Queer Teen: A Loser’s Diary

A/N: First of all, I wrote this when I was 15 years old. I didn’t know how to write yet then and I have to say that word play here is very, very weak and lame. I did some editions with the punctuations (which were retarded) and a few corrections in the tenses (some were out of place), but otherwise, it remains as it was. I’m posting it here for future reference. 07.30.06


Disclaimer: I don’t own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.


Summary: Kenji Fujima’s freshman diary exposed! On-going.


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May 28, Tuesday
First day of senior high. Hot day. School many blocks away from home.


The basketball team of Shoyo is giving away forms to those who are interested in the basketball club. I joined of course; some of the cutest kids are talking about it and I couldn’t help asking this tall, handsome kid with eyeglasses. He said he played center during his junior days and damn, wasn’t I captain last year? I was, and I didn’t get any award so what’s the use of flaunting my title to him? Hadn’t it been for that brat Mitsui Hisashi I could’ve strutted around and…Uh, I’m forgetting about Maki…some popular schools were trying and dying to get him, and Mitsui too! Darn, and when did they land? Kainan and Shohoku! Kainan’s a good school, been winning since I was born. But Shohoku…uh, that’s where all the bummers go. And the MVP chose to be in it…another loser. All the same, still bothers me; why would these big time ballers go for such schools when very few good-looking guys are attending them? Ah. Can’t understand their moods at all. Anyway, I’m lucky to be free to go anywhere, at least for a high cause; a school with a storm of studs and a damn good basketball team, who wouldn’t want to be counted in? Oh, I almost missed our assistant captain; he’s supposed to be cute, another motivation for a new kid like me…well diary, that’s all for today. Bye.



May 29, Wednesday
Second day. Another sweltering day.


Have I mentioned anything about this guy with the eyeglasses? Oh yeah, I think I have ‘cos I couldn’t sleep last night after I had this dream (nightmare) about him making it to the team and me messing up that fast break and hence ending up a reject. Such a long night. Anyway, we just bumped into each other again and weren’t quite able to get away from a short drink at the cafeteria. We both had to extend our courtesy as we’re soon to be team mates. If we’re lucky. He said he used to be team captain too so great expectations are set around him. I replied I was a candidate for captain last year and to my surprise, so was he…and Maki and Uozomi and a damn lot also. He mentioned as well that the team owner of Shoyo almost kneeled in front of him just for him to enroll his ass here (I didn’t say the crackpot imbecile almost kissed my polished toenails for the hell of it; wouldn’t want to rain on his parade). I just nodded as if to say I got it. Just then the bell rang. I took the last sip at my Iced Mocha, which was too sweet it almost had me diagnosed with fucking diabetes. We both ascended to the 6th floor of the accursed building and went inside for our first class (my section is 1-1, him 1-4). My last class which was first year algebra ended at 3:15 and as usual a girl came up to me to shake hands. Yeah, I’m real. You wanna touch me too? I almost blurted out. I don’t know what she was really up to. Or was she just trying to be close to a junior high superstar? Typical. I’m guessing she would’ve asked for more than a handshake if I didn’t say goodbye the moment she started introducing herself. But however that may be, I’m quite used to girls doing things like that. I got a full blast of it in my junior days and some did go as far as asking me to spend the day with them. For god’s sake. I prefer…never mind. I haven’t tried saying yes, for your information, because that would amount to missing a practice session, which is a rare thing for me to do. I’d really rather be on court rehearsing my smooth moves on the floor. I’m not really offended by things like that. If anything, it could be an ego-booster sometimes. But sometimes, they just get on my nerves and arggh…I don’t like giggling girls that much either. Anyway, I went home alone ‘cos I couldn’t wait to practice my long-range at our backyard. Tomorrow’s going to be a great day because try-outs are on and I’ve just got to give everyone in that damned court what I have. Especially that Toru Hanagata who highly expects that he’s going to be a starter.



May 30, Thursday
Third day. Another sunny day. TRY-OUT FOR THE CLUB!!!


