world cup 2022

this is not my first world cup not watching with my dad, but it's different, still.

21/2021

 

you're no longer the

could have

        should have

            would have.

 

enjoy the ride.

 

happy birthday.

 

(funny how your zodiac sign reflects what used to be in your blood, but let's be cancer-free forever, bear with my funky clothes and love your brother like i will

                                                                                            always love you two together).

 

 

 

                         

402

      it's not the meme.
it's a celebration for both of ours and what you should be living with.
   (not forever, i know that.)

and in one year,
        just one more year

we all will be alright.

in response to 26/4 (see previous post):

i, in all sense of the word, was
a
   coward

but it was never about the pain;
pain, i could feel it
     it was there
in my bones and
 muscles
pain, has always been familiar but

this fear?

   i had never known it before;
this fear is unlike when
       you know you screwed up when
         you decide to consume horror or whenever
     you think you are scared

this fear?
this fear is lethal it’s
   in my head it’s
     eating away what i have built for years;

all those self-help books
   and mental exercises i prided myself to master they were
infinitely useless because of this;

irrational,
 hysterical,
  maniacal fear that made me reluctant to just use my knee like how it should be.

apparently, i can swim again.
biking is not out of the question.
you? you will always be there to see me wearing
ridiculous outfit and paying for our silver screen escapade every few months or so.

i will be alright,
       and so will you,
         (and then we all will).

26/4

of all things that i enjoy,
after fucking up my knee apparently i won’t be:

a. able to swim anymore
        (which is the only sports i can do, also because
    of my poor legs in the first place)
and
            b. advised to bike
(which is a form of transportation that i’ve always liked better than the other).

when the needle pricked my knee and
        the sharp, stinging pain was
            there
                while the doctor tried to divert my attention from the pain by asking mundane questions i—

    i thought about you.

and when the blood was drawn and i felt my knee went numb i still thought about you.

when i sobbed in the shower a week later because it got too much i thought about you.

when i woke up in the morning slowly getting better and better everyday,

of course i thought about you.

                (because this is nothing compared to yours and
                    i knew—you and she did, too, it’s
                        just that i’ve never been treated in a hospital before
           and i simply allowed myself to be scared for quite some time.

p.s. it’s not a good feeling at all. i don’t know how you do it and i’m sorry.)

    this is nothing.
        we both will be fine.

two days ago

two days ago
     i
       learned two things;

(1)
you guys were never
rowdy you never
 bickered
  never
           got into a
                 fight
and i saw them,
     girls,
      probably
       with the same
         age gap
          as you two

and they fought.
too much,

during the
                short time
i was there with them

(2)
the simple 'happy' status you made when

you were
ten,

when you were
   so into animals and

when i
           still
                  yelled
a lot at you—

it broke my heart two days ago.

28

they're clogging up
     the drain they're
                            there in between
my fingers and
   they make me
wonder why.

(that's a lie;

i know why.)

multiply,
and you will probably get it.

me?
       i'm having none of it.

i still want the impossible,
which is never the answer
anyway.

"i love the way you walk the tightrope between recounts and longing in you writings."
achmad luthfi (2018), a very good friend of mine, master of english himself, about me

i.
what a craft. just how many times did you lie on paper that you have never felt like throwing things around or breaking things apart, huh, because apparently you don’t like to talk, do you, why should you, anyway, if making a damage to your knuckles or any cheap wooden door was enough?

ii.
it’s enough.
because talking is a vicious circle and everyone is seeing the difference, those who understand or in amazement, those who feel the same and have other ways to unfuck themselves. you’re all the same. all no thanks to her.

iii.
what a masterpiece. is it because she’s considered young, still, already privileged just like the rest of her merry band of the snob, all blind to the blatant disrespect they’ve got because that’s how they treat others anyway, so it’s a win-win situation for all of us. or not. i stopped caring the first twelve weeks and now, in my second new year, i’ll say this as easily as whenever the sun rises in the east;

the only thing i learned from you is how not to be you

iv.
i understand nobody’s perfect, but she's the worst person i’ve ever had the displeasure to work with.

v.

go on, revise this.

september 22 - october 23

i don’t talk about you a lot.

you;
 who came after him and made, make, us worry
a lot
because you weren’t us you

         you who speak it but don’t really get the rest
because you
are you;
   the one who understands and
         gets it
          that everything is not the same
           that he’s got the uninvited friend staying for a while and we

we should
 be more patient
       more less worrying everyone
        more keeping everything stay the same.

i’m sorry.

consider: when i say leave me alone—
 (in the future, as we close the five days gap a week on
   a sunny saturday morning)
—don’t.
            stay,
             because it’s you;
                                        because that’s what you
have always been doing
         because that’s where you belong,
          because then he will join
           and we’ll be together again.

everything i do,
   in every prayer,
       whatever it is someone like me who learned it the hard way when he
said i favored you over him and
the times i did do,
 


                     it has, will, always been for you (two).

