Labels: Daryl
penned with passion.
alright. this isn't a good one. partly cause there's alot of conversation in it and i wrote this over the course of several weeks, so you might have a hard time understanding it and such.
from what i gather, it's draggy, confusing and a letdown. i'm sorry :(
think this story has held me up in terms of writing. i have had lots of other ideas come to me, but i put them on hold to finish this one, which i've had quite a writers-block for. you can probably spot all the breaks in the plot.
again, my apologies.
The Mirror
Greg was awoken by the warm glow of the morning sun on his cheeks. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling with blurry eyes, listening. No shuffling of feet, no clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen, no noisy vacuuming, no sound coming from anywhere in the house. All he could hear was the gentle rustling of trees and the occasional roar of a passing car. It was a Saturday morning and he was alone at home.
Greg got up and stretched himself. He walked over to the window and looked outside. The street was quiet, the flats on the other side were hidden by the neat row of maple trees which were planted down the sidewalk. They swayed gently in the urban breeze. There was hardly anyone outside, only a little old lady sitting on her front porch across the street, stroking her Siamese cat. Even as he was standing there, Greg could feel the lazy heat permeating through the glass of the window.
Almost out of habit, Greg went over to his desk where his computer was and sat down. His finger was a inch away from the power switch when he paused. No, he thought, I shan’t play the computer today. He got up again and went to the kitchen. His stomach felt empty. Opening the fridge, he grabbed a carton of milk and poured it in a bowl with a whole box of cereal.
He sat down on the couch with the bowl in one hand and a spoon with another, and started eating. Suddenly he noticed the television across the living room. He couldn’t recall the last time he watched television, having spent most of his life as a teenager playing computer games. The television was quite new, a sleek black frame with rounded corners and a jet-black screen. Samsung, it read in silver letters on the bottom. Greg could see himself in the reflection on the screen. Ruffled hair, sleepy face, right cheek stuffed with cereal. He was rather fascinated at the television, it seemed almost alien to him.
Something on the couch next to him caught his eye. It was the remote. It looked very different from the television, it looked old and worn out. Grimy fingerprints were smudged all over it, crumb-like things stuck in the buttons. Greg slowly reached over to it and took it. To him it was like a new toy, the buttons odd and unfamiliar. But he instinctively recognised the red button, so he pointed the remote at the television and turned it on.
A soft fuzzy noise came from the television, and the screen came to life. It was the nine-o'clock morning news. An attractive brunette was reporting about a typhoon hitting some seaport, and her glittery eyes gripped Greg 's attention for a moment. A clip of the typhoon came on, with buildings and vehicles being thrown into the air. The pixelated video made Greg dizzy, so he switched the channel.
Zip! It was a cooking show, a chinese chef was chopping vegetables at incredible speed and tossing it into a wok. Zip! Greg flipped the channel again. A suave gentleman with a compelling voice was introducing a dishwasher that could wash dishes twice as fast. Zip! A sweaty girl in gym clothes doing aerobics, with pop music blasting noisily in the background. Zip! Wildlife show. Zip! Another cooking show. Zip! Fashion program. Zip! A small boy sitting on a couch, staring back him. Zip! An advertisement. Zip! A cartoon. Greg lifted his finger off the remote.
A small boy staring back at him.
Not sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him, Greg flipped two channels back. There he was. The boy was a few years younger than him. He had a head of reddish bronze hair, his small pale face speckled with freckles. A pair of black thick-framed glasses rested on his snubby nose. Behind those glasses were two green eyes fixated at Greg.
For some strange reason this whole image on the screen did not seem like a television program to Greg. The was no usual shaking or sliding of the screen, no blurriness, no indication that this picture on the television was filmed by a camera. It was almost like the screen was a hole in the wall that connected this living room to the other, with only a sheet of glass on the screen that Greg could still make out as it reflected the morning sun shining slightly on it.
The boy in the television furrowed his brow, leaned back a bit into his couch, seemingly offended or afraid at the sight of Greg, or at least that was what Greg thought the boy had seen. The boy looked to his left and right, then looked at Greg again.
What happened next gave Greg quite a jump. The boy quickly picked up a remote that lay next to him and pressed a button. Instantly, Greg's screen went out, like as if someone had pulled out the channel cord of the television. Disconnected and uneven strips of black and white rolled up the screen, with a constant noisy buzzing sound blaring from the television speakers. Greg sat there for some time, breathing slowly, staring at the screen. The whole encounter seemed a pretty strange business.
After what felt like hours of noisy buzzing Greg picked up the remote, and flipped a channel backward. The fashion show was still on, with models arrayed in elaborate frills of fabric strutting down a neon-blue litted runway. Greg flipped forward a channel. It was still rolling strips of black and white.
Greg shook the weird feeling off. Thinking maybe it was just his eyes fooling him again, he was about to flip the channel when just then, an image clicked into view. It was the living room with the couch. With the young boy with red hair and freckles sitting on it. This time the boy did not seemed to be suprised, though Greg was still pretty shaken up seeing him the second time.
The boy looked down his knees, thinking. Then he looked at Greg, and waved.
The boy was waving to him.
The subconscious intent of curiousity was too great for Greg. Slowly, he waved back at the boy.
A small smile came upon the boy's face. A smile of reassurance. He got off the couch and moved closer.
"So you're for real?" His accent sounded British, but Greg couldn't be sure.
"Yes," said Greg, "why are you on my television?"
"I don't know. You're on my television too." The boy paused, not sure whether to ask his next question.
"Where are you from?"
"I'm from LA, Los Angeles," Greg did not see a reason to lie about where he lived.
"Las Anjelas?" the furrowed brow expression reappeared on the boy's face again.
"Los Angeles, you know, California, the United States of America?" Maybe not British,Greg thought, he doesn't even know where LA is.
"Califoneea? Amerca? I have no idea where that is."
