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[speakupwritedown]

Two Songs Long

The walk from the bus stop to Kevin’s house is two songs long. Roughly around six minutes. One and a half songs if he’s in a hurry.

Kevin gets off of the bus, pulls his hood up and starts down the street towards his house. He stayed late at work tonight, and it’s getting darker earlier, so although it is only 8 PM, it looks and feels like midnight. The streets are empty apart from his figure walking at a quick pace, chased by his shadow in the streetlights.

The cool air presses fervently against his skin. “It’s not that far,” he mutters to himself. True, the walk wasn’t dreadful. It could be worse.

He hears a noise over his headphones. A high pitched sound that makes his hair on the back of his neck sticks up. Could it be a speeding car, or maybe a dog’s howl? He shakes his head and turns up the volume a little louder. He is all alone in the dead of night. In fact, it was nearly pitch black outside. This road always freaks Kevin out.

An eerie feeling creeps up on him, making him turn around. He can’t help but feel as if someone is following him. “I should’ve took a taxi,” Kevin thinks to himself. He lets out a deep sigh, regretting the decision that he made. He shakes it off, forcing himself to calm down. He does his best to ignore the dark empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, but something catches his eye.

Kevin takes a quick scan of his surroundings, and sees nothing. He replaces his headphones and continues his walk home. “Almost there,” he thinks, as the second song kicks into play. He quietly hums along to the song, unable to ignore or shake the sense that he is being watched. The temperature drops. He can see his breath as he hums.

As he reaches the top of his road, a shadow disappears out of his sight around the corner. It was quick, but it was definitely there. Kevin and his own shadow freeze with clenched fists. He hesitates, looking back to the street he just walked down. For a moment he thinks to head back, or maybe phone a friend?

Had he just imagined it? He wants so badly to believe he did. It’s not the fact that he saw something that scares him. It’s what he saw that has his heart thumping out of his chest, his palms sweaty, and his legs ready to give out beneath him. It had to be the scariest thing he’d ever seen, and it disappeared in seconds.

Kevin shakes his head, kicking himself for being such a pansy. It could’ve easily just been a dog or something. After all, it is really dark, and he just barely got a glimpse at whatever that thing was. Besides, this wasn’t the first time Kevin thought he saw a creature lurking in the night. He has a crazy imagination, or his parents think so anyways.

A few moments later however, the shadow reappears. This time followed by a figure, wrapped head to toe in what appears to be a black cloak. Kevin realizes that he is most definitely not imagining things. But it’s too late. He’s never seen anything like it.

Kevin swallows, getting ready to scream. He opens his mouth and before a sound can even come out, he was about ten steps from his house when the shadow coalesces into human form and says, “Hello, Kevin.”

A formidable figure shrouded in black stood over Kevin and in his raised right arm. He wielded a long rod with a sharp curved blade on one end.

Frozen in place, the last sound Kevin heard was the determined swoosh of the blade as it sliced through the air.

Written by Elsha

[speakupwritedown]

One Thing I’m Afraid of

There's only one thing in the world I'm afraid of.

It's not the thought of me falling as I sit on top of the Ferris wheel. It's not the thought of vulnerability as I drown in the ocean. It's not the thought of the entire room collapsing into myself as I'm stuck in a small, enclosed space. It's not the sound of thunder as it strikes the ground. It was never those fears that most people tend to have, and yet I still wonder how it made me so frightened when I think about it.

i’m afraid of gunshots.

This kind of fear is a very unlikely one. It's not like everyday you get to know a person with this kind of fear. I researched about it once, and such fear applies to dogs but rarely cats.

Gunshots are different than fireworks and thunders. Gunshots have a particular noise that I, too have a difficulty to distinguish the difference, and yet I know whether it's a gunshot or not.

It all started when I was a child no older than four. It was a normal Tuesday morning. I was supposed to be at school, but I was playing in the backyard of my house with my pet turtle. I was left with my mother that time because my father had to go to work. I suspected that she was cooking for lunch, or maybe sewing whatever she sews. But it became clear once I heard it.

BANG!

Once.

 BANG!

Twice.

 And then, I heard a thud. Not long after that, I heard the distant sound of glass breaking.