12

on my way home today
   a girl got off at your school and
   her mom followed

then i thought it must be
the day you're supposed
 to receive your
       report card but it
       hasn't been like that for you,
              has it?

how many times, i wonder?

how many times did you
     dress nicely in
something other than the white shirt
and the grey slacks to
 go to school with
          different excitement
             different purpose
               because

today was supposed to be the day you
   received your report card but
    it's okay even if it hasn't been like that for a while

to whomever it may concern (5)

i'm sorry.

i've passed the textbook of grief that i read on the internet. yet i talk about you to my new friends the old version of you, the one who was supposed to glow like those skinny boys your age do, somewhere far away where i bought you a backpack that you never used, probably because the you right now is too young to be graced with such friend.

i'm sorry.

of all things that i want you to do, things that you should but now it's could, one of them is to see you standing tall and smug with what you have, which is your face and everything, as i, supposedly to, use you as a projection of how a boy your age should look like (well, in my mind, those skinny boys hurt me because you looked just like them but you don't have to be them).

i'm sorry.

as long as you're healthy now and forever, i'll let you read those fantasy books that you like so much, those fantasy books that make me question my own capability because it's going to be days, hundreds of them, before i can write one for you.

i'll let you wear ugly patterned bermuda shorts mom picks diligently for you.

i'll let you do whatever you want.

i'll let you barge in without knocking with your little brother to annoy me like you two used to so we can have a great off-key karaoke session like we three used to in that language we're familiar with therefore,

i'm sorry.

to whomever it may concern (4)

yes, you are the handsomest
but wouldn't it be the greatest
if you're also the healthiest

to whomever it may concern (3)

6/4.

in december you told me i was cute and
that i finally looked like a girl.
you made my entire day.

in january i bought you lot of things despite
being fourteenth among forty.
the facial wash worked, right, your handsome face
was pimple-free.

from august your honda roared just fine.
your new shoes were comfy and
they still are.

(you never used the backpack i bought all the way from ewha university
or the
matching one i got for your brother as well for eight bucks each.
but it’s okay.)

in february we sang happy birthday for mom and
then you started losing colors.

        in february you broke me.

in april i thought i’m over it but
i’m not.

(in march it hurt me to hear you coughing or
laughing
or remembering all the
bad things i did to you.)

nowadays i just want you back.

ini prosa kali ya? monolog? also in english

Kalo lo bisa nebak prosa/monolog/rambling ini tentang apa, next time we meet, I’m gonna kiss your face. Suwer.

Alma, matters

You were always just there
On endless papers, alive on pretty abc’s,
Out of my mind
    (and maybe theirs)
I was inside of you (they probably never were)
For quite awhile and I
Was quite keen to get out
    Was I wrong, Alma?
I wasn’t wrong,
Look what I did to
You for a while
And I’m sorry,
    I really am, for
You’re always just there,
As you should be (for as long as I will always be),
Waiting,
Knowing—patiently that
You
And I?
We matter
We do
    Together

    First of all, she wasn’t my anything. She poised just like a newly formed mole around your mouth that popped out of nowhere after you stayed in one particular place with its particular weather for quite some time. Say, four and a half years. Because you made a bad decision, got lost, and it took a while to get back on track again. And suddenly, she’s there, on the left corner of your top lip. But that’s not the point. Or maybe it is? Because now that you think about it, those extra, unnecessary days had worn you out you were way too keen to leave her behind. Remember those bleak hours when you got stuck in your head, when voices were screaming at you to book the first flight the next morning back to where you began. Was it hatred you felt towards her? Hate is a strong word. I can never hate her, I know that for sure. She’s lovely, Alma. Different.

    ***

    My cousin introduced us. She was older than me, and so was Alma. When I said she’s different, Alma, that is, I meant it. Alma was already well-known among others for her humble beauty and superior brain and in spite of her rich background, she possessed an ability to blend in with the crowd and she never was conceited about it, unlike me, who was young and confused because everything was so new and although not quite overwhelming, like everyone had assumed, but it was close to make me lose track like I told you before.

    Alma was always just there. I never paid her attention, to be completely honest. I was probably only one among her other million admirers. Hell. I didn’t even admire her. I just had the opportunity. And they say you’re gonna miss her when she’s gone, only the irony is that she’s not going anywhere, it was me who left her, remember?

   

    ***

    So, I left.

    Can’t blame the revulsion I felt for her back then. It already happened, I can’t change anything. I didn’t hate her, but I’ve had enough of her. Of her kindness and vast knowledge. Of her blinding sight and how she made me feel alone. Of her hot and cold and her—my—our friends. I’ve had enough, and it was time for me to leave anyway.

   

    ***

   

    “Alma? Wow, okay,” they often say when I admit I was with her. “Okay, wow.”

    It takes me a couple of their, my new acquaintances who have never met you, awed exclamations to realize that you’re the only one, Alma, you will always be the only one with me because they never got the opportunity. You matter, Alma, please forgive me. It was never your fault, Alma, it was mine, you’re always you with your humble beauty and your superior brain and maybe I was only bitter because why couldn’t I be myself without you? If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be me, I get it now, Alma, I’m so sorry. Look at me now. I love you, I do.

