To Sacrifice or Not To Sacrifice

I did so much thought in it that I literally glanced up at the shining horizon. What should I keep. and what should I sacrifice?

It was believed that to sacrifice one’s self for the sake of others was a selfless act. But what if it comes to a person sacrificing something or someone he/she loves, will that be considered selfless? Or rather, selfish?

How one sees these questions is different from one another. I, too, have my own say, for I have sacrificed something that I adored a lot for the benefits of others around me. The story remains to be a dimly lit memory, and I only have the outline to see. And yet, when it comes to sacrificing, everything that we loved and hated suddenly becomes clearer, in a sense that we involuntarily tensed ourselves to focus on two things: which to sacrifice, and which to keep.

For now, I shall tell a short story that I have made that has something in common to what I'm going to discuss about within this article of mine. It tells on how to act when deciding, for every decision has its different consequences, and we, as simple humans, didn't have the power to see such consequences. It also tells the consequences of letting the important things go and keeping the wrong ones. I hope dear readers, that this is enough to say that you have to know which of those ‘important things’ is the most important of them all.

There was a young man who has a talent in painting, and he maintains a love so strong that he never sells any of his paintings, even if it for a hefty price. He also has a family of three whom he loves and whom loves him back, and he proudly confirmed with himself that he won't let money or any other worldly material to get in the way of him and his family.

One blustery night, the man decided to paint as usual, when his wife came home from work, wearing a glum expression on her face and hands both full, carrying two heavy-looking briefcases. The youngest named Jonas ran quickly to his mother and tugged on the sleeve.

“Mom, I need some help with my homework --” he started, but his mother interrupted him, her eyes focusing on her husband.

“I'm very sorry dear, I need to get back to work as soon as I can,” she heaved a sigh, and gently patted her disappointed son’s head.

Without looking away from his painting, he called out, “Is there trouble in the office?”

“They need additional workers, and I’m afraid I won't be home until morning,” she said hastily, before grabbing a packed lunch and shoving it quickly to her already-full handbag.

“What about dinner?” the eldest, Karen, asked, worried because her mother wasn't eating much during the last few days.

“I’m packing lunch. Don't worry. And oh, Karen, can you please help Jonas with his homework?” She called out as she quickly picked up the briefcases and went to the door, fumbling with her keys.

“Sorry Mom, I have a research coming up.”

“Then let James help him.” She opened the door, and shouted a quick, “I’m off!” And the door was closed.

James overheard what his mother said and frowned. “Can’t have any time at all. I have to rewrite my discussion paper.”

“That’s what happens when you forget your homework,” Karen said disapprovingly.

“Shut up, Karen,” James said and went to his room, slamming the door.

Karen sighed before looking down at her little brother. “If you ever need help, come to my room. Or, you should ask Dad. Right, Dad?” she called out.

No answer.

Shrugging, Jonas faced his sister, “Dad’s painting again. I’ll go to him.”

Karen nodded, and went upstairs to her room. Jonas proceeded to his Dad’s personal painting room, where all his paintings were crammed in one place. He gingerly opened the door, saw that his father was painting solemnly, and he stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him. He wondered why he was nervous of his own father.

“Dad?”

“What is it?” he grunted.

“I need some help with my homework, if that’s okay with you --”

“Son, I’m busy painting. We’ll do that later.”

“But, it’s due tomorrow, and I’m confused --”

“Ask your brother or sister. They can help.”

“But they are busy themselves, and --”

“Damnit, son, go do it yourself!” he shouted.

Jonas started to tear up. His father didn't do that before. “Why did you shout at me, Dad?”

He let his paintbrush go, and his fingers ran through his hair. “Because you are disturbing my work! Just go and do it yourself!”

Now the boy did cry. In his frustration, he shouted back, “You are not even working! Only Mom is working!” He kicked a small box in front of him, and it hit his father’s painting, which fell down on the floor, with several wet paint smeared on it. Jonas swallowed. He nervously stared at his father who was trembling. He didn't mean to.

“Get out.”

“Dad, I'm sorry --”

“I said get out.”

“Dad, I’m --”

“Haven't you heard?! I said get out!”