My body was paralyzed. I couldn't move my legs to stand up or bring myself to even walk. My mind was swelled up in gruesome thoughts. I hold my turtle close to my chest. It wasn’t until 2 minutes later that i finally mustered up the courage to get into the house; quietly.

Slowly, I walked into the kitchen. I whispered, "Mom?" And yet, she didn't answer. Once again, I raised my crackled voice. 

"Mom?"

 No answer.

 I rushed into the kitchen, and stopped on my tracks as I saw her, lying on the kitchen ground in a pool of her own blood, breathless. I fell down to my knees, not believing what my eyes saw. I felt warmth rolling down my cheeks, and I couldn't thought of anything right I should've done.

Should I have called 911? Should I have run into the house when I heard the first bang? Should I have lain beside her? Should I have held her close?

 . . .

 The police came soon after my father arrived. The face he made when he looked at my mother, and then at me, as if there was something I could've done during those seconds.

 "What did you do?! Why didn't you help her?!"

 The disappointment and anger on his face, as if I should've done what I could. But I couldn't do anything, right? I was a child, what else could I do?

 . . .

 Gunshots reminded me of her. It reminded me of the fear not being able to save her. It reminded me of the guilt. It reminded me of the day I let her die.

Written by  Amanda

[speakupwritedown]

Social Climbing Guide #1 : How to Have Friends

Do you ever wonder why most people at the bottom of the social ladder seem to have little to no friends?

Duh. 'Cause it's social ladder. Not like, anti-social social ladder. Hence, social. Some people just don't get the fact that social involve more than one people, or that being social doesn't make you a socialist, and so they proceed their anti-social social life wondering what's so great with being social.  

Are you one of those people?

Are you tired of wandering the halls by yourself? Do you wish you had someone to share that hilarious meme with? Do you see someone face-swapping on Snapchat and wish you could face-swap with something other than inanimate objects?

If you answered yes to those questions, then you might be in dire need of friends.

I mean, duh. You're reading these words, despite the title being something the world expects you to know already. But since you're already here, we might as well give you a reward for your interest in this, uh, particular topic before we proceed.

Steps to Having Friends

1. Spot 'em

Honestly, your vision is the most crucial sense when it comes to friends hunting. Just in case, you know. You want to have a human you do things with. Better find someone who doesn't hurt your vision. Makes for a great face-swapping partner. Especially when said friends determine your social status.

Our choice of role model here falls upon Cady Heron from Mean Girls.

You see in the movie, how she turned from this sweet and pure girl who likes math and dresses like a saint to this blob of cleavage who smells like baby prostitute and pushes people in front of the bus? That's one proof that you gotta see who you hang out with.

You wouldn't want to be friends with people who can't even dab, would you? Ever wondered why there's something called "social suicide"? Yeah, me neither.

2. Seize 'em

I know people who become friends because they both hate the same hoe. Or fancy the same snapchat filter. I have also heard of people who become friends with their drug dealer. The act of seizing friends doesn't come in a universal handbook. Sometimes your friends come to you. Sometimes it's the other way around. Whichever applies, there's no harm in trying our suggestions :

-Keep an eye on their social media. Since you gotta be friends, you have to know EVERYTHING about them including (but not limited to) birthdays, diet, blood type, horoscope, previous relationships, and their tragic backstory. Pro tip : look up their Facebook account for embarrassing fetus pictures.

-Demand their attention on social media by responding to EVERY SINGLE SIGNS OF LIFE they're showing and bless them with your hilarious memes religiously. They're either gonna love you or block you because your memes are trash.

-Try the old fashioned way of spilling drinks onto their shirts. They're either gonna shrug it off or murder you in your sleep. Wouldn't matter, you'd be affiliated with them either way.

3. Keep 'em

Assuming that you've succeeded in seizing them, the last, yet the hardest step, is to keep 'em. How?

Again, we haven't found any signs of How to Keep Them Friends 101 in local bookstores. However, empirically, telling everybody on social media that you're friends with them should be the number one rule.

