The word, of course, covers a wider scope of porn: from picture galleries, webcam chats, videos, to movies that exploit more than their beauty—a willingness to go as far as they can tolerate or have agreed upon, within contract or none—to the hilt of their commercial worth. Though it does not mean the MILFs and the matured women have no place in the simulated and actual skin business. (Hey, it’s a free horny country and everyone with raging hormones, hot energy and lasting stamina with capable long horns can dive in.)

I singled out the teens not because I am a devout D.O.M. but for several aesthetic and psychological reasons that set them apart from the rest of the models: They have a contagious, almost naïve, enthusiasm for what they are doing, thrilled by the promised popularity and money of their exploited occupation, and an aggressive competitive stance that relegates the older, reigning competition to the background.

The proliferation of porn sites exclusive for teen models—their ages bandied as legal, yet the excited, girlish giggle and undeveloped—or early development!—of youthful physical attributes betray their true age. Again, the superficial elbowing for popularity inherent for girls still in school at this stage—childish, immature, yet determined to outshine one another—is apparent and obvious.

Thus, I wondered long and hard if they know what they were doing to themselves—in terms of reputation, personality, or responsibility for their near future. Although some of the best ones went to college and got married at their peak, and still continue to grace the porn sites with their undying lovely freshness. Their willingness to do it is more than vivid with their unquestionable enthusiasm and dedication, yet I still think there is room for everyone—especially, the young amateurs—to improve their chances of popularity and stay on top of the list.

The following are culled from hours of browsing porn sites, and formulated as theory and not as the last words for achieving and retaining success in a very competitive, controversial, and volatile billion dollar business of titillation. Which, unfortunately for those who think with a closed door, is a necessary evil in life—as getting to sleep, eating, and moving one’s bowels are important diversions from making money, building a mansion, or earning a reputation.

Consider the following then if you are planning to be a webcam model, whether on your own, with the blessing of your mom, or because your stepdad had a dirty hand and the Internet introduced you early to the thrills of immorality—that you liked it much and see no wrong or danger or harm in doing it. Jeez, it’s your body and you have all the rights, right?

WEBCAM GIRLS, here are my observations, suggestions, and advice:

•Choose a set of clean, coordinated casual clothes to enhance your beauty

Don’t be careless, untidy, or sloppy in your clothing. Do not pose before the camera as if you just came in from the hassles of traffic, finished a house chore, run an errand, or did the dishes. C’mon, you are selling a personality on camera! A tantalizing sexy image of yourself once you are online—where millions are ogling and gaping at you, where you want and wish for everyone to see you as you are—a beautiful child-woman.

It should be a memorable visual package of who you are—retained in the minds and flesh of those who saw you—presented to complement your many attractive attributes, whether a sweet smile, an innocent gleam in your eyes, your full lovely lips, your rich dark hair, etc.

Of course, many will argue (your dad, for instance) that porn browsers are not choosy with what you wear. In fact, they wanted you to wear nothing at all. Or, that some voyeurs like filth and thus, will not notice if your clothes are two days old. It is up to you to decide then, because your presentation of yourself—the way you project and retain your fragile and precious image in the eyes and minds of your fans—will determine how you’ll achieve and maintain popularity for many years.

Allow me to illustrate:

A webcam girl in her early teens wore a baby blue blouse that flattered her ample breasts. Her blue-black bra with floral laces—showing along the low neckline and narrow sleeves of her blouse as fashion now approves and dictates—enhanced her sex appeal and attractiveness. She has long sandy hair that complemented well her fair skin. And with lips gorged with red lipsticks, her wide smile is more mesmerizing than Julia. In fact, the blush on her cheeks are real, and quite becoming on her, enhancing more her suggestive charms.

She is the perfect picture of a modern teen toying with the possibilities of sexual fun in a webcam chat. She is simply adorable, huggable, and any male good enough to be a jock would want her—or for a timid nerd, dream of her as girlfriend.

And yet—

As she prepares to do her tease and lie on the bed in front of the camera, her cream or white loose shorts appeared crumpled, creased and soiled as if worn the whole day, and since webcam shots are not HD, looked untidy along the edges and crotch. (Dammit, it’s not the shorts were after but what’s underneath!—breathed your dad again, along other wide-eyed viewers, heavy-breathing also.)

All right, I maybe stressing my point a bit too far but it affected and ruined the early impressions (image) she created as a lovable wholesome kid—which tremendously increased her commercial viability—down to some ordinary porn teen model high on drugs, found among the trash, about to masturbate.

I say coordinate your clothes—the first teen example has good colour sense and casual taste, except for the worn shorts. While another webcam girl of the same age has terrible choices, and it showed. It was a pity since the second girl has more votes of approval, though not impressive, than the first one who deserves a similar or even higher rating. Apparently, they both erred in their visual presentation of themselves.

And here is the reason:

The second girl though very attractive in a non-Caucasian way—more of Latin American or Eastern European with dark hair, dark complexion and strong, angular facial features—wore a dark blue and black sports jacket over a metallic silver-blue T-shirt with white prints on it, that at first glance, she appears to be outdoors.

Then, as she prepares her act, she raised the front of her tee, and reveals a god-awful, glaring, glossy, loose and unflattering red bra! Not Coke© Red or Chinese flaming red but more of deep burgundy red, seen through the light.

Why uncoordinated? Her skin is brown; her wide areolas are dark brown, and with the nipples darker still. The large cones of her bra shone like shining red Christmas balls on her small brown breasts—distracting, frustrating, unbecoming—highlighting her dark skin.

And here’s the clincher: Her bikini panty is all red too though not luminous, and yet—a big white cross is printed at the centre of her sex. What’s this—a medical emergency or a helipad? Whatever excitement one has, to see what happens next, was doused like a ruined campfire: she’s hairy and dark, obscuring the view even with a good laptop.

Go for candid, casual attires—simple and not too fancy, stylish, or expensive. You’re not doing fashion modelling on cam. But if the colourful ideas of role-play suit your taste—say, a pirate, a queen, or a rockstar—do it, but don’t expect large fan followings. The market is small.

•Choose a good location where you want to do your thing

Okay, webcam chats always happen in one’s bedroom, right? Granted, it is the last bastion of teen privacy, your only space where you can be yourself to create your mischievous truths all you want without anyone bothering you.

Then again, make a careful choice of the exact spot to position your computer and webcam to give the viewer a better coverage of the action. Flatter your glamour, show them how beautiful you are, and they’ll all remain loyal.

Study your available and electric lights—how much and how bright the room and those bouncing on you affect your performance. Clarity of visual reception is paramount for good returns of investments here, not unless you want to scare your viewers and simulate a Blaire Witch ambiance.

It is advisable to focus some light on yourself—a steady stream whether you’re close-up or moving away to lie in your bed. And use only one kind, yellow or white. Although I have yet to see a coloured one, which is not a bad idea at all. A luscious red to boil the blood, perhaps?

It takes only common sense to light a room. Don’t go for dramatic, artificial lightings where bric-a-bracs in your room are clear while you lie in the shadows, hiding your assets and commodity that every paying viewer wanted to see. Available one source, strong lighting with good contrast is best. Create shadows but make sure you’re always above and beyond it.

Avoid doing performance when the room lights cast dark shadows on you, where you stayed half-hidden and can’t be seen except your moaning, and you’re the only one who knows what is happening. Often, webcam girls thought it’s okay to light the background as they appear in semi-silhouette. Maybe…If the viewers are all your ex-boyfriends, knowledgeable of the malleable terrain.

•Reduce the clutter in your bed, and in the room, please

You are the only thing important here the whole time you’re chatting away and performing. Do not allow distractions around you—large wild prints on bed sheets, carpets, fancy pillows, photos, posters, or colourful decors on walls. An open TV, stocks of books, or boxes of what-nots scattered or strewn to annoy the eye of the viewer from you. They’ll be curious and start to look around, getting bored, with you already lost in the foreground.

Aim for clean, uncluttered decent place to work in, where you are the main attraction and not part of the décor. If it is your room, you can fix it or put it back again if you don’t want anybody to notice you’re selling yourself online each time you bang closed the door. (“What are you doing, honey?” “Oh, nothing Mama—school research!”)

Of course, if it’s your condo or apartment, who the hell fucking cares? Just keep in mind you must stand out from the background—that is, the viewer’s eyes are focused on you alone—as you start your chat.

Here’s a suggestion: Take a webcam footage (better, a digicam) first of the whole place as seen by the angle of where you want the camera. From there, you can determine where to add or cut the lights; unclutter a wall or portion of the bed, and study your best spot to stand, dance, and do your routine.

I’ve seen one where the girl from start to finish was swallowed by the clutter in the room, aside from the irony of the wall décor: draperies of religious icons, small statues of saints, and some votive candles to light her while she moans and groans. Extra blessings? Of course, a passport to heavenly bliss bought early on.

•Stop copying the acts of old-timers in the business of stripping

I cannot more than stress the importance of image here: You have to package yourself, as Madonna did in her rise to pop music and acting career—by being you, and not anyone else. The webcam acts are so repetitious that if the girls’ faces where all covered or hidden from the cam, only their heights, colour, and weights can tell the difference.

Why copy when you can invent? Do your own moves, and create a divergence. The fans will love you for it and follow you, slobbering, whenever you perform.

Again, the quality and uniqueness of your act depends on your choice of clothes. Be original but not to a point that you’ll have difficulty undressing in front of the cam. Use your imagination. Think of your boyfriend holding his cock—er, his cam—pointed at you, and you’re aroused by it as you strip and dance, or vice versa…or do nothing at all.

Here’s a tip: Webcam enthusiasts are born voyeurs, and with the added thrill of the chat, enhancing more the pleasures a thousand fold. Be creative in your self-presentation. Try the normal but not obvious and unexpected in a chat: Be careless with yourself.

That is, allow that strap to drop and fix it a bit later; open your legs while preparing for the act as if unconscious about it; or give them a casual peek of your cleavage or butt as you get your toys—with everything done prim and proper like the honest, lovely kid that you are.

And thus, natural for you to pretend embarrassment for neglecting your modesty—strengthening the corruption of your make-believe wholesome image. Can you imagine a pretty, fresh young woman soon to be devoured by malicious, lascivious eyes? Each one corroding, staining, and debasing your perceived purity before they enjoy your complete destruction in their hands? That’s what rape is all about, but done here in the privacy of each viewer’s mind.

Act the opposite then of what you intend, and what the viewer expects you to be, and you’ll get more followers. Think of it as decent role-play.

Remember, the worldwide popularity of Japanese Manga comics and Hentai animes was due to an artistic devise concocted by the creators and publishers in which they cemented cultural acceptance for the image of innocence, vulnerability, and weakness of fragile females—yet all open and submissive to BDSM—through a simple, ordinary idea: Dressed them all as naïve school kids.

