Twilight Saga: Bella’s Revenge

For those of you who haven’t seen the Twilight Saga movies, here’s a quick update:

Twilight: There’s this girl who falls in love with a vampire.

Twilight – New Moon: This girl now falls in love with a werewolf.

Twilight – Eclipse: The vampire and werewolf fight over the girl, but eventually team up together to save her from other bad vampires who are hell bent on killing her for some obscure reason. The werewolf is so much cooler, but the stupid girl rejects him and continues to be in love with the vampire.

Great. Now that you’ve been brought up to speed on the three movies, here’s a sneak preview of the secret, unreleased book and movie. This story happens in between ‘Eclipse’ and the soon-to-be-released ‘Breaking Dawn‘.

We left off the last movie with Jacob, the werewolf, lying in a bed with his bones broken by an evil vampire. The girl, Bella Swan, sitting beside him and telling him that she chooses to be with Edward, the vampire. She then meets Edward and tells him that she’s ready to marry him. Stephanie Meyer did not want me to reveal this, but there were three distinct events that happened on the same day that Bella Swan agreed marry Edward. In chronological order, they are:

  1. Before leaving home that morning, Bella Swan would have poisoned her father’s coffee mug, dosing the rim with a peculiarly rare venom from a werewolf’s anus, hoping that it was the humane thing to do. She did not want him to die a painful death at the hands of an evil vampire. Little did she know that her father did not drink coffee. He only drank beer. If she had spent a little more time getting to know her father and a little less time with wild creatures, she would have known that he used the coffee mug as a vaginal alternative. Well, he did, and he developed a painful infection on his private parts and died of complications on the way to the ICU. Well, she accomplished her job, but it definitely wasn’t the humane way to go.
  2. Bella’s classmates at Forks High had been mean to her in the third movie, calling her deranged and stupid, questioning her integrity and her character. So, to exact her revenge on them, Bella tells Edward after agreeing to marry him, that she’ll only do it if he kills the four assholes in school for being mean to her. Edward jumps at the opportunity to taste human blood, and ambushes the four students in a dark alley behind the local movie theater and rips them apart. He literally eats them up and drinks their blood. There is no evidence left at the scene and very little blood splatter. For obvious reasons.
  3. Owing to the particularly heavy meal that night, Edward the vampire develops a bad stomach ache and goes into the woods to take a dump. In his discomfort, he does not realize that he is knee-deep in his own shit in werewolf territory. Jacob the werewolf, gets his scent, and despite the broken bones, attacks him viciously. It’s a battle to the death and at the end of an hour, both the vampire and the werewolf lie next to each other, broken, bruised and gasping for their last breaths. Bella comes out of the shadows, smiles vilely at them both and shoots them in the head.

Stephanie Meyer could not reveal these incidents as they would have put an end to the ridiculous franchise. Instead, she built up a cock-and-bull story of how Bella gets pregnant and … Oh, I almost killed the suspense of the last movie. Go, pay your hard-earned money and watch it for yourselves, but trust me, it’s a falsification of the facts. It’s sensationalism of the truth. It’s pure and unadulterated yellow journalism.

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Writing A Musical, Trying Hard… Hope Springs Eternal, Sharp As A Shard…

Oh here I am, lost in thought,
Trying to write a musical this day…
Looking out the window, into the sun,
Into the faces of men, women and children who play…

I saw the faces walking past me, lost in their own thought, lost in their own little worlds of deceit, greed, lust and love, and didn’t think twice about the challenge that lay before me. I, who have never before embarked on the journey of poetry, never before undertaken the arduous task of making simple little words sing a tune and dance to it, I, who have always hid behind the safe mask of prose and paragraphs, thought to myself, albeit foolishly, how difficult can it really be?

I turned back into the gloomy room,
Saw the mismatch walls and the lack of life.
It needs a woman’s touch, yes it does, I think to myself,
I need to get me a wife.

