``In the name of Sui, I summon the waters from deep within to rise and cascade unto thee!'' Xuanzi intoned as she drew a large circle with her left hand. Beneath her feet, a deep rumbling sound could be heard and in a few short seconds a torrent of water gushed straight out of the ground like a geyser, tracing an arc as it spouted through the air and followed gravity to cascade upon Lian.
Lian cussed and flicked her finger in the direction of the water cascade as she leant backwards and kicked her feet forwards. Two powerful ki blasts emanated from her feet and pushed her forcefully backwards as a single ray of focused ki leapt from her finger towards the water cascade. Thanks to her backwards lean, Lian maintained her aim and the focused ki hit true, smashing straight into the enchanted waters and pulverising the guiding elemental energies surrounding it.
Water splashed every which where and Xuanzi was pushed on to her back by the uncontrolled cascade of the spout on top of her, acting the way water normally did without any elemental interference. Xuanzi landed hard and felt the wind knocked out of her as her wet white habit clung onto her waif frame. Despite the hard landing, Xuanzi managed to recompose herself and rolled herself up into a sitting position.
``As Huo is my witness, let the flames of light rain upon you like the water did to me!'' This time, Xuanzi drew two smaller circles with her fingers and pointed them at Lian. From above, a solar corona discharge suddenly appeared and arced its way through the atmosphere, burning a path of blazing orange as it went.
Lian didn't wait to see the effects of the new spell that Xuanzi had cast. She leapt up into the air, gaining additional altitude with more ki blasts from her feet. Once she was about twenty feet in the air, she suddenly dive-bombed in the direction of Xuanzi. The bolt arced through the sky, following the trajectory of Lian towards Xuanzi, who had just gotten up onto her feet, her finger still pointing at Lian.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 28-Feb-2014 23:25:21)
Friday, 28 February 2014
Thursday, 27 February 2014
Patricia
PATRICIA
What glorious day this is, oh my
How sweet do the birds above sing?
I pick my flowers to form a garland;
What hope will this spring bring?
EANA
Madam wishes me to inform thee that thy suitors are here presently.
PATRICIA
Oh Eana! What dost thou thinkst of the suitors come?
EANA
I did not see them, milady, I apologise. Please return presently before Madam fulminates.
PATRICIA
`Fulminate'? My dear Eana, how has thy language improve so much? Thou hardly readst, always working, yet thou uses such words!
EANA
The words, milday, are not mine. Madam told me before what to say. Please, milady, take madam's missive and return, or else her wrath be on me.
PATRICIA
My mother she be looking for suitors for me
Nary a day passes where she speaks not of them!
As though my life is nothing more than
To meet, to marry, to mother.
O how I wish I were not born of my sex
To be released from this misery
Of inflicted matrimony.
But mother never listens to what I say
Never letting me have my way
But what is a girl like me to do?
What glorious day this is, oh my
How sweet do the birds above sing?
I pick my flowers to form a garland;
What hope will this spring bring?
EANA
Madam wishes me to inform thee that thy suitors are here presently.
PATRICIA
Oh Eana! What dost thou thinkst of the suitors come?
EANA
I did not see them, milady, I apologise. Please return presently before Madam fulminates.
PATRICIA
`Fulminate'? My dear Eana, how has thy language improve so much? Thou hardly readst, always working, yet thou uses such words!
EANA
The words, milday, are not mine. Madam told me before what to say. Please, milady, take madam's missive and return, or else her wrath be on me.
PATRICIA
My mother she be looking for suitors for me
Nary a day passes where she speaks not of them!
As though my life is nothing more than
To meet, to marry, to mother.
O how I wish I were not born of my sex
To be released from this misery
Of inflicted matrimony.
But mother never listens to what I say
Never letting me have my way
But what is a girl like me to do?
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Courtly Fiends
``Order! Order!'' The judge hammered the gavel in a bid to regain some control over the hullabaloo raised by the audience in the courtroom. The murmurings died down with each sharp rap.
``Prosecutor, please temper your questions.''
``I apologise, your Honour,'' Siva said while giving a bow. Turning back to the defendant, he continued his questioning.
``Mr Eric Toh, did you or did you not have sex with the plaintiff Ms Shirley Tan at four o'clock near the Scape building behind the bushes?''
``No,'' a defiant-sounding Eric replied.
``Mr Eric Toh, may I remind you that you are under oath and may be in contempt of court should we prove that you are lying under oath. With that in mind, answer me again: did you or did you not have sex with the plaintiff Ms Shir--''
``Dude, fuck you!'' Eric shouted. ``I've told you no already! All you bastards are just trumping up charges because the REAL bastard who fucked that dim-wit underaged girl has a father that outranks you all!''
The court erupted in chatter once again and the judge was forced to bang his gavel once again.
``Order! Order I say! Defendant, I hereby find you in contempt of the court. You will be sentenced to two weeks of imprisonment effective now. Bailiff, take the defendant away.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 26-Feb-2014 22:13:31)
``Prosecutor, please temper your questions.''
``I apologise, your Honour,'' Siva said while giving a bow. Turning back to the defendant, he continued his questioning.
``Mr Eric Toh, did you or did you not have sex with the plaintiff Ms Shirley Tan at four o'clock near the Scape building behind the bushes?''
``No,'' a defiant-sounding Eric replied.
``Mr Eric Toh, may I remind you that you are under oath and may be in contempt of court should we prove that you are lying under oath. With that in mind, answer me again: did you or did you not have sex with the plaintiff Ms Shir--''
``Dude, fuck you!'' Eric shouted. ``I've told you no already! All you bastards are just trumping up charges because the REAL bastard who fucked that dim-wit underaged girl has a father that outranks you all!''
The court erupted in chatter once again and the judge was forced to bang his gavel once again.
``Order! Order I say! Defendant, I hereby find you in contempt of the court. You will be sentenced to two weeks of imprisonment effective now. Bailiff, take the defendant away.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 26-Feb-2014 22:13:31)
Tuesday, 25 February 2014
Frame Perfect
The crowd grew silent. It was the dream outcome, the impossibility, yet it had unfolded right in front of the incredulous audience's eyes. A regional tournament, no less, and thankfully, no more, for it would have been a scandal that would probably take years to shake off.
Jonathan and Xavier, two of the region's best bowlers, head to head, with twelve perfect strikes in a row, not in a tournament season, but right at the play-offs itself, at the same place, at the same time. A statistically near-improbable result, no less.
The judges for the tournament had taken a time out to discuss the matter on how to determine the ultimate winner. The rule books were thorough but unexhaustive---there was no rule for dealing with perfect games at the same-day tournament. When they returned, they had decided on a ``sudden death'' formula for tie-breaking. Each bowler would be given a new rack of ten pins, and they will take turns to clear them. The first to clear more pins in the same number of bowls wins.
Jonathan had bowled before Xavier, and so this time, the latter started first. The silent crowd watched as Xavier picked up his thirteen pounder with his left hand, holding it close to his face as he concentrated on the racked pins in front of him. With three steps, he let loose the ball, which slid a fair way before rolling and curling towards the lead pin, knocking the entire triangle of ten down.
``Strike!'' The crowd grew wild. Yet another strike. Would Jonathan equalise?
The lane cleared itself of the pins and a new rack of ten emerged. Jonathan popped his neck and stepped up to the ball carousel and picked up his twelve pound ball with his right hand. Like Xavier, he brought it close to his face as he arched his back slowly. Taking four bold steps forward, he unrolled his hand like a spring and unleashed his bowling ball. It flew forward and barely grazed the gutter before seemingly grip the smooth surface and rolling surely towards the lead pin, clearing the entire rack as well.
``Strike! Equalise! Next frame!''
The crowd gasped collectively. The pressure was back on Xavier to push for a win. A new rack of pins appeared on the lane, and Xavier picked up his ball once more. Like before, he took three steps forward before rolling his thirteen pounder down the lane in a sure and true trajectory.
``Strike!''
Jonathan stared at the crowd, bemused. Many of them had their mouths agape---they could not tell if it was truly a miracle or a rigged match. Silently though, Jonathan was rather astonished at the relative consistency in which he and Xavier were scoring strikes. He let that thought slide back to the rear of his mind and picked up his ball and bowled, scoring yet another strike.
This went on for the next three frames.
By now, the crowd was starting to get antsy, unsure of what it is they were witnessing. The tournament officials were puzzled and were starting to suspect foul play. Xavier was up, and Jonathan could see that he too was sweating.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 25-Feb-2014 23:51:32)
Jonathan and Xavier, two of the region's best bowlers, head to head, with twelve perfect strikes in a row, not in a tournament season, but right at the play-offs itself, at the same place, at the same time. A statistically near-improbable result, no less.
The judges for the tournament had taken a time out to discuss the matter on how to determine the ultimate winner. The rule books were thorough but unexhaustive---there was no rule for dealing with perfect games at the same-day tournament. When they returned, they had decided on a ``sudden death'' formula for tie-breaking. Each bowler would be given a new rack of ten pins, and they will take turns to clear them. The first to clear more pins in the same number of bowls wins.
Jonathan had bowled before Xavier, and so this time, the latter started first. The silent crowd watched as Xavier picked up his thirteen pounder with his left hand, holding it close to his face as he concentrated on the racked pins in front of him. With three steps, he let loose the ball, which slid a fair way before rolling and curling towards the lead pin, knocking the entire triangle of ten down.
``Strike!'' The crowd grew wild. Yet another strike. Would Jonathan equalise?
The lane cleared itself of the pins and a new rack of ten emerged. Jonathan popped his neck and stepped up to the ball carousel and picked up his twelve pound ball with his right hand. Like Xavier, he brought it close to his face as he arched his back slowly. Taking four bold steps forward, he unrolled his hand like a spring and unleashed his bowling ball. It flew forward and barely grazed the gutter before seemingly grip the smooth surface and rolling surely towards the lead pin, clearing the entire rack as well.
``Strike! Equalise! Next frame!''
The crowd gasped collectively. The pressure was back on Xavier to push for a win. A new rack of pins appeared on the lane, and Xavier picked up his ball once more. Like before, he took three steps forward before rolling his thirteen pounder down the lane in a sure and true trajectory.
``Strike!''
Jonathan stared at the crowd, bemused. Many of them had their mouths agape---they could not tell if it was truly a miracle or a rigged match. Silently though, Jonathan was rather astonished at the relative consistency in which he and Xavier were scoring strikes. He let that thought slide back to the rear of his mind and picked up his ball and bowled, scoring yet another strike.
This went on for the next three frames.
By now, the crowd was starting to get antsy, unsure of what it is they were witnessing. The tournament officials were puzzled and were starting to suspect foul play. Xavier was up, and Jonathan could see that he too was sweating.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 25-Feb-2014 23:51:32)
Monday, 24 February 2014
Subway Sadness
I stand at the platform, casting furtive glances about. Near me, I see the morning crowd starting to show some signs of annoyance. I can understand them completely---I have an exam coming up, and I should have been on the subway en route ten minutes ago, but here I am, still standing at the platform, behind the yellow line, lined up at one of the two snaking rows at the edge of the eye-high barrier doors.
The morning began cool, dry even. I had taken the short walk from home to the subway station, leaving home at roughly the same time as I always do. I reached the subway on time, and met the usual throng of vaguely familiar faces of people who take the same subway as I. A silent acknowledgement of each other was had by all.
But now, visible beads of sweat can be seen on our collective faces as the minutes ticked on by with no train in sight. The indicator panels located above us were of no help---they first showed an estimated time of five minutes, which did not change as each minute passed on by.
At first, I thought it was just a regular delay, as the subway was prone to having these days. Two minutes passed and I started to feel that something was wrong. Three more minutes passed and I was reaching a small state of panic.
Ten minutes on and I am where I am now, starting to be annoyed. Still, there was no indication of what had gone wrong. There were no announcements over the public address system, no display changes on the panels. The crowd increased as the next two to three batches of commuters have made their way up to the platform.
The dry and cool morning turned quickly into a fetid mass of sweaty, angry people as the scarce information and increasingly overcrowded situation worsened. I found myself pushed almost compulsively towards the barriers by those behind me who were gently nudged by someone from far far behind to make way for them to be on the platform. Just when it seemed like a riot was about to break out, the public address system sounded.
``We regret to inform you that due to a train fault, the next train will be delayed by fifteen minutes. We apologise for the inconvenience and hope for your understanding. Thank you very much.''
I looked at my watch. Without realising it, twenty minutes had already passed on by, and with the added fifteen-minute delay, I would be at least half an hour late. I turned my head to look behind me, and spotted the mob of bodies behind me; few of them were even attempting to leave the platform to seek alternative travel arrangements.
I examined my options and realised that there was no way I could get to my exam in time.
The morning began cool, dry even. I had taken the short walk from home to the subway station, leaving home at roughly the same time as I always do. I reached the subway on time, and met the usual throng of vaguely familiar faces of people who take the same subway as I. A silent acknowledgement of each other was had by all.
But now, visible beads of sweat can be seen on our collective faces as the minutes ticked on by with no train in sight. The indicator panels located above us were of no help---they first showed an estimated time of five minutes, which did not change as each minute passed on by.
At first, I thought it was just a regular delay, as the subway was prone to having these days. Two minutes passed and I started to feel that something was wrong. Three more minutes passed and I was reaching a small state of panic.
