The B.I.N

2012-01-11T00:27:00.000+08:00

Crack!

"Goddammit! I think you broke my nose!"

Or at least, that's what she thought he might have said. It was a little hard to tell what with all the blood gushing from his face. Sara thought she might have broken his nose.

Which was completely fair considering that her hand felt like it had gotten broken in the process as well.

Sara was quite aware of the spectacle she was creating. Not exactly the smartest idea to carry through on, especially on a pirate ship one found themselves forcefully dragged onto. But she never claimed to be the smartest bird around. Or at least, she never claimed to be the most self-disciplined.

Besides, Sam (henceforth to be known as jackass) deserved it.

"Nice to see you too, Sam," Sara drawled, rubbing her knuckles tenderly.

"What the hell was that for, missy?" She was getting better at understanding him.

"No idea. I just got this sudden urge to deck you across the face. Considering that the last time we saw each other you ran the hell away and left me abandoned to the cops, I can't imagine why. I guess you just bring out the violent psychopath in me."

Sara imagined she must look somewhat psychotic too, after that sweet little speech of hers. Maybe the whole grinning and sickly sweet voice thing wasn't such a good idea. Then again, maybe the pirates would simply just kill her and throw her overboard if they thought her to be crazy instead of... anything else.

"That was a mistake! I thought you were going to follow me!" Sam cried out in his defense.

"You jumped off a building, Sam."

"And into the sea! You would have survived too!"

"There were sharp rocks below. And it was storming."

"Well, I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"Yes. Unfortunately," she replied drolly. "All those months of wasted grieving, thinking you had died, which I could have used more constructively trying to get out of the mess you left me in. Bloody useless gambler."

"Hey, I am not useless!"

"Ah, but you don't deny being a gambler. I got thrown into debtors prison because of you!"

Just thinking back on it made Sara feel like punching him again. Screw the bloody pirate crew and their scowling, bewildered captain. She'd throw herself overboard without fuss if it meant getting another whack at her former best friend. That bloody bastard.

"Aw, c'mon missy! I got you out now, didn't I?"

"Correction. I got myself out while you nearly collapsed a tower on top of me."

"That was a mistake!"

"Indeed." A roll of the eyes belied her disbelief on that claim. Then again, Sam had never been the sharpest sword in the armory. It might have actually been an honest mistake.

"How was I to know you were held in that section of the prison? I thought you were in the other wing!"

Then again, maybe not.

"You were actually planning to collapse a tower onto the prison?"

"Well, yea. Got the job done dinnit?"

"...Sam. You collapsed the tower onto the female side of the prison."

"Well, yeah!"

"Sam. I. Am. Female."

"Well, yeah. I figured that out." His nose had stopped bleeding by then. And it didn't look all that crooked either. Just a mighty good deal swollen. Damn. "I just sort of forgot at the time."

"Indeed." Sara wondered how Sam had managed to survive among these pirates. After all, they were the notorious Blacks. They were known for their cunning, their ruthlessness, their stealth. Their lack of stupidity.

Shit. She was fucking screwed.

"Ahem." Apparently, the captain had grown tired of the show. And he didn't look all that pleased.

Sara finally turned around to look properly at the captain. And felt instantly faint.

There before her in pirate captain garb was the cheeky, new guard from the prison. The cheeky, new guard from the prison that she had kneed. In a very awkward place. Very recently.

Perhaps he wouldn't remember her? After all, don't pirates knee each other regularly or something? Wasn't it some sort of regular, brutish greeting among them? Surely he would forget her little transgression, right?

"Miss Sara. We meed again." Or not.

"Um, hi?" At the very least, he would surely have forgotten her little parting shot at him. After all, it was not her fault. He was the cheeky little bugger who decided to get fresh with her. He deserved that knee-ing. And really, what was a little cursing and goat-calling to a pirate? Surely he would have forgotten that at least.

"Is that all, Miss Sara? Hi? Not as eloquent as the last time we met, are you?" he drawled. "What was it you said last time? Something about an uncle's goat?"

"Ah..."

Shit. She was so screwed.

This was all bloody Sam's fault.

Riding trains with cats

2011-08-04T15:20:00.001+08:00

"I'm back."

"Hey. How was the trip?"

"Ah, so-so. Normal, I guess."

"Ah."

"Trip back was interesting, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I saw a cat ride the train."

"What?"

"I saw a cat ride the train."

"... it was on top of the train?"

"No-o-o. It got on and sat on the seat, looked out the windows, and got off two stops before mine."

"...Seriously?"

"Yeah. A cute li'l thing with a black spot on its left ear. Bit snooty, too. Didn't give me so much as the time of day when I tried making small talk."

"... you tried making small talk?"

"Yeah. You know, nice weather we're having, do you ride the train often, want a cat treat? That sort of thing."

"... you offered it a cat treat?"

"Yeah. Not that it responded. Ngeh."

"I see."

"... hey, you think I can teach Charlie to use the train, too?"

"Um, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"...Jo, Charlie's a tiger."

"Yeah?"

"People are normally scared of tigers."

"Oh yeah. ....Damn."

2010-10-17T18:40:00.004+08:00

She couldn't breathe.

Not surprising since the last blow had fucked up her ribs. It was hot, and the ground beneath her was hard. The sky was hard to see with all the smoke and dirt in the way. She thought it might have been blue. Might have been grey.

She figured she would die sooner or later. Really, it was bound to happen in her line of work. She'd been prepared, been preparing, for it for years. Never got too close to people, never collected knickknacks, had a fresh will every six months.

She just never expected it to be so slow!

Or so painful.

Whether it was the messed up ribs that hurt or her lungs starving for oxygen or both she couldn't tell. She just knew that it hurt like a fucking son of a bitch and it figures that somehow she'd fine some way to die slowly and painfully when everyone else got shot in the head without too much problems.

Fuck it! She wasn't ready to die yet!

If fate or death or god or shit was going to give her that much time to think before dying then she wasn't fucking going to yet. Screw preparation. She was fucking going to live!

As though in answer to her call--it was silent, all in her head really since she couldn't fucking breathe--someone had come. And someone had found her. And someone was breathing for her.

It felt weird having someone blow down her throat. It was warm and earthy and tasted of dust and gunpowder. She felt her chest rise and fall on its own and it felt weird. Her nose was pinched and her head was laid back. Air kept wanting to escape through her nose but the pinching forced it to go down instead. It was uncomfortable. It was weird.

But fuck, it felt good.

2010-10-14T15:40:00.003+08:00

Warpaint,

Staccato beat--

A trailing cape of black.

Red lips,

Straight back

Firm, unhurried steps.

Soft breeze,

Steady counts--

Piercing, unwavering stare.

Long legs,

Toned arms;

She marches off to war.

~~~~~~~

Watched a show about a woman who battled cancer. She was quirky and interesting and called her red, red lipstick her warpaint. I just found that awesome.

2010-06-28T10:40:00.003+08:00

It was not a dark or stormy night. Nor was it especially sunny. Instead, it was one of those cloudy days where the weather was ambiguous. Would it rain or would it clear up? Was it going to fog that night or would it be clear skies? It was also not conducive to everyday activities. It was too damp for the laundry to dry, too cold for a leisurely stroll, too hot for tea. It was, in short, a dreary, dull day. Almost enough to keep all creatures, good and evil and the in between clear in their holes.

Almost.

Evil laughter rent through the room. Loud and echoic considering that the room was of the large, cavernous type with musty books, like those one would find in an old library. In fact, it was an old library. With only books, shelves, a few dusty tables and chairs, a silent librarian within. Well, and a visiting demon.

An awkward silence followed the laughter, occasionally interspersed with the flip of a page. The demon, named Damien after Hell's greatest idol but preferring to go by Dan in the Upperworld, cleared his throat. The librarian looked up.

"I am here to tempt you, mortal!" exclaimed the demon, a hand on his hip and the other pointing at his victim in a pose reminiscent of superhero cartoons.

The librarian blinked.

"Ahem, yes, well... I am here to tempt you," repeats Dan, his voice considerably lower at his victim's subdued response. Not at all what he was expecting, but then again, one shouldn't try to second guess librarians. Screwy, the lot of them. Must be from being stuck around old books all the time in dim light, he mused.

Again, another blink. It was really rather annoying. It was slow and owl-like; mocking.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Dan was starting to get annoyed. His patience was being tried with all this obtuseness and lack of dramatic response, not that demons were made with much patience to begin with. Still, what little he had, and he did have some (certain evil deeds required years of plotting and waiting and cumulating), was being used up.

A pause and then, "Would you like some help finding a book?"

"Um, no-o-o. I would like for you to listen to me as I plant the seeds of evil in your soul, hopefully tempt you well enough to commit evil deeds and watch as your soul falls to the darkness!" The demon finished with an excited flourish.

"... books on Theology can be found in Aisle I-6, myths on Hell in Aisle H-6, and demons in Aisle J-6." Her voice was monotonous and her expression bland.

Dan had a feeling that this was going to be a long assignment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've basically been reading Good Omens during my free time and it really cracks me up. I love the humour and the writing style of both authors combined appeals to me more than their usual, single authored books. At any rate, I was reading in the bus on the way to Stonestown today and it struck me: What if a demon like Crowley who's not exactly evil evil tries to tempt someone who's too stubborn to bother to give in?

I had a vague idea of a drabble that would span several years of witty conversations and an odd affability between the two. Somehow though, the mortal turned into an oblivious, possibly amoral, robot and the demon a greenhorn.

Ah well, perhaps another time. I also tried to give the piece a different feel for each character's personality with short sentences describing the librarian and more scrambled, long-winded details for Dan. Not sure that worked. Meh.

Oh, and these are all just 'notes to self'. I tend to forget what the hell I was thinking when spewing forth this stuff after I've published them, so I think I'll add little notes at the bottom to myself from now on.

Hard earned cynicism

2010-06-13T10:20:00.002+08:00

"You really should try to be a little more trusting, you know."

"What, and waste all my years of hard earned cynicism? Perish the thought!"

"We're partners now. There has to be trust for this to work."

"Partners. Hmph. Not by choice, that's for sure."

"Still, we're stuck together. And if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer knowing that my partner trusts me when I'm crouching in dirt and dodging bullets."

"Trust, boy, is earned. You haven't earned mine."

"But I do have a chance of it?"

"...sure. But it won't be easy. I worked hard for my current level of cynicism, you know. It ain't easy to overcome."

"Hardy har har. You're a regular stand-up comedian, aren't you?"

"I try."

2009-12-18T11:32:00.002+08:00

The first recorded speculation on it dated over three thousand years back. The philosopher was labeled a heretic.

The second oldest record she could find on it dated five hundred years back. Such a vast expense of time between the first record and the next left her bewildered, and concerned. This time, it was proposed as theory not speculation. The theorist was murdered three months later. Local papers of the time blamed it on a robbery turned violent. The words used to describe the theorist, however, belied the truth of the matter. The Guild had gotten involved.

Times might have changed, tolerance levels wavered and increased, minds become more open to ideas; but she knew the truth. She could never tell anyone what she thought and saw--it would be the death of her. Figuratively and, most likely, literally. the Guild might be hundreds of years old, but it still held strong.

Still, it pained her. Watching as friends, family, strangers became entangled and doomed. Strings invisible to others' eyes glow almost menacingly to her. Menacing, because no matter their beauty, they almost always became entangled in a wrong pairing. The results were usually disastrous.

She knew because she had seen it on a daily basis when she was younger. Her own parents struggling against each other just as their strings struggled against their entanglement. They lashed out with words, sometimes limbs; yet they never understood why they did so. Neither were cruel to her--they loved her well. But they detested each other.

When she was younger she thought it was the norm. She watched as friends and schoolmates suffered milder entanglements. They would always start off loving when their strings trailed freely behind them. They would always suffer break ups when their strings became entangled. Like a knot of tangled hair, the more they pulled, the more they hurt. Yet they didn't know how else to sever the binds that had formed. It was all she knew, and she thought it the norm.

Until the day she met her history teacher.

The man was mild mannered and patient. He was neither young nor old. He knew his facts enough to teach but would never be a historian of much worth. But most importantly, he had a string that curled and twined around another in gentle harmony--his wife's.

They were a lovely couple. Both rather plain, both a little dull at times, but to her, their strings were miraculous and beautiful. They were a revelation.

Years down the road she learnt to keep her thoughts to herself. To do otherwise was too dangerous without the cover of childhood imagination to shield her.

And it was such a pity. So much a pity.

2009-07-11T12:16:00.002+08:00

Let me tell you something I hate. I hate it when mindless, clueless idiots come up to me and tell me not to smoke. It's bad for your health. You'll get cancer. It ruins your lungs. Yeah well, I don't fucking care. Why not? Well, I'm going to die anyway, so why not see which one kills me first.

You try standing on a battlefield and getting shot at. Knives held to your throat, shock waves from explosions throwing you around like you're nothing, heat searing at your skin; you try facing that and then tell me that smoking's gonna kill me.

It's like a test, you know? Which one's going to do me in first--the usual violence of a battlefield... or some two-bit piece of cigarette?

Lung cancer? Fuck. Mercenaries don't really give a damn about that stuff. We worry about the next bugger who's coming around the bend with an automatic, we worry about being blown into bits of flesh, we worry about our own mates turning around and stabbing us in the back for an extra buck. Cancer? Fuck that.

If I'm going to die, I might as well tempt fate, right? See which one kills me first. Fuck, if I go down because of a damn cigarette, it'd be a hoot. Won't it? Of course, fate's so damn screwed up that it just might happen. Like with Jones.

That guy, he goes through the whole ten years of service. Started off a foot soldier and worked his way up to platoon leader. Not bad, you know. He didn't really like it, but that's life. You get called in, you get shot at and bombed at and knifed at and you deal with it. He was good, that guy. He didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't gamble. He walked a straight line, but that didn't mean he was a hard ass on his boys. He knew when to look elsewhere and he knew when to shout the ears off a recruit.

So, ten years he spends on the field. Straight ten. He goes through the motions and finally his time's up and he gets to go back. His girl had given up on him about two years in, but he still had his family, some friends. He plans to go back and leave all this fuck behind, get a job, get a dog and a car and the whole pretty picture. He goes through ten years of crap and he goes home. Two months later we hear he died. You know how? He was eating dinner, a shrimp salad came, and he choked. He spends ten years on a battlefield and he dies because of a fucking shrimp!

If that isn't screwed up, I don't know what is.

So yeah, I smoke. And fuck you if I give a damn about it.

Silent

2009-05-24T15:45:00.003+08:00

She had been hurt badly.

Her right eye was bandaged and she had to wear glasses to help with her depth perception. Her neck had been riddled with scratches and cuts. It was horrible. We never noticed how slender it was before then. The red slashes across it was startling to see. Her arms were bandaged, her right one covered all the way to her fingertips. They said she got it while saving a child from the fire. Such a small person carrying so many wounds--it made her look so fragile.

Three days later and she was still smiling. She didn't blame the boss for giving away her position and indirectly causing her pain. She didn't complain about her wounds She just kept smiling.

We didn't know what to do.

It happened two weeks later. She had just gotten her bandages changed. It was rare for the doctor to do it in front of us. After the first time, she made it a point not to let us see her wounds. I think she felt bad about worrying us.

The doctor had left and she had been about to return to her room. She had that dazed look in her eye again, like she was thinking about something else. She was smiling. But she wasn't. We all wanted to go to her, we were all too afraid.

Then, he broke out of rank.

He held her, told her the words we all wanted to say but didn't. It's ok to cry when it hurts. I'll be here for you. You're not alone.

She cried. It was slow in coming, but she cried. She cried long and hard, but all through it, she didn't make a sound.

That night, watching her cry so silently in his arms, was heartbreaking.

2009-05-07T12:47:00.002+08:00

"Here."

"...Thank you."

"Ah, yes."

Christopher stared at the young, battered woman before him. She had fallen through his doorway that night when her date had hit her hard enough just outside his door. Needless to say, he wasn't quite pleased with the man and had helped him take his leave of the premises.

Not knowing what else to say, he sat in silence across from his sudden guest. Her bottom lip was split and her left jaw was swelling. She held an ice pack against it while her other hand held one to the back of her head. From the force of the bang when she had hit his door, he expects nothing less than a small goose egg of a lump. He would have brought her to the police but she had declined.

"You're probably wondering why I went out with such a jerk, huh?" Her voice been a mere whisper but in the awkward silence it sounded loud to his ears.

"Ah... Um..." he stuttered uncomfortably. True, the thought had crossed his mind, but he wasn't about to ask her outright. Shifting in his seat, he fell silent again.

"...I met him through an acquaintance. I don't usually date, but I guess--" her voice trailed off and she lowered her right arm, "I took a chance and got burned."

"Um... I, ah, don't quite understand," he replied, his voice just as soft as hers.

"Ah, I suppose not."

Both fell silent again, and Christopher realised belatedly that he didn't even know the woman's name. Afraid of startling her in her state, however, he decided to remain quiet. If she was anything like his sisters, she would talk when she was ready.

"Life... is so much easier to control alone."

2009-04-19T15:36:00.005+08:00

It was night by the time he returned home. The day had been long and the students a tedious lot that couldn't seem to grasp the most basic of concepts. He had been teaching for twelve years now and yet there were still times when the utter ignorance of a batch of students could astound him. He could only comfort himself in the knowledge that his spouse felt the same.

His spouse. His wife.

Lord, it had been three years and two weeks to that day since he had been able to call her his wife. He still couldn't believe it at times. It was a blessing to be sure, since the both of them had fought mercilessly with each other when they first met, the arguments eventually mellowing into a friendlier sort of banter. Still, it had taken over five years of dancing around each other like pubescent imbeciles before their mutual friends had finally gotten sick of it all and shoved them at one another. Literally. Before shutting them into a locked room for three whole days. He still got a twitch above his right eye everytime he thought about it. They were grateful for the wake-up call, of course, but that didn't mean they had to condone the rather drastic measures forced upon them.

Glancing up from his musings, he glimpsed his wife swaying to a soft ballad. They hadn't been able to find much time together lately, with both working long hours and being in different departments across campus. On top of that, she still worked during nights at the pub she and her partner had started years before. He rather missed being able to dance with her, both simply swaying aimlessly to music, comfortable in each other's presence.

Staring a little longer, he saw his wife move fully into range; and stared. She wasn't dancing alone. No, in her arms she held her pet tiger upright, swaying with the giant feline with a soft smile on her lips. They made an odd picture, her tiger far taller than her arched slightly forward in order to use her as leverage to stay upright while his wife swayed from side to side in time to the slow music. The tiger didn't seem to be very happy about it, but nonetheless acquiesced.

Feeling a smile tug at his mouth, he entered his home. Perhaps it was time he cut in. After all, he owed his wife some much needed bonding time.

