The Sanctuary of the Weird 2.0

CHING CHONG

2010-02-09T20:39:00.000-08:00

My first thought on looking at this month's title: REALLY? Someone's in a very Chinese New Year mood..

Racked my head thinking what I could POSSIBLY write for this opic, but figured: hey. For such a mad-sounding title, might as well go completely mad!

And so:

MY FIRST REJECTION LETTER

or: WHY EVERYONE IS MISSING OUT ON THE BEST SHOW OF THE MILLENIUM

Ref No: 756/34/A4/323
Date: 2nd February 2010

Sanctuary of the Weird Pictures,
No 15A, Weird Mansions,
Jalan Bougainvillea 12,
Section 9, 45000 Petaling Jaya
Selangor Darul Ehsan.

Dear Mr. Terence Toh,

RE: PITCH FOR THE AMAZING SEXY ADVENTURES OF CHING CHONG

We respectfully refer you to the above matter and your many, many, MANY letters to us, most notably those dated 11 January , 15th January and 18th January.

2. We thank you for the interest you have in our fine quality programming, but it is with sincere regret that we will have to turn down your pitch for The Amazing Sexy Adventures of Ching Chong, so described by you as ‘an amazing, sexy, adventure-filled television series that will be sure to sweep the Grammys next year.’ (By the way, Grammys are for music, Emmys are for television.) The reasons for these are as enclosed.

3. Mr. Toh, TV Pendidikan prides itself for providing top-quality educational content for primary and secondary school age students, with particular emphasis on helping them to pass their examinations. From this, it is clear that your pitch, which you yourself describe as ‘Pulp Fiction meets The Dark Knight meets American Pie’ is unsuitable for our programming. We at TV Pendidikan feel that showing a series with such a heavy emphasis on car chases, decapitations and ‘women with laser turrets for breasts’ is not only distasteful, but conflicts with much of our other programming, most of which are aimed at teaching good values such as honesty, loyalty, and brushing your teeth regularly.

4. We take offence to your so called ’morality’ segments and ‘Very Special Episodes’. Firstly, we do not think that the planned morals for your episodes will be very beneficial to children, particularly those of Episode 4 (‘It is alright to trust strangers if they are attractive’), Episode 15 (‘Always say thank you when buying crack’) and Episode 32 (‘telling lies might make those you love turn into three-headed werewolves who want to hunt you down and kill you.’) We feel that these so-called morals may actually have the reverse effect and encourage bad behavior in children.

5. It also seems to us, Mr. Toh, that your planned Episode 13, in which Ching Chong and his friends teach children lessons on ‘the power of love’ by going undercover in a strip club, is nothing more than a flimsy excuse to get as many actresses to parade around in skimpy outfits as possible. (By the way, your sketches for costume design on that episode are tasteless and rather vulgar. I do not think any outfit can stay on a person’s form if it has that many ‘peekaboo holes’ and ‘tasteful slits’ in it. And I am here referring to your plans for the male cast! I appreciate you ‘trying to decrease the wardrobe budget’, but there are more tasteful ways of doing so.)

6. We also feel that your characters need serious work. We object extremely strongly to ‘Homo-Dude’, whose superpower is to ‘have sex with dudes’ and ‘The Baby-Stander’, who ’derives her psychic powers from assaulting children’. And we object to your most of your female (and some male) cast having names like ‘Domi Natricks’, ‘Takoff Macloths’ and worst of all, ‘Sexi binti Sexualle’. This has been done to death in films like James Bond and Austin Powers, where the writers at least put SOME effort into making these innuendo-filled names.

7. And do not get us started on your main character, Ching Chong, ‘char kuay teow seller by day, DVD seller by night, Qi gong trainer on weekends, and superhero on a freelance basis’. Quite frankly, he is the most offensive racist caricature we have ever seen, and to show him on air would definitely result in protests from the Chinese community. We take particular offence at his many ‘dramatic exclamations’: (Excerpts included)

CHING CHONG: Oh, by my mother’s bound feet! (Episode 4, Scene 32)
CHING CHONG: By the bak kut teh of my stall in SS17! Something evil is afoot! (Episode 5, Scene 2)
CHING CHONG: By the delicious flesh of dogs! I forgot my watch! (Episode 14, Scene 4)
CHING CHONG: Holy tiny penises! We’re doomed! (Episode 20, Scene29)

All these, combined with his super-abilities (‘Bruce Lee kungfu’, ‘super maths and ultra accounting’, ‘hunger to eat anything’ and most bizarrely, ‘super-inability to pronounce the letter ‘R’) would only perpetuate negative stereotypes against the Chinese and would be hurtful to the 1Malaysia spirit. We also thank you for your suggestion, but we highly doubt that we have the budget to hire Jet Li or that he would even consider playing such a putrid, horrible character.

8. We also highlight this scene from Episode 9, where Ching Chong takes on the super-villain Robo-Bangla, another character we take offence at:

ROBO-BANGLA: HA! HA! HA! I will cut out your heart and roast it on a fire to eat while I am slacking off my job and harassing your local women!

CHING CHONG: (angry) Over my dead body, you bloody stinking Bangla! You wretched donkey! All of your kind are alike, robotic or not! Evil, twisted beings, who misuse our kindness to do horrible, criminal crime!

Mr. Toh, we remind you that donkeys are hardworking, loyal animals and the RSPCA will definitely take offence at them being compared to in this manner.

9. Another issue is Ching Chong’s sidekick, Cripple Boy. While we applaud your attempt to highlight the struggles the disabled face everyday, we do not think it necessary for Cripple Boy to make references to his handicap in EVERY line of his dialogue, even in scenes when he is in mortal peril or making love to the ‘bodaciously bodacious Harelip Girl’. There is such a thing as overdoing it, Mr. Toh, and you have clearly, clearly overdone that. You have overdone it so much there ought to be some kind of award for you.

10. Finally, we take issue at your proposed plots and storylines. You have clearly not done any research at all, and we highly suggest you go for a few classes in a film school before writing any more pitch suggestions to us. Indeed, looking at your pitch, we are unsure if you even have the slightest hold on reality at all. Some of us are in the opinion you are in actuality a drug-addled schizophrenic writing this in a straightjacket from Hospital Bahagia. Where did you get the idea that the tears of orphans could be used to melt holes in concrete vaults? (Episode 47, Scene 12.) Or that kungfu masters were so powerful their blows can shatter reality, bring down buildings and cure cancer? (all through the series) This is not a Bollywood movie we are making.

11. We also respect your decision to show viewers a ‘gritty, realistic feel of the legal system in action’, but we feel to devote an ENTIRE THREE PARTER arc to witnesses being cross-examined, exhibits being tendered, and finally, the trial being called off due to the judge falling sick is completely unnecessary, and frankly, dull.

12. The only storyline we thought showed promise was the climax of Episode 26, where Ching Chong risks his life to join the Fellow Boat of Ten to toss the Cursed Bracelet of Curses into the Fiery Mountain of Fire Flames, but we have to admit this seems oddly familiar and we have seen it somewhere before, though we cannot remember where.

13. We do not have the budget for all the ‘killer automatons’, ‘tap-dancing Rottweilers’ and ‘model skyline of Kuala Lumpur, only painted pink and with Ching Chong’s face on their façade’ you deem so necessary for your episodes. We also commend your efforts to ‘foster a love of literature among your viewers’, but we think episode 15, a so-called crossover with Romeo and Juliet (where Domi Natriks makes love with Macduff, who does not even appear in that play!) to be overly obscure and frankly, not make much sense.

14. Your romance scenes actually showed some promise, and we were struck by the beauty of some of your lines. That is until a quick trip to my associates Mr. Google and Mr. Yahoo woefully informed me that all you did was copy the titles of N’Sync songs and add ‘baby’ at the end. Mr. Toh, if you are going to plagiarize, may I suggest you choose less cheesy sources.

15. It is therefore for all those reasons that we must regretfully (not really) turn down your manuscript. We wish you all the best in your future endeavors, and although we think you have a interesting interest in the business of television, we would like to suggest you perhaps try your hand at other pursuits, perhaps to expand your creative horizons. We respectfully suggest you give cordless bungee jumping or alligator wrestling a try.

Yours sincerely,

FELIX Q. HENDERSON
DIRECTOR OF PROGRAMMING
TV PENDIDIKAN STUDIOS,
MALAYSIA.

PS. PLEASE stop sending naked photos of yourself as ‘incentives’! You have already caused three secretaries to quit and one director to have a nervous breakdown!

WHEN THE MUSIC FADES

2010-01-27T08:22:00.000-08:00

This idea came to me one day while my mind was wandering in a dull Prosecution lecture. I think it has promise: one day I should write it up in more detail and make it a novel.

ELLA OF THE CINDERS

(Or: Tegence turns a Grimm Fairytale Grimmer)

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, there lived a beautiful little girl named Ella. She lived in a manor on the outskirts of the kingdom with her mother and father, and their lives were happy, for they loved each other dearly.

Alas, there came a dark day when her mother caught the plague, which was going around in those days, and died, her beautiful body eaten away by the ravages of that dreadful disease. Grieving, her father buried her, and mourned at her tomb with his daughter.

A year passed, and her father decided it was not good for a young girl to be without a mother. He thus remarried, taking as his bride a rich baroness who had two daughters of her own. Ella and her father thus welcomed the new members of their family, inviting them to stay in their lovely manor, which had enough rooms and stables for all of them.

And for a while, things were good. Until the day Ella’s father died. It came as a tragic shock: he was found at his study, frothing at the mouth, a strange bottle beside him. His pupils had turned white and there were dark green stains all over his clothing.

It appeared that in the dark of the night, he had mistaken a flask of rat poison for wine, and had accidentally poisoned himself. His last act before death had been to write up a will, bequeathing all his property to his new wife the baroness.

Ella found the will, and her father’s sudden death to be suspicious: her father was not a drinker. Indeed, he rarely allowed anything stronger than water to touch his lips. And the thought of him drinking rat poison? Ridiculous! But the magistrate found for the baroness, and there was little she could do about it. Ella suspected a bribe had been involved. But alas, she had no proof.

Her life took a turn for the worse after that. For the Baroness, who had treated her civilly when her father was around, now looked upon Ella as more than a slave in his absence. She forced Ella to do all manner of chores, waking her up at the crack of dawn and not letting her rest till the last stroke of midnight, finding fault with her over the littlest mistakes she made. Ella’s stepsisters were no better: constantly mocking and demeaning her, stealing her things and carrying tales to their mother.

Life was hell for Ella, and this was made worse by the Baroness’s resentment for her beauty and grace. Ella’s lovely golden hair and smooth skin were all the talk of the men of the town, and it was no secret that many of them made trips to the manor just to see her, many even hoping they would get to chance to flirt with this lovely maid.
The relative plainness of her own two daughters, one who had too-large front teeth and the other a long crooked nose, infuriated the Baroness beyond measure.

One day, the wicked stepmother decided to take matters into her own hands.

It was on a cold winter’s night, that the Baroness ordered Ella to fetch kindling for the hearth. Ever obedient, Ella obeyed, bringing twigs and branches from the woods nearby to bring light and warmth to the manor.

It was just as she was tossing the kindling in the fire that the Baroness, sly as a serpent, snuck up from behind her and pushed her into the flames.

Oh, what a shock for poor Ella! How she screamed as the flames lapped at her flesh like the tongues of hounds! How she cried as the hearth ate away at her skin, her face, her hands! To be baked alive! How she suffered as her lovely dress, her fair skin, her golden hair, all fell victim to this cruel hearth! How much agony, the intensity of a blazing fire, like the heart of a dragon, all consuming, all destroying, all ruining!

Ella tried to get free of the flames, but her stepmother restrained her, pushing her back into the hearth every time she tried to escape. It would have been the end of her then, had it not been for a local constable knocking at the door, concerned about the screams and the noxious scent of burning flesh. Her stepmother passed it off as an accident, pretending to be shocked as she did so.

Life took a turn for the worse for poor Ella after that. From an object of love and devotion, she rapidly became a figure of terror, the flames having reduced her to an extreme grotesqueness so harsh not even Lucifer would bestow it upon his minions. Her hair had been burnt away by the flames, and what was left of her skin was covered in hideous disfiguring burns, which gave her intense pain, especially when she held a mop or broom to do her work. For did you think her stepmother would excuse her from her tasks because of her injuries? Not likely.

Men no longer came to visit her. Indeed, she was a figure of fun now, the common example tossed around by drunks at the tavern every time they made jokes about monsters or terribly undesirable women. Mothers used her as a boogeyman, a bugbear to scare their children to behave: “eat your greens or the Burnt Woman will eat you.” The rowdier youth enjoyed taunting her every time they chanced upon Ella walking to the market, throwing stones and calling her cruel names such as Peeled Apple, No-Skin, Wraith Maid, and most hurtful of all, Cinder Ella, a reference to the flaking skin on her hands.

The last straw came when the Baroness and her daughters received an invitation to the Grand King’s Masquerade Ball at the Royal Palace. The Prince of the country was of marriageable age, and all eligible women were encouraged to come to the ball so the Prince could take his pick.

There was no invitation for Ella.

She could only watch as her stepmother and stepsisters dressed up nicely for the ball, putting on rouge and powder and forcing themselves into tight, uncomfortable dresses, each confident they would catch the prince’s heart. Ella forced herself not to cry as they mocked her, as they always did, rubbing into her face how much fun they would have at this ball she was not invited to.

It was all too much to bear for her. After her stepmother and stepsisters left for the ball, she sat in a corner and wept profusely, before rising to get a rope. She strung one end to the high rafters, and tied the other end in a noose.

“There is no point in going on,” she wept, as she raised the noose over her head.

It was just then she heard a voice from behind her, and she turned to see a beautiful woman with raven hair and a glittering dress of grey standing at the doorway.

“Who are you?” Ella asked.

“I am the Queen Mother of the Faerie Gods,” the woman said. Her voice was both harsh and kindly at the same time. “I am the Lady of Crossroads, the Watcher in Silence, the Patron of Suicides, the Blade of Vengeance. I am of a kind both higher than men, yet lower, and the ways of men and angels do not apply to me. My dominion is over all those souls in torment that wish for retribution.”

“I have heard your cries, my daughter. So do not despair. I am here to help grant your deepest wishes.”

Crying, but out of joy this time, Ella told the Queen Mother her desire to go to the ball.

“That I can do,” the woman said. “I ask only one thing in return.”

“Name your price.”

“Your soul.”

Ella thought for a moment, but hesitated little. “Yes,” she said. “A thousand times yes.”

The woman nodded. Her dark eyes flashed, and in an instant, Ella found the rags she was wearing disappeared, to be replaced by a beautiful black dress made of a material so soft, so comfortable, it appeared to be woven from the shadows themselves. Glass slippers appeared on her feet. A stunning lace mask, black with silver highlights, appeared on her face. Most magical of all, to her delight, her skin healed, and her hair grew back, until she was back to the Ella she was before the fire, the beautiful girl with golden hair and smooth skin as white as porcelain.

The woman beckoned Ella outside, and gestured: in a flash, the earth shook, and a long jagged crack snaked across the ground outside the manor. Out of the crack, leapt six black horses, harnessed to the most magnificent coach she had ever seen. It was encrusted in jewels, with wheels that gleamed in the darkness, and elaborate carvings on its side depicting ancient myths and legends. The horses were just as mysterious: sleek and wild-looking, with dark crimson eyes, wiry manes with bristling hair like flame. They were tame to Ella’s touch, but she knew, without a doubt that they would be ferocious if provoked. These were no ordinary steeds, no, they were literal nightmares.

The woman raised her hands again.

Now in the graveyard close to the manor, there was a tomb in the centre, where rested the bodies of a pair of beautiful young boys, both victims of the plague. As the woman raised her hands, the grave shuddered, and spat out its dead: the corpses of the boys quickly regenerated, turning from their hideous corpse-forms to their fair state before death. They too were given masks and suits made from shadow, called by the Queen Mother to serve as footmen to Ella.

Most wonderful of all, the Queen Mother raised her hands again, and another grave gave up its dead. And Ella cried for joy as this happened. For the corpse she had raised was her old father, who had died years ago, was now called back to serve as coachman to her. There was a tearful reunion: the estranged father and daughter embraced, shedding tears both of joy at being reunited, and of sorrow of their sad fates.

The Queen Mother bid them all take their places, and bid them leave for the ball. “Remember,” she told Ella. “My magic is giving you a night at the Ball, no more, no less. At the last stroke of midnight, all my spells will be undone, and your soul will be mine.”

With that, she bid them goodbye, and stirred the horses on.

The Grand Masquerade Ball was truly a fantastic occasion. All the young men and women of the town were there, dressed in their absolute best, in frocks of the finest silk and waistcoats of the best satin. Everyone wore masks: the women in dainty, elegant ones made of lace and velvet, decorated with bows and tassels, while the men wore terrifying, hideous masks; made up to look like beasts and demons and all manner of horrors.

But as fair and lovely as everyone was, no-one stood out more than fair Ella. Her restored radiance, further enhanced by supernatural magic, made all who saw her stop in their tracks, their mouths agape for awhile, unable to take in such beauty.

Men tripped and fell mid-dance. The seven piece orchestra lost its place and played sour notes. Waiters and serving maids dropped trays and smashed china. All sorts of havoc ensued in the path of this lovely maid, dressed in black with a silvery mask.

All the men, from the richest lords to the humblest pages, went out of their way to dance with this lovely maiden, who graciously obliged them all. Despite her unearthly good looks, she proved to be a friendly, cordial soul, hardly arrogant at all, taking the time to dance with all of them.

Indeed, there was something magical about the way she danced. There was an unearthly lightness to her steps, a flighty beauty in the way she twirled and quick-stepped on the ballroom. She was like a feather tossed by a breeze, a trout leaping in a stream. There was such a captivating liveliness in the way she moved that moved all who watched to sighs. Her dancing would have made the cruelest demon smile, melt the heart of the most frigid misers.

This was not due to supernatural aid. No, the magic of the Queen Mother had nothing to do with this. Rather, Ella had been so pleased to get her limbs whole again, and be able to move without pain, that she took the opportunity to move about as much as she could, not even caring if she looked foolish. It was this liberation, this freedom of spirit, that was so breathtaking.

Indeed, her dancing soon caught the attention of the prince, who stopped abruptly in his waltz with a dame and made his way to her. He introduced himself, and kissed her hand: and Ella found herself blushing. For he was a handsome man, with kindly eyes, with the nicest of manners.

And the band struck up a foxtrot, and they danced.

All watched the couple dance: among them were Ella’s stepsisters and the wicked Baroness, who once again grew jealous that her daughters were not receiving attention. Indeed, the Baroness felt, there was something oddly familiar about this mysterious woman in the silver mask, and it made her uncomfortable. In anger, she beckoned her daughters to follow her out of the ballroom, eager to cook up a devilish plan.

However, on the way out, they were accosted by the retinue from the mysterious woman’s coach: two masked pageboys, accompanied by a tall coachman. All were devilishly handsome, and spoke to them with such charm and flattery they eventually forgot all about their wicked plans.

Indeed, the stepsisters and stepmother followed their new paramours to the nearby inn, eager for some passion this night. Once again, the Baroness felt a strange feeling about the coachman: she could not shake the feeling she had met him somewhere before, and told him so. But the coachman merely laughed and shook off her suspicions.

Back at the ball, the dancing went on, although it was going to end soon. The Witching hour was here, and most people wanted to go home soon.

The band began to play its last tune: its first bars were punctuated by the chime of the clock, striking midnight.

And Ella realized that soon, it would be time to go.

So she danced her last dance, giving it everything she had. The clock went on chiming, a grim countdown to her departure. The band finished its last tune, a jaunty waltz, and Ella held the prince close to her tightly, relishing the feel of her body against hers as the music began to fade and the night began to die.

Ella soon felt the pain that had tormented her over her last years return, and she looked down at herself to see her dress fading and the flesh on her feet and hands begin to peel. Soon she would be back to what she was, a hideous creature hell itself would turn down. Fortunately the prince had not yet noticed: he was still wrapped up in her.

It was time to end this.

“Goodbye, my love,” Ella said, and she kissed him softly. “You were worth it all.”

And she tore herself away from him, and ran, as the last chime of midnight rang through the hall.

The startled prince gave pursuit, but she was too fast for him. The mysterious girl raced out of the ballroom, and to the stables. Her coach was unattended: her footmen and coachman nowhere to be found. Yet she still raced on, even taking the reins of the horses, and riding the coach away by herself.

Despairing, the prince returned to the palace to grieve at the departure of the love of his life, only to find a clue on the palace steps.

A glass slipper, polished so smoothly it glittered.

And a decapitated, highly burnt foot in it, ripped off at the ankle.

There was a great to-do in the kingdom the next day.

In the inn closest to the palace, the ugly stepsisters awoke, with coquettish smiles on their faces, eager to greet the men with whom they had such a great night before. Their smiles turned to screams, however, as they discovered them to be withered corpses, bloated with plague, hideous smiles on their faces.

The same fate befell the Baroness, who awoke with horror to find she had spent the night with the dead body of her late husband. Gathering her clothes, she tried to run out in fear, but collapsed: there was a wretched pain in her lower body, and her head was swimming. Feeling sick, she rushed to the latrines, where she vomited a familiar green liquid into the cisterns. “Rat poison,” she exclaimed in shock, before collapsing in agony, her body literally being eaten from the inside.

As for the prince, he gathered an army of all the dukes and earls he could muster, and rode across the country, looking for the girl who had captured his heart before. In his hand, he carried the decapitated foot in a sack, his only lead to her. His mother the Queen found it horrifying, suggesting to him he find a more wholesome girl, but he disagreed. “No,” he told her. The girl had made him happy. What mattered he if she was a cripple, or a hunchback, or even a wraith?

But try as he much, there were few one-legged girls in the kingdom, and the few he found were not the woman in the silver mask at the ball.

Indeed, the closest match he had got had been at a manor by the outskirts of the city, which had strangely been abandoned. In it, by the hearth, at a dying fire, was the body of a one-legged girl, who had died recently. Her body was greatly scarred, and covered with terrible burns.

Yet as disfiguring as the burns were, they could not diminish the radiant smile on her face.

OPINION PIECE: TRUE LOVE AND LOSING YOURSELF

2009-12-27T19:16:00.000-08:00

WHAT, AN OPINION PIECE???

Now, I will be honest: I never liked opinion pieces. In my list of favorite things, they probably rank in between dental surgery and singing chipmunks. I’m just not a very..expressive person, when it comes to things I feel.

Even back in the days of school composition exams, I rarely took the opinion pieces..heh, I preferred the descriptive or creative pieces. I mean, honestly: ‘The worst day of my life’ is so much more fun than ‘Envy versus sloth: which is the greater sin?’ or ‘A tyranny by kittens is worse than a democracy by wolves. Discuss.’

(Come to think about it, that last title has potential..)

And if there’s anything worse than an opinion piece, it had to be an opinion piece about LOVE. My least favorite four-letter word. Gah! The yeti in the frozen depths of my heart would like to have a word with you..

Give me fiction anyday, when I can explore various points of views through made-up characters who often have far more interesting thoughts than me. But in the spirit of the writing project, I shall write an opinion piece, after all, haven’t done it in ages:

TEGENCE PONDERS: DOES TRUE LOVE MEAN HAVING TO LOSE YOURSELF?