To a point that every artist involved in the production of these popular entertainment pastimes all over the country adapted a certain design of the school uniform to endorse the idea—enticing male and female avid fans of visual erotica—in every artwork they produced.

Why come out hot at once, a slut or a whore—when you can build up the fire, stoke the embers, and let the viewers hold their breath? Why portray yourself as a scorching webcam girl at all times, when you can allow each fan to entertain their private lewd ideas in their heads—hotter, bigger, more wicked and uninhibited—as you bolster your image in their crotches?

A Japanese porn site for video girls features their models as wholesome modern teens, carrying on in the usual, natural manner everyone sees happening daily in our lives. That we identify and relate to these girls like our sisters, daughters, neighbours, and friends—happy, decent individuals full of fun and adventure ready to face the challenges of their futures.

Yet, as the galleries and videos slowly unfold and reveal the truth of these girls, one feels a shocking basic instinct of malice and corruption: These beautiful, respectable teens—the images still fresh and alive in our dirty minds—are really doing all the porn.

A case of Asian cultural philosophy and ancient tradition where the devious ruse is entertained: hide the whore inside the image of respectability and beauty. Where the obedient, submissive, and apprehensive wife becomes a sexual demon in bed, devouring everything to the delight of the husband. What limp cock can avoid the tease then?

•Do not overact, but enjoy the act, instead

Experienced webcam girls tend to overact, always in a hurry to finish up, and punch their time clocks. The results were often forgotten in the minds of the viewers, who’ll seek more rewarding routines with thousand other girls available in the Net. And not unless the tell-tale sign of orgasmic wetness is seen or observe, the act becomes just another fake not worth any dollar at all.

Yet this sensitive area is where the teen models excel: their faces show genuine excitement to what they are doing—or the almost imperceptible doubts, hesitations, and fear in their countenance—once the real big deal becomes inevitable: A hard, unbendable truth they all swallowed and learned to adapt and enjoy—acquiring expert carnal experiences more than they had from either boyfriends or girlfriends.

Unfortunately, accumulations of these experiences also spell their rapid decline in popularity, as the excesses and abuse to their psyche and body take its toll: sagging breasts, wobbly muscles and belly, flabby pussy—due perhaps to giving birth—or worse, the unforgiving signs of age, wrinkles.

Still, teen models show more truth and reality in their performances, and without the corrupting advice of directors or talent coordinators, I suggest you follow your heart in what you are doing.
Stay honest with what you want to do, or intend to do, in front of that camera. But please, do not adlib and fake your pleasures. It shows, even in a poorly lighted room or a wiggly-giggly webcam reception.

•Experiment, explore, entertain—whether with toys or dance routines

It is quite satisfying when one discovers the sexual creativity of a performer, where the simple mashing of her breasts looks natural and unrehearsed, and not copied from others doing the same bedroom/bathroom exercises. One tends to believe a teen model’s enjoyment of every bit of her act, something normal and fresh to her sensibilities, and not as a common, patented movement when pleasuring one’s self, rehashed by the others.

I have a clear remembrance of a masturbation scene done by a teen, where it was billed as her initial foray into video, and where she had a real orgasm. True enough, what she experienced on cam cannot be duplicated even by an Oscar nominee, as vivid and detailed to the last ecstatic gasp. She went on to be a popular teen model, with all the porn trappings attached.

How many times do we have to endure the circular cupping of both breasts, the nipple-pulling that followed, supposed to be emphasized by an artificial seductive smile? Or the jiggling of the breasts to show ample roundness or firmness, made right after taking off the bra? Why, there are more tempting ways to showcase one’s full breasts and not through routine moves. Just ask your dad or your girlfriends.

I easily get bored with these steps that I just wait for the supposed explosion to happen soon. And normally, I am disappointed—not unless, it’s a teen model. The merit of orgasmic authenticity provided by these girls are more credible, and thus, their major asset in these competitive game. Like it or not, the sex act has been with us for so long, faking the results are only too obvious, glaring, and predictable, even in the dark.

•Pretend you’re all alone, be yourself, and do it as best as you can

The suspension of disbelief that a model is alone to do her act may be true for webcam, as a nervous teen keeps moving the cam, looking for the perfect angle to showcase her glamorous appeal. Yet, how many times that a hand would intervene and indiscreetly appear on cam—not of the model but of the crew shooting the performance—and destroys the believability of the orgasm?

Sometimes, shadows not of the model appear in the background. Or voices mumbling, murmuring commands, dictating what to do next, the model looking lost, dumbfounded or confused, glancing at the cam as if asking herself what to do. All the while she’s naked and exposed on cam, teetering on her feet or awkwardly bouncing her hair to mask her anxiety and fear.

Try to be yourself on camera. Forget the others—from lights crew to make-up to hairdresser—and do what you think is appropriate for your viewers paying time. The best way is to do it by yourself, alone. Pick the best moment when you’re relax and in a sexy mood. Then, go online and deliver the much-awaited goods for our viewing pleasures.

Try following my suggestions for starters and you’ll do half as fine. With practice and determination, you can polish your unique presentation and thus, come out ahead and more popular than the rest.

Let me recap all seven sinful and depraved observations supposed to help your porn star career:

•Choose a set of clean, coordinated casual clothes to enhance your beauty

•Choose a good location where you want to do your thing

•Pretend you’re all alone, be yourself, and do it as best as you can

Good luck to you and may your fans grow into multitudes.

This study is dedicated to my early inspirations and favourite teen models: from Felicity, Allison, Tammy, to Nikki—all famous and glamorous in their own unique ways. May the others shine as they follow your stunning sexy individuality and enduring beauty to stardom and money.

But when is extreme too extreme?

Is it when extreme becomes intolerable? And how is intolerable defined here? Is it according to site standards–those created and imposed by admins, mods, and reputable members? Or as dictated by government code of ethics and morals? Or, unfortunately, is it by the obedient, overprotective response of the writing community site to comply and preserve a nurtured reputation—yet limiting exploration, experimentation, and expression of new attempts, concepts, and interpretations of genres of fiction and other forms of writing?

I write to explore, to experiment, and to express my versions or evaluations of an old idea (every concept sprung from another more established ones, hence nothing is original) in whatever genre I like and belong.

Has anyone given it a thought, or at least tried to imagine, what Literature and the Fine Arts would look like if everyone in the arts community or the creative lot, settles down safe and secure, basking in the glories and achievements of the old established materials we fondly refer to as Classics—and no longer innovate?

Every artist and art school will institutionalized painting styles that favour the Renaissance Masters (and there’s nothing wrong with that!) but we will never experience or see a Picasso, a Pollack, or a Warhol or even the drastic transformations trail-blazed by computer generated visual arts.

And in Literature, every author and writer will emulate Shakespeare, Dumas, or Dickens (again, there’s nothing exceptionally wrong with that!). But we will find every other author shedding away their literary identities, their creative credentials, and forsake their rights to pursue and follow their ideas, in whatever millennium they belong, which means goodbye to Whitman, Woolf, or Steinbeck, and there will no longer be any Updike, Capote, or Vonnegut.

Every creative soul blessed with the skills and concepts to write or paint will find her/himself shackled and working within house rules (which are quite acceptable and favourable, if only for the unruly, arrogant, and boisterous community members). Yet, in any art or writing community an artist or writer belongs and finds oneself obligated and unable to expand one’s creativity to fly and soar with paints or words above the standards will inhibit her/his growth, dropping it to full mediocrity, including the development of the disciplines themselves.

In this scenario, instead of using creativity to challenge the self, we may find ourselves going back to trace and retrace meticulously every step of the Masters. We will lose our creative individualities and become another skilled parrot—exemplifying the genre standards set by house rules. Personal and selfish rules that limit an individual’s creative expression, as dictated and outlined and only deemed acceptable by the community admins, moderators, and close friends—trumpeting, unknowingly, mutual censorship.

Rules restrict creativity. Mediocrity kills the arts.

Common rules agreed and drawn upon by an art community or a creative committee may leak more poison harmful to an artist/writer/author’s artistic growth and experiences. If set standards or strict guidelines need to be amended or expanded even if already established and practiced (as in Extreme Content—where EXTREME may include those that are extraordinary and weird, and thus, reworded to EXTREME CAUTION instead)—the reading public is given their options and rights to proceed.

Maybe, it’s time to rectify and improve the definition and terms of the rule.

For in Literature, as in Art, the artist or writer demands the freedom to choose and express creativity. Or else, wallow in painful, unforgettable obscurity, hobbled by censorship disguising itself as the righteous standards of morals and dignity–for everyone.

Yet, because the site is open worldwide to any country and culture and not only for the western regions of the globe, it had not considered other consequences that the idea might promote and provoked, encouraging more alienations than reunions…for some.

Who’d ever want to see or connect with old friends from High School when you’re present status requires you to hide, not in anonymity but in a more secured and secluded state of existence like a blog with an avatar and a user name? Who’d like to communicate with relatives when they flaunt their financial affluence and luxurious lifestyle in the pages of Facebook while you toil alone to eke out a decent life?

One may not be a criminal, or pursued by legal authorities, or even recuperating from a messy divorce to enjoy a bit of relaxed isolation—living as one wants it to be—and not burdened by the baggage of old memories still eating one’s core.

To receive an email invitation for a reunion of old High School friends or former officemates and acquaintances, with Facebook referred to as source of communication and where all the good buddies can be found in their most impressive pictures of success with their widest smiles, can be disheartening…Especially, if one’s present status is slightly better than a panhandler and living mostly on hand outs, or sadly, with several attempts to end one’s life all considered and shelved for a while.

Thus, as the majority enjoy the idea presented by Facebook of connecting, socializing, and establishing old ties of friendships once again, several personal delicate factors were overlooked as they got carried away with the truth, fun and warmth of reunions. For who wouldn’t be glad to see old friends, families, lovers, and acquaintances again?

One would be more than delighted, I guess, if:
•The person eager to make the connections and who spends time and effort to make it grand and all memorable is a friend, in the truest, honest sense of the word—and not because she/he wanted only to show everyone in the old batch what she already achieved, what success she attained, and where she is, living in her glorious palace out of the country.

•The circle of old friends are not the same hypocrites—more pretentious than a salesman and more poisonous with their tongues than ever before—ready to give a pathetic slap on the back while they snigger and backbite at the same time.

•The old friends are one’s real true friends, all present with unabashed excitement and thrilled to see each other again, to tighten the friendships, to hold one’s hands in appreciation and gratitude, ready to share and sympathize for whatever predicament one is buried into at the moment…A death in the family, a business with more debts than collectibles, or a marriage scrambled with divorce.