~~~~~~~~
The dancing with animal scene was inspired by Marley & Me.

2009-04-13T09:05:00.002+08:00

I hate you.

These lands, these people--I hate all of it so much. There is only so much tolerance one can have for selfish, ignorant ingrates. There is only so much patience one can have for the weak who would fear powers they have no inkling of. And there is only so much silence one can stand of the injustice wrought upon one's self.

What gives you the right to judge me when you are so little yourself. Weak creatures who would come begging for help at a moment's weakness but would turn their backs just as fast. You who cannot realise your own happiness and would take it from others instead. What right have you to judge me?

You would not compare your son to your daughters nor have yourself compared to your brothers. Yet you would judge me against my twin, and see me as less imply because I am different? Am I worth so little that I am only valued for what little service I might be to you while you would hold my twin in exultance? I will not stand for it.

Am I of such little worth? Then why bother to ask me for help upon your fields? Why ask me for assistance among your books? Am I really so worthless that I may only be judged against my sister's shape and form? Am I worth so little that I cannot exist as my own? Hypocrites!

You have wronged me for the last time. You who have taken and taken and taken and done no giving in return. You and all of yours below you, you and all your hopes before you--you will wrong me no more! Never have I known such anger. Never have I known such loathing! And, oh how I loathe and seethe and tremble with rage.

You who would protect my twin without a second thought yet would turn your backs so easily on me without a second glance? Have I not been patient? Have I not been kind? I might be darker than my twin but that is simply me. You who have sworn to protect this village have abandoned me. You who have sworn to come to arms against all enemies have forsaken me. And you, who have sired me and sworn to love me, you--you have dishonored me. I shall not stand for it.

Let it be then that this lands be barren. The earth I have toiled, the trees I have fostered, the water I have tamed, let it be that none shall come. Your greed shall be your downfall, your ignorance your shame. I cast this earth into the darkness upon my name; you shall have no future and no mercy. And you and yours are to blame!

There will be no curse. There will be no game. No breaking point, no reprieve; nay! This is your penance, your fruit and end. You shall live within these boundaries, working this land with nothing to spare your from fate's cruel hand. Upon my blood, my name, my soul, I hate you! And so shall it be that you and yours shall die. The sun will always shine, the wind will always blow but nothing, no rice, no grain, no rain shall come and you shall never leave. Have you and yours perish for what has been committed. Have you and yours pay with your blood for your sins. Just as you would have done to me for something I was never guilty for.

My hatred as my witness, you shall die!

2009-03-28T12:04:00.002+08:00

Inspiration, meet Hiatus.

Hiatus, meet Extended Vacation.

Extended Vacation... why can't you ever meet me?

2009-02-10T16:50:00.003+08:00

She was broken.

A small slip of a woman, already gone through a hard life that was made all the harder with disappointment, betrayal and violence. Her beloved had not trusted her in the face of controversial rumours, and her subsequent heartbreak had led to a downward spiral of events. Her capture and subsequent abuse by her own blood had left her a broken shell.

She didn't sleep.

Her back had been left a mess of tattered skin, black and blue and bleeding from too many whip lashes to count. Her body was malnourished and her what little unblemished skin she had unnaturally pale from lack of sun. She might have been broken, like an animal mistreated, but she still had her fear. She couldn't lie on her back from the pain and she wouldn't lie on her stomach for fear of exposing her back to more abuse. To lie on the her side was still too vulnerable. Instead, she curled up in a corner with her bleeding back to the cold stone walls, her head to her knees and dozed. Her hands clutched her legs together, tightening her into as small of a target as she could manage.

She couldn't talk.

Lack of social contact and fear had broken her to the point of silence. What use was her voice to her when all her screaming and crying and weeping and pleading had fallen on deaf ears? What use was her voice when her words of truth had been ignored by the one she had most trusted? What use was her voice when she had no one to answer back to her questions; not even the God she once believed in? Disuse gradually became a habit and then an affliction she dared not let go of.

She didn't see.

Her eyes couldn't remember the light, having been locked within the dark cell for close to three months now. The lack of food made it all the harder. She could still see the figures of men when they brought a torch with them, and the tiny rats that scuttled away in fright. But she didn't see any of that anymore, preferring blindness to the darkness and gloom and utter hopelessness that surrounded her.

She didn't feel.

She felt the fear. It was always there, a soft, never-ending feeling at the back of her mind, always stronger whenever a sudden noise was heard. But everything else, her joy, her passion, her sorrow, her anger--it had all died down to numbness. She felt none of the utter dejection that gripped her when she first learnt of her beloved's betrayal, nor the anger at her kin. She didn't feel the need for vengeance that came with her fright, nor the self-pity she was swamped with the first month in the cell.

And so it was, that when her kin's enemy found her, she didn't feel as she stood over the bleeding corpse of her father, no remorse, no anger, no triumph. So it was that when she was treated for her wounds she didn't feel the pain that burned her back as it was cleansed nor spoke to her new saviors. So it was that when she was given her own room, secure now in their holding, their kindness assured to her, that she did not sleep on the soft down bed in the middle but curled herself against the corner; the door within sight at all times, her back protected by stone and her new knife within reach at all times.

And so it was, that when her beloved came looking for her, begging for forgiveness and a second chance, that she stared at him with dead, hollow eyes and walked past without a word. Behind her, her new saviors stayed silent, watching the play of regret and anguish wash over the newcomer's face at the sight of her.

But when she returned with a satchel in hand, filled to the brim with rocks chipped off from the walls of her previous prison, and hurled it at her once beloved person with all the rage and fury and anguish and scorn of a betrayed, abused woman, she felt for the first time in years. Watching as her satchel hit its target, as her saviors stared in awed shock, watching as her old lover backed away from her, she felt it.

Triumph.

Fury.

Vengeance.

Indifference

2009-02-07T11:37:00.002+08:00

She sat alone.

Under the old willow tree by the lake, beneath the darkened sky, she sat alone. Approaching her from the west bank, he hesitated. It was still so strange to him to see her sitting alone, her face free of expression and a gun at her side. Her hair had been cut brutally short and her outfit was of a dull, sturdy material. The practicalities of a warrior with no hint of the cheerful young girl who loved her frivolous sentimentalities--that was what he faced.

She didn't glance up as he sat down next to her, but her ever tense shoulders was indication to him that she was aware of his presence. She was aware of everything, it would seem, ever since the change happened. Aware and capable of springing to attention at the slightest provocation, but without an expression to be seen. He had wondered the first night if it was all merely a stoic front and if she were still the passionate person he knew within; and three weeks later, he still wondered.

He pondered the wisdom of out-and-out asking her about her situation, and he knew that she knew he hesitated. Still, she said nothing, as though she cared not for his thoughts. It was one of the changes he was most uncomfortable with. It used to frustrate her whenever he second-guessed himself, and now it frustrated him.

He finally blurted out, "What is it like, to not feel?"

Tilting her hewad towards him at an angle, she remained silent. It became obvious to him that she wouldn't answer and he mjentally smacked himself for his incompetence. Of course she wouldn't answer, he had just asked her to perform a paradox--to explain what she felt when she couldn't feel in the first place.

Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he forced himself to think his words over carefully this time. "I mean, do you find it odd to not feel anything?"

Mulling the question over, she replied, "No."

"Oh."

He felt at a lost, and finally asked the one thing he wanted--no, needed-- to know. "Do you... still remember everything from... before?"

Finally turning toward him, she stared straight into his eyes as she answered impassively, "Yes."

His intake of breath was harsh in the night. Clenching his fingers to control himself, he asked, "So you remember our childhood together?"

"Yes."

"You remember your parents?"

"Yes."

"Our school?"

"Yes."

"Our old friends?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what it was like to feel?"

"...no."

He could feel his heart shattering at the monotonous, indifferent answer. His childhood friend, his confidant, his sister; any hope of getting her back was slipping away.

"So... you don't feel anything at all? Not even when you remember the times we had together? Not even a little?"

Turning back to sky, she remained silent. Just as he was rising, convinced he had been dismissed, she spoke.

"It isn't that I cannot feel. I am still human. However, what I feel--the best manner of description for it is indifference." Although she answered in a monotone, he listened to every word with relish.

"I remember my past but I do not experience the emotions that come with the memory as many others do. It is like watching a film in my head, moving pictures and scenes unfolding before me, people interacting with each other and what appears to be me; but it is all done without feeling. It feels no different than watching a fly land on the wall."

Turning to stare him in the eye, she finished, "It is simply indifferent curiosity to me."

Puppet Strings

2008-12-18T14:03:00.003+08:00

He never liked puppets.

Even as a child, he never liked them. At first he thought it was because he could never control them well. Then he thought it was because it was too much work maintaining them. They're strings always got tangled up and one had to struggle to move it properly.

But now he knew--he didn't like the idea behind them. To control something, to bend it to your will, to map out its destiny and fate; it was all so wrong. It felt wrong.

Perhaps he empathised with them. He had little control over his fate as a child. He had little control over his fate as an adult. He had little control, period.

Everywhere he turned, there were puppet strings. Always, like a cosmic joke, he would find them. And so many times did he find corrupt, evil individuals behind everything. Puppeteers with little thought for others. Puppeteers who thought of people as nothing more than things. Pawns, toys, pests, drones--they had been reduced to nothing more than numbers and a means to an end. It didn't matter if they died. It didn't matter if they cried. They were tools to be used.

He hated it.

Even as he was now he knew he had little power. But he had tried so hard to control his own fate. He had tried so hard to help others. And he had decided enough was enough.

It had been a fluke. One small drug ring had revealed one end of a puppet string. And the further he followed, the more strings he found. It was no longer a mere puppet show now. It was a web--a web of puppet strings being pulled by something he couldn't even begin to fathom on his own.

So he had gone rogue. He hunted down each lead and found more. He hunted and hunted and hunted.

And finally, he had found him. The puppeteer. The bastard puppeteer.

But even now, he wondered, what should he do?

2008-09-27T21:50:00.002+08:00

Gods she was tired.

It had been a hard day at the school. One of her best students had ended up dropping out due to personal reasons and a fight had broken out between two boys over a girl. Of course, the blokes just had to have friends throw punches on behalf of them and it had taken a good two hours to break everything up and get the culprits into the clinic. She just had to be one of the teachers on discipline duty that month. Then there were the reports to finish by tomorrow. A whole slew of dribble to drag herself through. Honestly, why didn't these kids think before they put thought to paper?

By the time she had finished, she was dead tired.

All she had managed to do was to drag herself up the stairs and onto the couch. Chantal below had taken one look at her and nodded. It was a mutual understanding between them that she would be out of commission that night and that her partner would handle things below. Thank goodness for small favours.

Groaning in misery, Jo resigned herself to her misery. She was sporting a marching band in her head but was too tired to get up and try to find the painkillers.

Curling on her side, she grimaced with every throb of her head. Suddenly, a weight settled itself along her side. The unexpected warmth had her curling around the form. A deep purr she felt more than heard had her muscles relaxing. rubbing her face in soft fur--Chantal must have given him a bath this morning--Jo felt herself drift.

There really was nothing that could beat the bliss of experiencing the warmth of an animal. Both literal and metaphorical. No judgements, no admonishments, no questions. Just undying, unlimited love.

Snuggling closer to the purring tiger, she slept.

She was content.

Poker-faced Warrior

2008-08-31T08:37:00.004+08:00

They were swarming the castle.

Like flies to a feast, they are, the prince thought. And they're just as pest-like as flies!

He was holding himself up remarkably well for a prince of his age. Cutting down enemies left and right, he felt very much like how he imagined his father would have felt like twenty years ago. Of course, every time he cut another man down, one of his comrades appeared to take his place. Already, the palace guards' numbers had been reduced to half, and he could see the remaining men tiring.

They were losing hope.

That much was sure. And who could blame them? The invading army had breached the castle with little resistance. There had to be a rat somewhere, thought the prince. And if, no when, I finish this, I'm going to find that damned rat and make him pay!

His ailing father had entered the foray. He felt like screaming in frustration. How could he possibly protect his father and himself with these numbers? Pah! Lady luck surely had it against them. And his father! What was he thinking? He should be in bed, not in battle. What would the kingdom do if he were killed? Fall apart, that's what! Pah!

Truth be told, the king was faring rather well for an ailing man. Yes, his swings were a bit slower and his jabs slightly sloppy from exertion, but he stood with his back straight. Truly a king to the very end. Prideful old man, thought the prince. People would surely talk about this for decades.

'There he was,' they'd say. 'The king of the red house of colours, fighting valiantly to save his kingdom, even when he was ill, don't you know? Back was ramrod straight, too. And I'm a thinkin' his eyes had a glint of battle in them. Aye...'

They'd undoubtedly turn it into a bittersweet romance should he die. And turn it into a legend should he survive.

And then chaos entered in the form of his mother. This time, the young prince did scream in frustration. A manly scream at that. There was his mother, the queen, rushing into the middle of the battle towards her stubborn husband with no care for herself. PAH! What the hell does she think she's doing!

Two enemy soldiers pounced upon what they perceived quickly as weak prey. She screamed in shock at the men's sudden appearance, and the prince made to move towards her but his opponent was tenacious. Before he could even call out for help, however, the queen took matters into her own hands. Slap went her arm, and down went Goon #1. Kick went her leg, and there was Goon #2 in a puddle of pain. Privately, the prince winced in sympathy for the last goon.

Well, they'll be making a saying out of that one for sure. Never underestimate the power of a queen or some such thing...

The next the prince glanced up, the first knight was standing between his mother and the fray. Thank God for that. The man was a good fighter and seemed to be covering for his father as well. The prince knew to be able to count on their Ace fighter. He was the best.

However, even the best few cannot work against sheer numbers. The enemy seemed to grow in size and they swarmed the courtyard like locusts upon a field. They were just as devastating as well. The battle between king, prince and ace knight had been moving progressively backwards into the great hall. With them was the queen, who had contributed several more slaps along the way.

An enemy had managed to give the knight a wound to the arm. Some few feet away, the prince was quickly tiring out. And further towards his left, he could see his father faltering as well. The king's face was white against the red of his tunic, such a stark contrast against the black invaders' colours.

A foreign knight was holding up his sword towards the wavering king. It would be a killing blow, surely. And just when it seemed things were dire, out came Lady Luck and with her the jester.

And so ended the battle, with the red colours flying proud and the jester hailed hero.

"Jo?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you always frown so much at the cards during poker?"

"Oh... no reason. Just, thinking about a battle story."

2008-08-17T17:23:00.002+08:00

"Argh!"

"Oh my god!"

"Johanna!"

"Gack!"

"What the fuck is going on!"

"Get it off me!"

"Good lord..."

"Jo! My god!"

"Get it off get it off get it off get it off!"

"She's turning blue!"

"Get him off her!"

"Get the monster off him first!"

"Gruggglrg..."

"Chantal, grab Charlie first! Sergei, grab his other leg!"

"Good grief, the monster's growling!"

"Doesn't matter, fool, just grab the bastard!"

"Hurry!"

"Gaaaaarg..."

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! Oh God, please, I'm sorry!"

"Charlie, get off him!"

"Hurry up, Chantal!"

"Bastard! What the fuck were you doing?!"

"Are you alright?"

"Gah..."

"Breathe, Jo, breathe."

"Sergei, call the authorities please. And Chantal, I believe you can let go of Charlie now."

"No! Don't let go! Get it away from me!"

"Bastard. I ought to let him rip you to bits!"

"Nooooooo!"

And that is how the police found them when they finally came. A growling tiger on top of a snatch thief, a very bruised Jo with her head between her knees, a tutting Sergei, a snarling Chantal and a scowling Artreus.

Just another day in the little harbor town.

2008-06-08T20:35:00.006+08:00

" Chantal, why are you crouched over that disgusting math book again?"

" I don't know actually; I'm not even that good at the damned subject." She pointed at the indignant-looking column of crosses that stretched over the entire page. " There's just something comforting about looking at the numbers. Something I never get when I read other kinda books."

" Well, I've never gotten used to the idea of anyone wanting to read that," Jo spared Chantal's grammatical mistake a pained side-long glance before sitting down in her favourite plush chair. "But each to her own, especially if it makes her happy."

" I don't know about happy.." Her words trailing off into a small chuckle, Chantal picked up a pen and began attacking questions obviously beyond her comprehension. " But it has a strange kinda satisfaction.. You know, when I get an answer and everything sorta fits into place, and I know that there's only one right answer and no grey areas.

I like the feeling of being in a world of pure reason. I like the feeling of not really feeling anything. I like having to rely on nothing but logic.

It may be cold in Math, emotionless, detached from the blood and tears of the human condition. But it's safe in here for them reasons, and I kinda like it."

She glanced up, catching the curiosity in Jo's face before it turned into amusement.

" I know I'm not putting it very well.. Ah, I'm no good at explaining these things." The fire in the room was already flickering, throwing a parade of dancing shadows on the wall. Chantal got up and prodded the logs, watching the flames with an autumnal smile.

" I guess it's no wonder I'm in love with a subject where I don't have to explain anything."

Battle

2008-05-27T21:24:00.000+08:00

“So, how did it happen?”

“I...don’t really know. It just—“ hesitant hand gesturing in an effort to describe “—did.”

“What happened exactly?”

“I’m not sure. One minute I was trying to shove a wolf off me, the next minute I was staring into golden eyes.”

“Eyes?”

“Yeah. They were the most surreal things in the world. They glowed; like in the movies, except brighter. It was like staring into the flames of a fire, it just...captures you.”

“And?”

“I felt calm. On fire. Sleepy. Euphoric. Everything imaginable. It was like a sensory overload.”

“Then?”

“I heard this voice in my head. It kept telling me to come to it. To follow it. To follow him. It was so tempting. There was this feeling of everything being perfect, being alright, if I were to follow. No danger, no wolf, no worries about the rent, no expectations to live up to; almost like nirvana.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Follow?”

“Yeah.”

“...I... It’s hard to explain. It’s like there was this little feeling in my gut telling me not to fall for it. The feeling...it grew. And before I knew it, I suddenly remembered my dad, and how he was the nicest person on earth to everyone else but his own family. And...I just pushed.”