This has gotta be the happiest day of my life. It’s so amazing I’m finding it hard to absorb everything. Anyways, I’m writing down every detail of what took place from the moment I woke up at 6:15 in the morning because this day deserves a long entry. I took a shower for 15 minutes, brushed m teeth and after that wore my school uniform and sprayed off my favorite perfume. I reached school at 7:20, heavy with breakfast and all. At least I was able to attend my first and second to the last classes, from Japanese literature to algebra. I headed straight to the stadium, almost jumping my way there. It was around 2:30 and the gym, I’m telling you, was jammed with more girls than I ever imagined. Some boys were looking funny and pale in their very short shorts. They were there for the same reason that I was. I immediately changed into my basketball attire and just as the captain blew his whistle, I was done tying my Asics sneakers. He quickly commanded us to form a line. Since I was the shortest, I went first. After everything was good and ready, it was time to make ourselves known. I said, ‘Fujima Kenji, 163 cm, 48 kg and captain of Fumikaro High last year. I play both the shooting guard and point guard position. My goals are to win the National Tournament and to top the prefecture as this year’s best rookie.’ I finished loudly. Strange glances were thrown at me after this monologue, but I don’t really give a damn whatever these petty people think. All I was aware of was that a proud smile slanted across our team captain’s face and that’s enough to prove my competence. The game started at 2:45. I was in the white team and had to group up with this big guy Kazushi. He was also captain of his former team, according to him, but I guess they didn’t do that well otherwise I would’ve heard he matched up quite well with Mitsui, you know, the MVP. Anyway, there were 16 freshmen on the list, originally, and only 10 were starting out; the rest would be substitutes. Toru was on the green team, I think, to even the match. His looks easily told me that he was going to smash that basket to show how tough he is. I just smiled to say that I was going to make the most amazing, unblockable shots they’d ever witness. The first half was pretty uneventful. It ended with our team up by 4; score was 49-45. This, I observed, was a tight one. Each team was a defensive and offensive Triple Crown winner. Every time one of us got the steal we would go for a successful fast break. Every time they had it, one of them would make a long range and for the tall ones, even a dunk! Show-offs! That is why I say the game was a really close one. The team leaders seemed to have difficulties in qualifying the freshmen; nearly everyone did great. But they did favor teams though. Our captain, judging by his jubilant cheering, was on our side whereas his assistant was clearly on Toru’s, which spoiled my moment because all the time his eyes were locked on Toru’s movements and it just gives me clarification that he’s intensely into Toru and that he could make his advances anytime after the stupid ballgame and eventually he wouldn’t be mine and…but there are undoubtedly other stuff to worry about than sulking around in my jealousy and scheming how to lure a cute assistant captain. The second half began at around 3:15. I was carefully keeping track of time for a reason. As early as the game was, I already knocked down a total of 20, a little less than the score of my team mates put together. Other than that, I dropped in 8 assists, a couple of boards and best of it was my game high of 5 steals. The coach said that if I carried on I could break a school record but I didn’t keep my hopes up that much. My mind was elsewhere, really. Anyway I did it all in a matter of 20 minutes, isn’t it marvelous? I even felt certain at that moment that I was going to be a starting guard. The first freshman in Shoyo’s history to debut as a lead-scoring starter. Sounds nice. Anyway, the team was 53 percent from the field while the opponent was 58 percent, which suggested that our team had more possessions but more misses. Not good but as long as the lead was ours, we would be fine. Toru’s team had obviously more violations and fouls which caused our team to be awarded with penalty shots and other opportunities. The second half wasn’t a one-sided battle because the lead shifted from one team to the other every minute. Toru must have done a well sermon to his pals and I believe I did a job of encouraging mine for my part. The last minutes were the most crucial because the opponents were only trailed by 3 baskets, 6 points. The pressure was pounded harder on us when this little