page six: mel

Those clichés are beyond you now. God, the Universe, the meaning of it all. Really, what did any of that matter? Your entire existence, every single thing you’ve worked for, it all comes down to this.

Float. Float.

You can do that much, surely? Thank God the water’s warm. You close your eyes for just a moment. Maybe this is part of the dream? Maybe…? But no. You know better. It all seems so familiar. Have you been here before? Impossible. This must be what shock feels like.

Kicking frantically, you break the surface and gasp for air. Blinking rapidly, it takes a while to decipher what happened. You blanked out. You must be more careful, Christopher. No. You’re not letting her in. It’s over and done with. Don’t listen. Just keep your eyes open, stupid. You’re on your own now, just like you always wanted.

But your heart just won’t stop pounding. The images keep running through your mind. Her sweet, loving voice. Those yummy organic pineapple tarts she baked. The care she put into ironing your shirts. She taught you how to put those little folds into the shirts.

Wait. She taught you those things. To always check that the gas was off. To make sure the car was locked. Over and over. Washing hands. Again. Again. It seemed like you’d always smell of sandalwood soap. The anger was back now. Full force. How could she? You hate what she made you become. Right?

So why can’t you stop thinking about her?

She loves you. You know it.

There had to be a reason why she made you that way. That’s what they all said. Maybe they weren’t lying. She had always meant well. Maybe she was even right. They could be real. No one ever quite proved otherwise.

Time was running out. No place now for the regrets. All that you’d fought against for years, in vain. The money meant nothing. But why couldn’t you see that before? She was all you had and you hurt her. The irony was, you knew she’d forgive you. At least there was that then.

As your legs tire and your lids grow heavier, you feel a sense of calm. The blare of the horn was trivial. It didn’t matter anymore. Peace awaits. Finally.

note

ah, and so i've written my final page. melly's so gonna have a hard time ending it. but like i said, she's like the god who ultimately decides what happens to the protagonist. so after we write we'd usually reflect (academicians like us using this word) on the process, what we learnt, bla bla bla.

true, the process' only been a week or so (sigh, pendeknye) but i've picked up a coupla things along the way. the whole purpose of this exercise is to see how much we can stretch one another (in the cleanest way, of course) in terms of our writing. melly and i have contrasting styles. she employs more language (like metaphors and canggih, more descriptive words) while i go for simple, leaving the rest to the reader to interpret. her sentences are more complete, mine are more single-worded, truncated. melly's more into narration and i like playing around the ambience. not sure if the last sentence's a comparison, but yea. that's how different we both are.

and so, putting both of us together, we get a piece like this. like melly said, we don't become one another. we stick to how we write and see what comes out of it.

this exercise is well, particularly challenging 'cause we don't know what each other's thoughts are. like for instance, i wrote the first page without anticipating how it'd be, and melly continued on with a frame in mind. i didn't follow this frame in the third page 'cause i couldn't read her mind, but i continued as such that i kept the flow and connected to the stories together. and hence, the creative process. we're constantly giving each other 'problems', and we're forced to work our way out of it.

of course, there's the easy way out by just mere writing for the sake of continuing (but doesn't make sense, connect, etc.); this may or may not be creative. it's creating something per se, but not necessarily creativity. when things don't connect or make sense, they're different things in their entirety. for instance. a monkey is put in a locked cage in which the only way to escape'd be to obtain a key hanging from above. if the monkey works around his way into getting the key so he'd escape, that'd be creativity. if the monkey wants to get out but decides to take out a canvass and draw instead, we can't say that creativity isn't present. it is, but in another form. i hope i'm making sense here, heh.

in terms of idea flow and formation, i discovered quite a few things here. when chain-writing, always pay attention to every single bit that you write, and the other person writes. chain-writing isn't just continuing for the sake of it; it's a detailed analyses of themes, words, and playing around, developing them. for instance. i mentioned a bottle of pee in the beginning, and it came up in the fifth page. well, there's a connection there, but there's not enough depth that the bottle of pee can just be about anything. so it doesn't quite serve a purpose. whatever the writer writes in the preceding page, the following pages must follow up. whether the follow up is cliché or novel or bizarre, it doesn't matter. if there's isn't, then there's no connection, and when there's no connection, it splits into different stories. and when there's the split, creativity in this sense is absent.

speaking of which, creativity is subjective. what is creative to one person may not be to another. if a person has seen so much of the world and is literally jaded by it, things won't be as exciting as a child who's only opened his or her eyes in seeing the world. that said, it's really difficult to measure what creativity is. that's why in doing this project, we've gotta define what it is. i've got my definitions, and melly's got hers. combining both for our report'd do the trick.