“After that, when I woke up there wasn’t anything around me except for a bunch of leaves and...and the scary part was that I was so far away from the woods where the wolf was. Where I fell.”

“...You were in a fairy circle.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what the locals called it. It looked more like a bunch of mushrooms growing on their own crack to me.”

“So it really was a Fae...”

“Call it what you want. That...thing looked... Oh I don’t know. Maybe I swallowed some of those mushrooms in the woods when I was wrestling with the wolf and somehow stumbled there. You know, got a little woo woo in the head on those stuff.”

“Hmm...”

“I don’t believe in magic, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“...”

“What is it?”

“It’s just...ironic I guess. I mean, let’s just say it was real, hypothetically of course.”

“Of course.”

“Well...it’s just ironic that my shit ass father saved me. I mean, he couldn’t care anymore than the next stranger if I were to drop dead. Heck, that stranger would probably give more of a damn. He’s that much of a fuck head.”

“He hurt you.”

“Yeah well, no big deal. Just ironic, ‘s all.”

“Hmm...perhaps, hypothetically, your experience with your father, having been distasteful, helped you built a stronger character which in turn helped you win that battle with the Fa—ahem, with the hallucination.”

“Huh...what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, maybe. I mean, I guess it’s true. People just gotta remember to include a footnote for possible insanity with that strength though.”

“Ah...indeed.”

“So...battle with my hallucination, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“Why ‘battle’?”

“...Because I have a feeling you haven’t won the war just yet.”

Goodbye to Hell

2008-05-21T18:49:00.003+08:00

This will be disturbing, so I'd suggest to those with a queasy stomach or overly sensitive sensibilities to leave immediately. Press here or go do your own stuff. Just remember, I warned you.

Today, I killed.

I learned how to make the home-made bomb off the internet a few months back. I had gathered my supplies from around town in small quantities. And after a bit of trial and error in miniature, I put together an explosive large enough to damage a five meter radius; the exact size of my school hall.

It is—no, was—prom night tonight.

In the middle of everything, in the one of the overhead lights obscured by strips of ribbon and balloons, I hid the explosive. It was set to go off at 11.35pm when the maximum amount of people would be attending, just before the prom king and queen was announced. It did.

Lord, how I revelled in it.

They didn’t know what hit them. They didn’t have time to scream. There were a few stragglers in the gardens, true, but those were damaged well enough from the debris. A large smouldering pile of rubble, with over a hundred either dead or dying within.

It was beautiful. It still is in my mind. And why shouldn’t it be?

I had rid the world of some of its worth filth.

They were nothing more than dirt. Laughing and smiling with each other in such a jovial manner, and yet sneering and kicking and punching and hurting someone who had never wronged them. What did I ever do to them besides exist? What did I ever do to them ?

Nothing.

All I did was sit at the back of the class; I never told on them when I saw them pull pranks on the teachers. I wasn’t the smartest there. I never wore pretty clothes. I never raised my voice, never even talked to them. I did all my work when it came to shared projects.

I never did anything.

Yet they continued to taunt the poor, little, orphaned girl. They did not tease. They bullied. They weren’t people. They were demons. My very own little demons.

Well, now they’re dead. Little pieces of flesh hanging from the shrubs and rubble.

Lord, I love it so.

Five years of learning from the cruellest, most inhumane bags of filth has all come to this. Five years of torture every single day for doing nothing more than being there. Five years of taunts, and kicks, and slaps, and insults.

I learned from the best. And I exceeded them.

My present to my teachers, the most beautiful form of complement I could ever give them—a painful, messy death.

There won’t be any open coffin funerals for those within the building when the bomb went off. Oh, I feel so good. So at peace.

They won’t find out it’s me of course. After all, I had “moved” to a whole separate state three weeks back. But oh, I do so wish I could tell them. Why should anyone grieve them? They are nothing. They always were nothing when they still lived; I simply made sure to send them off appropriately.

This feeling within me...

Such bliss.

Just a thought about how some people must feel surrounded by hell throughout some part of their life. I'm not condoning violence; just saying that there's always a consequence to ill-will.

Adieu

2008-05-18T16:55:00.002+08:00

The Diary of Sakura H. Wells.
Final Entry

It would seem that my life as God’s unwilling punch line for the past two and a half decades has taken its toll on me. I am, indeed, depressed; and heedless of the fact that I am a medical student, I am going to ignore the procedures of dealing with Major Depressive Disorder for my own brand of permanent treatment.

I do thank all my friends for sticking with me through thick and thin, especially after the disasters that have happened one after another to me. I do love all of you, I’m sure; some logical part of me certainly knows that I do. It is simply unfortunate that I can’t seem to feel so at the moment, and if anything, that is the worst dishonour I could bring to all of you. I so apologise for that.

What little belongings I have I leave to all of you. You may split it however you wish to; I simply hope that you do not argue over my worldly things. They are hardly worth the heartache. I bid you all adieu and the best of luck in life.

To Ursula S,

I apologise for not being able to uphold our contract to each other. It would seem that I am indeed an inappropriate subject to be used as inspiration for your... romance novel. I am, admittedly, not the common person who goes through life at her own pace and, as such, would likely not be a character to appeal to the masses. I return to you the cheque that was issued to me as promised at the beginning of our agreement. I trust it is unnecessary to tell you that you may keep the last half of the payment as it will not be necessary.

I do feel obligated to make up for my obvious faux pas, however, and leave a copy of my diary to you for reference. You may still use whatever material you have gathered so far on me as reference if you so wish. Nevertheless, it would seem that if you do persist to use me as a reference point of your main character in your upcoming romance, it will have to end up a tragedy.

Sincerely,
Sakura Wells.

2008-03-27T19:46:00.003+08:00

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"...what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Jo."

"...I just came back from Martha's."

"And?"

"Her cat just died."

"Oh."

"Yea."

"Martha... ain't she the cat-lover lady?"

"Yea."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

"..."

"I was just thinking, I guess."

"'Bout?"

"How she must feel."

"Hmm."

"I mean, that cat was all she had. And i can't imagine losing Charlie."

"Mm..."

"It'd be... it'd be like a lover with no love.

"It hurts."

"Aa."

"I feel sorry for her."

"It's not so bad."

"Why?"

"Ain't the end of the world. 'Sides, she'll see the little fluff again. Ain't no way she won't. So buck up."

"..Hmph. You're nicer than you let on, y'know that?"

"Shove off."

2008-02-18T00:02:00.001+08:00

Rain.

So many things happened on rainy days like this one, where the darkness overwhelms even the bravest of souls and the wind outside howls its displeasure at the world.

Sitting in the darkened room, the only source of light the dim gas lamp on the table and the occasional flash of lightning, Johanna contemplated the irony of her life. A lot of things had happened before—great fallouts with people that should have been there for her but never were, humorous little incidences in the face of struggling adversity—but this really was the icing on the cake.

How they had found her she wasn’t even sure. She had been careful to cover her tracks as best she could, and with a partner and friend who used to be a SkyPirate, that almost equalled perfection. After all, Chantal had only the best on her connections list.

Why they had even thought she wanted to be found, and for this reason of all things, simply stumped her. They knew that she hadn’t been home since she left, had even been disowned, yet they had still sought her out. After splitting what was left of her inheritance between them and liquidising everything beyond recovery, of course. She wasn’t surprised about that.

Staring at the urn before her in consternation, she was reminded of everything she despised about her blood family. Cunning, greedy vultures; they would kill just about anyone for a drop of gold. It didn’t matter to them that they already had enough riches to feed a thousand hungry mouths, they still wanted more. Greedy, gold-suckers.

Her hand itched to upturn the urn, to hurl it and its contents out the window, to howl at the utter injustice of the world. But no matter how many times she reached out to do just that, a niggling feeling of remaining loyalty halted her hand.

Sighing in defeat, she stood. Calling her pet to her and pasting a smile on her face—it was starting to get tiring, this happy act of hers—she braced herself for the outside world. Turning back one last time, her lips curled in a wry smile as she glanced back at the urn.

Irony of life, huh dad?

The wooden door closed soundlessly behind her.

Stray Entourage

2008-01-11T20:33:00.001+08:00

"Johanna."

Jo resisted the urge to roll her eyes in vexation. She had long given up trying to correct Artreus' habit of calling her by her full name. "Yes?"

"I've been meaning to ask you this for a while now... How did you come to have Charlie as a pet?" he asked, giving the lounging tiger a sideways glance.

Jo paused before looking up from the stack of essays she was grading. Looking at Atreus over the rim of her glasses, she lifted a brow in question.

"I mean, it isn't usual to simply buy a tiger from a pet store."

"You really want to know?" she asked. At his nod, and Sergei's beside him, she gave a brief quirk of the lips before replying, "Believe it or not, Chantal found him." Behind the bar, the woman in question stiffened slightly before busying herself with unwashed glasses.

Twin looks of disbelief met her at her answer.

"It's true!" she replied, resting her glasses on the stack of papers before her. "It was back in the day when she was still an officer on board the Fleet and I was studying for my teaching diploma. She used to have strays following her all about the place every time she docked." Jo couldn't help but laugh at the memory.

"Strays?" asked Sergei.

"Yeah. They would just trail behind her like an entourage of furry animals. She must have had some sort of 'animal-lover' aura about her or something, because every damn animal would go after her. There was once a poodle ran out of some rich fart's carriage after her and she nearly got charged with poodle theft!"

"Wha--"

"Strays?" Sergei seemed to be stuck on the word.

"Hard to believe, huh? It doesn't happen anymore since she left the Fleet, but it sure was funny at the time. 'Course, she wasn't the only one to have that happen to her. There were a few crew members who had cause the same reaction. Must be a space pirate thing," she mused the last to herself out loud.

"Jo," called Sergei. "When you say stray... are you saying that Charlie was a stray?"

"Yup!" she chirped back with a grin. "The cute little guy followed her home one day from work. Seemed some buggers were trying to smuggle him in when he got lose and followed Chantal home."

"A stray... tiger?" Atreus croaked out.

"Yeah. Since no one wanted the little fella, we kept him. Been with us ever since, haven't you Charlie?" Jo asked the tiger, rubbing behind his massive ears. In reply, the spoiled feline growled in pleasure.

"You just kept-- And the police let you?" Atreus looked at her incredulously.

"Yup. Such nice people, weren't they Chantal?" Jo called out to her business partner and friend who was resolutely stacking beer into a corner. She grunted in response.

"And Chantal used to have strays follow her?"

"Yup."

"Chantal... An animal lover?"

"Seems so. But really, you don't have to act so surprised. Chantal's a lovely person and animals certainly know better than humans. Sixth sense, you know."

As Atreus and Jo continued with their banter, Sergei looked over at Chantal who had finally turned around to face them. She was scowling.

"Animal lover, huh?" he asked quietly.

Her tone was deadpanned when she answered, "I was a space pirate. We used to carry jerky on us all the time."

~~~~~~~~~

In response to Charles', "The BIN mati ke?"

Charles, the ball's in your court. Hope this wasn't too long winded.

Goodbye

2007-10-17T20:36:00.001+08:00

It was chaos.

Everything was happening too fast. From within the small enclosure, he could hear screams and roars; the clash of steel against steel. The ground rocked with the resulting blasts and the air was heavy with gun powder and the stench of burning flesh. The injured and dying were lying on the ground, wounds bleeding and faces pinched in pain.

It was hell, he was sure of it. And all he could do was stare and cringe with each blast that went off. He had gotten over the instinctive need to cower with every blast a while back. But he would never get over the screams. The screams from that day would haunt him for the rest of his life.

A sudden grab spun him around to face the one who had cared for him for so long. There was a frantic look in her eyes and her face was smudged with dirt. Her hair was tied in the fashion of soldiers. At her side hung a long forgotten sword.

"You must leave." The words were strained and barely audible above the din of bedlam around them. Belatedly, he could feel his head shaking.

"No... no!" He would not be left again.

"Listen to me. Listen to me!" She shook him. It was the first time she had done something so undignified. "You have to leave. Do you understand me? Leave!"

Water was falling from her eyes, leaving thin tracks trough the dirt on her face. "I have to fight. There's no other choice. I have to fight." Her voice was thick with tears.

"Soon, there will be nothing left to hold you to this earth. When that time comes, the gate will open. You must leave." Her voice cracked with the last word and he could see her choking on the rest. "Leave this place and live a good life. Do you hear me? Live a good life!"

She was gone before he could reply.

The screaming continued and the explosions rained down in a never ending barrage of fire. It was a day that haunted him for the rest of his life.

2007-10-02T12:01:00.001+08:00

"Why are you doing this?"

Hard eyes looked up at the hunched figure of the man slumped dejectedly in the chair at the far end of the boardroom table. A momentary silence fell upon the two remaining people in the dimly lit room before the other said silently, "It's my job."

"Your job? Your job?!"

"Yes."

"Is your job destroying people's lives and hard work? Is your job turning people out of their house and home? Five generations of hard work and struggling went into making this company and now you're tearing it all apart because it is your job?!"

"Why, yes." A feral slash of teeth shone in the darkness.

"Why? None of the other companies ever-- Why?"

"Because I want to." A negligent shrug.

"You want to?

"Yes."

"But...but why?"

"...Your son."

"My son?"

"Yes. Your second one to be precise."

"What does this have to do with him?"

"...Everything."

"Wh--"

"You see, fifteen years ago I was a nobody. New to a school full of students who were the children of rich and successful businessmen. I was hardly attractive as well. I became the butt of cruel jokes that only teenagers could pull off with such flair. I didn't have a single friend. Until your second son came along.

He was charming and kind and handsome. He protected me from the cruelty and even went so far as to ask me to go out with him. I felt great."

"Then why--?

"Be silent! I haven't finished yet." the once smooth voice had steadily turned into an angry hiss. "Oh yes, your son was a charmer. The best of the best. He knew all the tricks to pull off charm: Lie through your teeth with a smile.

It turned out that after three months of confiding in him, trusting him and loving him, it had all been nothing but a joke. A bet. A ruse. He simply came over one day and told me straight out that it had all been a bet with his best friend to, and I quote, survive going out with a whale like me for three months. Needless to say I was devastated. Not only was I made a fool off in my own home, he had spread the little joke around school and I became the center of very much unwanted attention."

"..So, this is all for revenge? On my son?"

"Hmm, you could say that. Although, revenge is such a miserable term to call this."

"All this over a teenage prank?" The man's voice had risen in hysteria.

"No, Mr. Banks. All this for the loss of innocence. All this for the loss of hope. All this for the loss of happiness. You see, he killed something inherently good and optimistic in me that day; and I had left was shame and anger and resentment. I learned how to hate that day, and I must say, I learned it well.

Fifteen years I strived on that hate and fifteen years did I survive, working my way from the ground up to reach the level I am at now. I had planned this for years and now it had finally happened. Your company is in tatters and your precious little son left with nothing.

You might think this is excessive but let me assure you, it isn't. How many times has your son done something so vicious as he did me that you knew of yet didn't care? How many times has he been an absolute abomination yet was never reprimanded? How many times has he hurt or maimed or killed that little something good within a person that keep them afloat in this heartless society? How many?

"I--"

"Don't know? Let me tell you. Thousands. I know the pain they went through and I know the pain they still experience. I carry with me the grudges of thousands and the hatred of many, many more. For that reason alone, I have done this. An eye for an eye. He killed me, who I was. And so, I am going to destroy him."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Yo, Jo! What the hell are you reading?"

"Oh, just a proposed script by one of my students."

"Script?"

"Yea. The girl's trying her hand at a Count of Monte Cristo twist if this script is any indication. Phweet. Spiteful! Lots of vengeance and the like."

"Lemme see."

"Well?"

"...Pfft, it's more like bad drama."

Cursed

2007-08-13T21:14:00.000+08:00

It was morning.

The harsh sun on her face and the incessant cawing of seagulls woke her. Sitting up slowly, a lesson she learned quickly after the first few times, she rubbed her temples gingerly. Her clothes were torn and rumpled, with sand sticking to the damp fabric like a leech. Wincing at the glare of the sun on her eyes, she glanced around slowly. It was the same stretch of beach as before. Pure, white sand that led to coarser bits of crushed corral and shells, a few bits of grass and the eventual forest of trees. To the right was the outcrop of rocks that would have been a favourite fishing ground for many if the situation were different and to the left a small boat bobbed on the water, held to the spot with nothing but fraying rope. She knew that a little further on, the beach would give way to a rocky cliff where caves could be found in abundance. Not a soul was to be seen, and she knew that not a soul would be seen. After all, the locals believed strongly that the island was haunted.

And it was.

She could vouch for that fact on her life.

Walking to the boat on weak legs, she recalled the event that had brought her to this point. It had been simple enough: Follow her parents for a cruise and have some relaxation after a stressful year at school. But they hadn't planned for the cruise ship to come face to face with a raging typhoon and for her to be shipwrecked on a nearby island--the only survivor found. She had spent an eternity on the island, seeking shelter in caves and eating what little she could find of fruits and roots. Water she got from the sky and the rest of her time was spent sleeping. In fact, it had been pure luck that her fastidious uncle had sent out a search party--made up of hired foreigners since the locals refused for any amount of money--since she had been so out of it, she hadn't even taken the time to build any sort of indicator for help.

They had found her resting in one of the caves, dehydrated, hungry, sunburned and traumatised. The locals had whispered and pointed and kept away from her when she was brought back to the mainland on a stretcher. She hadn't understood what they said, but a translator had told her that they were afraid of her. Because she had survived on a cursed island and was surely a cursed soul. They had believed she had been cursed to a siren's fate, to become a monster who lured innocent sailors to their deaths. She had closed her eyes and slept.

Now, though, she was inclined to believe them.

The wreck had happened almost six months past and she had returned to her home nearly a continent away from the cursed island. She had recuperated, gone for therapy, and continued with her life as well as she could under her uncle's watchful eyes. Everything had been as normal as life in the city went, until she paid a visit to the sea.

It had been a step her therapist had urged her to take. To overcome your fears of the sea and to gain some peace. So she had gone after three weeks of putting it off. And that was when it started.

She had gone to the port town closest to her own and had been set up in a quiet, little inn by her uncle. The day had been uneventful if filled with nagging feelings of unease, but she had gone to bed peacefully. The next morning, she had awoken on the beach in tattered clothing and no recollection of how she had gotten there. When she had returned to the inn, it was to the news of an attack on an elderly fisherman. She had thought nothing of it. Then it had happened again. And again. And again.

She had been frightened and had ran straight home, driving nonstop for half a day to her inland house and had bolted the door. But it was too late; the ball had been rolled and it wouldn't stop.

She found herself longing to go to the sea, and at times found herself unconsciously walking towards lakes and ponds in the nearby area. The urge had grown so severe at one point that she had taken ill until she was brought to the large lake at the park. And then she knew for sure, she was cursed.

She had taken up residence not long after in a cottage located in a distant village. Her uncle had seen to things there and she had found herself well supported. The people were friendly but kept to themselves, and they were a musical community. A magical musical community. It was said that they were descendants of sirens, and she was inclined to believe the rumours if only to satisfy her selfish need to not be alone, but facts were never laid out in the open and no one ever mentioned anything along those lines.

Her second morning there had found her on the deserted island a little way off the coast of Kreiy Village. She had woken up in tattered clothing on the beach and had found a boat not far off, anchored down with bits of string and rock. She had rowed back to shore to the news of an attack in a neighboring village. No one had mentioned anything about her disappearance and she had never volunteered information. She later learned that a rumour was spread of the island's "haunting" by a stray banshee.

She knew in her heart they meant her.

She was a rogue siren, one who had been made through a curse instead of born. A liability if anything to the safety of the other villagers. But they had accepted her all the same. And she was eternally grateful to them.

Sighing in resignation, she prepared to row back to shore. When she got there, she would find the council man and look into possible lessons on the subject of control. It was getting tiring, and more dangerous, for her to keep this charade up. No more denial, it's time to get some help, she told herself sternly.

At least, she wasn't alone.