kid who wore jersey number 18 hit a 40 footer in the last one minute and 47 seconds! It cut our point advantage to three which prompted me to call for a timeout. Later when we got back on the floor with 1:40 on the clock, I asked Kazushi to stay outside the paint and be wary within the 15 footer area because the green team would surely anticipate whatever shot he was going to make from there. I let everyone stay outside the 3 point line and scatter themselves in every direction to break through the enemies’ sticky defense. The core of this strategy was to find an open spot where I could drive through the bucket, leaving my opponent behind with a screen from one of my group mates. I told them there was plenty of time and that we weren’t in a hurry so it was OK to eat up time, as long as we could preserve the lead. After all, that was one of the plan’s purposes. I was then the only white team member outside the 3 point line when I found an open path that led to the hoop. My guard was two meters away, being clueless, when the ball was caught by my clutches. Swift as the wind, I passed it back and ran to the foul line area. The area was empty and my guard was trapped by Kazushi. The ball was returned to me and this time it landed in my left hand. I took two steps forward and leaped for a finger-roll. It was in. The score was now 85-84 in our favor, and a look of exasperation was drawn on green team’s faces. I thought I saw a glint in his eye for a split second, that well-see-what-when-we-get-to-the-other-side-of-the-court look. I managed to hand him a grin which I intended to say ‘you’re not scaring the hell out of me,’ we both turned to run then though our stamina bar was now visibly empty. The time left was one minute and ten seconds. They were too mad to catch up that they made a good basket within twelve seconds. Our team’s deal was to stick to our former strategy. But the ball was accidentally tapped away from my team mate within fifty three seconds remaining, which cost another subtraction from our lead by way of another lay-up from the other team. The crowd went wild. They were now down only by a point and just like that our advantage was consumed. 42 now on the clock. I was feeling miserable with apprehension. We were all hot as the sun. Kazushi called a timeout, our final one. We listened to his coaching which sounded like nagging by the way. To be honest, his ideas were brilliant but too professional and ambitious for our elementary level of playing. What we needed in fact was someone who would get under the basket and make a feint. As he took off someone would be ready to catch the ball, which would be thrown in disguise of a shot. The one who caught it must hand it to me fast. This plan of course contained heightened risk of getting fly-swatted, in addition to being presumptuous of the other team’s un-anxious defense. First, we weren’t sure if all or majority of the green team would storm at the guy who would do the fake. Second, if the guy got delayed, he would sure be charged with a five second violation. Lastly, if anyone from theother squad got wind of it and got me, I assuredly wouldn’t be able to make that shot. They would grab the rebound because our team was simply lesser in terms of offensive rebounds and thus, the possibility of them scoring again and snatching the lead would be enlarged and they would really take the lead for the first time in who knows how long…but for lack of a better idea, we opted to go on with the plan. Number 16 was assigned for the fake, Kazushi for the pass and me for the shot. Piece of cake it seemed like it, but far out in reality. So we executed the plan. The ball was delivered to me through bare success and dangerous passes. When it was my turn Toru charged at me. That wasn’t expected. There was nothing left to do but for me to do another fake. I aimed, not jumping and to my delight, he bought it! So I funneled again even as he landed. The ball flew from me; the crowd was further excited. I could hear the sound of the ball gunning through the air and with .18 second left with the game, the ball went it. It must have been the most amazing shot I have made in a few months. Then the buzzer rose up in the air. As I received congratulations, I felt that there was something dramatic about this victory. One thing was certain; either I was the best player, or Toru Hanagata who got 2 points more than me. As it turned out, however, it wouldn’t matter either way because both of us made it to the team. Plus, there’s a new challenge in store for us newcomers. We are going to face the basketball team tomorrow and guess what? They promised it wouldn’t be that easy.