This infuriated Greg. Apparently this boy was messing with him, pretending not to know where America was. "Never mind," he said irately,"where are you from?"
"I'm from Pachena." said the boy.
"Pachena? Where the hell is that?" Greg was starting to think this was all a hoax. Then a thought struck him. "Wait here," he said to the boy. He put down his bowl of cereal and went to his desk and picked up a large atlas, flipped up the world map, and showed it to the boy. "Where do you live?" Greg asked again.
The boy looked at the map for awhile, bearing a perplexed look on his face. He pointed to the west side of the map, the continent of North America and said, "Beatrot Republic."
"Beatrot Republic? That's the United States of America!" Greg exclaimed.
"No it isn't. It's the Beatrot Republic, and it's been that for a very long time." He pointed to the state of California. "I live there. Do you have a bigger map of Pachena?" the boy asked.
Greg had a gut feeling that the boy was going to mention Los Angeles next, or whatever he would call it, so he skipped the map of California and went to a magnified map of Los Angeles, and showed it to the boy.
The boy looked at the map a moment, pointed right at Atlantic Ave. "Contatre Street. That's where I live. But there isn't a street there, neither is there blocks over here."
Greg couldn't believe his ears. The spot where the boy pointed at was where he lived. Where he was standing right that moment. Greg's mind was racing. The boy was his neighbour? Was the tv a partial hole the wall?
That couldn't be it. The boy said this was Contatre Street. Maybe a different language? No wait, Street was definitely english.
"That's exactly where i live! What floor are you on?" Greg asked, much intrigued. "Please don't say xthird." he muttered, under his breath.
"Third." the boy replied, "There's only one apartment available on this floor."
"B-but... I live on the third floor of this building. What do you mean there's only one apartment available?" Greg said in disbelief.
Upon hearing this, the boy became silent. He rested his chin on his hands and thought. He was very close to the television, Greg could count his freckles. Just then, the boy gave a soft sigh. Greg felt a breath of hot wind blow into his face.
"Woah. Did you just breathe into my face?" Greg took a few steps back from the television.
"You could feel me breathing?" The boy appeared as suprised as Greg was, if not even more.
"Oh my god. I just realised something. When you talk, the sound doesn't come from the speakers. It seems to be coming straight from the screen!" Greg exclaimed.
"Maybe this glass on this screen isn't glass at all." The boy gently poked the screen. Instead of giving a soft thud as it would on glass, to Greg's amazement and shock, the finger came through the glass! As it did, Greg's television screen rippled, as if the boy's finger just touched water.
The boy quickly withdrew his finger and gasped. He looked at his finger like as if it had been dipped into a barrel of toxic waste. He looked at Greg, then he took a cushion from his couch, and flung it at television. A large cushion with sequins came flying through Greg's screen and hit him in the face, knocking him over, and in doing so Greg knocked over the bowl of cereal.
"What did you do that for?" Greg choked, covered in milk and Fruit Loops. The boy was doubling up with laughter. Greg was not going to let that stand.
"I'm gonna get you!" he roared as he charged at the television, and jumped into the screen. As he passed through the glass, the sensation was quite strange. It was like he was diving into a swimming pool, except when he appeared on the other end he landed hard on top of the boy. Both of them were laughing as they sat there, smelling of soggy Fruit Loops.
"I can't believe you actually came across!" the boy cried, "Well, welcome to my house."
Greg looked around at the living room. It didn't look much different from his living room, in fact it looked exactly like his living room. The walls were yellow, the leather couch was facing the sleek black television, which sat on top of a wooden chest of drawers.
Awstruck, Greg moved to the windows and looked outside. It wasn't Atlantic Avenue outside. There was a dirt road, there were no cars, everyone outside was on bicycles, except the the bicycles had four wheels instead of two. Beyond the road it was a long stretch of desert, as far as the eye could see. Greg could see the the sun dipping into of the horizon.
"Wait a minute, it's sunset?? And why is it setting away from the sea?" Greg asked in puzzlement. This place seemed to be a total topsy-turvy from the LA he was familiar with.
The boy returned the puzzled look. "What do you mean? The sun always rises from the west and sets in the east."
Greg looked at the living room. Then he looked outside. The he looked back at the living room. The television was facing the north. The television at home was faced south. The windows here looked to east, while those at home looked to the west. The whole room was an reverse of the living room back at home.
Greg sat down, feeling very dizzy. The boy looked at him intently with his green eyes. Neither spoke for quite some time.
"I think," Greg finally spoke, "I should be getting back. Maybe I'll come by another day?" The boy nodded approvingly. All this was too perplexing for the both of them. Greg walked over to the television, when he heard a familiar voice.
The front door opened. A lady came trudging in, carrying a load of groceries. She saw the mess of spilt milk and Fruit Loops. She saw the television on, an image of a living room with yellow walls and leather couch. Of course, she didn't notice the remarkable resemblance it had to her own living room. She saw her the door of her son's room half-open.
"Greg," she called, " you there?" She listened for a reply. There was none.
She moved to the remote, the grimy, crummy one with the red button. Pointing it to the television, she pressed the red button. Then taking a couple of Kleenexs she start to wipe the mess.
"When I find him," she nagged to herself, "he's going to explain about this mess and leaving the television on like that. Television, the things they do to kids nowadays."
7:42 AM}
Labels: Chris
penned with passion.
She could smell the sweet fragrance of roses.
After all, she did work at a flower shop.
But this was different. The air always seemed to smell sweeter whenever HE was around.
His mere presence augmented the scent from the roses and left the area around him smelling positively divine. Whenever he walked in, the flowers seemed to mimic their guardian’s reaction - blooming vibrantly and exuding admiration. Passer-bys could almost feel the longing and desire permeating through the air.
He always came just before closing time.
Slowly circling the premises, he would stop at intervals to take a whiff of the various species of flora in the shop. She loved the way his gentle fingers caressed the flowers and brought them up to his nose. Often, she would find herself just sitting behind the counter, staring at him.