(and plots Disney Princess Fan Fiction at the same time)

No, I do not agree that true love means having to lose yourself. Yes, I can understand wanting to make a change for the sake of a relationship: you do want to be the best person for the person you love after all. But a line needs to be drawn, a balance needs to be struck.

The only changes that one should make are those that which if ignored, would destroy the relationship. The big bad habits. Like womanizing, or really massive sloppiness, or beheading nuns and putting their habits on mantelpieces as trophies. You get what I mean. And I hardly feel these habits constitute major parts of one’s personality: they do not make ‘you’, and therefore should be cast aside as soon as possible.

Because love, especially ‘true’ love, I always feel, is about understanding and acceptance. It is about getting to know a person, inside and out, and accepting them, flaws and all. Take me as I am, warts and scabs and third nipples and all. No one is perfect: it is our little flaws, our differences, that shape who we are, and we should see the beauty in those little things instead of striving to get rid of them.

To change yourself might also mean losing the person the person fell in love with in the first place. And that would be short-changing both parties.

I think the Bard said it best in the immortal Sonnet 116:

‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.’

On a side note, this topic actually made me remember a comment a friend made while we were both watching Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. It’s the end of the film, after the death of the villain and the heroine’s confession of love. The titular Beast is turning back into a man, complete with trippy music and flashy visuals.

And when the transformation is done, and the Beast becomes Prince Nameless, complete with flowing blond tresses and prettyboy face, looking a lot like a less evil version of Arthas from Warcraft 3, my friend turns to me and says:

“You know, I think he was a lot more handsome as the Beast.”

Which is my point. We, along with Belle from the film, have grown to love the Beast as how he was, with his shaggy mane and fangs and tail and so forth. She had grown to accept him for how he looked, and now convenient magical intervention means all that self-discovery, all that ‘love despite physical appearances’ is wasted. Fandom Secrets put it best: ‘I feel sorry for Belle. She didn’t get the man she fell in love with.’ In some ways, I felt the change back to human might actually strain the relationship.

I actually wanted to explore this idea once: it was supposed to be a story called For Whom the Belle Tolls. (Yes. Cheesy title. Sorry.) It was supposed to examine how Belle felt, missing the old savage beast.

Also included were subplots about the other subjects of the castle adapting back to human life after being bewitched as living household objects for years, which is a part of the movie I always found fascinating. Cogsworth would have gone insane: honestly, imagine living as a clock, being forever conscious of the passage of time, registering every second after every second as it passes by, every second of the day, and then losing all of that overnight. I think the tick-tock in his head would never go away.

One day I will write that story. I did attempt it, but I somehow couldn’t properly express Belle’s frustration at Beast’s change properly. I think I do not have enough proper real life experiences to properly convey these ideas.

And references to bestiality kept inviting themselves to the PARTY! Geesh, seriously, pretty girl and big savage beast thing, right? Damnit, my stories are disturbing enough without these unfortunate implications! Sometimes I worry about myself.

IRREPLACEABLE

2009-12-17T00:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, I’m back! (I say that on this blog so much it should be my tagline though.)

Apologies for being away. Was mostly busy with NanoWriMo in November (which I passed, yay go me!). Am now stuck with 50.000 words of manuscript crying loudly to be edited. My God, the nonsense I wrote. The ordeal also left me with a bit of a creative burnout, so I have not written anytime in a while. Which is why I decided to start on November’s topic so late.

I will continue with ‘Lost’ part 2 another time. I have an unfinished draft on my hard drive, but I do not feel like writing it now. For now, please do with this month’s attempt. The story started small, but eventually developed into a monster, and so I am only writing the plot outline. This seems to be my weakness as a writer: I cannot think small. Which leads to over-complication. My short stories morph into full-length novels, and then into epic multi-part fantasy sagas.

MEN OF METAL

(please excuse all the historical liberties I have taken)

HISTORY

This takes place in an alternate 20th century in an alternate Earth much like ours. History is about to be made: Christian Barnaard is about to carry out the world’s first heart transplant. The ramifications of this momentous occasion are tremendous: imagine the developments in the field of medicine! Men might finally be able to look death in the eye and laugh: no longer would they be victims of their own mortality.
However, something goes wrong. The heart that was supposed to be transplanted goes missing, and in horror, Barnaard goes out to find it. In his absence, however, his apprentice, Jeffrey Briggs, having had a few too many drinks at the pub, decides to play the fool. Donning the uniform of a surgeon, he decides to carry out the operation himself. In the absence of a human heart, however, he decides to try the next best thing.

The engine of a combine harvester, which he finds in a garage.
The surgeons protest this madness, but Briggs goes ahead with his mad idea. All watch in horror, unable to stop him, as he connects, veins to pistons, arteries to valves, in a mad mockery of engineering and medicine that leaves the operating theater awash with blood. The screams of the patient echo through the tiny town, filling all with horror.

Barnaard returns, to a shocking discovery: against all odds, the operation succeeds! Patient Louis Washansky is perfectly fine. Indeed, he is more than fine. The engine proves more adept at pumping blood to his system than a mere heart, and Washansky finds himself stronger and more energized than he ever was. Indeed, he is able to do his job as a labourer far more effectively, even doing the work of ten men at one point. The effort proves too much for his system though: eventually, Washansky rips a tendon in his arm from the over-work. But Briggs, enamored by his success, replaces it with themetal arm of a crane, and soon Washansky becomes an ultimate worker.

These events herald the dawning of a new age: The Cyborg Age. Scientists all around the world, inspired, begin replacing human parts with metal parts as much as they can. Lungs are replaced with pneumatic bellows. Brains replaced with supercomputers. Limbs replaced with metal prosthetics. Eyes replaced with fiber optical lens and ears with sensitive digital receivers.

The only body part they are unable to replace is a strange, previously unnoticed gland located nearby the liver: any attempt to remove that results in the death of the patient. Scientists name it the ‘Centiris gland’ (after the doctor who discovered it, Dr. Martin Centiris, Geneva Institute of Mecha-Human Development) while the common folk, as well as the religious, know it as the ‘soul-cage’.
Fast forward a thousand years, and the Earth is now an iron utopia. Humankind is unrecognizable, with most people more metal than flesh. The production of mecha-biological energy generators, together with new sources of renewable energy, result in humanity losing their dependence on food and water for sustenance, while synthetic gas turbines, combined with intelligent filtering systems, allow for lungs to subsist fine without breathable air.

As food, water and air are no longer necessary for survival, the surface of Earth now resembles a bleak wasteland, with machines and factories, as well as pleasure facilities built almost everywhere there is space. The production of mecha-developments in medicine have also made humankind immortal: any body part that breaks down can easily be replaced. This removes the human urge to reproduce, resulting in human population being stagnant for the past few decades. Globalization has also reared its ugly head, with the whole of earth being one huge empire divided into seven major precincts: New Paris, New Johannesburg, Celrio de Janeiro, New Canterbourne (also known as Newer Orleans), New Tokyo, New Antarctica, and The Soviet Collective.

Humankind is happy with all this, however. Well, as happy as they can be with simulated emotions from the revolutionary emotional implants, which allow them to feel various feelings at various intensities whenever time they choose.
The only reminders as to how Earth looked when it was still organic are contained within Heritage Sites, sanctuaries containing the last trees on earth. These educational centres, accessible with a Pass and a small entrance fee, contain old relics from a bygone, backward age.

It is in a Sanctuary in New Paris one day that worker James Melroy discovers a shocking discovery. Contained within an ancient cave, frozen in a suspended animation cell, is a young teenage girl. Who appears to be completely flesh, something practically unheard of!

He awakens the girl, who despite being intelligent, has no idea of the events of the last few centuries. Her name, she tells him, is Dawn, and she has no idea of how she got into the cell. A phrase, however, keeps playing in her head: ‘What can Sink the Ironclad?”

Melroy decides to take Dawn to his superiors, who ask that they take her to the Chief Laboratory in the capital city of Hortras for examination, as well as letting her undergo mechanization. Melroy and Dawn thus embark on an epic cross-country trip across New Earth, but things become complicated when it is revealed they are being pursued by many groups, including:

THE KGB

Motto: All is the Collective, and the Collective is All!

News travels fast in New Earth, and no surprise: its hard not to stay updated when you have your ears replaced with satellite receivers and your cerebellums with decrypting devices. News of the mysterious flesh-girl travels all over the world, even reaching the ‘ears’ of The Premier, mayor of the Soviet Collective. He becomes fascinated with the girl, and becomes paranoid: what if this girl is some kind of bio-engineering development which they plan to use against The Collective? His paranoia is fueled by his a secret resentment for the City of New Paris (whose GDP has been much higher than his for ten decades running). Therefore, he decides to intercept the girl, and take her to his Laboratories, where his scientists can examine her to engineer developments for his people, and take her out of the hands of the foul perfume-wafters of New Paris. To do so, he engages the aid of Boris Bkevko, his sadistic machine-gun- handed Chief of the KGB, and his daughter, the seductive yet mentally unstable agent Natalya.

THE NEW VATICAN

Motto: And the Word was made Flesh.

Despite the major religions almost dying out in the Cyborg Age, many still cling on to old beliefs. Foremost among these struggling cults is the New Vatican, led by Eternal Pope Bartholomew I, carrying on the ancient beliefs passed on Peter in the days before history. New Vaticanists tend to have a love-hate relationship with mechanization, many of them adopting as little enhancement as they can, often only the crucial ones necessary for survival. They hold flesh as sacred: after all, was not the Word made flesh thousands of centuries ago? And did it not say He would return to them someday?

News of a person of pure flesh appearing was therefore first met with much rejoicing. Who could this be but Christ Himself, returned to them in glory? But rejoicing turned to confusion when it was revealed this creature was female, and worse, did not even seem to have heard of the Church of the New Vatican. Panic arose, and an emergency council was summoned, in an event that would forever be known as the Council of New Vatican 2.

During the Council, Bishop Ogawa spoke eloquently: so what if the Second Coming is a girl? He said. Did that deny the divine essence within her? God worked in miraculous ways beyond understanding, after all. When He first came, He was born in a stable, to poverty, and not the conquering, glorious hero everyone expected after all. And look what happened to the ones who chose to reject Him. Who are we to reject a good merely because it does not conform to what we expect it? And so what if She did not seem to know of the Mission of the New Vatican? Christ only started His mission at thirty after all, and here she was, much younger than that. In time, all things would be well. Let us let the plan of Almighty work out. For it is beyond our mortal understanding.

And there were cheers at Ogawa’s speech, and he was appointed Special Monsignor of the Second Coming. His task, so bestowed upon him by the Eternal Pope himself, was simple: secure the Second Coming as soon as possible, and bring her back to the New Vatican. For the world awaits Her miracles.

THE BRIGGAND SCEPTER

Motto: The spirit is willing and the flesh is weak.

Or: Deus confirmis ex Machina (God really is in the Machine)

While most of the old religions died off in the Cyborg Age, new beliefs arose to take their place. Most prominent among them were the Briggands, a rather complicated cult, which devoted itself to the worship of Raymond Briggs, who they believed ascended to a sort of godhood after that first successful heart operation millennia ago.

Indeed, the first sentence of their holy book, the Manual, is: ‘In the beginning was Briggs, and he removed from man the image of God’. (Gears 1 :1)

While the Briggands are a moderate cult, believing mostly in good behavior and a duty to help others, more radical versions of the faith exist, most dangerous among them being The Briggand Scepter, a militant group believing flesh is obsolete, and an abomination. Believers tend to be mechanized as much as possible, some even resembling the fictional robots of old, their only organic parts being their soul glands, which they would rip off if they could.

So disgusted they are at the notion of flesh, that the news of a living breathing girl made completely out of flesh revolts them all the way to their metal hearts. A Briggand decree is launched: blessings and a life of fame and honour shall be appointed to the disciple who manages to capture this beast, a foul affront to the life they lead, and destroy it.

THE MECHA DE SADE

Motto: The only way is to experiment.

Alternative: Lets have fun!

Reproduction may have come to a standstill after the Cyborg Age, but that didn’t mean sex ended as well. Oh no. If anything, the advent of prosthetic enhancements and pleasure chips only meant the coming of a new sexual revolution, with all manner of things previously viewed as impossible or disgusting now possible.

One of the champions of the sexual revolution was young Kai Garros, a promising neurologist and mecha-surgeon. A brilliant student, he topped the class at university and pioneered many bio-enhancements, among them being the celebrated gamma-ray diffuser. Many expected him to join one of the top Laboratories, or even the Fusion Chambers at New Antartica: with such a brilliant mind, he could build anything!

Imagine everyone’s surprise when young Garros proved to be quite a pervert, and devoted his talent to the sex industry instead, which he proved to have quite a fondness for. Adopting the moniker ‘Mecha de Sade’ he opened revolutionary pleasure domes, catering to every kink possible, offering new and incredible ways to his patrons to fulfill their lusts and gratify themselves.

One of the most common kinks on New Earth, however, is flesh-and-mech (or F&M), which are sexual acts carried out on creatures, or even pounds of flesh. Which, in this mech-biological age, is hard to come by. Special flesh-sensations have to be programmed into his pleasure chips, a special menagerie of the few remaining flesh-beasts on earth has to be maintained, and his whores find themselves having to strap on artificial flesh packets, just to satisfy his randy guests.

Imagine the Mecha De Sade’s delight when he heard of Dawn, the last remaining flesh-girl on earth. Oh, how much his customers would pay for a night with her. He knew of many kings and ministers who would give him land and titles, just for a taste of her soft flesh. A master of disguise, as well as poisoning and torture (you’ll be amazed what you can pick up in a brothel) he goes off to kidnap her, accompanied by his ancient and randy man-servant Rafe.

(Author’s note: I actually only put this character in because I find the idea of a scientist who becomes the world’s biggest pervert amusing. And I like the name Mecha de Sade! I think its awesome!

I also intend to have him defeated in an ironic manner, after he discovers, too late, that a flesh induced orgasm is the only thing capable of over-riding the programming of his biological computer systems in his heart.)

CHILDREN OF EVE

Motto: Mankind must prevail.

Not all of humanity volunteered willingly for the Cyborg Age.

Modern day Luddites, the Children of Eve are a colony of people, who in the past, broke away from the ever mechanized-civilization, deciding that they weren’t comfortable with becoming more machine than man. Facing persecution and ridicule, they became more and more secret over the years, hding themselves in shelters, and later, distant parts of Sanctuaries, until they passed into legend and myth.

But that did not mean the Children of Eve were inactive. Far from it. They work tirelessly, working on bringing down the Machine Empire, waiting patiently for the day when they can reclaim the earth for themselves again. Some of them work as undercover terrorists: donning metal suits to disguise themselves, they lurk among the citizens of the Empire, doing their best to cause havoc as much as possible.

Agent Victor Brealis is one of these agents. On a mission one day, posing as a nuclear technician for sabotage, he comes across Melroy, and Dawn, who he is amazed and attracted to. He vows to rescue Dawn, delivering her from the process of mechanization, and bring her back to New Eden, the biggest holdout for the Children of Eve, where she may join their civilization as she rightfully should. There is nothing for her in this dark Machine Empire, where even the air is foul, after all.

Dawn is first attracted to his offer, and likes Victor, but later is forced to reassess her priorities. For she learns that on New Eden, women have little rights. Indeed, they are mostly viewed as breeding machines, kept in special chambers to ensure they keep on reproducing to ensure the survival of the species, which is held as the highest goal. Machines can live forever, after all, but humans take a long time to make and last for a short time. Dawn is repulsed by this fate: she has no desire to be a mere sex machine.

A conflict also arises when she discovers that Victor is in charge of a sinister plan, the Great Bug, which will release a computer virus into the heart of the city, effectively infecting all mechanized humanity, leaving them to a gruesome death. For this would mean the death of many of her friends, especially Melroy, who she has grown very attached to…

(Author’s note: The original ending of the story was conventional, in that Dawn left to live happily with the Children OF Eve. However, I realized it was more interesting to have it turn out this way. In a sense, this whole story is a reversal of the Matrix: what if the revolution of the machines turned out to be a good thing, and the humans who resisted it were evil?)

OTHER NOTES

Melroy and Dawn will also come across many allies in their quest to get to the City’s Laboratory. I sadly have not thought about them as much as the antagonists of the story, but they include:

-A robot dog with a tongue that can be converted into a laser
-A war veteran from New Tokyo who is very much like a mechanized samurai
-A soldier also on the way to the Laboratory, whose emotional receptors have short-circuited, causing him to feel the weirdest things the worst times (hey, story needs some comic relief!)
¬-a mechanic, and potential love interest for Melroy perhaps, who has flamethrowers installed in her arms (why? Because its cool!)

Also, have not completely figured out who Dawn is, and the true meaning of the cryptic phrase in her head. For now, the idea is she was actually an experiment by Dr Barnaard, who was horrified at the rapid advancements in mechanization. He thus decided to preserve human genetic material, in case humanity was lost completely, and placed some gentic material in a statis cell to act as a time capsule. The mechanization was to activate, and cloning techniques carried out on the genetic material to turn it into a person if certain factors were achieved. What these factors are, haven’t thought yet, but intend to have it match up with one of the terrorist schemes of the Children of Eve. It would be a nice irony: the acts of the last humans on earth against machines would be deemed to them losing their humanity.

The only problem with this idea is that it does not explain how Dawn is able to be intelligent and talk. I could say it was some advanced technology, but that might defeat the whole idea of Dawn being a ‘natural, organic’ person. I suppose I could invent some weird science up: engineered brain cells or intelligence hormones or some nonsense like that.

Also, still not sure how the story ends: I just know Dawn does not join the Children of Eve, and does not become a robot. As of now, I like the idea she actually accepts her role as the Second Coming of the New Vatican, although what the church is going to say when they find she cannot perform miracles is beyond me. I also have the plot idea that all her actions become over-exaggerated and misconstrued as miracles when viewed by the over-zealous New Vatican agents. But that might be hard to write, and become stupid after a while.

Finally, should I make Dawn and Melroy fall in love? Is there a term for machine-human love? Mechanistery? Damn it, the things I have to think about.

LOST (part ONE)

2009-10-27T05:41:00.000-07:00

Have recently been so busy with new job that it has kinda sucked away my creative juices. Thank goodness for the weekends, where I can sneak in some writing. How I’m going to balance next month and Nanowrimo at the same time, I have no idea.

This month’s freewriting is slightly inspired by The Wizard of Oz, and Journey to the West.

THE CITY OF LOST THINGS (part ONE)

Chapter One: Jacob and Finella

Once, in a land far far away, in a time not so long ago, there lived a miller who lost the love of his life.

He had not meant to do so. Why, he loved her with all his being, with every breath of his soul. His beloved was the very core of his being, the sun of his mornings, and the stars of his dusk.

She was a sweet young maiden, with hair the color of gold, and a heart to match. Jacob had thought their love would last forever. That it would persist, through the centuries, even when all the stars had been extinguished. Kingdoms would fall, and men would be one day be nothing more but fairytales, but Jacob and Finella would last forever. For love, after all, was the very essence of God, and God was eternal.

Alas, however, this was not meant to be. For there came a day when a group of brigands from the south decided to come upon Jacob’s mill when he had gone to the city. Harsh, heartless men they were; as hairy as wolves, with teeth as yellow as sunflowers, bearing scimitars as curved and wicked as serpents. They rode upon savage horses, eager to plunder; hungry to raze and destroy.

Jacob had been stunned when he had returned from the city to find his mill on fire, and his harvest stolen. He had been outraged to see how they had slaughtered his hounds, and butchered his prize cattle. And he had fallen to his knees and wept when he saw what they did to his beloved. Oh how his poor wife had suffered! She was dead, a victim of the cruelty of the foul brigands,

And Jacob the miller cursed the brigands with every breath he had. He cursed the village militia, who had been drunk at the tavern when these atrocities had happened. He cursed the lands of the South, with their barbarian ways and their codes of slaughter. But mostly he cursed himself, for not being there to protect his beloved from such hideous anguish.

Jacob fell into a deep funk. He refused to eat, or to bathe, and spent his days in his chamber, wailing and lamenting his fate. Oh, how he missed his beloved! His longing for her was like a dark cancer that ate away at his soul, and his guilt like a plague that wasted him to nothingness. Finella! Her memory was like a jagged sword impaled into his heart.

But one night, Jacob the miller had a dream.

An old man came to him. He was ancient as the mountains, with a long beard as white as the feathers of doves. There was a kindliness to him, but also an air of regality, an aura of awe that would have caused even the kings of old to fall prostate before him, had they been in his presence.

The old man told him to stop his weeping. Jacob’s lamentations had gone on for too long, he said. And Jacob replied that he could not help it. He missed his wife far too much.

And the old man told him that if that were so, it was best he venture out and find her. In a valley far, far from here, past the gates of the Twin Cities, through the meadows of Eastdrake, and beyond the caverns of the Wood Demons, stood an entrance to the City of Lost Things. It was an enchanted city, built by a race of mystic beings whose names had been forgotten to man, which contained every single thing that had been lost, over the ages.

And Jacob’s lost love would certainly be in there as well.

The dream ended after that. Jacob woke with a great disturbance in his heart. For the dream had seen so vivid, so real, that it was no mere trick of the mind. It had been a vision..no! More than that, a divine message, which he would be cursed forever if he did follow.

So Jacob sold whatever was left of his possessions. His land was bought over by a corrupt tinker, whose greedy ways and sly tongue would one day cause him to fall under a curse of the Fairy Queen. But that is another story, for another day.

And Jacob the miller bought a sturdy horse, bid goodbye to his village, and set out to find the City of Lost Things.

Chapter 2: The Baron’s Wand

And Jacob rode for miles and miles, till he reached the Twin Cities. It was a busy time to be there, for the Festival of the Snake Maiden had just begun. Thousands and thousands of merchants, from every corner and city of the world, had come to the famed Twin City souks, eager to peddle their wares. Many were also looking forward to seeing the Cities’s fabled obsidian spires, as well as visit the great Ossuary of Veshtal.

Jacob came across many of these merchants, but of all the dozens of people he asked, none of them knew of the City of Lost Things. Yet Jacob did not give up, and kept on his quest. He was eager to get to the Southern Gate of the Cities, which would lead to the realm of Eastdrake.

One night, Jacob decided to seek his rest in the Baron’s Wand, one of the inns of the city. This inn had been established after the Great War by Baron Darkwind, a cunning and wicked aristocrat.

And in the evening, while he was resting, he was visited by a Harlot, who walked into his room without even knocking his door.

The Harlot was a young girl, barely seventeen years old. She was lovely, her face painted with the finest cosmetic, and she wore a tiny dress that was sewn together from colorful rags.

And she came upon the miller, showering him with kisses. He was lonely, she said: she could sense it. Come now, there was no need to be mournful. She could make him feel so much better. She knew how to give him pleasure beyond his imagination, and an expert in exotic arts and techniques that men would pay fortunes to experience.

But Jacob rebuffed her advances. No, he told her. For though she was lovely, there was another he was keeping his love for. And he told her of his beloved Finella, and his quest for the City of Lost Things.