TBC

Childless

By: RDV

She looks at him and all she sees is a marriage in decline, perilously close to its demise. No, it isn’t even a marriage to begin with; it’s deception, right off the bat. Anyone can see it fully, all that’s missing is acceptance from both parties. Some days ago her housewife neighbor told her she’s sorry for her. She just kept mum, knowing that the circumstances are fucked up when someone who has been battered by her spouse many times feels sorry for her.

Now he’s leaving again, off to paradise unknown to her for good or for bad. And it means another span of long waiting in the dark with the lamplight flickering beside her and the door, far off, won’t be expecting return until morning. Yes, at dawn. The door has been too used being disturbed at such time it can just do so automatically as though it has a mind on its own.

Tonight is the last straw, as were the nights preceding this. She thinks about him and his nineteen-year-old paramour, because of whom her life has been aggravated at such degree, because of whom the relationship had been further jinxed. The other woman is young, the better half isn’t. The latter wonders why men can never keep up with old age, why they change lovers faster than a snake changes its skin. Even now there is no point to waiting as she knows his exculpating story even before the first syllable putters out of his lips. The variations of his story have become old and she’s heard all of them bad versions. They’re paltry and dramatic at the same time. Seeing that, both gave up the need to explain.

Oh damn. That’s all she can say right now, the solitude notwithstanding. After reaching a certain point, her anger just subsided to nothing.

He can’t even give her a child. When young she was like a first-time soldier, full of anticipation for a fruitful life. She was beautiful, which is why he took her in the first place. Now, forty-five, the traces of beauty have gradually abandoned their residence in her body. They took off, one by one, saying goodbye to her as she faced the mirror. The only difference between them and her husband is that, they were sorry to go.

She saw young women. She saw pretty young women whose lives weren’t nearly as broken as hers. Since then she’s been pushing a boulder uphill. The one thing that played on and on inside her was to retrieve youth so as to finagle her husband back to her. She thought that all he needed was that. She thought it was going to be easy through and through.

And in her vexation and rash impulse, plastic surgery was the key. Artificial beauty was fine. Undergoing it was painful but that was nothing compared to what it should result in. She almost went mad through the process. Anguish, anxiety and strange excitement, all mixed themselves inside as recipes for a cake of heartbreak. One big heartbreak yet again.

She was pretty again, but without conviction and well-nigh dead. She realized that the change was one of the things that caused regrets later. Her self-confidence struck all-time low even if her husband had become modest in her philandering. For a reason or another she lost grasp of the cause why she’d undergone face lift to start with. She no longer craved for his caresses. She no longer cared for what he might tell her every time he came in fresh from some hot sex with a much younger girl and his face a telltale sign of his erstwhile ecstasy. But she still waits for him, asks him where he’s been as he shuts the door gently behind him, pauses to catch his breath and announces his empty-handed return. He will answer "nowhere", as if it were that easy to comprehend, and she’ll be hoping that the word has a higher meaning or something. She will say "fine", the word causing her some doubt as she says it. He will shut up thereafter in her favor. And silence will take over.

Silence is worse than insolence.

But tonight he is late, by pure mistake or deliberation. She doesn’t know anymore.

As she lays she thinks of a child. She doesn't know how much time, years, had gone by since her last chance at motherhood disappeared. She has made a point of borrowing her nieces and nephews to spend some quality time with them. Their driver whose deaf-and-mute baby has lately been the object of her maternal fantasies. She doesn’t mind the lowered cost of living of being barren,but they can afford to adopt what with the small-unit family they’ve had since time immemorial. Like the slow unraveling of a tale, the child that should’ve come to her, young in her arms, fragile and beautiful. Her husband doesn’t seem of the same mind as her in this matter and his failure to understand quite simply abominates her. How come he never dreamed of being a dad? How come he’s never similarly affected by his sterility? How come there is always a separate fear between them? How does he suppose he'd pay that size of debt, being unable to beget a child? She can well see what he’s thinking. Always.

The hours drained off, unmarked in their transition. The room starts to lighten with the orange light of the morning. The phone rings. As she picks it up, her mind goes off somewhere again. The voice from the other end is asking if this is the home of Albert Barillio. Assessing the weight of the voice, she discovered that it has a serious ring to it. She mutters a low affirmative. Somehow, she just knew that something happened. The voice is apologizing to her now, it says it’s sorry but her husband got caught in an accident. Must be drunk-driving. She says "yes" again. Her tone is steady, tired and very much like falling asleep. She says she’ll be at the crash site soon. Soon.

She puts the phone down. As she goes to the sink to wash her face, she thinks of the foregone child. She opens the door to their bedroom, but not to procure the car key, but to sleep the morning away. Her dead husband is the one to wait for her from now on. She sleeps emboldened, no longer burdened. She sleeps like before and the emptiness that she so tried to get used to is her present and cushy companion now, and ever.