His angular jaw and delicate features could easily garner descriptions which comprised of synonyms of pretty. With his shoulder-length hair, deep soulful eyes and thin lanky frame, he could have stepped out of an idol drama. He stood apart from the crowd with aloof dignity; but she could often sense warmth emanating from those eyes of his. This served to intrigue her even more.
It is interesting how you can tell that you are in love with someone. The person in question seems to be an ethereal image; everything else simply appears dull when contrasted with him or her. It is as if romance has clouded your judgment (vision as well) and has convinced you that the person epitomizes perfection. This was almost how she felt every time he came. The difference being that it was only about a hundred times more intense…
“Excuse me, any recommendations for a first date?”
The voice jolted her out of her trance-like state.
He was standing opposite the counter, staring at her with those gorgeous eyes of his.
She stared shamelessly at the pretty face in front of her for a few seconds, before realizing how doltish she must have looked. Hurriedly composing herself, she replied,
“Erm… I…I would think a bouquet of forget-me-nots would be quite romantic… it is representative of true love anyway… yeah, just thought you should know…”
“I’m babbling!” she thought to herself.
At the same time, a second thought floated into her head, “Rats, he must already be interested in someone else.”
Absentmindedly wrapping a bundle of forget-me-nots, she felt as if her whole world had come crashing down on her. Every single day for the past six months had been spent pining for and thinking about him. Moonstricken, she had spent many sleepless nights pondering whether or not she should profess her feelings to him.
And now, in a single sentence, he had dashed all of her hopes.
“All right girl, pull yourself together. They’re plenty of guys out there. It’s not the end of the world.” Her subconscious self spoke these words; in reality though, she was not entirely convinced that she would ever find another like him.
She proceeded to hand the flowers over to him, and was just about to state the price, when he spoke.
“Thanks, but you can keep them. They’re for you.”
He stood there, an uncharacteristic air of bashfulness encircling him.
He was blushing.
And suddenly, it all became clear to her.
The sweet fragrance of roses filled the room ever so strongly.
The End
1:54 AM}
Labels: Chris
penned with passion.
Author's note:
The original idea for this story came from Marc. Personally, I feel that i have not been able to do it justice adequately. But anyway, this story is dedicated to Tommy and Ryan. Two very close friends of mine who shall thus forth be immortalised in words.
But alas, without further ado...
All was quiet. Everyone was asleep, save for three individuals. It is after all difficult to be lulled into peaceful slumber when one is being held captive. It is especially difficult when every breath taken could be the last.
The cell, at first glance, did not look all-too-imposing. It was not small enough to invoke any claustrophobic reactions, nor was it expansive enough to be considered comfortable lodging for three. There was no furniture of any kind. It was in essence, an empty room. However, being inside the cell was a totally different experience. Sinister undertones contributed to the bleakness of the cell. An acerbic smell filled the air, and the dull metallic color of the walls only served to accentuate the red stains on the walls. It did not help that there was virtually no ventilation. The air was overbearingly humid and stagnant.
“Do you think they will kill us?” Chris whispered to his comrades, as though afraid that their captors might be eavesdropping. Though they did not reply, the other two men’s thoughts mirrored their friend’s.
Deafening silence followed before a sudden flurry of expletives filled the air.
“Damn it!!! DAMN IT!!!! I am not going to die in this god-forsaken place!!!” One of the men had lost his cool, and was now pounding on the walls with his fists.
“Cool it, Ryan. That’s not going to do us any good. We’re better off trying to think of a means to escape.” A voice echoed from a corner in the room. Tommy, level-headed as ever, remained motionless. His furrowed brows, the only anomaly on his otherwise impeccably calm features indicated that he was deep in thought.
“I guess the severity of our situation has not fully dawned on you; these people mean business. We might be trained, but we have no freaking weapons. We have not eaten in days and I don’t see any way out of this goddamn hell-hole. So excuse me for not meditating and indulging in foolish optimism…” Ryan exclaimed, furious that his friend was failing to grasp the direness of their plight. This stinging retort merely resulted in a slight display of irritation from Tommy. Ryan’s temper simmered a little with this lack of irateness on Tommy’s part. Years of friendship meant that both understood the other almost intimately.
They both knew that Ryan had not meant what he had said.
“Desperation can do that to a person. The lesser attractive sides of human nature tend to surface in times of distress.” Chris thought to himself. It seemed like only yesterday that he and his two friends were still breathing in the wonderful air of freedom.
*
72 hours before
“So… how’s things going with Katrina?” Ryan asked, trying his hardest to keep a straight face, though failing spectacularly.
“Don’t you ever get tired of using that old joke?” Tommy’s deadpan voice rung through the air.
“Can we please concentrate on the mission at hand, and leave the discussion of Tommy’s colorful love life for a more appropriate time in the future?” Chris could not resist adding in a jibe of his own.
Before rappelling off the roof of the building.
Ryan and Tommy promptly clipped on their carabineers and followed suit.
The three men now found themselves in a deserted warehouse. The mission was simple: Locate and capture the leader of the Al-Fatah. Dead or alive.
The butt of Chris’s Steyr-Aug nestled in the soft flesh between his collar bone and shoulder. Its weight gave Chris an odd sense of reassurance. Out in the field, it was the only thing which kept him alive. Besides his other two teammates, that is.
“Section clear.” Ryan muttered into his mouthpiece.
Just as a tranquilizer dart impacted on the side of his neck.
As the drug flowed though his bloodstream, his consciousness ebbed away and the last thing he saw was the sight of his two friends collapsing around him….
*
Unbeknownst to them, Al-Fatah members had already anticipated their arrival. As the three men had panned through the first floor of the warehouse, snipers had already taken their positions all around the warehouse.
They never had a chance.