•And last, the friends are coming at the reunion for the person that you are and whom they’ve known and cherished before, if not loved and held dear in their hearts, the sweet memories of being young together still alive and fresh in their minds.

To show one’s face in facebook.com and connect with friends from all over the globe is a grand idea, as long as the persons connecting and renewing friendships are sincere, honest, and true to their intentions…And not because it is wonderful to be seen, to be popular, and be reminded all the time of a thousand notifications of headless friends on Facebook.

I’m sorry I do not have a Facebook account. But one can find me in MySpace or Blogger or here, at WordPress, where I treasure my friends each time they come to visit and read, renewing ties far more cherished and embraced.

Sadly, most are of low quality, especially, the virus-infected ones. Now, why should anyone quite avid to follow and look at the endless submissions of human sexual excesses endure to be subjected to mindless, stupid, and hurriedly executed videos that do nothing but elaborate, display, and sell the physical beauty and abused humanity of the women or men models?

I am not a porn connoisseur. Yet I’m human and enjoy sex, no matter what my religion says and forbids. Also, as an artist (both in the visual arts and graphic design, and as an aspiring writer/author hoping to publish online and in print), sexual expressions and titillations are part of my artistic sensitivities and vocabulary. It form a cache of pictorial experiences relied on to provide inspirations, ways to release stress or work-related tensions, and personal pleasures and thrills available to anyone willing to admit without shame or moral constraints the beauty of sex.

Suffice it to say that I possess quite a critical eye developed through the years of working for advertising and later teaching Fine Arts Courses in college, whether watching a Hollywood blockbuster or a TV serial or Special, a visual art or graphic design material or exhibition, or reading books of fiction, or various special interest magazines.

Thus, watching porn makes me cringe and twist from time to time at the absurdity of creative delivery, stupid acting, poor lighting, bad colour choices, cliché dialogues (if ever present), and the unthinking ways of both photographer and director doing the video. If there is one good site to relish a visual treat, I am obliged to mention the exceptional concept, creativity, and skill of photography and presentation of ifeelmyself.com, if only for comparison. (A site recommended by my nephews who were just out of college and thought it was a joke I didn’t know about it).

So, what makes a good amateur porn video?

Photography equipment matters a lot and must be considered as correct investment if one is serious in pursuing this course—the superior and hi-end the cameras, the better the quality and results of the visuals.

Then again, remember that this is a moving picture, and not static photography. Yet if photographs were popularly edited and retouched with Photoshop, so must the videos be edited also by the directors. I must confess unfamiliarity with the porn system and the business itself, and editing might pose a problem or create hassles for their timetables, but that is the first rule of thumb to make a better video:

EDIT YOUR FUCKING FILMS, DAMMIT!

Cut it, man—splice it, if it’s dragging! Don’t bore your viewer—no matter how she/he may be deprived or depraved—to sit and wait and finish the show. After all, there are thousands more to click and watch the same shit.

Use your visual judgement by positioning yourself in the eyes of the viewer—a certified, 100%voyeur, relishing every drop and morsel of your porn in the privacy of her/his laptop—something clearly considered and noticeable with the ifeelmyself site: All the videos were well edited.

And this brings us to the closely related second rule:
STUDY THE LIGHTING, NO MATTER HOW SHITTY THE PLACE!

Man oh man—if you’re shooting outdoors, please do bring a light meter to at least gauge your camera openings and speed for exposures. If you don’t, you’ll have a washout video, a model squinting at the light, and worst, an unusable, badly recorded exquisite video where the model really had had multiple orgasms while filming—unrepeatable, of course, but where the fakes will soon earned their incomes.

If you’re doing it indoors, say, in the basement or laundry room, make sure the harsh light at the back is not swallowing your model’s figure but complementing it, instead. If you do not have available light, careful with those studio lights—it’s hot; it gives too much light, and quite hard to manage in a cramped space—like a narrow bathroom. If your thing is a Coppola-esque style of lighting indoors, fine and congratulations (you were enlightened about shooting good porn), which is actually the third rule:

USE AVAILABLE LIGHT AS BEST AS POSSIBLE.

The wisdom here is the reason for what I’ve mentioned above: Your viewers are voyeurs, and to put them into their milieu, to simulate that instance of perfect timing (catching the next door neighbour doing her/his private thing) is to give them that claustrophobic atmosphere of being inside with the model—obviously separated only by a hole, which in this case, has the size of a screen monitor—seeing, hearing, relishing the sex act, unnoticed.

If there are restrictions in the video shoot (as always, there are) and available lighting becomes a problem, then at least try to simulate. This is where creativity comes in and some knowledge of art direction helps a lot.

Remember, you need to create ambience, a realistic mood, a semblance of believable realism that the viewer will think she/he is not watching a set-up film session but rather—an amateur shooting her/his video, by her/his self!—uncompromised, all by her/himself, and without the obtrusion or obstruction of camera crews, wardrobe, lights guys, and make-up artists.

So, what’s wrong with the word AMATEUR? In fact, it adds credence and realism to the video and whoever invented or thought of it, should have copyrighted the fucking word to become a millionaire in a flash. Why?—because amateur porn meant that the model/s were having fun on a titillating whim and video recorded her/him/themselves for everyone to see online, which, for the fourth rule, means:

DON’T LOOK AT THE CAMERA, FOR CHRISSAKES!

It is so disappointing, or quite off-putting, when a model looks at the camera, smiling—or around her, waiting for cues—while she/he does her/his thing. (Although I’ve seen women do it often than men, as if they can’t resist looking at their glamorous countenance or seductive body and passed off the chance to look beautiful on camera—though common in webcam footages, especially, in the intro stages.)

For a voyeur or peeping tom, when the person on the screen smiles and looks conscious straight at the camera, it approximates being discovered—caught in the act of peeking through the discreet hole in the wall—and thus, washes off the effect of privacy intended by the video. It looked contrive, unreal, and nothing but trashy porn done poorly, stupidly, without merit or future at all. (I am guessing here, but I believe porn sites monitor their best and poorest videos, maybe for the purpose of doing another one with the same lucrative model/s, and earn more recognition and exposures in the process.)

And choosing model/s is a difficult process, but if one considers the milieu where the model will operate, the task becomes a lot easier by using common sense and outright popular taste, thus, the fifth rule to consider in amateur porn video:

USE MODELS THAT LOOK THE PART, STUPID!

I’ve seen videos that say she/he is a teen and a student caught in the act, and several camera angles later, showed she/he is as professional in the oldest act of God, a terribly bad actor/actress—without trace or promise of innocence or gullibility at all. For chrissakes, who do you think your viewers are—slobbering, stammering, sniggering imbeciles? Persons who are so numbed by their lust and lewdness of thoughts that they go blind and forget the details once the sex act commences? C’mon guys, give us a break! We’re your patrons, you know?

I said use common sense in choosing model/s by simply looking at the stereotypical portrait of the person one requires. If it is a student, then go for those who actually look like students—and don’t dressed-up your lucrative model even if she had already three kids and it’s showing, just because she/he is so fucking popular. Make some sense, man…and make more money doing it. Alas, don’t be greedy, which is actually the reason for the sixth rule for a better amateur porn video:

DON’T MOVE THE FUCKING CAMERA!

To enhance attractive lewdness of their video, film directors and cameramen resort to close up shots (so micro that you can sometimes see pimples, rashes, or allergies if not skin disease, ugh!), thinking it was necessary or it is what viewers wanted. Once the camera moves from the spot, or variations in the angle occur, it only meant that there is a large group of people filming the supposedly “amateur” video experience of one or two persons taking place on the screen. If it is unavoidable to have several cams during filming, then do a discreet, seamless edit later to show transition or shortening of actual time.

(In some cases of good, accidental amateur video, the idea of stretched time adds a bit of reality to the film, instead of detracting from it. For example, the model goes out of frame for a few seconds to fetch her/his play tools, and comes back again without the camera moving an inch, adding an enormous plausibility that she/he is alone and doing the video all by her/his lonesome self—even though viewers know everything was set up and done on purpose from the start.

To recap, the six rules (if you want to try) for a credible amateur porn video are:

1.Edit your shots to enhance intensity, continuity, and enjoyment of content, whether solo, twosome, or fucksome.

2.Study the lights wherever you are shooting outdoor or indoor, for better clarity and atmospheric, titillating mood.

3.Use available light whenever possible for good natural effect that is more credible and realistic, especially, when shooting indoors.

4.Do not allow your model/s to look at the camera since it lessens the credibility of the model/s (and the video) for amateur porn.

5.Use model/s that look the part and not someone so unbelievable that your video illicit laughter instead of orgasmic anxieties and tensions.

6.Do not move the camera/s while shooting so as to heighten the mood of “amateurism”—the basic idea of doing the whole thing alone or with someone who are not professionals.

These are not fool proof rules but are offered here free for your perusal and guidance to at least improve your video from trash to cash. Don’t forget to send me a copy, if you think my observations help you on your way to become the new porn queen or king.

All the best of fuck—er, luck!

I once had wings for those who wanted to fly, to be transported to places far richer, happier, and greater than this one, that they may see everything and everyone else they love, loathed or despised and not always from below but alas!—from above.

I once have eyes yet blinded by childish selfishness and pride, like those who cannot see the truth from their lies, the false from their make-believe realities; the certainty of defeat hanging sure and precarious above their heads, of every downfall and death crafted by their own sorry misdeeds.

I have ears just the same so I can listen clear to your pains, to unburden your heart while I hear the rise and swell of your hurt—the echoes of your sufferings, relentless!—tinged with unfulfilled and fearful dreams of sorrow each night.

I have no lips though, to speak ill of my neighbours, no mouth to curse my curious pretentious visitors, no voice to condemn my friends’ hypocrisies or praise myself and be proud once more and again.

I have a face only so you can recognize me from the crowd, to find me from afar when you need my shoulder, my attention, and time; thus, see me as I am in my most naked, beautiful dazzling self—unblemished, pure, and unreal.

Yet, I have no heart to share but can only give you whatever happiness you so desire—be it material, sexual or unnatural—whatever joy I have, which you might forsake or deny…Listen, I can provide you anything your heart covets, hungers or thirsts.

I have a body to keep you warm when you are desperate, cold, or alone; my strength is yours to hold—awake and alive when you feel weak, tired, or uninspired—to nourish your passion when you are forlorn and your fires are out.

I have arms to extend and reach out for your wants, to direct and point the right paths, the best ways, the proper directions and positions you may choose to take gleaned from the stars—if only you will believe and close your eyes.

For I have a tail now and much embarrassed of it, to keep me anchored on my feet and hold myself upright and straight, lest I soar and shoot the clouds and climb once more over and above what I already know, absorbed, and learned to be my own.