THE END

cerpen english (mungkin romance mungkin bukan)

(dan mungkin, sedikit nyata baaahahahahhaha.)



Innocent Fire
(Not) a love story

    Have you ever been really, really into someone you actually think you’re on the verge of hating them?
    I did. I do. I don’t know.
    She’s pretty, I have to admit, the kind of girl who will always make you blink in wonder whether she’s bundled up in cardigans or surrounded by daisies and roses on her summer dresses. The thing is, she wasn’t in my radar at all. I doubt that I was even in her radar as well, not with the fact that we’re coming from different departments and she’s not staying at the dorm because she’s always riding her cute, brick-colored bicycle with a basket attached on the soft-angled handles to and fro her house, which is only fifteen minutes tops on sunny days.
    Me? I’m staying at the dorm, five minutes walk to and fro my building. And I don’t like to hang out after my classes, I’m unfamiliar with the green grass decorating our university’s main park, I don’t know what books the stone statues trio on the fountain are reading forever.
    I met her in the library.
    Her name is Krisan.

***

    I’m an only child. My cousins are all younger than I and they live too far off from here. They’re alright, just like how I find any other younger kids who will grin at me when I ruffle their heads in passing. This certain aspect of my life shaped me up to be a gentle boy; I’m always careful with the power I possess in my big hands and they, the younger kids and especially my mom, also say that I have a gentle smile. They like my smile. According to a little girl about six, some years ago, she felt safe when I smile.
    Maybe that was why Krisan smiled at me first.
    “Thank you so much,” she said as I handed over the text book she was reaching out. I couldn’t remember what the book was about. Everything, now, is a blur but her pretty smile. What was I doing in the library that day? Why did I go near the management section? Yet, somehow, I could remember that her lips were stained peach-like, similar with the apples of her cheeks. And her coffee-colored irises were reflecting the lamps above us. She was only about my shoulders, her black hair curling around her collarbones. She wore a cute peplum top and skinny jeans. She smelled like orange.
    Yeah, I mumbled, and still smiling that pretty smile, she continued,
    “It’s really you. I thought to myself, ‘I swear I’ve seen him somewhere before!’ Tell me, how was the little boy? Did his parents finally find him?”
    What?
    “The little boy you helped last week! At the mall, remember? You were so gentle with him he didn’t want you to leave him with the security guards. Did his parents finally find him?”
    Oh. Right. Enggar. His twin brothers found him not long after.
    “That’s a great relief!”
    Yeah.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” She giggled and her eyes disappeared. Kind of. “I’m Krisan.”
    We shook hands and I told her my name.
    “Emil? Like, from the children book?” she put a strand of hair behind one cute ear. Her fingernails were painted in turquoise.
    I was surprised she knew the origin of my name. Emil was a character from my mom’s favorite childhood books. I’ve read some. He was a naughty boy with a clever mind and good intentions.
    “You don’t seem to be a troublemaker like Emil,” she giggled again, “I should go. My next class is about to start.”
    Oh, okay, I said. I wasn’t even disappointed at that time.
    “It’s very nice to finally meet you, Emil. I couldn’t shake off the picture of you holding hands with that little boy. You stood out just like that among the crowds!” she touched my left forearm. “Have a great day!” and I wasn’t even attracted to her back then.

***

    It’s not funny that Krisan was the name of a Japanese comic character’s favorite flower to be buried together with in her funeral. She got her wish fulfilled. Her krisan was all yellow, I remember it now. Krisan? She’s never just yellow. She always glowed.

***

    I fell head over heels for her when I really stared at the slope of her cute nose and the way her bony elbows moved as she tied up her hair in a neat ponytail. I asked her phone number and she always texted back within a heartbeat. Her laugh? I found a perfect song to describe her laugh and she laughed when I told her to listen to the song. I liked her. I was really into her. And then I saw her with one particular guy multiple times around my dorm, and I realized that the guy lived in the same floor with me and I remember I didn’t understand a thing.
    So I asked.
    “Ahmad? No one.”
    No?
    “No, Emil. We’re just friends, like you and I.”
    Hm.
    “Weren’t we going to eat? I’ve got something for you.”
    She’s a great cook. I forgot my awkward attempt at jealousy as she presented a hearty feast of broccoli frittata with smoked beef and cheese, her homemade tomato chutney, and lemon-cream mini donuts.
    Do you also cook for Ahmad?
    Krisan paused and she pouted like I broke her heart, not the other way around.
    “Aw, Emil, don’t be difficult.”
    It’s just a question.
    “Well, stop asking,” she whined, frowning. She added as an afterthought, but it’s effective anyway, “Please.”
   