The door was pushed open, and Karen, with a disgruntled James, came in. Their expression changed when they saw a crying Jonas and their fuming father. Instinctively, Karen picked up her brother and stared at her father, disbelief clouding her vision.

“Dad, what happened?”

“Your brother --” he pointed at Jonas, who shrank away in Karen’s arms, “ruined my painting on purpose!”

“What a pathetic reason to get angry! It’s just a painting,” James said, unable to believe that his father was getting angry over something small.

“Just a painting? It was important! Something that I fervently love! And you ruined it!” He pointed at the painting that was lying down on the floor silently.

Breathing heavily, Jonas said, in a muffled and strained voice “You chose a painting over us! I am erasing you from my 6 most important people in my life list!” With that, he pushed Karen a bit roughly and ran out of the room.

“Jonas!” She ran after him.

James was about to follow, but he glanced back at his father, and said, “Who are you?” He walked out of the room, leaving their father quiet.

He had claimed to himself that he never replace his family even if it was for all the money in the world. But he had never thought that it would to this. It was his painting that made him replace his family. And he had never realized it.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

The next morning, Alice came home with a lot of weight on her back. Aside from the pressure that she had gained from her overbearing boss, her superior handed her a huge stack of papers that needs to be sent after a day only. She also sensed her children’s rising difficulty with their schoolwork, and she suspected a lot was strained between the kids and their father. And to think, she and her husband haven't conversed much.

She walked upstairs to their room, or had been theirs, for it was like they were roommates of different nationalities. Slightly opening the door, she can see that there was a huge breathing lump that was her husband sleeping peacefully. She closed it quickly, and proceeded to her kid’s rooms.

Alice went to Karen’s room first. The lights were still on, and she sighed as she saw lots of notes and printed reports on top of the laptop. Karen was sleeping with an open book on her hand. Lovingly, she took the book from her daughter’s hand and placed it on the bed table. Before glancing at the door, she kissed her daughter on the forehead.

Next, she went to James’ room. As far as she can remember, his room was the dirtiest among all the rooms that she had cleaned. When she opened the door, frowning as she pictured the clutter in her head, she was surprised to see no scene that was similar to what she was thinking.

James had cleaned his room tiredly before sleeping, and there was a piece of paper on top of his head. Carefully, she picked it up, and sighed when she saw that it was his discussion paper. She folded it carefully and placed it on top of his bag before leaving the room.

When she opened the door, there was a person on her son’s desk. Startled, she opened the door widely, and sighed again when she saw that it was Jonas himself sleeping on his desk. He was still holding a pen tightly even when he was sleeping soundly. There was a paper underneath him. Curious, she walked towards him and carefully lifted up her son’s head to get the paper, before placing it back gently on his folded arms.

She felt her eyes tearing up when she started to read the first sentence on the crumpled paper.

My 6 most important things in my life by Jonas Crumpleberry:

1.      My family

Note: Mrs. Juniper, I would like to list the people who are under this number, for everyone is important to me:

Mom, Karen, and James

2.    My family’s love for each other

3.    God

4.    My friends

5.    Everyone

6.    Life

Alice blinked thrice when she realized that something was missing: her husband’s name. She went to the desk, placed the paper on top, and grunted as she carried her son all the way to his bed. Placing the covers on him, she asked herself, “What did happen?”

In the end, after a lot of nudging, Karen told her mother about last night’s incident while she drove her car with her three kids to school. Everyone fell to silence, until their mother said out loud, “I have decided on this.”

***

“What are you talking about, Alice? This is…” he stared at his expressionless wife before he started to breath frantically. He cannot believe it himself. It was all coming too fast.

“I have decided on this,” she repeated in a strong voice, louder than before. “I’m sorry. It can't work out anymore. The kids, everyone, including me, you left us all out.”

Those words struck him, hard. He was still holding onto his paintbrush tightly. He simply can’t believe it himself. He felt his emotions draining him dry. What Alice was deciding on doesn’t sound like the best one she had.

“Alice, that’s not true --”

“Don't make this any harder, Albert.” She looked away, and covered a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry myself, but please don't make this any harder. You paint.” She stared at him with woeful eyes. “You chose your talent over your own family. And that is simply the most ridiculous thing that I've ever heard. And we were that family.”

“Alice, I --”

“Albert. I ask you, one last time.” She breathed in heavily. “Which will you let go?”