Regularly post pictures that scream "BFF!!" and fetch a quote you don't understand for emphasis. Tag them on the comment of a relatable post so they feel a sense of belonging. Plan a surprise for their birthdays but make sure they don't know it. Also, buy each other a friendship bracelets without them knowing so they're stuck with you whether they like it or not.

Like brains, friends aren't something that all people have. Some people do have them, but few cherish them, let alone acknowledge their existence. Some people change friends as fast as they change underwear, in other words, as relatable posts call them : "fake friends", also known as a selfish, back-stabbing hoe, who will come and walk out of your life before you can say "life problems". But, when it comes to friendship, it’s you who decide which to sail and which to sink. Because friends are--

Wait.

You know what? we are not gonna copy and paste some dead man/woman's words about friendship here. They didn't even have internet back then, what do they know?

[speakupwritedown]

The Only Sport Worth Playing in High School

Cited from The Truthful Guide to Surviving High School page 1931:

"...when it comes to high school sports, pick one that will determine your pathetic existence in the span of three years--whether you deserve to be followed or blocked on Instagram, and other stuff. It is a tiresome sport, but by all means, climb the social ladder!"

A few days after the said citation went viral on the world wide web, responses started to emerge. One exceptional response came from an offended ex-boyfriend of a successful celebrity who calls herself Awkarin. Enraged by his ex's popularity, he accepted an offer to form a duet of a heavily autotuned song called "Panjat Sosial", somehow making Social Climbing sound like a sin.

Despite the popularity of The Truthful Guide to Social Climbing, it just hasn't been the same ever since.

However, like everything else that went viral, that stigma didn't last long. More recently, a study revealed that Donald Trump wouldn't be where he'd been today if he hadn't climb religiously. Sociology students professed that it is, in fact, our nature to loathe being a peasant. A correspondent from Social Climb Today, Mcskinleighlloyd--pronounced as Greg--claimed there are several fundamental reasons as to why the only sports you should do in high school is social climbing, since it will determine things including (but not limited to):

1. Whether or not you will possess the habits of one of those basic people or the case of a special snowflake

2. Arms you with Instagram followers more faithful than Jesus', which is 

3. A great way to save your money in lieu of buying followers, 

4. In case any generous online shop endorses you 

5. Prevents you from the excruciating loneliness when you go to the canteen alone--as you will morph into some sort of celeb walking on the Red Mat

6. Gets you the privilege of being noticed by your local Senpai, or 

7. Grants you the permission to be a local Senpai yourself

8. So you could declare how much your high school years resembled a vintage teen movie to your blissfully ignorant grandchildren.

Finally, Mcskinleighlloyd stressed the importance of social climbing as "part of the YOLO practice". Triggered by this enlightenment of social climbing, yet regretting the westernized and generalized guide of High School Social Climbing, we would like to provide you, soon-to-be-local-social-climbers, our own Localized But Truthful Guide of Climbing Our High School Social Ladder. Emphasize on Our High School. That, however, isn't to be made an excuse to not use our guide outside of Our School as the process of social climbing is one that is universal. Just remember to take anything we write with a grain of salt. Just not too much to become salty. 

Lastly, due to the minuscule demand of these posts, updates will be posted for the upcoming weeks. Most probably during the weekends. In the meantime, we advise you to ponder the motive behind Awkarin's props and setting on her newest video clip.

[speakupwritedown]

How to Win a Story Telling Competition

Look, i know the title promises a guide to winning a storytelling competition, but really, if that's the only reason why you're here--and not, say, waste your precious time--then with all due respect, i suggest you to move along to other pages with real How to's and honest title.

This is some sort of recount of yesterday's storytelling competition to keep the writing division feel recognized and mattered due to the lack of real activity inside of it. (Not to mention so that my dispensation--not as the competitor but as the one who brought their properties and cheered them on--won't end up useless)

The moment Saph--the storyteller--questioned the number of the companion when we met this morning, I knew i was going to be as useful as a white crayon. To be frank, i don't know batshit about story telling, or any form of public speaking for that matter. You could say the reason why i tag along was irrelevant ; something about Ovi's generous invitation to ditch class and why the heck not.