And the Harlot found herself touched by his tale. None of the men who had stayed in this room had ever been so faithful, even when their wives had still been alive. Rather, those with wives were often glad to see her, seeing her as a welcome relief from the nagging tongues and wrinkled faces of their spouses.

She found herself opening up to him: she revealed how she was actually planning to slit his throat while he was sleeping, when his guard was down, and take his goods. It was a scheme that she and the Baron had been doing for months. But now, after hearing his tale, she had no more desire to do so.

The Harlot told Jacob her story. How once, she had been living in a village in Sylef with her parents and her family, until the Baron’s men had raided it during the Great Wars. They had killed all she knew, and then sold her as a Harlot, where she was made to do terrible and wretched things to men everyday, in the name of love. She had even given birth to a daughter once, through one of the guests here, but the Baron had made her cast it down a well, not willing to feed another mouth. She wanted nothing more than to be free of this dreadful life, and live like others her age, carefree and happy, but alas, she could not.

“I have lost my Innocence,” the Harlot said. “And there is no hope for me.”

And Jacob said: “Come with me to the City of Lost Things, and perhaps you shall find it there.”

The Harlot accepted. And Jacob went to the Baron, and paid him a third of his goods that he would set her free. The Baron accepted: for after all, he was a great lover of money. Little did he know that money would be his downfall, for he would later triple it in a game of baccarat with some eunuchs, who would send assassins after him. But that is another story for another day.

And Jacob and the Harlot set off for the City of Lost Things.

Chapter 3: The Carnival

The road to Eastdrake was long, and complicated. It snaked through a dark wood, filled with wolves and bandits, and it was fortunate that Jacob and the Harlot did not encounter any of them.

After three nights of travel, the pair finally left the wood, and reached a small village, where a local carnival had set up camp. And Jacob remembered that the Harlot, who had been deprived of a childhood, would perhaps enjoy a visit.

And he was right. The Harlot laughed at the antics of the clowns and jugglers, and marveled at the agility of the acrobats. She won a stuffed bear at a knife-throwing booth, and clapped at the exploits of the performing griffins, who had their wings painted gold, and had ribbons tied to their horns.

Now, at this carnival, there was also a freak house, which the pair also visited.

It was the marvelous freak show. A bearded woman. A man with three eyes, who blew crimson smoke from his mouth and his ears. A man covered with tattoos, depictions of angels smiting the black demons of the seventeen hells. A woman who danced with snakes. And a feral wolf-boy, with jagged teeth and hair all over his back, naked save a loincloth.

Locked up in a great cage by the exit was a Cavalier, holding a rusty rifle attached with a bayonet. He was an old man, his hair and beard a dirty brown, and was dressed in full military regalia, that was now faded and torn.

The Cavalier shrieked and he gibbered as the pair came up close, and flailed his rifle at them angrily. So infused with rage was he that the bars of his cage shuddered at his shrieks. The pair backed away from him nervously, and this caused the Cavalier to laugh. And oh, what a fit of laughter he had! He fell to his knees, laughing so hard that tears fell all the way down his bushy beard. So gripped was he in mirth that his eyes rolled back until only their whites showed: it was almost as if he were having a fit, or had been possessed by a demon.

A sign next to his cage read: ‘BEWARE! The Mad General of Gazoo!’ A small hound was tied nearby.

Jacob expressed pity for the Cavalier. For his father had been a soldier, and he knew the sacrifices they made in times of war. Soldiers should be honoured, he felt, gifted with medals, or estates; and not made the object of scorn. He wondered what had happened to the Cavalier to reach such an unhappy fate.

The hound next to him heard him, and spoke up. For animals in those days could still speak, for they had not yet lost their Gift of Tongues through the treachery of the Wild Hunters. And indeed, this hound was the descendant of one of the original Wild Hunters, and how he ended up being cast down to earth was a sad and gloomy tale. But that is another story for another day.

You see, said the hound, the Cavalier had once been a great war hero. He loved his men, and enjoyed nothing more than the heat of battle, riding into war to defeat the enemies of the state. But alas! The atrocities he had seen and witnessed had broken his mind. His entire regiment had been one day captured by a horde of hideous barbarians from the south, who wished to know the secrets of the kingdom.

But the Cavalier had refused to talk, and had been tortured beyond imagination. For eleven days, the barbarians inflicted all manner of agonies upon him, but he refused to speak, and the strain had driven him mad. He had been rescued after that, but no one wanted anything to do with him due to his insanity. Penniless and friendless, the Cavalier had wandered the woods for months, screaming at squirrels and making friends with trees, until the hound found him, and brought him to the Carnival. They had no desire to be freaks like this. But what else could they do?

“He had lost his Sanity,” said the hound. “And he is beyond hope.”

And Jacob said: “Come with me to the City of Lost Things, and perhaps you shall find it there.”

So the miller went to the carnival owner, and paid him a third of the money he had, and thus did the Cavalier and his hound join Jacob and the Harlot on their quest.

Chapter 4: The Golden Manor

So for a month, the travelers journeyed through the land of Eastlake, looking for the Mountains of Middorak, in which the caverns of the Wood Demons were. It was not easy, travelling with a mad Cavalier, who screamed and laughed hysterically at odd turns, but Jacob was patient, and did not allow his temper to get the better of him.

It was after many days of riding that the travelers came to the Great Marshes of Eastlake, which were muddy and difficult to traverse. The mud of the marshes reached up to their ankles, and gave out a sickening smell, which repulsed the horses. The horses did not dare cross, and so with a heavy heart, Jacob had to let them go.

So on foot, the travelers crossed the marshes, and it was truly a hellish time. The mud stuck to their clothes, and weighed them down. And lurking in the mud were monstrous leeches, which clung to their flesh and grew fat on their blood. And to make things worse, were the presence of poisonous plants, which it was easy to brush against here, which caused a terrible rash when in contact with skin.

But the travelers persevered, and made their way through the marsh, even the Cavalier, who had to be restrained and carried to ensure he did not wander off to bad parts.

And very soon, the travelers came across an oddity: a great mansion, made completely out of gold, that stood in the middle of the marsh.

So, leaving his friends for a short while, Jacob went to the door of the mansion, and knocked. The door was answered by a old Miser, who wore a jacket of velvet, and breeches of silk.

Jacob asked for refuge and shelter for him and his friends, but the Miser refused. No, he said. They could not stay here, unless they paid the price.

What was the price, Jacob asked. And the Miser replied that it was the hearts of his fellow travelers. They all would be allowed to stay, but in the night, while they all were sleeping, the Miser would come into their rooms with a candle and a knife. He would cut out the hearts of his companions, and eat them, but he would leave Jacob’s heart alone.

It was simple, the Miser replied. What need had he of them? Why was he travelling with a mad old coot and a frail girl? All they would do was slow him down, and delay him from finding his love. It was only reasonable to abandon them. Rid yourself of such parasites, and thus reach the City of Lost Things faster.

But Jacob refused. No, he said. He would not abandon his friends like that. They would find another place to lodge.

The Miser replied that there was no other place to lodge for miles, and if they did not lodge here tonight, would surely perish the night. For that was when the Vampire-Ghasts, lurkers of the marsh, came out, drawn out by the light of the full moon, and woe betide anyone who crossed their paths.

Jacob then said that instead of taking his friends lives, could he not give his own heart instead. For they still had a chance, a hope of finding what they sought, and as for him, even if he died, at least he would be reunited with sweet Finella in heaven.

And the Miser was astounded at this. Fine then, he said, perhaps he would not need to eat their hearts after all. Jacob could still stay if he surrendered all his goods, and all the money he had on him.

Jacob agreed, and the Miser said that was not all: he had to surrender all his future wealth as well. He would have to swear upon the name of God, and take an unbreakable blood oath, that all his future wealth and possessions would go to the Miser. “Do not be a fool,” the Miser said. “Give up your friends hearts instead. For what is life without wealth? Even if you find your love, you will doom her to the life of a pauper. She will hate you, when she is forced to feast on crumbs, and drink rainwater from the gutters. She will curse your name, and wish you had never set forth to find her.”

But Jacob refused. “Love is the greatest treasure on earth,” he said. “More than rubies, more than all the gold of all the kings of history.”

And Jacob the miller cast the remainders of his money of him at the Miser, and drew his knife to recite the Blood Oath. But just before he cut his hand, at the very moment he spoke the name of God, the Miser fell downwards, letting out a piercing scream, and a horde of hideous imps burst out from his mouth.

Around them, the marshes quaked, and the Manor of Gold crumbled; its gold disappearing until all that was left was a simple thatched cottage. And the Miser stood up, and with tears in his eyes, thanked Jacob.

He had been under a curse, he said. In his youth, he loved gold, and thought of nothing else but how to amass it and keep it for himself. So desperate for it was he that he made a pact with a horde of demons: in exchange for his soul, they would give him all the gold he wanted. And so he had lived alone in the marshes for years, amassing all the gold he could, alienating himself from all he loved, and killing passers-by to take their wealth.

And the only one who could break the curse was a man pure of heart, of whom greed was not his master. A man who could shrug off the sweet whispers of avarice, and close his eyes to the beautiful shine of gold. Such a man was difficult to find, and the Miser had spent a decade here in these marshes without coming across such a person.

But Jacob had found him, and now all was well. Although perhaps all was in vain, for after the contract, the Miser was still a hollow shell of a man, unable to laugh, unable to cry or feel any emotion.

“I have lost my Soul,” said the Miser. “And I am beyond hope.”

And Jacob said: “Come with me to the City of Lost Things, and perhaps you shall find it there.”

Thus did the Miser join the travelers, and after a night’s rest in the cottage, set off on their quest.

Chapter 5: The Caverns of the Wood Demons

And thus did the travelers make their way through the marshes, and soon they came upon the Caverns of the Wood Demons.

It was dark upon their arrival. There was little light, for the silver Eye of the Moon never shone down upon this place, as there was little beauty here to see. The travelers snapped off branches from the trees to use as torches, and walked silently through the wood. Even the mad Cavalier was silent: for nothing humbles madness but greater madness, and from the design of the woods, with the twisted forms of the trees, clearly there was some insanity in the mind of the architect of this place.

And indeed, there had been. But that is another story for another time.

Along the way of their travels, they came across the hut of a poor carpenter, who was working by candlelight. He carried huge logs on his back, which he would hollow out and craft into beautiful beds and chairs, and was having difficulty with them.

And the travelers stopped to help him, and the carpenter was pleased for the effort. He offered them his hut for the night, and warned them of the terrible Wood Demons, who would strike at them when they were in bed.

He gave them warnings: “Strike at them at their eyes, or their tails, for those are their weak spots, and they will feel great agony if stabbed there, or beaten with a club. And strike at them not with your weapons: you might as well assault a mighty fortress with broomsticks. Wood demons are beings of the trees, and like trees, they will fall to fire. Your torches shall do more than enlighten, this dark night.”

So the travelers took heed of these words, and did not extinguish their torches to sleep that night, but stayed awake and vigilant, eager to withstand an attack by wood demons.

And how lucky it was that they were prepared, the wood demons came in full force. Oh, what a great multitude they were! There were hairy wood demons, shaggier than mammoths! Feathered wood demons, with iron beaks and piercing eyes! Scaly wood demons, some that crawled on their bellies, others with flickering tongues, some with long tentacles that snapped like whips! Fanged wood demons, yellow-eyed wood demons, wood demons with four or five heads, and crests of purple and silver. All of these, and a thousand kinds more, all of them laughing, snarling, grinning, burping, hissing, eager for sweet human-flesh that night.

But alas for them, as they picked the wrong house to attack. For though Jacob was a pacifist, and spent most of his night in slumber and contemplation, his friends were not to be trifled with.

Such a hard lesson the wood demons learnt as they advanced upon the Harlot. Oh woe to them, for grossly underestimating their foe! Young-girl flesh was the tastiest, thought they, and they expected little of a fight from this slip of a maiden. Alas for them, however, that within the delicate form of the Harlot beat the heart of a tiger. She had just been given her freedom from a life of drudgery, and she would never submit to anyone again, no, not even a horde of demons!

So many a wood demon had been blinded, or had their heart pierced by her torch, which she had sharpened into a great lance. Those that escaped her had to face the wrath of the Cavalier, whose terrible war cries scared even the bravest of the demons. For courage and madness are brethren: they are often mistaken for each other. He ran into battle without fear for his life, attacking with the fury of a drunken berserker. So wild was he with his torch, that many feared he would set himself alight by error. And many a wood demon trembled at the sight of him, charging at them like a tempest, and though they tried to flee, they could not, as his hound seized upon their ankles with his sharp teeth, crippling them in place for the Cavalier to strike.

And those who remained faced the wrath of the Miser, who after years of suffering, hated demon-kind, and lashed at them in vengeance. And the wood-demons found themselves uneasy in his presence. For a man with no soul feels nothing, and this is true for fear as well. Who was this creature, they wondered, who looked at their hideous visages and did not tremble, did not even turn a hair at their gruesome faces which had terrified the bravest of warriors? And why was there a strange taint on his soul, as if he had dealt with greater demons in the past, and had lived to tell the tale?

The poor wood demons were little threat to these three travelers, and their ranks were decimated in great speed. They fought on until sunrise, before deciding to flee, clearing to them the path to the shimmering gate of the City of Lost Things.

TO BE CONTINUED.

REGRET

2009-09-27T00:57:00.000-07:00

I sort of regret choosing Regret as this month’s writing topic. I tried to draw back on past experiences I’d like to forget while plotting a story, and doing that now, when I’m waiting for the results of a major exam, has not been good for me (why didn’t I study harder? Why didn’t I go to that class?)

And I did say I would stay away from fantasy themes the last entry, but this story was too good to resist!! My imagination is hard-wired to fantasy themes somehow, don’t know why.

This story is seriously the most graphic I’ve ever written, and will be quite explicit. Some of you may get rather offended at it. Sex and violence abound. Very bad language: F-bombs fall like the rain. But there is good reason for it, don’t worry. This story is definitely rated 18-PL.

THE LAST PARTY

“What the fuck do you mean we’re out of booze?”

I was about to throw a fit. Fucking goddamn. Stupid, stupid stupid!!!! I had just bought FIVE bottles of Jack Daniel the other bloody day! Wrote my name across on fucking labels Soraya forced me to fucking buy and put them on my bloody shelf!! What else did they want me to do, install a bloody perimeter fence around the fucking fridge and hire a bloody sniper there?

“Whoa, chill, Mark,” Kumar said. God knows how much weed he took last night. Dude was higher than a mountaineering giraffe. He was sprawled out on his couch, in his underwear, an old pair of green boxers. Bloody threadbare they were, the only things hole-y in this place. (Hahaha! Look at that, I made a fucking joke. No sense of humour my hairy ass.) “Some of Vi’s friends took them yesterday. They, like, really needed some beer. And I didn’t want to let them go out, you know what kind of stuff’s out there at night-“

“So you let them drink my FUCKING booze??? God damn it, Kumar, did it ever enter your thick skull to TELL me first???? I spent the last cash my old man left me on those!!!! I wanted some booze for the beer pong tonight!!!! How FUCKING STUPID can you be????? BLOODY INCONSIDERATE ASSHOLE!!!”

I was in destructive mode again, fueled by my lack of sleep, and the God-only-knew-what stuff I snorted yesterday. I’m a real bastard when I’m like this. Especially because my first impulse is to smash stuff.

Per-chiank went the vase on Kumar’s table. Plunk went the chair as I smashed it. Chiiiannnnk! went the window glass as I drove my fist into it. Fuck fuck fuck oh shit
went me as I withdrew my bleeding fist covered in shards.

“Dude, Benny’s coming back soon,” Kumar said as I walked to the cupboard for bandages. His apartment was full of medical supplies. We had stocked up on tons of bandages and stuff after Vi’s disastrous experiments with S&M the last month. I had TOLD her it was a bad idea, but would she fucking listen? Oh no. Stubborn, that girl. I don’t see anything wrong with inviting those hobos to join us! I don’t see whats wrong with having ‘magnalroxate’ as a bloody safeword! I don’t see whats wrong with not cauterizing the poker just once! Hell, her fucking shrill voice, her know-it-all look-at-me-I’m-a-bleeding-Chem-grad-from-University-of-Bitchopia attitude. Why the fuck we put up with her, I don’t know.

It was just as I was wrapping my poor damaged flesh up that the front door opened. And guess who strolled in, big shit-eating grin on his face, whiskey bottles in one hand, shopping bag in the other?

Bloody Benny De Souza.

He took off his face mask, and tossed it aside, sighing. “Man! It’s a hellhole out there!” he exclaimed, and shrugged in an exaggerated fashion, causing Kumar to laugh. This, predictably pissed me off.

“Well, speak of the devil!” Kumar said.

“No need,” Benny said. “That’s all everyone’s been doing lately.”

The two of them started laughing. I had to force myself not to smash both their skulls together. Bloody fuck hell. Why does everyone say Benny is the funny one of the group? I don’t get his fucking jokes, and all he does is steal them from the motherfucking Simpsons anyway. And when I make jokes, everyone gives me a sad, patronizing look, as if I’m a retard who just soiled his pants.

“Dudes, we shall all rejoice and be motherfucking glad,” Benny said as he walked to the table. “And giveth thanks unto Benny the Awesome. For he hast brought back booze, and a crapload of coke as well.”

“You have coke?” I was astounded. “But how?” We had exhausted our supply a month ago, after our bloody dealer shot himself in the face. Vi said she had seen it coming for quite a while. The guy had lost it big time after his wife went.

“Homeless guy, bumped into him on the way to Valentine’s,” Benny said, revealing the contents of his bag. “Stabbed him in the face, took it off him. Grade A gen-nu-wine coke. Guy screamed like crazy. Damn he had powerful lungs. Would have been a great opera singer.”

‘You stabbed a guy?” Kumar was jolted out of his comfortable numbness. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, it was kinda cool,” Benny said. “Wicked awesome. Hey, we’re screwed anyway. If you’re going to drown, might as well suffocate in a hundred feet of water, instead of ten.”

“And it impressed the chick I was with. Damn, she got so wet when I did that. Like a great lake. You should give her a try. Name’s Shu Lian, costs 50 bucks or a bottle of booze. Tell her you’re a friend of mine, you get a discount on handjobs.”

I left those two, and retreated to my room for a while. Tried to take a nap, but couldn’t fucking sleep. Kumar’s apartment was beginning to stink. We hadn’t cleaned it in two months, and cockroaches were starting to crawl over the place. Not that I was that concerned: the rats would probably eat them. Those damn rodents were beginning to get desperate nowadays. Benny woke up one day too find one of them chewing on his big toe. And if the rats can bear the taste of him, they’ll eat anything.

(Ha ha ha! You see! Another bloody joke! I’m Robin fucking Williams here. These idiots just don’t appreciate my comedy skills.)

I lazed for a while, before deciding to go see Soraya.

I passed Vi’s room on the way: there were three socks tied to her doorknob. Damn, the bitch got lucky again last night. How she does it I don’t know, she has a face like a howler monkey who ran into barb wire.

It was dark in Soraya’s room. The only illumination came from the brave rays of sunlight that managed to penetrate the thick curtains on her window. Alcohol: I could smell it in the air. Which was a bad sign: Soraya had the tolerance of a fucking infant.

She was lying on her bed, naked. It made me horny just to see the sight: that girl was seventeen kinds of beautiful. Toned lower body. Long legs, strong from her ballet experience. Small yet perky breasts. And don’t get me started on her ass. She was the kind of girl the poets would have written epic poetry about in ancient fucking times.

The only part of her I could not see was her face. Soraya had an odd way of sleeping. She covered her face with a pillow, as if she was smothering herself. Said it kept the noises from disturbing her.

She stirred as I went up to her, and slowly eased herself up. Ah, Soraya. Her makeup was all gone, all smudged on her pillow, perhaps. Her long hair was tangled and there was a cut on her right cheek, probably from yesterday’s drunken shenanigans.

“Hey gorgeous,” I said. “How you feeling?”

“Alright,” she said. She smiled, covering her breasts with her pillow, in faux modesty. She knew that always drove me wild. “Though my head is aching like crazy. How long did I pass out for?”

“Don’t know. I left the party after Vi suggested the bukkake. I may be a messed up pervy shit, but some things even I won’t do.”

We chatted for a while, mostly filling each other in on what we had blacked out on during yesterday’s Rapturous Celebration, and what we would do tonight. Soraya seemed happy when I told her we were having beer pong. She was damn good at that. Athletic, my girl is. A real gamer.

We partied every night. Until we all died. Or the world ended. Whichever came first.

Halfway during the conversation, however, she suddenly looked sad, and I asked her what the matter was.

Soraya confessed she had dreamt about her family again the previous night. It fucking killed her, she said, the fact that she was the only one left here. She missed them, she said. Missed them so much.

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing, Mark,” she said. “Keeping up this lifestyle?”

“I don’t know, Soraya. I think its too late to think about that now.”

“What if Kenny was right? What if we can still change our fates? All we need to do is-“

“Don’t mention that bastards’ name,” I snarled. “He can go screw himself, or get one of those priests to do it. When they’re not raping kids. Kenny fucking walked out on us. Gave in to the pressure of those bloody Repenters, turned his back on us to save his skin..he’s dead to me. Fucking dead.”

“I know what you mean,” Soraya said. “I still can’t believe what he did. But I miss my family, so much. And sometimes I wonder if this is worth it.”

She sighed. “I find myself wishing I could turn back time, nowadays. Maybe do a few things differently the second time around. Cuss less. Be nicer to people. Give more to charity. I don’t know. Anything to escape this fate.”

“I wouldn’t change anything,” I replied. “Even if I had the chance.” I paused. “Wait, maybe one fucking thing. I’d have bought that Best of Metallica CD before that fucking angel blew his fucking trumpet. Who knew it would be so hard to find after the apocalypse started?”

Soraya smiled. “That’s all you’d change?”

“Yup.” I kissed her softly on the lips. I brushed her long fringe aside as I did so, ignoring the slight burning sensation on my hand that came from brushing against the large numerals 666, inscribed on her forehead. The same mark that adorned my right hand. “No regrets, baby. No regrets at all.”

We made out for a while, before I continued speaking. “I’m actually pretty happy with my life, as screwed up as it is. I made it with my own choices, and I’m pretty damn proud of how I ended up. Religion, doing good..thats alright for some people. Not for me though.”

“Besides,” I laughed. “If I hadn’t turned to a life of crime, decided to jack that car that day..well, I certainly wouldn’t have met you wouldn’t I?”

“What are the odds we both wanted to steal that exact same Evo at that exact same day?” Soraya laughed as she recalled the memory. Fucking damn. Her laugh was the most beautiful thing in the fucking universe. Like fucking fairy bells.

“Doesn’t matter where I am, baby. As long as you’re there, that place is heaven to me.”

“You are so fucking corny. Holy hell, what was I THINKING when I fell for you????”

We talked for a while more, before Soraya wrapped herself in a sheet, and we went out on a balcony, grabbing our face masks as we did so.

Kumar had got the apartment cheap because of its shitty view: his place faced an industrial lot, next door to a landfill. The only reasons we had gone out on the balcony in the past, before the apocalypse, were for the odd grill, and to sneak a peek at the hot blonde expatriate who lived in the flat opposite, who showered with her windows open.