“I don’t wish for any of you to go! Please Alice, please.”

“Just choose Albert, the kids are waiting outside. You can't possibly keep any of us waiting for long.”

His thoughts reverted to his family. They were a handful, but life had been a great company. Their wedding, Karen’s birth, James’ first win in baseball, Jonas’ first loose tooth. His happiness was added…when painting came. He wanted both to stay, but he can't let go of painting. “Alice.”

“I paint --”

She broke into a muffled sob and nodded quickly. Picking up her bags, she went to the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Ever since that day, the house had been empty. Practically empty. Albert Crumpleberry had sold his house, his paintings, everything, but it had been too late.

Alice Crumpleberry had permanently moved to Ohio with her three kids, Jonas, James, and Karen. Things weren't working out as they were, but she decided to sacrifice her marriage with Albert for the sake of everyone’s happiness. It was one of the hardest things she has to face. She bit on her lip to keep herself from crying as they moved farther away from what had been their former happy family, now chosen over another ‘important thing’.

Life moved on, with one regretting, and one adjusting to the consequences of what they kept, and sacrificed.

I can't believe that, while writing this story, I cried a lot, and the touching background music that I was listening to added my emotions to pour out as I type. I have a similar ‘important thing’, and that is writing. But I thought over how much my family can make me happy than how writing can, and I don't wish to sacrifice them for the sake of something that I developed.

I have my own 'list of important things in my life', six, to be specific. The list includes: God, my family, my pen, my writing, and my friends. (People stared at me as though my hair had turned green; I can't help it, I just love pens) I haven't thought of the story on my own. It was due to the making of the 'sacrificing activity' (yes, it sounds weird, but that is how I like to call it) that I was able to make this story.

Just as I have mentioned earlier, how one sees an ‘important thing’ of another person (or even your own ‘important thing’) is different from how another person sees it. Let your complete concentration pour on your inner consciousness, and focus on why this is your ‘important thing’ among many others that you also considered as your ‘important thing’. You should know what to keep, and what to sacrifice, for the benefits of yourself, and for the benefits of others.

Thank you so much reading this, dear reader.

4th musing: The Internet

When one is doing homework, most students would fly off to the Internet. Of course I consider myself as one of those students. And there was blog updates, manga visits, and random story search around this thing.

I'm disappointed in myself, too.

If students have to do their works, they have do it on a computer that doesn't have a freakin' internet connection (I'M DOING THAT TOMORROW).When the Net is a good way of finding answers, it usually leaks out inappropriate and obscene ones (lots of similar scenarios, I can give a million) that can affect the sensitive kind. Chances are, just like what I'm actually doing right now, those millions of apps and trinkets and search bars are too tempting for my hand to literally grab that blinking mouse and search this and that. 

And books are better. But the world is getting sadder everyday; books are starting to get extinct due to the fact that they are to be replaced with freakin' electronic thingamajigs. 

I'm either a hypocrite, or I just have this strong sense of distraction whenever I see new stories or the like. I just don't understand myself sometimes, and I don't understand others, too. Let's just say it depends on you, whether you're the:

a.) Go-by-the-book person

b.) The Surfer

c.) The Neutral (uses both, or uses a device that doesn't have an internet connection) (I AM NEUTRAL IN SOME SENSE)

You decide from your own opinions, dear readers.

A DOG THAT ACTS LIKE A DOG

A DOG THAT ACTS LIKE A DOG

A Poem By Clarice A. Limbaro

Sometimes, I do wonder

If my dog is a dog

He chases flying leaves and will ponder

On things that will make him sit on a log

He just stares at cats

He's scared of large crowds

He doesn't take a bath

He barks like a cow, for crying out loud

Yes, I do wonder

If this dog is my dog

This dog that makes me wonder

This dog that makes me sit on a log

And how I love that orange mutt

For he is a dog that acts like a dog

Though he sometimes sniffs my butt

Together, me and my dog will sit on that log

I will let YOU recommend a book!

Surprisingly, I am a person who can bum and stress out at the same time. I simply multitask. But that isn't what I'm posting here all about. I wish to read, for I have finished almost all the books here in the house (and I don't have any time for the library), and I think I can read online, for we have internet connection, here...

