Four notes was all it took [Weekly Writing Challenge: Moved by Music]

Music is powerful: it conjures memories, emotions, and people and things of the past. It’s not only a trigger, but an outlet to express who we are. For this challenge, pick one song and write about it — or use it as inspiration for a post. The track may be personally meaningful, or remind you of something, someone, or some event you can look back on.

Remember that girl Katniss Everdeen teamed up with in the 74th Hunger Games? Well, this post is about her four-note song (and its full orchestra version below). I suggest you listen to the music first before you proceed.

 The song has no words; it need not have words. The music alone evokes so much sadness, so much grief that most Tributes (Hunger Games fans, that is) like myself would shed tears or stop whatever they’re doing when they hear the whistle. The development of this full version of a short whistle song, for me, served as a moment of glory for RUE. She died in such a disturbing way; whenever I hear the song, it’s almost as though I relive the moment again and again.

Despite this, it also relaxes me and soothes my nerves. I don’t know why, but maybe because it is a reminder that some things are worth..not dying for, that’s too grave and serious, but rather some things are worth making an effort for. It is a reminder that even the best plans have loopholes, that we can lose even the best people in the blink of an eye. It is a reminder that we should make the most out of life while we still have it. Or maybe it just reminds me of that innocent little girl. I can never tell.

Broken Carousel [Weekly Writing Challenge: 1,000 Words]

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I was there, in the playground, just yesterday. I was walking towards the swings when a little girl sitting on the broken carousel caught my attention. The carousel had been there for a long time; I think someone said it was already broken. Just like me, broken beyond repair. But this girl, she’s breaking fast too.  I don’t know how I knew this. I just did. There’s still hope for her though because she’s still young. She has a lot more to learn from life. She’s struggling to understand many things; time’s forcing her to grow up quickly. I approached her but I dare not speak. She must have heard my heavy footsteps because she turned to me.

“Hello little girl.” I said to her.

“Hi Jean.” She replied.

“How do you know my name?” I wondered.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the little girl looked up at me.

Then it dawned on me. The little girl on the carousel was the girl who’d just lost her mother ten years ago. She was the one who always felt alone, despite everything. She was the girl who always had to assure herself that she was just overthinking things. The little girl on the broken carousel…was me.

***

 

Click the picture or this link for more of this week’s challenge! 🙂

My Earliest Memory [Weekly Writing Challenge : I Remember]

I thought about writing my most painful experience, but then I realized I already did that. So I’m going for my first memory. Or the one I remember anyways.

***

Our scene takes us to a beach in Subic, Zambales. I was almost one year old, I think. Everyone was having fun in the water and me? I was on the foldable bed made of banig. It was under the shade of some tree in the sand. Wearing nothing but a black swimsuit with yellow and orange ribbons on it, I sat there contented. Until, the bed folded on its own, that is. The bed folded up to its original position and I went tumbling on the sand. I don’t remember the exact feeling, but I was pretty sure it hurt. I don’t know how it happened even now and I think that’s weird.

Well, the time’s up. Bye now.

***

This is a response to this week’s writing challenge. Click the link for more! 🙂

Definitely Printed! (Weekly Writing Challenge-Mind The Gap)

**This is a very short post. I could not express myself in complete sentences so…

 

There is nothing that can replace

The excitement of making a trip

To the nearest bookshop around

And buying a book you’ve always wanted.

 

There is nothing that can replace

The joy of opening the casing

And flipping through the pages

Of your newfound treasure.

 

There is nothing that can replace

The delight that in reading you can get

A simple pleasure everyone can enjoy

Whether for study or for leisure.

 

There is nothing that can replace

The feeling of a printed book in your hands.

Even though eBooks are more convenient,

Few things are more superior to the good ol’ paperback.

 

***

This post is a response to: Weekly Writing Challenge-Mind The Gap #

At the Desk

Light comes from the large, rectangular sliding windows behind the computer. The Roman shades, in a wonderful pattern of alternating light blue and lavender with gold tassels at the ends, help in limiting the amount of light that enters the room. Through the windows one can see a mix of metal fencing, green vegetation and cloudy skies.

At the computer, a girl in her teenage years is busy typing away. At the computer desk are a few things she has been trying to accomplish in the past hours. An unedited survey questionnaire printed on brown, vintage-style paper. A half-finished Filipino homework on El Filibusterismo.  A trusty black pen from Japan. These items are all sprawled over the limited space made of laminated wood.  The computer speakers are on, as evident in the glowing blue light coming from it. On one side of the desk are two boxes placed upon one another. The one on top is an empty bow of Gap Chocolate biscuit sticks, and the box looks just as delicious as its contents. The box underneath is a box of playing cards which her parents often occupy themselves with after eating.

The girl is still typing away, her face emotionless as she presses the keys and checks the outcome in the 20-inch monitor. She is not yet satisfied; she must do more. All the comforts of home surround her as she continues to reach for her dreams.

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I had fun making this! For more descriptive articles, go to this week’s writing challenge.