Instead of falling into chaos, things start falling into place, finally.

Of Faelivrin and Gwindor

She felt her hands fall down on her sides when she saw for the first time in many years Gwindor, whom she loved in long summers and wept for in countless nights. 14 years before, the council of Nargothrond had given him up for lost when tidings came of his capture by the host of Morgoth. And she remembered how she cried herself to sleep then, even as when Gwindor bid her goodbye and unclasped his hands from hers to stalk off to the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. He never looked back. And that was what she last saw of Gwindor, who was young and beautiful both in body and mind.

Now he returned unbidden. He stood at the feet of the King’s throne and his eyes begged recognition. They did not know him. This kingdom which he served since the Noldor’s rebellion against the Valar, it did not welcome him. He had been wooed from care, that was all they saw, emaciated to the last capacity that even his mind seemed to have wasted away in the Orcs’ the dungeons of Angband. That might be the case for he muttered words that seemed but remote to the Elven Tongue. They looked at him; and the light of the Eldar that formerly frolicked on the surface of his eyes seemed quenched. He seemed strangely more of the Second Born, an aged one, than of the First. Memories of this elf who used to play with Orodreth’s daughter in the clear glen, refused to be conjured, even in imagination, and he was close to weeping. His hewn garments fluttered as he curtsied lower to Orodreth the King, who in turn offered merely a frown to show his wonder.

‘Are there no wise eyes among you, my people? This is Gwindor who left for the Nirnaeth 14 years before. Gwindor for whom our women wept, I not the least, and with whom great honor the men of Finrod held.’

Then Gwindor looked up. The voice was as clear as water falling on rocks, yet cold and melancholy as one that waited too long. It was Finduilas daughter of Orodreth. So long he had dreamed of that voice in the dark chambers of Morgoth, dreamed that it would wake him up and bear him far beyond Middle Earth where too much blood was let loose and too many fruitless wars raged. Enough of that, for here was Finduilas whom he loved and she knew him. It mattered not if others did not.

Then the King rose from his throne and drew close to Gwindor. He knew him then. He was his captain, the son of Prince Guilin his friend. The King raised his hand as Elven music invaded the air. The Noldor in Nargothrond wept in happiness that day and for the first time in many years, Gwindor and Finduilas’s hands were joined once again.

With Gwindor came a man named Mormegil the Black Sword. Word had it that he was rescued by Gwindor upon the latter’s escape from the horde of Melkor. Mormegil’s eyes were as grey as the starlit heavens and his hair darker than the night; but his face was fairer than any other Mortal Man in the Elder Days. He had an elegant bearing and his speech, be it in Elven Tongue or the Edain, was admirable and eloquent that he seemed not less than a Prince of the House of Fingolfin the Valiant. He was fierce in Battle and his courage had won him great renown in the wars Nargothrond had to face later.

Time passed and Lord Gwindor healed and regained the strength and the youth of his body. Though that may be, he did not forget his labors in the caves of Morgoth the Craven, in which his Elven craft alone saved him from ruthless murder, and he sank in dark silence often. Yet, there came Princess Finduilas whose wondrous beauty Gwindor had so loved dearly. She had the golden hair of the Vanyar after the manner of the house of Finarfin, and the light of her face which resembled Laurelin did much to lift the clouds that tightened around Gwindor’s heart. He delighted in the sight of her, as was before; it was he who named her Faelivrin, which is the light of the Sun on the surface of the pools of the River Ivrin. But it was not until later when he noticed that Finduilas had grown wan and silent. TBC

Drabble in Fruits

Ayame feels Hatori’s hands on his shoulder. They linger there for what seems like a brief blink until they slide their way just an inch above his underside. Before it drains on him, he realizes that his robe now drapes on the floor whereas not less than a wink ago it was there confidently hanging by his frame. He closes his eyes, inclining his neck into an idle angle just as Hatori’s warmth escapes him. No literal vision is needed to affirm the fact that Hatori is now in the process of subtle undressing. Then the distance between them diminishes once again until it thins to skin to skin contact.