~~~~~~

Spun from the depths of my dark, but not very creative or literate, mind and inspired by a radio advertisement of great "haunted sites" for visitors to visit. Pfft... gotta love morning radio.

2007-08-07T20:33:00.000+08:00

Jo felt a warm glow wash over her at the sight of the newborns. Behind her, Chantal grinned silently while the nurse checked the new mother's vitals.

"They're adorable," she whispered to Chantal, her eyes tearing.

"Yeah," came a quiet reply.

"That was really well done, Cleo," Jo whispered to the new mother. "They're such beauties!"

"Those are really tiny legs and ears."

"Yes, they're so cute! Oh, and those tiny little noses..."

"Have you thought of their names yet?"

"Oh no, not yet," replied Jo. "I have to see about their personalities first. Now that little warrior there, I'm thinking of calling Alexander," she said, pointing to the babe who was trying to suckle on his mother. "Oh, they're so cute!"

"They're rats."

Gasping in outrage, both women turned to find Sergei and Atreus standing at the doorway and looking disgustedly at the new born kittens.

Hands on hip, Jo fairly growled out, "They are not rats."

"Well, they certainly look it," replied Sergei, his eyes glued to the four hairless figures in the toweled box.

"They're kittens! They just haven't been cleaned yet, and they're fur aren't properly out."

"They're rats. Aren't they, Art-man?" Sergei turned to his colleague.

Wisely choosing to stay silent, Atreus simply "hmm-ed" as he bent down for a closer look. The mother was a cat he had met on his first visit and one of the few he tolerated. After all, she didn't jump him on sight as most of the other felines did. If pushed, he might even admit to liking the mangy feline.

Grinning evilly, Atreus made a show of studying the kittens carefully before turning to Sergei. "Really, Sergei, you had better get your eyes checked. They are most obviously kittens," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Rrrgh! They look like rats!"

"In your head, perhaps. Now get out! OUT!" Jo punctuated the order with a large whack to Sergei's head while Chantal looked on amused. One of the kittens could be heard in the background, making a sound that sounded like a raspy, and shaky, laugh at Sergei's plight.

Looking down, Chantal grinned. That one she would call Charles.

Cat Boy

2007-07-29T13:18:00.000+08:00

"I'm dreaming."

Jo looked up from where she was bent over a kitten, a piece of string held between her fingers. Arching a brow in disturbing similarity to the man she was looking at, she asked, "Why would you think that?"

"Because this is obviously a nightmare," he ground out, a visible tic forming under his right eye as he stared at the kittens that swarmed around him. One bold tabby rubbed its head on his pant leg, leaving behind a patch of orange fur on the black fabric.

Atreus glared sullenly at Jo as she snickered. It really was humiliating having all these cute and furry animals charge at him. It was one of the main reasons he normally avoided pet shops, petting zoos and animal shelters like the plague. He just hoped no one he knew--apart from the she-devil in human clothing before him--saw him.

"It's really not that bad." At the scowl she received for saying such, she continued, "At least they're clean."

"Madam, your definition of clean is highly debatable," he replied in clipped tones.

"Yea, yea. Go sulk in the corner why don't you."

"I do not sulk."

"Ah, so that explains the sullen expression on your face."

"It's called a scowl, Johanna."

"Well, normal people call it a pout, Arty."

Both glared at each other, oblivious to the kittens that ran around them in glee.

"I hate you, you know."

"Mmhmm."

"I will have my revenge."

"Sure, sure. Now, stop sulking and hand me the brush."

Scowling even harder, Atreus handed over the requested brush, making a reminder to never underestimate the woman ever again when it came to card games. There is no way in hell he would ever make a wager with her after this debacle.

Jatuh Ditimpa Tangga

2007-07-17T21:26:00.000+08:00

10th July, 1990

I went out with Daniel today. We went to the little park in Mansfield. It was beautiful. We had a lovely time together. He was great company. I even forgot to worry over Papa and his illness for a while.

I do believe I like him.

19th August, 1990

Daniel and I went to the park again today. He bought me flowers--roses. They were from the old lady at the corner of Times; not much to look at but they have a wonderful fragrance. The house smells of roses now.

I realised how happy I am with him while we were talking about our future. He's very easy to talk to.

27th August, 1990

Papa's illness has gotten worse. The doctors speculate he won't have much time left unless we can get him better medicine. Mama's crying in the room next door.

We can't afford the medicine.

29th August, 1990

Daniel offered to help us get Papa medicine. He's well off and kind, but I don't feel right taking his money. He says it's fine and that he just wants to help.

Papa's condition is getting worse.

31st August, 1990

We accepted a loan from Daniel. He smiled when he told me we don't need to worry about paying it back soon.

11th September, 1990

Daniel asked me to go steady with him. He said he knows I don't care about his money, and that he cares for me. I accepted.

15th September, 1990

We went to meet Daniel's father today. Mr Borton was a large man with a fierce face. He wasn't pleased with me I think. Daniel says it's alright though, that it's all bluster. I'm not so sure.

Papa's getting better.

30th September, 1990

Mr Borton payed me a visit at work today. He offered to pay for Papa's medical bills if I broke up with Daniel. I refused.

He scared me.

8th October, 1990

Mr Borton came again today. He threatened to disown Daniel and leave him penniless if I didn't break it off with him. He told me I wasn't worthy of his son.

I don't know what to do.

1st November, 1990

I broke up with Daniel. He doesn't know about his father's visit to me.

Mr Borton offered me money to pay for Papa's bills.

I didn't take it.

3rd January, 1991

Papa passed away last night. Mama can't stop crying.

6th January, 1991

I saw Daniel at the ceremony. We didn't talk.

There were a lot of people there. Mama couldn't stop crying and Aunt May had to help her to bed. I couldn't cry though. I don't know why.

7th March, 1991

We had to sell the shop and move out to pay the rest of Papa's medical bills. Mama's not doing too well these days. I'm worried.

21st March, 1991

I got a job at old Mr Eckly's shop. He's a nice man but needs help with the lifting. The pay's low, but it's enough for now. I'll have to look for another job later on since Mama can't leave her bed.

1st June, 1991

I've been working at the music store for three months now. I come everyday after finishing with Mr Eckly at noon.

Mama's getting worse. The doctor's can't find anything wrong, though. I'm worried.

I miss him.

29th July, 1991

Mama passed away yesterday. I came home and found her in the old, claw-footed tub. I hope she's happier with now.

2nd August, 1991

The neighbours helped me with the funeral plans. They're very nice to me.

28th October, 1991

I saw Daniel today while walking to the music store from Mr Eckly's. He said hello. When he heard about Mama, he seemed sad. She always did like him.

I feel tired.

3rd November, 1991

I heard that Daniel was made head of his company. I'm glad for him.

It's been hard these last few months without Mama around. I can't stop feeling tired.

1st January, 1992

It's my first New Year alone. I spent Christmas with the others at the music shop, but everyone's away today.

I miss him.

11th February, 1992

I see Daniel walk by every now and then. He seems lonely too.

I wonder if what I did was right. I'm confused. I can't stop thinking about that day two years back. I should have told him about his father, I should have tried to work it out together with him.

But, I didn't want him to get hurt.

Did I do the right thing?

28th February, 1992

I saw Daniel walking with a pretty lady today. I'm glad he's found someone to move on with now. They seemed happy together, so I shouldn't worry about what happened anymore.

But, I still miss him.

15th March, 1992

I have to work later now at the music store since Cyn is expecting a baby. I don't mind working more, but it's not very safe walking home at night alone. There was a robbery just down the street last night.

4th April, 1992

I had to go to the police station yesterday. Two men stole my purse while I was walking home last night. My left cheek hurts and I'm limping a bit, but at least I can still work.

Daniel came into the store when he saw me through the window. He seemed worried. I haven't seen him with the lady for some time now. I wonder what happened.

11th April, 1992

Daniel asked me about the incident two years back. He wants to know why I broke up with him. He seems eager to start over. I don't want to tell him about his father though. It would hurt him.

But I think I should tell him.

He has to go off on a business trip but should be back at the end of the month. I'll tell him then. Perhaps we can start off as friends again.

20th APRIL, 1992--Last night the body of a young woman was found near a bench in south Mansfield Park. Police suspect it to be a violent case of theft as the victim was found with her personal belongings gone and her pockets emptied. Investigations have identified her as Selena McInnes, 25, daughter of the late Robert and Patricia McInnes who were well known in the suburban area of Baedlem.

They urge any witnesses or people with information to come forward. Inspector Barnes, who is heading the investigation, can be contacted...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meh, suddenly struck me.

Title in malay that translates roughly as falling down stairs. It basically means getting hit with one misfortune after another.

Home

2007-07-10T21:00:00.000+08:00

“Charlie!”

Jo ran up the beach as fast the sand would allow towards her stray tiger. Beneath the animal, a man groaned while his companions crowded around him in shock.

“I’m so sorry!” Jo babbled, as she tugged Charlie off the fallen man. “He normally doesn’t do this; I don’t understand what got into him.”

“It’s fine,” came the reply with a self-depreciating chuckle.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” she babbled on, frowning at the cause of her trouble while wagging a stern finger at the drooping tiger before her.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Oh, thank god. I really am sor—” The smile on Jo’s face froze as she turned around to finally face the man.

“Johanna?” Memories flooded her as Jo heard her name fall from lips twitched up in a familiar half smile. Lips set in a face frozen from surprise.

“Ron...”

“Yo, Ron! You okay man?” The loud holler from one the men around them snapped Jo out of her shocked state. While she normally frowned at such uncouth behaviour, she was thankful this time for the distraction.

“Yea, I’m fine,” Ron repeated himself, turning with a half grin to face his three companions.

“Who’s the lady?” asked the shortest who still stood a good head taller than Jo.

“Ah, this is Johanna. She’s an old friend from my hometown,” he said. Turning to face Jo with a smile, he rattled off the names of each man with a gesture. “Jo, this is Jamie, Moon and David.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she murmured. “You’ll have to excuse me if I ask for your names again; I’m not very good with names,” she added, a touch of her usual perkiness back in her voice.

“Guys, would you give us a moment?” asked Ron, glancing at his friends before turning back to Jo.

“Sure, Ron. We’ll meet you at the docks,” answered Jamie.

A moment of silence descended on them as they watched the three men walk away to the docks before Ron broke the silence. “So, how are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. And you?” Jo’s voice was low and her smile brittle.

“Fine, thanks.” Another round of silence followed.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jo suddenly, mentally wincing at the rudeness of the question. If Ronald minded, however, he didn’t show it. Instead he merely shrugged before quirking his lips into a boyish grin.

“We’re here on vacation. A little sight-seeing, you know?” he answered, rocking back on the heels of his feet while looking down at her.

“Oh.”

“What ‘bout you?”

“Ah, I live here. Now...” her voice trailed off to fall silent, and her eyes turned down to stare at the white sand of the beach as she remembered her abrupt departure from her hometown. Beside her, Charlie leaned his head on her arm and she was inwardly grateful for his presence.

“Oh?” came the soft reply. Jo looked up only to see an unreadable expression flit across her childhood friend’s face.

“Yeah. It’s... nice here.” She shrugged.

“Hmm.”

“So,” she struggled to find a topic to fill the silence, “when are you leaving?”

“Today. By airship,” he answered, nodding towards the wooden docks visible from where they stood.

“Oh.”

Another moment of silence fell on them, both feeling awkward and cursing themselves for feeling that way.

Suddenly, Ronald spoke up, startling Jo with his question. “Why didn’t you come back? To church, I mean.”

Looking out to sea, Jo kept silent for a while. “I didn’t want to,” she finally answered.

“Why?” He finally turned to fully face her, an eager look on his boyish face. Jo felt her chest constrict at the familiar look and turned her eyes once more to the green-blue of the sea.

“I didn’t belong, Ron,” she said softly.

“What?”

Her shoulders fell in resignation and she couldn’t help but sigh. “Things changed, Ron. You left, so did the rest. It was... awkward going there. So I stopped.”

“What do you mean, awkward?” he asked, a small frown of confusion marring his boyish features.

“It’s hard to explain. I... I just didn’t belong there. I was trying to hold on to something that I thought was wonderful and I was miserable for it,” she struggled to find the words to explain.

“Something you thought...?”

“I don’t think them wonderful anymore. I’m sorry,” she said, an apologetic smile on her face as she looked at her old friend. “It was nice while the rest of the seniors were there, but when all of you left, things changed. I was an outsider that kept coming to a church in a close-knit community who thought me strange. I don’t blame them for it, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I was an unwanted presence there.”

She lifted her hand to forestall his obvious denial at the thought. “I know you think I’m always wanted there, but that’s just not true. I was odd; I know that, so did they. I didn’t fit in—the quiet girl who never talked to anyone and hardly smiled. They didn’t know how to deal with me without the rest of you guys there to mediate, so they didn’t do anything. Still, they didn’t chase me out directly either.” She shrugged, before continuing, “I finally realised I wasn’t wanted, so I stopped going. I made them suffer for two years with my presence, but I’m too prideful to apologise for that.” She grinned, her eyes dark with sadness. “I didn’t go back after that.”

“I’m back now,” he said, looking at her as she bent down to rub Charlie behind his ear. “So are the rest.”

“I know,” she answered softly.

“You can come back then, can’t you?” he asked hopefully. “We all miss you.” He said it as though it should be an incentive. Jo smiled to herself at the though. He hadn’t changed at all.

“No, Ron. I can’t go back.” She stood up and finally faced him, dark blue eyes locked onto his brown ones. “You were wonderful to me. All of you were, you especially. I was difficult to get along with, I know that now. You were always friendly, though, and I liked you for that. I still do. You never gave up on me, even though I nearly always gave you a cold reply. You were always friendly. And I thank you for that... But, I’m not going back.” She said the last in a firm tone, straightening her spine.

“I belong here now, Ron. I’ve got friends who accept me for who I am—my little quirks and all. I don’t ever feel like an outsider, and I never find myself standing alone in a room full of people. I belong.” She smiled. “I know you’ve always accepted me, but I can’t go back there.”

She didn’t know how long they stood like that, simply staring at each other in silence, but when he finally turned away from her, the sun was beginning to set and the call from the airship docks could be heard. It was the boarding call for Del Ray.

“You’d better go,” she said, glancing towards the docks. “That’s your ship.”

“I... I won’t be coming back here for a long time,” he said, looking at the docks as well.

“Okay.”

“What does that mean, Johanna?” he asked quietly, looking at her with down turned lips.

“That we’ll not be seeing each other for a long time,” she replied, her voice equally quiet. “You’d better go. It’s the last call.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning away with bowed shoulders.

“Hey, Ron,” she called out. He turned around, a look of hope on his face. “It was nice seeing you again,” she smiled sadly. “Have a safe trip.”

“Yeah.” The sides of his lips quirked up, before he turned around with a wave. “See you ‘round.”

She stood there silently and watched as dusk set in. The lighthouse in the distance flashed on and the dark silhouette of the airship for Del Ray sailed away from the wooden docks before taking off into a starlit sky. A slight breeze blew past and she watched through her bangs as the ship flew out of sight.

“Let’s go home, Charlie.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pushing the heavy wooden door to the pub open, Jo was hit with the sounds of chattering patrons. At the bar, she saw Sergei and Atreus having a heated discussion with Chantal listening from the other side of the wooden bar. Looking up, Chantal saw Jo walk in.

“Welcome back,” she said in her usual bland tone.

“Yo, Jo! Come tell Arty to get his facts straight!” yelled Sergei, beckoning her to them while Atreus scowled in consternation beside him.

Taking in the scene, Jo felt her lips quirk up. “I’m home.”

***********************************************

Pfft... no explanation. You read, you die of brain hemorrhage, your fault. *blows raspberry* (Kidding... I think)

2007-07-09T22:42:00.000+08:00

Inspiration has taken an extended holiday to the Bahamas and doesn't plan to come back anytime soon. My Muse, the shower, has abandoned me for more productive and worthy individuals. My dog, the pee-and-splatter-it-everywhere-in-the-house, still stays with me.

I think I see Depression coming 'round the mountain.

Need chocolate.

Or food. That'll do too.

Furry-Phobia

2007-06-04T12:33:00.000+08:00

BANG went the heavy door of the tavern as it violently flew open. Eyes set in shady faces of hunched forms turned, startled, to watch as a dark silhouette was outlined in the doorway by the lightning in the distance. Outside, rain poured on in a raging inferno.

Come into my lair, said the spider to the fly. Chantal could clearly hear the words of her late captain hissing in her ear.

She always did hate the bastard.

Step by squishing step, the figure entered the dimly lit tavern, shoulders set in a tensed pose and arms held rigid at its side as though ready for battle. And perhaps, it had the right idea. After all, facing an unhappy Chantal was like walking to the gallows. Some thought it was even worse.

