basketball court features multiple video cameras to record candidate's tryouts and scrimmages for better evaluation of applicants.

iComm announces new hiring policy

To reflect the company's growing shift of focus towards building a strong company basketball team, iComm International recently announced changes in its hiring policy.  The new guidelines released in its website require male applicants to be at least 5 feet and 10 inches in height and with prior experience in playing amateur or professional basketball. 

"While work-related experience will still be an important criterion in filling our human resource requirements, prior experience in basketball will now be a critical consideration," explains Divine Golingay, iComm's HR Manager. 

"We've always been on the lookout for winners.  Now, we're just making sure our candidates are winners both on and off the basketball court," Ms. Golingay adds.  iComm's focus currently is on shooting guards and power forwards but those with experience as centers are still welcome to apply.  Female applicants are also encouraged to apply as team muse which is still open. 

It's my turn this week to create a writing exercise.  What follows are the intructions I emailed.

What is your favorite dish?  Describe why you like it so much without using adjectives that are traditionally associated with food such as tasty, appetizing, mouth-watering, luscious, etc.  The challenge is to come up with a creative way of describing food.  Minimum of 300 words.  Enjoy.

Below is what I wrote: 

Soup No. 5

Lansiao they say is an aphrodisiac.  It is after all made from a bull's testicles so the association of the dish, sometimes called Soup no. 5, with horniness is too obvious if not too tempting to pass up.  

I was first introduced to the dish by college friends one time years ago after a night of serious drinking.  They intentionally waited until I had eaten several spoonfuls before telling me what the dish was made of.  I most probably would have shunned the dish had I known beforehand what the main ingredient was. 

Probably because I was half drunk and starving, I attacked the dish with rare voracity and later, intense relish.  I had discovered a new vice.  By the time my scheming friends revealed to me the secret behind the soup, it was too late.  I was hooked and couldn't care less what body part I was devouring. 

I've been spreading the gospel ever since. 

Most lansiao places, like the one in Mandaue called Lansiao.com or the one in front of Asillo church in Gorordo, are just rundown dirty eateries.  For sure the many patrons that frequent these places don't go there for the ambience so it can only be the food.

What is lansiao anyway?

For me it is steaming hot desire served on a plate.  It is the chew of carnal meat chopped just right into sinewy yet sensuous bites.  It is the slurp of thick reddish soup that looks as dirty as your deepest darkest desires.  It is a clash of flavors that toy with your senses much like perverted sex blurs the differences between pleasure and pain.

It is flirting with peril.  It is going against your trained logic.  For how can something made from an unclean piece of meat and cooked in the filthiest of kitchens be safe much less edible?  Or to-die-for? 

It is like unprotected sex, dangerous yet desired. 

If chocolate is food for the gods then lansiao is food for us imperfect mortals.  It is temptation and danger served on a cheap plastic platter in a dirty sidewalk.

Lansiao is the soup of sin.

Pick a *writing partner and write two halves of a short story. Decide among yourselves who will write the first and second parts.

Writing prompt 

Write a story about three friends marooned on a desert island: Frank, and lovers Fred and Jenny. Writing perspective is in first person, and Fred is telling the story.

1. In the first part, bring the story elements to a crisis: 

The crisis reaches its climax when Fred finds out that Frank -- because of desperation, hunger, and growing insanity -- has killed and cooked his girlfriend Jenny for food. One of the writing partners will write the events leading to the crisis, e.g. how they were marooned on the island, why the food supply has run out, the tension growing among the three friends etc. It is your task to write a compelling starting point and run up to the climax.

2. In the second part, bring the story elements to a resolution: 

After Fred finds out about the grisly act committed by his friend toward Jenny, one of the writing partners will write the events leading to a resolution. E.g. how will Fred react? Will he seek revenge and kill Frank? Will he flee the island for fear of getting murdered and eaten next? Or will he join Frank and partake of the gruesome repast? Or do you have something more sinister in mind? It is your task to write an interesting ending for the story.

Word count is at least 200 words per half. Total word count for the whole story is 400 or more. 

My assigned partner is Tomas.  We agreed I'd write the first half.  Below is my contribution to the story and immediately following that is his other half. 

(My opening half)

This can only happen in the movies.  A plane crash in the middle of the ocean, surviving, and then being marooned on a deserted island – how cliché?   But it happened to me, to us and I still can't believe it. 

Jenny and I were on our first romantic holiday together when on our way home, the plane suddenly crashed.  We didn't know we were in trouble until the very last moments before the plane hit the water.  We slept through the trip only to wake up to a real-life nightmare. 

Everyone had died.  Knocked unconscious or trapped in the sinking plane.  Others had drowned trying to swim to safety.  The three of us though, by some miracle, had managed to escape through a smashed window and had managed to cling on to floating debris.  Somehow, Jenny, me and this guy, Frank survived. 

We had reached this deserted island, exhausted and grateful at having been spared.  I thought then search and rescue teams would eventually find us.  I imagined our only concern would be to stay alive until we were rescued in a couple of days.  I felt lucky and thought we weren't meant to die just yet.   

That was seven weeks ago to the day.

Now, I wonder if we were better off having died with the rest of the plane passengers during the crash.  No food and water save for the scraps from the few coconuts we managed to find, we had grown weak and emaciated.  Jenny contracted a fever yesterday.  It must be malaria.  I fear she won't last the week if we don't get rescued soon.

Frank had grown distant and irritable.  He has refused to help scavenging for food and supplies.  He is losing it.  We all are.  Everyday has become an ordeal worse than the day before.  I fear we will all perish, soon.  What's worse is I am beginning to welcome the thought.   

I am losing it!

What is that smell?  Burning?  No, cooking meat!  Where is it coming from?   

"Jenny?  Frank?" I call out.  No answer.  I follow the scent towards the other end of the beach.  There, a smoke trail.  I walk towards the source with caution.  Something is wrong.  Why did Frank offer to watch over Jenny earlier while I left to scavenge for food?  Then it hits me. 

Disbelief quickly overwhelmed by rage.  I break into a run and scream – "Frank, what have you done!"

-----------------------------------

(Tomas' closing half)

Killing and cooking my girlfriend. It was indeed a grisly act that Frank did to Jenny, but I just can’t help thinking that Jenny has always been an attractive and shall I say delicious woman. The thought of eating a big, juicy cheeseburger makes me wonder what Jenny might taste like. She might just taste like everything else, tastes like chicken. But of course the thought of a Jenny steak is very undeniably enticing.

I know for a fact that she has always been a physical woman being an athlete during college. That’s why every time we had an argument I always end up getting bruised black and blue. Will she still pound the crap out of me if I’ll have a bite of her? I don’t think so, might as well give me a taste of those big buns of hers.  

But she is the love of my life. I can’t just gobble her up. I wonder if after Frank eats her he might acquire some of her attributes and he becomes more like my baby. I would probably fall in love with Frank at that stage. But I’m no faggot. I can’t like a guy for reminding me of my Jenny. In an isolated island like this anything is possible though. Fred and Frank forever, sound really nice.

This kind of situation reminds me of the movie Lord of the Fly’s. Good natured and educated boys become cannibals because of survival. Same as what happened to those footballers from South America in the movie Alive. Human eating human might not be that bad after all. This is survival mode anyway. Nature has always been like this, survival of the fittest.  

Just one thought that’s been bothering me though. I’ve tasted Jenny in the flesh, scrumptious I might say. But how will I compare it to a Jenny kaldereta? One Jenny laureate for me please.