*
The three men had been childhood friends. They all came from disparate family backgrounds, but a shared passion for computer gaming had brought the three friends together. Tommy, the oldest, was well-built for his age. His icy-cool demeanor hid a soft and caring heart. He came from a relatively well-to-do family but was never really showered upon the tender loving care which his younger brother received. Resentment was not one of his traits though, and though he remained distant from his family, he never once hated them. Ryan, stocky and muscular, never really revealed anything about his past. Fiercely loyal and possessing a wicked sense of humor, he was the paragon of righteousness of the group; though his fiery temper often got the group into many fight over his quest for justice. Chris, the youngest, was immature, mischievous and always ready to have fun. But, he was also the one who would always mediate in fights or arguments.
And so, after school everyday, on clockwork, they would meet at their favorite gaming haunt and indulge in an afternoon of full-blown gaming action. They played almost every game under the sun, but their forte would be the first-person shooter.
It was almost like second nature.
The chemistry between the three of them was unbelievable. They all had eclectic styles of play, but at the end of the day, everything seemed to fall in place perfectly. It was as if their friendship in real life had been transmuted into an energy source, which served to bind them together in the virtual world. They complemented each other flawlessly. Over lunch, the trio would discuss tactics, counter-measures and attack strategies. They were so adept at their craft, that a rare victory over them would have their closest rival, David, screaming over the racket and pandemonium of the cybercafe “Checkmate!!”
Thus, it would only be fitting that all three of them had pursued careers in the army. In their final year of basic military training, they had opted for Special Forces. And thus, nearly a decade after they had met, they were now being confined in a cell, awaiting the verdict on their lives.
*
Present
Time seems to pass in chapters when one is isolated from the rest of the world. One moment dawn turns to dusk in a flash, and the next it seems like eternity before twilight comes. Ryan, Tommy and Chris had lost track of time after the third day. Malnourishment coupled with fear had addled with their minds. Sure, they had undergone psychological and physical torture during their training; but the real world was an entirely different ball game altogether. It certainly did not help that they were relatively new to the game, greenhorns in their own right. Had it not been for a lack of manpower, they would probably never have been assigned to this mission.
There was nothing that they could do, except think.
Memories are like time machines; they can take you back to the past and allow you to relive them. Even if only in the mind. These fragments of our lives can never be entirely gotten rid of. They can only fade, but never will they disappear. As the three friends sat reminiscing happier times, the unpredictability of their impending fate was emphasized even further. It served to exacerbate their feelings of trepidation, loss and helplessness. They were too young to die. They had yet to even savor the full sweetness of life. It was as if fate was deliberately throwing them the short straw.
A sudden clang of metal shook the three friends out of their dreamlike trance. No less than twelve AK-47 rifles were now being pointed at them. Strong gruff hands forced them to their knees. Chris felt the touch of cold metal on his temple; and then a voice.
“Checkmate”
11:55 PM}
Labels: Daryl
penned with passion.
Labels: Chris
penned with passion.
Labels: Chris
penned with passion.
Labels: Daryl
penned with passion.
Labels: Chris
penned with passion.
penned with passion.
descriptive is never easy to write, and with chris churning out essays like a grammatizator, it is even harder. but here it is. i haven't written in a long while, so please be kind on me :) i haven't done any editing at all, this is the completed story in its raw form. enjoy. :D
a note to the reader: try to read this story with an open mind.
Blind Sight
It was a stormy night. The rain came down in sheets on the fields, the wind tore fiercely through the branches and leaves of the trees, flashes of lightning were followed in quick succession by deafening cracks of thunder. The countryside seemed to be veiled by the thick downpour that never seemed to stop. All over the country husbands and wives, sons and daughters, tossed restlessly in their beds, unable to sleep with the unsettling storm outside.
Yet at the edge of a small field, hidden by two oaks, there was a small run-down shack, and in there the old man lay in his bed, sleeping, dreaming. There was no other room in the shack but the one where the old man slept. No light hung from the ceiling, nor was there a bed lamp. The room was dark and dry, and smelled of the old books that filled the shelves. The shelves covered the walls of the room, save for the door and the small window that let in a dim shaft of light that shone upon the old man’s face. The books were matted with dust, and like almost everything else in the room, had not been touched for years. Next to the bed where the old man laid, on the bedside table, was a flask of water and a glass, and a silver locket with a picture of a lady inside it. The lady was young, beautiful and smiling. The old man never looked at the locket, but the image was fixed somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind.
The old man lay there in his sheets, on his bed, the noise outside did not bother him. His grey, unkempt hair framed his frail and weathered face. The sagging skin on his face seemed to only be held up by his small cheekbones, and with his tightly shut eyelids shadowed by saddened brows it was not hard to tell that this aged creature had experienced little or none of the pleasures in life.
A brief flash of lightning illuminated his gaunt appearance, and suddenly the old man man’s face scrunched up, like a baby when it was crying. He groaned as he writhed around his in bed. This went on for a while. Then abruptly, with a soft yell, he woke up, panting heavily.
The storm outside raged harder than ever.
He sat there for a moment, trying to remember. It was the same one he had last night. And the night before. And the night before that. In fact, he thought to himself, I’ve had that nightmare for over a year now.
Feeling thirsty, the old man reached to his bedside table and poured himself a glass of water. He sipped at his drink, thinking about the dream. It was odd, having the same dream for song now and still being frightened by it. It was brief, but so vivid. He was standing on a tall cliff that faced the sea, when the ground beneath him suddenly gave way, and he started falling, and he would wake up, panting and dazed.
The rain beat relentlessly on the window and on the zinc roof of the house. The noise was terrific.
Sitting there in the darkness of the room, the old man took another sip. He tried to remember what was the colour of the grass on this cliff. Was it green? He couldn’t remember what green looked like. Nor could he remember what any other colour did, for that matter. Except for black. And even then he couldn’t really remember what black looked like either, because black was as good as any other colour.