Ten minutes on and I am where I am now, starting to be annoyed. Still, there was no indication of what had gone wrong. There were no announcements over the public address system, no display changes on the panels. The crowd increased as the next two to three batches of commuters have made their way up to the platform.
The dry and cool morning turned quickly into a fetid mass of sweaty, angry people as the scarce information and increasingly overcrowded situation worsened. I found myself pushed almost compulsively towards the barriers by those behind me who were gently nudged by someone from far far behind to make way for them to be on the platform. Just when it seemed like a riot was about to break out, the public address system sounded.
``We regret to inform you that due to a train fault, the next train will be delayed by fifteen minutes. We apologise for the inconvenience and hope for your understanding. Thank you very much.''
I looked at my watch. Without realising it, twenty minutes had already passed on by, and with the added fifteen-minute delay, I would be at least half an hour late. I turned my head to look behind me, and spotted the mob of bodies behind me; few of them were even attempting to leave the platform to seek alternative travel arrangements.
I examined my options and realised that there was no way I could get to my exam in time.
Sunday, 23 February 2014
Striking
``Down with The Man! Down with corporations!'' The mob chanted as they took over the central parade square in front of the parliament house. It was the third day of a general strike that the unions had called given the outrage of the release of the latest budget of the parliament, where the corporate tax was further decreased while simultaneously increasing the personal and service tax. The finance minister had made the impassioned plea for understanding the need to increase the competitiveness while still maintaining the ability of the government to provide for the common goods.
From the vantage point of his make-shift office at the nearby hotel, Kim Keat stared out of the window through the blinds, watching as the strikers chanted their slogans while assembled as a coherent block of people. He sighed. Being the union boss was not the easiest thing to do, not when the unions themselves had their teeth and claws removed some thirty years ago in the bid to curb the communist tide, where the government had decided that most of the communists were coming from the unions. Now the unions were just unions in name; they were wholly under the control of the government. There were no other legal unions allowed in the country. The union leaders had been complaisant with the policies that the government had put forth.
Except for now.
Kim Keat sighed once more. The strike was planned under great security. He knew that the ruling party had their share of moles in the unions to look out for insurgents who intend to misbehave. To everyone, he was the perfect union boss, seemingly agreeing with the policies, putting up a pro-government facade.
But he had his shadow union leaders, almost like the Cosa Nostra, where they really looked out for the welfare of the workers in the union. It was a crazy tight-rope walk---they could be discovered at any time, but they had been lucky. The strike had been planned for a long time already, and it was the finance minister's callous statements the other day that became the straw that broke the camel's back and cause Kim Keat to authorise a strike.
Three sharp raps came from the room's door. Kim Keat looked away from the window and glanced at his security staff, three auxiliary policemen who were once a part of the riot police. One of them nodded at Kim Keat and moved towards the door while the other radioed to his compatriot on the outside to verify who was it that was paying the union boss a visit.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 23-Feb-2014 22:03:13)
From the vantage point of his make-shift office at the nearby hotel, Kim Keat stared out of the window through the blinds, watching as the strikers chanted their slogans while assembled as a coherent block of people. He sighed. Being the union boss was not the easiest thing to do, not when the unions themselves had their teeth and claws removed some thirty years ago in the bid to curb the communist tide, where the government had decided that most of the communists were coming from the unions. Now the unions were just unions in name; they were wholly under the control of the government. There were no other legal unions allowed in the country. The union leaders had been complaisant with the policies that the government had put forth.
Except for now.
Kim Keat sighed once more. The strike was planned under great security. He knew that the ruling party had their share of moles in the unions to look out for insurgents who intend to misbehave. To everyone, he was the perfect union boss, seemingly agreeing with the policies, putting up a pro-government facade.
But he had his shadow union leaders, almost like the Cosa Nostra, where they really looked out for the welfare of the workers in the union. It was a crazy tight-rope walk---they could be discovered at any time, but they had been lucky. The strike had been planned for a long time already, and it was the finance minister's callous statements the other day that became the straw that broke the camel's back and cause Kim Keat to authorise a strike.
Three sharp raps came from the room's door. Kim Keat looked away from the window and glanced at his security staff, three auxiliary policemen who were once a part of the riot police. One of them nodded at Kim Keat and moved towards the door while the other radioed to his compatriot on the outside to verify who was it that was paying the union boss a visit.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 23-Feb-2014 22:03:13)
Saturday, 22 February 2014
Tyre
``Where did you put the owner's manual?''
``What do you mean `where did you put the owner's manual'? Are you insinuating that I screwed up or something?''
``Calm down Sally,'' Tom said, sounding a little tired. ``We're on the shoulder in the middle of a highway with a busted tyre. We have the emergency tyre to replace it with, but the emergency tyre is not inflated. We need to know the proper PSI to pump the emergency tyre up with. We do have a pump, right?''
``No! Why would I carry a pump in the car?'' Sally shrieked back at Tom against the sound of cars passing them by.
Tom bit his lip and started to think to himself, knowing that Sally was deep enough in the anger zone that she would be anything but rational and helpful. She had been the one driving, and she hadn't paid attention to the road. Some gravel had spilled on to the road surface from some truck earlier and she did not avoid them, still going at the highway speed of fifty miles per hour. One of the sharper stones managed to penetrate through the tyre and blew it, causing Sally to swerve a little before steadying it somewhat within the shoulder lane.
And she had been taking it out on Tom since then.
He examined his options. The emergency tyre was clearly out of service, and the blown tyre was bad---attempting to drive in either would probably cause irreversible damage to the wheel. A grim set of solutions.
Tom sighed and dialled the number to the towing company as Sally kept on screaming at him.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 23-Feb-2014 00:10:22)
[Ed: Really not into it. Also late. Procrastinated watching Twitch Plays Pokemon.]
``What do you mean `where did you put the owner's manual'? Are you insinuating that I screwed up or something?''
``Calm down Sally,'' Tom said, sounding a little tired. ``We're on the shoulder in the middle of a highway with a busted tyre. We have the emergency tyre to replace it with, but the emergency tyre is not inflated. We need to know the proper PSI to pump the emergency tyre up with. We do have a pump, right?''
``No! Why would I carry a pump in the car?'' Sally shrieked back at Tom against the sound of cars passing them by.
Tom bit his lip and started to think to himself, knowing that Sally was deep enough in the anger zone that she would be anything but rational and helpful. She had been the one driving, and she hadn't paid attention to the road. Some gravel had spilled on to the road surface from some truck earlier and she did not avoid them, still going at the highway speed of fifty miles per hour. One of the sharper stones managed to penetrate through the tyre and blew it, causing Sally to swerve a little before steadying it somewhat within the shoulder lane.
And she had been taking it out on Tom since then.
He examined his options. The emergency tyre was clearly out of service, and the blown tyre was bad---attempting to drive in either would probably cause irreversible damage to the wheel. A grim set of solutions.
Tom sighed and dialled the number to the towing company as Sally kept on screaming at him.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 23-Feb-2014 00:10:22)
[Ed: Really not into it. Also late. Procrastinated watching Twitch Plays Pokemon.]
Friday, 21 February 2014
Tastefully Sordid
``Oh Jim! Right there! Yes! Yes!''
Jim grunted as he thrust his erect member repeatedly into Vivian. It was not his idea of a good shag, but Vivian was available and demanded his presence when he said that he was in town. It didn't cross his mind much why they were even hooking up in such a dinghy hotel in the first place. All he knew was that Vivian was available, relatively footloose, and was always ready for a screw.
``Damn Jim, why are you slowing down? Faster you stud! Faster!''
``Shut the hell up,'' Jim snapped back as beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. ``You're cramping my style. It takes effort to push through all that tightness you know!''
``Ooo... you're getting mad! I like it when you get mad! So dominant!''
``What? You want me to smack you around a little or something?'' Jim said somewhat sarcastically as he kept on thrusting without skipping a beat.
``Nah... you'll hurt my pretty face!'' Vivian replied, giggling.
Jim grunted and penetrated deeper. Vivian shrieked in surprise before moaning in pleasure.
The hotel room door suddenly slammed open, and angry heavy footsteps trudged through the short hallway. Panicked, Jim withdrew his member as quickly as he could. The footsteps continued before ending up before the king-sized bed where Jim and Vivian were. Jim and Vivian sat there cross-legged and guilty-looking.
``VIVIAN! You fucking whore! You are MY bitch! What the fuck are you doing here?'' A deep growly voice bellowed, reverbrating the thin cheap walls of the hotel. ``WHO gave you the PERMISSION to get fucked? You are coming with ME right THIS INSTANCE.''
``And YOU,'' the owner of the angry deep voice said, directing his gaze at Jim as Vivian meekly put his clothes on. ``Get the HELL out of my sight.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 21-Feb-2014 20:38:54)
Jim grunted as he thrust his erect member repeatedly into Vivian. It was not his idea of a good shag, but Vivian was available and demanded his presence when he said that he was in town. It didn't cross his mind much why they were even hooking up in such a dinghy hotel in the first place. All he knew was that Vivian was available, relatively footloose, and was always ready for a screw.
``Damn Jim, why are you slowing down? Faster you stud! Faster!''
``Shut the hell up,'' Jim snapped back as beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. ``You're cramping my style. It takes effort to push through all that tightness you know!''
``Ooo... you're getting mad! I like it when you get mad! So dominant!''
``What? You want me to smack you around a little or something?'' Jim said somewhat sarcastically as he kept on thrusting without skipping a beat.
``Nah... you'll hurt my pretty face!'' Vivian replied, giggling.
Jim grunted and penetrated deeper. Vivian shrieked in surprise before moaning in pleasure.
The hotel room door suddenly slammed open, and angry heavy footsteps trudged through the short hallway. Panicked, Jim withdrew his member as quickly as he could. The footsteps continued before ending up before the king-sized bed where Jim and Vivian were. Jim and Vivian sat there cross-legged and guilty-looking.
``VIVIAN! You fucking whore! You are MY bitch! What the fuck are you doing here?'' A deep growly voice bellowed, reverbrating the thin cheap walls of the hotel. ``WHO gave you the PERMISSION to get fucked? You are coming with ME right THIS INSTANCE.''
``And YOU,'' the owner of the angry deep voice said, directing his gaze at Jim as Vivian meekly put his clothes on. ``Get the HELL out of my sight.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 21-Feb-2014 20:38:54)
Thursday, 20 February 2014
End of a Work Day
The office lights shut off automatically. Eight o'clock. I knew the time because the lights out were consistent, a sort of impossibility that happened only because it didn't rely on human intervention to get working. I sighed. Yet another day had passed, and I was still no where near finishing the work that I had started in the morning.
Thankfully the mains did not shut down on their own as well. That would have been traumatic, considering that many of my colleagues were working late as well. Computers, we didn't really like them, but we couldn't really work without them. Too many things that required digital intervention. Spreadsheets, presentations, databases, reports---all of them had to be done via the computer. Except, I didn't really believe that all of them truly needed to be done with the computer. Digital age, they said, paperless workplace they said. I was there when the ``digital revolution'' happened. Frankly, I think we got even more paper now, since redrafting a report was as easy as making a few small changes and then running the entire document through the printer. Managers loved reading hard copies of everything, for some stupid reason. Totally in contradiction to the whole premise behind shifting everything to computers.
The soft ringing of my phone snapped me out of my internal monologue. I glanced at the caller ID---it was Jane. I picked up the phone.
``Hi hon,'' I said, keeping the phone between my left shoulder and ear as I packed my briefcase with the files that I needed to analyse.
``Hi sweetie, coming back yet?'' Jane replied from the other end of the line. I love Jane. She has this hard yet sultry voice, difficult to explain but very sensual to take in. She makes my day better, no matter how bad it was. And on a decent day like today, she makes it awesome.
``Yep, just packing up. I think I'll take the cab back; it's a little too late for my comfort.'' I finished loading up my briefcase and put the clasp back on, switching the handset back to my hand.
``Okay love. Dinner's ready and I'm waiting for you. I love you!''
``I love you too, Jane. See you in a bit.'' I said, giving her a soft kiss over the phone. The line clicked dead and I put the handset back on the phone cradle. I switched off my desk lamp and stepped out of my cubicle. All about me I could see random reflections of desk lamps on the darkened ceiling, a testament to its owner still being present in the cubicle and still working on something, either a report or some kind of presentation. No one ever does their analysis at night---I know because I was one of them. I sighed softly to myself and walked off towards the elevator lobby outside of the glass doors.
It was quiet. The lights in the lobby were much dimmed compared to their day-time intensity, but it was more of a soft dimming than a creepy dimming. I was alone in the lobby. I pressed the down button on the panel and waited, scouting the three elevators to see which one was coming to my floor. For tonight, it was the centre one, and this time, it didn't do something silly like skipping past my floor before coming back up again. I waited impatiently for it to stop completely and open its welcoming doors. The fluorescent lights in the elevator were startling compared to lobby. For one, they were harsher; instead of the soft yellowy orange light of the lobby, there was that uncomfortably white light glaring down. For two, the elevator itself was mirrored, which meant that the light was reflected all over, which actually made it worse.
I pushed the button to the ground floor, ignoring the light as best as I can. Glancing up from the control panel, I paused to look at the advertisement that was playing in the display panel above it. That display panel always made me feel uncomfortable. There had been many times where I had seen an operating system crash image on the display, something that I wasn't expecting to see on an elevator. I am glad though that the display was independent of the control system for the elevator---I had shuddered to think of the consequences if that were false.