***
   
    Girls tend to adore my towering height, followed by my hipster glasses and lastly, maybe they like my face; I’m not really sure.
    Did Krisan ever have a feeling for me? I didn’t know, so I asked. And her eyes were so lovely, all wide and confused and that was it, I was so sure that was the end, I was so ready for it to end, but of course I was wrong.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said, sincerely, but somehow I doubted it. She, at least, was aware of my act of paying for our apparently-not-dates and lending my favorite jacket for her when she had flu last week. I would never lend my favorite jacket just for any girl who swooned over my height and my glasses and maybe my face—no. She must have known. I was pretty obvious about it.
    But then again, not only I was Emil but I’m also stupid.
    Don’t be, it’s okay, you have Ahmad.
    “What are you talking about?” Krisan snapped, thoroughly insulted.
    You know what I’m talking about.
    “Why are you like this?” she frowned. I remember I never liked it when she did that. “What do you want from me?”
    Yeah, what was it again? You didn’t even know what you wanted back then, right, Emil? You liked her, that was the truth, but then, what? You broke up with your last ex because you thought what you did with her was useless, and you had really, really liked her, remember? Was it the thrill of the chase? If so, why did you ask, you goddamned haywire shithead, you got her answer, yeah? And what was it that you planned to do after hearing her exasperation? After realizing that she’s not into you? Have you ever been really, really into someone you actually think you’re on the verge of hating them?
    I did.
    I did.

THE END

cerita zombi 5

>>> hai. ezra kembali menyapa.
chapter ini agak-agak 'gore' nih, disarankan jangan baca sambil makan yak bahahahhahahaha.

update pendek, yang penting ane berhasil nulis chapter 5 setelah sekian lama.
kalo lo baru kali ini baca ezra zombie, jangan lupa cek tag http://logikatanpacela.blogspot.com/search/label/cerita%20zombi supaya lo bisa nemu cerita ini dari chapter pertama oke.

thanks. selamat baca.









If Ezra is being honest with you, he's never seen a real zombie before. The little girl from the first day he got sent out to the government's shelter didn't count. She wasn't vicious or anything, remember? She just chewed her dad's arm off.

The troops in the government's shelter never share about their battles, either. They keep to themselves; all solemn faces covered with dirt marching around protecting what's behind the walls, collecting supplies every two days and probably coming back with a new dozen of survivors and less of their own. They eat at their separated quarters and their interaction with the citizen are minimum to the max. Ezra would think that they're just being a snob because they're the troops, but sometimes he swears there are pain reflected in those adults' eyes.

Ezra doesn't know about the rest of his so-called teammates. Had any of them seen or directly confronted by zombies? Will their daily half-assed training pay off now that they're about to slay some? Will they be overpowered? Are the zombies fast runner? But the most important thing for now, what are they going to do next, escaping back to the government's shelter or continuing their silly mission to raid the minimart?

Is this what they often scream about in movies that they're panicking to hell and back? Is this how being hysteric feel like?

It's not a really good feeling, Ezra decides. He doesn't want to die. He's only seventeen.

All around him are Pipit, Tyo, Ambar, and David looking like they're not ready to do their best. Ezra can hear their irregular breathing and maybe if he concentrates—if he cares enough—he might hear their racing heartbeats.

The thing is, Ezra doesn't.

*

Aside from their very own deafening paranoia and the night's chilly wind, there are no sound at all. No lifeless groans or dragged feet meeting the asphalt. You know what? Maybe Ezra was wrong. Maybe he didn't see anything before. Maybe they should keep going.

And then Ezra hears it.

From a split-second glimpse he manages to get before David's scream piercing through the night, Ezra understands that the living dead is scary. It's a man; greying hair caked with dried, darkened blood, his eyes are empty, hollowed. Torn jaw showing the remaining of its mouth and yellowing teeth. He looks like a regular man you see on the street, medium height, wearing collared shirt and black slacks. Its arm, yes, only one, is reaching out, his spider like fingers are clawing at them. He doesn't have nails anymore, Ezra notices as he walks backward, pressed close to David who is of course moaning that he doesn't want to die no no no no—

Splat!

The lone zombie falls to its knees, skull split open thanks to Pipit's quick witted nerve to slash her machete right on top of its head. It's not a pretty sight. Is that brain? It looks like a mini version of intestine, only less red in color. There's a loud, wet crack when Pipit pulls her machete out and Tyo, followed by David and surprisingly Pipit, they vomit right on their spots.

Ambar gurgles, but she holds hers down.

Ezra jumps to avoid getting splashed by David's already processed fried rice dinner and whatever it is.

They've made enough noise as it is.

They really should get going.

cerita zombi 4

>>> yo pakabar?

ezra akhirnya berpetualang. kurang lebih. bahahahhaha.

di chapter 4 ini gue harap lo bisa agak nyengir-nyengir jijay karena ezra bertingkah kocak. kurang lebih.

lol oke selamat baca!

p.s. kalo ada kalimat usang aneh ih bam salah grammar lu, tolong kasitau yak. >>>

“Play what?”