The bells are tolling (Weekly Writing Challenge: Starting Over)

“You can never go home again.”

 

That’s probably the most depressing news I have heard in my whole life. The thought of having to stay in this small room with its white walls and melancholy atmosphere is almost too much to bear. I am dying, for saying out loud. I would at least appreciate the comfort of home. Then I realize the carillon of the nearby church is tolling, announcing yet another death. Who is it? The baker from Rose St. who makes delicious apple pies? The owner of the bed and breakfast on Foxglove Avenue who let me sleep there once for free? The real estate agent of my house on Daisy St.? Perhaps the bells aren’t tolling at all, perhaps it is all in my head. They ring too often these days that I couldn’t tell the difference. The ringing of the bells are probably coming from my own mind-a premonition-telling me that soon, the bells will toll for me.

 

I started to remember my first day in this town. Blossom had seemed appealing especially after spending almost ten years in the city. I had begun to get tired of all the cars and buildings and people. I wanted a change in atmosphere, a streak of light in an otherwise boring life. I wanted to start over. A friend told me about Blossom and not long after, I found myself walking through the town’s dirt roads. It was raining and the puddles on the road were beginning to fill with water. That was the night I slept in the bed and breakfast and as I walked on the next morning, I passed by the bakery and the smell of freshly-baked apple pie filled the air. I bought two pies, one for myself and one for my real estate agent.

 

She went through all the things I should know about the town when I bought the house, and as time went by, I realized she was right. The people here always had time for simple pleasures like reading, singing and dancing, those things I rarely saw in the city that seem so important here. They were busy, but they always had time for a good conversation. Families always went out to the local diner or to the park and children enjoyed the cool, fresh air. Lovers would often watch the sunset at the harbor, which glows at night because of its little twinkling lights.

 

I started over in Blossom and rebuilt my old self, who seemed to be buried deep in the ground. I had a lot of amazing experiences and made happy memories here. I learned many things about life, met many great people, and had a wonderful time. It was more than everything I ever hoped for.

 

I feel the numbness slowly creeping in on me. I start to see the light coming from the other side.

 

“You can never go home again.” the nurse repeated.

 

“I know.” I whisper. “But I will take home with me.”

 

The bells are tolling again, and I hear them calling my name. I am not afraid, I shall come…

 

 

#

 

For more of Starting Over, check out Weekly Writing Challenge: Starting Over.

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words

James McAdams was not into children. At all. But he has to show friendliness to all if he is to become governor. He is going to start trying to be friendly today in church.

 

Sean McAdams was sleeping peacefully that early Sunday morning when his father walked into his room and woke him up.

 

“Get dressed”, he was told. For what reason, he didn’t ask. Even though he’s only seven years old, he knew better than to question his father’s orders.

 

Rachel Jones was in no mood to get out of bed. Her parents are getting ready for mass. Rachel, only three years old, knew nothing of masses and stuff like that. The whole family was wearing their ‘Sunday best’. Except me, Rachel thought. She unwillingly let her mother make her wear a pink outfit, which in her opinion was too stuffy, too snug, and too..pink.

 

They began the short walk to the town’s only church. As they were at the church’s gate, the bells tolled; it was already time for the mass. The family hurriedly entered the place and went to a quiet corner.

 

After the mass, James and his son Sean met the people at the exit. Some of them smiled, while others didn’t seem to care. Most of James’ supporters stayed behind, Rachel’s parents included.

 

“Well, don’t you have such a lovely little girl, Mrs. Jones?” James said while looking at Rachel.

 

“Well, thank you.” Rachel’s mother replied.

 

James bent down on one knee and told the little girl, “Hello little girl. What is your name?”

 

“Rachel.” she told him, not at all happy that she had to wear the stupid pink outfit for an extended period of time because of this man in the suit.

 

“Do you mind if I have a picture with her?” James asked Mr. Jones.

 

“Oh, not at all, Mr. James.” Rachel’s parents replied.

 

“Come, little girl. Let’s have a picture.” James said then held her hand. He took Sean’s hand as well, and motioned for his campaign photographer to take the shot.

 

“Smile!” the photographer said.

 

But no one was exactly in the mood because…

…James was not into children.

…Sean was still sleepy.

…Princess was feeling very uncomfortable under that pink dress.

 

And it all showed in that very disagreeable and awkward picture.

 

 

This is a response to:

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words

I wish I were…

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I wish I were young again,

To view everything with an appreciative eye like I used to,

When the world always seemed so new.

 

 

I wish I were young again,

To think the way I used to,

When everyone looked morally good to me.

 

 

I wish I were young again,

To see others as I used to,

When I did not judge on sight and resort to conclusions.

 

 

I wish I were young again,

To live a life so beautiful,

When I desired nothing but simple things.

 

 

I wish I were young again,

To enjoy the period of innocence I once had,

When I did not have to try too hard just to be myself.

A response to:

Weekly Writing Challenge: I Wish I Were

Credits: photo originally from davidlivshin.com (I just edited it)