The gentle acceleration was met with a quiet cruising moment before decelerating. With a soft `ding', the doors open and I found myself on the ground floor lobby. Gathering my thoughts back to the present, I boldly stepped out of the elevator and through the lobby, nodding at the graveyard shift security officers who had already taken up their post. I knew most of them by name, having come early to the office often enough that I could still see the graveyard shift. I do not envy their job. While it seemed like they did little being lobby guards of the main office tower, I had come to learn from them the need for patrolling each floor ever so often, sometimes even having to take the stairs just to check for potential loiterers and other people who have somehow managed to sneak through the security net. They weren't armed and weren't full police officers, and that made their job doubly hard because their options in dealing with an interloper were significantly limited. It didn't help also that most of those who did the graveyard shift were in their fifties or early sixties; none of those who were younger wanted to take up the graveyard shift due to family commitments or the existence of what we would commonly call as ``having a life''. There was nothing I could do, really, since the security officers were fielded by the building owner, which was not my employer, funny enough.
I walked out of the lobby and into the atrium and out of the building. The stale warm air beat against me as I stepped out of the air curtain separating the interior from the exterior. Such was the weather that was present. I had been living here for nearly a decade, and I am still disagreeable with the weather. I made my way hastily towards the cab stand where there was a short line there already waiting for the cabs to turn up. Cabs had a strange modus operandi---they were never around the fifteen minutes before the surcharge period, and when the surcharge period came along, they would suddenly appear in large numbers, as though bees in a hive. It was a strangely inefficient system but one that almost every cab driver played because it did maximise their takings for the night.
I counted the number of people before me; five. I could probably be on a cab within twenty minutes, still faster than attempting to take the rapid transit home. I stood quietly in line and looked across the street. There used to be a few factory blocks where an empty car park now stood. The factories there were mostly in the light manufacturing industry and was a pretty popular place to set up small scale manufacturing companies. But roughly three years ago, there was a government re-gazetting programme that basically re-assigned that plot of land as being for ``high-tech enterprises'', something that the light manufacturing companies failed to be categorised as and with that, the factories were demolished and the ground paved over to be used as a temporary parking area. But as I said, it had been three years. The plot of land looked as forlorn as the concrete that was slopped on it, and the entire block lost a lot of the vibrancy that it once had, where workers of the factories would come out and chat happily, grabbing their mid-day meal from the hawker centre nearby, or seek some refuge from the heat by coming to the food court in the basement of my office building.
But those days were past, like many things.
A small toot of the horn brought me back to the present once more. I was at the head of the queue, and a cab was already there, waiting for me to board it. I nodded at the driver sheepishly and opened up the rear passenger door and tossed my briefcase in before following in myself. Thus seated, I closed the door and the driver asked me where I wanted to go.
``Serangoon please, and go by AYE.''
``Okay Boss.'' The driver nodded and guided his cab out of the cab stand and on to the main road. Before long, I found myself along the Ayer-Rajah Expressway. As I looked out of the window, I saw rows upon rows of street lamps pass on by.
Thankfully the mains did not shut down on their own as well. That would have been traumatic, considering that many of my colleagues were working late as well. Computers, we didn't really like them, but we couldn't really work without them. Too many things that required digital intervention. Spreadsheets, presentations, databases, reports---all of them had to be done via the computer. Except, I didn't really believe that all of them truly needed to be done with the computer. Digital age, they said, paperless workplace they said. I was there when the ``digital revolution'' happened. Frankly, I think we got even more paper now, since redrafting a report was as easy as making a few small changes and then running the entire document through the printer. Managers loved reading hard copies of everything, for some stupid reason. Totally in contradiction to the whole premise behind shifting everything to computers.
The soft ringing of my phone snapped me out of my internal monologue. I glanced at the caller ID---it was Jane. I picked up the phone.
``Hi hon,'' I said, keeping the phone between my left shoulder and ear as I packed my briefcase with the files that I needed to analyse.
``Hi sweetie, coming back yet?'' Jane replied from the other end of the line. I love Jane. She has this hard yet sultry voice, difficult to explain but very sensual to take in. She makes my day better, no matter how bad it was. And on a decent day like today, she makes it awesome.
``Yep, just packing up. I think I'll take the cab back; it's a little too late for my comfort.'' I finished loading up my briefcase and put the clasp back on, switching the handset back to my hand.
``Okay love. Dinner's ready and I'm waiting for you. I love you!''
``I love you too, Jane. See you in a bit.'' I said, giving her a soft kiss over the phone. The line clicked dead and I put the handset back on the phone cradle. I switched off my desk lamp and stepped out of my cubicle. All about me I could see random reflections of desk lamps on the darkened ceiling, a testament to its owner still being present in the cubicle and still working on something, either a report or some kind of presentation. No one ever does their analysis at night---I know because I was one of them. I sighed softly to myself and walked off towards the elevator lobby outside of the glass doors.
It was quiet. The lights in the lobby were much dimmed compared to their day-time intensity, but it was more of a soft dimming than a creepy dimming. I was alone in the lobby. I pressed the down button on the panel and waited, scouting the three elevators to see which one was coming to my floor. For tonight, it was the centre one, and this time, it didn't do something silly like skipping past my floor before coming back up again. I waited impatiently for it to stop completely and open its welcoming doors. The fluorescent lights in the elevator were startling compared to lobby. For one, they were harsher; instead of the soft yellowy orange light of the lobby, there was that uncomfortably white light glaring down. For two, the elevator itself was mirrored, which meant that the light was reflected all over, which actually made it worse.
I pushed the button to the ground floor, ignoring the light as best as I can. Glancing up from the control panel, I paused to look at the advertisement that was playing in the display panel above it. That display panel always made me feel uncomfortable. There had been many times where I had seen an operating system crash image on the display, something that I wasn't expecting to see on an elevator. I am glad though that the display was independent of the control system for the elevator---I had shuddered to think of the consequences if that were false.
The gentle acceleration was met with a quiet cruising moment before decelerating. With a soft `ding', the doors open and I found myself on the ground floor lobby. Gathering my thoughts back to the present, I boldly stepped out of the elevator and through the lobby, nodding at the graveyard shift security officers who had already taken up their post. I knew most of them by name, having come early to the office often enough that I could still see the graveyard shift. I do not envy their job. While it seemed like they did little being lobby guards of the main office tower, I had come to learn from them the need for patrolling each floor ever so often, sometimes even having to take the stairs just to check for potential loiterers and other people who have somehow managed to sneak through the security net. They weren't armed and weren't full police officers, and that made their job doubly hard because their options in dealing with an interloper were significantly limited. It didn't help also that most of those who did the graveyard shift were in their fifties or early sixties; none of those who were younger wanted to take up the graveyard shift due to family commitments or the existence of what we would commonly call as ``having a life''. There was nothing I could do, really, since the security officers were fielded by the building owner, which was not my employer, funny enough.
I walked out of the lobby and into the atrium and out of the building. The stale warm air beat against me as I stepped out of the air curtain separating the interior from the exterior. Such was the weather that was present. I had been living here for nearly a decade, and I am still disagreeable with the weather. I made my way hastily towards the cab stand where there was a short line there already waiting for the cabs to turn up. Cabs had a strange modus operandi---they were never around the fifteen minutes before the surcharge period, and when the surcharge period came along, they would suddenly appear in large numbers, as though bees in a hive. It was a strangely inefficient system but one that almost every cab driver played because it did maximise their takings for the night.
I counted the number of people before me; five. I could probably be on a cab within twenty minutes, still faster than attempting to take the rapid transit home. I stood quietly in line and looked across the street. There used to be a few factory blocks where an empty car park now stood. The factories there were mostly in the light manufacturing industry and was a pretty popular place to set up small scale manufacturing companies. But roughly three years ago, there was a government re-gazetting programme that basically re-assigned that plot of land as being for ``high-tech enterprises'', something that the light manufacturing companies failed to be categorised as and with that, the factories were demolished and the ground paved over to be used as a temporary parking area. But as I said, it had been three years. The plot of land looked as forlorn as the concrete that was slopped on it, and the entire block lost a lot of the vibrancy that it once had, where workers of the factories would come out and chat happily, grabbing their mid-day meal from the hawker centre nearby, or seek some refuge from the heat by coming to the food court in the basement of my office building.
But those days were past, like many things.
A small toot of the horn brought me back to the present once more. I was at the head of the queue, and a cab was already there, waiting for me to board it. I nodded at the driver sheepishly and opened up the rear passenger door and tossed my briefcase in before following in myself. Thus seated, I closed the door and the driver asked me where I wanted to go.
``Serangoon please, and go by AYE.''
``Okay Boss.'' The driver nodded and guided his cab out of the cab stand and on to the main road. Before long, I found myself along the Ayer-Rajah Expressway. As I looked out of the window, I saw rows upon rows of street lamps pass on by.
Wednesday, 19 February 2014
The Device: Part III
(Story begins here.)
``What the hell is that!'' Sally shrieked, leaping back and crashing into the wall behind her hard. Her back immediately started throbbing with pain. ``Is it a damn cockroach? You know I hated those things---why didn't you give me a warning?''
``Huh?'' Tom replied, looking somewhat confused. ``Oh! It's not a cockroach. It only has the silhouette of one, see?'' He raised the object to his eye-level, against the fluorescent light, and held it steady.
Sally waited for a bit and stared at the object that was thus held. She observed no movement in the object, and with her confidence building, took a small step forward to have a closer look at it. No sooner had she gotten within twelve inches of the object when she saw a small beady something glinting for a split second. It was enough to make her spring back to her corner of the room.
``It... it moved! Tom you bastard! You lying bastard!''
``What moved?'' Tom said once more. ``The thing is completely inanimate as far as I can tell.''
``I saw its eyes move!''
``It doesn't have any damn eyes, Sally. Get a grip. I think you're just prejudiced against the shape, and playing straight on your own fears and biases, that's all. Don't forget that you're supposed to be the engineer that has to verify that my claims that what the device is capable of doing to be true. No one will believe you if you sound like a nut job.''
``Just get that thing away from me!'' Sally screeched, half-screaming and half-crying from the shock.
Tom sighed. So many years, and he had nearly forgotten about Sally's irrational fear for cockroaches. He couldn't really understand why she had such a strong phobia---it was not as though she had to live through a torture relating to being immersed in a tub full of the moving writhing cockroaches. And she lived in the city, where cockroaches were actually far and few and mostly harmless. Those cockroaches out in the rural areas, now those were the scary ones. About half an inch longer than the ones in the city, those cockroaches were rambunctious enough to even catch and eat small prey, a behaviour that was hitherto unseen. Tom shrugged his shoulders: thoughts for another time.
He held the cockroach-shaped object in his right hand and reached for the three-inch cube from the shelf with his left. He picked the cube up easy---despite looking like it was made of concrete, the cube itself was made of some kind of exotic material more like a plastic. As a result, it was actually quite light while still rigid to hold. Tom had requested for CT scans of the cube to learn more about its interior, but the national parks authority relayed the message that nothing intrusive was to be done to it, and that included irradiating the cube with any form of high intensity radiation. It sounded incongruent to Tom, considering the nature of the authority and the expressed prohibition of certain actions. He suspected that some other agency was involved and was using the national parks authority as a front, but wasn't in the position to argue anything. Grant money was hard to come by, and it was an interesting study so far, to say the least.
With the cube in his left hand, and the cockroach-shaped object in his right, Tom brought the two of them together in front of him. Sally was watching from the corner, fascinated. As the two objects got closer to each other, a glow started to emanate from both of them. It was subtle while they were still arm's length apart, but as they got closer, the glow started to overpower even the fluorescent lamp above. Strangely enough, Sally could see that the glow was increasing in intensity, but at not point was it ever so blinding that she couldn't continue observing.
Then she saw Tom do what she would later describe as ``a physically impossible action'' at the inquiry.
The cube and the cockroach-shaped object started intersecting each other in the middle of the brilliant and ever-increasing intensity glow. Sally glanced at Tom---he didn't seem like he was expending any form of effort whatsoever and looked quite relaxed. She shifted her gaze back to the two objects. The cockroach-shaped object was slowly embedded within the cube, and as it made its way through, the cube itself started to change its shape. The change was bizarre---some parts started to shrink and disappear while other parts started to appear out of nowhere, and they all took on shapes that one would hardly ever see in the real world. It was almost as though the cube was adjusting itself in a higher spatial dimension and all that she was seeing was a mere three-dimensional shadow of a higher dimension manipulation. The changing shapes continued on for a bit, accelerating in its rate until the glow suddenly went away and a new object seated itself comfortably in Tom's open hands.
``What the hell just happened?'' Sally asked, finally finding her voice.
``I just assembled the key to the device.''
``No you did not! I just saw you move the two objects together and... and... it did stuff and assembled itself on its own!''
``Yes, that's how the key is assembled. Once used, it will re-form the cube and the other object that you saw earlier.''
``And you know this because...''
``Because I've already used the key and the device once. That's why they were willing to suspend their disbelief and order me to get an engineer to come in and verify my claims. Because I've already used the device with the key. I've seen what the device can do. And they just want another person to verify it.''