Now, its view of the dying city was exquisite. Kuala Lumpur had been fucking ravaged after the tribulation. Its streets, once teeming with vehicles trapped in its perpetual traffic jams, were now littered with the bodies of the dead; suicides as well as the murdered and the plague-ridden. Military groups, trying desperately to maintain order, patrolled the streets, clashing with rioters and looters, doing their best to put out fires. The members of the fanatical Repentance Brigade preached on corners and broke into houses to baptize, always bellowing their fucking slogans: ‘There are Always Second Chances”, “Never Too Late’, and so on. Most of the city’s familiar skyline, including the Twin Towers, were gone, piles of rubble now: a consequence of the Horsemen’s devastating ride.

In the sky, the stars were falling. Great streaks of fiery silver, rushing to earth, zig-zagging against the scarlet sky. It was almost beautiful.

Me and Soraya knew that pretty as it was, it was not a good sign. Some more fucked up shit would come out of this, that was for certain. The last time a star had fallen, the Wormwood incident, the seas had been poisoned, cutting off major sea routes and ensuring we would not be eating sushi for a long, long time. Soraya had almost committed suicide at this news.

It was all in the Bible, this stuff, it seemed, in the very last book. Which I thought was a fucking bad idea: if you’re going to fuck things up for everyone, the least you could do is put your Agenda of Fucking Stuff Up in the very first book of your anthology, so your followers know where they’re headed from the fucking start. No need to force yourself through pages of descriptions of how to build Noah’s Arks of the Covenant and learning who begat who! Just get to the part with all the pain and the trumpeting angels, fucking please!

Plus, I don’t know. Religion just isn’t fucking for me I guess. Seriously, nice to do good and all, but to side with a big deity who will serve you with seventeen hundred kinds of agony just because you disagree with him? No thank you. I’d rather live my life according to how I please.

Yes, I’m in for a lot of suffering in the long run. But I’ve suffered my entire life as it is, from the moment I was fucking born, thanks to my fucking father. I’ve woken up everyday for the past few months, my entire body aching from the ravages of booze and drugs and wild sex and whatever knows. I’ve endured Kumar’s cooking. Bring on eternal torment: I’ve spent my whole life preparing for it.

And as long as I got my girl Soraya, my friends Kumar and Vi and even fucking Benny, a bottle of Absolut and some hip-hop on the stereo..I don’t care how fucked up the world gets.

I’ll just keep on partying till it goes up in flames.

SHADOW, Attempt 2

2009-08-19T13:02:00.000-07:00

With a topic like ‘Shadow’, my imagination kind of went into overdrive this month. This topic had so much potential: you’ll never believe the ideas I came up with. An underachieving boy decides to take vengeance against his popular brother. A CLP student makes a pact with the forces of darkness that goes horribly wrong. A family with dark secrets finds their pasts all coming back to haunt them. The citizens of an underground city find themselves in danger from a terrifying creature of light.

One day I may actually write those stories, but for now, please enjoy (or endure) this story, which my mind kept on coming back to. It was my favourite of all my ideas. Apologies that story is very long. Again, got carried away in creative process.

I also do promise that my next story will be grounded in reality as much as possible, and will not feature cross-dressing psychos, wars in Heaven, crazy inventions or anything of the sort.

LILY AND VOLSTRAK

August 1999. Not the most memorable of months, from a historical standpoint. M. Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense first opened in theatres, a solar eclipse darkened the skies of Europe and Asia, and an earthquake ravaged parts of Turkey.

It was also when Lily and Volstrak first met.

Lily had been five years old at the time. She was small for her age, somewhat chubby, with rosy apple-cheeks and soft black hair which her mother loved tying into little pigtails. Her laugh was bubbly, reminiscent of wind chimes, and she had a tendency to mix up her words when she spoke too fast; saying ‘cot and hold’ when she meant ‘hot and cold’, which most people found adorable.

Everyone loved her, and she loved everyone as well, but a special place in her heart was reserved for her Mommy, her Daddy, and her stuffed rabbit Mr. Littles.

Volstrak, on the other hand, loved noone and nothing.

He was massive, even for a creature of his kind, almost seven feet tall. Volstrak had dark crimson eyes that glittered like rubies in the darkness, and five large curved horns that formed a crown on his brow. Long talons; jagged little razorblades, extended from his hands and feet. Massive wings of shadow grew from his back, but they were faint and almost gone now, it had been long since he last flew.

His voice was bone-chilling. Dark and guttural, the sinister voice that lunatics heard in their minds, haunting them and driving them to do horrible things. His laughter was the howl of a dying timber wolf, his snarls the soundtrack of nightmares.

Volstrak lived under Lily’s bed, and only came out at night. The first thing he ever said to her: “Hello, little girl. I want to drink your blood, and eat you up!” And then he revealed himself to her, baring his fangs, and Lily had screamed. She had cried, and ran out to her parents room, and Volstrak had laughed.

Her fear was nourishing, delicious and sustaining. Volstrak enjoyed it profusely. For he was a Lord of the Dark, a Creature of Shadow, and fear was his daily bread. It was what he needed to stay alive.
_______________________________________________________________________________

The months went by, and Lily and Volstrak went on with their lives.

Volstrak’s life went on pretty much as usual. The lives of Shadow Creatures are not marked by novelty and variety, after all. He stayed under Lily’s bed, scaring her as much as he could, growing fat on her delicious fear. The ideal life for one of his kind.

Lily’s life, however, was ever-changing. Yes, Volstrak was terrifying at night. But Mummy and Daddy were always there for her. They made her feel secure, told her he didn’t exist. Gave her things like security blankets and torch lights to defend herself, and her Daddy would check for monsters before she went to bed.

And their love made Volstrak less terrifying, and let her sleep well despite knowing he was there. And Volstrak was dismayed, for less fear meant less sustenance, but there was little he could do.

Lily also entered primary school, a place she found scary at first, but gradually grew to love. Lily especially loved finger-painting, because it was conducted by Ms. Lee, a friendly, warm teacher, who always smiled and smelt like strawberries.

She also went out of the country for the first time. Her parents took her to Japan for Christmas, and that holiday had been the best of her life. She had walked through cherry blossom gardens, drank tea from pretty ladies in kimonos, and met Mickey Mouse himself at Tokyo Disneyland. But her favourite memory was of New Year’s at Shinjuku. There had been thousands of people, and her Daddy had picked her up, and put her on his powerful shoulders, to see over the crowd. And she had marvelled at the most spectacular fireworks display she had ever seen: beautiful splashes of light, in every colour of the rainbow. They had ooh-ed and aah-ed, and then gone for ice creams after that. Just the three of them: her, her Daddy, and her Mommy. It had been the best of times.

But not all changes are positive.

July, 2002. Many things happened this month: the French president survived an assassination attempt during Bastille Day, novelist Chiam Potok passed away from cancer, and Lance Armstrong won his fourth consecutive Tour de France.

It was also the month when Daddy left Lily forever.

Lily would forever remember that day. She and Mommy had been baking a cherry pie in the kitchen. They had been talking about panda bears. And then the phone had rang. And Mommy had picked it up, and she started to cry: seems there had been an accident at Daddy’s workplace.

And Mommy had picked Lily up, and put her on her lap, and cried and cried. Daddy would not be coming back, she said. He had gone away, to a better place, and we would never see him again. And Lily didn’t understand what all this meant, but Mommy was crying, and that made her sad, and she started crying too, and for the whole night, they held each other, mother and daughter, weeping their pain away.

What followed was confusing for Lily. They made her dress in black, and took her to the church, which they normally only went to on Sundays. Various aunties and uncles she had not seen for ages had gathered, and most of them were weeping around Daddy, who was lying in a long box, dressed in his best suit, asleep.

They told her that Daddy was sleeping, and would never wake up. A man in a black robe and funny collar corrected them: no, that was not true. He would wake up, someday, in a time far, far in the future, and all of them would be reunited, forever in happiness, for the rest of eternity.

But Lily was sad. She didn’t want that. She wanted her Daddy now, with his lovely smile and booming laugh and constant hugs. She wanted him to pick her up again, and pat her on the head, and take her to the garden to show her things like beetles and millipedes, although she found them scary. The future was too long to wait. She wanted her Daddy now, and wanted him so badly that it hurt just thinking about it.

It was around this time that Volstrak was happiest. Without her Daddy, Lily was just a scared, weak little girl, full of fear. He didn’t need to rely on fancy tricks like baring his fangs or letting his eyes shine in the darkness to terrify her; all he needed to do was remind her he was there, usually by a snarl or a laugh, for her to scream in fear.

Times were good for Volstrak.
______________________________________________________________________________

A year later, things would further change for Lily and Volstrak.

In October 2003, Mommy brought home a man to the house. The man was tall, with a bushy moustache, and wore ear-rings, which Lily found strange because she thought only girls wore those.

They had met at a company picnic, Mommy explained, and she was very much in love with him. They had been seeing each other for quite some time now, and soon, they would get married.

Lily did not understand.

In short, Mommy explained: he was going to be her new Daddy.

Lily found this even harder to understand. She only had one Daddy, who had left her one year ago, and was now resting in a coffin underneath the earth, dead. She loved her old Daddy, and had no desire to have a new one.

Besides, she did not like this new Daddy. There was something strange about him, something that she did not like. His smile was peculiar, and oddly fake: New Daddy did not smile with his eyes. His shows of happiness seemed put-on, amazingly artificial, and she could sense he did not like her at all.

Lily could not bear to call him Daddy. No, he was not and would never take the place of her old Daddy. She took to calling him ‘Uncle’, the normal term she used when calling other men, and when her Mommy made her call him ‘Daddy’, she combined the two, referring to this stranger as ‘Uncle Daddy’.

Her new father was not amused, but she would not call him anything else.

Uncle Daddy was a very strange man. Sometimes he was nice, looking happy despite his fake smiles, passing around sweets and watching TV with Mommy and her.

Most of the time, however, he was unpleasant.

He liked going out late at night. While Daddy always made sure he came home by nine, to read bedtime stories to her, Uncle Daddy always came home late. When he came home late, he always smelt terrible, of smoke and beer, and was terribly rude: many times using bad words that kids at school would get punished for saying.

Mommy didn’t like this, and often asked him to stop, but Uncle Daddy refused. He got angrier each time Mommy asked him to stop, and sometimes, hit Mommy hard, cursing loudly as he did. He would always be sorry about this the next day, and apologise profusely, but when night came, would fall into the same habits again.

He was bitter around Lily too, finding fault with her over the smallest things. He often asked her to bring beers and other snacks from the fridge while watching television, and if Lily brought the wrong things, flew into a rage and hit her hard.

Lily also could not shake the feeling that Uncle Daddy looked at her strange every time she walked to the kitchen. There was often a strange glint in his eye, a look that disturbed her. But she put the thought out of her mind. She had other things to worry about.
__________________________________________________________________________

If things were bad for Lily, they were just as bad for Volstrak.

He didn’t understand it. Lily seemed less scared of him nowadays. He was draining less and less fear from her. While in the past, the amount of fear she had of him was enough to supply a five-course dinner for all the Shadow Creatures in Asia, she was now barely scared enough to feed a hatchling. What the heck was happening?

The strangest part had been last night. He had revealed himself again, clinking his talons along the side of her bed, snarling. “I want to eat your flesh,” he had said menacingly. “Want to rip your skin and feast on your bones!”

And how had Lily replied? “Do it,” she had said. “Please.” For death by monster would be a relief to her compared to the daily hell she went through.

She wasn’t scared of him anymore! This did not make sense! This was ridiculous!

He tried again the next night. And the next. And the night after that. But to no avail. Volstrak roared, and snarled, and threatened. He bared his fangs, unsheathed his claws, even tore off his head once, just to invoke one scream from Lily, one tiny bit of fear. But it was pointless. Lily felt no fear at all from him.

Finally, one night, Volstrak could not take it anymore.

“Why aren’t you scared of me anymore, child?” he asked. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“No,” Lily said. “You are a very scary monster. But I have other things I am more scared of.”

“WHAT? What could be scarier than me, a Shadow Creature of the Eighth Realm? A witch-god? A hellhound? A wendigo? Tell me, child!!”

“None of those. It’s my new Daddy. I don’t like him. He scares me.”

“What? Why?”

And Lily broke down into tears, and told of how terribly Uncle Daddy was treating her, making her do chores and punishing her savagely every time she messed up. All she wanted to do was to be a good girl, she said, but Uncle Daddy found fault with everything she did!

Lily told of how Uncle Daddy had hit her twenty four times with an umbrella, and another time pushed her down the stairs for getting in his way. He was a terrible, smelly man, she said, and she missed her old Daddy so much.

Now Shadow-Beasts are solitary and reclusive by nature. Empathy is a foreign concept for them, and they do not usually bother with the problems of others, usually of the opinion that everyone has their own problems to bear. But Volstrak found himself listening, despite himself.
_____________________________________________________________________________

That night marked a fundamental change in the nature of Lily and Volstrak’s relationship.

Volstrak gave up on scaring her for the moment. After all, Lily no longer seemed afraid of him, and attempting to draw fear from her would be wasted effort. Instead, amazing himself, he found himself listening to her.

Lily told him many stories. She told him of the terrible things Uncle Daddy did to her and Mommy, and how she hated him so much it made her stomach hurt. Uncle Daddy made Mommy sad, she said, and they always had fights: Uncle Daddy spent too much of their money on beer, apparently, while Mommy wanted to save money for Lily to go to college, and when Mommy tried to talk to Uncle Daddy, he hit her.

She told him about school: how she liked English and Art, but hated Mathemathics: there were way too many numbers, and too many things you were supposed to do with them, she said. And the teacher was a very strict woman, apparently, always scolding her when she messed up. Chen Lao-shi was her name, she was a squat, fat old woman, her hair in a bun. No-one liked her.

Lily told her about how embarrassed she was about going to school with red cane marks all over her legs, and how her classmates always teased her and called her names. One girl had called her ‘Stupid Face’, and Lily had chased her and slapped her across the face: wow, she had gotten into serious trouble over that. The headmaster had scolded Lily and made her apologize, and she felt bad, but knew she would do it all over again in a heartbeat, something which made Volstrak laughed.

Lily told him of funny episodes of Spongebob she had seen. Of bunny-shaped clouds in the sky, of the jokes her teachers said in class, of the delicious peanut butter and cheese sandwiches her mother made for her to take to school. She told Volstrak of the little dog that had followed her home one day, only to be chased away by Uncle Daddy. She told him of the time she and Indran, a handsome curly-haired boy she hoped she would marry one day, spent recess blowing bubbles outside the canteen. She told him of the man with the funny hat she had seen on the bus, and the time she, Mommy and Daddy had gone to Japan, and eaten ice creams after a fireworks display.

And Volstrak found himself telling her about his life, as well.

He told her of all the many children he had scared over the centuries. Francois; the bedwetter, Benjamin; who prayed every time he came close, Xiao Li; whose aged grandmother would rush in to comfort her every time she screamed, Motabi; the sleepwalker, and dozens and dozens more.

He confessed to her that despite all his threats, Shadow-Creatures rarely ate children: it was the fear they thrived on, that was delicious and live-giving. Children could only be eaten in one circumstance. That is, if they were so scared out of their wits that their entire beings had been gripped by fear: only then could they be eaten, and they didn’t taste all that good as well. Their flesh was too stringy, and very bitter. Or so he had heard.

Lily asked why Shadow Creatures scared children, and Volstrak said it was how things were. They needed fear to survive, after all, and timid, impressionable little children was the best way to get it.

But you should be thankful for us, Volstrak reminded Lily. For often, a Shadow Creature forces a child to be brave, and find inner strength that otherwise would have been hidden forever. For little boys and little girls who find it in themselves to face the monsters under their bed will find they have the courage to face other monsters in their lives. They will not be shaken, no matter what life throws at them, and greatness will be their only destiny.

And Lily asked Volstrak about others like him, and he was glad to oblige. He told her of the spider-bellied Xephir, who lurked in closets, and drew in unsuspecting children with its sticky webs. He spoke of the Idtiliss, the long-fingered man with the scarred face, that tapped at windows, begging to be let into your house to spread terror. He told of the Lady Suffocate, a bloated corpse that hung upside down from the ceilings of showers, pouncing on its prey when they least suspected. Volstrak told her of the Clown King, and the Inside-Out Man, of the Skeleton Witch and the Faceless Beast, as well as the Seven Disgraces, and the Scream-By-Night.

And he told of Jerrifux, the prettiest Shadow-Creature he had ever laid eyes on, with her seven venomous tentacles and her hair that was a mass of writhing serpents. They had mated, and she had laid him a dozen eggs, which they had taken care of before going their separate ways. Such was their way, after all: they never remained together for longer than was necessary.

It was a sad and lonely life, though, and that was perhaps the reason why Volstrak was telling his life story to Lily. In other circumstances, he would have left the moment Lily stopped being scared of him. He needed fear to survive after all, and the longer he went without it, the weaker he got. But it was nice, in a way to talk to someone. He hadn’t had a conversation with another creature for decades, up to this.

For times were difficult now, especially for Shadow-Creatures. It had been ages since Volstrak had met another of his kind. The world was a scary place nowadays, with plenty to be afraid about. Movies and television, with their special effects, creating legions of monsters just as scary as a real Shadow-Creature. To say nothing of real life: with war, crime and injustice everywhere one looked, children had a lot more to be afraid of nowadays than monsters under the bed.

Many were the times when Volstrak had attempted to visit old friends, only to discover their shrivelled bodies lying forlornly beneath beds and armchairs, in empty closets and beneath staircases. They could only be deprived of fear for too long, after all. And Volstrak hoped he would never suffer such a fate.
____________________________________________________________________________

For a while, things were decent, and all was alright.

But nothing good lasts forever.

March 2004. A dramatic month. Terrorist attacks in Madrid. New photos from the Hubble Space Telescope. A cyclone hits Brazil.

It would also prove to be the last time that Lily and Volstrak would ever see each other.

It all started with Uncle Daddy getting laid off from work. It had put him in a foul mood: the nerve of his boss, he seethed angrily. Firing him for sleeping on the job and showing up late, it seems. Damn it, it wasn’t his fault he didn’t have enough sleep! He needed a lot of rest, to shake off the nasty hangovers he got.

So he stopped by a bar on the way back, and got plastered. Booze was his only source of happiness: he sure as hell didn’t get it from his family. His wife nagged all the time, and his step-daughter, she was a useless brat.

His mind shaken by anger and intoxication, Uncle Daddy made his way back, muttering to himself and cursing all the way.

And the first thing he saw was Lily’s shoes on the ground outside the door.

HOW MANY TIMES HAD HE TOLD THAT GIRL TO PUT HER SHOES ON THE RACK WHY WAS SHE SO DAMN STUBBORN…..

“Lily! Lily!” he bellowed her name loudly.

No answer. Furious, Uncle Daddy grabbed the feather duster from the table and moved to her room. Stupid girl, he’d teach her to answer when she was called..

Lily was reading a magazine when Uncle Daddy burst into her room. She cried with fear as Uncle Daddy picked her up and tossed her to the floor. With every ounce of strength, she apologised for what she had done, but her pleas fell on deaf ears, as Uncle Daddy struck her again and again with the feather duster, letting out all the pent-up rage that had been building within him.

Whack. That was for his stupid boss. Whack. That was for his stupid mortgage, which he could never pay off. Whack. That was for his stupid wife, always nagging him, never supporting him, never giving him love..

Love. That was all he wanted. Why why why was it so difficult to find, why couldn’t he find it..

It was just then that a strange urge took over him, and he picked up his crying daughter off the floor, and placed her gently on the bed.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Daddy,” Lily wept, her eyes puffy and red with tears. “I’ll be a good girl from now on, I promise, I won’t do anything wrong..”

“Shhh, Lily. It’s alright. I’m not angry anymore. You want to be a good girl, don’t you? Well, stop crying.”

“Ok, Uncle Daddy. I promise I won’t-“

“Take off your dress, Lily.”

“What?” Lily couldn’t believe her ears.

“Take off your dress, Lily. You don’t want to disobey me, do you? You want me to hit you again?”

“But I don’t want to, please-“

Uncle Daddy was enraged. He stormed toward the bed, feather duster raised, screaming. “TAKE YOUR DRESS OFF, OR SO HELP ME, I’LL-“

He never got to finish his sentence.

For a pair of powerful claws lunged at him from beneath Lily’s bed, ripping his flesh and causing him to fall to the ground.

‘What the fu-“

To his horror, a hideous beast emerged from the shadows under Lily’s bed. It was huge, with great wings of shadow, sharp claws like razor-blades, and piercing red eyes that blazed like the fires of hell.

“Monster!!!” it shouted at him, and its voice was like the shriek of a demon.

Uncle Daddy was too terrified to speak as the thing lunged toward him, its claws outstretched, its teeth bared. Whimpering, he tried to crawl away, but fear had rooted him to the spot. Absolute terror caused him to wet his pants: he had never seen a creature like this before, so majestic in its dreadfulness, the kind of monster that nightmares had nightmares about..

“You have assumed the role of this creature’s daddy,” the monster spoke to him, “and that role comes with responsibilities. You are supposed to love her, and cherish her, and do all you can to make her happy. Teach her right from wrong and educate her in the ways of the world. You are supposed to protect her from the monsters of the dark and the creatures of shadow. That is the way it has always been.”

“And you have perverted these sacred roles, you loathsome worm!” the monster snarled at him. Volstrak had never felt so powerful before: the wretch’s fear was overwhelming, and such a large quantity of it was making him feel almost euphoric. “How dare you attack your own child? Not even the lowest denizens of hell would resort to such ugliness. I should kill you right here and right now. You disgust me. Your mother should have eaten you at birth.”

Volstrak turned to Lily. “Get out of this place, Lily,” he said. “Call your mother. Tell her what your disgrace of a father has tried to do. And get to the police station. Tell them to come here in ten minutes. And please, do not turn back. I do not wish for you to see what I am about to do.”

Lily nodded. “Goodbye, my friend.” The last words she ever said to him. She knew, deep down, that she would never see him again after this. It was a miracle, as it was, that they had even managed to sustain a friendship that had lasted this long. For such things were not meant to be.

She ran from the room, trying her best to block out Uncle Daddy’s ear-piercing screams, as Volstrak advanced on him, grinning.
__________________________________________________________________________

July 2009. Three new dinosaur species are discovered in Australia. Federer defeats Roddick to win the 2009 Wimbledon Championships. China uses artificial insemination to create a giant panda, using frozen sperm.

It is also the month Indran Ambirajah will finally work up the courage to ask Lily Chen to be his girlfriend.

He’ll take her out for a movie: the latest chick flick maybe, she likes those. Or the latest blockbuster. What movie doesn’t matter. As long as they’re together. After that, he’ll take her for dinner at her favourite restaurant, before giving her a lift home. It will be a wonderful evening.

Sometime during the evening, he’ll ask he to be his, and Lily will accept. She will do her best not to cry, and fail miserably. She has liked him since they were in primary school, after all, and they will have many happy memories together.

Lily has made quite a life for herself. She stays in Puchong now, in a two-storey house with her mother and dog Mr Littles 2, and does well at school. She’s active in cheerleading, and represents the state in debating tournaments.