So, just like what the post title is saying: I will let YOU recommend a book!

Dear person who is reading this right now;

        I humbly request a heartfelt recommendation from you, for I am in need of an exhalarating novel that can kick me off from my seat. You can send it through email (executehathorn400@ymail.com) or simply through commenting on this post. I am patiently waiting for your recommendation as I will fight these biting ants as I type. 

P.S. This is also for other people (who are reading this) to know what great recommendations this 'dear person' can give us. Share what you know! It's highly appreciated.

Yours sincerely,

       The Bumming Pen

Book recommendation: Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

British writers are simply amazing.

Lots of years have passed, and the book itself starts to age.

But Sir Doyle's Sherlock Holmes who later became well-known as the world's most famous fictional detective will never age (alright, there are stories that shows Sherlock as a man of cranky old age -- oops, I'm spoiling it) , along with his loyal companion Dr. John Watson, and the many mysteries that they have shared.

First of all, there are an interesting pair. Holmes is what you would call a cold type of person, a person who prefers to be in solitude and tackle mysterious chemical experiments. He is a man who prefers mind over emotions, has ridiculous conclusions that usually ended up as correct, and one thing that I like about him is the fact that he plays the violin. His tastes in books and music are well and average; interesting and quite unusual mysteries will always seize his fancy.

Watson, however, according to my personal view of him, is a man of gentle nature -- and I do mean somehow gentler than the first man I've discussed. As I have mentioned earlier, he has the word 'doctor', meaning he had practiced some medicine back then. Watson was later turned into an army surgeon and was sent to Afghanistan (I think this was during the time Afghanistan fought against Britain for independence), shot by a dangerous bullet, was sent back to England, and he lived a lonely life back then. Poor Watson.

But fear not, for in A Study in Scarlet, an introduction of Watson's life before and with Holmes was told. Old-fashioned first-person narrative, very descriptive, lots of vocabulary that I still need to learn, it was an amazing portrayal of a detective tale.

I simply recommend this book (or any collection of Sherlock Holmes novels and stories) for it tells in a way that can allow the reader to explore the story for himself. Simply put, it's as if, the reader is within the very story itself. And you just can't stop reading about it.

That

That

A Short Story by Clarice Limbaro

Disclaimer: This was just for practice. There are heavy emotions within this story and it will be probably confusing. I'm very sorry in advance.

I have never met anyone who can be so...outlandish.

Our heights were a huge factor. I have to look down to see the face clearly -- a face that has baby-like features and one that has a vexatious stare, making me look away in constant disgust. The hair was always unkempt, always a sprawling mess, and I swore that most of the hair strands that fell on the classroom floor were from that head. That person chews on nails, on pencils, and even sucks on a finger.

When I had thought that I will never be seeing that person in the same household, instead of that, I was the one sent away to pack my belongings. I still remembered the stares from my guilt-stricken parents, my dog who was also close to that, and that person, too.

Why did it seem that that was crying? It must have been spring; water always gushes out from the eyes of that person. It's unusual for me to say something that I have in common with that: I hate springtime, too. Fortunately, my eyes doesn't gush out water. My nose does it instead.

*****

"Ms. Hirayama, can't you read the words on this book?"

I kept on staring. The sudden disturbance gave my head a slight whirl, but I looked down on the object in front of me. What are they? To me, there were nonsense scribbles. An ancient language. A foreign writing from beyond.

Slowly, my right hand reached out to my other hand; both were sweaty, and shaking. I can't hear anything anymore.

"Can't read?"

"Look, our Shitsudokushō can't read!"

"Pity, pity!"

"Ah, she's standing up!"

"Oi, careful, she's walking towards -- "

This all seem so different; I don't know where I got my breathlessness. Something was beating wildly inside me. I actually can't feel anything even when I roughly kicked the leg of the chair, and to think that I was knocking off some pens and notebooks from the surface. I stumbled backwards, held onto a nearby chair, and I ran out as fast as my legs can carry me.

I knocked into people mostly, but I kept on running. There were lots of clear windows, but it seems as if not one ray of light fell upon me. I passed by the janitor's room. Too full of whatnots. There was the girl's bathroom. Too much of gossips. And the empty storeroom. Too much of emptiness. I raced upstairs, and avoided people who were carrying things that contained those nonsense scribbles.