Yes, I have feet so I can come to you whenever I like, to visit you when you call and be with you if and when you so desired; I will keep you company, I promise you that—cuddle you in despair and care for you when hurt—share my friendship in your most lonely, isolated moments in life.

I have horns yet shorn to remind me of what I am and who I am once: not perfect, not blessed, not gifted or even mystical; not an angel, a saint, or an almighty god but a devil still, and only in your sad, beautiful eyes.

I am a friend, as if you need to be reminded of that—a brother, father, uncle to anyone who would care and return the favour as such—be my sister, mother, aunt when they see and understand what I am at first glance.

I am here and not really here; a guest and an observer who is most pleased and entertained by your unwavering interest, attention, and time…Your unfaltering gaze of wonderment and disbelief honours me, sweetened by your unadulterated smile.

I am love, and loving every breath of it…Only for you, and each and everyone else who offers a heartfelt lie, my friend.

For any passers-by curious enough on a clear day to get caught admiring the ancient fountain without looking directly at the imposing threat of the figure high above its pedestal with an arrow pointed straight at one’s heart, she or he can read—or perhaps, discern only by an erring eye—the ode above probably inscribed by the sculptor, or maybe, by a supernatural hand etching the warning on granite, describing with unabashed pride an all-consuming semblance of beauty undeniable in its malevolent disguise.

(Excerpt from the Epilogue of my horror-sex-fantasy novel in progress: “The Fountain of Lies”.)

The Writer’s Rules, with the respective authors of the pros and cons, are the following:

Rules                                                                                  “Follow It”                                         “Break It”

1. Write What You Know.                   1. Donald Maass                                 1. Natalie Goldberg

2. Hook Your Readers on Page 1.   2. Jerry B. Jenkins                            2. Steve Almond

3. Show, Don’t Tell.                              3. Natalie Goldberg                           3. Donald Maass

4. Write “Shitty” First Drafts.          4. John Smolens                                 4. Nancy Kress

5. Write Every Day.                             5. John Dufresne                                5. James Scott Bell

6. Kill Your Darlings.                          6. N.M. Kelby      (Undecided)       6. N. M. Kelby

7. Develop a Thick Skin.                   7. Steve Almond                                  7. Sheila Bender

8. Silence Your Inner Critic.           8. James Scott Bell                              8. John Smolens

9. Read What You Like.                     9. Nancy Kress                                     9. John Dufresne

10. If You Want to Get Rich,

Do Something Else.                            10. Sheila Bender                               10. Jerry B. Jenkins

Though it was not mentioned if these rules are in order of importance, it all seemed reasonable enough for an aspiring or beginner writer to follow, understand, and subscribe in one’s personal quest to write and get published.

Yet, no matter how interesting the contradicting (and supporting) points of view, no matter how knowledgeable, sincere, and provocative the professional conclusions of the experts with the pros and cons of the rules, one thing remained constant, unbreakable, and real in the unpredictable and continuous shifts in the publishing game—and where the writer’s intangible rulebook does not apply, even with the writer’s strict adherence to it.

For publishers, editors, and literary agents—reputable groups of individuals who exercise their respective office to manage, utilize, and influence the flow and direction of productions that affect the stability and growth of the industry—follow their own set of rules, a system of principles governed primarily by commercial (i.e., business) considerations, which has more definite, immediate, and dominant effect in the chain of responsibilities engaged in book development prior to publication: From acquisition, marketing, sales, advertising, publicity, promotion, printing, publishing, to actual distribution, before the book reaches the reader, and which in due time, depending on public acceptance, trickle down some benefits too—whether popularity, book deal, reputation, or money—to the author.

As industry professional often emphasized in interviews and Q&As, authors must also realize and accept the commercial aspects and responsibilities inherent in publishing while cultivating a healthy business relationship built on trust, and not focus solely their efforts in the attainment of creative satisfaction. And since publishers, editors, and literary agents know more about the financial weight and possible circumstances surrounding a manuscript even for a promising bestseller, the author can only wait and anticipate, and later agree and follow whatever evaluations in direction, alteration, or deletion are requested(especially, when there is already a sizable book advance) in the course of preparation for the book’s eventual publication.

For to do otherwise (though there are exceptions)—to rebel and react or stand firm on what the author perceived to be the merits and strength of a creative output—is to court blindly a snag in production that would drastically alter schedules and deadlines in the book’s development, and worst, earned for the author an unpopular reputation that may endanger or derail the start of a promising, professional career—even if, with his/her undeniable contributions as an indispensable cog in the publishing industry.

Because how can the industry publish anything—or even exist!—if there are no authors, writers, storytellers, and other practitioners of the craft to contribute, support, and supply it with materials? More so, with the priceless works of famous authors and writers long gone in the history of literature with their continuous reprints? Come to think of it, each one needs the other—author to agent, agent to editor, editor to publisher, publisher to bookstore, etc., and vice versa—or nothing will be achieved.

Of course, it can always be argued that a big reputable house can have all of these and continue to survive. Then again, a house “style” will emerge that will either drown the creativity or pull the business down to ignominy.

Thus, it becomes fortuitous in a sense, at this point of preparation for the book, if not quite disheartening. For in these long and arduous processes of revisions, rewrites, and refinements saddled with the pressures of demanding deadlines, an author instinctively exerts more of his/her creative powers as he/she taps and exercises—and perhaps, appreciates, too—an awareness of the writer’s rules, probably embracing the truth of the advice as it is put to the test, in particular, Rules No. 7 and No. 10, the latter, rephrased in the throes of anxiety and frustration to read: “If you want to SURVIVE,  do something EASY.”

Hence, rendering the well-intentioned and noteworthy gleanings compiled in the article as enticing glamour shots to admire and aspire for those considering a life-long professional career in writing; an encouraging array of showcases meant to resolve innocent and eager inquiries from beginners and those still contemplating whether to pursue or not a dream, and as inspiring eye-candies that colour and sweeten the various contradictions (though brewing with unspoken arguments!) to help overcome hesitation, anxiety, or disgust among those neck-deep in the craft and yet, still without success—thus, positioning conveniently everything and everyone involved in the creative processes of a book, story, poem, essay, or article in good harmonious light—since the guardians of the publishing industry already spoke, and etched their rules in stone.

Therefore, allow me in the spirit of amicable co-existence for everyone who invested more than time in the perfection of the craft; in salute to the non-patronizing camaraderie between the client-supplier relationship prevalent in the competitive atmosphere of publishing, and in celebration of the writer’s exclusive privilege to explore, experiment, and exercise “breaking the rules” with his/her creative meanderings sprinkled with the breath of expansive imaginations—

Ladies, Gentlemen, Friends, Sisters and Brothers of the Art of Writing, together with the other devout practitioners of the craft who do not view the exercise as a ritualistic job but a pursuit of life’s fulfillment—I present for your information, guidance and perusal, the probable, unbreakable, commerce-induced, systematic principles of “The PUBLISHING INDUSTRY RULEBOOK” since the advent of paper.

The rules, as always, are:

Marketing                        1. We Know What’s Right.

Sales                                   2. Hook Your Buyers on Day 1.

Advertising                     3. Display, Don’t Dawdle.

Promotion                       4. First Come, First Serve—No Shit!

Distribution                     5. Deliver Every Day.

Author Promo Tour     6. Leave Your Darlings.

Book Advance                7. Develop a Quick Poker Face.

Networking/PR              8. Shout Your Inner Creds, Duh!

Contract Signing            9. Read Your Rights If You Like.

Income Statement      10. If You Want to Get Rich, Do What We Did.

DEDICATION:

For Ms Natalie Goldberg, brilliant advocate for breaking Writer’s Rule No. 1…“This is why we have imaginations.”

APOLOGY:

I found the back issue of Writer’s Digest Magazine (September 2010) a week ago in a used-books store’s bargain bin, and for someone hungry and thirsty for creative nourishment, it still tasted fresh, satisfying, and refreshing, cover to cover. My apologies then for absorbing and using content past the expiry date, hence this ramblings.

The climate of the season for each of us to be merry, unbeknownst to many, becomes one of the three demanding schedules for the mortician, the funeral homes, the crematoriums, and of course, the cemeteries. The most common reasons for deaths given: accidents and suicides. Unavoidable, you say, but then again, isn’t what we only wanted is to be happy, to forget our miseries, to start anew? Yet we succumb to the pressures to show a happy face and take risks we never thought would include our lives, especially, for the losers and lonely among us.

It seems that with the celebration, a more unseemly direction is taken by some of the participants whether in the company of others or in the privacy of their homes. According to local funeral owners, December, March, and May (not counting the climate changes that occur in mid August—at least, in my country here in Asia where disastrous floods and landslides were normal occurrences in the nature of things), these months were the busiest (if not the most lucrative) for them. March (Graduation Day) becomes highlighted for those who failed and took their lives than suffer humiliation, plus the unfortunate misadventures of the overjoyed who graduated, engaging in celebrations that went the wrong way. And for May, the month of flowers and youthful delights, of excursions, picnics, and outdoor adventures, road accidents, car or bus crashes, drowning, and fires become common occurrences.

Yet, December seems particularly keen on the suicides for obvious reasons: depression and despair. Desperation becomes visible and clear on the faces of some during the holidays, where almost everybody wears a good cheer shopping, eating, drinking, lounging, gift-giving, touring, or enjoying things planned ahead just for this occasion of gladness and merriment all over the world.

How many hearts lay wasted and broken in the lurch, where once hope shines so brightly and expectant for the individual, thinking that because it is the Holidays, a more affirmative, positive result can be had? I know of someone who broke the heart of her friend on Christmas day—the guy’s birthday!—by saying no to his proposal, and showing him she’s attached to someone else: She allowed the guy to meet each other on the same day. Do you feel the pain? Does it hurt?

How many dreams of wealth, of glory, of fame and fortune were shattered—and which the recollections became more obvious and painful during the Holidays—when everyone celebrates in glorious abandon without thought or concern, blind and drunk while they wallowed in their own pretensions? How many will drink their frustrations to death? How many will swallow their pills to forget, to sleep, and lay unawake till found the next day—sad, piteous, and gone forever?

How many unwanted life beating at the hearts of the soon-to-be-mothers will be aborted, only for the sake of the person thinking of starting anew, of forgetting the bad experience, of the accident that was not meant to happen at all—precautions were taken but it broke, Father—and thus, all guilt washed off? (I am not anti abortion, especially if it was due to rape or incest, but many unborn lives perished without a trace during this Season of Joy).

The Holiday Season magnifies a glaring desperation: The need to be with someone, to communicate with that someone, to feel important and love by that someone, or simply, to share and enjoy the delightful feelings with someone closest and most precious to one’s heart. Yet, how many can say they have someone? Or better yet, how many will spend it with a family?