when i write my pages, i keep telling myself to attempt bizarre, novel ideas (in my sense), so does that make it more creative than when i choose continue it with an idea i've seen, read, heard before? again, very the subjective. and more so, we're writing for an audience. they're not gonna see everything the way i do. some might read it and really like it, some might say it's crap, that it's been done before. so something that's been done before is not creative? hmm.

i guess if i have to come down to a sentence or two on what creativity is, i'd say this. it's about using new approaches in attempting old things in response to that particular individual. i'm yet to read what the scholars say about creativity, so i'll see if i come close.

but all in all, it's been fun. melly and i were just saying that we should continue this and get our friends to join in the orgy. heh.

booya!

page five: kelvin

You storm out of the room. Out of the building, into your car. You start the engine fast. You step on the gas harder. Where would you go now? You begin to palpitate. Your palms begin to perspire. Your smile gives in to a smirk on your face. Everything you wanted, now you have. No more shit from your boss. You step on the gas again. Maybe replace this junk of a vehicle. That would impress the women. Take a number. Take a number, Miss. You laugh. Really, what would you do now?

Flashbulb. You jam on your brakes. Thank God for seatbelts.

You’ve always wanted to sail. On your own.

Ah.

Soon enough, you’re on a ship you bought for peanuts. You’re rather rusty from your navigation days, but screw that. You don’t want to think. No more shit from the world. You’re now a free man. Breeze. Salt water on your face. The sun. No sight of land. In the middle of sea. Heading to- heading to? You don’t care. You don’t want to. But you can’t be on a ship forever. Or can you? Hm. You take out your guidebook anyway.

Choices, choices. You’ve not felt like this before. You make the decision now. You close your eyes and circle the second page with your finger. You stop and point at a spot. You regain sight. The island of Anguilla. In the heart of the Caribbean. You flip to the page 34. “Sparsely inhabited… orgasmic sights… rapturous beaches.” You work out the coordinates. Done. To Anguilla it is.

You steer to the right. Southwest. Breeze. You see yourself sipping pineapple cream by the beach palms. Breeze. You see yourself waddling in the endless pool of cool water. Breeze. You see topless women. You salivate. Breeze. You see another ship right ahead of you. Huh? You fix your gaze. A larger ship just a hundred meters away. Shit. There’s no way to deflect in time.

Bang. Pain.

Déjà vu.

You open your eyes. You find yourself holding onto an old raft. Your right hand clutches a bottle of clear liquid. There are no ships in the vicinity. Float, float. This has got to be some joke. What happens if you died right now? God wouldn’t be too happy. You wouldn’t be too- nah, you’ve heard that bit before.

point

so we're now on the fourth page of our story. because we've gotta hand in our report this saturday, i'm thinking of sticking to the plan of ending it on the sixth page. so i've got one more page to write, and melly's gonna end it with another. then perhaps if we'd like write more, we'll continue the story (and probably truncate the ending a little bit) until next week's class presentation. what say you, mel?

melly was just telling me the other day that she had the notion of how the story'd be like upon writing the second page; i told her that this kinda defeats the entire purpose of chain-writing. it's supposed to be twisted, bizarre, unexpected as much as possible. if we both thought alike, there's no point of surprising one another then, eh? i guess this is when creativity chips in as well. we think of novel ways to solve the problem. avoid, avoid the clichés.

let's see where this story goes. while writing our final page, can we come up with a blog entry on our self reflection on the creative process? whatever we think is creative? 'cause we've gotta start on the report soon.

i need to sleep.

page four: mel

Before you step into the sterile, listless room, she seems to stir uneasily, though her eyes are still shut. It’s as if she can sense your presence. Maybe she even knows? Not that it would make any difference. The time had come.

No need to walk quietly or even to fake a smile. What matters is shutting the door and drawing the curtains. Once that’s taken care of, you just march forcefully towards the bed. Reaching her, you can see she’s completely still. You were just letting your imagination – or emotions? – get the better of you. Come on now, we know better than that, don’t we? Focus, you idiot. Now was not the time to reflect on the countless machines and tubes surrounding her or the sallow, papery-thin skin drawn over her taut cheekbones.

There had been enough time spent dwelling on those things. There would be too much time in the coming weeks, months, years. You know what needs to be done and she was the one who taught you. So, really, what was the problem? You were only being an obedient child, surely? A small, bitter smile starts to form. So much easier to be angry, isn’t it? Makes it all seem… logical, almost.

On with it, then. After all, you don’t have all day. Or at least, she doesn’t.