Kicking the door open, I found myself facing the empty rooftop. There was a draft, letting my hair sway in the air, and closing the door partly. It was hard trying to calm myself down, even as I slowly sank down on the floor. I can feel goosebumps on me.

"Keiko, aren't you supposed to be in class?"

Screaming, I scrambled backwards, and there was a rapid pounding in my head. There was something wet on my face; I rubbed it dry. It was still stinging, but I don't care.

What is that person doing here?

Years of separation were enough to show the changes dealt with: the height gradually towered above me, the face had matured, the hair was combed. I wanted to push this person away. I can feel water gushing down to my neck.

"Go away! Go away!" I screamed, and I edged further. My blurry eyes weren't helping at all. Even my shaky hands were not helping much. I shook my head slowly. "I said go away..."

That person looked like as if my expression was too pitiful. Such looks were enough, I hate those looks. As quickly as I could I took off my slipper and threw it at him. The person simply ducked.

I didn't notice that that person was already holding my hands to restrain me from moving. My strength was waning, but I tried to pull free. The grip was strong.

My voice was loud.

"You -- the reason why I was f-f-forced to separate from my p-p-parents! You are worthless, cruel, evil, useless! You never made my life feel any better! I -- " I swallowed on the goo that my nose released, before continuing, "I h-h-hate you!"

Though I did mention that water gushes out from my nose, it was my eyes doing the job this time. I cringed when I felt something warm on my cheek. Suddenly, large hands wrapped around my limp body. I don't care.

I just wanted to cry completely.

Book recommendation: The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

One of the amazing novels by the bestselling Spanish author Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Simply amazing. I'm glad they introduced me to this author. I still haven't gotten over The Prince of Mist. 

My cousin bought it from the mall and showed me THIS MASTERPIECE. I am an avid reader whenever a certain story comes to any historical account.

The cover shows clearly enough that the story is set during the-days-when-I-haven't-got-any-idea-what-my-grandparents-were-talking-about. Set in Spain, this story has a dreamy and mysterious atmosphere where it revolves around the main character trying to know the hidden secrets within the forgotten book and author.

It really is intriguing, refined, descriptive. Never mind me, I can't find other words to describe the book, and I'm still in chapter 14. I haven't finished it yet, so to those who have already read, no spoilers please.

But of course to those who haven't read this yet, get ready to be entranced with this gripping tale of books, love, and history. I am recommending this because it has art within the deepest pages, and you'll surely love it. I already love it.

3rd musing: Inspiration

We are all inspired to do something crazy, unusual, awesome, and confusing things, but never normal. Such as in the case of adolescents and young running chaps, even adults.

For instance, I am inspired to write because I wish to inspire other people -- wait, inspire is not the right word, entertain should do.

Supposedly, my older cousin was inspired to teach people whose first language isn't English simply to help them. Or maybe people with certain disabilities were inspired to do things that were beyond their normal abilities. And that is simply awesome.

It's good to know that inspiration works like a machine: both your subconscious mind and active body will work together to get through that inspiration! It works automatically. It works like it's magic. It works like a dog chasing his running owner who has his favourite treat in his hand.

We admit: we're just like dogs, chasing after those tasty treats, because treats can be either good or life-changing (or maybe even bad), or maybe enough to make you say, FINALLY.

The Boy

The Boy

A short story by Clarice Limbaro

Disclaimer: I do not own this photo. Special credits to Jan H. Andersen. You can see his many amazing photos by clicking on this site: http://www.jhandersen.com.

There was a person, who, despite being a young male for a series of years, wasn't given a name when he came out from his mother's world and breathed air. Even as he grew up, no one bothered to name him, and when they do, they refer to the boy as 'him'.

But he didn't let his feet stay in the house, for he was swiftly locking the door with the key his mother had left him, and threw the tiny glittering object to a nearby dry well, where it fell with a barely audible clunk.

It was a happy feeling. He was free from the house and the memories he wanted to forget. Free from the walls constantly telling him to venture out and live his life. It must have been his mother telling him. Glancing back at the door, he jumped over the fence with a boy's gaiety instead of using the gate normally like his neighbor. In this place, it was surprising to see two houses sticking so close to each other. Most of the houses were literally a distance away from each other.