From the floor came a deep growl as Charlie grumbled in his slumber. Obviously the tiger was unhappy with the situation as well.

"Did you manage?" asked Chantal in a mild tone that belied the coldness in her eyes.

In response, the dripping figure flinched and fine trembles started to wrack the pitiful form. A hesitant shake of the head was her answer.

Chantal's eyes narrowed imperceptibly and her voice dipped low as she said, "You didn't do what I told you to do?"

"N-n-no," came the stuttered answer, from fear or cold it was unclear.

"Why not?" she hissed. Another rumbled growl from the dozing tiger.

"'cos, see, she's...'she be right scary, ma'm," came the obviously frightened reply.

"Scary? Scary?" she hissed.

"Yes, ma'm..." The figure trembled.

A pregnant silence descended on the tavern, broken only by the rumbling rain and the growling thunder. The air itself was still and no one heaved a breath.

"You were scared...of a foot-long, toy dog?" She finished the sentence with a sneer.

"That dog be right furry, ma'm..." he muttered shame-faced.

"I asked you to feed her. Not touch her, you furry-phobic imbecile!" Her throat ached with the need to yell.

"But... she be right furry, ma'm," he whined pitifully.

"...Oh go fuck a donkey."

Writing Rage

2007-05-09T20:44:00.000+08:00

Ever read fanfiction? Any fanfiction? It doesn't matter if the story is posted on fanfiction.net, mediaminer or any other place that hosts it. All still follow the basic rule of having a fandom (I just learnt the word myself not long ago), having genres and having a summary.

I admit freely that I read fanfiction. True, some people might think such an admission horrifying and label me a "loser" for the rest of my miserable life, but it's really quite worth it. The fact that I've stayed with the particular habit of reading such works is simply proof that there are some really good authors out there. Some even write better than the crap published and sold on the local bookshelves. Besides, it's simply a habit that sticks due to novelty, like the fact that some grownups I personally know watch cartoons even I can't stand, why some people still play with Lego and why some people still enjoy comics beyond the age of twelve. It's really quite fun.

The one thing that irritates me, though, more than bad grammar; snooty, idiotic claims of "being the first fanfic, please be kind" and some authors' inability to take helpful criticism that's well-founded is the stupid (yes, I mean stupid) summaries some of them type out. I can understand if a person is terrible at typing summaries and end up making a muck of things. I once encountered a fic whose summary sucked bullocks but the actual story was grand. Needless to say, a few words and the author retyped the summary in the hopes of producing a better one. At least she tried.

What pisses me off, and note please that this is strictly a ranting entry based off the fact that I'm short of beer and can't piss myself into oblivion, the most is the fact that there are imbeciles who type in a summary "I'm not good at summaries" which is inevitably followed by a "just read" or "the story is better than it sounds". Well, put on a chicken suit and call yourself Kenny but that is complete and utter crap. Who in their right and sane minds (even relatively insane) would voluntarily read such utter dribble without coercion of the drunken or bored sort? Perhaps fanfiction to some is merely "play time" and "not at all serious", but writing is writing regardless of the fact that it's simply for fun. Writing fanfiction is a good way to practice proper writing and to enhance creativity. So don't ever give that bull about "it's nothing serious". What a load of f***ing dribble. I think drawing/doodling is simply for fun, but do you see me making wise cracks about it? Heck no! I try hard to get my proportions right and my shading down even if it's not for something as serious as a publishing house!

A fanfiction summary is just as important as a published book's summary. Writing such crap as "it's better than it sounds" or "just read" is like coming across a book that orders someone to buy it because, really, the story is better than the shoddy summary on the back cover. Worse still is that some of those shoddy summaries aren't even typed in proper grammar!

Yes, yes, not everyone (in fact few people) are grammar-nazis like me, but it's no excuse to give shoddy work without trying. An article once wrote that a simple grammar mistake in a resume can turn off potential employers straight away; think of what it'd do for potential readers. And still they have the nerve to say "the story is better than it sounds" when it's utterly obvious that they didn't even try to type a half-way decent summary. Oh yeah, I'm going to have lots of faith in that idiot's claim...

Point is, type a decent summary or at least try. If it truly sucks even though you tried, no one has the right to flick you one in the face. But if you don't, then don't ever think you have the right to complain about getting little to no reviews.

Another thing I hate the most: an author begging for reviews and reduced to idle threats of "if I don't get XXX amount of reviews, I won't continue". Yes, yes, cry yourself a f***ing river.

Wench is no-no

2007-05-03T21:36:00.000+08:00

She wished for death.

A nice quick death, preferably involving the gauging out of her forever scarred eyes. No other way was she getting out of such torture. For torture it was.

Chantal, the great ex-military commander of the secret fleet of Sky Pirates, stood amongst idiots decked out in medieval-styled garb, a grimace permanently glued to her face. Granted, she had only herself to blame for getting pissed and then losing the bet, but was it really necessary to make her endure such torture as a Medieval Funfair? She would rather have kissed old Mr. Tornton on his disgusting lips than to stand in the middle of a medieval fun fair that prided itself in authenticity. Sweet Tidus, everywhere she looked screamed medieval; from the wooden barrels to the "common wenches", the flock of sheep to the bumbling idiots wearing armour they could barely lift up. Hell's balls, even the smell was authentic.

And worse, she had been wrangled into wearing the "wench" costume by a demented Atreus, Sergei and Jo.

So she had pillaged and plundered, killed and maimed earlier in her life; surely this torture was far too severe for her minor crimes against mankind? Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned flogging, or fires and brimstone? She'd voluntarily choose a burning stake to this nightmare any day.

"Chantal! Come on!" called Jo in a depressingly cheerful voice. Beside her, Charlie stood staring with a suspiciously amused gleam in his round feline eyes.

That bastard cat better not be laughing at me! thought Chantal, running through her list on ways to skin tigers. It was a miracle that the security personnel had even let Charlie in. After all, most of the other customers--no, participants--had screamed in fright at the sight of an unleashed eight-foot tiger.

Of course, the sudden "No pets allowed" policy had been shot down rapidly by Jo's indignant rants of discrimination against her "baby". Oh, it had been the only upside to the depressing day that had become Chantal's hell. She could still hear the yells from earlier on ringing in her mind.

"What do you mean no pets allowed! There are freaking dogs and bloody cats running amok in that fair!" Jo screamed at the burly guard standing post at the fair's entrance.

"Ma'am, we can't let you bring in undomesticated animals," he said.

"What about those wretched sheep and pigs then?! Huh? Huh?" cried Jo in a shrill voice. "You're just discriminating against my baby! How dare you?"

Needless to say, Jo could be very persuasive. Perhaps it wasn't such a surprise after all that Charlie had been allowed entrance.

Sighing, Chantal trudged droopingly after Jo in her own medieval costume. How her partner managed to look so cheerful while constrained in the woolen monstrosity masquerading as a dress, Chantal couldn't understand.

The sudden appearance of a large hand on her bare shoulder and the stench of sweat brought Chantal to a halt.

"Ho there, wench!" came a deep leer with a bad faux accent. "Be ye lookin' for some friends, mayhaps?"

Reacting with a swiftness that belied her indifferent expression, Chantal flipped the lout over her shoulder and onto the ground before her. Ignoring the stares of the other patrons and the dust that was settling calmly back onto the ground, Chantal walked over to the groaning form of the massive lech, placed a well-trained foot at the idiot's jugular and pressed down.

"Never ever call me wench, understand?" hissed Chantal through clenched teeth.

The idiot, as Chantal had taken to calling him in her mind, nodded desperately, his face an ugly red and his mouth opening on a choked wheeze. A simple glare to the onlookers around her effectively had them scampering off and had the double purpose of ensuring that no other idiot would dare such a bold act again. Stepping away from the fallen lout and feeling remarkably better, Chantal couldn't help but wonder if they had any sword fighting activities on.

If she was going to be forced into this place she might as well enjoy herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ah, wait for Charles to edit this however she wants to. Just wanted some flipping over the shoulder action to be truthul.

Strip or Die

2007-04-28T01:19:00.000+08:00

The heavy wooden door to the pub opened just as a strike of lightning flashed, casting the dark silhouette in the doorway black. The noise of the thunder that followed startled Charlie out of his nap in time to see the dripping form rush in out of the down pour outside with squelching steps. Large puddles trailed what was now identifiable as a man, as he shut the door with a tired sigh.

Wet hair the colour of dirt in the gloom stuck to the man's head like wet fur and Charlie couldn't help but snort in sympathy. Swim-loving tiger he may be, but he hated getting drenched in the rain just as much as the next cat. The squelching sounds of water clogged boots on the wooden floors were especially loud to Charlie's sharp ears as were the grinding of teeth.

"Get out."

All eyes of the room, including Charlie's, turned towards the bartender as she uttered such cruel words in a bland voice of indifference. He may not like the man himself, but Charlie certainly wasn't one to throw downtrodden humans back into he rain. It'd be too cruel; besides, Sergei sometimes scratched him behind the ears when no one was looking.

"What!" said Sergei, his voice high with agitation and disbelief.

"I said, get out," replied Chantal, her hands never stopping as she wiped the remaining glasses dry.

"It's raining out there! Pouring!" cried Sergei in justified indignation.

"You're dripping on my floors," Chantal pointed out.

"Yes, well, I was caught in the rain. Which means getting wet," said Sergei, his voice calmer than before with a ghost of his usual coldness.

"Well, drip somewhere else. Get. Out," Chantal bit out. In the corner, Charlie lifted his head to better survey the scene. Instinct and months of experience told him this was going to get ugly. Oh, for Jo to be downstairs right now!

"You can't be serious!" Sergei said in a near shout, water droplets flying in every direction at his sudden gesture. Pointing to the entrance, he yelled, "It's bloody pouring out there!"

"So I can see. Now, get out," Chantal repeated, turning her back on Sergei as she stacked the glasses on the counter against the wall, effectively dismissing the drenched man.

"No!" he yelled. Or not so effectively, thought Charlie with a wince. Oh, it was never a good idea to contradict Chantal, especially when she was pissed. And boy, was she pissed. No one who knew Chantal would miss the silent anger in her eyes.

Quickly getting up from his spot on the floor and disregarding personal safety, Charlie prowled his way over to Sergei, sitting beside him in a silent show of support. Staring straight at Chantal as she turned around, he hoped his presence would remind her of the recent talk Jo had with her about courtesy and manners.

A full minute passed in silence before Chantal finally said, "If you insist on staying, then at least change out of those wet clothes." Charlie gave a low growl of approval.

"I don't have any spare clothes with me."

If Charlie had hands, he swore he would have slapped himself in the head. Trust a human male to be stupid enough to push Chantal further. Golden catnip and fuzzy mice, the man was an idiot.

"I don't care. Either get rid of those wet clothes or get out," said Chantal, her arms crossed against her chest and her eyes narrowed in consternation. It was never a good thing when and irked Chantal had nothing to occupy her hands with. Things normally went boom then.

"What do you propose I do?" sneered Sergei. "Strip?"

"I don't care. Just get rid of your clothes." Her reply dripped with warning.

"I can't do that!"

"Why the hell not?"

"There're people around here!"

"So? The other dry customers are all men, and you have nothing that could possibly interest me. So go ahead and strip," Chantal said coolly.

"No!"

"What? You shy, Mr Lecturer?" taunted Chantal, her eyes glinting with an evil light.

"It isn't proper!"

"Then get out and drip on some other fool's floors!"

"I--"

"What's with all the noise down here!" yelled Jo, her eyes narrowed into frustrated slits and pens sticking out of her customary teacher's bun. "I'm trying to mark bloody papers here!" Charlie sighed in silent relief. Jo, he had no doubt, would sort everything out.

Chantal didn't even spare her partner a glance when she coolly answered, "This idiot is dripping on our floors."

"Sergei?" surprise coloured Jo's voice as she stared at her dripping colleague.

He nodded in chagrined greeting as he explained, "It's raining outside. This was the nearest shelter I could find."

"Jo," Chantal barked out. "Get your tiger to do its job and kick this dripping monstrosity out of our shop."

"What!" Sergei yelled.

"I told you. Either strip off your wet clothes or get out!" Chantal yelled back.

"Oh for Muse's sake! Shut up! Both of you," cried Jo, several potential projectiles held menacingly in her hand. "Sergei, strip. You're ruining our clean floors." Before Chantal could so much as smirk in victory, Jo continued. "Chantal, give the man a change of clothes. And no arguments, got me?" She waited for both adversaries to nod in sulking silence before stomping back up the stairs, muttered obscenities trailing behind her.

"Here." Chantal threw a bundle of cloth at Sergei, her brows drawn down in irritation.

"Hmph," Sergei snorted, turning towards the back of the bar where the restrooms were.

Several minutes later and Charlie looked up to see the usually impeccable Sergei walk out in a grey shirt and a worker's cotton overalls. Both were stained and even from a distance Charlie could smell the stench coming off the articles of clothing.

"Chantal," Sergei said, his voice deceptively calm even as his fists clenched tightly in a white knuckled grip around his soggy clothes. "What exactly do you use these clothing for?"

Flashing a smile that better resembled a smug smirk, Chantal replied, "Rags."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was bored. So sue me. XP

Sergei isn't originally my thought up character and is in fact the creation of Charles. So, I apologise if I didn't pull either characters (Chantal and Sergei) off well. All I can say is that my fingers were itchy for a-typin' and I wanted to give ol' Charlie the Tiger more action. Sorry for the crap, mates.

Trouble in the Kitty's Stomach

2007-04-25T12:23:00.000+08:00

The heavy wooden door to the infamous Cat's Purr bar opened to reveal an unusual sight. Walking in, Sergei and Atreus sat themselves tentatively at the wooden counter while facing the scene of the two bickering owners--the position had the added bonus of being able to watch out for the imminent flying object.

"You cannot agree to watch that--that mongrel!" Chantal yelled, pointing accusingly at pile of furry rags at Jo's feet.

"Koko is not a mongrel! And it's a moot point since I already told Mrs. Connor that we would watch her dog while she's on her cruise," replied Jo, protectively standing in front of the what was revealed to be a small dog, glaring at Chantal with her deadly-teacher glare.

"I will not have it!" Chantal yelled, an occasion as rare as seeing her drunk. "No! Nein! Nyet!"

"Well, I will!" Jo said in a near scream of her own. In the distance, the regulars cowered behind various objects, either too afraid to make a break for safety or too enthralled by the odd scene to leave. Most likely it was the latter, although Atreus was quite certain he could see a few that looked to be close to tears from terror.

The two partners-currently-turned-nemesis glared at each other in stony silence. Suddenly, the little ball of fur got up from its position of safety behind Jo's sandal-clad feet and trotted over to Chantal. Where it promptly peed on the floor in front of her, sat down on its hind haunches and stared up at her with a large canine grin on its furry face.

Chantal stared in growing horror at the doomed dog for a heartbeat before lunging forward with a war cry loud enough to wake the dead. "DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Without realising how, Atreus found himself standing protectively in front of Jo who had scooped up the little mongrel--"Her name is Koko!"-- while Sergei held Chantal back with surprising success.

"Calm down, Chantal!" Atreus could barely hear Sergei's shout over the sudden din of the bar.

"I'm going to KILL the little bastard!" and "DIE!" could be heard clearly, screamed in a high alto interspersed with "No, you won't Chantal!" and "Holy mother of pearl, did'ya see that!"

Several years down the road and still Atreus would sport a mortified blush upon recalling the events of that night.

Crying out in frustration, he had used his best outraged-lecturer voice when he shouted for silence. Stepping forward with the intention of helping Sergei restrain the still struggling Chantal, he had slipped in the puddle of dog urine, pitched forward and promptly fell down bringing both Sergei and Chantal to the ground with him in a loud crash. The silence that ensued was the stuff of legend as the surrounding people (and animal) stared at the three forms lying in an undignified sprawl on the hard, wooden floor.

Everyone stood frozen as Atreus picked himself off the floor with a wince and all could only watch as the cause of all this misery jumped out of Jo's arms, trotted a few paces away with a jingle of her belled-collar and promptly pooped on the floor. The crazed cry that followed broke everyone out of their daze in a snap.

"Moooooongreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is obviously a result of too much puppy lately. It was supposed to be a comparison of how dignified my cat acts while the new pup seemingly bludgeons her way through life but somehow the plot ran away with itself. So, sorry for the "Aargh!" that's sure to result from reading this little piece and I'll simply tell you now to take everything I drabble out with a large pinch of salt.

Oh, and to those who know (namely Charles): Yes! The pup in this drabble is Koko!

About the title: You'll have to run circles around possible ideas to get why I came up with it (but it's still guess-able). In other words, I'm crazed; what else is new?

2007-04-17T19:19:00.000+08:00

My dear mama,

It pains me greatly to deliver what must be joyful news to you. My son, David, your grandson, passed on late last night. And now, my dear mama, I truly am alone, with no mother and no son. And you, mama, are rid of the bastard grandson that you so detested.

As you well know, David, like all other Davids I know, was a touch overweight, or as you preferred to taunt him continuously, he was "a fat cow". He had been ailing with some heart pains these last few seasons, but you obviously did not know due to certain circumstances that rendered visits impossible. Last night, David complained of another bout of heart pain before dying torturously on his bed, his face ashen and stuck in perpetual torment. I fear we will not be able to have an open coffin service, for the undertaker can do nothing about his face. The funeral will be held this coming Sunday, mama, but I know better than to expect your presence there.

I remember how the situation was several years back. You and David always bickered so, very much like spiteful children and he would later snap at me for having such a cruel mother. Indeed, it has been far more peaceful ever since you stopped visitng mama. But now, even my David is no longer here to keep me company.

I know you never approved of David mama, always calling him such awful names even when he was but a boy. But mama, he is my son and your grandson. Please, do try to keep blood in mind.

I must be off to pack now, mama. After the funeral, I shall be selling the house and travelling abroad with the money. David's insurance also covers quite a bit and will aid me in my journey across foreign lands as I so planned to do not long before I bore David. Take care, mama, and I know both of you must be bickering joyfully with each other in hell now.

Your loving daughter,
Sophilia.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ask not and thy shall retain thy sanity.

Le Breakdown

2007-04-16T21:46:00.000+08:00

He knew the dance. Of that she was certain.

A fighter, no a dancer who fought with the same technique as her stood before her. Just as she scrutinized him, he scrutinized her. It was an unexpected development. No one before had ever danced as she did.

