From "Vampir"

Aku hidup di gua-gua pekat malam, terselimuti kabut abu-abu, tak kenal pagi dan embun. Aku tak berani menantang cahaya karena aku tak seperti kalian semua. Aku terobsesi merah. Merah yang tergenang menganaksungai beraroma ikan segar.

Aku haus
darah.

Aku kupu-kupu hitam bersayap beludru, terbang ke dalam lorong-lorong dan terseret dengan pusaran malam. Ia tak tahu penderitaanku, eranganku, gairahku. Ia menutup semua jendela untuk mengusirku yang terseok kehausan.

From "Darah"

Aku tak mampu melihat apa yang ada di antara kaki-kaki itu. Merah. Biru. Cat air yang kental menggumpal, membaur tak terpisahkan. Darah beragam rupa, mirip teh pekat, sirup, stroberi, jeli. Ibu berteriak. Suaranya sepedih serigala kesepian.
Seorang anak kecil berdiri di pinggir pintu. Ia berseragam sekolah, berambut pendek, membawa ransel kecil di punggungnya.
(aku di sini bu di sini DI SINI)
Anak perempuan itu tengah berteriak dalam ruang hampa.
"Siapa kamu?" tanyaku bodoh.
Ah, tak perlu. Tak perlu.
Anak itu terpaku melihat darah di antara kedua kaki ibunya. Darah yang mengalir tanpa muara, terlalu kuat, terlampau hebat, membunuh Ibu. Apakah adiknya keluar dari kelopak mawar yang membuka itu?
Adiknya yang tak menangis. Adiknya yang tiada.
(beruntungnya dirimu, adikku beku, tak terpisahkan dengan ibu sementara aku menggelandang rumahku hilang)

From "Sang Ratu"

.... Tak terkira banyaknya jumlah korban yang terseret gelombang: mereka yang nekad berenang maupun yang hanya duduk-duduk dan bercanda dengan butir-butir pasir. Sebelum mati mungkin mereka mendengar nyanyian merdu merayu, menghasut. Siren. Kemudian, seperti berjalan dalam mimpi, mereka mengikuti panggilan air. Jasad mereka terkadang tak pernah ditemukan.

From "Pintu Merah"

Dari pintu merah itu dimulailah dunianya yang baru. Tak jauh dari sana berdiri sebuah sumur tua yang telah berlumut. Saat melongok ke dalamnya, ia seperti tersengat listrik setelah tidur panjang seabad. Air sumur itu bening dan tenang, namun tiba-tiba muncul bayangan seseorang di sana. Sesosok wajah. Bukan. Ia bergidik. Itu bukan wajah karena tidak ada apapun di sana kecuali kepala dan sepasang mata tanpa bola, bolong menuju kedalaman tergelap. Muka itu tidak bercacat karena hanya ada kosong--- dan dua lubang yang entah berakhir di mana.

From "Perempuan Buta Tanpa Ibu Jari"

Ibuku menyodori pisau, “Potong jari kakimu. Kelak jika kau jadi ratu, kau tak akan terlalu banyak berjalan. Jadi kau tak membutuhkannya.” Maka kuambil pisau itu dan kugigit bibirku saat aku berusaha memutuskan ibu jari kakiku. Kubuang bagian kecil tubuhku itu ke tempat sampah untuk menjadi santapan anjing. Kini kusadari, Nak, dunia ini memang penuh dengan sepatu kekecilan yang hanya menerima orang-orang termutilasi.

From "Pemintal Kegelapan"

Ia, rahasia terbesar loteng rumahku, adalah hantu perempuan berambut panjang terurai yang selalu duduk di depan alat pemintal. Wajahnya penuh guratan merah kecokelatan, seperti luka yang mengering setelah dicakar habis-habisan oleh macan. Bola matanya berwarna merah seperti kobaran api. Bila ia membuka mulutnya, kau akan melihat taring-taring yang panjang. Ia begitu khusyuk di depan pemintal itu karena ia tengah membuat selimut untuk kekasihnya. Ia telah jatuh cinta pada seorang laki-laki, manusia biasa yang suka berburu di tengah hutan.
Hantu itu mampu berubah wujud di siang hari, saat ia ingin berbaur dengan manusia. Ia bisa menjadi apa saja dari perempuan, laki-laki, anak kecil, sampai seorang tua renta. Tatkala melihat si pemburu, hantu perempuan itu mengubah wujudnya menjadi seorang gadis jelita. Lelaki itu terpesona. Mereka lantas bertemu di padang ilalang keemasan demi sekadar berbagi cerita. Lelaki itu tak tahu bahwa setiap kali si perempuan hadir, burung-burung beterbangan tak tentu arah; siput dan binatang-binatang kecil mulai gelisah. Dibandingkan manusia, indera binatang memang lebih terasah.

The Stories

Pemintal Kegelapan
Vampir
Perempuan Buta Tanpa Ibu Jari
Mobil Jenazah
Pintu Merah
Mak Ipah dan Bunga-Bunga
Misteri Polaroid
Jeritan dalam Botol
Sejak Porselen Berpipi Merah itu Pecah
Darah
Sang Ratu

THANKS!!!

I didn’t write an acknowledgement in my book for some personal reasons, but God knows there were people who made this possible.

I would like to thank wonderful poet & publisher Sitok Srengenge and his kind, attentive wife. Thanks for waiting patiently for me to finish my short stories and for the interesting discussions over glasses of wine. Without Mas Sitok’s support (plus a hint of pressure…), I couldn’t have thought of publishing early.