Nakula looks at Ezra like Ezra is The Cutest Boy Ever Graces This Earth. His mom used to give him that look. Even worse, his dad still thought he’s The Greatest Son Ever after he started seeing the psychiatrist. What is wrong with people?

“It’s just a game I came up with this afternoon,” Nakula throws an arm around Ezra’s shoulders like they’re the best of friends. When Ezra shrugs it off gently to take a step back, he smiles. “You know, just go out there to look around.”

“Out?” Ezra frowns, barely aware of the giggling around him. “With all the zombies? Why?”

“That’s why it’s called ‘a game’,” Nakula is still smiling, “because it’s fun.”

Yeah, right.

“Then why don’t you play too?” Ezra asks, giving Nakula the stingy eye his senior upperclassmen had hated so, so much. “If it’s so fun to you?” but he keeps his voice indifferent because that just pissed them off so, so much back then.

Nakula’s eyebrows are raised while there’s a collective, disbelieved gasp coming from his toy soldiers.

Ezra mimics what Nakula just did.

“Ezra, here’s the thing you need to understand,” Nakula seems to have a hobby to throw his arm around someone’s shoulders, because he does it again to Ezra, who doesn’t bother to shrug it off this time. “You don’t get to question me. You do what I say, because that’s how it is.”

Ah.

How boring.

“Okay then.” Ezra feels himself smiling as Nakula squeezes him closer. He doesn’t miss the puzzled look coming from the so-called leader and his blind followers when he said it. “What are the rules?” he redirects his handsome smile (his mom’s words, not his) toward the rest of the group like either he’s too thick to get the ‘joke’ or he’s insane to agree to the whole messed up situation involving one charming maniac.

Nakula doesn’t take too long to recover and deliver the basic rules.

You just need to go to a minimart located three blocks from here, take anything you like, and come back as soon as possible. Nakula provides stolen machetes from the warehouse as weapons. There’s no winner or loser in this game, because it’s just for fun. You will come back braver and stronger after you go out there. Sure, Ezra keeps his thought for himself, says the guy who isn’t even going out there.

“Do you have any questions, Ezra?” Even though Nakula’s smile doesn’t have any significance to our protagonist, still Ezra has to admit that that smile is going to be strongest contender to his very own handsome smile.

All the more reason to ‘play’, yeah?

“Me? Nothing. Let’s do this.” And because Ezra can be hilarious just like any other seventeen year olds, he adds, “Been craving Oreo and Ultra Milk, to be honest.”

Ezra swears Nakula is this clo~se to hug him after he cracked the joke, but he manages to dodge out of Nakula’s overly friendly nature by siding up next to Pipit, bumping their arms, and she giggles as Ezra clears his throat in lieu of an apology.

“You’re nuts,” she has to tiptoe to whisper to the side of Ezra’s neck, sending warm, minty breath to the cold skin. “But in a good way.”

Oh.

Well.

*

Getting out means climbing the rambutan tree to reach over the ten feet tall, black wall. There’s an electricity pole right across the wall, so they can slide down like firemen to go out there. How are they going to come back? Good question. You have to climb up the electricity pole or get in from the front gate, feigning innocence and desperation.

Of course Ezra is going to come back using the second method.

They have to move fast while the watchmen are still enjoying their goddamned fried rice dinner. Ezra swears he’s going to take a hundred of instant fried rice seasoning from the minimart and then he will make his own fried rice that he will eat for a week.

Pipit climbs first, followed by the kid who wished Ezra die earlier that day, Tyo, and then David, a quiet, Betawi-Chinese boy, Ambar, a hijab-wearing, trekking kind of girl with her thick checkered flannel and Northface sandal, and finally it’s Ezra’s turn to climb the rambutan tree but not before a creepy good luck from Nakula, who wishes him to come back safely because they have so much to talk about.

What a turn off, Ezra thinks as he reaches the wall. He would have preferred to run away and never come back, if only he has his backpack with him and he isn’t really that hooked to eating fried rice. He can’t cook fried rice out there, not without a proper kitchen utensil et cetera. Hell, Ezra can’t even cook rice!

He’s still pressed about his interrupted dinner as he slides down the electricity pole and lands in one piece next to Pipit.

“Ready?” Apparently, Pipit is the appointed leader for this fun game. “Stay close together and try not to make loud noises. Remember to aim for the brain! I know where the minimart is, so follow me. Is that clear?”

Everyone nods silently.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Source of lighting is scarce, despite the fact that the government’s shelter is located in the posh area of South Jakarta. They can see the road alright, but still it’s way darker than the normal days before this shit went down. The street lamps are rationed, so it’s 1:5 every a couple of meters. They stay low, hiding beneath the shadow or else the watchmen will be interrupted from their nice fried rice dinner by thinking that they’re a hoard of zombies going further, not closer, from them.

Whenever the chilly wind blows, the foul stench of those walking dead is transmitted in the air. Ezra is glad for his handkerchief, although running with his nose blocked is quite uncomfortable as he notices his teammates begin to struggle with the seemingly foreign act of putting one leg after another in a (rather) fast pace after lying around like pregnant whales and gossiping and being teenager-y for more than a month. They haven’t even reached the first block yet.