True, she had trained hundreds to survive on the battlefield, and one or two held potential, but none were as good as her. They simply didn't have it in their blood. He, however, stood on the same level as her. She refused to believe him higher.

It shouldn't have surprised her so much. After all, the little skirmishes against the crown had increased in the last year and she herself had encountered rouges that fought with dance. Rouges that she had never taught. Obviously, someone else had taught them, and it was doubtful that their teacher was any of her old students. It had to be someone far more well-versed in the art of dance and war to have been able to pull off what they did--teach an army of uprisers that could fight even better than some of her own.

And if her hunch was right, that teacher stood before her.

Her musings were cut short when the man, nay dancer, before her spoke. "You know the Dance."

It had been a long time since she last heard anyone give the Dance proper reverence. She could practically hear the respect he had for it ooze from his words. She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. So she frowned.

"My name is Lucifer. I come here to unseat an unjust king from his throne. Let me pass," he said, arrogance and confidence clear in his stance.

"The light bearer," she mused out loud to herself, her head tilted in a cat-like gesture of thought.
"Yes." He seemed genuinely surprised that she knew of his name, and quaintly pleased as well. Lord, she felt like smacking him one upside the head. "By what name are you called?"

She paused, struggling to remember the name her dancer mother had bestowed upon her, before the war and loss and death. "Cassandra," she answered, her voice unknowingly mimicking the soft tones of her mother.

"To shine upon men," he said. "Your name is similar to mine, Lady Cassandra." He smiled. It was not the smile of a man who has suffered.

"We aren't alike," she said coldly, picking up her stance and readying her sword.

"We are. Both of us originate from the bloodlines of true dancers, and both of us learnt the way of war. We were meant to bring light to this earth with our gift, and I plan to hold true to that. I will unseat the unworthy man who sits now on his throne!"

"We bear similar names but we were born of two different worlds. Life has been good to you, teaching you in the manner of man. I was taught differently," she said, attacking his right with a swift downswing.

He parried her attack with a swipe of his own sword, wider and heavier but wielded with precision that she grudgingly admired. "I know of you, Lady Cassandra." A block and the deafening clash of metal on metal. "You have suffered greatly--" an upward sweep of blade "--and yet still serve this wretched monarch in a bid to remain untouched." A deadlock. "Let me help you, Lady Cassandra!"

She punched him. Right there and then, she punched him. "Do not call me lady!" she snarled. "I am not a lady. I will not be a lady, and I never will be one!" In front of her no longer stood the tall blonde with an unscarred face, but the imposing figures of the Lady and Lord. She gnashed her teeth in a snarl as she attacked more fiercely.

"Why do you fight me?" Lucifer cried out between parries, fending off her increasingly harried attacks. "We are both victims of an unjust ruler. I seek to free us of this ruler! So why fight me!"

"It is my duty!" She did a side sweep, elegant even in her anger as she twirled.

"What of your duty to your people? They are suffering under the monarch's reign and still you do nothing for them!" he shouted at her, accusation clear in his words. He rolled away from her cutting blade as it hit the ground where he lay only seconds before.

Dust surrounded them and sweat beaded their heads as they glared at one another across the field. Both had fought for hours, and both were feeling strain. One wanted an alliance of power, the other merely wanted to destroy. And both moved in synchrony into the final stance, the Dance.

As each spark of metal on metal blinked into existence, and each stab was parried dodged with practiced ease, the survivors of the battle could merely watch. Neither friend nor foe were immune to the show and both sides watched in awe as two opposing leaders fought with the exact same movements.

"Why do you fight me?"

"It is my duty!" she cried out, frustration and anger showing in her lines.

"Your duty is to yourself. Your duty is to your people!" he cried out, naive and oh so gullible.

"What people!" she screamed, her movements erratic. No longer did she follow the swift movements of the Dance. Instead she fought only to harm, to kill the target before her. "These are not my people! These are my captors, slave drivers and murderers, all of them! They who hurt me, who destroyed me for no better reason than the fact that I was titled!"

She screamed her agony as she swung her anger. "They loathed me, and shunned me for no more a reason than my fortune. Not even considering how much I hated it!" Before her was her enemy, her pain, and she would kill it. "I never wanted any of it! Think you I wanted another mother, another father? Think you I wanted this? This life of misery, my hands stained with blood and my nose filled with the stench of death. I never wanted it!"

She kicked and stabbed, viciously trying to cut him down. Her discipline forgotten, she fought. "They forgot, all of them! The baker, the blacksmith, the butcher, the town bane. They forgot that I was one of them, born in the house next to them and sharing common blood. They forgot that I played with their daughters and ran with their sons, picked the leaves for drink and scrubbed my kitchen floor. They forgot!" her voice was hoarse from screaming, but she didn't care. Around her people hung their heads, but she didn't care. Above her, soldiers hid their faces, but she didn't care.

"I was taken into a house with no love and no life, something I so loathed. Yet, they never thought about the child who had lost her parents but scorned her good--" she spat the word out like a curse "--fortune of a title. The maids scorned me, the little ragged noble; and the nobles sneered at me, the little ragged peasant." Her voice had taken on a staccato beat. She hardly noticed the stillness of the surroundings or her unmoving hand, still gripping her sword in a heavy fist. In front of her stood her foe who had broken her hold on her control, and she was loathed to stop for anyone.

"And then the war came and the nobles died. But did they take up arms, those wretched men who worked the fields? Nay! Instead they sent out a girl no older than their own daughters to fight for them, turning her gift into a fucking curse! They who had sons who bragged of their strength and honour destroyed a child without a drop of remorse! And the women did nothing more than encourage them. They're no better than animals! So tell me, boy, what people?!" she screamed.

From above, the whistle of an arrow was heard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hmm hmm hmm. I don't care. A load of dime-store dramatic shit, but I can safely hide behind the excuse of exam anxiety rotting my brain and turning my imagination to mush. So eat my Stats-riddled brain, suckers! Muahahahahah!

I shall defy the wee men in white lab coats! Back I say, back! Thou shalt not have thyne victory of seeing my defeat at the hands of the dreaded padded cell! Never!

The B.I.N. -- Grooming Horror

2007-04-11T20:17:00.000+08:00

Wednesday, 11 April--In a startling display of rebellion, a young pup of no more than seven months showed her displeasure towards her pet humans by urinating on the floors, chewing on the towels and shoelaces, and rolling around the floor on her back, mussing up her newly groomed fur. In a public announcement, the young pup was heard to shout, "No to neatness! All hail chaos!"

In an official police investigation, it was found out that her pet humans had attempted to "train" her to "pee" and "poop" in one spot, laying newspaper on the floor for her. Later attempts were made when she stubbornly stuck to soiling the house floors; the attempts were made in the form of bringing the young Shih Tzu pup outside for long walks on grassy areas. Another insult towards the pup was the humans' attempts to keep her from snacking on the family cat's food. The humans, reportedly, also gave the pup, Koko, weekly baths with puppy shampoo every time.

Koko, nicknamed Koko-mo, will file an official complaint against the family of humans on Monday. She is currently staying with a separate family of relatives who have no compulsion of making her do her business on newspaper or keeping her from eating anything she wants. In her police statement, it was found that she had narrowly escaped a professional grooming session just the week before in a stroke of luck when the groomers were too busy. Animal police are currently looking into the people who are reportedly groomers, an offence than can serve up to two years of community service or a shaved head or both.

Friends and family of the humans who previously housed Koko were outraged at the young pup and commented in a public announcement that, "she had always been a rascal". On woman in particular, the matriarch of the family, was reported to have spanked the pup for as small an offence as playing in the cat's litter box and carrying the cat's "poop" into the living room. When asked whether an official petition against them had been made, they replied, "No comment."

Several animals rights groups have been notified of the situation and are conducting their own investigation into the matter. If charged with the offence of grooming and attempted training, the family face a fine of 300 kg of doggy treats and/or shaved heads. Police urge anyone with additional information regarding the case to contact them at 1-300-no grooming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alright, the wee men in white lab coats can take me back to the padded cell now.

NOTE: Mostly fictional. I have nothing against Shih Tzus.

A Visit To The Vet's

2007-04-04T23:24:00.000+08:00

“Of all the unmitigated gall!”

Loud stomps could be heard echoing across the narrow side street and the wooden door to a secluded bar burst open in a flurry of drama. Angry heels clicked across the wooden floor in the age-old rhythm of a woman scorned. Behind her, quieter, if not lighter, footsteps could be heard.

“How dare that imbecile say such a thing and still prance around claiming to be a saver of life and protector of the weak! That hypocritical bastard!” came the furious yell.

“You’re overreacting. The man was certainly imbecilic, but the situation certainly doesn’t call for such ridiculousness.

“Overreacting? Overreacting! You think I am overreacting?” was the screeching reply.

“Yes,” came the droll baritone accompanied with an unseemly eye-role. Obviously not the best action to take considering the accompanying huff and stomp, Atreus thought regrettably. In a bid to keep his shins intact, he hurriedly said, “You need not give the man the credit of your anger. It would mean you cared about his opinion. His wrong opinion.”

A huff and then a reluctant, “That’s true.”

“And certainly Charlie gave the man what-for in regards to the crude remark directed at it.”

“Well, yes...”

“So you agree that your continued anger is overreacting.” It was a statement not a question. Another mistake.

“No I do not!” Jo stomped her foot, actually stomped, before continuing her rant. “That man called my baby a monster! When he’s supposed to be a doctor, a champion of animals! And he dared to call my baby a monster!”

Atreus winced at the ever increasing volume but decided to keep silent in light of self-preservation. Best let a woman rant it all out than hit it all out.

“That stupid, worthless man dares to call himself a vet when he wouldn’t even touch my baby for a routine check-up. And he called my Charlie a monster! You’d think he’s never seen a tiger before!”

“It’s doubtful he’s actually seen an eight foot tiger unleashed in his medical room,” Atreus couldn’t help but add before swiftly cutting off any further remarks at the receiving glare.

“Perhaps he hasn’t seen a live tiger before. But it doesn’t excuse the man! He’s a vet for Muse’s sake! He should be prepared to help any animal that goes to him for help.”

“Charlie hardly needed that much help. It only needed a vaccination.”

“Which he didn’t get!”

“It’s a full grown tiger with sharp teeth, Johanna.”

“Dogs have sharp bloody teeth too! And it’s Jo, not—” her lightly painted mouth twisted in a sneer “—Johanna.”

“Dogs don’t roar at their vets.”

“No, they growl menacingly and pee all over the linoleum tiles.”

“Dogs don’t have sharp claws nearly an inch long.”

“Well other cats have claws too. And the bastard didn’t have to call my baby a monster!”

“That’s true. But then your baby went for the man’s head.”

“He only licked the bastard!”

“Probably getting a testing taste.”

“That’s not true! Charlie’s just a friendly, overgrown baby.”

“With teeth and claws that could kill. Easily.”

“You’re being deliberately cruel!”

“I’m being truthful, darling. It hurts if memory serves me right.”

“No, you’re being horrid.”

“You flatter me so. I don’t suppose this is some sort of female ploy to get into my boxers?”

“Oh, don’t embarrass yourself. And I’ll be sure to tell Belinda that you prefer boxers.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, I dare. Unless, of course, you apologise immediately to Charlie for agreeing with that barbarian in veterinarian’s lab coat.”

“Of course,” he said morosely.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to apologise to Charlie or not?”

“...I’m still thinking about it.”

“There’s nothing to think about! Either you apologise or not!”

“Johanna—”

“Jo,” she corrected him.

“Very well, Jo. It’s a tiger.”

“Well of course he’s a tiger! We’ve been discussing about him for the past twenty minutes. What did you expect? A blue bellied duck?”

“I don’t think there are any ducks with blue bellies.”

“Oh shut up. It was a manner of expression. Are you or are you not going to apologise to him?”

“...It’s a tiger.”

“So? He has feelings too, you know,” she said, putting special emphasis on ‘he’.

“Yes, well, it galls a man to have to apologise to an animal, tiger or not.”

“Fine. I’m sure Belinda, sweet intern that she is, will be glad to hear about your particular love for pink boxers.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled quickly.

“What was that?”

“I said I was sorry, you spiteful wench. I suppose you expect me to castrate myself before the wretched animal as well?” he sneered.

“Oh, no need to be so dramatic. A simple ‘Sorry’ will suffice. See? Charlie’s looking much happier now.”

“He hasn’t changed from his position before the telly since we’ve entered the bar.”

“Well, he has a wider kitty grin!”

“... You were a demon in the past life that I somehow offended, weren’t you?”

“And you were Snape from that Potty book series from the twenty-first century.”

“It’s Potter. Potter, for goodness sake. If you’re going to insult someone at least do it with proper facts. You’re an English language teacher for crying out loud!”

“Oh pish-posh. We’re hardly at work right now, except for me of course. Which reminds me, what were you doing at the vet’s anyway?”

“I was looking for you.”

“What for?”

“...Hell if I remember now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Not edited, so there might be some really nasty parts floating around the place. As for the reference to Mr. Potter and his acquaintance, I do NOT own them, nor is this a fanfic. It was merely a reference to the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling.

Have fun....

...Muhahahahahah! *Ahem...

Don't Wander Alone

2007-02-23T19:24:00.000+08:00

Oh, how the mighty has fallen!

The thought danced through Johanna's mind, taunting her in all its glory. And who would have thought it could ever occur to Johanna, both figuratively and literally.

As she sat in the pitch darkness of whatever hole she had fallen into, Johanna thought back to the incidents that had left her life in shambles around her feet in three short months; the betrayal of her lying, two-timing bastard fiance and the woman she called sister, the loss of her job to some freshie who demanded a higher pay than she did herself but paraded in dresses meant for a three year old, the pitying looks of friends and the loss of her pet cat. The lying bastard she didn't care for too much--it had been arranged anyway--but her sister's traitorous actions had hurt. She could get a new job easily with hr qualifications, but it hadn't been a good time to lose her only source of income. Her friends could go stick their pity where the sun don't shine, but her cat, her baby cat, hit her most of all. The animal had been her friend and companion for close to a decade, loving and caring in its own feline way and now it had disappeared. She knew what the others told her and the ways of cats--disappearances normally foretold death; she just couldn't bring herself to believe that. She also felt a pang of guilt. After all, had she not headed out to the family's old cottage and brought Douglas along, he wouldn't have gotten lost in the countryside. He was a city cat, born, bred and raised.

Which explained why she had braved the pitch black of the English moors alone. The weather was cold, even more so in the highlands and genius that she is, she hadn't thought to bring a torchlight with her. So she had wandered about the place until dark had come upon her suddenly, looking for her lost, orange and white companion. And had fallen into some sort of pit.

Calling for help was useless, she knew. The nearest neighbour was five miles away and most of the residents of Folw village still believed in the Old Tales of magicks. They knew not to come out at night lest they run into the Old Blood and mayhem occur. Johanna had stopped believing in such tales long ago, when her parents had passed and she became the sole guardian to her younger sister at the age of sixteen. Of course, that didn't mean that she liked the dark any better. The nights on the moor were rather frightening in their intensity to someone like her who had lived almost all her life in the bright and bustling city.

Snapping out of her melancholy, she looked in front of her in disbelief. Ahead of her was a small light, flickering as like a candle in the wind, but still a light.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" she called, scrambling hastily to her feet and walking forward. Apparently, the pit she had fallen into was actually a tunnel, for she walked on unhindered by any hard walls of dirt.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she shouldn't follow mysterious flickering lights, but her fear, growing fatigue and a strange urge kept her going. She continued to call after it, only managing to make out a brief silhouette of a hand carrying a torch in the gloom of the tunnel. The further she went, the stranger she felt, light and somewhat detached from everything else. Suddenly, a yell was heard and the tiny point of light disappeared, only to come back with a vengeance. Opening her eyes slowly, Johanna stared in awe at her surroundings.

She stood in the middle of a circle, much like the faery circle her grandfather had shown her when she was five and gullible. Glowing mushrooms and fireflies gave the surroundings a dim glow. In the centre of the clearing lay the small body of a young lad with a fallen torch next to him. Standing over him with a scowl adorning surprisingly delicate features was a man, a sheathed sword in his grasp. Both had wings sprouting from their backs.

"Wh-?" was all Johanna managed to squeak out, the rest of her question lodging in her throat in what she suspected was fear when the standing... thing shifted his gaze upon her.

A pregnant silence hung in the air, before the creature before her relaxed enough to lower his sword. And then he smirked. Unexplained ire shot through Johanna at the man's audacity and her hand itched to wipe that smirk off his face forcefully. Of course, that didn't make any sense and it was hardly polite to slap a stranger.

Taking a step closer to her, he lifted his hand, palm up, to her before delivering his ridiculous claim. "You're mine, Johanna. I claim you as my own."

Oh hell, politeness be damned. She was going to kill the bugger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Happy belated birthday, Charlie!

Gods, the damn idea wouldn't leave me alone. So, I shall purge thee from my system!

The wee faery who led ol' Jo on a merry goose chase was supposed to be a Duergar.

The Duergar (Great Britain) is a solitary fairy that leads travelers astray with it's flickering torch. There are male and female fairies, but is known to be more of a male species who does this. They are malicious creatures who believe the hills are their home only, and want to cause harm, mischief, or death to those who trespass.

Source: http://www.ladybleu.com/stuff.htm

Shopping Horror

2007-02-07T19:55:00.000+08:00

"What about this one, Chantal?"

Chantal turned around to see her companion holding up a a beautifully preserved English pistol. It had an unadorned barrel that glinted silver in the sunlight and well polished metal butt cap. The wood still shone and it had a delightfully simple screw plate with a decorative carving to give it form. Jo was also holding it pointed outwards while waving her hand in the air at anything and everything. The cock was pulled back and ready to fire. **

"Jo, no!" Chantal yelled. Immediately she regretted her rash action as she faced down the hollow of the barrel and a Jo with a confused expression.

"What? Don't you like it?" Jo asked, her voice reeking of innocent confusion and a thread of hurt.

"Of course I like it. Just... put it down slowly," Chantal said with strained gentleness, motioning with her hands for Jo to put the gun down.

"Why? Aren't we going to buy it?" Jo asked.

Chantal couldn't decide whether she wanted to laugh, cry or strangle her shopping companion. For all the facts pointing towards Jo as being an intelligent language lecturer with a Grand Master title to her already impressive resume, she really wasn't the brightest bulb in the lot. Or at least, she was rather dense when it came to street smarts and good ol' common sense.