The old man felt an aching feeling in his heart. That feeling felt familiar. There were many things he could not remember, but he definitely remembered the last time he saw colour. It was the first time he had that aching feeling in his heart.
“Darling, take a break from the computer. Your eyes need a rest.” Said Linda concernedly from the kitchen.
“Can’t I have to finish this assignment by Thursday.” Morgan answered from the study.
“Well, the stew is ready. At least grab a bite, then continue with your work. You know what the doctor said about using the computer for too long. Your eyes need- ”
“That’s enough, Linda. Let me finish this.” Morgan said irritably.
There was silence after that, and only the soft taps of fingers on the keyboard could be heard from the room. Just then Linda heard Morgan yell.
“Darling, are you all right?” she called.
Morgan staggered out the study, his arms waving madly in front of him. “Where are you, Linda?” he cried frantically. He bumped into the piano and fell down.
Linda rushed over to him. “What’s wrong, dear? Are you all right?” she asked, worried.
“I… can’t see! I can’t see anything!” Morgan cried in panic.
From then on he never saw again. He lost his job. He lost his friends. He had learned to use a cane, to read Braille with his fingers, and to remember places by touch. Most people being left with a disabled person would have left Morgan alone to rot. But Linda did not. She loved Morgan. She stuck by him. She took care of him, encouraged him, picked him up when he fell down, and took the condescending glares and the whispers of passer-bys.
Morgan felt safe with Linda. For the first time in years of their marriage he had to learn to depend on her. But all was safe and all was good. Till fate took a cruel turn, Linda was diagnosed with leukemia and died 2 years later.
Morgan was left in the world. Alone, helpless, and afraid. With Linda gone, he had to survive by himself. It was not easy. Linda was his motivation, his strength, the only reason he could think of to live on. And now she was gone.
Distraught, he moved to the country, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. He bought a small house at the edge of a field where he spent the rest of his days thinking about his life and thinking about Linda.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sharp knock on the door. The old man was startled. It was late, and he never had any visitors anyway.
“Who is it?” the old man croaked hoarsely.
There was no answer.
The old man sat there for a moment, waiting for a reply. Nothing, nothing but the incessant drumming of the rain on the roof. “Ears be playing tricks on me,” he muttered to himself. He was fumbling back into his sheets, when there was knocking again.
“Who is it?” he called out, louder this time. Still no answer.
Something felt wrong. The old man got up and groped around the bedside table for his cane. It wasn’t there. He felt around the floor for it. It wasn’t there either. His heart skipped a beat. There was another knock on the door. The old man started to panic. He wasn’t used to moving about without a cane. More knocking. The old man hobbled over to the door, his hands grabbing blindly for the doorknob. Knock, knock, knock. He opened the door. A breath of cold wind stung his cheeks.
“Who is it?” the old man asked. The only reply was the drumming of the rain on the roof and the whistling of the wind. He reached out his hands and tried to feel for a face, a torso. Nothing. His fingers were met with cold air. Confused and worried, the old man turned to closed the door. Just then out of the darkness he saw something. HE SAW SOMETHING. His heart skipped a beat. It was faded, foggy. He couldn’t make out what it was at first. Slowly, the image became clearer. It was a small puff of pink smoke. No, that wasn’t pink, he thought to himself. That’s green. The old man felt his head spinning. “Something is happening,” he said under his breath.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the puff of green smoke dissipated. The old man’s heart sank. Wait, he could see something else. Another green puff of smoke appeared, a few feet away from the first one. He moved closer, out of the shack into the rain. He felt the icy raindrops falling like small hailstones on his old shoulders. Yes, it was green smoke. There was another colour as well. What was it? The old man remembered himself playing as a child in the mud. Rich thick brown.
Another wisp of smoke appeared, larger and even further away from the second as it was from the first. It was grey. The old man looked intently. It was a slab of stone. The old man rubbed his eyes furiously. The slab of stone was still there. This must be the path leading from the house, the old man said to himself. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, having not seen for more than half his life. He felt an adrenaline rush, and a mad tingle shooting up his spine.
He felt the rain getting lighter.
Slowly but surely, a foggy grey line of smoke came into view. A snaky path of stone slabs. Unable to deprive his curiosity and eager excitement, the man followed down the path. His breath grew warmer. His hobbling gait became strong, sure footed steps. Every now and then he thought of Linda.
With every step he took, the path grew wider. He could see the wildflowers that grew on the side of the path. He bent down and picked them up, rubbing the yellow and purple petals with his fingers. The old man felt tears well up in his eyes. As they streamed down his cheeks, they seemed to wash the blackness slowly away from his eyes. The blackness he hated but couldn’t get rid of. The blackness that robbed his youth, his ambitions, his prospects, everything. The blackness that robbed Linda’s sweet countenance. When the blackness was all washed away, the old man gasped and stood there in awe as he gazed upon the most breath-taking scene.
The rain had stopped. Before him was the sea. Calm, like a cerulean piece of glass stretched far into the horizon. And where the sea met the sky, the sun was peeking out, dyeing the sky with a rich blend crimson and saffron, which tinged the soft puffy clouds, and tinted the glassy sea. As the old man stood there with the warmth of the sun’s glow beating down on his tired face, with his eyes closed, for the first time in a long time he smiled. His chest felt warm and fuzzy.
“Morgan.” A soft whisper, almost sounding like a breeze, whisked past his ear.
The old man opened his eyes. He saw the sun. Linda’s face was etched on it. She beckoned him to come. He took a step forward. And another. His eyes were fixed on her beautiful cherubic face. He didn’t see he was standing on a cliff. He didn’t see that every step he took was getting closer to the edge. He didn’t see the ground beneath him give way.
And he fell.
As he fell, the old man did not feel frightened. He closed his eyes and all he could see was her. Linda. The wind rushed through him, through his hair, through his clothes, and through his fingers. There were sharp rocks and crashing waves beneath him. But he did not care. He fell faster and faster and faster towards the rocks. Then there was a flash of light.