For a good measure, Ezra tightens his grip on the machete’s sturdy handle.

Now there’s an out of sync raggedy pant-pant!-pant! from his teammates—what a weird way to address these strangers—and Ezra thinks he just sees a moving silhouette from his peripheral vision as they take a left turn to the second block.

“Oh god, please,” Tyo whines abruptly, “please, Kak Pipit, can we rest for a minute?”

Pipit’s answer is a short no. Ezra almost smiles.

“Please?” Tyo stops running then. He folds his knees to heave. Ambar is kind enough to pat his back to coax him to keep going. It’s too risky stopping out in the open like this. The abandoned photo studio is dark like the rest of this block, and Ezra swears he hears something.

He nudges David and whispers, “How about we get ready?”

“For what? Did you, did you see anything?!” David, for a quiet dude, sure expresses his panic loudly.

Tyo gasps at that. Ambar crouches down so fast Ezra wonders whether she pulls a muscle or not. Pipit orders them to stand back to back, creating a circle, with Tyo in the center, probably crying for real now.

Ezra doesn’t want to be the party popper, so he obeys the order and prays that he was hallucinating.

But a famous proverb once said ‘the third time is a charm’.

T . B . C

cerita zombi 3

 > > > ternyata belom eksyen. chapter 4 yach.

tapi lebih banyak dialog.

tokoh-tokoh baru gitu.

suspense.

komen yak sodara-sodara. mungkin disebarin ke temen2 (penerbit) juga LOL.

p.s. gue baru tau kalo 'i am legend'-nya will smith ternyata diangkat dari buku. berhubung nonton pelemnya asal-asalan, boleh lah kucari bukunya untuk referensi. world war Z dan prekuel-nya juga. hm.

met baca! > > >

There’s nothing much you can do as it is. You either sleep, help around, train, cry, freak out, or talk, and talk and talk.

It’s been exactly two months ever since it all began.

Even for a boy like Ezra who literally never minds basically anything, the unchanging routine is killing him.

But not today though. Today he finds his washed pants and t-shirts are gone from their usual spot on the communal clothesline on the northeast building. There’s a folded A4 paper pinned with the wooden clothespin and it has his name written in bold, block letters.

if ur so great,meet us @ da southwest backyard
We have ur posesion
x

   
“No shit.” Ezra mumbles and shoves the letter into the pocket of his cargo pants, because if anything does go south, all pun intended, he will have it as a proof that he’s not the one initiating shit. After scanning the empty rooftop, he kicks the metal door open with his misplaced strength until it meets the wall and gives a loud bang!

What he’s going to face? It won’t be his first confrontation. A boy like Ezra was misunderstood way too often he didn’t even try to stop pretending that he cared anymore, because he didn’t (doesn’t, will never) give a damn whether his lack of facial expression was annoying a bunch of upperclassmen or whether his choice to be alone was mistranslated as an arrogant I’m-holier-than-thou act from his peers. Like, wasn’t that what they want? For him to be out of their lives? Then why did they always seem to make a hobby out of calling him to ‘have a talk’ right after school at the deserted, public gymnasium where teachers or adult alike wouldn’t know what kind of ‘talk’ they were going to give him? Of course Ezra had had enough of the typical yapping and the following memento of bluing skin on his torso or hips or upper thighs. He’s no less human than them, he didn’t deserve the ‘talk’ at all he made sure he had their regular recorded in his smartphone the last time a dozen of upperclassmen called him to have the ‘talk’—because earlier that day, Ezra remembers vividly, probably because he made sure he stared seconds longer with his soulless, haughty eyes—their words not his—to the upperclassmen’s gang leader who wasn’t even that tall or big, during recess. And that was enough to get his ass dragged to the public gymnasium. He had to stifle his smile while they taunted him with their dull NGAPAIN LO NGELIATIN GUA TADI SIANG, HAH? LO MAU NYARI RIBUT?! LO MAU RIBUT SAMA GUE? LO BERANI RIBUT SAMA GUE?! BARU KELAS SATU AJA LAGAK UDAH KAYAK RAJA—and for the first time ever, and the last, he begged for unheard mercy in between their laughter and mocking HAHAHAHA BARU SEKARANG LO MINTA AMPUN? TELAT NJING!!—assured that his smartphone which was taped tightly on his left ankle, hidden by the pipe of his grey slacks and white socks, had been recording their voices. He went to the principal office the next day, still with fresh bruises on his cheek and stomach, with the voice recording and a sprinkle of victimized sobbing, successfully kicking all of his upperclassmen tormentors out of their school in disgrace, and nobody ever messed with his poker face and his unfriendliness anymore.

He will do it all over again. Zombie apocalypse be damned.

*

When Ezra is lying idly on his bed, hours later, he hears the stomping first before the person owning the expensive boots is appearing on his room’s door without knocking. A boy, short, furious.