"Sure we'll buy it. Just...put the gun down, Jo," Chantal said firmly, wincing when she realised she had used the voice Jo normally saved for her dimmer students. She had been spending way too much time with the woman.

"...okay," Jo answered, still confused but nonetheless providing Chantal with the wanted results-- a gun not in amateur hands and a pistol barrel pointed away from her brains. Really, she didn't make a habit of showing off when it came to using her cognitive skills, but she still appreciated having her head intact.

With her relieved sigh still echoing in her ears, Chantal looked up only to watch in horror as Jo ran towards another display of ancient weapons, knocking into a short, bald man at the same time. A short, bald man who turned out to be Papa Doc, the biggest Mafia boss this side of town!

"Oh, sorry there!" Jo said to the man, her voice unbelievably bubbly and her trademark grin in place.

The man obviously wasn't impressed as he latched onto Jo's arm with a frown better fitted on the face of a wrinkly demon. Behind him, two muscular bodyguards decked in black loomed. Chantal hurried forward, her right hand already reaching for her reserve laser discreetly.

"Hey! I said I was sorry," came the indignant wail of her companion.

The man's reply was a fiercer scowl and an unintelligible grunt.

"Jo!"

"Chantal! Can you believe this guy? I just bumped into him and he's making such a fuss! Really, of all the unimaginable things to do," Jo said, her schoolteacher tone in place.

Chantal couldn't help the low groan that escaped her. Gods, this was a nightmare!

Papa Doc finally turned to face her and she knew from his expression that her usual careless expression had slipped. Well, no one could blame her for it. Faced with near death several times in less than half a day, an incredibly accident-prone companion/business partner and now this, anyone would have looked like they could raise hell.

Latching onto the offending Mafia's arm, Chantal stonily said, "Jo, why don't you go look at that sword collection while I have a talk with the nice fellow here?" It wasn't a suggestion.

A few exchanged words later, Chantal rubbed at the crick in her neck and turned back to see Jo staring wonderingly at a particularly sharp sword that was hung precariously above her head. Grimacing, Chantal had a feeling that it was going to be one of those days.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting a head start on things. Just a little something that decided to hit me over the head on the way home from college today. Hope to brainstorm with you soon, Charles. Sorry 'bout using your character freely here.

**Reference on the English pistol was found from a book entitled Weapon, A History of Arms and Armour written by consultant editor Richard Holmes. Page 162 & 163.

And Grand Master is basically a fictional title made up as a result of a bad day, great amounts of stress and simple insanity.

Enjoy! XD

Got Beer?

2007-02-05T14:47:00.000+08:00

"I saw an angel."

"What?"

"I said: I saw an angel."

"Really? Well... hmm."

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not mad. And watch it with those dishes. I just washed them."

"Right, sorry. ...What d'ya mean you saw an angel?"

"Exactly what I said. I. Saw. An. Angel."

"Well when the hell did you see this angel?"

"Don't say hell. And I saw him this afternoon, in the back alley."

"In the back alley? Of the old Cosway?"

"Yea."

"During the ghost bust?"

"No, while I was getting my nails done by a lower class demon. Yes, during the ghost bust!"

"And it was a guy angel?"

"Yes. Well... at least I think it was a guy."

"What d'ya mean you think it was a guy?"

"Well, that angel sure didn't have...well... breasts."

"Yea? So it's a guy then. Nothing to wonder 'bout."

"That's the thing though. That angel was pretty."

"Well, a pretty boy angel then."

"Yea, but... he looked like your sister."

"My sister?!"

"Yea. Blonde hair, large blue eyes, perfect skin..."

"He looked like my sister? Clara? My sister who's a model?"

"Yup."

"Well...hell."

"Don't say hell."

"... So, what was he doing there?"

"Oh, he came to get something."

"Yea? What'd he get?"

"Beer."

"Beer?"

"Yea. German ones to be exact."

"German beer."

"Yea. He said he was having a party, and they ran out of beer. The closest shop was the one across the street from the alley."

"Ran out of beer."

"Yea. He helped me take care of the lower class imp hiding behind the crate while he was there. Nice fellow."

"..."

"Hey, are you okay? You're looking a bit dazed."

"...beer..."

"Hey! Watch out for those glasses! Argh! ...dammit. Those were my mother's prized wine glasses."

"...sorry."

2007-01-31T13:05:00.001+08:00

Hello.

This is Charlie speaking.

I wish that I could say that over the past few months everything has become better.

But now despite the fact that I'm going to be eighteen in less than a month and a whole new part of my life will begin I still feel like the same old piece of shit.

To go into what has made me feel this way would take ages.. and probably alot of energy and time that I already lack severely. Nowadays I feel like I'm walking around in a half-daze, failing to get in touch with everything around me and everything inside me.

One could attribute this to lack of sleep, but I'd prefer attributing my current lack of sleep to this.

I've changed. I realise that now. Somehow I feel like something in me has died ever since that particular year. It's as if I lost something I'll never reclaim and yet I can't even put my finger on what it is. Whatever it is, I feel as if I've become some kind of emotional, social recluse. I hardly ever feel like talking to anyone anymore, with the exception of a few very close friends. Most of the time I just feel like taking my Walkman and climbing onto a roof somewhere... a place where I can just be by myself. No pretences, no fake ear-to-ear smiles and forced laughs. A place where I can be comfortable and honest with my real self: the part of me that feels sad all the time.

I feel so cold inside sometimes, it's like I'm already dead.

Unwanted Proposal

2007-01-29T23:05:00.000+08:00

She was cold, she was hungry and she was alone. In other words, she was pissed.

Getting kicked out of her own home by her ex-mate was infuriating. Getting drenched in the rain was dampening. Finding out that she was broke and thus could not buy any food when she was starving made her melancholy.

Running through the old forest when she could barely see three feet in front of her was difficult and would have been frightening, had she any energy left to fear. Instead, she focused on finding herself some shelter, preferably not beneath any trees while it still rained. Cursing under her breath, she reflexively pulled her soaked shawl tighter around her shoulders in a futile attempt to keep warm.

Tripping over a root, she cursed under her breath, managing to catch herself from falling to the muddy ground in time. Squinting her eyes, she saw a white blur in the distance. Not daring to hope, she nonetheless ran towards the blur. As she got closer, her heart beat faster; looming before her was an ivory mansion.

In the darkness of the forest, the white building seemed to glow. Slightly wary of the mysterious building, Bella nonetheless walked up to it in hopes of warmth, and perhaps even food. Staring at the old-fashioned knocker, she couldn't help the twitch of her mouth in wry humour.

Imagine that, after ten years of being labelled strange, it takes getting lost in the woods to find another antique lover.

Knocking firmly on the door, she was startled to see the heavy wooden doors open inwards with an ominous creak. No one was in sight. The entrance hall, with its marble floor and high ceiling, was dark, and a further look around the place revealed the same for all the other rooms. White cloths draped over furniture indicated a home devoid of human life, and if the layer of dust settled over every surface was anything to go by, it had been empty for many years.

"There goes any hope of a hot meal," Bella muttered to herself. Tugging a dust-covered cloth off a nearby chair, she coughed at the resulting cloud of dust. Settling herself in it, she grumbled into the quietness of the night, "With my luck, I'll probably die of pneumonia."

A sudden noise startled her into looking up. Hearing nothing after several moments save her own shallow breaths, Bella shook her head. Great, now the I'm hearing things. Next thing you know a ghost will appear.

Shivering, not only from the cold, she pulled her knees tighter to her chest in a bid to keep warm. The rain had long since stopped, and the moonlight shining through the dirty windows provided enough light to see by. Still, Bella was too tired to attempt to move. Keeping her eyes open was a chore, but she didn't dare fall asleep. Blinking her eyes, she kept watch of her surroundings that continued to blur as as the hours went by.

When she next opened her eyes, it was to find a pair of curious blue eyes staring at her. On closer examination, she noted that they were set in a distinctly male face with a head of dark hair. She could see right through said head to the other side of the room. Giving the specter a sleepy smile of greeting, she opened her mouth... and screamed.

"Argh! Stop screaming, please God, stop screaming!" The voice was deep but echoed strangely in her ears, as though it came from every corner of the room and all at once from nowhere.

"Well, what do you expect me to do? I close my eyes in a blink and the next thing I know there's a ghost in front of me!" she wailed back at him, her embarrassment over such a pathetic response turning quickly to anger.

"Well, excuse me for startling you, but you didn't blink. You were asleep, and for quite a few hours as well," came his indignant reply.

"So sue me! I got caught out in the rain and fell asleep. Doesn't give you any right to get in my face, though!" she answered defensively.

"Considering the fact that this is my house and you are, technically, and intruder, it gives me every right to 'get in your face' as you so aptly put it," he sneered back.

"Well... I'll have you know it isn't very poli--ACHOO!"

"Ahhh! You sneezed on me! Oh, God, you sneezed on me!" the specter wailed, his voice greatly exaggerated by his circumstances. "Yuck! Your germs! Your disgusting human germs! Oh, I'll get infected and die!"

"You can't die. You're already dead!" Bella snapped back with mounting irritation at the queer antics of her would-be tormentor.

Pausing in mid theatrical flap of hand, the spirit visibly grimaced before straightening himself into a more dignified pose. "Ahem, yes, so I am... dead."

An uncomfortable silence descended on both, as Bella wondered how to reply to such an obvious yet uncommon statement. Not finding anything particularly suitable for such a situation, she remained silent, while the specter in question did his own fair share of staring at the floor.

Finally clearing his throat, the ghost bowed at the waist in an outdated style and said, "Frederick White, at your service."

"Um, Bella," she answered, more for decorum's sake than want. After all, three years of learning the Craft taught one the power of a name and she wasn't about to give hers up so easily, even if it was to a ghost. Still, three years of the constant practice in the craft hadn't brought her face to face with a specter before and she was at a lost as to proper ghost etiquette. Ghost etiquette! Medusa's curl, I've gone off my rocker! This is so damn surreal...

"Miss Bella," Frederick said, bringing her out of her errant thoughts and back to the present situation. "Allow me, madam, to tell you how much I love and admire you. Would you marry me?"

Gaping at him with round green eyes, Bella thought to herself, Forget surreal. This is crazed!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dum dee dee dum. I'm LEGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!

Pretty, Pretty Hell

2007-01-28T14:28:00.000+08:00

"Yzak!"

Yzakirine barely contained her cringe at the sound of The Voice. Controlling her feet to not give into her need to run, she nonetheless walked on and if her pace had picked up speed, none of the lower level demons made any comment.

"Yzak! Yzakirine, wait!" came the deep baritone.

Swearing under her breath, Yzakirine continued on, hoping beyond hope that the persistent suitor would lose interest in chasing her and she would have peace. As most things in the Pit went, though, prayers often went unanswered. It wasn't long before her would-be-suitor had caught up to her and she was forced to stop in the face of three hundred years of decorum.

"Yzak, why didn't you wait for me?" the demon asked in between great heaves of breath.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you call me?" she answered politely, wracking her brain for the name of this newest suitor. Really, when would her scheming Grand Dame learn to stop pushing suitors in her path? The very least she could do was to get some with more spine and wit. Of all of them, this particular one was the worst. Narrow minded, chauvinistic and pompous, Yzakirine's brother had hated him on sight and she had followed suit a minute later.

"Yes, I did. Several times in fact, Yzak," said the suitor in earnest, looking very much like a pouting crocodile.

"Oh, sorry about that. I'm half-deaf, you see. My brother listens to mortal rock music at such a high volume all day, it was bound to happen sometime," she smiled out through gritted teeth. And if you dare to call me Yzak one more time, I'll make sure you'll be more than just half-deaf!

"Oh, I see. It's quite alright of course. I was just wondering if you would like to go to the mortal world with me. Wreak some havoc and mayhem, perhaps?" asked Mr. Pouty eagerly.

"Oh, I'm rather busy at the moment. I'm to meet with several friends and my brother, so I don't think I'll be able to go with you. Thank you for the offer anyway," Yzakirine answered. Wreak havoc and mayhem. Hah! Talk about childish. Even Daemeon grew bored of it after the Medieval Ages.

Bowing in the respectable way of her kind, Yzakirine hurriedly excused herself and walked around him. Or at least, she tried to. She found her path blocked most conveniently by said demon before she had managed more than a step onwards through the snowy path.

"Come on, Yzak. It'll be fun!" It was meant to coerce but came out as more of a whine.

"I said I haven't the time. And my name is Yzakirine, not Yzak," she answered back in a colder tone. Had any one of her family members of friends been there, they would have warned the over-eager suitor to be cautious--that tone of voice always brooked impending doom if not threaded around carefully.

"Oh, come now, Yzak! It'll be more fun with me than with your friends, I promise!" he answered, clearly ignoring her warning concerning her name.

Then again, if her friends or family had been there and heard that little announcement, there was a great possibility that they would have just sat back and watched as the impertinent young demon lord got pounded into the slush surrounding them.

Clenching her fists with mounting ire, Yzakirine said in a voice reeking of forced control, "I highly doubt that, sir. If you will excuse me, I'm late for my appointment." Once again excusing herself sans the bow, she turned to walk around him, focusing on the icy landscape around them and the thought of discussing mortal fiction with her friends. It always amused her to read about mortal views of her world that they had dubbed Hell and often depicted it to be a place of horror. Limestone and fire, or something along those lines, she reminded herself, her mood lightening at the ever present amusement to such thoughts. After all, the Pit could not have been more different.

It was a place of beauty, with five seasons instead of the usual four of the mortal realm with the longest being the cold season. The icicles glowing off various vegetation and buildings constantly reflected the light and sparkled to the point of blinding at times. It was beautiful, period. More than I can say for Heaven. Lucifer, that place is a dump! The thought ran through her mind quickly as she strode on in relative peace.

"Yzak! Wait!"

Gritting her teeth in frustration, Yzakirine stopped and waited for the buffoon to catch up to her. Her patience was shot and she was going to make him understand that, even if it meant suffering another one of the Grand Dame's lectures concerning prospective husbands and the importance of not hurting them.

Not waiting for him to catch his breath upon reaching her side, Yzakirine gave the bane of her day one of her toothy grins that rather resembled a snarl before speaking. "You don't seem able to comprehend a few vital things, sir, so let me make myself clear. I have an appointment today with my friends and my brother, which you are keeping me from with your incessant babbling. I am going to make that appointment and will not be coerced into doing otherwise by the likes of you. And don't hold out any hope of my company on any other day because, quite frankly, I would rather kiss a slimy, three eyed mud-skipper on the mouth than suffer your presence. I appreciate and respect my friends, and if you say anything otherwise about them again, you will regret it. Lastly, my name is Yzakirine and not Yzak."

Turning sharply on her heel, Yzakirine made her exit. Not two steps later, she had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Pouty sprawled out on the ground after his nose became intimately familiar with his fist.

"Please, you call that sneaking? My Grand Dame's dead rhino can do better," she sneered, motioning at the very dry and very loud twig he had stepped on.

"I-I thought you said you were half-deaf," he choked out as best as he could with blood pouring from his nose. "You lied. You heard me come after you." He seemed to have mused that out loud more for his benefit than hers.

"Don't be ridiculous, I didn't lie at all. I'm very good at being deaf," she answered back disdainfully. "Certainly better than you at sneaking up on me, idiot."

"Yzak--oof!" This time, Yzakirine's foot was introduced to her ex-prospective husband's nether brains.

"That's Yzakirine to you, you git."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I confess I just wanted to get the line "I'm very good at being deaf" into a drabble somehow. This is all I could come up with after several fruitless tries. So the lot of you will have to suffer through another crappy work of, well, crap with me. I'm ever such a nice person, aren't I? XD

Le Mental Diarrhoea!

2007-01-02T22:04:00.000+08:00

The post had failed.

That was what had truly started the Home Return Mission (HRM). Not the exaggerated and somewhat fanatical claims of certain A.I.s that believed in something called the Apocalypse, not the lack of reply from Home Base; no, it was because the post had failed.

The A.I.s had long since been inhabitants on the artificial planet created for them over three centuries before. The history reports encrypted into their systems spoke of overpopulation back home and their creators' yearning to learn of new life. The fact that their creators were fragile beings with large minds had led to their construction--they were to be the explorers of the universe for their creators. A whole planet full of A.I.s, capable of repairing themselves and reporting their findings. They were made to feel as their creators did, with ethical codes encrypted according to each creator's personal opinion. Needless to say, though they came in various shapes and sizes, made from different materials and having different thoughts on how to handle certain situations, they all had one thing in common.

Their reason for existence.

They were to float endlessly in space on their artificial home, collecting data and samples of new planets and beings encountered throughout their journey. The data they typed into a report that they then sent back to Home Base via the post--a machine that sent out encryption in the form of light waves. The samples they stored in appropriate conditions to preserve until a Home Base unit would collect it. Never mind that no unit had come to collect anything since their journey out in space; after all, they had never received any orders otherwise. They would just have to wait.

But now... it was over.

The post had failed and they were at a lost as to what to do. No new materials could be found on their planet to create a new one, so it was only natural to send a group of them back to Home Base to speak personally with their creators. If they didn't do at least that, they would not be able to send back information and that would be disastrous. After all, no matter the fact that they could feel and express themselves as their creators could, with their own ever-growing minds and ideas, they were still A.I.s with a mission. And to carry out the objectives of that mission was their first priority. So, they had gathered a group of willing and suitable A.I.s and launched them in a pod straight back to Home Base.

And when they landed, each and every A.I. knew: It was over.

They had landed on a ruin of a planet. What was encrypted in their memory to be water was nothing but a murky green mess. Strewn bits of metal and rubble littered the land before them. And their creators, their parents, were nothing more than piles of ash and bone. An underground shelter revealed an impromptu tomb, filled with the skeletons of the beings that had created them. All manner of sizes, all manner of mummified rags, all manner of bone structure. A few were found lying on the skeletal remains of a metal cot, all small in size and huddled together. A small group of them were in a corner, near a hollow cylinder filled with the burnt remains of old paper that crumbled when touched. It was as though they had all died in the midst of a normal routine--suddenly and swiftly--to have remained in their respective spots like that in death.

One of the smaller A.I.s had started to tremble after five minutes of staring at the sight, its six mechanical arms twitching spasmodically. Another, an A.I. programmed to have all the needed skills of an engineer, merely took it all in with nary a sound; a stark difference to its usually chatty tones on board the pod.