Then again, i wasn't the only one who was charged guilty of unneccessary supporter. Aisha, too, had the same case. Only, hers was worse ; she lost her voice, therefore she contributed to boosting my supporter status from unneccessary to at-least-still-more-useful-than-the-other-supporter. Sorry, Aisha.

By eight o'clock, the six of us--including Bu Sri and another storyteller by the name of Ayunda--piled up into a Terios. The trip didn't take long, but somewhere along the way, a pang of guilt crawled to my throat, which lead to a brief contemplation about my presence, which lead me to wonder if i matter at all, which i doubt i did, but then i thought about Taylor Swift's exes and suddenly i'm back on track again.

Our stop was a serene yet cozy boarding school with killer design interior. The hall where the competition would take place was blasting an EDM song, which is kind of unexpected coming from an islamic boarding school--but, what do i know about boarding schools, anyway, right? We found a seat and looked around--obviously not looking for a potential eye candy. The song ended. Saphira and Ayunda decided to change into their costumes, leaving us supporters in question of what to do next. We followed them to the bathroom instead. Held the door. Zipped their dress. Braided their hair. Took care of their background music.

Ayunda was up third. The first performer could've been great, if she weren't confusing herself with all the puppets. When the second performer's up--a junior highschooler--Ayunda went into panic mode. She recited her story under her breath.

"I'm dead. That's it, i'm dead." was the last thing i heard from her before she went to (figuratively) break her leg.

Saphira was up, like, six numbers away from Ayunda. She went up the stage and did her thing--all those cries and bellows and gestures only she can pull off.

Those, we filmed and cheered the heck out of their performances.

Then we ate. Then we watched some more performances. Then we sat on the corridor and talked. A quite intellectually stimulating topic, you could say, something about Christian Grey's dark past.

The talk hit an abrupt stop when a woman approached us.

"Excuse me, but could you please sit decently? A lot of male are currently roaming around."

Saphira closed her legs and sat up straighter, the rest of us unconsciously followed. Smiling sheepishly, she thanked the woman, who walked away apologizing. (Don't ask me why, that's probably just culture.)

"Why am I so jabl**" said Saphira, regretting her whole life. Well, Saph, jabl** or not, you did ace the whole competition thing, though, so that kinda makes the whole incident with the woman irrelevant.

As of for the white crayons aka the supporters--or companions, whichever works--we weren't that much of a waste of space, right? White crayons, however underrated and blended they are to the background, are useful to highlight the drawing, just as we the supporters are present to highlight the day.

#TeamWhiteCrayon #WhiteCrayonLivesMatter

[speakupwritedown]

Something to help you on writing essays & papers!

((Feel free to use, but please read the disclaimer beforehand and don’t remove the credits. Thank you!))

[speakupwritedown]

It’s Not What You Think

When Peter James Kook stumbled upon my door the other night, he was black and blue, like splotches of spilled ink on a white paper.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, over and over and over again, like a broken record. His fists, more black than blue, were curled on his sides, though it couldn’t hide the shaking. I stood there searching his eyes, but they wandered.

Peter James kook had everything that a sixty year-old could have—splendid health, wads of cash, proper care, and a peaceful life. His wife loved him ferociously, as it seemed, until she passed away at midnight, calm and peaceful in her sleep. Everybody went to her funeral, for she was a woman who was loved by everyone, as Peter James Kook had once been.

But somehow, the funeral refused to go friendly at the old man. The reality launched at him all at once, like spilled ink on a piece of paper, leaving him black and blue, wife-less and mind-less.

When I asked around the neighborhood, all they said was “He’d gone wacko,” and their hands would go around in circles beside their temples. People said he wandered around, chapped lips muttering incoherent thoughts, oblivious. Sometimes he wailed like a toddler. Sometimes he giggled, other times his shrieks woke the neighbours up. Sometimes he’d lose it so bad they would hear the clanks of glass against the walls, the rips of fabrics, or thuds of woods against each other. And the longing howl for his wife, earned him visits from the cops.

“Everything must go, everything must go.” Peter James Kook, now  his mumbles sounded distant, ever since the cops found a bottle of Arsenic in the cupboard. They searched his house, the evidence of homicide, so he fled with speculations of motives. A red-head who lived across said it was a man. A man who kept visiting at nights when Peter James Kook wasn’t around. A brunette who lived near enough was convinced it was bullshit.  