Morgan gave a yell as he woke up. Panting and dazed, he tried to remember the dream. No, it wasn’t the same as the one last night. Or the night before. Or the night before that. In fact, he thought, I’ve never had that dream before. He heard the rain pounding on the roof. He felt thirsty, so he reached over to his bedside table and poured himself a glass of water. He saw his cane leaning on the bedside table. He looked out of the window and saw it the rain pattering outside. He looked back and he saw the silver locket lying on the table. In it was the face of a lady.
“Linda.” he said to himself, and he smiled.
8:50 PM}
Session
“Beep beep beep beep beep…”
The digital clock on the bedside table showed ‘7:00 AM’. Elias Reilly opened his eyes in a jolt. Stifling a yawn, he thus proceeded to draw back his bedroom curtains. Golden sunbeams blinded him momentarily as his pupils constricted to adjust to the sudden influx of light. Looking out his window, he could already see that it was going to be a beautiful day. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the dewy morning air; the leaves on the trees swayed hypnotically with the gentle morning breeze. Pausing only to take a few deep breaths of morning air, Elias went about his usual morning routine. As he brushed his teeth though, he caught sight of the face staring back at him from the mirror. “Im getting old” he thought to himself, before letting out a rare sigh. Thirty minutes later, he was in his Chevrolet, eating a butter bun and on his way to his office.
Elias walked into his office feeling a lot less happy than he had been when he had left his house. The weather for one had decided to go all “Day After Tomorrow” on him. Even as he glanced out of his office window, he could see streaks of lightning in the distance. Dark clouds had blocked the sun and heavy rain was now pouring. It was as if someone had angered the Gods and in return, armageddon had descended upon earth. His mood was not improved when his secretary informed him of his schedule for the day. He had consultations throughout the whole day, leaving him precious little time for any breaks. “Perhaps it isn’t such a good day after all.” Elias thought aloud, earning himself a bemused look from his secretary.
As he sauntered to his table, he passed a certificate hanging on the wall. His Doctorate certificate to be precise. Elias, or Dr Reilly as his patients called him, had graduated from Oxford with a PhD in Psychology. Over the last two decades, he had built up a rather impressive reputation to say the least. His patients included disillusioned movie stars, depressed CEOs, sportsmen suffering from ego issues and many other high-profile clients. These people paid handsomely just for a few sessions with him. Privately though, Elias felt that all he had done was to tell his patients what they wanted to hear and give generic suggestions as to how to solve their problems. Of course, he had never voiced this out to anyone. His clients left feeling less dysfunctional, he left feeling like a million bucks(both metaphorically and literally), and everyone went home happy. Why disrupt the status quo?
So engrossed was he in his thoughts, that Elias failed to notice a figure sitting on the sofa. A faint ‘hem-hem’ brought him spinning around and taking up an instinctive defensive stance. “I’m sorry if im early today doctor. I just couldn’t wait.” An accentless drawl permeated the air. Curiously, the man did not seem to have moved his lips or made any action. Composing himself, Elias relaxed a little. It was only his first patient of the day. “Oh, it’s no problem at all. I just didn’t see you come in.” “Please make yourself comfortable.” he added. And so the first session of the day began.
“So where shall we start today, Pierre?” Sitting across the man, Elias could say that he was definitely an interesting character. Elias did not know much about the man, save for his name (Mr G.A. Pierre) and a few other minor details. He had a pale gaunt face with striking features, which could have made him look extremely handsome, if not for the permanent furrowing of his brows and pursing of his lips. Elias thought he saw sadness and melancholy within those eyes. This was a man who looked like he had weathered through life’s many obstacles.
“I still cant get the feelings of dread and regret to stop.” Pierre answered matter-of-factly. Though his words seemed to be devoid of any emotion, Elias’ trained intuition detected a hint of remorse in Pierre’s voice. “They keep dying and I cant do anything about it.”
“Perhaps if you tried telling yourself that their deaths were not your fault, you would not feel so horrible. Out of curiosity, what makes you feel that you are the cause for the deaths around you?” Elias was careful to adopt a non-threatening tone, to prevent any outbursts from Pierre. It had happened once, and Elias’ office had ended up like a disaster-hit area.
“I work for someone. A tyrant, no, far worst than a tyrant. He forces me to do things.. and these things inadvertently cause people around me to die.” Pierre’s voice was now reduced to a flurry of whispers. “I have no choice, no choice, no choice….”
Elias had seen his fair share of weirdoes, nutjobs and crazy people in his time as a psychiatrist. But this took the cake. He was sure that Pierre was straddling the line between sanity and madness at this very moment. Elias shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Ok, ok, calm down Pierre, tell me who your boss is. Im here to listen, just tell me all your troubles.” Elias put on his most soothing voice, which he had perfected over the years.
It was to no avail.
Pierre stood up abruptly and muttered “Im sorry doctor, but this will probably be the penultimate time that you are going to see me. I appreciate your help; I’ll try and go easy on you when the time comes.” With this ominous statement, Pierre walked swiftly out through the stunned doctor’s door.
After what seemed like an eternity, Jill, Elias’ secretary knocked gently on the door and came in. She found Elias sitting at his desk in deep thought. “Dr Reilly, are you alright? The bank has just called to say that a Mr G.A. Pierre has deposited a cheque for fifty thousand dollars in your account.” “Weird weather today huh? Look, it’s all sunny and bright again.” Jill commented as she left Elias’ office.
Elias now had a pen and paper on his desk. He had always been good at solving puzzles and codes in his youth. As he tried out various permutations of alphabets, he thought to himself: I must be going crazy myself. Suddenly, he saw it.
And promptly fainted.
The scribbled piece of paper in front of Elias’ unconscious body read:
Mr G.A. Pierre
Grim Reaper
6:28 PM}
Soulmate
Love is like a jigsaw of sorts. The pieces need to fall into all the right places. Only then can the whole montage of love be completed. However, many a time the right piece to complete the puzzle is so hard to find yet so easy to lose. How do I know this? Well, let’s just say that ive been through enough.