Pushing these frivolous thoughts away from my head, I sit at my desk and stare at the coffee and the plate of untouched bread. I pick up my laptop and open it’s hood, and I try oh so hard, not to brood. As I type these flimsy words, my head breaks into song – songs of love, songs of death, songs of everlasting breath. Songs of chivalry, songs of beauty, songs of virtue, joy and revelry. I try to catch the thoughts, I try to hold on to them long enough to write. But, it seems, I am bound, irreversibly to a life of prose, bland and contrite. Just then, a voice rings out in the room and I turn to see my cook, standing in the doorway, gazing upon my confused look.

Oh sir, what will it be, your choice,
For today’s lunch – will you have rotis or will you have rice?
I am your humble servant, please get me a cell phone,
And a connection, some decent clothes and a cycle so I may roam.

I send him away for some Pepsi and a smoke, as I continue my attention to the musical, that was disturbed by the funny bloke. Why can’t I rhyme to save my life, I ask myself. It’s because you waste too much time, reading trash, wizards, warlocks and house-elves.

Oh Darling inspire me, I call out to the woman I love,
The woman whose touch I miss, one with whom I fit like a glove.
Inspire me enough to call out to you in your own sweet way of poems so true,
The art that I can never master, never as good as you.

I give up my mundane effort, trying not to think of my failure. I give up my childish dream of using words to lure. I am never as good as her, I can never be. Even when she writes to kill time, with effortless ease, she outshines me. I guess I will leave it here, with nothing more to come. I guess I’ll get back to my coffee and bread and dream of things to come.

Pokie

“There is a deeper,
Darker side of me that no one knows
And no one shall ever know.
It will perish with me…”

– Pokie, age 6, 1999

The knife looked so good – so strong, so brilliant in its glitter. He held it in his hands and turned it around, savoring its every curve, its every niche, and its every edge with a gleam in his eye. He licked his dry lips. Locked in his room, he could still hear the screams and shouts of pain, anger and agony from his parents’ room. He felt a knot tighten in his chest – tears forced through his closed eyes. He clutched the knife tightly and held it close against his heart. Why? he asked. Why me? Why now? But the knife – Oh, it looked so good. He smiled through his mental pain, through his agony. As the voices grew louder and louder in the other room, he knew that any moment now his father would burst through his room and repeat what he’d done to his mother. He would start with the belt whipping followed by some slapping around and finally…and finally…it…it was…it was too painful and too disgusting to think about. He cried softly, afraid to make a noise lest his father heard him. “Don’t hurt her,” he whispered through his tears. “I’m sorry, mama. But I can’t protect you. I can’t protect you…I can’t…I can’t…” He rocked back and forth, crying, hugging the knife dearly, and crouching in the corner of his dark room. Pokie was six years old when he cut his own wrists.

“There is a deeper, darker side of me that no one knows. It will perish with me,” said Pokie lying on the white sheets in the white hospital. It was white all around. His mother was sitting beside the bed, in her chair, sobbing quietly. Her tear-streaked face did not hide the red scars of that night. Her right eye was swollen and was turning black. She was bleeding through the ears, but did not complain. She looked down at the tiny, frail figure on the bed.

“Oh Pokie,” she whispered. “Why did you do it, honey?”

Pokie could not hear her. He was on a life support system, battling for his life. The doctor who had looked in hadn’t shown hope in survival. “A great loss of blood,” he had said. “And his blood group’s not too common. It may take a while to acquire it. I’m sorry.” She had cried that she was his mother and he could have every drop her blood if he wanted to. But the doctor had calmly refused saying that there was a mismatch. Please, she had cried. I am his mother! We have the same blood. Not quite, said the doctor.

Now, as she sat and cried, she heard the first rambling words of her six-year-old son, and was immediately out of the chair and by his side, leaning in through the plastic hood of the life support and egging him to speak.

Pokie was six years old when the power failed in the hospital and the life support, which did not have a battery back up, failed with it. Pokie was six years old when he died. He wasn’t the only one. His mother picked up hypodermic syringe lying on the table, filled it with air and thrust it into her veins. Pokie was exactly six years old. It was his birthday.

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“Pokie” was one of my earliest short stories, which has just been accepted into the New York Times’ creative young authors’ section. Passing the final reviews, it would be published in the online edition of NYT. ~ Yay ~ 😀
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