Before the season is over, remember a person that was neglected or forgotten in your life—maybe last year or this year—and try to communicate. A simple hello or hi, or if you’re in the mood since it is the holidays, why not drop by? It is more important and valuable than a flask of rare wine.

Save the day, wear an honest face, bear your heart and carry your precious life waiting ahead of you—full and above everybody else’s—fill it with hope and dreams, all in a day’s cycle of life.

True, I find inspiration, motivation, and courage to persevere while I consider the flow and pulse of several literary and mainstream works and its authors, yet a nagging question at the back of all these education keeps its solid vigil, a reality begging for an answer:

In spite of what the published authors or writers claimed, in spite of all the critical accolades, awards, and credits their works received from popular and reputable journals, magazines, and literary award-giving organizations, in spite of the list of PhDs, MFAs, grants, achievements and titles attached to their names, why are they not best-selling authors yet?

What keeps them from becoming one? What is missing in their writings, or what have they not done yet to achieve the fame? Were the reading fans too capricious and acting like prima donnas in their choice of mainstream or literary materials that they tend to favour more one than the other?

In this regard, what makes the Romance genre’s best-selling authors different from best-selling authors of other genres, that no matter how it is compared, the Romance authors seemed below in esteem and estimation of literary gurus and awards organizations, much less other authors, and if not for their legions of fans, I think, most of them would have already abandoned the genre?

What does it take to become a best-seller? Or in part, what makes that piece of writing acceptable to readers to elevate it to the best-selling list? What separates them from the bunch of other well-written materials whose authors have earned their PhDs, MFAs, and other prestigious awards and accolades—as if every prize invented to honour and immortalized the contribution of someone in the writing and publishing community added dimension and weight to their reputations and names—and yet, they are not best-sellers?

Is it the person?

Is it all about the author’s personality (that’s why the American literati and its followers tend to adore more and emulate Hemingway, Kerouac, or Wolfe, than say, Steinbeck, Faulkner, or Vonnegut) as some marketing strategies for selling books now includes and considers as asset in their promotional schemes? Does it boil down to “image” (as in commercialization again) as projected by the author in person or on TV, like an exquisite product packaging introduced in the marketplace, so it will stand out and get noticed during its launch, in spite of content?

Or is it the genre choice of the author that makes it a best-selling book?

One readily recalls J. K. Rowling’s phenomenal success, where Fantasy loaded with magic and sorcery cast a spell on millions of fans worldwide. There is William Peter Blatty, who possessed short-term notoriety, fame, and fortune for one devilish book of Horror, or China Mieville, rising from the clutter and clang of British acclaim and recognition, with his Boschnian-punk Sci-fi novel that defied and ignored the rule for a good title. Also, we cannot forget Thomas Harris, catching the world’s attention with a cultured villain who has a deviant taste for good food and luxury, concocting his own legend of Crimes. (I think Mr. Harris never considered it to go that far, though.) Then again, there is Stephen King, raising everyone’s bristling expectations of Horror by introducing the frightening potentials of psychic powers, thus, enjoyed the premonition of an enduring career.

I believe there are other noteworthy individuals who have done the same surprises in their particular genre, and that their achievements as a best-seller have not been duplicated—cannot be duplicated—by anyone else as easily, in spite of their meritorious skills, craftsmanship, or award-winning claims.

Why?

Are the muses so fickle that they will only sprinkle their dusts of inspiration and glory to those who aroused their interests? Why, in more than 3,000 writers and authors attempting to become a best-seller, only 200 are earning their keep? And a mere handful are legitimate best-selling authors—Grisham, Clancy, and King, to name some of the consistent few doing it with relative ease—each one may have honed an honest formula, yet only best and suitable for themselves.

Thus, I notice two things that are evident.

There are two kinds of success in writing. One, the famous author: A published author, but whose name is not popular and who does not have a best-seller yet, even though multi-awarded or had received accolades, grants, and honors from both prestigious writing organizations and the publishing industry itself. An author whose name does not stir excitement, or is well-known, among mainstream readers, but honored and revered by her or his peers and normally holds a college or university teaching position; is an academic Chair, or a writing organization’s Head, an Editor of a literary magazine, and is trying to finish a memoir or start a new novel.

The other kind rakes the gold. A popular author: A published author famous for her or his best-sellers, often interviewed in magazine articles and on well-known radio and TV talk shows, has sold millions of copies and still selling, loved by publishers but snubbed and rebuked by the literati and the academe for the mainstream taste and flavours of the books, ignored by prestigious award-giving bodies for the lowbrow contents, may give lectures but does not hold an academic position, avoids Chair responsibilities of any award or writing organizations, and is busy working on the next best-seller with already an enormous advance the envy of the writing community.

All these proved one thing: That art, and its appreciation, is always subjective. And what muddles the validity of the interpretation and acceptance of each one who looks at it or reads it, as the case may be, is the conscious insistence and persistence of the learned, the experienced, and the knowledgeable based on their practices, theories, readings, and studies—in short, their esteemed reputation and integrity aggregated through constant acknowledgements of their expertise by their own peers and patrons laid on the line—as the last word, the final adjudication that must be listened to, and held credible and sacred by everyone who holds an opposing opinion or view.

Indeed it is unfortunate, because it becomes a measuring stick, an unsatisfactory gauge used to determine the value and worth of a work of art or book, based on the prevailing and reputable view of a learned few. Haven’t we all heard an editor or a publisher’s comment that memoir or non-fiction is better than fiction now? That short story is bye-bye, only food for the dogs? How many times have we heard them utter to flavour the writing with international situations, as they kept an eye on translations, thus, cuddling unknown writers in the process with exotic personalities? Bottom line: It’s the money, the media game of selling the idea of the person writing a book, and not the content of the book.

Yet how many times have we read a sentence or a passage that seemed to have been written with the simplicity and innocence of thought coming from a child? Something that grabs and pulls us, unmindful whether it has lyrical or literary merit or rhyme, making us understand the content and comprehend the meaning as clear and vivid as a mother’s pampering advice? Or a father’s admonitions, for that matter, crisp and cracking, even if the words hurt us, taught us?

The popular opinion and choice of many in mainstream readings echo these almost plain and unfettered words and sentences constructed by the heart and not by the worried conscious mind, unburdened by the thought of literary criticisms ready to be flung at it by friends, peers, and colleagues alike. For me, this unbridled simplicity, this honesty of heart in every word, is what makes a best-seller. (One of the best reason, I think, why Romance survives on its own, far better than other genres: For how literary can one say the words I love you?).

Everyone is familiar with Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist, or even Poe’s The Raven, works filled with straight and meaningful lines and sentences that are easy to understand, munch, and swallow with gusto, until it leaves us satisfied, contented in our hearts. Simple but enduring classics, poetry, and best-selling literary pieces that continue to live, entertain, and haunt us, as we go on in our everyday lives.

In an article in The Writer magazine (Two-part Harmony, by Phyllis A. Humphrey, Off the Cuff, August 2001), the author discussed the differences between writers who are word people and story people: Word people “…have a fine grasp of language and love words…adjectives and verbs that create outstanding images…inventing interesting similes and metaphors…specializing in poetry and literary fiction.” While Story people are “…marked by action and dialogue; something is always happening and characters talk a lot…they prefer commercial fiction, and mysteries.” Ms. Humphrey went on to asked how each type can learn to use the other’s uniqueness, that is, tell a better story and use language effectively. In short, “language and story must blend to create memorable fiction.”

But isn’t this the real joy of writing, the thrill of concocting fiction—the actual process of merging, mixing, and blending both story and one’s own unique language called voice? I think any author will agree that while she is in the thrall of creative composition, she uses without a conscious effort both considerations, not unless, one is so mindful of reputation that every word written is evaluated thrice, or else suffer a critical black eye.

I think it is in the revisions done with an eye for the critics’ taste that the famous authors adhere to, surrendering to the stated structures, guidelines, and styles, playing to the accepted norms instead of pursuing and standing firm on their own identity, obliterating the innocence, sincerity, and honesty of their written works. (How many writers avoid using a fragment? How many considers the adverb a dirty word?) Then again, they complain why they do not have a best-seller yet.

In another article, in Poets & Writers magazine (Obscurity, The Persistence of the Unknown Writer, by Don Skiles, July/August, 2003), the author lamented his status, that despite of having published two sets of books that were recognized by award-giving bodies and organizations, he remains unpopular and without a best-seller yet. (“I have published a good deal in my life…but mine is certainly not a familiar or even vaguely recognizable name.”) Sad, but only the author can examine his own faults, and not blame it on the unsmiling muses of his fate.

To look into this concept of “famous and popular” and “word and story” differences between writers and authors, one can pick a literary journal (those with short story or short fiction) and read and compare the authors’ styles to see my point. In my case, I had the chance to read and evaluate stories in two different magazines: Zoetrope: All-Story magazine (vol. 13: No. 4, winter, 09/10) and Oxford American: Best of the South (spring 2006, Issue 53). In Zoetrope, two stories grabbed my attention (unforgettable, that I re-read them both twice) while in Oxford American, I came across contrasting styles that best illustrate the “word and story” premise cited earlier, and made me look deeper into the idea of considering success in publishing books.

First, the stories in Zoetrope:

I am referring to “The Lost and Found Department of Greater Boston” by Ms. Elizabeth McCracken, and “Griefer” by Mr. Austin Bunn, two short fictions with exciting premises, creativity in composition, excellent command and knowledge of subject matter, but still—“Griefer” stood out for me.

Griefer ends better with a clear and satisfying resolution of the mystery and conflict, and made the reader not only a part of it, but mingling with the characters in it, nodding and smiling in the end.

But don’t get me wrong. Ms. McCracken’s words crackle with superlative harmonies that are music and excellent illuminations to Ms. Humphrey’s premise, to quote my favourites:

The children knew nothing about palmistry, little about life lines, less about

love, but they believed in lifelines and love lines the way they believed in

mercury thermometers: they meant something, but you probably needed

a grown-up to read them.

But the ages of objects excited them. When Karen Blackbird disappeared,

the graphite in her palm was thirty-three years old.

In this case, and no other, “Once upon a time” means late summer, 1982.

Ms. Elizabeth McCracken is the author of two novels, a collection of short stories, and a memoir. She holds the James A. Michener Chair in Creative Writing of the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas at Austin. (Zoetrope: All-Story, same issue.)

“Griefer” on the other hand, explodes with the now, the mood of the present, the charm of the age, the craze of the new millennium, filling one’s mental interface with the addiction and gameplay of the story, settling in the end with the ease and simplicity that is only too real and true for each one who have experienced being in the zone of cyber alternate reality: A tap or a pat, back home.