Parker pen uncapped, you place it, gently, in her lifeless yet warm hands and curve the once-elegant fingers around it. Naturally, you practice on a plain piece of paper first, as you’ve practiced endlessly over the years. No taking chances. Practice makes perfect, Christopher. How ironic that it’s her voice that helps you. Satisfied, you reach for the will and just like that, the moment you’ve awaited for more than a decade is right there.

“Mr. White? Is that you, sir? We told you not to lock the door. Please let us in, sir.” The calm yet clipped tone brooked no argument. Your heart sinks and you can almost see the window of opportunity slamming shut. No, I can still do this. It’s a struggle to take a deep breath and call out brightly, “Just a second, Maggie!” but you manage it, anyway.

Back to business. Hurry, damnit. Make or break time. You quickly scrawl her name; as long as it’s legible. Lightning-fast, you rearrange her limp hands and stash the pen and priceless document into your backpack. All done. She wouldn’t call you slowpoke anymore, would she? A genuine smile slowly forms. Time to face the music. Only now, you’re leading the choir.

page one: kelvin

The ground echoes of a voice. The sun is setting. Maybe you’re not the only one here. What the travel guidebooks say is crap. This is far from the vacation you had in your head. How you ended up here, you don’t know. You try hard recalling. There was a raft, a bottle of pee, and that’s about it. You look around. Sand. You don’t see no raft. Sand. There’s no bottle of pee. Just you, still in your suit and heavily drenched. Head to toe. Sand. It’s getting cold, dark.

You look around again. No one. Good. You remove your suit, your tie, your shirt. You take off your pants, your boxers. And the grimy, wet socks you have on your feet. Wet skin and the air. You close your eyes, and hear the waves crash. You don’t remember a time you felt this liberated. You quickly snap back to the present- you’ll die here if you don’t do something. You’re now dry as bone, and you feel warmer, a bit more comfortable. It’s now almost pitch black, and you’re beginning to not see a Goddamn thing. The ground echoes again.

You’re not sure whether to get scared or panicky. This is too bizarre for any kind of emotion. You pinch yourself hard. Okay, so you’re not dreaming. What does one do at instinct? Flee? Maybe. You walk briskly by the shore. You then pick up the pace and start running. And faster, and faster. Just like the good old track days in school- only you had hair and your best friend slightly ahead of you. You remind yourself to snap back. And faster, and faster.

You could only go on for so long.

Slowing down, panting, you drop to the sand, doggie-style. You realize there’s no water you can drink. You turn towards the sound of the sea. If only. You chug down your saliva in vain. This has got to be some joke. You lay yourself down, the waves slapping your feet, thinking what would happen if you died right now. God wouldn’t be too happy. You wouldn’t be too happy in hell.

The echoes peal again, this time louder. So you did somehow head somewhere. Or did you? Maybe they were heading your way. You remember your clothes. Shit. There’s no one around, you tell yourself. You drag yourself into the shallow sea anyway. You’re breathing a much slower pace now. So you’re not dying just yet. Not that it makes anything better. You’re still naked and thirsty as hell. You hear the sounds again, drawing closer. And closer.

It’s time to freak out.

pens down

ah, before melly reminds me of the deadline again.

so very simply, mel and i are supposed to come up with something 'creative' for our class report- and that's due next saturday. so we've got like, a week. i had the initial idea of painting (hence the blank paper), but melly backed out and i figured there won't be that much of a time (we're not like prodigies in art to begin with) so we're settling for writing instead. the blank piece of paper works for this too, heh.

so what we gonna write? well, i'm gonna start a page of fiction, then melly's gonna continue, then it's back to me again, then to melly, then me, then melly'd end it. so that's creativity compressed into six pages. we work on the rule that if we can't finish a sentence on the page we're writing on, we'll have to stop there. so yeah, if the sentence hangs then that's where the other person has to pick up from.

and i get to start! that's like playing god- i set the pace, the main characters, the setting. melly, well, she gets to end it. whether the main character dies, grows bald, gets married, sprouts three hands and a pair of wings- it's her call. kinda like a more powerful god, ha. sounds like fun already.

but the thing about having the free hand to start on anything? it drives me nuts. i'd conceive an idea, then another'd come up, and another, and another. to a certain extent i think creativity requires some sorta barrier. like you're stuck, and you find your way out. right now i'm on infinite ground. hm. will go nap now, and see what i come up with later.

so if you (our readers) do get to catch us within the short span this blog will have, welcome. we'll be posting our progress here (and our stories too!) so check back often.

what to write, what to write?