Sally was speechless. She turned to look at the key that was sitting on Tom's open palms. It looked almost like an ordinary old-fashioned key, bronze in colour, complete with a large loop on one hand and long-ish stem and cut teeth. But that was all there was in resemblence to the familiar. There was a barely imperceptible modulation of the surface of the entire key, as though it were some form of liquid with very high frequency waves travelling along it. Sally could swear that she saw some spikes that appeared momentarily only to disappear again. All in all, it was mesmerising, even as none of the patterns that seemed to be appearing repeated itself.
``May I hold it?''
``Sure, why not?'' Tom replied, holding out the key with one hand towards Sally.
She reached forward to pick it up from him.
``What the hell is that!'' Sally shrieked, leaping back and crashing into the wall behind her hard. Her back immediately started throbbing with pain. ``Is it a damn cockroach? You know I hated those things---why didn't you give me a warning?''
``Huh?'' Tom replied, looking somewhat confused. ``Oh! It's not a cockroach. It only has the silhouette of one, see?'' He raised the object to his eye-level, against the fluorescent light, and held it steady.
Sally waited for a bit and stared at the object that was thus held. She observed no movement in the object, and with her confidence building, took a small step forward to have a closer look at it. No sooner had she gotten within twelve inches of the object when she saw a small beady something glinting for a split second. It was enough to make her spring back to her corner of the room.
``It... it moved! Tom you bastard! You lying bastard!''
``What moved?'' Tom said once more. ``The thing is completely inanimate as far as I can tell.''
``I saw its eyes move!''
``It doesn't have any damn eyes, Sally. Get a grip. I think you're just prejudiced against the shape, and playing straight on your own fears and biases, that's all. Don't forget that you're supposed to be the engineer that has to verify that my claims that what the device is capable of doing to be true. No one will believe you if you sound like a nut job.''
``Just get that thing away from me!'' Sally screeched, half-screaming and half-crying from the shock.
Tom sighed. So many years, and he had nearly forgotten about Sally's irrational fear for cockroaches. He couldn't really understand why she had such a strong phobia---it was not as though she had to live through a torture relating to being immersed in a tub full of the moving writhing cockroaches. And she lived in the city, where cockroaches were actually far and few and mostly harmless. Those cockroaches out in the rural areas, now those were the scary ones. About half an inch longer than the ones in the city, those cockroaches were rambunctious enough to even catch and eat small prey, a behaviour that was hitherto unseen. Tom shrugged his shoulders: thoughts for another time.
He held the cockroach-shaped object in his right hand and reached for the three-inch cube from the shelf with his left. He picked the cube up easy---despite looking like it was made of concrete, the cube itself was made of some kind of exotic material more like a plastic. As a result, it was actually quite light while still rigid to hold. Tom had requested for CT scans of the cube to learn more about its interior, but the national parks authority relayed the message that nothing intrusive was to be done to it, and that included irradiating the cube with any form of high intensity radiation. It sounded incongruent to Tom, considering the nature of the authority and the expressed prohibition of certain actions. He suspected that some other agency was involved and was using the national parks authority as a front, but wasn't in the position to argue anything. Grant money was hard to come by, and it was an interesting study so far, to say the least.
With the cube in his left hand, and the cockroach-shaped object in his right, Tom brought the two of them together in front of him. Sally was watching from the corner, fascinated. As the two objects got closer to each other, a glow started to emanate from both of them. It was subtle while they were still arm's length apart, but as they got closer, the glow started to overpower even the fluorescent lamp above. Strangely enough, Sally could see that the glow was increasing in intensity, but at not point was it ever so blinding that she couldn't continue observing.
Then she saw Tom do what she would later describe as ``a physically impossible action'' at the inquiry.
The cube and the cockroach-shaped object started intersecting each other in the middle of the brilliant and ever-increasing intensity glow. Sally glanced at Tom---he didn't seem like he was expending any form of effort whatsoever and looked quite relaxed. She shifted her gaze back to the two objects. The cockroach-shaped object was slowly embedded within the cube, and as it made its way through, the cube itself started to change its shape. The change was bizarre---some parts started to shrink and disappear while other parts started to appear out of nowhere, and they all took on shapes that one would hardly ever see in the real world. It was almost as though the cube was adjusting itself in a higher spatial dimension and all that she was seeing was a mere three-dimensional shadow of a higher dimension manipulation. The changing shapes continued on for a bit, accelerating in its rate until the glow suddenly went away and a new object seated itself comfortably in Tom's open hands.
``What the hell just happened?'' Sally asked, finally finding her voice.
``I just assembled the key to the device.''
``No you did not! I just saw you move the two objects together and... and... it did stuff and assembled itself on its own!''
``Yes, that's how the key is assembled. Once used, it will re-form the cube and the other object that you saw earlier.''
``And you know this because...''
``Because I've already used the key and the device once. That's why they were willing to suspend their disbelief and order me to get an engineer to come in and verify my claims. Because I've already used the device with the key. I've seen what the device can do. And they just want another person to verify it.''
Sally was speechless. She turned to look at the key that was sitting on Tom's open palms. It looked almost like an ordinary old-fashioned key, bronze in colour, complete with a large loop on one hand and long-ish stem and cut teeth. But that was all there was in resemblence to the familiar. There was a barely imperceptible modulation of the surface of the entire key, as though it were some form of liquid with very high frequency waves travelling along it. Sally could swear that she saw some spikes that appeared momentarily only to disappear again. All in all, it was mesmerising, even as none of the patterns that seemed to be appearing repeated itself.
``May I hold it?''
``Sure, why not?'' Tom replied, holding out the key with one hand towards Sally.
She reached forward to pick it up from him.
Tuesday, 18 February 2014
1819
It's been too long. I really hate to sail in the ship, but I don't have much of a choice. We need a much better port. Malacca is a decent port, but it's not good enough. Major Farquhar's attempt in securing additional ports has had mixed results. We need a much better port that is out of control of the Dutch.
Farquhar told me about some islands south of the peninsula that could be useful, but I'm wary of his suggestion, partly because of the large amount of Dutch influence as we get closer to Java. There was this island that we passed by not too long ago that seemed promising; I've been told it's the island of Singapura, and that it was not under Dutch nor Sultanate control. I had been to the Karimun Islands as suggested by Farquhar, but I think they are too close to Dutch dominance to be useful.
Besides, they are far from the Straits of Malacca, that makes them rather useless as a refuelling stop. Singapura seems to have the most promise at this point.
The ship I'm on finally made its way to Singapura, and I found myself among the orang laut of the island, sea people indigenous to the land. I heard from the locals that the Temenggong was in charge, and confirmed that they were not under the Johore Sultanate, which will probably make it easier to secure rights to the use of the island. Our sail boat took some soundings at the bay that we landed on, and found that the harbour is naturally deep. This will be a very good place for a port of call after Malacca, especially since all the ships will need to pass through here before heading up north east again.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-18 17:56:28)
[Ed: Prompt from WriteThis wanted a historical piece. This is an attempt to write about Sir Stamford Raffles, Founder of Singapore.]
Farquhar told me about some islands south of the peninsula that could be useful, but I'm wary of his suggestion, partly because of the large amount of Dutch influence as we get closer to Java. There was this island that we passed by not too long ago that seemed promising; I've been told it's the island of Singapura, and that it was not under Dutch nor Sultanate control. I had been to the Karimun Islands as suggested by Farquhar, but I think they are too close to Dutch dominance to be useful.
Besides, they are far from the Straits of Malacca, that makes them rather useless as a refuelling stop. Singapura seems to have the most promise at this point.
The ship I'm on finally made its way to Singapura, and I found myself among the orang laut of the island, sea people indigenous to the land. I heard from the locals that the Temenggong was in charge, and confirmed that they were not under the Johore Sultanate, which will probably make it easier to secure rights to the use of the island. Our sail boat took some soundings at the bay that we landed on, and found that the harbour is naturally deep. This will be a very good place for a port of call after Malacca, especially since all the ships will need to pass through here before heading up north east again.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-18 17:56:28)
[Ed: Prompt from WriteThis wanted a historical piece. This is an attempt to write about Sir Stamford Raffles, Founder of Singapore.]
Monday, 17 February 2014
Sermon
``Evolution is the sin of mankind!'' Hector bellowed from his pulpit.
``There is no other way of interpreting the facts than stating that God was the one who created all that has and ever will be. Observational science has been the scourge of the faithful for the past two hundred years, and bit by bit they have turned against the Lord and sinned by believing that their human observations that are not with one hundred percent certainty describes the world.
``The good book is clear on such matters. The Big Bang did not happen; God himself made the world and universe as it is in six days, taking rest on the seventh to observe all that He had created. That's historical science. It is backed by all the evidence that we see today. It is a fact inasmuch as it is the absolute matter, unlike observational science where the Big Bang theory is merely a theory, and all the `proof' that they provide is based on fallible observation. We know that God Almighty Himself is infallible, and therefore our perspective is the Absolutely Correct one.''
Hector sipped some water from the glass next to the podium and took a look at his congregation. All of them were staring upwards at him with eyes rivetting upon his stately figure, lapping up the sermon as eagerly as he was giving them. Already many of his flock had left the church, some even forming strong anti-establishment groups and actively trying to defame his and his Lord's good name. Such sinners will end in hell, no doubt, but Hector knew that it was the living who needed to be saved, not those that were already condemned.
``Evolution,'' he continued. ``It is merely a theory that those who practise observational science like to lob at us believers. Time immemorial has been spent on this pet theory of the observational scienctist, and each time we have proven that God's Creation is the simplest and best explanation. The observational scientists like quoting Occam's Razor as a principle behind their argument. Well then, their principle hampers their argument more than it does ours, for isn't it simpler to have God create all that is than to assume that random processes somehow managed to create the diversity and intelligence that are present among God's own creatures?
``Be fooled not of the Devil, for he misleads in all guises and forms. Amen!''
A resounding amen echoed through the church. Hector stepped away from the pulpit, pleased with himself. Another well done sermon.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-17 18:06:47)
[Ed: The prompt had a special rule that required me to write from an opposing viewpoint.]
``There is no other way of interpreting the facts than stating that God was the one who created all that has and ever will be. Observational science has been the scourge of the faithful for the past two hundred years, and bit by bit they have turned against the Lord and sinned by believing that their human observations that are not with one hundred percent certainty describes the world.
``The good book is clear on such matters. The Big Bang did not happen; God himself made the world and universe as it is in six days, taking rest on the seventh to observe all that He had created. That's historical science. It is backed by all the evidence that we see today. It is a fact inasmuch as it is the absolute matter, unlike observational science where the Big Bang theory is merely a theory, and all the `proof' that they provide is based on fallible observation. We know that God Almighty Himself is infallible, and therefore our perspective is the Absolutely Correct one.''
Hector sipped some water from the glass next to the podium and took a look at his congregation. All of them were staring upwards at him with eyes rivetting upon his stately figure, lapping up the sermon as eagerly as he was giving them. Already many of his flock had left the church, some even forming strong anti-establishment groups and actively trying to defame his and his Lord's good name. Such sinners will end in hell, no doubt, but Hector knew that it was the living who needed to be saved, not those that were already condemned.
``Evolution,'' he continued. ``It is merely a theory that those who practise observational science like to lob at us believers. Time immemorial has been spent on this pet theory of the observational scienctist, and each time we have proven that God's Creation is the simplest and best explanation. The observational scientists like quoting Occam's Razor as a principle behind their argument. Well then, their principle hampers their argument more than it does ours, for isn't it simpler to have God create all that is than to assume that random processes somehow managed to create the diversity and intelligence that are present among God's own creatures?
``Be fooled not of the Devil, for he misleads in all guises and forms. Amen!''
A resounding amen echoed through the church. Hector stepped away from the pulpit, pleased with himself. Another well done sermon.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-17 18:06:47)
[Ed: The prompt had a special rule that required me to write from an opposing viewpoint.]
Sunday, 16 February 2014
Why You...
``No, no, no! For the last time, no!'' Steven shouted at Sally. ``I have no idea what the hell that you are doing, but you have been leaving the house late and coming back even later consecutively for the sixth time already! Just what is it you are up to?''
``It's just work, like I sai---''
``The hell it is work! What decent job requires someone to turn up after nine in the evening and releases them at three in the morning? Sally, Sally...'' Steven said, his eyes starting to fill with tears. ``Why are you doing this to me?''
``Doing what?'' Sally replied with indignation. ``Getting a job?''
``No!'' Steven shouted again, his tears seemingly replaced by his rage. ``You cuckolding me!''
``What the---''
``Yes! I've followed you out on the fourth day, and saw you meeting with a man! And the two of you were heading to the hotel. It was one of those dinghy hotels that almost no one went to, and the two of you... the two of you went in!''
``You were FOLLOWING me? You untrusting bastard!'' Sally started yelling back at Steven. ``How DARE you follow me when I am doing my business!''
``Oh? So it's a fucking business now eh? I see what it is... am I not providing enough that you need to whore yourself out like that? Why, why would you want to treat me like this, Sally! What have I done to deserve this kind of treatment?''
``Yes, you know what, fucking yes!'' Sally glowered back, eyes of steel. ``You stink at bed even though you think you are some kind of hot stud. `Hulk smash' was lame even back in the nineties, and there you are acting all juvenile each time we were making love. Then the whole `Sally do this, Sally do that' thing. He-llo? I'm your fucking wife, not a slave! A bad sex life I can live with and probably help fix, but not with your goddamn chauvinist attitude!''