“There’s so much world left to see.” Jocelyn let the line hang there,

between us, until I remembered it. Until I finally understood.

“How about a tour?”

Mr. Austin Bunn’s fiction and nonfiction have appeared in the anthologies The Pushcart Prize, The Best American Science and Nature Writing, and Best American Fantasy; The New York Times Magazine; and elsewhere. (Zoetrope: All-Story, same issue.)

In Oxford American, here are the two stories:

One writes with words, and the other, story. Both were outstanding, their approach to creative concept exemplary and yet, the popular style of writing wins hands down, i.e., good story with simple, clear language.

“The View From the Seventh Layer” by Kevin Brockmeier is a story so dense that even though it ran for a good nine full pages of the magazine, paragraph breaks are few and without much dialogues. Again, a perfect example of a “word” writer:

During tourist season, she worked as a map vendor at the marina, operating a stand that also carried umbrellas, candy, and prophylactics. She sold more prophylactics than she did maps, and more candy than she did prophylactics, and more umbrellas than she did either. The rain came every day, starting at 3:15. It was as though someone hovering behind the clouds had opened a spill-valve. The water fell in coin-sized drops that knocked against the masts of the boats with a sound like a bamboo wind ornament, and then, at exactly 3:45, it stopped.

Mr. Kevin Brockmeier’s new novel is The Brief History of the Dead. He lives in Little Rock. (Oxford American: Best of the South, same issue.)

“Flashes”, by James Whorton Jr., tells a simple, realistic story that can be sad and funny at the same time, while balancing the dilemma of the past as it comes to terms with the inevitable: old age.

He felt happy and fortunate. Once, Margaret had been one girl among all the girls in the world, and now five-tenths of a century later she was the only person whose absence he could not imagine.

Mr. James Whorton Jr. comes from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He taught at Northeast State Community College in Blountville, Tennessee, for eleven years and now teaches at SUNY-Brockport. He has composed two novels, Approximately Heaven and Frankland. (Oxford American: Best of the South, same issue.)

Popular or famous, word or story, whichever is your style, let the future decide as you write.

Apologies:

Most of my sources are print magazines that were back issues, though I hold them important and still relevant and inspiring to most of my writing needs and wants. For someone living in a third world country like me, their presence is precious and rare.

As an aspiring writer (I want to publish a novel), I am eager to join “call for submissions” in competitions, collections, anthologies, exercises, etc., that encourage n00bs like me to try their luck and get that elusive first publication to happen, regardless of prizes or extra copies awarded later to the winners. Of course, I am only too willing to join what is close to my genre or subject matter in fiction: horror, mystery, crime, or fantasy.

Thus, I joined an open request to submit a story—my first time to do it for writing—that follows an exercise with no promises of prizes, publisher’s copies, or even a reply but only the privilege that it will be read by the author himself: Mr. Stephen King.

Yeah, I did the book exercise as told—dig the fossil and see what story it holds—and was ready to submit, when I found out in the given website that they no longer accept submissions for that On Writing suggestion since 2005. I was, to put it in a mild and sane way, five years late. Ha-ha. The joke’s on me, pity, little me! Lesson Learned: Check if the offer is still valid, as in the fine prints in your box of cereals or milk.

Nevertheless, sad as I was, I felt compelled to share the brilliance and staggering worth of my oeuvre (I plan to post it on short-fiction.com.uk, of which, I am a member) and yet, cringe at the thought—who the f—k am I kidding but only myself? I am an unpublished beginner, an amateur writer—a n00b, anyway you put it or turn it—in which English is but a second language, and have not published anything worth mentioning except those in college newspapers managed by favourite honour students of the professor who serves as the editor and who knew, as my friend, that I can somehow write and fill a blank page.

Unfortunately, I am also thick-skinned, honed from years of swashbuckling campaign presentations and arguments with clients in advertising. (Where else can you study hypocrisy firsthand, up close, served fresh, and always with a toothy smile?) Thus, what follows is the fossil I dug, an original story with alterations of the premise provided in the exercise, six pages of it in my desktop, or exactly 4, 209 words.

So whether you like it or not, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, revered members of the Academy for Arts and Sciences, respected and distinguished heads of the literary awards committee, writers’ organizations, book editors, publishers, agents, dealers and retailers, the clamouring fans and eager critics, and the worldwide reading public, may I present to you, for your consideration, my late short story:

“Ribbons”

It started as an innocent blush, a sweet, heartfelt affection common only among youths. Bold, brash, relentless, it grew; a warm expression of dedicated adoration, a singular, suffocating devotion some say was crazy, crazy-crazy; wild-crazy. The kind of dangerous-crazy one hides from and avoids. After all, a crowd is always a three.

Nell slid down her father’s chest, reluctant to let go of her tight embrace; her wide, white ribbons drooping, dangling out of place, head buried deep, distressed, even as Dick winced.

A stab of pain shot right up his back and shoulders straight to his head, as he lowered her—his head still bandaged, a shoulder dislocated, an elbow on a sling with welts and bruises on both arms—while his sister, Betty, waved and called, anxious to see them both—a tender portrait of tragedy ambling towards her amidst the shouts and laughter of children enjoying the noisy garden birthday party.

“Hello there, young lady! What did Daddy do to your hair?” Betty said, smiling, embracing Nell, ignoring her downcast look and giving her a kiss; her fingers already at work uncurling, straightening the tangle of ribbons and hair.

“Hi, Betty…Best I can do on short notice,” Dick said smiling, tired and dry, pecking her on the cheek. Betty’s smile faded fast, suppressing her tears, biting her lips as she glared at him: Once again she saw the ugly cigarette burns on Nell’s arms still clutching him, wrapped firm around his legs. What Betty didn’t know was Jane had the pleasure of making an ashtray out of her daughter’s fragile body: Nell’s genitals peppered with it.

On the night it happened four days ago, his cell phone rang, persistent, vied for his attention until the caller went low bat: Betty, on the line.

“I heard shouts, yelling…I woke up, trembling,” Betty told him later, when they met at the hospital. “I-I recognized Nell’s voice, Dick… screaming!” she said, close to tears, an eerie disquiet enveloping her. “I called, even if it was late,” Betty said, unable to explain the disturbing sense of dislocation she felt for them. Among his sisters, Betty professed a solemn affinity beyond understanding and love closest to him, an intimate connection bordering on telepathy, something mental, subliminal.

He met his sister’s stare now, a look of concern, of pity, of concealed anger for him and Nell: His bruises longer, larger, and more severe along his shoulders, rib cage, and back—huge swollen leeches engorged in iodine. Jane did not hesitate to use the old golf club he kept behind the door of their bedroom, in case of emergency. It took several neighbors who heard Nell screaming—and him yelling at Jane to stop—to control her until the police arrived.

Later, after Jane was restrained, tranquillized, and taken custody to the nearest sanatorium several blocks from the house, and he and Nell rushed and treated for contusions and given mild sedatives in the trauma room, the only answer he can give the questions thrown at him was that Jane had a fit, an outburst of anger directed to them for no apparent reason…lying, misleading everyone, for all its worth.

“Did you see the news? Not yet?!” Betty said, eyes wide, accusatory, tense; her voice a whisper, low as she can managed, conscious of Nell walking hesitant before them. From time to time, Nell looked back at him and Betty, whispering as they walked.

Even for a three year old, Little Nell showed intelligence, a capacity to understand, a kind of heightened sensitivity undeveloped as yet, but acute and perceptive whenever she felt scared or threatened. Before they reached the party, before she allowed him to leave her for awhile, before she succumbs to the gaiety of the other happy, boisterous kids around, Nell clambered up to him again, and close to his ear, asked: “Mom-mee bad? Mom-mee come, Duh-dee?”

Dick faltered a bit, and stammering, shook his head. “Oh, no—no sweetheart! Mommy’s good…She’s resting right now. Aunt Betty here—she’ll take care of you…She’s here for you. Okay?” he said, and kissed and hugged her tight. Nell felt like a soft pillow—small, fragile, undemanding—and it broke his heart to see the pains she suffered from Jane’s abnormal brutality: Jane tortured Nell, apparently jealous of her daughter’s closeness to him.

And what Betty whispered made him more nervous, made everything seemed problematic, complicated, and beyond his reach. A huge fire broke out in the sanatorium early in the day where Jane was detained. Most probably while he prepared Nell for Betty’s birthday party for her youngest son. He wanted Nell to forget what happened, while he spends some time for himself alone in the house. He wanted to think things over, to study what he must do as he looked back at Jane’s suffering mind. What triggered her apparent madness—“her premeditated cruelty when she lost her sanity”—as the doctors and the psychiatric consultant for child abuse affirmed, after she was sedated. Reports of the fire said several of the patients were unaccounted for; either missing or dead…And Jane’s name was on the list.

An uncanny shiver went through his body as Nell uncurled from him, and sighing, waved goodbye. “Bye, Daddy…Love you, Daddy,” and threw him a flying kiss, something he taught her each time he leaves for work. His heart crumbling, pounding hard in his ears, he noticed Betty in tears looking at them, waving her goodbye, too.

“I love you, sweetheart…Daddy will pick you up in an hour or two, okay? Don’t hesitate to ask Aunt Betty for anything…,” he said, forcing a smile, and whispered to her ear, “…Especially if you want to go to the bathroom. I love you, Nell…Enjoy the party!” He waved at Betty, ignoring an ominous glint in her eyes and drove off.

He cried in the short drive all the way home. What Betty saw were only the cigarette burns, what Nell already suffered and endured days ago. What he did not tell her was what happened that night: Nell screaming at the top of her voice in her room, crying and begging Jane to stop. Jane stood at the foot of the bed, a woman possessed of hatred, of envy that eroded into malicious jealousy in her eyes, poisoning her heart, her mind of both rationality and common sense, angered by her three year old daughter’s closeness to him, her own father.

Jane barricaded Nell’s room, but he could see and hear what was going on, as he tried to force his way in. Jane held the scissors in one hand, Nell already tied spread-eagled on the bed, naked, while Jane poked her vagina with a lighted cigarette.

“Sooh, you like Daddy too, don’t you, sweety pie?” Jane crooned, deaf to her daughter’s terrified cries, the cigarette drilled hard within Nell’s sensitive private parts. Jane shrieked in delight, hysterical in glee, each time Nell’s body trembled, bucked, and kicked in pain on the bed. “Daddy! Daddy!! No, Mommy, no!” Jane mimicked her daughter, laughing, as Nell shouted for him, crying for help, screaming to get free from what she cannot understand yet her mother insisted on doing to her, all the while the scissors poised to cut her up.

“Sshh…shhh! Hush now, sweetheart—Mommy’s going to take away what makes you sooh itchy for Daddy, okay?” Jane said, excited; her face a picture of mad delight—cold, contorted as if what lay before her was a repugnant frog ready for dissection in biology class.