People say don’t judge its book by its cover, but spending five years working in the media has changed my perspective. I’ve become a very visual person, and my great friends have made my gothic imagination come true. Thanks to Muhammad Taufiq (Emte), the chameleon artist, who has surprised me with his unconventional interpretation of ghosts... *Your artistic sense is so adorable but could you please stop showing disturbing pictures in Friendster?!?!! Thanks to Dissy Ekapramudita, for the dark picture of me on the back cover and for helping me with my research about polaroid. Also thanks to Hartadi who assisted the photo session.

Thanks to my two lifetime gurus: Melani Budianta and Manneke Budiman. They are the first people who introduced me to literary criticism and, even better, ‘drowned’ me to “the real world of literature” (quoting Mas Manneke).

Thanks to people who have allocated (hopefully not wasted) their time to read my book and willingly given their comments: my dearest Ibu Melani, inspiring author Linda Christanty, my ex teenage idol (ha ha…) Alex Komang, and the admirable critic Nirwan Dewanto. Thanks, Mas Nirwan, for your criticism (which can tear any hearts in two...) and for publishing my very first short story, “Sejak Porselen Berpipi Merah itu Pecah”.

I value some people’s suggestions and their willingness to be the early, encouraging readers. I therefore would like to thank “Mami” Widyawati Adisantoso for her pair of sharp designer’s eyes, Eka Kurniawan with his experiences as a prolific writer, Nukila Amal for some input about the book’s title and mainly for being an inspiration, and friends who accidentally heard my idea of publishing and had to bear the burden of listening to the “backstage” stories: Ully Damari Putri, Oriana Titisari, and S.M. Gietty.

Special thanks
to my bestfriend & alter ego for a decade, Nadya Sofyan, who collected all my works and claimed that she would be my first number one fan even when she read my puisi picisan years ago. She’s my long-distant patron, supplying me with great books (giving me the privilege to read anything not yet published/ sold in Indonesia), encouraging me to write despite occasional writer’s block, and watching the ups and downs of my life.
To my family--- but mostly to my mom, Etty Indra, my greatest inspiration, who has shaped me to be a feminist without even mentioning the word. Most of this book is about you.
To the writing goddesses I worship: Mary Shelley, Margaret Atwood, Angela Carter, Joyce Carole Oates, Anne Sexton.
To the cryptic songs and poems of The Doors and Jim Morrison.
To the songs of Keane (especially “Bend and Break”), Radiohead (especially “Exit Music”), and Cake.
To uncountable cups of coffee and… other stimulants.
And finally, to my two most beloved people, Iqbal Abdillah and Ilana Priyanka Avanindra, who have taught me about love instead of hate and anger, who remind me that there’s more in this world than my constant struggle to bite off more than I can chew.

May 2005

Fast Facts

Book title : Sihir Perempuan
Author : Intan Paramaditha
Genre : Horror/mystery
No. of pages : 150
Publisher : KataKita (May 2005)
Editor : Eko Endarmoko
Cover designer: Muhammad Taufiq
Photographer : Dissy Ekapramudita
Layout designer: Cyprianus Napiun

How I Came Into Writing

During an interview in 2004, someone asked me this difficult question, “You’ve been a writer, lecturer, flautist, and actress. So which one are you?”

I pondered for a while. I’ve always wanted to seize all the parts, like Bottom the Weaver who wanted to play the lover, the lady, and the lion in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’ve even tried painting, believe me. I was my high school’s artist, making posters and working on the year book's design, and a few friends really thought I studied Graphic Design after we graduated. I didn’t pass the FSRD ITB entrance test, so I quit painting, rather broken-hearted. Similarly, after four years fighting with my father for always coming home at midnight after my theatre rehearsals, there was no sign that my acting could be extraordinary. So I gave up doing that one, too. Finally, I decided to give up playing music after 6 years of study, realizing that I didn’t make any significant progress people had been expecting since my classical duet performance in Graha Bhakti Budaya, 1996.

What I’m still doing now is teaching and writing. I love sharing ideas with my students, but the actual reason why I decided to teach at the Faculty of Humanities, University of Indonesia in 2001 was research. I had always been dreaming of publishing my research papers in academic journals and presenting them in conferences (duh... sad but true, I’m a nerd). So writing is the root (of all evil? Hmm... Forgive me, students. I love you but sometimes grading too many papers could rob my sanity).

I’ve always been doing it. Writing. I published my first short story in Bobo magazine when I was eleven years old. My mom was hysterical when she knew I chose to write detective stories (with irrelevant plots, of course) instead of studying for EBTA/EBTANAS. I always said to my elementary school friends that I wanted to be a writer (well, after considering some respectable professions like astronaut, chemist, and... fashion designer?). As I grew up, my writing took different forms too. In Junior High I wrote some sweetie-pie-teenage love stories (stealing some ideas from Lupus, I admit). In Senior High I was crazy about Chairil Anwar and his Byronic tendencies, so I wrote Indonesian poems. In the university, I started writing poems in English because I was brainwashed each day to read English literature. Since I didn’t read many Indonesian books at that time, I felt alienated by the language. Thank God, working at Female Magazine--- yes, the glossy capitalist icon; been there, done that --- has brought back my connection with Bahasa Indonesia after the four-year amnesia.

Now, either for money or for self-satisfaction (or both), I do write. I write articles for magazines, booklets, and coffee-table books. I write essays for journals, book launching/ discussions, and conferences. I write short stories for the newspapers. I write poems for myself. I write extremely long e-mails for my bestfriend, Nadya. I write testimonials on Friendster. What’s worse, I was assigned to teach at least five Academic Writing classes each semester!

Writing is my first love, and it has stood through the test of time.

So here’s my answer. Among the many things I do and the various roles I (have tried to) play, I consider myself a writer.

May, 2005