``And so you cheated on me like a cheap whore?'' Steven recoiled in shock.
``So what if I cheated on you? Julian is dreamy, he's actually good in bed, and he's a gentleman about it! Hell, I'd rather have HIM as my husband than you, you good-for-nothing beta loser male!''
Steven took a couple of steps back in horror. Then, lines formed on his forehead and his eyes narrowed into slits.
He raised his hand and struck Sally across the face.
``It's just work, like I sai---''
``The hell it is work! What decent job requires someone to turn up after nine in the evening and releases them at three in the morning? Sally, Sally...'' Steven said, his eyes starting to fill with tears. ``Why are you doing this to me?''
``Doing what?'' Sally replied with indignation. ``Getting a job?''
``No!'' Steven shouted again, his tears seemingly replaced by his rage. ``You cuckolding me!''
``What the---''
``Yes! I've followed you out on the fourth day, and saw you meeting with a man! And the two of you were heading to the hotel. It was one of those dinghy hotels that almost no one went to, and the two of you... the two of you went in!''
``You were FOLLOWING me? You untrusting bastard!'' Sally started yelling back at Steven. ``How DARE you follow me when I am doing my business!''
``Oh? So it's a fucking business now eh? I see what it is... am I not providing enough that you need to whore yourself out like that? Why, why would you want to treat me like this, Sally! What have I done to deserve this kind of treatment?''
``Yes, you know what, fucking yes!'' Sally glowered back, eyes of steel. ``You stink at bed even though you think you are some kind of hot stud. `Hulk smash' was lame even back in the nineties, and there you are acting all juvenile each time we were making love. Then the whole `Sally do this, Sally do that' thing. He-llo? I'm your fucking wife, not a slave! A bad sex life I can live with and probably help fix, but not with your goddamn chauvinist attitude!''
``And so you cheated on me like a cheap whore?'' Steven recoiled in shock.
``So what if I cheated on you? Julian is dreamy, he's actually good in bed, and he's a gentleman about it! Hell, I'd rather have HIM as my husband than you, you good-for-nothing beta loser male!''
Steven took a couple of steps back in horror. Then, lines formed on his forehead and his eyes narrowed into slits.
He raised his hand and struck Sally across the face.
Saturday, 15 February 2014
Elysium
I opened my eyes, and stared at the curved ceiling above me. A dull throbbing pain was passing between my temples, and I found myself closing my eyes once more in an attempt to reduce its annoyance. Several moments passed by. I felt the pain in my head lessening and opened my eyes again. Above me, the curved ceiling seemed somewhat welcoming, though I was uncertain just where I was.
As I looked on at the ceiling above, I started to notice a gentle oscillating movement. It was a very subtle effect, I felt one side of my body dipping slightly lower for a few seconds, before the other side started dipping slightly lower for a few seconds. Confused, I sprang out of bed.
I found myself in a cabin on a large ship. The porthole opened out to daylight, and I could see the horizon in the distance bobbing slowly up and down. I knew it was a large ship because of how slow the movement was. Not knowing how or why I was on board a boat like this, I looked about me and saw a chair nearby. Grabbing it, I sat down and surveyed my surroundings.
The cabin was small but neat. In the corner was a bed that I had been lying on for quite a bit as I was nursing that headache that seemed to have reappeared. Unlike a regular bed, this one seemed to be bolted into the ground with nuts as thick as my thumb. At the foot of the bed was a white lock box that was also bolted to the ground. My gaze moved on clockwise past a heavy steel door that served as the entrance to the room and on to the other side, where there was a bolt-on metal wardrobe, all white as well, and another strong box, except this time it looked more like a cabinet than a box, and was larger than the one at the foot of the bed. There were three shelves above it, but they had small guardrails about them, typical I would think, given that we were on a boat at sea after all. The strong box ended at the wall of the hull, and immediately next to it was the port hole that I was now looking through at the horizon.
I rested my hand on the bolted table in front of me. I knew where I was, yet simultaneously I knew now where I truly was. It was baffling, to say the least---I had never been on a boat in my entire life, and yet here I was on a cruise to somewhere with no knowledge on how I got there. There did not seem to be any danger at the moment, and so I just sat there and mulled over my position.
I had no idea how long it was before there was the distinct sound of a bolt being shifted from the door to the room. Shaken out of my day-dreaming, I turned around to face the newcomer.
The white metal door opened inwards slowly, as though someone was taking great care to not hurt anyone who was unfortunate enough to be behind the door. At the doorway, I saw a narrow corridor lit by yellow sodium lamps, and the newcomer. He was standing there in a tuxedo and a maroon bow tie, his greying hair immaculately combed backwards. He had the face of a seasoned steward, with one hand on the heavy bolt that he had just shifted, and the other skilfully holding up a covered tray of what I could only imagine to be food. With a slight tip of his head, he stepped into the cabin noiselessly and placed the tray on my table.
``Monsieur's lunch. Boiled lobster and clam as thou have ordered.'' With that, he removed the cover from the tray. I peered at the spread on the tray---the steward was true to his word. A most beautiful display of lobster and clams were arranged on the tray, with a small dipping dish of sauce to go with them. A knife and fork were discreetly placed on the tray as well, and I looked at the luxurious spread in amazement. The steward took a small bow, and started backing out through the door.
``Wait!'' I suddenly said, finding my voice. ``Where am I? Am I imprisoned on a boat?''
``Monsieur, imprisoned?'' The steward said with mock horror on his face. ``No no no, thou art on the cruise ship Elysium. Methinks monsieur may think he is imprisoned by the heavy bulk doors and bolts, I assure you it is for the safety of the cruise ship in case of exigencies. Is there anything that I may help you with, monsieur?''
``Elysium?'' I said out loud.
``Yes monsieur, the Elysium. The cruise ship of ideal happiness, named after the wonderous afterlife first thought of by the immortal poet Homer himself.''
I silently thought to myself. There was only one cruise ship called Elysium that I knew, and it was the metaphorical place that I had told everyone I would go on the moment that I had passed on.
As I looked on at the ceiling above, I started to notice a gentle oscillating movement. It was a very subtle effect, I felt one side of my body dipping slightly lower for a few seconds, before the other side started dipping slightly lower for a few seconds. Confused, I sprang out of bed.
I found myself in a cabin on a large ship. The porthole opened out to daylight, and I could see the horizon in the distance bobbing slowly up and down. I knew it was a large ship because of how slow the movement was. Not knowing how or why I was on board a boat like this, I looked about me and saw a chair nearby. Grabbing it, I sat down and surveyed my surroundings.
The cabin was small but neat. In the corner was a bed that I had been lying on for quite a bit as I was nursing that headache that seemed to have reappeared. Unlike a regular bed, this one seemed to be bolted into the ground with nuts as thick as my thumb. At the foot of the bed was a white lock box that was also bolted to the ground. My gaze moved on clockwise past a heavy steel door that served as the entrance to the room and on to the other side, where there was a bolt-on metal wardrobe, all white as well, and another strong box, except this time it looked more like a cabinet than a box, and was larger than the one at the foot of the bed. There were three shelves above it, but they had small guardrails about them, typical I would think, given that we were on a boat at sea after all. The strong box ended at the wall of the hull, and immediately next to it was the port hole that I was now looking through at the horizon.
I rested my hand on the bolted table in front of me. I knew where I was, yet simultaneously I knew now where I truly was. It was baffling, to say the least---I had never been on a boat in my entire life, and yet here I was on a cruise to somewhere with no knowledge on how I got there. There did not seem to be any danger at the moment, and so I just sat there and mulled over my position.
I had no idea how long it was before there was the distinct sound of a bolt being shifted from the door to the room. Shaken out of my day-dreaming, I turned around to face the newcomer.
The white metal door opened inwards slowly, as though someone was taking great care to not hurt anyone who was unfortunate enough to be behind the door. At the doorway, I saw a narrow corridor lit by yellow sodium lamps, and the newcomer. He was standing there in a tuxedo and a maroon bow tie, his greying hair immaculately combed backwards. He had the face of a seasoned steward, with one hand on the heavy bolt that he had just shifted, and the other skilfully holding up a covered tray of what I could only imagine to be food. With a slight tip of his head, he stepped into the cabin noiselessly and placed the tray on my table.
``Monsieur's lunch. Boiled lobster and clam as thou have ordered.'' With that, he removed the cover from the tray. I peered at the spread on the tray---the steward was true to his word. A most beautiful display of lobster and clams were arranged on the tray, with a small dipping dish of sauce to go with them. A knife and fork were discreetly placed on the tray as well, and I looked at the luxurious spread in amazement. The steward took a small bow, and started backing out through the door.
``Wait!'' I suddenly said, finding my voice. ``Where am I? Am I imprisoned on a boat?''
``Monsieur, imprisoned?'' The steward said with mock horror on his face. ``No no no, thou art on the cruise ship Elysium. Methinks monsieur may think he is imprisoned by the heavy bulk doors and bolts, I assure you it is for the safety of the cruise ship in case of exigencies. Is there anything that I may help you with, monsieur?''
``Elysium?'' I said out loud.
``Yes monsieur, the Elysium. The cruise ship of ideal happiness, named after the wonderous afterlife first thought of by the immortal poet Homer himself.''
I silently thought to myself. There was only one cruise ship called Elysium that I knew, and it was the metaphorical place that I had told everyone I would go on the moment that I had passed on.
Friday, 14 February 2014
Titanius and Titania
TITANIUS
O' sweet sister o' myne! Why art thy brow furrowed?
Was't it that cad that hurt thy heart
Or that dandy that doth stole yours mere weeks before?
TITANIA
O dear brother, thou art severe in thy chiding---
The men thou referst to art not guilty of thy charges
Tho' true it may be that they severally and solely
Hath tak'n my heart but they didst not---as thou claimed---to cause my vexations.
TITANIUS
Then speak my dear sister! So that I may avenge thee!
To foil the cur who darest make thou furrow thy beauteous brow
To tear asunder all that maketh he.
TITANIA
Dear brother, whyfore art thou so prone to such ejaculations?
TITANIUS
Am not!
TITANIA
Are so! Such vitriol spewing from thy honourable lips
Quite unbecoming of the fruits of our lord's loins.
Vexed I may be, but to fall to such violence over an unknown cause;
Thou art making sport of thyself.
Be glad that none else are present to see thy affect.
TITANIUS
Pry'thee, dear sister, forgive my outburst
Thou art my lovely kinsmen, meek and fair
Harm of any sort that befalls thou
Breakst my heart and rouses my fury.
TITANIA
O brother, thou art forgiven!
But soft, who goes?
Enter MESSENGER
MESSENGER
Mi'lady and mi'lord, pardon my intrusion.
I have with me a missive from the King.
TITANIUS
What missive dost thou have? Speak fast for I am in no mood for dally.
MESSENGER
The King requests thy help to defend his bastion.
The hour nears, a foot army of thousand strong this way comes.
Should mi'lord refuse, there may be no kingdom left in the morrow.
TITANIA
Oh dear! Hath the enemy crosseth the border?
MESSENGER
Nay mi'lady, though they art expected to in two days' time.
TITANIUS
The timing be bad. My army rests from the last battle.
Many a good men lost whilst defending the bastion.
Hold on they did till the very end when the King sallied with reinforcements.
I have but five hundred from my thousand
Trained but not weaned yet.
TITANIA
Dost thou know if his Lordship hath consulted Duke Freynus for aid?
MESSENGER
Nay mi'lady.
TITANIUS
Reply that Titanius hath received the missive and pray tell his Lordship we will join up in two days at his bastion.
MESSENGER
Yes mi'lord, it shall be done.
TITANIUS
Tarry not and begone!
Exeunt MESSENGER
TITANIUS
Dear sister, thou told me not thy vexations.
TITANIA
That can wait, dear brother. How shalt we aid the King?
We hath only five hundred second rate soldiers?
Should we seek aid from Lord Herringer?
TITANIUS
A conundrum. Lord Herringer left us displeased last campaign and may not be as willing again.
TITANIA
Thou knowest the way to placate him.
TITANIUS
Never! Too great a sacrifice!
TITANIA
Thy pride will be thy downfall! Thou should have honoured thy agreement and let me marry him.
TITANIUS
Thou art delusional. Lord Herringer is four and sixty years old, thy marriage to him will not be a happy one!
TITANIA
But thou hath given thy honour!
A man may curse and swear
And perhaps act brutish
But a word he speaks, a promise he makes
Is worth its weight in gold!
Thou asked what vexes me
Well, it is this!
I knew a day shalt pass where Lord Herringer's help be needed
But I realised not that day come swiftly as thus.
Thou promised Lord Herringer my hand
Then my hand he must have despite your objections.
Moreover we need his help to help our King
So that we may live free to see the 'morrow.
I see it not as a sacrifice but as a duty
And with that I willingly stand forward.
If thou were true to curing me of my vexations
Then thou must drop thy pride and plead with Lord Herringer.
Agree, then send me in your stead
To get aid and to fulfill your bargain.
TITANIUS
Sister dear whyfore thou art stubborn about promises and bargains
Made under duress and unforeseen outcomes?
Thou knowest as well as I why I had to say what I said
And why I do what I do now.
A promise made, a promise kept,
But to rogueish knaves like Lord Herringer
One can take the high ground
And fulfill not an unfair bargain.
O' sweet sister o' myne! Why art thy brow furrowed?