Jane lighted another stick. Took a long, vigorous suck; inhaling, burning the cigarette’s length to half, and slowly approached her daughter, intent to cut her vagina into shreds. “You think you can hide it from me? You think I didn’t see? You think I won’t notice it each time you embraced and kissed him—you fucking little shitty whore!!” Jane started slow as she spoke, and then screamed the last words, as he barged in, wresting the scissors away from her trembling hand.

“Fuck, Jane—what the hell are you doing?!” he shouted, grappling with her, jerking the scissors out of her hand, out of the window, as Jane swiveled fast and pushed him hard away from her, throwing him off balance; Nell’s screams ringing in his ears. And as he rushed to untie his daughter, he caught the first malicious blow of the golf club at the back of his head, sending him quivering in pain, reeling and bloodied, almost unconscious sprawled on the floor.

He endured successive blows after that, protecting his face and head with his arms and shoulders, and never was able to untie Nell, which the neighbors saw as they run to assist them, thinking there was a break-in. Yet Jane did not stop.

Still screaming, she continued to pummel him, or anyone else who happened to be in her path. “She was like, possessed! We could not have subdued her, if she did not slip on the blood on the floor,” one of the neighbors testified to the responding 911, as Jane was sedated and held in straight jacket by the paramedics.

Dick shut his eyes for a second, unable to erase the unwholesome images flashing in his mind. He learned of Jane’s unusual behavior from the neighbors’ accounts. “Often, we saw her seated on the windowsill, smoking, jiggling Nell on her lap…the child clutching her, scared,” the retired teacher said. “Sometimes she’s on the roof, bouncing Nell on her knees—Nell crying, of course!” the grocer’s wife said, shaking her head. “And she ignored us when we called her attention…Didn’t talk to us—as if we didn’t exist!” The neighbors tend to agree without hesitation, obvious of their concern for Nell. Each one gave their statements at the short, informal inquest held by the authorities and doctors at the sanatorium trying to determine the cause of Jane’s abnormal actions towards her daughter, and to him, her husband of four years, after her temporary detention that night.

“What we wanted to know, sir, is if you have any family history or record of mental imbalance…If there were insanity or related illnesses in the past…Or mentally-impaired relatives that could have played a role in her loss of control. Anybody confined in an asylum?” the attending psychiatric specialist said, frank, numb, and blunt as toothless gums, mincing no words.

You mean crazy? Dick wanted to say, frustrated, angry. He felt embarrassed, stripped of any moral decency, bared to suffer these routine indignities. “I don’t know…Right now, I am confused,” he said, and lowered his gaze. All his neighbors were there, those who responded to help. Now he cannot face their questioning eyes, their honest stare of sympathy and concern. He shook his head. “I have no knowledge of any illness…Or anything she suffered—please, can we talk about this later? I want to see my daughter—”

That was a lie.

Jane had the quirkiness of the wild, unstable mind even before they became sweethearts. She was the best friend of his girlfriend, and through her malicious games and seductions, which at the time thrilled him, consumed him—my God, she was hot, and he was seventeen, horny as a rat!—ended up with him. Yet, he thought it wouldn’t last. Their relationship always fragile and tense, and coasted along feeling she will fade away and outgrow him soon, as he got involved with other girls.

And her sadistic tendencies surfaced then, often breaking his delicious tryst—a girl’s broken arm, a bloodied nose, and worst, a bitter disfigurement of the face. She was like a deranged cat: biting, clawing, gnashing at his interest of the moment, until the terrified girl crawled away, banished, forgotten.

But then, he loved it…enjoyed it, in fact. He felt important, precious in her eyes. It was a testimony of his virility and masculine ego. A 100% proof of his sexual prowess and attractiveness to the opposite sex…His misplaced accolade showered on himself. He tolerated it, rode the ecstasy of it, and thus, ended up marrying her, a teenage wife.

Dick stared ahead, blind for a moment as he drove, unraveling clear in his mind Jane’s uncanny demeanor after the birth of Nell, her deteriorating trust with him and her unpleasant behaviour, her strange actions that more often than not, sparked their heated argument, a sour and nasty exchange whenever he asked about Nell.

Jane soon acted peculiar in the house as Nell grew up, and he noticed it. He felt her suspicions; an almost direct accusation pointing a finger at him as a paedophile, whenever he is around his daughter. She would linger within hearing distance each time he carried or played with Nell, as if cautious that he would molest her. But more so, when Nell would embrace and kiss him. Later on, he felt Jane’s misplaced attentiveness towards him and his daughter when she forbade him to kiss Nell good night, or when he left for work. Soon after, even their conversations about his daughter became a problem.

“What?! What’s that, Dickie boy? You want to know what?” Jane would blurt out, her tone already angry, irritated; testing his patience.

“Jane I’m tired…I said how is Nell…,” he would answer, almost patronizing, controlling his irritation of his wife. For the past weeks, Jane was acting weird, doing things he felt were meant to antagonize him, to push him to anger, for him to find a reason to hit her. “I have not seen the kid all day and—”

“So what the fuck is so important that you want to know what that little cunt did all day, Dickie boy?” Jane would shout at him, eyes large and glaring, as if she already caught him committing a terrible indecent act against his daughter. “Why the fuck do you want to know, huh?”

Nell would waken at their shouting, and sometimes creep on the upstairs landing; listening, looking at them gnaw and bite and gnash their teeth at each other. And when he noticed her, would shut himself up, and motioned Jane to stop. But then, it happened again that night, and Jane did the unthinkable: She dragged Nell down the stairs—the kid crying, shouting for him—as they fought and he struggled to free his daughter. And that’s when he noticed the burns…That’s when he saw Nell’s ugly bruises and welts, swollen lumps on her hips, her back, her thighs, her shoulders and under her arms.

They fought, unmindful of the neighbors, the same people who helped and testified…The same unselfish individuals from whom he was covering up his wife’s insane jealousy and ugly abuse of Nell, even if the truth lay bare in their eyes.

“I know you, Dickie boy…I know that look in your eyes,” Jane said then, trembling on the verge of tears, when he confronted her that night and saw more than the cigarette burns. “I will not allow that tiny cunt have her way with you, Dickie, to seduce you—to take you away from me! Never!! Don’t you love me?” Jane shouted, begging him to understand, to reconsider the imagined frailty of her plight.

“What the hell, Jane? Are you mad?” he shouted back at her. “What did you do to her?”

“Love you, Duh-dee—shit! Hurts, Duh-dee! Hurts—fuck!! She’s just pretending, and you know it!” Jane said, parroting Nell, mocking and insulting them as he treated her burns. “Fuck you! Fuck you!! Fuck you both!! Is this not enough, Dickie boy? Is this body not good enough for you?” Jane yelled, undressing. And in spite of her being his wife, threw herself at him, naked; forcing him to have sex with her, unmindful of Nell whimpering in pain in front of them.

He did slap Jane then. Maybe more than just a slap…Truth is he felt so guilty for hurting her. Yet, he was more concerned of Nell; the child sore, smarting all over with the extent of abuse Jane inflicted on her. And as he consoled his daughter and laid her to sleep in her room, he himself dozing on the couch downstairs—tired, confused, disoriented with all of what he saw and felt that night—drifting into a light sleep, only to be awakened by Nell, screaming in her room.

Stopping now for some groceries, trying to resume the normalcy of their lives, it did not relax his nerves nor did it organize the confusion of his thoughts. His cell phone rang, yet he did not answer it; he dared not answer it: Betty, again. Still unable to shake the lingering dread he felt driving from Betty’s place, he turned it off, not wanting to hear another bad news, hoping the anxiety he felt would vanished with it—oh, how he wished Betty live farther from here!

Dick parked the car and closed the door.  He did not bother to open the lights. With his body aching and his mind reeling from the successive turn of events, the soft shadows of the house in mid afternoon soothed somehow his anxiety as he went to the kitchen with his groceries and prepared coffee. Alone in the quiet gloom, he thought he heard Nell screaming, and almost jumped and turned around. Again he saw Jane dragging her down the stairs, and worst, felt the pounding of his heart as he tried to barge in to Nell’s bedroom: Horrified that he was already too late, that Jane killed their daughter—murdered her—with her insane jealousy.

He needed to sort their lives. Jane cannot stay long in police custody at the hospital. He had to let his parents know—and hers, too—of what transpired, of what Jane was doing, and the inevitable divorce and child custody, until Jane is treated and pronounced safe and sane to be with them again. Somehow, that is what he hoped. Still, she has the right as wife, and mother of Nell.

Immersed in his thoughts, mug in hand and staring vacant at the thin stream of sunlight on the floor bouncing, shining from the back door, Dick ambled his way to the darker comfort of the living room. He must try to catch the news. If Betty’s intuitions were true, it was right to leave Nell with her for awhile, or for as long as it would take. It would make the child forget, at least, until he can be sure—

Dick froze, mid-step. The brilliance of the sun glittering in his eyes made him hold a brief after-image of the dark surroundings, an eerie reversal of colour, and realized at once the terrifying truth of his apprehension and fears.

Before he could turn, he heard the back door closing; the bolt clicking, locking tight. Stunned by the sense of someone present in the house, cold sweat beginning to trickle down his back, he knew, deep in his hammering heart, it was what he was afraid to confront, what Betty whispered and warned him, what he prayed and hoped would not happen, from the time he left Nell, all the way until he got here.

“Hi, Dickie boy…,” Jane said, soft, loving, pining…The crazed grin and stare of the mad, clear and inevitable, unquestionable this time to ignore on her face. She stood in the dim foyer of the living room with both hands behind her back; a shy girl hesitant and too polite to disturb him, to join him in his thoughts, still wearing her hospital gown—dirty, blackened with soot and wet splatters of grime, disheveled and torn—ashes on her arms, on her legs, on her hair with red ribbons askew and worn in a hurry to prettify her dreadful countenance.

“Did you miss me?” Jane said, smiling at him, staring at him, watching and studying him as she did an exaggerated curtsy, ready to dance with him in the hollowed intimacy of the living room. “I was in a hurry…Afraid I wouldn’t catch you here…But I made it, darling—didn’t I?”

“Jane…I thought—”

“You thought I was dead?! Ha-ha!! I wouldn’t die without you, Dick!” Jane cut his thoughts, his words, and laid open to him the murderous perversity of her mind. “It took me a while, but I got my lighter…And I got here, too!” Jane giggled, proud of what she did. “We need to be together again, Dickie…Just you and I—did you miss me, darling? Don’t you like me?” Jane said, pacing slow on the edge of the living room, coming closer to him but with a wary look, hands still behind her back, self-conscious, gauging his actions…guessing his expected reactions.