It always begins with a glance. A moment when eyes meet, followed by a brief fluttering of hearts. The all-too-familiar notion of love at first sight. Very often, lust or physical attraction is often misconstrued with love. However, from the moment my gaze met hers, I knew that nothing in the world would ever stop me from being with her.
Her name was Sarah. The butterflies in my stomach would have their own butterflies at the mere mention of her name. Those two syllables formed my favorite word in the entire world. I was sure of it. She was an arts student, a freshman, who studied in the same university as I did. I would often see her sitting alone in the campus garden, with her sketchbook in front of her. Very soon, whatever she was observing would be transcribed onto her sketchbook; vibrant, detailed and blazing with life-like intensity. Her talent only served to leave me more enamored with her.
In my senior year, I finally plucked up the courage to ask her on a date. She was surprised at first, but my shy demeanor enthralled her. She said yes. And thus began the best six months of my life. We shared a common love for the movies and quiet evenings at the beach. We must have watched hundreds of sunsets during our time together, but each one was always special in its own way. Though having not met before, we seemed to be able to know what the other was thinking. Conversations always ended up with either one of us completing the other’s sentences. Dinners were partaken without having to refer to the menu; we knew each other’s food preferences instinctively. In short, it was as if we had known each other for all our lives. I was truly, madly, deeply in love with her. As she was with me.
Or so I thought.
I will never forget that day. Upon further reminiscence, other events in the day seemed to me like a blur. However, I will always remember that scene in the library. I was doing some research for my final term paper. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement, followed by a laughter which I knew all too well. Curiosity drove me to follow the source of it into the archives section. What I saw behind the ancient teak door shattered my life in an instant. The girl of my dreams, my soulmate, my girlfriend was locked in a tight embrace with another boy. Her lips, which once whispered sweet nothings in my ear, were firmly attached to his. I was stunned, my legs firmly rooted to the ground. I felt as if I had been punched in the gut, and all the air had been driven out of me. My heart hurt as if a knife had been stabbed into it and twisted by the hilt. The effect was so great, that I doubled over, gasping for air as my long-dormant asthma came out of its remission. I fainted there and then.
Hospitals seem to have an aura of death hanging over them. Feelings of dread and loss lurk in every shadow and corner of the wards; beneath the sterile and sanitized exterior, a hospital is not really a place one would enjoy being in. I awoke feeling no different. It was as if my heart had died there and then. “You’re fi..n..ally awake… I wa..s so wo..r..ried for you…” a quavering voice warbled past my ear. I wanted to scream, to chase her away, but deep down, I still loved her. I attempted to put on my best contemptuous face, but only succeeded in looking like a sick puppy. But her next words cut the deepest. “I’m sorry, I just don’t have feelings for you anymore. We should stop seeing each other.” I could see the guilt written all over her face, a face I once adored and worshipped. As she walked out the door, I wept…
And so, my readers, this is my sad tale. I am documenting my story with hopes that my actions will be understood. I just hope that the rest of the world will not vilify me for what ive done.
I put down the pen, and closed my eyes in deep thought. As I sit here, Sarah looks at me through glassy, listless eyes. Her porcelain features are just as beautiful as I remembered them to be. Pity that she is dead. Her hands hang limply by the bedside; those deft fingers which once intertwined with mine now lay lifeless, never to caress my skin ever again. Her pale complexion is only marred by drops of her own crimson blood. The knife which carried out the dark deed is still in my hands. “We were meant to be together, my twin soul, my one and only…” I blabbered, completely lucid, yet mad at the same time. A glint of steel, the piercing of flesh, heartbeat ebbing away and finally, the darkness consuming me….
10:33 PM}
i wrote this essay when i was in primary six, i got a 33/40 for it, which was a big deal for me, so i'm quite proud of this, however nooblish it may sound now.
this story was written based on a picture which was of three uniform men falling into a "pool".
Quicksand
The blinding sunlight penetrated through the thick lush Amazon forest. Birds chirped shrilly. This was the day. Three men were serving for National Service were staggering through the thick vegetation. These men were Christopher, Jerome and Jonathan. Their sergeant had ordered them to spend life in the forest.
Sweat trickled down their necks and down their backs. It was the last day. And the last trip they ever made.
The three men came to a mangrove swamp. It was the only route back to camp. The men tiptoed cautiously onto the mud. The boots went "squelch". Gruesome and disgusting. The men went quietly along, when suddenly a large gaping mouth snapped at the three men, who were taken aback. They fell into the thick muck. The mouth snapped shut and the dripping mud revealed a large caiman. The fearsome eating machine was well over two metres, a scaly streamlined body with a murky greenish-brown skin that camouflaged it in the thick, runny mud. Jerome shrieked in horror and agitation. The others pulled him up and they staggered helplessly over the slippery mud to the other side.
The crocodile gave chase. It was a wild goose chase - the terrified soldiers ran here and there. The crocodile was catching up. The it attacked. It lunged its knuckled-breaking snout into the back of Jonathan. Jonathan screeched a piercing screech of terror and pain that rang through the forest and bounced off the tree trunks. The other men, Christopher and Jerome looked back and saw the huge reptile loomed over Jonathan and put a foot on his back, curshing him. Jonathan groaned. Christopher, who was known to be quick-witted back at camp, drew a sharp dagger from its sheath and threw it at the caiman. The hilt hit the reptile in the snount and ricocheted off. No use. Jerome drew his dagger and took a swift aim and threw it at the caiman. The dagger spun in the air and struck the caiman in the left eye. It roared in anguish and pain. Blood streaked out from its wounded eye. It was truly a replusive sight. The Caiman, knowing it was defeated, lumbered off painfully.