She still has memories of her old life, although she has mostly gotten over them. Most prominently, she remembers her old bedroom in her old house, where she lived with a terrifying monster under her bed. Oddly, she remembers him fondly.

As for Volstrak, he is living a wonderful life as well. He has since relocated: he haunts the Sungai Buloh prison now, growing fat off the fears of murderers, rapists, thieves and all manner of degenerates.

But he still has a soft spot for the prisoner in Cell No B-1276. Dear Uncle Daddy, who he visits on a very regular basis. He was the first person to show him that adults could be frightened as easily as children, after all, and that their fears were just as nourishing.

And he screams so delightfully like a little girl.

SHADOW, Attempt 1

2009-08-07T21:45:00.000-07:00

I actually have a more elaborate idea for this month's freewriting, and I will probably write that sometime in future.

However, I also could not resist this little story, and so, hope you enjoy it.

A MOST PECULIAR CASE

A man steps into a doctor's office.

"Doc, doc, you have to help me!" he begs. "I have a problem, and I don't know who else to turn to!"

"Whats wrong?" the doctor asks.

"Ïts my shadow! It's acting weird!"

"But thats impossible! In what way is it acting weird?"

"It seems to have a life of its own!" the man cries.

"Tell me about this."

"Well, once, I was standing at a bus stop, and my shadow was doing something different from what I was doing! I was just standing, but my shadow..it was kneeling! It looked as though it was tied up, and there was something in its mouth!"

"Really?" the doctor is amazed.

"Another time, I was lying on my bed, and my shadow was different again! It looked as though it was tied to the bed with rope, and struggling vigorously!"

The doctor makes some notes.

"And worst of all was the time I was at this restaurant, on a date with this girl I had just met. Everything went well, until the girl noticed our shadows on the wall at the restaurant. My shadow seemed to be carrying a whip, and was whipping away at her shadow! The date ended in disaster!"

"I see," said the docotr.

"So, whats wrong, with me, doc? Can I be cured?"

"Its difficult to say," the doctor replied. "I'm writing you a prescription to go see a sex therapist."

"A sex therapist? But why?"

"You've got the worst case of shadow-masochism I've ever seen!

END

FLY!!!!!!!

2009-07-28T00:17:00.000-07:00

Yes, since my CLP has finally ended, and I have time to scribble nonsense once more, I finally have the time to write this month’s Writing Project.
I must admit, this story wasn’t my original idea. The original idea was about the dramatic adventures and epic romance between two houseflies in a mamak. But I got lazy to research houseflies.
Therefore, you get this instead. It’s a bit lengthy, but I enjoyed working on it. And if you’ve read the previous story as well, NO, I do not have a fetish for angels. They just seem to fit so nicely into my stories!

MISTER HUMPHRY HERBERT’S WHIMSICAL LEVITATION DEVICE #27

Now a lot of folks, they say that history is written by the victors.

And ya gotta’ admit, that’s certainly true. Ain’t no room in history for the also-rans, the runner-ups, the second placers. Nobody gonna remember the second man on the moon or the man who almost discovered penicillin. If ya don’t achieve it, ya might as well not even try. History sure ain’t going to remember ya.

Which is a damn shame, sometimes. Since ya always end up forgetting some champion fellas.

Take the airplane, for example. Ask any kid in school nowadays who invented it, and they’d look at ya as if ya was stupid. “Aint’cha got no education, mister?” those snot-nosed little punks would say. “That’ll be them Wright Brothers. Flew the first plane in Kitty Hawk. Everyone knows that.”

And they’d be right. And a shame too. Because nobody ever remembers Sir Humphry Herbert. Or his Whimsical Levitation Device. And if ya ask me, I think it’s a crying shame.

I had the pleasure of knowin’ old Herbert, when he still stayed here in Silver Flats, Missouri, from ’49 to ’51. Or was it ’52? I can’t remember. My memory’s going bad in me old age. Used to do the gardening for him and his wife, I did. Prune their begonias, mow their lawn, that sorta stuff. Ain’t much else a boy my age could do in Silver Flats at the time. We weren’t the richest little town.

Everyone liked old Herbert. Ya had to. He was a giant of a man, almost six feet, but ya couldn’t be scared of him, what with his big ol’grin and merry eyes, and all the jokes he was makin’. His hair was white, and he wore a monocle, which he hung on a string attached to his pinstriped suit. Old Herbert always wore pinstriped suits, no matter the season, no matter the weather. Never seen without it, he was. Folks even used to reckon he went swimming in them pinstripe suits. Which was fine though, because it suited the old guv. Made him look distinguished, especially since he always matched it with a tie and shiny shoes.

And he was the most generous guv I’ve ever met in my life. Old Herbert was one of them rich kind-hearted men, one of them phil-somethings, always giving to one charity or other. He was passionate about anything: war widows, orphans, old folks, animals, tuberculosis victims; anyone he deemed to be less fortunate, I tell ya, he would help them out. Old Herbert probably got swindled many times over his life, but the guy didn’t care: as long as he felt he was doing his part, the guv was happy as a jaybird.

And Lordy, how he loved his wife, Layala. She was black, she was, from head to toe, one of them Africans. Her hair was in dreadlocks, and she always wore bright dresses with flowery patterns on them. People said she met old Herbert when he went diamond mining in Africa in his youth. Said she was the princess of some savage heathen tribe. A warrior princess, who saved Herbert from danger one day, and he took her home and married her. What the danger was, ain’t no one certain. Some say it was a pride of lions. Some say he once almost drowned in a river full of crocodiles. Others say it was the dark curse of a voodoo priest angry with the white man for trespassin’ into his territory. Whatever it was, though, it don’t matter.

Some ignorant mothers used Layala to scare their kids. “Ya better eat ya vegetables,” they’d say. “Or Layala will come and get ya in the night, when ya can’t see her, and she’ll mash ya up to make stew for her lions.” But lucky, kids in those days had more sense, and never believed those lies. After all, who could be scared of Layala? She was the nicest, sweetest lady to have ever lived in Silver Flats, always handin’ out candy and singin’ those folk songs of hers which the children loved dancin’ to. Everyone adored her. Especially old Herbert. She may have been the princess of her tribe in Africa, but here in Missouri, well, she was the queen of his heart, ain’t no doubt about that.

I worked as gardener to those two for two years. Old Herbert was rich from his diamond mines, and had a huge mansion with a beautiful garden filled with exotic plants. It was a chore to work there, I ain’t denying it, backbreakin’ labor, but Herbert was good to me, and paid me well. It was to this very day, the best job I have ever had.

Things changed, however, the day Layala died.

It rained that day, and the whole town came to her funeral. Everyone showed up, from the children to the seniors down at the retirement home. Banks and shops closed up for the day, the town flag was flown at half mast, and even old Ma Clapham, who never liked Herbert or his wife, showed up at the ceremony in black to pay her respects.

Old Herbert was broken like crazy after the affair, and everyone wondered how he would deal with this loss. That woman had been everythin’ to him, the very centre of his life. Some wondered if he would build some kind of monument to her: he always was quite an artist. Some of the guv’s art still hangin’ in the British Museum today, after all. People wondered if he would die of grief, or go mad from his sorrow. Some wondered if he would remarry, or even move back to Africa.

Ain’t nobody thought he would start buildin’ flying machines.

I remember how it was, on that fateful Sunday, one week after the funeral. I was cuttin’ the grass down by old Herbert’s lily pond, when the guv himself calls me to his study. “Teddy! Teddy!” the man says. “Come quick, kid! I need you to see this! It will blow ya mind!”

So I goes to his study, where he poured me a cup of cocoa and shows me the plans he had for somethin’ he called his Levitation Device. It was all very technical: I ain’t understanding half of his sketches. But he explained that what he was plannin’, well, it would change the world.

“It’s a machine that flies!” old Herbert was beamin’ from ear to ear. “Can ya imagine it? It’s the future of travel! We can be like the birds, flyin’ wherever we please! It’ll put the steam trains and the ships outta business!”

“Yeah,” I decided to humour the old guv. “We can go anywhere we likes! Ya could fly back to Africa every day, and be back here in time fer’ tea! We could fly to the Orient, and buy silks, and then stop by the Prison Colonies, to visit me old dad, and see the Pyramids, and then stop by the President’s house to shake his hand!”

“Why stop there, Teddy?” old Herbert’s eyes were shining. “We could even fly on up to Heaven, past all them clouds, and meet all them angels!”

At the time I thought nothing of the old man’s plans. Thought they were the old man’s way of copin’ with his pain and all. Either that or age was catchin’ up with the guv, and he was getting’ all senile.

Sadly, once old Herbert got an idea, he ran with it all the way.

Problem was, he tended to run in the wrong direction.

And often off a cliff on the way.

Everyday, he would drive down to the town library, where he’d do his researchin’. He’d take his Bentley. The silver one. It was his favorite, the very first car he ever bought, before he’d gone to Africa and struck it big.

And when he’d go back, he’d start buildin’ his Levitation Devices. And Lordy, what devices they were. I ain’t remembered them all, but all of them were twenty kinds of crazy. Old Herbert left no stone unturned when it came to get to the sky, from flying bicycles to hang-glider suits.

I remember Levitation Device #1. Old Herbert had somehow collected hundreds of birds, and tied them to a boat of his. How he got them I had no idea: the guv did have a crazy way of doin’ things. His idea was that when they all beat their wings at the same time, they’d all carry him to the sky, like the stork carryin’ a baby and so on.

Herbert, however, did not realize how difficult it was to get a bunch of birds to do anything together, and his plan went belly-up pretty spectacular. Them birds got really noisy, the bigger ones started eatin’ the smaller ones, and many of them started to damage the plants in his garden. It made my heart ache, it did, to see the hydrangeas, which I spent weeks tending, bein’ torn apart by some angry jungle fowls. And all of them started poopin’ pretty bad: by the end of the whole evening, old Herbert was covered in so many droppings, he looked like those Abominable Snowmen those Oriental legends talk about.

This failure didn’t dishearten the old guv however, and he began working on his next plan.

Levitation Device #2 went even worse than the first.

Old Herbert had somehow found some book of old myths from the library. Some Greek guv called Icarus or somethin’, had apparently woven together some wings outta feathers, and him and his dad had flown across the sea or somethin’.

What with all the feathers left behind from the previous try, well, makin’ the wings was easy like pie. Old Herbert made some big ol’ wings, seven feet long, and strapped them to his back, lookin’ like some angel. It was actually kinda inspirin’.

I asked old Herbert, however, what happened to that Icarus guv.

“Ain’t went too well, I’m sad to say,” Herbert answered. “Guv stuck his feathers together with wax, and flew too close to the sun. The wax melted, and the poor chappie fell to his death.”

“Ain’t ya worried it will happen to ya?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he reassured me. “I learned from the story. I ain’t using wax.”

“Then what are ya usin’?”

“Used chewin’ gum.”

It was really lucky I encouraged him to try flyin’ in McCullogh’s field, with all them haystacks, or who knows what tragedy woulda happened.

Then there was Levitation Device #26. Old Herbert had read from a science book that hot air rises, and had gotten inspired from that.

Now, let me tell ya, there are three kinds of people in this world. Imagine ya’re sitting under a tree one day, and an apple falls on ya head.

The first kind of people go on out to discover gravity and all kinds of sciency stuff: big discoveries that change the world. The second kind of people go to discover apple-proof crash helmets: small, but safe and practical.

The third kind of fellas go out to invent apple-powered doomsday machines, or apple-
pickin’ automatons that eventually go plum crazy and go out killin’ people.

Sadly, Herbert was that third kind of fella, and he brought me to his garden one day to show me his latest device. It was a large platform, made of wood, with a bonfire burnin’ below it. On top of it, was what looked like a chair with a sail attached.
The plan was simplicity, he said. The hot air from the fire will rise, takin’ the chair (which he would be sittin’ in) up into the sky. Once he got airborne high enough, he would hopefully catch a wind-current, which he could travel in all over the place.

I asked how he would change direction in mid-air.

“That’s the genius of the plan!” he exclaimed. He pointed out some strange machine-things at the front of the chair. They were levers, he said, with boots attached to them. If he needed to move in any direction, he would pull the lever and the boot would kick the chair in the required direction. Them sails would do the rest.

Ya had to end it to old Herbert. While most of what he thought was nonsense, it was logically consistent nonsense.

Sadly, like the others, this plan also backfired terribly, not only almost injurin’ Herbert pretty bad, but almost causin’ a bush-fire that almost burnt down the whole of Silver Flats.

People got pretty mad at him after that, and old Herbert laid low for a while. He retreated into his mansion, and no-one saw him for weeks.

I was gettin’ worried about it for a while. Who knows how he took the news of this latest failure. As optimistic as anyone could be, fall too many times, and there was a point ya wouldn’t be able to get up again. I tried to visit him, but he never answered his doorbell, or even looked out of the window at me, though I knew he was there.

Months passed, and for a while I thought he had given up on his flying dreams.

Until he showed up at my door one day, and told me to come follow me.

Old Herbert led me down to his garden, and showed me somethin’ I never quite expected.

The biggest cannon I had ever seen in my life!

I recognized it: “That’s Old Victoria!” The cannon outside the grounds of the Missouri War Museum. Survivor of the great wars. “What is that doin’ here?”

“It’s Levitation Device #27.”

“Ya bought it?? It must have cost a fortune!”

“Sold my Bentley.”

“But ya loved that car!”

“Loved my wife even more. Sold the house too. Developers coming by tomorrow to tear it down. Think they’re buildin’ a factory over it.”

I was pretty stunned. Never was expectin’ something like this to happen.

“I did some modifications to it.” Herbert said. “Look in the barrel.”

Inside the cannon was a hollow vessel, big enough for one person. Probably where old Herbert would be sitting in when he flew. Several items were also placed within. Tuna sandwiches. And umbrella. A notebook and two fantasy novels. A change of clothes. An Oriental paper fan. And oddest of all, a hat with a gold-painted gramophone record attached to it.

“What’s that?” I asked him.

“Well, when I get to heaven, all of them angels going to be flying around with them shiny gold haloes all round them heads. And won’t I look like a damn fool if I get there without one? Gotta make a good impression when I get there. Don’t want to embarrass Layala, ya know?”

“Ya serious about this,” I spoke softly. “Ya really want to be shot out of this cannon? It might kill ya!”

“We gotta take chances after all. What have I got to lose, anyway? I’ve lived a full life, and I’ve been happy with what I got. But it don’t mean nothing without my lady. And if this gets me to her, I gotta take that chance.”

He asked me if I would do him the honour of lighting the cannon.

And to this day, I don’t know why I agreed. It seemed the right thing to do. Plus, one look into old Herbert’s sad eyes..well, ya try saying no to him. It was like refusing a puppy-dog a bone, or a kitten a ball of wool.

He shook my hand, and thanked me for all I did for him. Said I had been a great gardener, and the closest thing he had to a son. On the table in his bedroom, there was some extra pay for me and my old ma, as well as letters and trinkets for everyone in Silver Flats. He’d never gotten down to makin’ a will. Said it was complicated. But he hoped I would help give all his stuff to people who needed it most.

When he was done, he stepped into the cannon, and begged me to light the fuse.

It was the hardest thing I would have to do, for I knew I’d miss the old man. I struggled to light the fuse: my tears kept landin’ on the damn match, and puttin’ it out.

When I did, there was a huge explosion. A lot of smoke; I was coughin’ and wheezin’ like crazy. But I kept my eyes to the sky, and damn it all, if I didn’t see a dark shape shoot up into the sky, so fast it got harder to see the higher it went. It rose up past the clouds, before suddenly opening up what appeared to be a sail at its top, and canvas wings at its side, before disappearin’ from view.

And that was the last I ever saw of old Humphry Herbert.

All of Silver Flats missed him. The town just plain wasn’t the same without that old man. There wasn’t a funeral: he wouldn’t have wanted it. But everyone in town wore white, his favorite colour. Even Ma Clapham, who seemed to be crying the loudest when they announced he was gone.

The developers who bought his house couldn’t bear to tear it down. They were friends of his, after all, and decided to leave it as it was. A sorta monument, ya could say, to dear old Herbert and Layala.

People still wonder though, to this day, what happened to Herbert. Some say he probably landed somewhere in the South, and decided to make a new life there. Some say he made it to Africa, where he joined Layala’s old tribe, became a witchdoctor.

Kenneth Purvis, a professor, and the only one from Silver Flats to make it to university, says he ain’t believin’ that Herbert made it very far. Said physics wouldn’t have allowed fer’ it. Old Herbert probably died a painful death, he says, burnt up from the speed and velocity of the shot combined with the force of the explosion. He probably landed as ash somewhere in Colorado, deader than dead. All accordin’ to physics.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t trust this physics nonsense. I ain’t an educated man, ain’t went to no school, but I tell ya: if there’s a science out there that limits ya and tells ya all sorts of things ain’t possible to be done, ya better off not listening to any of it. Because nothing great was ever done by people believin’ stuff was impossible.

I like to think old Herbert made it to heaven somehow, in his Levitation Device #27. That as I write this, he’s jitterbuggin’ with his wife and all them angels, while Gabriel plays Yellow Rose of Texas on his horn.

And Lordy, one day I hope to join the old guv.

END.

FIST TO HEAVEN

2009-06-18T23:14:00.000-07:00

Yes, another story for the writing project thing!

I must admit, the first thing I thought of when seeing the title was: Isn’t that the Paladin’s ultimate attack from Diablo 2?

But I didn’t think the aim of this is to write PC game fan fiction, so decided to do this instead. Part of a much longer story I always, always wanted to write:

(Note: while I did try to get details as accurate as possible, most of this is creative license and is not meant to be theological analysis or religious comment. Just wanted to tell the damn story!)

MORNINGSTAR’S RISE

The Fourteenth Letter of Philetus

Now then, as you know, Gestas, I endeavour to record the truth of what I have seen as accurately as possible, and did not mean to stir up any rebellion or dissent in the hearts of your brothers. So I apologise for some of my words, but my intentions were good. For though lies may taste as sweet as honey, it is only the truth, though it be bitter as wormwood, that will nourish and strengthen us.

In my previous letter, I told you about the great Council in the Hall of Archangels: how the Almighty, through his servant Metatron, did announce his plans to create humanity, and the great clamour that rose at this news. I laid out to you the despair that took hold of the mighty Archangel Lucifer, the battle between Metatron and Baruchiel, and the events that led to the forming of a great Anti-Heavenly Host, a legion of proud angels whose only goal was to topple the Kingdom of Heaven, and establish a new government in their place.

This letter continues my previous narrative, and tells of what happened to Veritael and Adoniel, who I spoke of in my second and third letters.

The Assault on the Pearly Gates

Now, the armies of Lucifer were mighty: angels of every rank and order were present, all of them having been seduced by the sweet words of Zerubiel, shield-bearer to Lucifer Lightbringer. Cherubim, seraphim, dominions, thrones and principalities, and even archangels, were united under Lucifer’s banner, a great flame. Some bore bows of silver, others bore flaming swords, while some flew unarmed, relying only on their celestial energies to defend themselves. And as they moved on, they sung loudly to keep their spirits. Their war songs were gross perversions of the beautiful hymns of praise to the Almighty, deliberately sung in discordance; for they had completely rejected the blessed harmonies of the Lord.

Such a great multitude they were: they were as a great swarm of locusts moving across the heavens. It is said that a third of all the angels in heaven defected on that dismal day: seeing their force, however, it seemed much more. Their leader flew proudly ahead of them, a powerful figure whose radiance glowed with the intensity of forty suns.

And soon they came across the Pearly Gates, the entrance to the City of the Lord, and they fell on it with the fury of a mighty tempest. The gates were guarded: five warrior angels stood watch at all times. And leading them was Jerrabiel, a wise and kindly dominion, who had been the Gatekeeper of Heaven before Peter the Fisherman.

O, how bravely the guards fought! Like lions, they were, like the great bears our father Elisha once called, like the armies of Gideon, unafraid despite being overwhelmed. But alas: however tall the grain grows, it can never withstand the winds. For Lucifer, who is called the Morningstar, came before them, and blinded them with the fury of his radiance, while his servants moved forward, covering their eyes that they may not be blinded, and struck at them.

And when they had quashed all opposition, the armies of Lucifer surged forward, leaving behind the beaten guards in pools of their own silver blood. And they laid waste to the City of the Lord. The six-winged seraphs unleashed their heavenly fire upon the Amber Fields, while a horde of archangels sieged the Western Tower, reducing it to rubble. And every angel faithful to the Lord was captured and tortured.

Oh, what woe there was in the city of Heaven that day! The armies of Lucifer were as a pack of jackals, ravenous and bloodthirsty, wanting only to quench their bloodthirst through slaughter. Like thunderbolts, they fell from the sky upon the altars of the Lord, destroying all that was beautiful, defiling all that was sacred. Such a great cry rose in Heaven that day, heavy with misery: one that would not be heard again until the first Passover in Egypt; until the death of our Saviour on the Cross at Calvary.

Listen, then if you have ears! Pray that you will never have to go through such suffering. For wars bring only sadness. Happy is the man who keeps his peace with his brothers, his household shall be a field that brings good harvest.

Michael calls his armies

When the news of this rebellion came to the archangels, many of them wept, to see the destruction of their beautiful home. And they took up arms and called forth the survivors, eager to heal their wounded.

The angels lamented, wondering how the Lord could allow this to happen.

‘Brother has risen against brother,
The bonds of kinship have been broken.
O Lord, our house has fallen
Your servants treacherous like vipers
How long, o Lord, will you let them go on?
We have been broken, razed to the ground
Our lips cry out for protection
Our hands call out for healing
O Lord, do not forsake us!’

And the captain of the Heavenly Host came forth: Michael, bravest of the archangels, a mighty warrior, he who will do battle with the Dragon on Judgement Day. His eyes glittered like rubies, and his great wings were wide and pure white as alabaster. His armour shone like silver, and his great sword was as long and sharp as a lion’s fang. I tell you this: his appearance was so striking, so handsome was he; that for all their talent, not even the great sculptors of Rome could do his image justice, though tey try for seven generations.

Michael was wise, and great was his skill as a general: he commanded their ranks to spread out, and keep watch over the gates that led to the Blessed Sanctuary, which he knew Lucifer would strike at first.

He and his forces would remain in the Sanctuary, the heart of the city, to be the last line of defence. And they would constantly be in prayer, beseeching the Almighty to turn the heart of the stubborn Lucifer, and end the bloodshed.

And Veritael, graceful and kind, was tasked to watch over the Gate of the Eastern Citadel. Seven thrones stood with her, as well as seventy-times-seven dominions, all of them angels with hearts strong and true.

Veritael served her post well: her courage would have shamed the armies of David. More watchful than a hawk, was she, swifter than the hares of the fields; no rebel could come within ten cubits of the Gate without her armies striking. Let her example be a lesson to you, Gestas, as well as your brothers who have given in to sloth. The Lord loves a faithful servant, who does not sleep till noon or drink to midnight.

The foolish man is never wakeful, the wise man is always on guard. For as the wolves often strike when the shepherd is asleep; so it is with the ways of the evil one.

As the battle went on, Veritael thought of her dear friend Adoniel, who she had not seen since the rebellion began. She prayed that the Lord would keep him safe, for he had been a great companion of hers, and she missed his company.