Was't it that cad that hurt thy heart
Or that dandy that doth stole yours mere weeks before?
TITANIA
O dear brother, thou art severe in thy chiding---
The men thou referst to art not guilty of thy charges
Tho' true it may be that they severally and solely
Hath tak'n my heart but they didst not---as thou claimed---to cause my vexations.
TITANIUS
Then speak my dear sister! So that I may avenge thee!
To foil the cur who darest make thou furrow thy beauteous brow
To tear asunder all that maketh he.
TITANIA
Dear brother, whyfore art thou so prone to such ejaculations?
TITANIUS
Am not!
TITANIA
Are so! Such vitriol spewing from thy honourable lips
Quite unbecoming of the fruits of our lord's loins.
Vexed I may be, but to fall to such violence over an unknown cause;
Thou art making sport of thyself.
Be glad that none else are present to see thy affect.
TITANIUS
Pry'thee, dear sister, forgive my outburst
Thou art my lovely kinsmen, meek and fair
Harm of any sort that befalls thou
Breakst my heart and rouses my fury.
TITANIA
O brother, thou art forgiven!
But soft, who goes?
Enter MESSENGER
MESSENGER
Mi'lady and mi'lord, pardon my intrusion.
I have with me a missive from the King.
TITANIUS
What missive dost thou have? Speak fast for I am in no mood for dally.
MESSENGER
The King requests thy help to defend his bastion.
The hour nears, a foot army of thousand strong this way comes.
Should mi'lord refuse, there may be no kingdom left in the morrow.
TITANIA
Oh dear! Hath the enemy crosseth the border?
MESSENGER
Nay mi'lady, though they art expected to in two days' time.
TITANIUS
The timing be bad. My army rests from the last battle.
Many a good men lost whilst defending the bastion.
Hold on they did till the very end when the King sallied with reinforcements.
I have but five hundred from my thousand
Trained but not weaned yet.
TITANIA
Dost thou know if his Lordship hath consulted Duke Freynus for aid?
MESSENGER
Nay mi'lady.
TITANIUS
Reply that Titanius hath received the missive and pray tell his Lordship we will join up in two days at his bastion.
MESSENGER
Yes mi'lord, it shall be done.
TITANIUS
Tarry not and begone!
Exeunt MESSENGER
TITANIUS
Dear sister, thou told me not thy vexations.
TITANIA
That can wait, dear brother. How shalt we aid the King?
We hath only five hundred second rate soldiers?
Should we seek aid from Lord Herringer?
TITANIUS
A conundrum. Lord Herringer left us displeased last campaign and may not be as willing again.
TITANIA
Thou knowest the way to placate him.
TITANIUS
Never! Too great a sacrifice!
TITANIA
Thy pride will be thy downfall! Thou should have honoured thy agreement and let me marry him.
TITANIUS
Thou art delusional. Lord Herringer is four and sixty years old, thy marriage to him will not be a happy one!
TITANIA
But thou hath given thy honour!
A man may curse and swear
And perhaps act brutish
But a word he speaks, a promise he makes
Is worth its weight in gold!
Thou asked what vexes me
Well, it is this!
I knew a day shalt pass where Lord Herringer's help be needed
But I realised not that day come swiftly as thus.
Thou promised Lord Herringer my hand
Then my hand he must have despite your objections.
Moreover we need his help to help our King
So that we may live free to see the 'morrow.
I see it not as a sacrifice but as a duty
And with that I willingly stand forward.
If thou were true to curing me of my vexations
Then thou must drop thy pride and plead with Lord Herringer.
Agree, then send me in your stead
To get aid and to fulfill your bargain.
TITANIUS
Sister dear whyfore thou art stubborn about promises and bargains
Made under duress and unforeseen outcomes?
Thou knowest as well as I why I had to say what I said
And why I do what I do now.
A promise made, a promise kept,
But to rogueish knaves like Lord Herringer
One can take the high ground
And fulfill not an unfair bargain.
Thursday, 13 February 2014
Muling
``With future fading far away
I turn my soul against the light
And tread deeper into unknown waters.''
I read the poem that I had scribbled down on the scrap of paper that the warden had kindly given to me. It sucked: it didn't rhyme, the cadence was terrible, the vocabulary simplistic and the imagery boring.
But what can I do? I'm just someone on death row.
It was a mistake, a stupid one. But I couldn't help it---the money was too good. Beatrice had warned me, she told me not to do it. But the market was super clamped down it was, and even a small amount of only fifty grams of pure powder could fetch a high price of nearly one hundred thousand dollars.
One hundred thousand dollars. That's a fortune, right there. I could totally pay off my student loans like that and have some spare change to buy a house outright.
But Beatrice pleaded with me not to go. ``It's just not worth it!'' she had said. ``It's not like the US. That place is well known for hanging people who bring drugs in.''
``How many times have I told you,'' I remembered saying, ``never to call them drugs out loud! They are goods, or powder at worst. Never drugs! Who knows who is listening?''
``I'll call drugs `drugs' if I so choose! Besides,'' she countered that day, ``who's the moron trying to bring the drugs into a country who literally HANGS people who possess so much as a gram of the drugs?''
I remembered slapping her at that point and stomping out in a huff, spending the last evening in Chicago at a motel before I met up with some guys who brought me the powder to bring into the country.
A mule, that's what they called me and people like me.
I remembered going through the O'Hare okay. No one stopped me. I got on the direct flight and thought I was home free.
But when I disembarked at my final destination, I suddenly found myself in hand-cuffs by the customs officers, my luggage opened before me, its contents strewn all over.
The guys had mixed the powder with the stuffing of several soft toys that I was bringing to my `niece' as a cover. They said they had bound the powder with something inert that would make detection hard.
Yet here I was, arrested under drug charges.
The courts had been swift. Beatrice refused to fly over, sending word that she had no business with a fool who hadn't listened to her.
My lawyer fought for me pro bono, but privately told me that my case was hopeless.
The death sentence was passed, and now, I sat on death row, awaiting my ultimate fate.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 13-Feb-2014 20:43:42)
I turn my soul against the light
And tread deeper into unknown waters.''
I read the poem that I had scribbled down on the scrap of paper that the warden had kindly given to me. It sucked: it didn't rhyme, the cadence was terrible, the vocabulary simplistic and the imagery boring.
But what can I do? I'm just someone on death row.
It was a mistake, a stupid one. But I couldn't help it---the money was too good. Beatrice had warned me, she told me not to do it. But the market was super clamped down it was, and even a small amount of only fifty grams of pure powder could fetch a high price of nearly one hundred thousand dollars.
One hundred thousand dollars. That's a fortune, right there. I could totally pay off my student loans like that and have some spare change to buy a house outright.
But Beatrice pleaded with me not to go. ``It's just not worth it!'' she had said. ``It's not like the US. That place is well known for hanging people who bring drugs in.''
``How many times have I told you,'' I remembered saying, ``never to call them drugs out loud! They are goods, or powder at worst. Never drugs! Who knows who is listening?''
``I'll call drugs `drugs' if I so choose! Besides,'' she countered that day, ``who's the moron trying to bring the drugs into a country who literally HANGS people who possess so much as a gram of the drugs?''
I remembered slapping her at that point and stomping out in a huff, spending the last evening in Chicago at a motel before I met up with some guys who brought me the powder to bring into the country.
A mule, that's what they called me and people like me.
I remembered going through the O'Hare okay. No one stopped me. I got on the direct flight and thought I was home free.
But when I disembarked at my final destination, I suddenly found myself in hand-cuffs by the customs officers, my luggage opened before me, its contents strewn all over.
The guys had mixed the powder with the stuffing of several soft toys that I was bringing to my `niece' as a cover. They said they had bound the powder with something inert that would make detection hard.
Yet here I was, arrested under drug charges.
The courts had been swift. Beatrice refused to fly over, sending word that she had no business with a fool who hadn't listened to her.
My lawyer fought for me pro bono, but privately told me that my case was hopeless.
The death sentence was passed, and now, I sat on death row, awaiting my ultimate fate.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 13-Feb-2014 20:43:42)
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Arachnophobic Ramblings
I would love to go into the forest. Really. The forest is a lovely and very interesting place as far as I can tell. I like the greenery, the shrubbery, the flowers if they exist, the chirping of the birds in the trees, the cawing of the monkeys if they are there, and even the rustling of the leaves as the wind wafts through the canopy.
But I cannot stand spiders.
Spiders are simply the WORST. The very thought of them is already starting to make me nauseus and give me hives.
Spiders are scary. Their eight legs make them unearthly, more so than even the termite, which has a large abdomen and six legs. And termites are fairly large and grotesque, but they are still less scary than spiders.
Forests have spiders. Actually, forests have lots of spiders. They have so many spiders that I fear even to describe them. But you, my dear reader, I think you don't really comprehend the sheer number of spiders that are available in the forest. There are so many kinds, and they all take on different niche roles that are available.
For example, there's this really large spider -- body as large as my palm no less! -- that likes weaving large webs between low-lying branches. Those webs are exceedingly large, sometimes having diameters as big as three feet across. Three feet of web! One can get horribly trapped in that thing if one were not careful!
Then there are the really tiny ones. They don't look like much, but those buggers give a nasty bite when you are not looking! They like sneaking up boots, crawling down the top of the highest hiking boot that you have, and give you a nasty bite through even the wooliest of socks. The part that is bitten gets all swollen within the hour, and if you don't remove your foor from your boot fast enough, your foot will swell so much that it is no longer possible to remove the boot. Worst of all, even if you do manage to remove the foot from the boot, there will be this small patch of black with two holes where the insidious arachnid had nipped you.
That blackness will spread, the pain will be excruciating, and before you know it, you will have to amputate the entire leg just to save yourself from the venom.
And grown men can die from it within a day. Fully grown men, dead from the nasty bite of a tiny arachnid.
Ugh. The mere thought put into that description has caused hives to erupt on my arms. I'll be back again after I've taken some antihistamines.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-12 18:53:12)
But I cannot stand spiders.
Spiders are simply the WORST. The very thought of them is already starting to make me nauseus and give me hives.
Spiders are scary. Their eight legs make them unearthly, more so than even the termite, which has a large abdomen and six legs. And termites are fairly large and grotesque, but they are still less scary than spiders.
Forests have spiders. Actually, forests have lots of spiders. They have so many spiders that I fear even to describe them. But you, my dear reader, I think you don't really comprehend the sheer number of spiders that are available in the forest. There are so many kinds, and they all take on different niche roles that are available.
For example, there's this really large spider -- body as large as my palm no less! -- that likes weaving large webs between low-lying branches. Those webs are exceedingly large, sometimes having diameters as big as three feet across. Three feet of web! One can get horribly trapped in that thing if one were not careful!
Then there are the really tiny ones. They don't look like much, but those buggers give a nasty bite when you are not looking! They like sneaking up boots, crawling down the top of the highest hiking boot that you have, and give you a nasty bite through even the wooliest of socks. The part that is bitten gets all swollen within the hour, and if you don't remove your foor from your boot fast enough, your foot will swell so much that it is no longer possible to remove the boot. Worst of all, even if you do manage to remove the foot from the boot, there will be this small patch of black with two holes where the insidious arachnid had nipped you.
That blackness will spread, the pain will be excruciating, and before you know it, you will have to amputate the entire leg just to save yourself from the venom.
And grown men can die from it within a day. Fully grown men, dead from the nasty bite of a tiny arachnid.
Ugh. The mere thought put into that description has caused hives to erupt on my arms. I'll be back again after I've taken some antihistamines.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-12 18:53:12)
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
Seaside Hut
The stifling heat combined with the absurd humidity meant a most uncomfortable evening as I sat in my rattan chair and attempt to read the book that I had bought from the book shop earlier. It was late in the evening, and apart from the fluorescent lights above, it was hard to tell the time of day. It was, to say the least, not my first choice of a holiday location, but it met the two big criteria: it was cheap, and it was close by. As a poor student, cheapness was a necessity, not a hipster sort of thing, and it being close by meant that I did not have to spend additional money for transport.
The mosquitoes started to flit by the lights above, casting moving shadows all over the room of whose size was sufficient to be barely noticed, yet large enough to be annoying. A couple tried to make my acquaintance, but a few quick smacks with my free hand was sufficient to dissuade them, albeit for a while. I wiped away the bead of perspiration that had formed along my forehead that was slowly migrating towards my temple. It made that kind of crawly feeling that never failed to annoy.
I sighed. Reading the book seemed to be an impossibility for the night. I sniffed the air. Apart from the ever-present salty smell of the coast a stone's throw away, I could also smell the dampness that often preceded a storm. Actually that would also explain the mosquitoes. Those blood suckers had the preternatural ability to sense rain and would beeline for the nearest cover roughly an hour or two before the raindrops came crashing down from up above. And it just so happened that this time, their closest cover was my little hut by the sea that I had rented for roughly a hundred dollars a night.
I put the book away, carefully putting a bookmark at the last page I was reading, leaving it at the small coffee table next to my rattan chair. In this time and age, it was getting harder to enjoy such luxuries that we had once taken for granted---the book, the bookmark, and even the computer-free reading time. Despite its ramshackle look, the hut itself was surprisingly leak-proof, the attap used to create the roof was weaved with nylon fibres to improve its water resistance, or so I was told by the resort agent who suggested this budget getaway. It certainly did not look like much, but at the very least I did not see any obvious holes during the day when the sun was overhead.