*insert very hot, sadomasochistic Lemon here*

Never in the darkest time of the year with all the winds howling and the threat of storm raging against his bedroom’s window did Hatori think of nicking into Ayame’s half consciousness and taking it there. He is almost a best friend to him. More than that, he is a blood relation. Ayame is. Hatori’s feelings for him used to be one great lump of emotion that knew no serious identity; as they draw closer to each other now, it seems that that tumor splits into infinity. Among other things, Desire protrudes and Love declares itself.

Hatori holds Ayame in his glance. What he is so sure he now feels for him is reflected on the surface of those yellow, clear eyes; only what’s in there ascertains to be older, more ancient. Ayame has loved Hatori long before the latter’s been introduced to such fancy. But that hardly matters now. More likely than not, Hatori has unknowingly felt likewise. It only needed acceptance then. In Ayame, it wasn’t so hard a job. He admitted his attraction right away, keeping it to himself, checking and careful not to run around rampant in his explorations. At last, they found each other’s innerness.

The House They Built

By: RDV



A little mouse was found dead behind the electric fan’s screen that morning. It had by some unique retardation fascinated itself with the gigantic device and the swishing sound it made. It was well-intentioned; it only wanted to play, while its savage parents embarked on a higher level of mission.

An earthworm leaked out of the running faucet soon after morning departed. It was a grim prognosis of many sicknesses. For this and several other reasons, many spigot filters had been ordered from the nearest hardware merchandise store and were forthwith installed on the gaping mouths of the leaks.

Behind the dangling pot holders, cockroaches mated, spawned and multiplied. Among the things they bred was grudge, black and malicious. In their feverish excitement to avenge their relatives against humans, they failed to credit the length of their antennas which protruded conspicuously behind their hiding place, attracting the worst danger. In a spell, the fresh emanation of Baygon sank them into heavenly intoxication.

And the lice feasted, the ticks celebrated, the ants partied right and left, taking ultimate delight in their convenient size. Before they ever tired of laughing the white poison of the termite killer drowned them in thousands and hundreds.

It was then the microscopic parasites regained their reign. The evolution had been reversed, at last.

Dusted

By: RDV


The living have something more than death to offend him with. He isn’t pacing up and down the room or wringing his hands or even crying. His face is set in repose, seeming to have finally embraced the entire concept of death row. The room that is reserved for him, in which he is located at the present, is immaculate. The walls are whitewashed and so are the bed sheets. He has the bare necessities inside the closet. Every so often he would wonder why the prison administration would even bother when for him, there’s nothing to look forward to but his existence's post-dread and death whose arrival is tomorrow at eleven-thirty before afternoon. In this place, where the only thing that flourishes is fear, he is ironically far removed from panic. He no longer questions the loopholes of the law, as he was in the habit of doing in the course of his trial. He no longer lets tears fall down despite the deep and painful lacerations of his heart. He sits up on the bed, staring at the ceiling for the seventeenth hour. He can observe the surveillance camera that’s immovably hanging on the top right corner of his room. Every move he makes is being watched, measured and probably taunted. He’s being watched like a film for all to see. It’s part of the price he has to pay, he just knows; part of the cruelty he is rightfully subjected to. He closes his eyes in an attempt to force himself away from the sight of anything that drips with the flavor of life. Outside, the failing sunlight tumbles on the soil and from where he lays, his eyelids pulled down, he can see a bouncy life for the ones he left behind. He can remember the time when the judge pronounced his sentence. It has by far been the hardest struggle he has to put up with. It was hard to listen to those words, but is it easier than saying it? He wondered what the people who earned him the place felt, who slandered his name to the last. Have they incurred guilt, even if it was to be a moment too late? Maybe. But all that is past. No judgment can be revoked at this point anymore. He will be delivered, accordingly and arraigned, and no amount of time can ever convey the brooding his imminent death requires. He frees himself from those worries and slakes himself with the thought that at least, he isn’t denied the chance to breathe the same air with those he loves for the last time. In this newfound peace, he imagines the curtains drawing down. The breeze will no longer blow his way. He has lived and would soon be forgotten.