Alas, an angel came to her one day, a messenger of the ranks of Gabriel, and told her: “Adoniel has joined the ranks of Lucifer. He comes this way now, with a host of six hundred and sixty-six angels. We should lay an ambush for him, lest he strike at us and overwhelm us.”

And Veritael was distressed when she heard this, and she wept that her friend had joined the rebels. Her forces beat their breasts, and wailed, for many of them had known Adoniel, and loved him. The war had been sorrowful thus far: many of them forced to lay arms against their comrades, shed the blood of their companions. For how long would the Almighty allow this to continue?

Veritael ordered no ambush. For she could not bear the thought of attacking Adoniel.

Veritael faces Adoniel

It was not long before Adoniel arrived at the Eastern Gate, and he was dismayed to see his friend Veritael standing watch there. For he cherished Veritael as David did Jonathan, as Mary did Martha: the two had been inseperable. The two angels had been great friends. Oft had they sung hymns together in the choirs to the Lord, and many had been the times they broke bread with each other in the Amber Fields.

“Truly, I wish it had not been you here,” he said as he left his troops and approached Veritael. “I wish it had been any other angel but you, my dearest friend.”

“Turn back, Adoniel!” Veritael said. “Have you no fear of God? Your rebellion is pointless. Your forces err greatly in attempting to take the Kingdom of Heaven. You have sown the seeds of your own destruction, and the Lord will take His vengeance on you. You have toppled that which should have stood, and broken away from the love of the Almighty, whose wrath no angel can stand against.”

Adoniel scoffed, and his forces jeered. “Yea, if the Lord had wanted to smite me, would He not have done so before I entered His land? He claims to be all powerful, yet we have ruined His lands and burnt his temples, and He has done nothing. The Almighty is defenceless against us. All His words of power, were empty boasts, threats to keep us afraid of Him. Our standing here before His City, almost triumphant, proves it.”

“The Almighty stays His hand out of love,” Veritael spoke. “You are His child, and He is giving you time to repent and turn from your dark ways. The mercy of the Lord is everlasting.”

“Love?” Adoniel said. “You know not of what you speak. If the Almighty truly did love us, why would He cast us aside like young men cast aside their playthings? We have served Him to the best of our abilities. We have loved Him with all our being. Why then does He turn His face from us? Were we but a failed experiment? How have we failed Him so that He chooses to forsake us for a new creation?”

“The love of the Lord is all-encompassing!” said Veritael. “It is like the light of a candle, which shines forth to guide us. No matter how large a room you place it in, its light still covers every corner. The Almighty will not turn his love from you. He merely has a plan, which we should be delighted to be a part of.”

“I will have no part of this plan!” Adoniel cried, and his troops shouted their support. “For I am an angel of the Lord, a throne of the highest rank! I am a being of energy, pure will and spirit! I refuse to make company with those creatures the Almighty plans to make; those mortals, those flesh-beings, those creatures of ash and dust! They are unworthy of the Almighty’s love! The Almighty should love only us, His most faithful creations!”

He begged Veritael to join him. “Please, sweet Veritael. Join ranks with me. For I tell you this: the Almighty is fickle, and His plans are mysterious and dark. Who knows when He will cast you aside when you are no longer suitable to suit his whims? Take up the banner of Lucifer. He is proud and powerful, and he will never forsake us, nor lose his love for us. Together we will assault the Sanctuary, depose the great tyrant, and build a new Kingdom of Heaven. From the ashes of this city a new one shall rise, one even more glorious than before.”

But Veritael was resolute. “My only glory comes from my service to the Lord.”

Adoniel was displeased at her words. “Very well then,” he said. “Then step aside. For Lord Lucifer desires that I take the Eastern Gate, and I do not wish to kill a friend to do so.”

And Veritael wept. “Though I wish this need not come to pass, I am tasked to watch this gate, and if you wish to take it, I will have to destroy you.”

“Then so be it.”

And the two angels flew at each other, swords raised, and their armies clashed, in a great battle that would last forty days and forty nights.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I will end my narrative here, Gestas. The season of Lent is soon upon us, and many are my duties which I will have to carry out.

I realise this letter is much shorter than the previous ones, and for this I apologize. When I next write, I will tell you of the breaching of the Holy of Holies. I will speak of how the Lord Almighty was moved to bring forth His terrible vengeance, and how this led to the creation of Sheol, that hellish place where the damned do reside.

Until then, I remain your loving friend

Philetus

Child Gone Wild: A Book Review

2009-05-18T02:56:00.000-07:00

As published in StarTwo, The Star on 15/5/2009

Turning tricks
Review by TERENCE TOH

Lullabies For Little Criminals
Author: Heather O’Neill
Publisher: Quercus, 373 pages

TWELVE is always an awkward and confusing age to be. It is the borderline year between the innocence of childhood and the angst of the teenage years, the portal to puberty, an age of self-discovery and wonder.

Turning 12 is the first step on the way to adulthood and can be a turbulent point for many of us.

Especially so if your life is like that of Baby, a precocious young girl living in the slums of Montreal. Raised by her father Jules, a heroin addict and part-time quilt salesman, she finds herself constantly shifting houses, moving from foster homes to detention centres to homes of relatives, often coming across shady characters.

Despite her obvious intelligence, her background and broken family history conspire to deprive her of most opportunities and so, partly out of necessity and partly out of choice, Baby turns to prostitution, servicing a great deal of eccentric and sleazy customers drawn to her youth and innocence.

Baby soon finds herself leading a double life: going to school and playing with friends in the daytime while doing heroin and serving customers in cheap hotels at night. As can be expected, however, Baby finds both halves of her life clashing.

Lullabies for Little Criminals is a publishing sensation in Canada, nominated for many awards and winning several, including the Hugh McLennan Prize for Fiction. Because of its many accolades, I was therefore a little let-down to find that the book did not meet my expectations.

Author Heather O’Neill’s character Baby has been compared by critics to Holden Caulfield, protagonist of J.D. Salinger’s classic The Catcher in the Rye, as both are young people coming-of-age in a world that they are lost and jaded by.

Since I have not yet read Salinger’s novel, I cannot make a comparison but O’Neill’s book reminds me more of the characters from the 2003 film Thirteen, starring Evan Rachel Wood and Holly Hunter, due to the similarities in themes. But while the characters in Thirteen destroyed their lives in gripping and dramatic scenes, Lullabies for Little Criminals goes in the opposite direction, drawing us into the protagonists’ exciting life with slowly paced honest confessions and Baby’s whimsical musings.

While this is by no means a bad thing, I am not sure if it is the right tone for the book; there is little suspense or tension, even in the more sordid scenes of drug abuse or prostitution. To use an analogy: O’Neill’s novel felt a lot like the film Jurassic Park acted out by the cast of Barney the Dinosaur.

Her writing, however, is fantastic. She writes with deep honesty and there is a strange poetry to her sentences. One of my favourite parts of the book is when Baby reflects on the social workers assigned to her case: “It is important to hate the people who work in child welfare if you want to protect yourself from their prognosis. You have to think they are idiots. Because when they say you are troubled and a delinquent, you need to be able to laugh in their faces.”

O’Neill stated that when writing her novel, it was her goal not just to describe Montreal but to describe the city the way she saw it at age 12 and at this, she succeeds admirably. Places and objects, as well as memories, are depicted in a dreamlike quality, which is the novel’s main charm.

The downside of this approach, however, is that her characters come across as slightly unrealistic at times. Most of O’Neill’s characters are either completely forgettable or extremely unlikeable, and Baby herself is no exception. While it is clear that she is mostly a victim of her circumstances and just like a baby needs love and affection, some of her thoughts and actions throughout the novel are rather intolerable, making her cross the line from pitiable to detestable.

The relationship between Baby and her father however, is rather well-drawn. Jules is a sympathetic character. Having fathered Baby at a young age, he is clueless when it comes to raising his young child, yet tries to do so to the best of his ability. Both Jules and Baby recognise that their unusual relationship is affecting their lives for the worse. Yet they choose to stick together, as they are parent and child, and this bittersweet relationship is one of the highlights of the novel.

All in all, Lullabies for Little Children is a good read, but not a great one. While it is written beautifully with moments of brilliance, its lack of a gripping story and cast of mostly one-dimensional characters prevent it from being a great read.

THE SILENCE OF WONDERLAND

2009-05-10T10:32:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm blogging again!

Heh, the reason for this is because I somehow agreed to join a writing project started by my friend Lydia Tong.

Basically, every month, they give you a phrase or a theme, and you write a story based on it.

This months theme was 'Álice in Wonderland'.

Now, you know how much I love Alice in Wonderland, particularly as I am a huge fan of the creepy horror game American McGee's Alice. So I think I had a bit..too much fun with this story?

My story inspiration: what if Alice in Wonderland was done in the style of The Silence of the Lambs?

The Red Queen

“It’s good to see you again, Ms. Chesire.”

I offer my hand; she graciously refuses it. Instead, she embraces me tightly; and I find this tiny gesture warming my heart. It is hard to believe, but this spunky ex-prostitute is the closest thing I have to a friend in this messed-up hellhole.

“Oh Alice, why are you always so formal?” she teases me. “We have first names for a reason, you know. Never call me that. Makes me sound like a reject character from some Jane Austen novel.”

“Alright, alright,” I smiled. “If that’s how you want it, Cathy.”

It is crowded in the White Rabbit café today. It is lunch hour, after all, and the place is filled with employees of all kinds, from sweepers to secretaries, all chatting and stuffing their faces with the café’s famous chicken pies. Waiters are friendly and pleasant. Recorded music, most of it swing music from the fifties, floats through the air.

Ironic we had to choose such a pleasant place to discuss such a gruesome topic.

I order tea, she orders a Coke. For a while the meal is fun; but alas, all good things never last. After catching up on each other’s lives, exchanging shopping recommendations and discussing the FINE ass of the cafe’s head waiter, I ask her the inevitable question.

“What do you know about the Kampung Selamat murders?”

Cathy smiles. Amazing, how even as we discuss such a brutal wave of murders, she still remains bubbly. This girl is perpetually happy: it would take nothing less than a nuclear warhead to wipe the smile off her pretty face.

“Oh, I have some very interesting info,” she says coyly. “My contacts in the criminal underground have tracked down a person who you might find..interesting.”

‘Tell me more.”

“This guy’s messed up. Mind more shaken than a tornado in a blender. A former delivery boy in a spare parts workhouse, used to live in Kampung Selamat. Abusive mother, father dead. Druggie, resident in the Bukit Aman Hilton three times, twice for indecent exposure, once for lewd behaviour. Previous resident of Pattaya, but recently moved here last year. Got to know him through a friend in the illegal drug and hormone business.”

‘Ladyboy.” I hazard a guess.

“Brilliant, Holmes,” Cathy is impressed. “Born Rex Hong, now calling himself Regina Crimson. Pre-op transsexual, apparently saving up to fully walk down the paths of estrogen.”

‘Why do you suspect him?”

“Guy lives in the same area as most of the murders. Acts strange, keeps to himself. Mostly silent, and when he does talk, its to people only he can see.”

“Worse of all,” Cathy lowered her voice as she told me this, enjoying the dramatic storyteller role she was playing. “The guy brings back strange packages in his van every night. Odd things, wrapped in newspaper, a lot of times bloodstained. Awfully suspicious. Freaking creepy. Either the guy is the world’s messiest fishmonger, or he’s been cutting up more things than his dangly boy parts.”

“I..see.” I cannot help but be disturbed. “Thanks for your information, Cathy Chesire. I’ll look into it.”

The meal ends soon after that. I pay for both our meals, say goodbye to my friend, and drive back to the Taman Ajaib Police Station.

This just could be the lead I’m looking for.
________________________________________________________________________________

I suddenly realise that all through this narrative, I have yet to introduce myself, and I apologize profusely. I’m not always this rude. It’s just that recently, with in the wake of such ghastly murders being committed, my mind has been extremely flustered.

My name is Alice Lee. Well, Special Agent Alice Lee if you want to be precise, but please don’t call me that. Its so long, and overly dramatic. Such a X-Files sound to it, and everyone knows the only good thing about that show was David Duchovny. Man, he was really hot. All guys look good in black suits. And ties. Fact of life.

Now, sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, my introduction.

I am a special agent with the police force, assigned to the Department of Curiouser and Curiouser Crimes. Don’t ask how I got the job. Seriously. Long and convoluted story. My task is basically to investigate unusual crimes, those that seem the work of particularly deranged or twisted individuals, and bring such monsters to justice.

I’ve seen a lot of freaky stuff in my day. There was the case of the murderous Tweedle twins, for one thing. Remember? That slaughter festival that terrified the nation last year? It was me that tracked down those gluttonous scumbags. Me who freed their hostages. Me, indirectly, who persuaded them to shoot each other. Me who had to attend ten weeks of psychiatric counselling after that.

And there was the Hitomi case. Remember? The one that minister got involved in? Don’t ask me which one, they look all the same to me. Corrupt pharmaceutical company mashing up poisonous mushrooms and caterpillars, mixing it with hookah to form the ultimate hallucinogenic drug. Lepido, they called it. I inhaled some of it, and was spouting rubbish like ‘AEIOU’ and feeling like my head was constantly shrinking and growing for a week. Nasty stuff.

There are too many cases to mention. The mad rituals and child-kidnapping of the deranged religious cult, The Walrus and Carpenter, led by the insane Old Father William. Mohd Mazhur Hatta, aka The Mad Hatta, and his poisoning twenty people at his tea reception.

As my mind wanders, my hand instinctively reaches for my left hand, which is now marked with a long and curvy scar. A souvenir from my time with the notorious knife-wielding killer ‘Jabberwock’, who even now still remains at large.

Mine is a tough job. But I’m the only one qualified for it.

______________________________________________________________________________

Rex’s, or should I say, Regina’s home, looks perfectly normal from the outside. Serial killers are not supervillains after all: the last thing they want is for their homes to draw attention to their true natures.

It looks almost cosy. French windows, a slanted red roof, with an Astro signaller perched on it. A balcony on the second floor, with chairs and a tiny table. A somewhat unkempt garden of bougainvillea plants and various other shrubs I cannot identify. I’m an agent, not a botanist, after all.

Normal police officers would come back with a warrant and demand to enter. “Section 16 of the Criminal Procedure Code, I’m a policeman, let me in by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin,” etc. But that way, in my experience, never works. And I’m not that kind of police officer.

I am hardcore.

So I leap over the criminal’s gate, raid her shed to pick up a rake, which I use to smash a large window. Because the shrill ring of a doorbell is really irritating, as it is.

I find myself in what appears to be a hall of some sort, and its massiveness impresses me. One could park two cars in this room and still have space for a piano.

Various paintings, most of it classic art, adorn the walls. Wall-cupboards and shelves are many. A large looking-glass is hung next to the window I enter. A large cupboard, full of ceramic animal figurines, such as flamingos and hedgehogs, stands in a corner. The hall is messy: chairs and tables standing around at random places, various articles of female clothing scattered all over it.

(Very nice female clothing too, I must add! Especially the nice green top lying on the wardrobe! Such a lovely cut, and such a wonderful tone! It would match completely with these jeans I have at home! Man, this Regina Crimson may be a gruesome trans-sexual serial killer, but he/she sure has great taste in fashion.)

Croquet mallets and balls are stacked in a pile at another corner of the room. A small table is placed nearby, on it are a pack of playing cards, as well as tea-cups and a plate of tarts, half-finished. Beside that, on a shelf nearby, a lovely vase of roses, in a lovely shade of ruby red.

WAIT.

Something is not right.

The roses. I walk up to them hurriedly, and pick up the vase. There is something not right, something un-natural about their colour. Forensics would help me get me a definitive answer, but there was no time for that now.

I plucked one, only to be shocked to find my hands stained with their colour.

These were white roses- painted red!!

And I was no pathologist, but the thick, sticky texture of the liquid staining these flowers could only be one thing.

Feeling ill, I placed the vase back, my heart beating like crazy. Calm yourself, Alice, I told myself. You’ll get out of this. You’ve faced worse, and survived..

It was just then I realised a noxious, foul odor in the air, a smell so rank not even the fragrance of roses could block it out. I wanted to gag. Wanted to puke. Wanted to run away, as far as possible from that disgusting smell.

Instead of running, I stayed, however, and my eyes were drawn to the wall-cupboard located above the vase.

I knew I would not like what I saw within them. And yet, I still opened them.

Five human heads stared back at me through their empty eye sockets. Completely unpreserved, flesh was rotting off some of their cheeks, while blood and guts were still leaking from the spots on their necks where they had been cruelly severed from their bodies. One of the heads was now a hotel for worms, which squirmed happily in a gaping hole above where its nose would have been.

I knew I had just found Kampung Selamat Murder Victims 1-5.

My heart felt like it would explode at the magnitude it was now beating.

And it was just then that I heard a laugh.

To my horror, I turned to see the Master/Mistress of the House staring at me, a wicked smile on its face. "You have a pretty face," it said softly. "I want one too."

Rex Hong. Regina Crimson. Tall, imposing. A hideous parody of a woman. There was not a hope in hell this thing could pass as female: its body was too big, its shoulders too wide, jaw too clenched, face too masculine. Yet it desperately tried to ape the fairer sex, dressing itself in the trappings of a woman: a low-cut dress of deepest scarlet, high heels, a tacky gold necklace hanging over it’s flat chest.

A crown of silver sat on its head, resting on its long dark tresses. Rex/Regina’s face was covered in makeup of every kind, there was more paint on its face than in an art gallery full of Rembrants. Yet all that makeup could not suppress the anger that contorted the psychopath’s features.

I instinctively reached for my gun as Rex/Regina picked up the croquet mallet in the corner, and stalked towards me, furious. I was trained for these events. I was ready. But the killer was just too fast for me. I could barely scream as it lunged at me, swinging its mallet furiously, screaming and cursing.

The last thing I heard before I passed out:

OFF WITH HER HEAD!!!!!!

finito

CALL ME CHILDISH, BUT....

2008-11-16T09:31:00.000-08:00

I am loving this show entirely!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That’s right, I’ve been watching a cartoon of late! But not just any cartoon, a pretty awesome one!

Wolverine and the X-Men is OMG teh haxxor awesomeness. Animation is awesome, storylines are gripping, and it features characters from all corners of the X-Men universe, not just the major characters like Cyclops and Wolverine (who is frankly, over-rated) but also other characters like Dust and Nitro and so on. And Gambit appears, but is a bit of a jerk, and there’s Emma Frost and damn it, an appearance by the Hulk!

Unwritten law of the universe: any show, no matter how bad, is ultimately made awesome if one of its characters has to fight the Hulk at anytime. Don’t care if you win or lose. Just go up against the Not-So-Jolly Green Giant and your show will be Emmy-Award material in my opinion. I’d love to see McDreamy or Serena van der Hoostwhatever from Gossip Girl take him on. (Serena could probably give him a nice shirt to match his purple pants, though).

And watching that show shall inspire this entry:

TEGENCE pays tribute to the X-Men, his childhood Heroes!

THE ORIGINAL TV SHOW.

I must confess: I’ve been a fan of these Stan Lee/Jack Kirby-created mutant heroes (and villains) since I was a little kid. When I was a wee kid of about 9 or ten, there were only two main superhero shows on TV, if I recall (Power Rangers doesn’t count and they only showed Batman as part of an abysmal show called Whats Up Doc which featured hosts with bad acting and slapstick Bugs Bunny cartoons): these were Superman and X-Men (7 pm, every Monday, RTM 1! Back in the day where Astro was non-existent and I was too young to enter 18-SX movies! So see? Local programming isn’t that bad, after all!)

And the plot of EVERY damn Superman cartoon was like this:

1. Lois and Clark go on a fun adventure
2. Lois: Help! I’m being attacked by aliens/gangsters/robots/armchairs arrgh!
3. Clark: This is a job for..(tears open clothes to reveal ~~lingerie~~ big S on chest)
4. Superman beats up aliens/monsters/etc seven ways from Sunday
5. Lois: Oh Clark! It’s a shame you weren’t here when that manly Superman appeared to save me!
6. Me: Silly SILLY! It’s him, you silly!!! Just take off his silly glasses! (keep in mind I was 9 at the time, and didn’t know any good swear words, so my cursing was a lot milder in those days)

Basically, the plot of Superman was exactly the same as Popeye, except without the spinach and Lois was slightly prettier than Olive. So, was it any surprise I watched X-men instead?

The original X-Men cartoon, I have to admit, was AWESOME. Blew my mind entirely. Such a contrast from Superman, who was so invincible and who everyone loved: the characters from X-Men were all human, flawed in their own ways.

I was especially amazed at the idea that people hated the X-Men, even though they were essentially the heroes, merely because they were mutants, people with super powers that everyone could not understand and therefore feared. These people were doing all they could to help humans, even though they were made outcasts and feared. And that really impressed nine-year old me.

Another thing was that, heh, I was a bit of a weird outcast kid myself at nine. Was bullied quite a bit in primary school, after all, you used to be really short for your age and speak with a lisp (wait, I still do on both counts!) don’t be surprised if other kids come and harass you when all you want to do is read. Which in a way I think was why I especially empathised with the X-Men: in a sense, they were like me, considered strange and persecuted because of it.

Apparently X-Men was highly commended in its day for its mature handling of subject matter. Happened to re-watch a few episodes recently, and I myself was quite taken aback by how the show handled stuff such as death, religion, hatred and persecution, especially to a young audience. I mean, this was a show that KILLED off one of its main characters in the SECOND episode. Nine-year old me was impressed. Heck, twenty-one year old me is still impressed!

Of course, when I was young, all this fancy literature analysis stuff was not a big priority, and I just tuned in to see people in spandex fight other people in spandex, all the while accompanied by loud explosions, flashes of coloured light and so on. I was freaking hooked.

Oh, and the show’s theme song!!!! Damn!!!! It blew my freaking mind! To this day I think its one of the best theme songs ever for any TV show. Keep in mind, when I was nine, most of the music I had heard was either church hymns or nursery rhymes. Therefore, a show that had an intro with people doing awesome things, to an ELECTRIC GUITAR with KILLER RIFFS. Daaaaaaaaammmmnnnn.

(If I come across as a very easily impressed kid at nine, yes. I was.)

My favourite character, though it may sound clichéd, was Gambit.

He must clearly be such a manly man that he can go around wearing hot pink leather without anyone commenting or making bad jokes.

Of the other male characters (yes, I was the age where anything to do with girls was auto eeew territory) could not relate to Cyclops or Wolverine, they being the charismatic leader and beserker killing machine respectively. I think I could relate most to Beast, being a (mostly) peace-loving bookworm, but obviously did not want to be blue and hairy and walk around in nothing but a Speedo all day.

Gambit, on the other hand, was mysterious. He never really talked, but when he did, had such a cool accent, and could make stuff (especially playing cards) explode by touching them. For some reason, thought this was the Coolest Thing in the World and wanted to be like him in everyway. Went around for a while saying stuff like ma chere and ruining perfectly good decks by throwing cards all over the place. How my mum put up with me, I don’t know.

COMICS AND X-MEN EVOLUTION

Have to admit, never really read the comics. Don’t think I even knew where to buy them, for one thing. Shame, they looked pretty cool, although the artists seemed to be on a mission to strip Storm down to a bikini every two issues. Someone has a fetish..