Then I heard it. Pit. Pat. Pitter, patter. The rain had begun, the raindrops first dropping on top of the attap roof before sliding along its inclined surface to make its final descent on to the ground below, roughly three feet from the floor in which the hut had. It was a seaside hut, and all seaside huts were built on stilts in case the tide came in too high as a way of avoiding flooding. I wanted to get up from my rattan chair, but found the percussive sound of the rain drops on the various surfaces oddly soothing.
I closed my eyes and let the melody take me away, forgetting about the mugginess, the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, the book and even about my hectic life itself.
The mosquitoes started to flit by the lights above, casting moving shadows all over the room of whose size was sufficient to be barely noticed, yet large enough to be annoying. A couple tried to make my acquaintance, but a few quick smacks with my free hand was sufficient to dissuade them, albeit for a while. I wiped away the bead of perspiration that had formed along my forehead that was slowly migrating towards my temple. It made that kind of crawly feeling that never failed to annoy.
I sighed. Reading the book seemed to be an impossibility for the night. I sniffed the air. Apart from the ever-present salty smell of the coast a stone's throw away, I could also smell the dampness that often preceded a storm. Actually that would also explain the mosquitoes. Those blood suckers had the preternatural ability to sense rain and would beeline for the nearest cover roughly an hour or two before the raindrops came crashing down from up above. And it just so happened that this time, their closest cover was my little hut by the sea that I had rented for roughly a hundred dollars a night.
I put the book away, carefully putting a bookmark at the last page I was reading, leaving it at the small coffee table next to my rattan chair. In this time and age, it was getting harder to enjoy such luxuries that we had once taken for granted---the book, the bookmark, and even the computer-free reading time. Despite its ramshackle look, the hut itself was surprisingly leak-proof, the attap used to create the roof was weaved with nylon fibres to improve its water resistance, or so I was told by the resort agent who suggested this budget getaway. It certainly did not look like much, but at the very least I did not see any obvious holes during the day when the sun was overhead.
Then I heard it. Pit. Pat. Pitter, patter. The rain had begun, the raindrops first dropping on top of the attap roof before sliding along its inclined surface to make its final descent on to the ground below, roughly three feet from the floor in which the hut had. It was a seaside hut, and all seaside huts were built on stilts in case the tide came in too high as a way of avoiding flooding. I wanted to get up from my rattan chair, but found the percussive sound of the rain drops on the various surfaces oddly soothing.
I closed my eyes and let the melody take me away, forgetting about the mugginess, the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, the book and even about my hectic life itself.
Monday, 10 February 2014
Swindler's Folly
``So, so, looky here, I have three cups, right?'' He began.
``Yes...'' Tom replied reluctantly.
``So, so, I have this pea. See this pea?'' He held the pea between his forefinger and thumb and raised it at eye-level.
``Yes...''
``So, so, this pea, I put it under this cup, see this pea under the cup?'' He said as he did what he described. The pea went underneath the centre cup.
``Yes...''
``So, so, now I cover the pea, and I mix up the cups?'' He said as he deftly shuffled the upturned cups about. Tom could hear the pea rattling as it hit the walls of the cup as it was moved about.
At first, Tom tried to follow the cup where the pea was below it, but he soon gave up and just watched the street dealer move the cups around.
And then, he stopped.
``So, so, which cup has the pea?'' He asked in an encouraging voice. ``Place bet of ten dollars and tell me?''
``Eh... this one,'' Tom said as he pointed to the first cup. He was sort of following the cups unconsciously; it was something that was hard to ignore given his... condition.
He lifted up the cup that Tom pointed to. Sure enough, there was a pea underneath it.
``Very very good! Here's your ten and another ten dollars. Wanna make another bet?''
Tom shrugged. ``Sure, why not?''
``So, so, this pea, now I take out and put it below the middle cup again?'' He proceeded to shuffle the cups once more like before.
``So, so, see me mixing up the cups? Bet twenty? Gimme chance to get some money back from you?''
``Sure, why not?'' Tom sighed. He had some time to kill, might as well play along.
He stopped his shuffling and looked up at Tom with eager eyes.
``So, so, which cup has the pea?''
Tom looked at the cups, and looked at the man dead in the eye.
``None of them has the pea. Reveal all the cups.''
The command tone startled the man, and he found himself replacing each cup right side up, revealing that there was no pea under each one.
``No, no, no...'' the man protested. ``This should not be the case!''
``Too bad,'' Tom said. ``I know your tricks. I'm just bored. Hand me my twenty now.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 10-Feb-2014 21:18:35)
``Yes...'' Tom replied reluctantly.
``So, so, I have this pea. See this pea?'' He held the pea between his forefinger and thumb and raised it at eye-level.
``Yes...''
``So, so, this pea, I put it under this cup, see this pea under the cup?'' He said as he did what he described. The pea went underneath the centre cup.
``Yes...''
``So, so, now I cover the pea, and I mix up the cups?'' He said as he deftly shuffled the upturned cups about. Tom could hear the pea rattling as it hit the walls of the cup as it was moved about.
At first, Tom tried to follow the cup where the pea was below it, but he soon gave up and just watched the street dealer move the cups around.
And then, he stopped.
``So, so, which cup has the pea?'' He asked in an encouraging voice. ``Place bet of ten dollars and tell me?''
``Eh... this one,'' Tom said as he pointed to the first cup. He was sort of following the cups unconsciously; it was something that was hard to ignore given his... condition.
He lifted up the cup that Tom pointed to. Sure enough, there was a pea underneath it.
``Very very good! Here's your ten and another ten dollars. Wanna make another bet?''
Tom shrugged. ``Sure, why not?''
``So, so, this pea, now I take out and put it below the middle cup again?'' He proceeded to shuffle the cups once more like before.
``So, so, see me mixing up the cups? Bet twenty? Gimme chance to get some money back from you?''
``Sure, why not?'' Tom sighed. He had some time to kill, might as well play along.
He stopped his shuffling and looked up at Tom with eager eyes.
``So, so, which cup has the pea?''
Tom looked at the cups, and looked at the man dead in the eye.
``None of them has the pea. Reveal all the cups.''
The command tone startled the man, and he found himself replacing each cup right side up, revealing that there was no pea under each one.
``No, no, no...'' the man protested. ``This should not be the case!''
``Too bad,'' Tom said. ``I know your tricks. I'm just bored. Hand me my twenty now.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 10-Feb-2014 21:18:35)
Sunday, 9 February 2014
I Like It Indoors
I can't help it. I really can't. I'd love to kick away this... habit so I can function normally, but I really can't do anything about it.
I'm agoraphobic.
Yes, you would call this a disease, I know you would. But it's not a disease, okay, it's a habit. A very bad habit. Preacher said so, therefore it has to be true.
But then again, the last time the preacher came by to talk to me was nearly twenty years ago---not sure if I remembered it wrong.
I can't go out. It scares me too much. All the people, all the crowdiness, all the... urgh space out there! Icky icky people.
Why must there be so many people out there? Why can't they leave me in peace?
Long long time ago when I remembered that I had gone out, I could feel that they were all so close to me.
I couldn't take it---I couldn't breathe. Mum had to drag me back home, somehow. Not sure how she did it, but she did.
Never left the apartment ever since.
I don't... not like people. I think they are okay. But I just don't like them being so... close to me. It makes me feel unsafe, it makes me want to hurl. I don't know why; don't ask me why.
But staying at home, it's nice. I get to be all calm and what not, not having to fear anything. Mum lives with me still, and she helps to get food and other stuff from the shops outside.
Oh, and slowly, I've been relying on Amazon.com to help get stuff delivered to me. No need to step outside of the apartment. So nice.
It's not a disease! I'm not sick! I just have this... weird habit. I can function! No, I don't slack at home all day wasting my time---I actually work from home. Got a nice spot on Yahoo! as a programmer for quite a while. They allowed me to work from home and connect to the corporate network to submit my source codes. It was a nice arrangement.
Until the new CEO came on and stopped the arrangement. She said something about breaking morale or something.
That was roughly two years ago.
I am thankful that I still have my savings. These days, I work freelance for people. Pay's not fantastic, but it's enough to live by.
I've never really wondered about the outside world. Happy where I am. I get to see the world from where I am, safe and sound. I get my news from the 'net, talk to friends over IRC, play some computer games, get some work done and get paid digitally.
Why would I want to change my little habit?
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 09-Feb-2014 22:27:38)
I'm agoraphobic.
Yes, you would call this a disease, I know you would. But it's not a disease, okay, it's a habit. A very bad habit. Preacher said so, therefore it has to be true.
But then again, the last time the preacher came by to talk to me was nearly twenty years ago---not sure if I remembered it wrong.
I can't go out. It scares me too much. All the people, all the crowdiness, all the... urgh space out there! Icky icky people.
Why must there be so many people out there? Why can't they leave me in peace?
Long long time ago when I remembered that I had gone out, I could feel that they were all so close to me.
I couldn't take it---I couldn't breathe. Mum had to drag me back home, somehow. Not sure how she did it, but she did.
Never left the apartment ever since.
I don't... not like people. I think they are okay. But I just don't like them being so... close to me. It makes me feel unsafe, it makes me want to hurl. I don't know why; don't ask me why.
But staying at home, it's nice. I get to be all calm and what not, not having to fear anything. Mum lives with me still, and she helps to get food and other stuff from the shops outside.
Oh, and slowly, I've been relying on Amazon.com to help get stuff delivered to me. No need to step outside of the apartment. So nice.
It's not a disease! I'm not sick! I just have this... weird habit. I can function! No, I don't slack at home all day wasting my time---I actually work from home. Got a nice spot on Yahoo! as a programmer for quite a while. They allowed me to work from home and connect to the corporate network to submit my source codes. It was a nice arrangement.
Until the new CEO came on and stopped the arrangement. She said something about breaking morale or something.
That was roughly two years ago.
I am thankful that I still have my savings. These days, I work freelance for people. Pay's not fantastic, but it's enough to live by.
I've never really wondered about the outside world. Happy where I am. I get to see the world from where I am, safe and sound. I get my news from the 'net, talk to friends over IRC, play some computer games, get some work done and get paid digitally.
Why would I want to change my little habit?
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 09-Feb-2014 22:27:38)
Saturday, 8 February 2014
Where's Daddy?: Part III
(Story begins here.)
The going was hard in the beginning, but Tiffany and her husband managed to pull through. Tiffany soon settled into the routine well enough. Tricia was also very cooperative, which meant a lot in a time where the finances were becoming an issue compared to before. Waking up early in the morning has always been second nature to Tiffany from her days of being a manager, but instead of going to the office, she spent time looking after Tricia's morning needs like breakfast and watching some educational programmes together. This was followed by lunch preparation and an early afternoon siesta, where she would take the time that was given to do some household chores like the laundry. Afteroon and evening would come by as she played with Tricia and read with her, followed by dinner, before packing Tricia off to bed. Then, she did more housework and retired for the night.
At first, her husband was supportive. He would come back just after Tricia was done with her day and was going to bed, and on occasion, he would bring back something along the way home from work for Tiffany to eat. Tiffany looked forward to those moments; his work as a lawyer was hectic and at times erratic, and she knew that any time that he could spare was to be treasured. But it seemed that he would always make the attempt to come home before Tiffany went to bed, perhaps as a way of telling her that he understood the sacrifices that she was making and that he loved her all the same.
Then came one day when he came in at around nine in the evening and motioned Tiffany to approach him. Confused, she put down the piece of clothing that she was folding and came up to him in the living room as he was putting his work shoes aside.
``Tiffany, there's a new big case coming up,'' he began.
``Oh! Sort of like that one a couple of years back?'' Tiffany replied.
``Yes. Something like that. Quite hush-hush, so I can't really tell you more,'' he continued. ``But the main thing is that I will be stuck in the office for the most part for a while. Evidence documents run by the cartons and we are already short-staffed.''
``Oh. I understand,'' Tiffany had said as she took the couch facing her husband, who had already sat down. ``For how long will you be keeping the long hours?''
``Damnit Tiffany, I don't know! The case is big and complicated---no one can tell how long it's going to last!'' he said, raising his voice and slamming a fist on the arm rest of the couch.
``Not so loud!'' Tiffany shushed fiercely. ``Tricia is asleep!''
``Yeah okay whatever,'' he said, sounding annoyed and somewhat exasperated. ``Don't wait up for me any more. It should take a long while. Big and complicated case after all. I'll let you know when things have settled down.''
(Story continues here.)
The going was hard in the beginning, but Tiffany and her husband managed to pull through. Tiffany soon settled into the routine well enough. Tricia was also very cooperative, which meant a lot in a time where the finances were becoming an issue compared to before. Waking up early in the morning has always been second nature to Tiffany from her days of being a manager, but instead of going to the office, she spent time looking after Tricia's morning needs like breakfast and watching some educational programmes together. This was followed by lunch preparation and an early afternoon siesta, where she would take the time that was given to do some household chores like the laundry. Afteroon and evening would come by as she played with Tricia and read with her, followed by dinner, before packing Tricia off to bed. Then, she did more housework and retired for the night.
At first, her husband was supportive. He would come back just after Tricia was done with her day and was going to bed, and on occasion, he would bring back something along the way home from work for Tiffany to eat. Tiffany looked forward to those moments; his work as a lawyer was hectic and at times erratic, and she knew that any time that he could spare was to be treasured. But it seemed that he would always make the attempt to come home before Tiffany went to bed, perhaps as a way of telling her that he understood the sacrifices that she was making and that he loved her all the same.