Ezra is good with faces, but he’s not good with names.

“What the hell are you doing here?! Nakula’s been waiting for years you dickhead!” Yeah, not this one. Who is this anyway?

Ezra sits up and raises his eyebrows. “Who?”

“What—!” the boy’s mouth forms an O. And then he’s gaping like a fish out of water. “So what they say about you is true. Shit.” Suddenly, he’s laughing without a mirth on his trembling voice. “It’s not funny, you dickhead! Come out and follow me!”

“Why?” Ezra asks again.

“Don’t you want your clothes back?!” the boy is almost shouting by now.

“Oh,” Ezra makes a face, and shrugs. “It’s almost dusk. I’ll go see him after dinner. You didn’t write a specific time at that paper, by the way.”

“My god,” the boy spits it like a curse, “I hope you die!” he points a finger at Ezra and runs.

*

Tonight is fried rice day. Ezra sits at the corner of the dimly lit dining room and only gets four spoonfuls before unfamiliar shadows are falling over him.

“Get up.” Says a pleasant but cruel voice from his right side.

Ezra looks up and squints. Is this Nakula? He recognizes Pipit smirking among the human barricade, and the boy who wished him dead, but the rest, not really.

“I’m eating,” Ezra declares the obvious.

“No you’re not.” Probably-Nakula snatches his paper plate with a lightning speed. Tch. Ezra likes fried rice, he does, he could eat fried rice his mom cooked for a week straight a long time ago. “You’re coming with us, now.”

“Okay.” Ezra stands up and finds he’s eye to eye with Probably-Nakula. Good. He knows being tall is a threat for the nearest self-proclaimed leader like Probably-Nakula, and he’s glad he’s not losing in that petty aspect.

Probably-Nakula starts to walk without any word, still carrying his paper plate, and disposes it at the huge trash bag situated by the entrance. He’s not stupid, then. Ezra tells himself to be extra careful.

They’re heading to the southwest backyard as expected, and Probably-Nakula says conversationally in his mostly pleasant voice, no cruelty detected,

“Jakarta’s sky without pollution for two months, huh?” he speaks to the rest of the group, nodding at the starry sky above them. “It’s beautiful, right?” and echoes of agreement are parroting his statement.

Except for Ezra, who prefers the ocean and its haunting beauty over anything.

“What do you think?” Probably-Nakula is smiling when he addresses our protagonist like they’re old pals from birth.

“Me? Nothing.” Ezra blinks, and hears the sneering and scoffing from Probably-Nakula’s toy soldiers surrounding him.

Probably-Nakula chuckles. “Sure,” he slows down his steps to clap Ezra’s shoulders, “how are you, Ezra?”

“Hungry.” And Most-Likely-Nakula laughs out loud. See? Ezra can be hilarious, too.

“Sorry about that,” Most-Likely-Nakula claps his shoulders again, “but you won’t be hungry anymore once you play with us.”

They arrive at the southwest backyard, protected by ten feet tall black wall and wired fence as cherry on top. About twenty meters behind is the south guard post, currently occupied with fried rice-eating watchmen, their AK-47s are poised ready toward the street outside.

What kind of game are they going play here?

“So!” Verified-Nakula whispers to them all, telling them to crouch down underneath the big rambutan tree. “Who’s excited?”

Hands shooting up so fast Ezra wonders if their muscle joints are alright.

“Who would like to play tonight?” Nakula hums as he scans his eager toy soldiers trying their best to look the most appealing. “Pipit, you’re in, then you, Tyo, David, Ambar, and of course our honorable guest, Ezra.”

T B C . . .

cerita zombi 2

•  jatohnya (masih) character study nih.

si ezra kayaknya bukan psikopat, tapi mengidap asperger syndrome. hmmm.

kuberpikir action nanti di chapter selanjutnya.

big thanks buat joce, dhita, abong, dan zetra yang udah baca dan komen dan brainstorm di FB. iseng-iseng aja ini biar otak gak karatan.

• jangan lupa komen yach!

Before this shit went down, Ezra had to go to a psychiatrist twice every month, usually on Fridays right after school with his mom driving his dad’s SUV, making small talks about her colleagues and asking a lot of things about his day.

Ezra’s mom is (was?) a tall woman. She speaks in a low volume and her tinted red lips are always curling up as if she smiles all the time. She only eats chicken and she only reads fictional politic novels. Actually, she’s five years older than Ezra’s dad, who was (is?) an avid comic book reader. Ezra doesn’t even like to read anything, so that’s pretty much heartbreaking for his dad. Now that he realizes his dad’s comic book collection is probably nothing but ashes thanks to the demolition, well, the left side of Ezra’s chest clenches uncomfortably.

“What are you thinking?”

Ezra glances to where his psychiatrist, Dr. Fulan, is sitting cross legged on the cold, tiled floor.

