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: Daryl
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}
Labels: Daryl
penned with passion.
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}