Now Peter James Kook stood in front of my door, the man my mother split her love to, and he kept saying it’s not what you think, and that everything must go, and he smelled like distant wail, and sounded like black and blue, and I recalled how he relentlessly apologized through hatred-filled eyes, for everything must go, including your mother and her selfish ways but I swear it’s not what you think.  

[speakupwritedown]

How to Survive High School

How many times have you heard your parents, or your aunt, or your uncle--or possibly everyone older than you saying this phrase below :

"High School, my child, was effing rad. Best time of my life." 

And kid me not--I know those people around you were the main contributors to your high school fantasies. Who are the other contributors? you'd ask. 

They are, my pals, a sly little thing called media, that basically branches out into, in this case, tv shows. From High School Musical to Gossip Girl to our local tv shows, the infamous--need i say the name?--Anak Jalanan. Or Putih Abu-Abu. Or even this program about, i don't know, 12 years old and their unnecessary drama, whose name involves the word puberty being super or something like that.  

What i can say to regard the wreck of our local tv shows is only  a simple : i hope you know better than that. Really. 

Anyway, media. Perhaps at one point in your life, you've asked yourself whether they actually sing in the cafetaria or whether joining a gang of bikers is considered a thing in high school.

So, one day, you arrived at the high school, full of anxieties and uncertainties and all you can think of was synchronized singing and elaborated coreography and biker gangs and the sound of "Effing rad. Best time of my life. Effing rad." repeating themselves again and again until you started to believe them. 

You started to believe them.

Only to be left with the harsh, cold, reality that is actually studying. 

I mean, eight to nine hours a day? really? what happened to singing and dancing in the cafetaria? what happened to the gang of bikers? All your activities are focused on studying studying studying. 

But okay, you think, we're all in this together. Besides, isn't the sole purpose of going to high school is to study? The plan is : study>>get good grades>>get into a nice college>>get a nice job with nice paycheck>>work until you die. But okay. Okay. 

You got this. 

Now all you gotta do is focus. Focus on the lessons and the teachers but definitely not focus on me. Get yourself a handsome report card and try not to die inside while doing so. Easy, right?

Well, If you're one of those "I've got 99 problems but bad grades ain't one." peep, congratulations, you're doing it right. If you're on the other side of the spectrum, however, think again.

But hold on. We're missing something crucial. Something that makes a lot of people toss and turn at night, something that makes them think twice before doing, something that sometimes makes them sacrifice a lot of things for the sake of doing it right. 

It's called, wait for it, socializing. 

Socializing. If you are one of those social butterflies, this is probably the last thing you'd need to worry about, but what if you're a potato at socializing? 

See, i'm not going to give a socializing advice or whatever, since i'm deadbeat myself when it comes to socializing. All i can tell you is this : 

Socializing is like riding a bicycle, because there's no actual 'How to' that tells you how to ride your bike. And even if there is, following the 'How to' just won't be the same as actually riding the bike, right? You just gotta learn by doing it. 

(Well, actually, if the our ancestors, the earliest people waited around for a 'How to Socialize If You're The Earliest People on Earth', man, we're screwed.)

Also, there's this thing called image. Quoting Brian Johnson from The Breakfast Club, "You see us as you want to see us." Cause, let's get real, dude, it doesn't matter whether you eat your chocolate as chunks of big, sloppy bites, or whether you break them into smaller rectangles before eating them. It doesn't matter whether you're #TeamCap or #TeamIronMan, nor does it matter whether you support or frown upon the antics of the infamous Awkarin. 

They see you as they want to see you. But the question is : how do you want people to see you? 

I think this is something that you could have control over. Do you want people to see you as Glamorous Gladys? or Basket Case Beth? Silly Billy? Quiet Quentin? Helen Hoe? (not a good choice though) or maybe just Plain Jane? 

At the end of the day, it's your choice to make. Just remember you're most probably gonna be entitled to whatever image you've chosen. But it's totally okay, as long as you're comfortable. And happy. And clapping along if you're feeling like a room without a roof. 

You got this.

  Written by : J. Novak