Also never watched X-Men Evolution for one reason: I HATED the idea of having Nightcrawler (one of my favorite characters) as an insecure teenager. Nightcrawler is gallant and confident, damn it! Talks and acts like a swashbuckler! Finds strength in his religion! Not an emo little boy worried about how he looks! And he seemed to have a crush on Shadowcat, which is oh-so-wrong because Shadowcat is clearly meant to be with Colussus!!!!

BAMF!

Yeah, I adore Nightcrawler. One of my favorite characters: his powers are cool, and he is a really complex character. And he’s devoutly Catholic! In this day and age, when a lot of the times, members of the Catholic faith are portrayed as either close-minded bigots or keepers of forbidden knowledge (I blame you, mr Has-Been Dan Brown!) its nice to have a positive portrayal of a man of the faith. Although he is blue and resembles a demon. Complete with pointy tail. Oh well. No one’s perfect. In fact, its for the better: good lurks in every form and shape, after all.

THE MOVIES

Well. First X-Men film was pretty cool, although it didn’t wow me. Also, used to Rogue being the sassy, confident Southern belle from the TV show, was a bit taken back to see her so shy here, though was no real fault of the directors. It also had Mystique, who faithful readers may remember I have quite a fondness for, and so, enjoyed that.

And it had Ian McKellan. As Magneto, coolest X-Men villain ever!

Unwritten Law of the Universe 2: Ian McKellan playing anything is automatically awesome. It can be Magneto or Gandalf or Strawberry Shortcake or Guy with Long Broom 3. It will be awesome.

Magneto I adore for the same reason as Nightcrawler: he has awesome powers (in fact, I think he could do anything if he really tried) but is also a very complex, twisted character. In some ways, he could be seen as the good guy: he’s an idealist at heart, and really cares for the mutant race, only so much to the point he is willing to destroy everything else. Which is an irony, considering his background as a Holocaust survivor.

X-Men 2 had three of my favourite X-Men characters: Mystique, Magneto and Nightcrawler. It was a pretty awesome show, and remains one of my favourites today.

X-Men 3 I do not want to talk about. I don’t know what the director was smoking, or whether he somehow hates me so much he aims to destroy everything I love about the series. He introduced DOZENS of mutants, only to give them each like 2 minutes of screen time and we never hear from them again. Psylocke! Multiple Man! Colossus! Arch-Angel! Juggernaught! Director Brett Rattner could have done so much more with each of them, such a waste of potential!!!

And seriously. I will not go into plot points like the Magneto’s pointless raising of a bridge, or how they defeated Dark Pheonix, because that would take too long. Why kill off Xavier, Cyclops and depower Mystique and Magneto??? And Dark Pheonix! Defeated so easily and embarrassingly she should never have been brought back from the dead as it is! I weep for X-Men 3. It has caused me much heartache. Between this and Max Payne, I have little reason to live.

WOLVERINE AND THE X-MEN

And, back to the show I’m watching now.

Its pretty cool, although Surfthechannel only has up to episode 9, and I’m desperately waiting for Torrent to download the rest, especially since episode 10 apparently has an appearance from Mystique.

Also glad as one of my favourite characters is part of the main cast:

I think its pretty obvious why I’m fond of Emma Frost.

But seriously: she’s a pretty cool character as well. A bitchy psychic who can turn herself into diamond. Awesome. Plus, she’s so much more interesting than Jean Grey, Cyclops’s OTHER girlfriend, who I have to say, I find boring at times. All she seems to be doing is dying and coming back to life as Pheonic or Dark Pheonix or Polka-Dotted Pheonix or whatnot.

(Btw, Jean Grey, Emma Frost..why does Marvel not give codenames to their female psychics? Is there some kind of discrimination here? Yes, I know they are technically Marvel Girl and White Queen, but they barely use those names, so they don’t count!)

So, there you have it. My tribute to the X-Men, best superhero team ever. They clearly rock my socks (and shoes, and in the case of Emma Frost, occasionally trousers) off.

Am now waiting for X-men Origins: Wolverine to be coming out soon, Gambit is going to be in it!

TEGENCE FIXES HIS LAPTOP AND MAKES ANALOGIES

2008-11-14T02:51:00.001-08:00

My laptop has been crashing like crazy recently. Which, along with laziness, will probably explain the lack of an update. Was very frustrating. My Internet becomes slower than a dyslexic sloth, programs don’t work, and the Blue Screen Of Death appears every ten or twenty minutes to put an end to everything fun I do. Party pooper.

Since I spend a lot of time on the Net (playing Online Mafia and writing and stalking Neil Gaiman on his blog..by the way his birthday was five days ago, happy belated birthday, Mr. G!) this was a colossal frustration and so pondered on changing my laptop. Unfortunately, I know just as much about computers as Paris Hilton knows about quantum thermodynamics. For me, RAM is a male sheep with big-ass horns, a processor is friendly Mr. Raju from down the road who works in Campbell Soup, and Firefox is the villain in the next Batman movie. (seriously though..Firefox. isn’t that a really cool supervillain name? He/she could have fire-based powers! And be part fox! Or be cunning like a fox! Or be foxy! Or have an army of foxes, all set on fire! Or work at Fox Studios! I think you get what I mean.)

And so, thought of buying a new laptop, but since I am poorer than Richie Rich after being blackmailed in the infamous Casper the Over-Friendly Ghost sex scandal, decided that perhaps a simpler thing to do would be to try and fix my laptop. Yes, I have almost zero knowledge of PCs, and the saying ‘seperti tikus membaiki labu’ popped immediately to mind, but decided it was better than anything else.

Did not exactly aim to achieve much. After all, I don’t exactly have the best history when it comes to battles with machines. My previous confrontation, the clash between the evil Duke Can Opener, in the fields of Reading (see older blog) did end in disaster after all. But I figured, its not like the problem could get any worse, and if my laptop did go wonkier than a psychopathic gorilla high on tequila, well, it could come in useful in other situations. You could close it and put it on a chair, to sit on if your seat is wet. And..well, can;’t think of other things. But you know what I mean.

So, since I had such limited knowledge, decided to just go the easy way first. Go to System Restore, find a date before the crashes started to happen frequently, and restore my computer settings to that date. Actually the closest thing to time travel I will probably ever do.

So I did all that, and waited. Did not expect it to work.

And so, was incredibly surprised when it did. Honestly, since the day I tried out that nonsense two weeks ago, my computer has not crashed a single time.

YEA!!!!
And lo, Tegence did triumph over the Adversary, the Blue Screen of Death
And restoreth he the systems of his laptop
And his is the Internet connectivity, the productivity
And the downloaded wallpapers of Scarlett Johansen, blessed be her hotness
Now and forever!

Alright, alright, blasphemous exaggeration there. But felt very proud of myself, hurrah! Did not realise fixing it would turn out to be so simple.

Got to thinking, though, after fixing the laptop.

If only real-life problems were as easy to solve as this.

Something happens in your life? Said something you regret? Committed a crime you know are sorry for? Ruined your life, or the life of a loved one? Voted for McCain?
If only it were possible to just System Restore your life: no matter how bad you screw things up, just return to a happier time before all that happened, and go on from there.

Life sadly, is more complex than that. We hardly ever get second chances, after all: mess up once, and you have to deal with whatever consequences happen, which sometimes feel way too hard to handle. God knows I’ve made my share of mistakes and mis-steps.

But then again, the past builds you up for you are now, after all. I like to believe in the idea of God’s plan, after all: that everything, no matter how bad, has a purpose and reason that will come together to create the best possible outcome for you. It does sound ridiculously optimistic (and this from me, to add!) but I believe in it.

To add, messing with the past always ends in disaster after all. Have seen The Butterfly Effect and countless other cheap science-fiction movies after all. Learn from your mistakes, move on, no point in focusing on them and wishing things in the past had worked out better.

But another strange thing that I have realized after some thinking: for the first time in quite a long time, I am actually very satisfied with my life. Honestly. These times are indeed some of the happiest I have ever been. Granted, its not perfect (5 hour weekend classes come to mind) but I have to say, this is the happiest I have been in a long, long time.

I live my own life in the way I want it to be. Though others may judge me, or I am misunderstood: I’m pretty happy with how I am now, my conscience is clear, and I’ve come quite a long way. And that is all that matters.

And that is all.

MAX PAYNE brings Maximum Pain..To my head.

2008-10-23T00:56:00.000-07:00

Well, I intend to stick to my promise of updating this thing, and so I shall.

Decided, that with new blog, shall do away with the archaic No Names Mentioned rule that used to dictate the old blog. So yeah, names will be mentioned, unless of course you want to remain anonymous. Of course, the only reasons you would possibly want to do so are if you committed a crime or are a fugitive from some organization, in which case, shame on you and I hope you turn back to the path of light soon.

Been good since the last time I updated. Josh introduced me to this lovely little British series called The IT Crowd, which is simply quite hilarious. The only other British TV shows I watched were Skins and The Mighty Boosh, and heh since it will take some time before they get a new season, shall enjoy this for the time being.

Went jungle-trekking with the church group. Lawrence planned the activity, went to Bukit Gasing for an hour of strenous walking, bad jokes and getting in touch with nature, most of it in the form of mosquitoes and flying insects. A bit amused that the place is called Hutan Pendidikan Bukit Gasing: was half expecting friendly biawaks or scholarly owls with professor hats to pop out every now and then, giving us lectures about the history of trees and so on.

Some of us were more prepared than the others: good old Nigel had even packed insect repellent and brought along 5 bottles of water, I almost expected him to have a fold-up tent and rocket flares of various colours in his backpack. (McGyver theme plays.)

Rained halfway through the walk: should have known better than to plan outdoor activities during this rainy season. Was effectively drenched from head to toe (oddly, most recent activities seem to involve me getting soaked nowadays), made our way to Sri Pandi’s, which may or may not have been (according to urban myth) the infamous restaurant where the staff put used underwear in their curry for extra flavour. (a thought we do not like to think about) Was extra hungry, devoured a plate of banana leaf rice, and discovered that I somehow remember every detail of the many short stories and poems we had to do for English and BM back in high school.

Computer been crashing a lot of late, been hurriedly backing up everything of sentimental value in there, especially the creative works. Been working on a Nanowrimo appendix/outline and a script for a future project, and it would be a shame to lose those after all the effort put into them.

Anyway, I recently happened to catch Max Payne, with my old A-Levels friend Priya, (HAPPY BIRTHDAY!) and my thoughts on it?

Hideous. With a capital H. And what the heck, I’ll capitalise the rest of the word also, just to emphasise how horrible it was: HIDEOUS. Oh wait. I’ll put it in slightly bigger font as well!

HIDEOUS.

And wait, I shall emphasise that further with several pictures!

I’m sorry, but watching Max Payne was just..uggggh. Honestly, soaking my brain in sulphuric acid and then passing it to a group of furious rhinos to play football with would have been a less painful adaptation.

Seriously. As a die-hard fan of the original Max Payne games, I am outraged and horrified, and would be protesting in the streets with banners and placards right now if not for the fact that I am a lazy slacker and the thought of even walking strains me. It was a complete train wreck from beginning to end: turning a wonderful game, filled with non-stop action and memorable characters into a sad, sad waste of celluloid. Everyone who made this film should be gunned down by game-Max Payne, with his constipated grin and all. And his double Uzis. And in BULLET-TIME, so the agony lasts longer.

Ok, I realise that sounded harsh. Sorry. But am just astounded by how badly they messed up the game. Which is weird, because when I was playing the game, a lot of times I felt I was in a gritty, dark action thriller. The game already felt like a movie; was it so hard to translate to the big screen?

And what did they do to Max Payne?? To borrow a joke from South Park, good Frodo, they raped him! They RAPED him! The game Max Payne is seriously badass! He’s cocky, cynical and talks in a stoned mumble that is ultra cool! He shaves with a submachine gun and eats the still-beating hearts of Russian mobsters for breakfast! (Ok, not literally. But you get the idea.)

Max Payne, Game-wise, anyway, is not like us pitiful lesser mortals! For example, take a situation of toast being burnt. You and me, being sad specimens of humanity, would probably say:

“Oh gee whiz, ho no, the toast is burnt! Oh no! It’s all smoking! Better find something else to eat!”

Max Payne, in the game, would say:

“I look upon the charred remains of my toast. Ashy, incinerated. Like the broken body of a martyr, chained to the stake by an unforgiving mob. I am strangely moved. Twenty bullets to the chest yesterday should have taught me to put my faith in no-one, let alone breakfast appliances. My stomach rumbles, but I silence it. There will be no nourishment for me on this cold morning.’

Game Max had attitude! He had personality! And here he is, played by Mark Wahlberg as a whiny, generic cut-out of an action hero.

A LIST OF WHAT I DID LIKE ABOUT MAX PAYNE.

-Some references to the game: the Roscoe street station was a nice touch, as was Gognitti’s Storage, though I would have killed to see the character himself make an appearance.

-Olga Kurylenko is certainly nice to look at, although I do not get why the scriptwriters wanted to change her name to Natasha. While I agree it does have a sexy name (so calling my unfortunate daughter that) Mona’s sister is LISA, damn it! Why did you have to change the name for??

-Cameo appearance by Brea Grant, aka super-speedy Daphne in Heroes, who I am strangely attracted to. She can give me a quickie anyday.

THE LONGER, MORE EXTENSIVE LIST OF WHAT I HATED ABOUT THE FILM

-Long and draggy. Too much talking. Not enough people having their heads blown off by shotguns in slow-motion. And the whole black angel thing was uninspiring and completely unnecessary; they should not have wasted their budget on those effects, and instead spent it on getting a better script or bullet time effects.

-For an action movie, action came only like an hour into the film, and wasn’t that impressive. Compare to game, where the ending is that you shoot a bloody SKYSCRAPER onto a helicopter, a picture of which should be enclosed into a satellite and shot into outer space so that extraterrestrials can appreciate how awesome our planet is.

-Mila Kunis is NOT Mona Sax, who is a seductive, femme fatale. Her acting is not good: every time I saw her I kept on imagining her as her character from That 70s Show: kept expecting her to yell stuff like “FEEZZZZ!!!” or “Groovy!” all throught the show.

-What is with the MTV actors? Seriously, was genuinely afraid that there would suddenly be a musical number out of nowhere; something like Valkyr is Like A Bird (It Blows Your Head Away). Nelly Furtado as Christa WHO?

Are you trying to tell me you cut out awesome characters like the one-eyed sinister Alfred Woden, the cocky Russian mobster Vladimir Lem, the comic book-loving Frankie ‘The Bat’Niagara, and the laughably pathetic Vinnie Gognitti to give us this character who appears for one scene and then vanishes? And don’t talk to me about Ludacris playing Jim Bravura, who was white, balding and middle-aged in the film. That’s like getting Chow Yun-Fatt as Harry Potter or Rihanna as Sailormoon (which is an interesting thought though, I have to say.)

-Why why why did they change Jack Lupino from a creepy drug-addicted madman constantly spouting demonic ramblings (“The flesh of FALLEN ANGELS!”) into a ninja Kratos from God of War?? This movie is Norse mythology, hello, not Greek!

-And the climax of the film: Max overdoses on Valkyr and successfully blows away entire SWAT teams, believing them to be black angels. Seriously, what is the message this film is expressing?? Kids, do drugs and you become super-strong and see cool dark angels everywhere?

Then again, perhaps the message is appropriate: maybe the only way to enjoy this nightmare of a film is when addled-up and completely stoned, after all.

(DISCLAIMER: Sanctuary of the Weird 2.0 does not advocate drug use. Take alcohol instead..its more fun!)

2008-10-18T21:03:00.000-07:00

RETURN.

Haven’t done this in a while, so it feels a little odd, coming back to the blog.

Why did I go on hiatus? Several reasons: firstly, I think the blogging was becoming too much of a routine, it was becoming for me more of an obligation than something I did for fun and to express myself. Second, a bad case of writer’s block: the words didn’t seem to come, and I tired of telling the stories of my life in the same way every week. And considering that same way was ‘in a style completely nonsensical and devoid of sense whatsoever’, I think I just needed a sabbathical, the creative genes were drying up.

Also, felt the need to withdraw myself from the world, keep a low profile for a while. Part of the weakness of a blog is that sometimes you tend to reveal too much of yourself to the world, something which I am not always fond of. I think people who know me well will realise this: while I adore my friends and try to be open as much as possible, there are parts of me I prefer to keep hidden, sides of my soul I prefer to keep guarded. Some people long for a friend who they can tell everything to and who knows them inside out; this is well and good, but for me that is the ultimate nightmare.

While I do enjoy social gatherings and stuff, deep down I am quite a private person, and I felt that previous entries in the old Sanctuary were giving people impressions about me that I was not too happy of. And so this contributed to my vanishing.

So why do I come back to it now? Maybe I miss it. The creative surge has come back, in part thanks to Nanowrimo coming up. These past few days, the urge to express myself has been overwhelming; perhaps that is why I feel the call back to the old Sanctuary.

So, an update of most that has happened over the past few months:

-Back from the UK, for good. Feel good to be home, yet I miss Reading and London. Especially since Halloween is coming up, a celebration that was celebrated in huge scale over there: I want to dress up in a stupid costume and make a fool of myself damnit. I also miss several people, the abundance of musicals, and of all things, the Oracle shopping mall.

-Doing my certificate of Legal Practice, which is headachey and no fun at all. Lecturers are a fatter, balder Indian version of Steve Carell and a droning old man in a turban whose lessons have subtle pro-euthanasia messages (eg. So BORING you want to just be shot and put out of your misery.) Classes are 5 hours on weekends, thus destroying my social and religious life. Am wishing I became a prawn farmer or a wandering hobo instead.

-On the bright side, doing freelance writing for The Star, doing book and theatre reviews, which I really enjoy. Nothing better that getting paid for doing what you love. Granted, had to sit through a truly atrocious play, and a totally dry book, but overall, experience has been really cool.

-Have learned that I apparently have a good bass voice, which surprised me as I thought the only thing my voice was good for was for scaring away wild beasts and bringing forth rain.

-Weight has ballooned incredibly since time in the UK. I can no longer describe myself as ‘skinny’, or ‘scrawny’. My so-called friends, wonderful as they are, have all taken to calling me ‘çhubby’ and ‘round-faced’, and my own dear father has taken to calling me ‘Fatboy’. Yet I continue being a lazy slacker and eating all the most wonderful foods possible.

-Have met quite a lot of new people recently, from church activities, camps, excursions and so on; and a lot of old people have left, from my juniors all going to Reading, and a good friend moving to Australia; to a town called Townsville, hopefully not to don a short dress and a hair-ribbon and go fight crime.

-Have read Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book. Not his best work, (nothing beats Sandman or American Gods) but pretty awesome. Dark and well-imagined, I think it would have been my favorite book had I first read it when I was 9 or 10.

-In the past month, attended a friend’s birthday which involved much pool-pushing and obscene photographs, was morbidly fascinated by ladyboys and red-light districts in Bangkok, enjoyed Malaccan durian cendol despite being a 500W figurative lamppost, discovered I really suck at Counterstrike, organised a potluck dinner, attended a funeral, and many other things, some of which deserved entries of their own, but am too lazy to recall everything. These few months have been the busiest of my life. Going jungle trekking after this, hope I survive.

Heh, will update about my life more the next time I blog. Till then, ciao.

WHAT IS THIS POPULAR FEELING OF BEING CHANGED FOR GOOD AFTER DEFYING GRAVITY?

2008-06-03T05:58:00.000-07:00

Warning: if you detest musicals, or do not want to have the events of the musical Wicked spoilt, do not read further.

It has been a very interesting week. Have had a number of epiphanies, been locked in my floor against my will, FINALLY watched Machine Girl, (possibly the best damn show ever), experimented with stuff that was a contravention of morality, partook in a Thai buffet that almost killed off a quarter of the Reading Malaysian population, and attempted a foot journey that ended up in incredible disaster.

But all this will not be covered in this entry.

And why? Because Tegence is extremely happy at this point.

Why, I hear you inquisitive souls ask?

Because a few days ago he achieved his dream of watching Wicked, a West End musical he has dreamt of watching ever since his days in Malaysia.

You see, in case you haven’t realized by now, I ADORE musicals. Seriously. I’m not entirely sure if it qualifies as a genre of music, but my laptop playlist is chock-full of songs from Disney movies, Andrew Lloyd Webber hits, and Sondheim tunes. I personally think a song is nothing if it doesn’t have a mind-stoppingly infectious tune, witty rhyming lyrics and context within a story.

I used to wish my life was a musical. Seriously. Who doesn’t want their life to be filled with elaborate show-stopping numbers and dance sequences? A world where everyone sing in perfect pitch and knows the steps to dozens of dance numbers? And where your problems, no matter how huge, can be solved by a rousing chorus of an appropriate song? (Final Examinations Aria/Not Enough Change for My Pizza/ Woe My Dog is Having Pancreatic Cancer, etc)

So I always wanted to see Wicked, which I’ve only heard glowing reviews about. All my friends told me how wonderful it was, and I had not read an online review which didn’t contain the phrase ‘orgasmically cool’ or some variation of it.

I also read Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, the book by Gregory Maguire that the musical was based on. For those not in the know, the book and musical is basically the story of the Wizard of Oz, but told from the point of view of Elphaba, the green-skinned, cackling Wicked Witch of the West, detailing all the events that turned her into what she is now.

The book was…extremely interesting. Turned the land of Oz from a happy colourful place into an extremely dark and ugly place. And don’t get me wrong, I like adaptations that show the darker aspects of children’s stories. In fact, I’ve done it myself (Enid Blyton and the writers of Archie comics are going to have a heart attack when they see what I’ve envisioned with their characters), but somehow..I feel Maguire overdid the darkening a wee bit? Seriously. What with the murders and rampant sex, and a scene where one of the characters gets publicly raped by a sapient Tiger in a bar, the book’s tone was a little too disturbing for me.

Keep in mind that coming from me, this is like an bat complaining the sky is too dark to fly in. But I’m glad the book got edited to be more family-friendly for the West End production. Because, honestly, it was one of the best damn shows I have ever seen. Incredible beyond compare.

And you, my lucky readers, will get to read about how I went to see the show. LUCKY YOU!!!!!! Yes, only here can you read about how I made it to the Apollo Victoria theatre in London to catch the musical. Aren’t you exhilarated already?

So, anyway:

Had been planning to see this for ages, as it was. But somehow, stuff always got in the way. Planned to go see it last semester, but working on the play Sepadu for Malaysian Night (which I regret not blogging about) somehow got in the way. And then came exams. Followed by the saga of the stupid Eye which you can read about in the previous entry. Does the Man Upstairs not want me to watch this, or something??

By the time the eye recovered, all the original people who were supposed to go with me went away on travels. So, called a few other people..only for them all to cancel at the last minute.

Bah. Go ahead and leave me, you people who know who you are! I shall have my vengeance by singing songs from the show at you at the top of my horrifyingly out-of-tune voice!! That will show you for abandoning me!

(goes to sulk and brood)

Anyways, point was, decided that I was tired of waiting for other people, and so decided to go watch it myself, poor sad pathetic little me. Ahh well.

So I left for the musical, early one Wednesday morning to catch the matinee show. They apparently gave first row tickets at cheap prices: apparently 24 seats in the FREAKING FRONT ROW were reserved for the people who came earliest.