The men went over to Jonathan and helped him up. After some rest, the men reached the opposite side of the swamp and continued on their journey. Just then a spider landed on Jerome's helmet. He saw it. And he screamed and ran, knocking his companions over. They rolled, stumbled and fell into a deep pool of mud. sinking mud. Or rather, quicksand. The men screamed when they knew what situation they were in. They tore violently at the sides of the pool. The grass was torn off, but to no avail. the men sank rapidly in the pool of sinking sand which was up to thier necks. The men gave a final shriek and sank into the bottomless pool.
A billion years later, the ice age began. A dog like creature dug up thick but frozen mud. It created a trough and found... three sets of human bones in army uniform.
12:20 AM}
Till Death Do Us Part
The school bell resonated throughout the whole campus, marking the end of the school day. In mere seconds, students streamed out of their classrooms in endless flows, filling the air with incessant chatter and light banter. Teachers attempting to remind their charges about homework and whatnot only succeeded in earning a flutter of half-hearted acknowledgements. It was after all the end of the school semester.
Amidst all the hustle and bustle, though, one soul seemed not to be joining in the end-of-semester euphoria.
Sitting in a deserted classroom, the boy had yet to express any discernable joy at the ending of the school term. His overall appearance would have given any onlooker the impression that he had gone through life’s many trials and tribulations. The way he slouched his shoulders, as if embarrassed about himself. The way his jet-black hair was disheveled and filthy. The way his eyes seemed so forlorn, as if he had witnessed one too many traumatic event. The general ill aura about him was exacerbated by his pallid complexion and permanently unsmiling visage.
“I was not always like this.” Chris thought to himself.
In truth, Chris Munroe had been a different person once. At least before the accident…
It had happened two months ago. The memory was still fresh in his mind. One does not forget something like that. Especially if one’s whole class had perished in a single fateful day.
An excursion to the zoo. “Nothing to be worried about, except maybe an escaped jaguar mauling all of us.” Kenneth, the class joker had said to one of the girls in jest. How ruefully wrong he was. The brakes of the bus had malfunctioned along the highway. The bus had spun out of control and had collided into an oil tanker. The explosion that resulted could be heard from miles away. Or so he was told. The fact was that he had taken ill at the last minute and had not been able to join his class for the excursion. Chris had desperately wanted to go, but his mom had forced him to stay at home.
“A bittersweet decision.” Chris reflected with a sad smile.
By the time the fire brigade had arrived, his classmates, or what was left of them, could only be identified by dna samples. Chris would never forget the image. He had gone to the morgue, insisting to see his friends’ bodies. What he saw would always be replayed in every gruesome detail in his mind. His friends were charred beyond recognition, hair was virtually non-existent and there was not even enough skin to pinch. All that was left was a whole pile of blackened flesh and bones. Chris could not have imagined how much his friends had suffered, clawing at their faces and screaming as they burned.
They were his classmates. They were his friends. He could remember all the little things which they had done to him. Alice, of whom he had a crush on, had once asked him out for a movie date. It was an unforgettable one. Jensen and Samuel, both athletes had invited him for a game of football during the mid-semester holidays. Claire, the smartest girl in class, had offered to give him tuition when Mr Xavier had requested for volunteers. Everyone of his classmates had tried to make a difference in his life before. Kenneth in one of his usual displays of humour, had proclaimed that the class would never ever leave Chris or abandon him. “Till death do us part” he had added, with his trademark lopsided grin.
Perhaps that was why he had murdered them.
It would after all be most fitting that they should part in the face of death itself.
As Chris sat in the classroom, his gaze boring holes in the memorial which had been set up in remembrance of class 3B, he remembered all of those times when his classmates had mistreated him.
Alice with that plastic smile of hers, tricking him into going on a date with her. When he had confronted her about her failure to show up, she had subjected him to public humiliation by denying vehemently, in front of a whole corridor of students, that she was ever interested in him.
Jensen and Samuel with those well-toned muscles of theirs, which had the sole purpose of inflicting pain on him. The football game had turned out to be a kickabout for Jensen, Samuel and their group of friends. The ball: Chris.
And Claire, probably the worst of the lot. Her form of torture was not of the physical type. No, this girl was the devil in human form; subjecting him to mental and psychological torture. “Tuition” often turned into self-aggrandizing sessions. She was always going on and on about her own academic achievements. She always spoke to him in a condescending tone and often made barbed comments about his lack of grey matter.
The rest of the class had it in for him too. Perhaps he was deemed to be the outcast, the social misfit; or perhaps they just saw weakness within him. Nonetheless, he had been subjected to insufferable bullying and ill treatment for the past 3 years.
And so, he had had enough. A simple cut in the brake fluid tubing did the trick. He had simply hoped for a mere car crash., nothing grand or anything. The actual accident though had left him speechless. Not with shock, but with happiness and ecstasy. He could not have hoped for a better finale to his simple, yet well-orchestrated plan. Many a night, he would lie on his bed and imagine his classmates writhing in pain as their lives were literally being burned away from them. Ahhh, such a wonderful image….
The crescendo of the school bell interrupted his thoughts once again. Mr Xavier opened the door gently and smiled sympathetically at Chris. “Im sorry to disturb you, Chris, but you really should be heading home now.”
“Yes, Mr Xavier, I’ll do just that.” Chris put on his best pitiful face. “I was just thinking about all the good times which I shared with them. I still can’t believe that they’re gone.” And with a barely audible whisper and the ghost of a smile, he added, “Though I do know why they’re gone…”
11:43 PM}
Raison d'etre
A shared love for short stories has culminated in the setting up of this blog. In the spirit of literary maestros such as Somerset Maugham, Roald Dahl and Edgar Allan Poe, this shall be an avenue for us to share our works (inspired or uninspired). Our works are definitely not in the same class as the above-mentioned masters, so feel free to leave comments on areas of improvement.
So, enough said, let the writing begin...
11:28 PM}