When the lad started to lock the gate for the joy of it, the neighbor hesitantly approached him. The neighbor cleared her throat.

"I'm really sorry for your mother's death, dear lad." As far as she can remember, she saw the lad sneaking out from the house at midnight, or at times where his mother was all alone. She tensed whenever she remember the times when Josephine was struck with the fever; her son never really cared for her.

Much to her annoyance, he smiled at her. "I don't know how to respond to that, but it's okay." The huge lock was finally settled, and heaving a sigh he quickly pushed both of his hands into his pocket, and started to whistle an unfamiliar tune.

The woman's face was mixed with feigned concern, but she did have her doubts. Her voice was strained as she forced herself to say something. "I do wonder though why your mother wasn't able to name you." She looked at the lad's eyes and looked away, annoyed.

His expression hadn't changed: carefree as always. She cleared her throat again, and asked slowly, "Haven't you ever wondered about that?"

"Hmm...actually I wasn't. If mother wasn't thinking about naming me, that's fine by me."

She stared at him. This young lad has a weird way of coping with the loss of his mother. And he didn't seem to be bothered by those kind of questions. Her first intention was simply saying her condolences to him, but her other side got the better of her, and so she asked, in a rushed manner, "Wasn't there anything that your mother left for you?"

He stared up at the sky, and grinned. "She did."

"What is it?"

"This." He pulled up his left sleeve, revealing a small leather pocket strapped around with a band on his arm. He took the pocket, opened the cover, and pulled out a folded knife.

She couldn't keep herself from asking. "She gave you that? And to you, who is only a 12-year-old?"

The lad's usual cheery expression changed to that of a befuddled one. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"There is! You are carrying a knife, an object that might bring injury to others or even to yourself!" She fears that the boy might injure others rather than his own, for she did saw a brawl that happened years ago.

His expression became more confused, and slowly he glanced up at the sky, then down to the knife in his hand, and back to the sky again. His mother hadn't told him about the knife, but she smiled instead. He smiled at the memory of it, and had imagined his mother smiling down at him from up the clouds.

Like a man confronting a lie, he faced the neighbor, and said loudly, "My mother has reasons for this knife. Fortunately, she was able to give it to me personally and I'm off to know those reasons. I have my reasons, too." He bowed down his head a bit, turned around swiftly and started to walk away from the woman, who remained staring at him with disbelief.

"And where are you going?"

"To the place where people haven't explored yet!"

As the unnamed lad's figure started to get smaller from the distance that he attained, the woman kept on staring, until there was nothing left for her to see except a moving speck of a shadow. Sighing, she tiredly pulled opened her gate and went inside. The boy might be out to find his father, she thought as her hand roughly pushed the door open.

2nd musing: Stubborn Stones and Writer's Block

Sometimes I simply don't understand myself. Whenever I write something, I force myself to do it, not because I don't want to, but it's the opposite instead. And this is what I usually suffer from. I don't even know why I'm suffering from this. Suppose it's because I have a stone's stubbornness, something that will break down once lava or another superior object hits it.

Within this head of mine, there are lots of things that I can't explain through words, simply because I don't know if I should use this word or maybe this one, or should I be vocabulary-smart, or should I be simply simple with the words, or whatever. In the end, I'm always confusing.

Thankfully, that stubborn stone helped me in finishing at least three short stories. This is the happiest day of my life. :D Alright writers, fight the Writer's Block and write what you want to say!

1st Musing: 1st post

Writing is like an absorbent sponge. It drains the ideas that you want and don't want, transferring them to a pen, where your hand will be forced to write them down on clear paper. However, most of the 'I want' ideas and the 'I don't want' ideas will collide with each other along with their respective labels. In the end, it is a mess of words you don't understand.

For me, it is never an easy start. I have plenty of Writer's Block here and there, but luckily I have a tiny voice within this odd head of mine that forces me to write the story that I wanted to tell. There are lots of rules, but fortunately you can make your own rules, and that is something I will have to worry about later on as I will try to finish a story that has been jumping up and down like drumsticks drumming on a drum for a long time now.

My first musing ends here for now. Let there be new stories and other musings as days will pass by!

Typing is awesome! First post rules! :D