Numb. That was how Big Jo3 felt. The smallest of the crew with the fastest processor, Big Jo3 observed it all with a numb feeling all the way to its A.I. core.

A further scan of the planet showed no signs of life of any being, save the few most primitive microorganisms.

Their very reason of existence, their first priority, their very lifestyle was moot. There was no machine to send data back Home, no machine to receive and no beings to analyse it. There was no one around to explain what had happened and no one to continue exploring for.

And as they filed back into the pod, leaving the planet to relay their news in person to the others on their planet, several looked back with a numb gaze at the ever fading ruin of the receiver machine that slowly became nothing more than a small dot in the vast murky green of Home Base.

The one that had once been their only connection to their creators--the post.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going to scrub my brain with soap and water now.

Charles, ol' chap, when are you going to come back and help me maim these deplorable mental diarrhoea of mine into something more tolerable?

Added Burden

2006-12-29T00:17:00.000+08:00

It was unlike any ritual they had seen before.

The dead man was brought in on a makeshift stretcher of brooms and cloak, a simple white handkerchief covering his face. At one edge of the covering was the inscription of a name embroidered in a pale pink. The letters were foreign to them and was undoubtedly the country's own.

When they reached the gates of the grand palace, the procession of three--two carriers and one priest--stopped. Within minutes, ten more joined them and again they walked on, the priest in the lead, followed by the corpse and the newcomers. All wore sombre expressions and some of the women shed tears.

As the crew walked the length of the palace walls, more and more people were added to the odd procession. All were grim yet silent save the few renegade sobs of some females. When they had walked the length of the safeguard, they came upon a cottage. Small in stature with weathered walls and a door peeling black paint, it was an odd and startling building to see next to the looming white walls of the palace. Located not three feet away from one side of the four palace walls, it looked tiny and frail, rather like an old woman standing next to a young warrior.

The procession of over forty stopped, and the priest knocked solemnly on the door three times. What should have exited from such a pitiful hut was an old woman, bent over from time and wearing a wrinkled face. Instead, a young woman, no older than sixteen, standing tall answered the knocks. Dressed in simple robes of white, with hair as white as the gown she wore and eyes a blue so pale, she looked very much like a spirit. The only colour on her was the deep rouge of her lips, obviously painted from the slick sheen the light played on them, causing them to further stand out in startling contrast against her alabaster colouring.

"The devil knocks with three," said the priest, his tone light in the still winter air.

Those startling pale eyes stared down at the body without a second's hesitation and continued to stare; never shifting from the scene and yet, the travellers could not help but feel as though she were taking in everything.

Finally, she nodded.

From out of the dark book clutched tightly in the priest's hands came a knife, artfully carved on the hilt with a blade that curved continuously, rather like a slithering snake. Accepting the knife with a graceful flick of the wrists and nary a word, the woman lifted it to her jaw. Before the travellers' astonished eyes, she swiftly grasped a lock of her hair and cut, the severed strands floating sadly to the ground.

No sooner had the first strand touched the brown soil than the followers smiled, some even laughing with joy. As she turned back to re-enter her cottage, a sad wind blew, lifting strands of pale hair for all to see--locks that were obviously unevenly cut with jagged edges and straight ones as long as her height. Without once uttering a word, the woman re-entered her home and the black door closed on the increasingly joyous people.

"That was the Griever," came the soft voice of the guide.

"Griever?" asked the youngest traveller, as curious as ever.

"Yes. The people here, they have a different way of mourning the dead. When there be a death, they take the body to the Griever. That'd be the woman you saw there. When the priest tells her what's happened, she decides," explained the guide, his voice rough with age.

"Decides what?" asked the youngest, impatient to know the full story.

"Patience, Curio!" shushed his older sibling.

A wry smile lifted the edges of the guides lips, causing old grooves in his face to deepen, before flattening a moment later. "She decides if she will grieve for him."

"Grieve for him?" This time it was the eldest brother, his voice holding a touch of his usual disdain.

"Yes. More specifically, she grieves for them so that they do not have to mourn the dead's passing. As a sign of an accepted case, she cuts a bit of her hair with a sacred knife. When she does, it means that she will take on their mourning, and they may continue with their daily rituals undisturbed by their loss," explained the guide. "She will grief for the dead's passing as long as the lock of hair takes to grow the length of her untouched locks."

"I don't understand," says Curio, a slight whine carrying on his voice.

"In other words, she won't stop grieving for that one dead soul until that particular lock of hair grows as long as the bits that have never been cut," says the guide. "You saw it, didn't you? Her hair that was straight and untouched when it was blown by that wind. It reaches her calf now by the looks of it." The guide mutters the last bit to himself.

"So, she mourns them for the duration that it takes for her hair to regrow?"

"Yes."

"What is to stop her from simply cutting all of her hair so that she does not have to mourn the dead for long?" asked the second sibling, ever cynical and studious of the world.

"She can't. It isn't allowed for the Griever to cut her hair in anyway except when a contract has been taken on," answers the guide.

"Contract?" asks the sister.

"Yeah. It's what they call it when she accepts a case. She grieves for them in return for food and the bare necessities."

"I see. And what exactly does grieving entail?"

"...Well, she can't leave the town as long as she's grieving and she can't talk either. And... she can't enter the palace, too," says the guide in a pitying voice.

"What does it matter if she enters the palace or not?" asks Curio, catching the silent sympathy in the guider's explanation.

"Well, she's the Princess Dian of this country. To not be able to enter her own home and to be reduced to living in the old servant's quarters is... " The guide finishes the sentence with a shrug, as though he cannot find the words to describe such a situation.

"...I think it's rather barbaric," says the sister with feeling. "They should mourn their own dead. After all, it was someone they cared for and knew! To make a young girl take on such responsibility... It's just so barbaric!"

"Did you see her hair, Julian? It was mostly uneven layers of cut hair. How long and how many has she agreed to grieve, I wonder," said the second brother to his elder, heedless of his sister's growing ire.

"Yeah. It seems like she's grieving for more than just that man. And... it seems she'll have to mourn for quite a while," answered Julian.

"Yes. There's the upcoming war, you see. The country hasn't waged full out war against their neighbour yet, but it won't be long until the tiny skirmishes turn into something more. The death toll is already high and Princess Dian has been grieving for more and more people lately. She hasn't even been able to finish with one before another case comes along," says the guide, a sad glint in his eyes.

"So...she will have to mourn more soon?"

"Most likely," came the gruff answer.

"And she will have to do this for a long time to come?"

"Probably. If her hair don't grow fast."

And so the travellers left, leaving behind the tiny hut with the silenced princess; the uncaring locals and the strange land. It wasn't the first time they had come across a tradition that they did not approve of, and it was surely not the last.

The queer ritual they had never seen before would never be forgotten, and neither would they forget the ivory coloured princess with sorrowful eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charles, if you can improve this, then by all means, edit it and maim it. Pick it apart and sew it back together.

Neko-sama, over and out.

Damn I'm hungry...

Ultimo Sorriso

2006-12-26T21:14:00.000+08:00

The sound was deafening.

She stood amidst the ritual cries of the mourning, watching silently, numbly, as the traditional Raft floated further and further away. Within it lay the body of her departed mother, born from the sea and now returning to it.

She watched it without really seeing it, her mind travelling back to times long past. The wailing of the others as they sang their farewells were nothing more than a dull throb at the back of her skull. Memories played and replayed across her eyes and she soon lost herself in a sea of thought. When she finally noticed the warm body standing next to her, the rest of the mourners had left. The Raft was no where in sight and twilight was fast coming.

"How are you feeling?" asked Jonah, his usual drawl absent and his voice a mere whisper in the harsh winds of winter.

"Numb," she answered, her voice as soft as his.

Silence descended on them and they continued standing there together--Sharlotte in silent contemplation and Jonah in silent company. She would never admit it--both their prides were too great--but she was glad for his company. It provided an anchor for her, tying her to reality and its harshness in an ever welcoming world of dreams.

Finally, many moments later when their fingers were numb and their noses blocked, he broke the silence.

"What are you thinking about?"

She was silent a long time, but he did not push her. He knew, more than most, that it was just her way; she always thought things over, gathering each idea and piecing it together to form answers that were long in coming but always worth waiting for in their certainty and thoroughness.

"Her smile," came her answer.

He waited patiently for her to continue, and was rewarded appropriately.

"I never noticed, not until the night before..." She struggled to finish her sentence, thick tears choking her words. A large hand settled itself on her shoulder, a quiet sign of understanding and a recluse's attempt at comfort. She dragged in a shaky breath and carried on, her voice steadier if not softer.

"She rarely smiled. It was always like that, while I was growing up and even after I left home. I don't know why, but I never noticed. She... she always kept quiet about her family and her memories before arriving to stay at the Peer. She never did tell me about my father, and after the first few times of asking I gave up. She would always become so quiet and sad, like a flower wilting under the heavy rain. I... I didn't like that," Sharlotte rambled. It was both confession and tale.

For as loved as the Hammils were, little was known about them apart from the bare basics. Everyone knew that Grace Hammil had arrived on the small island of sirens with nothing more than a carpet bag, a small pouch of coins and bruises on her person. She was also five months pregnant with no husband in sight. While sirens are naturally solitary creatures, an expectant mother with no mate in sight to arrive in their little village alone was rare.

She had rented the small cottage at the end of Kreiy Street and within months, Sharlotte had arrived. They had participated in the village's annual traditions and Sharlotte was enrolled in the blab school several streets away. While the neighbours and other village folk were kind and polite to them, the Hammils were always somewhat isolated--not out of spite but out of choice. In a society that was both mythical and musical, Grace Hammil had been known for her kindness, her sad eyes and her sadder songs. A quiet woman who had raised Sharlotte alone, Grace had been speculated to have been a wife running from an abusive husband to a widow escaping a terrifying experience. All were just speculations and now would always remain speculations, for Grace, with her sad tunes and down turned mouth, had taken the secret with her to her grave and not even her own daughter knew the truth.

"When she did smile, she was always so sad. Her eyes were so... sad. But I never really noticed--she had always smiled that way. Not like anyone else; hers was just a slant of the lips and a... a tilt of the head. I... I never knew why. I still don't. But, that night before she..." a struggle left undefeated. "She smiled at me, Jonah; she smiled. I had never noticed until she did... Her smile... it was so, it was so happy."

By now her tears were flowing freely and her words were a garbled jumble of thoughts, all fighting to be free of their confines. She had started speaking and now she couldn't stop.

"I had never noticed that she was sad. It was always that way. I didn't know, I swear I didn't. It was just always that way. But... but when I think back to all those years before I can see it. I can see it so clearly," she kept telling her silent companion. "Her eyes were always so dark and sad, they were always so sorrowful. And sometimes she would look at me, Jonah; she would look at me and wilt. She was always so sad. And I didn't know."

She wailed the last part of that sentence, her body shaking violently with sobs and, in the manner of sirens, she grieved. Her only witnesses were the stars above, the Mother sea and the man beside her. None silenced her and the only comfort she got was a tight embrace. It was their way, their custom, and if the cries came they must be left to die out on their own.

Hours after the first wail of grievers, the first shove of the funeral raft and the first word of prayer, the daughter had cried herself out. Slumped over with nothing keeping her upright but Jonah's support, she stared at the incoming tide and whispered brokenly to her confidante:

"Her smile was so joyful. The night before she... Passed. It was so happy, so free. Her last smile."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No questions, please. I was bathing, I was daydreaming, and this is a product of imagination diarrhoea.

Go eat some chocolate and no thoughts of suing. Please.

2006-12-24T16:24:00.000+08:00

WARNING: Rather a few jabs at religion, so if you're the sort who believes in happily ever after and all that jazz, do NOT read this. You have been warned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She hated this time of year. Hated it with a passion.

Christmas.

A useless piece of dribble. Really, even if most of the population on Earth had accepted it as an annual celebration, the fact remains that it started out life as a pagan ritual. True, their overlord didn't give much care as to the religion the Humans took up, as long as they were "good" while on Earth.

Tch. Good, what a load of holy crap. If they were "good" they get to ascend to Heaven after their lives on that miserable planet had ended. Hah! And when they do arrive in Heaven, what do they find? Nothing but another shit hole; even worse than what they left behind in some aspects.

Heaven had long since seized to be what the Humans once revered it to be. True, there were still the occasional gold temples around the place, but most of the buildings had long since deteriorated. The glass on the buildings were stained with grime, the walls peeled and looked weather worn; never mind the fact that they didn't have harsh weather. The rain dirtied the place more than it cleaned and the pathways that was once filled with life were nothing more than overused alleyways.

Yes, Heaven had certainly been a beauty, but that was several millennia back in time. The economic boom and technology advancement had gone uncontrolled. As a result, buildings of all kinds had popped out of the place, rather like mushrooms after a good rain. Poisonous mushrooms that is. The Angels had long since given up on trying to recreate the splendour that was their city and the parks of lush green had died out to be nothing more than a barren wasteland.

Of course, they couldn't die in Heaven -- it was part of the clause. No being in Heaven would or could ever experience the pain of dying ever again. Of course, at this point, the "pain" of dying seemed more like a respite than an agony.

No rain or food in this hellhole since the Gardens were destroyed to make way for the techies. And no hard liquor to drown yourself in since it was Heaven after all. The rain was as toxic as the waste polluting the Earth, and corroded even more so drinking it wasn't an option.

The worst part was the fact that the Angels still acted as they would have beck on their own Earth. They plundered and pillaged and killed. Or, at least, they attempted to. What normally resulted of their fights were injured Angels and a whole shit of a mess to clean up. And who gets to stop them form creating an even bigger mess before cleaning up the current one? Why, the Archangels of course.

She cursed the day her superior decided that planting was useless and decided to bowl the Garden over in light of building the Main. Bloody pain in the ass... The worst part of it was that she had to work as an Arch.

And Christmas, sweet Christmas.

While the Humans back on Earth were giving and sharing, the Angels up in hell were tearing at each others' throats for a frigging ornament. Useless really. There were no trees to hang those pathetic baubles and hanging them at the windows where no one could see in was an utter waste of time.

It was also a bitter reminder of what Heaven had become. Nothing more than a ghetto that would last for all eternity.

It was the epitome of irony. She had served her country, her people and king. She had done her duty, payed her respects and never skipped out on a bill. She cooked, cleaned and cared for others; and she went for mass every week. In return, she'd been brought to this rat hole.

She should have sinned. Anything would have been better than this.

At least in Hell, they had freaking liquor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lalalalala...

Merry Christmas!

Whether one takes it as sincere or not is up to the reader. Ta!

NOTE: Not edited.

Le Unknown Drabble -- To Dance

2006-12-21T21:06:00.001+08:00

Welcome!

Right, this is more out of guilt than anything productive. After all, just because my imagination has taken a turn for the couch, it doesn't mean I'm not a part of this blog too. So!

.....Hmm.....Well. You know, this is really starting to become odd.

Right. Unknown drabble it is then.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was as fierce as she was kind. A contradiction of the most frustrating kind. One could never be sure what to expect from her.

She had been born to a humble station, nothing more than a dancer's child. Later, she was adopted into the house of the lord her father served in replacement of the first born daughter the Lady had lost at childbirth. Elevated above her natural status within a day, gaining new parents and losing old ones, she was an oddity even for those harsh times.

Soon, her dancing skills, taught from young and inherited from birth, became an asset and a curse.

The war had been harsh on all the surrounding regions and now it had turned its eyes on hers. Her adopted father was one of the first hundred casualties to the Battle of the Ridge and the Lady soon followed. At the tender age of thirteen she was trained to wield sword in place of fan and swing whip in place of silk. Her twirls became sharp yet her movements remained smooth.

Her dance of expression became one of survival. In a twist of fate, her born skill was turned into a weapon and the thing she loved most she also hated. What should have brought joy now brought tears.

She could hear the words of the master they had brought to her as clearly twelve years later as the day she first heard it.

"I will teach you to dance the dance of death."

She had laughed inwardly when she had first heard those words. Too cliched, too unoriginal -- too corny. No creativity or emotion save anger and numbness.

But she had been wrong. Very wrong.

They had brought the man specifically to train her. And train her he did. He had utilized her natural ability and turned it into an art of war. All so that she could protect them, when they were less than willing to protect her.

Twelve years had gone, and she was still dancing. Everyday she danced, and everyday she died just a little more. The war had long since been over, but new ones kept rising. Her skills had been proven useful on the battlefield, too useful. Her overlord had taken notice and she was doomed to continue dancing as payment for her continued freedom from the clutches of his vile sons.

While she may not have been sent to the battlefield to kill, she was subjected to worse. To have to teach others to do so in a way that was once pure hurt her.

She looked out across the courtyard, filled with men and women alike. They were all sent to her from his highness to train, and train them she would. She had no other choice.

They looked at her expectantly, some with eager expressions to learn and others with no expression at all. No doubt those that were eager thought to make themselves useful to their country by fighting for their lands and people.

What fools.

Still, she would train them. It was her duty and her curse. Even if they were the prodigy of the bastards who had destroyed her, she would train them to hold their own on the field and to survive. She could do no less.

Her voice rang loud and clear across the training grounds. "On the battle field, to know the dance is to live. The dance of death. Stall for a moment and — " she made a sharp slicing gesture across her throat with her hands "— you die."

A sharp snap of her fingers and she gave the smirk of the world weary. They responded by standing up straighter, even those who had no wish to partake in the killings.

Her voice rose and a sharper edge tinted her words — the words of a leader.

"The first rule you will learn is to dance at your own tempo. Make your opponents dance to your beat, never follow theirs. Woman or man, take the lead and you will live. Be but a spineless stiff and you’ll find yourself dead before the next twirl."

A seductive sway of her well-rounded hips and a graceful forward step. Her gift manifested itself in every movement.

"Hips are there to be spun. Don’t be shy to use them." A smooth hand gesture of a trained dancer from hips to head. "Your body is your weapon, your dance your survival. So...," a flash of teeth in what could have passed as a grin but looked more like a snarl, "let’s dance."

She would teach them what she had been forced to learn.

To dance. To kill.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I warned you. Dramatic, yes? Ironic more like. I happen to hate drama. And this is what comes from me.

I'm such a pathetic soul.

One word of advice: Chocolate.

2006-12-19T13:40:00.000+08:00

A proper introduction is in order, but to be honest I'm too goddamn lazy to think of one. So instead let's go with the honest approach:

This is just a filler post so I can preview the template.

Come back later for the real thing!

Charlie.