And so, with a determination never seen in me before (if only I was half as motivated for my exams) decided: I will get those damn tickets!!!! By hook or by crook or by Peregrin Took, I was going to watch that show.

So, spirited me decided to go all out. Packed myself a breakfast the night before, prepared clothes in advance, prepared essentials: camera, rail tickets, wallet, phone packet of tissues (because I had a dark feeling the play was going to make me emotional.) Decided to get an early night for maximum enjoyment.

Unfortunately, the recent midnight-oil-burning for exams had fundamentally messed up my body clock (am going to have no problems re-adapting to Malaysian time, let me tell you that) and so, found myself unable to sleep! I think anticipation for watching the musical I had been looking forward to for years also played a part.

So, the next day, walked to the train station in semi-groggy state. Lack of sleep does nasty things to me. The way I walked made zombies look like aristocrats in comparison. Met a few people I knew along the way, who did not notice any difference. Not sure to be relieved or insulted.

Basically, reached the station, just in time to catch the second train to London. Unfortunately, spanner thrown in the works of my plan as there was a breakdown in the line I was planning to take and so had to go through alternate way. Damn it, why is it the Circle Line NEVER seems to work??? Honestly, every time I go to London, theres always a breakdown or a delay or a reroute or something. Ridiculous!!!! Is it the designated breakdown lane or something? Is it the work of gremlins, or Mole People?? Friend told me breakdowns apparently happen due to suicides throwing themselves on train tracks. Why choose the Circle Line then?

Anyway, this entry is not to contemplate the mysteries of the British Underground, which thanks to Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere I already know is a surreal, mysterious place. Well, a surreal mysterious place that keeps on breaking down and losing power at the most inopportune moments, with its many stations and interlinking lines making its tube directories look like webs woven by technicolour spiders high on crack.

Have newfound appreciation for the Malaysian LRT trains. They only go in two directions, and break down very rarely, and my only complaint with them is that they are too commercialised. A not sure I blogged about my previous experience with a McDonald’s sponsored LRT ride, with big pictures of foldovers plastered all over the walls and the announcer making lame references to burgers and fries every upcoming station. I swear, if the Burger King and the A&W Root Bear die and are destined to go to Hell, that train would be the one to take them there.

So, anyways, made it to the theatre, did not get the front row seats after all (sadness) but eventually got very good seats as well at nice little student discount. Its good to be a student sometimes. Yes, you slave away to fact memorisation and get your soul devoured from time to time by exams, but hey, souls are overrated anyway, right? (goes out to lie and cheat and steal and take candy from infants)

While waiting for show to start, journeyed to MAS headquarters to get ticket home validated (so fast, I go home in a month) and had lunch. Went to a little café for sandwiches and hot chocolate, was amused that every customer in the restaurant seemed to be flirting with the sole waitress of the place. French bus driver was offering to take her to visit his village (“just give me two days notice!”) and stated that he was not above blackmailing the local mayor to do so. Ah, the wonders of love.

And no, did not flirt with the waitress. She was too old for me. And lack of sleep dulls my sharp and ready wit, which no one seems to understand anyway.

Went to Victoria theatre after that, where had my mind blown in a way I had never experienced before.

Wicked was AWESOME. Seriously. Incredible, the best damn musical; nay, the best damn show I have seen in my whole life. The stage design was fantastic, the actors magnificent, I could spend twenty pages describing all that went right with the show, from the incredible singing to the shiny clean floors of the theatre washroom. Rarely have I enjoyed myself this much.

Wicked is surprisingly, a lot like the other musical I’ve seen here, Hairspray, in which they both are themed around people that are usually misunderstood and ignored getting their chance to finally shine. Both involve dashing (if slightly air-headed) love interests initially linked to overly perky, shallow blondes that give the lead character trouble at the start. And while Hairspray championed the rights of the black people, Wicked, well, featured a movement started by a green woman.

But I enjoyed Wicked a lot more than the also-awesome Hairspray, don’t know why. There was just such a wonderful atmosphere to the story, an air of wonder and delight that made it hard not to smile as the show went on. L. Frank Baum did after all create a memorable world of munchkins, winged monkeys and ruby slippers, and to see another side of it, backed up with glorious music was just awesome.

And the songs..geez. Am embarrassed to say this, but they made me all teary eyed. I blame bloody Defying Gravity. Why does it have to be so touching? Seriously, everytime I hear Elphaba go: “I’m not afraid..its the Wizard who should be afraid”, I feel a lump in my throat and the urge to bawl like a little sissy schoolgirl. That song is doing damage to my masculinity!!!! Affects me in ways I just cannot understand. Seriously. If you ever want to torture me in pursuit of information, just tie me up and play that song, prefably the Idina Menzel version. I’ll be an emotional wreck in seconds.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, For Good shot an emotional torpedo right into my already ravaged heart. Beautiful stuff. More tear-inducing. Damn, in a way I’m glad I came alone..if my friends saw me, they’d never let me live it down!

Just to set the story straight: I am not one of those overly sensitive male SNAGs that burst into tears everytime a butterfly flies by or a baby laughs. I am a manly man who eats steak and doesn’t use moisturiser (at the detriment of my face) and ogles Megan Fox like the rest of you people. Its just that, like Superman has kryptonite, everyone has his weakness, and mine is the bloody musical! And if I am emotionally affected, I weep MAN TEARS! Yes, man tears! 23% higher in testosterone than regular tears! Which can be used to strip paint off furniture if distilled! And cure syphilis if combined with ginseng!

Anyway, entries that damage manly credibility notwithstanding, enjoyed show very much. Developed crush on actress that plays Nessarose, she had such a sweet voice.

Nessarose is obviously the ONE ON THE RIGHT. In the chair. My fetishes have not yet developed to the point they involve bald men in robes. (Bald women in robes, though..)

From there, ended up waiting 40 minutes outside the theatre waiting for cast members to sign autographs. In the rain. If that doesn’t make me a fan, don’t know what does. Good-looking actor playing Fiyero got mobbed and screamed at by assorted teenage girls, and videoed by their middle-aged mothers. Lucky man. Talked to other Wicked fans, many of them were repeat viewers, two girls were watching this show for the FIFTH time. Could see why though, because honestly, the show was a thousand kinds of awesome. The only thing that makes me slightly creeped out was the realization after the show that a million fan-fiction writers are probably writing Glinda-Elphaba femmeslash as I type this. And that’s disturbing.

Went home after that. Sat on train next to two gruff looking biker guys in leather. Would have been intimidated if not for the fact that they were discussing loudly which country Paddington Bear came from. (Biker 1: “If he’s REALLY from Peru, why do they call him Paddington?”) See. I’m not the only one losing masculine credibility.

Musicals are the best thing about this place. Seriously, the arts here are really flourishing, and the plays they stage always awe me. It’s a shame Malaysia (though its working hard on it) doesn’t have the same capability to launch long runs of shows like this, and all the major productions all never go there. (Where do they go? Bloody SINGAPORE.)

Next mission: to watch Les Miserables, the musical that started my love of musicals in the first place.

THIS ENTRY BROUGHT TO YOU BY ODIN-ONE EYED.

2008-05-16T10:29:00.000-07:00

Some of you may be aware, that due to my interest in Norse mythology, I often use this nickname, OdinOne_Eyed, as an online handle, particularly when I want to leave comments anonymously (if you think it sounds weird, be thankful I didn’t choose some of the more tongue-twisting Norse names out there: I could have called myself ‘Jormungand87’ or ‘ShipOfDeadManNails’, for all I can tell.)

Apparently, though, I should have known better than to choose this nickname, because thanks to karmic justice, I became one-eyed for a brief couple of days. Sadly, this did not come with the incredible wisdom that the Norse god I’m named after gained with the loss of an eye: all I got was excruciating pain, the loss of a chance to see a musical, and the fashionability of a failed pirate.

I originally wanted to blog about a great number of other things: more movie experiences; a rather interesting discovery in my room (which will get its own entry, you can be sure of that) and a REALLY REALLY interesting night I had, but due to pressing urgency, and to enlighten the world about how it felt to be in near-darkness for the few days, all of the other posts shall be put aside. So here I am, doing my bit for charity.

(Me, putting Nick Fury to shame. Thank you to my friend Alvin for making my ‘prosthetic’ SERIOUS eye, so people can take me seriously.)

So, how did this saga start? I have no idea.

Doctor told me it was probably due to a foreign body entering the eye, which I eventually rubbed too hard to the point that I ended up ‘tearing my cornea.’ If you think that sounds painful, that’s because dear God, yes it was. My left eye felt like there were a hundred needles, made of barbed wire, lodged deeply within my pupil: opening it made me feel that someone was jabbing a scimitar inside for good measure. I may be a masochist, but damn, even I have my limits!

And bright lights..oh my sweet monkey ankles. You could have kicked me in the crotch while wearing blade-embroidered stilettos and I would have felt less pain. Seriously. Agony. Ended up tearing like mad: the last time I cried this much was at the last episode of Skins. Poor Tony. I think he secretly likes Sid, but Michelle would kill him if he tried anything funny.

(On an unrelated note, Skins is a pretty awesome British TV series. Yes, the storylines and characters make as much sense as a five-legged purple rhinoceros in a tutu and top hat. Yes, its as realistic as V.K. Lingam’s phone-call defence. Yes, the amount of profanity and sex would give my priest a heart attack. But its addictive, somehow, the people are nice to watch (I love Cassie, and Effy is just smoking!), and any show that features a theft of a coffin leading to a high-adrenaline car chase through the streets of Bristol, all set to Britney music, is good in my book.)

Anyways, I digress.

Point was, my eye was hurting to the point of scream-inducing excruciation, and my friend Joel was so nice to accompany me to the clinic. Was very nice of him, and am very grateful, because I would probably have been run over within minutes without help, due to my condition.

See, my right eye was fine, but opening it all the time put a lot of strain on it, and with the pain from the left eye being so intense, it was easier to close both. Which meant I was effectively blind. Me, if I were a Night Elf, and a million times more awesome.

Was relieved after getting to the clinic, eager for treatment. First time I had become sick in this country, and so was looking forward to receiving first-class, efficient medical treatment.

..only to find that the doctor could not see me now because I did not have an appointment. Was like WTF???

Medical service here, while free, seems extremely bureaucratic: no appointment, no treatment, try not to bleed too much while you wait, it ruins the carpet. Wanted to cry, but eye was tearing so much it wouldn’t make any difference. Lucky, a patient cancelled, and so I could see the doctor at 1.10 pm..

About half an hour to go.

Which proceeded to be the longest, most ridiculous thirty minutes of my life: what could I do, but stay in the hospital waiting room, hand clutching tortured eye, resisting urges to curse. Not like I could even read a freaking magazine.

At that point, was just left to my imagination, which is horrible due to how hyperactive it is. Seriously, I have the most morbid imagination ever: it comes in useful when thinking up stories involving intestine-ripping murderers and soul-sucking gypsies, but when it comes into conflict with my other side of my personality, my hypochondriac side, it becomes a tragicomedy of epic proportions.

Became extremely paranoid about my condition. How serious was this? Did it need surgery? Was something growing in there? How badly was it infected? Did they need to remove it? Was I in danger of becoming blind? Would I never be able to see ~~porn~~ beautiful sunsets again?

I blame House. Every episode, its somebody with some freakish disease or another: no one ever has the flu or a cold or too much gas; its always flesh eating bacteria or psittacosis or Jamaican monkey syphilis or some horrific ailment. Does horrors to my imagination.

Lucky, doctor was not as sarcastic as Gregory House, although I was not the most cooperative patient..she couldn’t really examine my eye very well because I found it very difficult to open it, due to mind-shattering agony.

Not much she could do about the eye, so she referred me to a specialist at the Royal Berkshire Hospital nearby. “Get thee to Eye Casualty, stack,” she did say, and I left.

While we’re at it, who the HELL put the ‘casual’ into ‘casualty’? As if life-threatening illnesses are things to be laughed off. Whose sick joke was this????

Anyway, after a LONG walk to the hospital, and finding the ward through the labyrinthine passages of the medical institution, FINALLY found the damn place, where the nice doctor treated my ailment, giving me some nice anaesthesia which numbed the pain. Ahh, that’s the stuff.

She also wrapped my eye up in a patch, which I couldn’t remove for a day. Patch was made of white cotton, sadly not black leather: no chance of being manly through my illness.

So for the past few days, have been mostly resting poor tired Mr Eye..quite dull. The worst part of your body to injure is your eye: anywhere else, you can still pass the time by reading or watching TV or something. But your eye goes, all you can do is sleep..which you can only do so much of. Spent most of recovery time in room with the lights all turned off, feeling very much like those tortured emo geniuses you see on TV. All throughout the UK, girls are going about in little skirts and tops, and here you are unable to see them. Curses. CURSE THEM ALL!

Was equally pissed because was supposed to go down to London on that day, to watch the musical Wicked, now have to postpone, sigh. Watching Elphaba and singing munchkins wouldn’t have the same effect with a single eye. It could have been worse: I’m just glad I wasn’t planning to see the London Eye. That way, if the pain in my cornea didn’t kill me, the tragic irony definitely would have.

Just glad this didn’t happen DURING my exams, thank God for His grace. How horrible that would have been.

Friends and housemates very nice and helpful all through my injury, helping me cook and such. All the same, hard to carry out conversations when you can’t look at people: the worst part is if they unexpectedly leave or change position: this usually ends up in me delivering long soliloquies to the air and discussing Neil Gaiman with the walls. Am glad no one took advantage of me this way, hahaha.

Only good part about this was that it apparently improved my sadly-lacking fashion sense: housemate found it "very sexy'. Yay fashion accessory!

The eyepatch is off now,though, as the pain is gone, and I am glad for it. No side effects: no X-ray vision or optic blasts of doom, unfortunately. Oh well, maybe next time?

Seriously though, the saying is true: you never appreciate what you have till its gone. Thank God for my sight. The world is a beautiful place, and I should be thankful that everyday I can able to take in so many wonders all around me.

Heh, I’m off to ogle sunbathers. Ciao!

STUFF I ENJOY, STUFF THAT MAKES ME SUFFER AND ETCETRA.

2008-05-08T15:26:00.000-07:00

Stuff I enjoy: MOVIES!

Lesson of the day: Iron Man is an awesome film, but trust me, the wrong film to watch before a Company law exam.

Why?

Scene God-knows-what of the film:

Sexy Reporter: (pissed) Why did you sell these weapons to terrorists??

Tony Stark: I didn’t sell weapons to terrorists!

Sexy reporter: Well, your company did!

Tony Stark: I’m not the company!

Me (from audience): He’s right!!! Salomon v Salomon, decided by the House of Lords!! Seperation of corporate personality!

I think its safe to assume I have lost all semblance I have to a life. Especially since I can relate two other instances in the film where a company law case sprung to me upon watching. DAMN YOU exams.

Seeing quite a lot of movies lately to destress.

If you didn’t know, by the way, I am a HUGE movie buff. I used to hit the cinemas almost every week back in Malaysia (where tickets do not cost an arm and a leg), traverse the pasar malams looking for the best DVDs, and currently write film reviews for my university newspaper (best bit is free movie entry!) Will watch anything, although enduring chick flicks often drives me to near cuckoo whoop-de-hooness.

21: not a bad film, Kevin Spacey is always entertaining. Though I think a lot less people are going to want to enrol at MIT if Kate Bosworth is supposedly ‘the hottest girl there.’ No offence, great actress and all, but her face somehow puts me in mind of a duck crossed with a horse. The fact that all the characters in the film seem to be falling head-over-heels in love with her makes me worry that being incredibly good at math seriously affects your taste in the opposite sex.

Harold and Kumar 2:I swear, these are less movies than they are hour-long marijuana commercials. Neil Patrick Harris really rocked this show, as he did in the first one. Was pretty funny, especially the George W. Bush parts, but somehow lacked the more unexpected and over-the-top humour the first one did. Many jokes predictable, repeated, or weakly developed.

Sweeney Todd: Good God, what took me so long to watch this?????? Pure awesomeness, from start to finish. Great story, killer songs, incredible performances. Oddly enough, there is a pie shop on a street near Reading town called Sweeney Todd, although the owners are nowhere as charismatic, and have never burst into song to see me.

Come to think about it, the Lebanese man at the grocery nearby is fond of singing every time I visit him..I think I’m going to think second thoughts the next time I buy my mincemeat. (for those not in the know, btw, have become quite fond of making beef pasta. Time-consuming to make, but rewards are worth it).

Upcoming trailers review:

Chronicles of Narnia: Earlier readers of the previous Sanctuary will know I adore films about ‘little children discovering themselves in fantasy realms’ (sounds a bit wrong), and I am a huge fan of the Narnia books, and I have to say, I get goosebumps everytime I see this trailer. Bloody hell, griffins! And that river god appearance at the end..incredible.

Yes, I know the Narnia books are more about the Christian way than big old fantasy battles. But they just look so awesome..

Batman: The Dark Knight: I just keep getting reminded of what a waste Heath Ledger’s death was every time I see this. Poor man. He was so gifted.

Wanted: Concept is interesting.But James ‘Atonement’ McAvoy as an action hero?? What next, Hugh Grant as a horror movie villain??

Hancock: Why, of all the titles to give to your film, do you choose this one??? Honestly!!! Firstly, no superhero is going to get respect with that name. Secondly, my corrupted mind makes me think of all kinds of unwholesome behaviour every time I hear that name, a fact not helped by the fact that Charlize Theron appears in the film.

Stuff I don’t enjoy: EXAMS!

It has been a gloomy, depressing month of mostly confining myself in my room or the library with my wonderful textbook friends. Exams are no fun, particularly final year, where the combined effort of three long and arduous years comes down to how well you can write a freaking essay.

First paper was Jurisprudence. To say it was bleak and depressing would be the understatement of the millennium. This was so even though it was a seen paper with the questions prepared for us in advance. Our lecturer, huge and massive like a fire troll, but cunning as the Midgard Serpent (yay Norse mythology metaphors) absolutely REFUSED to tell us how many of the seen questions would come out (resulting in more frenzied guesses and estimates than an entire season of Deal or No Deal) and nicely set the paper so all the straightforward, popular and predicted questions were all nowhere to be found. She’s apparently known for doing this, my seniors tell me. Gah. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been eating her young and burning virgins at the stake as well. (Seriously, wouldn’t put it past her.)

Intellectual Property was alright, although there is nary a scrap of anything remotely intellectual in the sad property that is my mind. Looked fervently for the question of Breach of Confidence, my favourite chapter, only to find that the evil examiners had combined it with a question on Patents, aka the Big and Bulky Confusing Topic that Only the Criminally Insane Would Try and Tackle. Oh Reading examiners, why do you hate me?

Company Law. Not a bad paper, the examiners had apparently used up their sadism quota on the last few papers, so no nasty surprises, thank God.

Had Criminology today. Attempted question on feminist theories of crime. Got stuck with a mental blank halfway. Panicked momentarily. Prayed for inspiration. None came. Got desperate.
In the end, resorted to a last-minute approach: filled up my essay with information I had learnt from reading the seminal Y: The Last Man. Because its hard to be more feminist than a comic about how women deal with the deaths of every male but one on the planet.

And they said nothing good would come out of reading comics. Sheesh.

Etcetera

Spring has also hit the United Kingdom. Our days are FINALLY longer than our nights! The sun is shining, flowers blooming everywhere, and little showers from the sky that hit you every time you go out without your umbrella.

It is also FREAKING HOT!!!!!

But Teg! I hear you protest. Weren’t you whining and moaning in the previous Sanctuary about how gloomy and cold the UK is, and how you missed the sunny smoke-filled skies of Selangor???

Well..yes. But you know what they say..a man is never satisfied. Plus, after getting used to walking around in bulky jackets with the equivalent weight and fashionability of a cow, you can’t blame me if I get pissed that I now have to unlearn all my valuable adaptation skills.

To add insult to injury, to add salt to the wound, to add necrophiliacs unto the remains of a mass genocide, it seems the UK is undergoing a heatwave that will go on for awhile, yesterday was apparently the hottest day of the year.

Oh joy.

The British however, love the hot weather. Seriously. They love tanning, sunbathing; the grassy meadow near the campus library is packed with pale sporty Brits on mats and plastic sheets, reading or playing Frisbee or chatting or generally being British. Guys also walk around with their shirts off, making it feel as though I’ve wandered into a Ralph Lauren commercial from time to time.

And the girls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Holy mother of macaroni, the girls!!!

Wandering around in the barest of dresses, wearing tiny little shorts and even tinier tops, good Frodo, the eye candy level is so high I’m spoilt for choice. SERIOUSLY. How on EARTH am I supposed to be studying for exams when there are these exquisite specimens of incredible hotness wandering around in clothes that would be tight on a Barbie doll?

(You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is yet another sinister plan by my Juris lecturer to destroy me..)

I’m sorry if I sound lecherous, but seriously..MAN. And I’m enjoying this IMMENSELY, unlike a friend of mine whose name I will not mention..haha, you know who you are.

Looking at this eye-candy (and trust me, I do), it makes me wonder how we survive in my conservative homeland where despite the blistering heat, we go about with our usual clothes, when here it seems that people would die if you banned them from shorts and T-shirts. To say nothing of the Malay fellas who go about in long baju kurungs and headscarves and so on. How did we survive?

I wonder if my parents will let me come back here again next spring, to take in once again the wonderful ‘sights’ of the country.

My heart is filled with newfound love for this wonderful United Kingdom. Spring REALLY brings out the best in it, hahahhaa.

The Virgin Post

2008-05-02T17:33:00.000-07:00

Well, finally decided that a return to blogging should be marked by a new blog. And so here I am, on Blogspot.

I'll miss Xanga. Not the most user-friendly of all systems (indeed, this blog layout looks very promising), but heh I spent 4 years on that site, and I'm going to miss it a little bit. The blue background and polka dots on this layout seem strange, but it seemed to be the only one with a decent colour scheme (no offence, but are the layout designers in Blogspot colourblind joy-haters? Every other one looks so bland and off.)

I'm sorry about the lame tentative blog title. Sanctuary of the Weird 2.0. Bah. Like some programmer's fancy codename. Also feel as if its false advertising: lookie here, brand new improved blog! Second edition! Funnier jokes! Handsomer pictures! No more sad attempts at poetry! No more Minesweeper fan fiction, Lord of the Rings slash, or Harry Potter parody!!

Sorry to disappoint..of course, it is just the same old blog, same old nonsense, written by the same old me, except with possibly more British accent due to the year in Reading.

So will think of a snazzier blog title one day. What can i say, I like the name Sanctuary of the Weird. It suits me and this blog. No desire to turn it into, say, Archives of the Arcane, or TeggIe's WoNDeRfuL LifE, or anything like that soon.

But for now, not in a very creative mood: indeed my mind is forced to devote its workings to remember as many Criminology studies and Company Law statutes as it humanly can. Exams for those in less than a week, and the amount of knowledge in my head is sadly lower than a midget at a limbo contest.

(Yes, the return of the bizarre analogies! Don't say you weren't warned.)

So pray for me that my exams will be passed and I don't go mad from the stress. Will return to regular updating hopefully by the 12th, the last day of the exam, and a date of Freedom, glorious freedom.