It’s like a deja vu, because Dr. Fulan would ask about what he was thinking before he asked about what he was feeling, back then in his cozy office with the dimmed lighting and a dozen of bronze plaques for his dedication, accomplishment, and recognition as a renowned psychiatrist. The only different thing is, now Dr. Fulan is dressed in a frayed sweater, a pair of turmeric colored chino, and black sneakers, of all things. His hair is longer, too, unkempt, and his frameless glasses are crooked.

“Me? My dad’s comic books.” Ezra answers, shrugging.

“Oh? What about them?” Dr. Fulan links his fingers together, clearly intending to reestablish himself as Ezra’s former psychiatrist.

“Huh, nothing,” Ezra decides to play along. “They’re gone.”

“And how do you feel about them gone?”

“Nothing. They’re my dad’s.”

“Is there any knickknack of yours that you left behind, Ezra?”

“Yeah, my laptop.”

“Would your laptop help you feeling better in any way if you brought it along?”

“Of course not. It’s not a weapon.”

Dr. Fulan nods, and he sighs.

“Do you think help will come?”

“I don’t know, doctor.”

“Do you miss your parents? Your friends?”

“More or less.”

“Aren’t you worried about them?”

“Eh. No.”

Dr. Fulan leaves without another word and Ezra continues sitting down on the cold, tiled floor, tuning out the bristling all around him at the government’s shelter, and falls asleep.

*

Before this shit went down, Ezra didn’t have to do house chores other than keeping everything neat and clean after usage. Now he has to wash his own clothes, learns how to build something other than Lego, and, weirdly, smiles like everything is alright 24/7.

That’s a lot of work for him.

There are boys and girls around his age, too, and they seem to have a silent agreement to always stick together. They’re loud, they’re giggly, and they get angry when they understand that Ezra is not interested to play with their little merry go round circle, by ostracizing him.

Not that Ezra cares.

The Virus is still incurable. Ezra is good with faces but not names, and he’s been in the government’s shelter for five weeks. So far, he counts less than six people are missing. Or, who is he kidding, ha ha, they’re dead because they showed the symptoms and were quarantined and never came back. Ezra is scared, obviously. He doesn’t want to die, no matter what. The shelter is too crowded, and virus, according to his Science class, travels fast. Even breathing in the same air with the virus bearer can heighten the risk of you getting infected. What the heck, right? Nowhere is safe. For now, Ezra makes sure he lives in the separate headquarters from those unfortunate, dead people (zombies?), keeps his own spoon and fork, and ties a handkerchief around his nose and mouth day and night.

*

Before this shit went down, Ezra spent his leisure time watching TV. He watched everything; ancient football matches, music videos, cheap reality shows, the news, detective/horror series, cartoon adaptation from his dad’s favorite comic book, movies, animal documentaries, culinary reviews, talk shows, even the home shopping channel.

At the government’s shelter, he does nothing. When his chores are finished, he sits down on the cold, tiled floor right across his room, and just exists like that. He doesn’t mind. His hobby is not reading or talking or playing half-assed basketball. He liked his 60” high definition flat screen his dad bought only, what, half a year ago. Now it turned to ashes and he doesn’t know where his dad is.

Half a year ago, huh? He wasn’t seventeen yet. He was eight inches shorter, too. But the numbers don’t matter now.

“Hi.”

Ezra looks up and sees a pixie haired girl smiling down at him. Basically, her t-shirt swallows her upper body and her denim shorts are baggy. She wears a pair of pink sandal. Her toes are, somehow, tended beautifully.

Ezra nods, and uncrosses his arms.

“Can I sit here?” she points at the empty space next to Ezra, and her fingernail is pretty, too.

“Yeah.” Before this shit went down, Ezra didn’t think too much about girls in general. They’re alright. They’re easy on the eyes, they smelled fruity, and they seemed to favor his aloofness.

(Which was kinda ironic because his parents didn’t, thus Dr. Fulan.)

The pixie haired girl then plops down next to him, keeping a distance, and her smile is not blinding or what, but it’s a nice smile.

“Hi, I’m Pipit.”

“Ezra.”

Ezra doesn’t want to shake hands. The Virus, remember? Pipit raises an eyebrow as she pulls back her right hand with a giggle.

“What’s your story, Ezra?” she tilts her head and rests it on her folded knees.

“What do you mean?” Ezra has to readjust his handkerchief around his mouth so he can talk like a normal person.

"Who are you, why are you here, with whom, for how long... The usual.” Pipit smiles again, encouragingly.

"Me? I got here with the federal truck. They destroyed my home. I think I’ve been here for almost six weeks now.” Ezra says with a frown because if he were Pipit, he’s sure he wouldn’t want to know anything about himself.

“That sucks,” she shakes her head, and after a minute or two she bursts out laughing. “Don’t you wanna know about me?”

“Eh,” Ezra mumbles. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“Okay then, say it.”

“Say what?”

“The questions, of course!”

“What questions?”

“About me!”

Ezra can’t decide whether he’s annoyed or not interested, so he gets up and walks away.

T B C. . .