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Writing 101, Day Eleven: Size Matters

Tell us about the home where you lived when you were twelve. Which town, city, or country? Was it a house or an apartment? A boarding school or foster home? An airstream or an RV? Who lived there with you?

Today’s twist: pay attention to your sentence lengths and use short, medium, and long sentences as you compose your response about the home you lived in when you were twelve.

And here is my take on this.


Where Achluophobia was born

The house I lived in when I was twelve had more machines than humans—yes and no. Yes, I wasn’t joking about the machines because we were practically outnumbered and sadly no, there were no machine revolutions, revolts, or even a plot planned by them, otherwise I would have owned a Transformer by now. It was three-story high Shophouse—to be precise.

Just in case —for the curious mind— a quote from Wikipedia:

shophouse is a vernacular architectural building type that is commonly seen in areas such as urban Southeast Asia. Shophouses are mostly two or three stories high, with a shop on the ground floor for mercantile activity and a residence above the shop.[1] This hybrid building form characterises the historical centres of most towns and cities in the Southeast Asia region.[2]

Upon reaching the house, one would notice the bluish double retro-railing-door as the only means of entrance to the ground floor. Outsourced. Second-hand cars. Twelve occupants. At night, it was the perfect place for ghosts to roam freely, I was sure of it. Although I don’t really believe ghosts exist, apparently Achluophobia was one of my biggest fans. More on that later.

Second floor was where stuff happened and all of human activities were performed here —literally. Fights. Shouts. Cooking. Dinner. Study. Nintendo. Turtles. Cats. Porn. The balcony —if I may call it one— was composed of a series of juxtaposed blue-tint glass windows facing an ever busy main street. It was also the only place where I scouted for the “female dragon” (read:mom) to come home if me and my brother executed our “Italian Jobs” (read:stuff shouldn’t happen). The house wasn’t enormous, but big enough to fix a bathroom, a kitchen, a dining room, a living room and a balcony.

Up one floor, there were only one master bedroom, one bedroom for kids and a couple of windows on each. Everything that happened here was about sleeping, including late-night chats, snores, shouts, dreams, wetdreams and sleepwalks. This was also the first place to implant my brain with Achluophobia, ground floor the next. Imagine after a round of “Aliens” or “Candyman” satisfied my notorious impulse called curiosity coupled with extremely dark shadows from third floor shining down the staircases.

“Candyman”

“Candyman”

“Candyman”

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“F@#* it!”

 

–A.N.

 

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