“My God! Oh, my God—Jane!!” Dick cried out. He saw it, and through it, but his mind rejected it. He understood everything, the full meaning of it, but his rationality insisted it is not true. It could not happen, not possible—no, it is not possible at all! “Good God, Jane—what have you done?” He cried, and yelled, and cried some more, until his breath dried out in his throat.

The red ribbons on Jane’s hair dripped on the living room carpet, tracing a line of dots where Jane stepped away, prancing deliberate towards him. Saturated in blood, it wiggled, wobbled; a wig ready to fall. “I got this, hey…Do you like it? Looks better on me, eh, Dickie?” Jane said, grinning. “Better than that little cunt of yours you love so much and adore!!” Jane yelled, harsh, thundering; her voice echoing on barren reasoning, the glee of the mad edged her words, the giggle of the murdering kind found only in criminal asylums, those thrown behind bars and locked up for eternity—oh, God, have mercy!!—alighted on her face.

The room bursts in blue and red swirling lights from the outside. The sirens wailed, hurried, and died without them aware of it. There were movements, commotions outside, the front and back door exploding with knocks and desperate pleas of magnified shouts. Yet, they seemed oblivious of it, staring hard at each other, looking straight at one’s intent hoping to uncover it, to understand it, even if they both knew it was already too late. The changing, alternating colours of lights draped Jane’s face, highlighting more the terrifying look of an unbalanced mind glowing distinct in her eyes.

Dick stood deaf, mute, too numbed to even call out for help. He remained rooted in front of her, a doomed gorgon fatality in shock, as Jane began to unravel and deal his fate in front of him—slow, painful, and true—showing both her hands.

“Hi, Duh-dee!” Jane’s voice, mimicking Nell. Nell’s body slumped, lifeless; held only rigid and upright against Jane. Nell’s head scalped, her face distorted, shrouded by her mother’s bloodied hands—the mad puppeteer ecstatic, thrilled with her hideous performance. “Say hello to your lover, Dickie boy!” Jane shouted at him, blood seeping through her gown from Nell’s dead body like wet, dark grime.

Dick howled, cried uncontrolled. It was only a few minutes ago that he hugged his daughter goodbye. It was as if he never left her at all in Betty’s birthday party. It was unlikely that Jane could—

“Miss me, Duh-dee? Love you, Duh-dee…,” Jane said, continuing the chilling mimicry of her gruesome parody, still trying to catch Dick’s attention in her fevered, jealous mind, unmindful of her daughter’s blood soaking her hands.

“What? What?! You don’t want to listen, Dickie? C’mon, you’ll love—oops!” Jane said, and faked a slip, loosening her tight grip on Nell.

Jane began to laugh. A horrifying glee that echoed and swallowed the noise of the doors banging, opening in front and back; of the cops rushing in with the paramedics and their bags, each one determined, well-meaning in attempting to help; everyone in time to see Nell’s head lolled to one side…Then dropped, and wobbled on the floor in front of Dick’s unbelieving, unseeing eyes.

“I tried to warn you…,” Betty said, crying, unable to resist uncurling, straightening the once white ribbons still stained and discoloured after several wash. She threw it now on Nell’s grave besides her parents, together with her bouquet of love and tears.

The unwholesome aftermath saw Dick sprang from his shock and strangled Jane, while everyone in the room, stunned and staggering in slow-motion reaction scrambled, confused on what to do  or who to assist or stop. But before they can push Dick away from his wife, before he can squeezed away her last breath, Jane’s hand found Nell’s head, and touched the knife still stuck in her neck. Jane, with the strength and intent of the insane, plunged the knife deep into Dick’s heart, smiling: “You are…mine…Dick,” and gasped and convulsed her final words. Dick fell dead on his wife’s body, hands still tight on her throat.

Jane followed Dick and Nell to Betty’s place, and when Dick left for the house, snatched Nell from the celebrating, happy bunch of kids. Then grabbing a steak knife, threatened anyone who will stop or follow her, knocking Betty unconscious on the pavement, as she run tugging Nell away from the bewildered crowd, back towards home…her home, where she knew, Dick waited for her—only for her—in her dangerous, disturbed mind.

Much later, an aunt gave my brother and me a parrot as a present. She was a teacher in Grade School in some remote parts of the country, paying her students to catch the birds as gifts for us, her nephews and nieces, whenever she goes to the city for her summer vacation. I remember having owned four different parrots, several years apart; as one flew away, the other bitten by a rat in his cage, and the last one, died from ants. I was already in college and had spent more time absorbed in my studies than caring for the pet, and my brother was then already married.

We found the first parrot dead in his cage one morning (the colourful, bigger ones are the males), and was preserved and stuffed by my other aunt, because my brother and I felt so empty without the parrot, and brought us some fishes also, my first chance to have an aquarium. We lived in the city and owning a pet in a small apartment is not really advisable or comfortable, especially, when there is no place to keep them but in a cage inside the house.

Since then, my brother and I had owned mongrels (two, with the addition of several puppies, which we gave away) and now, living on my own, I have stray toms and lady cats with a cast of kittens that bloomed and died as the weather changed and claimed their nine easy lives. I said stray, because they do not stay with me in the house, but instead clambered and lazed about on the fence or slept at the gate.

In short, I have a soft spot for caring for domesticated animals. Although when I was five, I wished I can own a lion already. I was so fascinated with the animal, realizing early without being told of his kingly demeanor, his majestic pose, and of course, the bravery and fearsome courage, as I saw it then painted on the shield of King Richard, the Lion Heart. Drawing the mane of a male lion later on paper held so much interest for me as a kid that I would labour for stretches, just to make it perfect.

Yet, exposed to fairy tales, I wished I can have a unicorn instead. I think it was the artist in me configuring early my consciousness to things that are both fascinating and intriguing, finding myself staring for long periods, studying an animal. And living near a city zoo heightened all the more my fascination with every species that caught my interest and attention: a black panther, a zebra, or the tall giraffe. Needless to say, I owned a lot of colouring books, which I only stop from buying when I already learned to draw better and more accurate, creating my own fantastic creatures.

Thus, I love having pets. Unfortunately, with fast information and its accompanying knowledge and consciousness available to us even before the advent of the new millennium, it was possible for me to analyze and think: Are the animals happy as pets, when they are actually in captivity, and living in a place—a human habitat—and with another totally different species not even of their own? How would you, as a human being, react in the same situation?

Would you be like my parrot who endured long hours everyday dancing, balancing, or just in plain repose in his cage—probably already insane—planning to escape? Are you like fishes in an aquarium, revolving in an unending swim looking at a perfect openness of water, only to be disappointed because you are surrounded with a barrier that looked like penetrable liquid yet made of glass? Or are you like a dog, whatever breed you carry and was raised to be proud of, living like a perfect companion to humans, yet you are chained like a slave and cannot join the table?

Oh yeah, you were treated with love, with enough food and a bath, with exercises and grooming others felt luxurious and too pampered for you because you are a dog. You are a pet that visits your vet for your teeth, your fleas, or your weight problems, and had your nails clipped and your paws kept clean. You even have your own place in the house, and always, always they love to cuddle you, share the warmth of their love; proud of you as you showed and performed your new tricks. You are family…

And yet, you scratched often. You found that you also bark. And going to the toilet is quite unpleasant because there is always a set time, and you cannot claim at any arrogant moment your territories with a piss. In fact, it was getting to your nerves because they wanted you to watch the doors at night while you sleep. Of course, no one had kicked you yet for being inattentive and unresponsive at times to their whims and caprices when they talked to you, commanded you. Man, is it your nature to catch a stick or follow a ball or drink your medicines or have a shampoo in the bath? C’mon, who are you kidding? Are you a dog or not?!

Yet your owners—the humans who loved and cared and lived with you—felt, they really felt!—and would swear to this, that you are like a person already. That you are intelligent, loving, caring, and brave is no question, and yet they forgot who you are…your real nature, your kind.

I know, sometimes I see you weep in your sleep; whimpering uncontrolled because you dreamt of chasing cats, of fighting it out on the streets with the other strays, of running wild, of jumping fences, of exploring dark alleys, of playing with the garbage cans where your nemesis, the loathsome cat, always dig and hide. You wanted to run free, to bark and howl and copulate—yeah, man, you felt the urge, as is your nature, and yet…yet you are here, sleeping in the rug or under the chair, or were you hiding from your “friends”, your bosses? Don’t you wish you have not been a pet?

On a more serious note, I felt we are doing a lot of injustice capturing animals and placing them in what we, as modern humans, thought a perfect habitat for the species we enclosed and held prisoners, whether in an oceanarium, a zoo, an aviary, or our own homes. Many would argue that these animals, birds, and fishes have no sense of morality like humans to even know if they were captive or not, and we are doing them a lot more good than harm, because these are carefully controlled and monitored habitats, and thus, every species in these “cages” are unharmed, fed, cared for, treated humanely, and some like the vanishing ones, are given love…just like pets in our homes.

Last Friday morning at about 10AM, February 26 of this year, I received an excited phone call from my sister in law, saying they were, together with my nephew and my brother, in the emergency room of a local hospital. My brother, feeding their pit bull in his cage, got his arm mauled with several deep bites, and needed five injections in all to suppress whatever infections or pain he felt. The dog had been with them as a pup, and I knew him too—“Frankie”—his eyes were blue, and likeable like any pup. And yet, when I came after several months to visit, he had grown, and would bark and rage, furious as if I am an enemy cat, or worst, an unpleasant intruder in the house.

I had been bitten also by my former pet, “Toots”, for no apparent reason that I can recall: once in the knee, in my arm, and again on the foot. Why, I never asked him, and remained loving instead, until he died most probably of heart attacked: He was terribly overweight, and would need to reduce through water therapy—no kidding!—just so he can have his first intercourse with “Margot”, a frail looking long dog, who reminded of my toy that I dragged and pulled on the ground, as it squeaked and barked.

I think our pets needed that something—a sense of freedom that tugs on their nature because they remained animals—no matter what we say or do to them, to domesticate or train them. Thus, I keep my family of stray cats outside the house, and never gave any one a name no matter how tempted I am to do it, so it would not attached itself in my memory, and would not be hurting and disheartening once they passed away.

They have entertained me, especially the kittens with their curious foolishness and ignorance, but I no longer hold them in “captivity” nor were they imprisoned by the fences around the lot, free as ever to come and go, to meow and run and sleep all day long without anyone bothering them, and when the urge to have sex comes, why, they are all free to choose the best rooftop in the block, the ugliest tom, and the most unworthy hag…As their nature would dictate, or obliged them to do, and not enforced, cajoled, or betrothed by us, humans, as we think otherwise fitting and proper for a pet…our pet.