Then came one day when he came in at around nine in the evening and motioned Tiffany to approach him. Confused, she put down the piece of clothing that she was folding and came up to him in the living room as he was putting his work shoes aside.
``Tiffany, there's a new big case coming up,'' he began.
``Oh! Sort of like that one a couple of years back?'' Tiffany replied.
``Yes. Something like that. Quite hush-hush, so I can't really tell you more,'' he continued. ``But the main thing is that I will be stuck in the office for the most part for a while. Evidence documents run by the cartons and we are already short-staffed.''
``Oh. I understand,'' Tiffany had said as she took the couch facing her husband, who had already sat down. ``For how long will you be keeping the long hours?''
``Damnit Tiffany, I don't know! The case is big and complicated---no one can tell how long it's going to last!'' he said, raising his voice and slamming a fist on the arm rest of the couch.
``Not so loud!'' Tiffany shushed fiercely. ``Tricia is asleep!''
``Yeah okay whatever,'' he said, sounding annoyed and somewhat exasperated. ``Don't wait up for me any more. It should take a long while. Big and complicated case after all. I'll let you know when things have settled down.''
(Story continues here.)
Friday, 7 February 2014
Election Officials
``No... it won't work,'' Rince declared. ``It's not going to work.''
``Why is it not going to work?''
``Because it's stupid. No one can do any form of voting over the Internet.''
``And why the hell not? We have the cryptographic modules in place, we have the specialised hardware all set up as well. And we have many hours of testing already done.''
``But it's not foolproof!'' Rince replied, exasperated. ``The testing was done, sure, but it was using a very specific set of assumptions that we don't know for sure holds in the real world.''
``Besides,'' Rince continued, ``I have reason to believe that it will not work in the real world after all. See what happened in the US? That didn't end well, did it?''
``Ah, but the US was not using the Internet to have a real-time tallying and check mechanism. Their machines collected the votes, and the results were tallied at the end of polling day, after which any form of dealing with discrepancies is virtually eliminated. With our `live' update mechanism, errorneous votes are discovered near instantly and rectified. All eyes can see the timely update of the votes, and is more transparent. Hell, we even log the TCP packets being sent about to ensure that we have an audit trail. And the best part is, we decouple the voters and the votes such that we cannot tell which of the five people in the booth actually voted for whom---we just tracked them as a whole.''
Rince sighed. He couldn't imagine why would anyone attempt to fix a system that wasn't broken, but that was the government for you. Always tinkering and trying to ``improve'' things, or at least, introduce new-fangled toys to justify the annual budget.
But he didn't have the power to veto any decision. Accepting the given, he made a mental note to file an official complaint and rebuttal the next morning.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-07 21:49:23)
``Why is it not going to work?''
``Because it's stupid. No one can do any form of voting over the Internet.''
``And why the hell not? We have the cryptographic modules in place, we have the specialised hardware all set up as well. And we have many hours of testing already done.''
``But it's not foolproof!'' Rince replied, exasperated. ``The testing was done, sure, but it was using a very specific set of assumptions that we don't know for sure holds in the real world.''
``Besides,'' Rince continued, ``I have reason to believe that it will not work in the real world after all. See what happened in the US? That didn't end well, did it?''
``Ah, but the US was not using the Internet to have a real-time tallying and check mechanism. Their machines collected the votes, and the results were tallied at the end of polling day, after which any form of dealing with discrepancies is virtually eliminated. With our `live' update mechanism, errorneous votes are discovered near instantly and rectified. All eyes can see the timely update of the votes, and is more transparent. Hell, we even log the TCP packets being sent about to ensure that we have an audit trail. And the best part is, we decouple the voters and the votes such that we cannot tell which of the five people in the booth actually voted for whom---we just tracked them as a whole.''
Rince sighed. He couldn't imagine why would anyone attempt to fix a system that wasn't broken, but that was the government for you. Always tinkering and trying to ``improve'' things, or at least, introduce new-fangled toys to justify the annual budget.
But he didn't have the power to veto any decision. Accepting the given, he made a mental note to file an official complaint and rebuttal the next morning.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-07 21:49:23)
Thursday, 6 February 2014
Computer
Tiny Tim skipped home one day feeling excited.
Dad had bought him a new computer!
Dad said if he did well at school, he would get a computer. Tiny Tim scored well, and so the promise was kept.
When Tiny Tim reached home, he opened the door excitedly.
Mom was sitting in the living room, watching television.
``Mom! Mom!'' Tiny Tim shouted to her.
``Hi Tiny Tim!'' Mom replied. ``Don't shout.''
``Sorry Mom. Is the computer here?''' Tiny Tim asked, not shouting.
``Why, yes! Dad is fixing it up for you over in the study.''
``Yay!'' Tiny Tim whooped.
``But first, shower and then lunch.''
Tiny Tim nodded his head eagerly. Quickly, he took off his shoes and ran to the bathroom, where Mom had put out a set of his clean clothes.
Tiny Tim took a quick shower in the bathroom and put on his clean clothes and made his way to the dining room.
Dinner was broccoli and mashed potatoes. Tiny Tim did not like them, but he ate them as quickly as he could, coughing a little in the process.
``Chew your food well, or no computer for you!'' Mom said from the living room.
Soon, the food was eaten and Tiny Tim ran up the stairs to the study.
Dad was sitting on the floor, with an open metal box next to him.
``Hi Dad! Is that the computer?''
``Why, yes Tiny Tim. I am putting it together for you,'' Dad replied as he read a piece of paper.
``Can I help?''
``No. This is hard. But I am almost done,'' Dad said as he checked the parts in the computer. He then covered up the metal box and screwed it together.
Tiny Tim sat on the floor near Dad and watched excitedly as Dad plugged the computer into the mains.
Dad pushed the completed computer under the table and pressed on a switch. The computer started humming and lights started blinking.
Tiny Tim clapped his hands---the computer was alive!
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-06 17:52:00)
[Ed: If it sounds stunted and like a children's book, you are right. It is a special rule that WriteThis provides, among other things.]
Dad had bought him a new computer!
Dad said if he did well at school, he would get a computer. Tiny Tim scored well, and so the promise was kept.
When Tiny Tim reached home, he opened the door excitedly.
Mom was sitting in the living room, watching television.
``Mom! Mom!'' Tiny Tim shouted to her.
``Hi Tiny Tim!'' Mom replied. ``Don't shout.''
``Sorry Mom. Is the computer here?''' Tiny Tim asked, not shouting.
``Why, yes! Dad is fixing it up for you over in the study.''
``Yay!'' Tiny Tim whooped.
``But first, shower and then lunch.''
Tiny Tim nodded his head eagerly. Quickly, he took off his shoes and ran to the bathroom, where Mom had put out a set of his clean clothes.
Tiny Tim took a quick shower in the bathroom and put on his clean clothes and made his way to the dining room.
Dinner was broccoli and mashed potatoes. Tiny Tim did not like them, but he ate them as quickly as he could, coughing a little in the process.
``Chew your food well, or no computer for you!'' Mom said from the living room.
Soon, the food was eaten and Tiny Tim ran up the stairs to the study.
Dad was sitting on the floor, with an open metal box next to him.
``Hi Dad! Is that the computer?''
``Why, yes Tiny Tim. I am putting it together for you,'' Dad replied as he read a piece of paper.
``Can I help?''
``No. This is hard. But I am almost done,'' Dad said as he checked the parts in the computer. He then covered up the metal box and screwed it together.
Tiny Tim sat on the floor near Dad and watched excitedly as Dad plugged the computer into the mains.
Dad pushed the completed computer under the table and pressed on a switch. The computer started humming and lights started blinking.
Tiny Tim clapped his hands---the computer was alive!
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-06 17:52:00)
[Ed: If it sounds stunted and like a children's book, you are right. It is a special rule that WriteThis provides, among other things.]
Wednesday, 5 February 2014
Bt Brown
Saae's head was bowed as she sat in the subway. It was days like this that always made her feel a little more forlorn than usual. It was the death anniversary of both her parents, and as the only child, it fell upon her to visit their graves up on Bt Brown to do some maintenance as well as to pay her respects to them.
It was going to take a while to get there though. After the subway ride, Saae had to take a bus that stopped some one hundred metres outside of the burial grounds, and after that was a two-hundred-metre trek through lightly trodden paths to reach her parents grave itself.
It always saddened her each time she had to do this. It wasn't so much as the amount of effort required just to get to the grave, but that there was just so little that she could do to keep the grave well maintained. Bt Brown was more of an old burial grounds rather than a cemetary, which meant that there was no grounds caretaker the same way a cemetary had. This also meant that simple maintenance like keeping the grass cut and the weeds removed were absent. It was impractical for Saae to return every fortnight to perform upkeep, so for the three or four times each year she had to come, it was an almost two-hour maintenance affair.
The longer she spent at her parents' grave, Saae realised, the more affected she was by their absence. Though it had been nearly a decade since they had passed away, Saae could still feel her loss. Gone were the hugs and kisses from her mother, and gone were the pillar of strength her father often gave her. All because of a stupid driver who couldn't drive on the road.
Saae wiped off a tear from her face. She was still on the subway, though ruminating about the maintenance that she would be doing, and thinking about the past when her parents were still alive and their family complete.
She hoped to herself that they were happy in the afterlife, and pleased at the job she was doing keeping their graves well-kempt.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 05-Feb-2014 21:19:53)
It was going to take a while to get there though. After the subway ride, Saae had to take a bus that stopped some one hundred metres outside of the burial grounds, and after that was a two-hundred-metre trek through lightly trodden paths to reach her parents grave itself.
It always saddened her each time she had to do this. It wasn't so much as the amount of effort required just to get to the grave, but that there was just so little that she could do to keep the grave well maintained. Bt Brown was more of an old burial grounds rather than a cemetary, which meant that there was no grounds caretaker the same way a cemetary had. This also meant that simple maintenance like keeping the grass cut and the weeds removed were absent. It was impractical for Saae to return every fortnight to perform upkeep, so for the three or four times each year she had to come, it was an almost two-hour maintenance affair.
The longer she spent at her parents' grave, Saae realised, the more affected she was by their absence. Though it had been nearly a decade since they had passed away, Saae could still feel her loss. Gone were the hugs and kisses from her mother, and gone were the pillar of strength her father often gave her. All because of a stupid driver who couldn't drive on the road.
Saae wiped off a tear from her face. She was still on the subway, though ruminating about the maintenance that she would be doing, and thinking about the past when her parents were still alive and their family complete.
She hoped to herself that they were happy in the afterlife, and pleased at the job she was doing keeping their graves well-kempt.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 05-Feb-2014 21:19:53)
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
My Eyes: Part V
(Story begins here.)
``As the great pacifist Axolotl might say, you are in the Spectral plane,'' Uncle San said. ``Sort of,'' he added a short while later.
I looked at him confusedly, the questions swirling through my addled brain. The whole place did seem to feel sort of in-betweeny, the kind of inexplicable neither here nor there sort of feeling. The general location where I was in still fit what I had known about the place for the most part, with the only unnerving thing being the non-response of Shumei. But Spectral plane?
``No doubt you are confused over the one thing that means no sense to you,'' Uncle San said, seemingly having read my thoughts.
``What is the Spectral plane,'' I stated in a matter-of-fact manner.
``Indeed, `what is the Spectral plane','' Uncle San said. ``I will explain to you soon enough, but first, we need to get you back to the Material plane completely. It is not safe to be at the Spectral plane if one is not prepared at all.''
Once more Uncle San stepped up to me. However, instead of putting his hand on my head, he grabbed hold of my arms and gave me a great tug. For a moment, I felt as though I was being wrenched violently through something that I couldn't actually see but could easily felt. There was a strange disorienting feeling that passed quickly and I found myself standing in the shop. Instead of merely seeming normal, things actually felt normal. Over in the corner, Shumei was looking at me like before, except she looked more alive, and her eyes were filled with concern. Our eyes met, and I had to quickly look away, for some reason.
Uncle San was still standing behind the counter as I looked about me to verify my surroundings. Yep, it all seemed to be normal as far as I could tell. Satisfied, I walked up towards the counter and looked at Uncle San dead in the eye.
``So, I'm back in the Material plane?'' I asked in a tentative sort of way, remembering vaguely something that was said soem time back.
``Yes. And truthfully,'' Uncle San said, ``you never really left the Material plane, not wholly.''
``I don't understand you,'' I replied. ``You promised an explanation.''
``Yes yes, that's right. I do owe you an explanation.''
Uncle San heaved a sigh and straightened himself a little. I could hear some of the joints in his back popping.
``Let's take a seat first. The explanation is rather long.''
(Story continues here.)
``As the great pacifist Axolotl might say, you are in the Spectral plane,'' Uncle San said. ``Sort of,'' he added a short while later.
I looked at him confusedly, the questions swirling through my addled brain. The whole place did seem to feel sort of in-betweeny, the kind of inexplicable neither here nor there sort of feeling. The general location where I was in still fit what I had known about the place for the most part, with the only unnerving thing being the non-response of Shumei. But Spectral plane?
``No doubt you are confused over the one thing that means no sense to you,'' Uncle San said, seemingly having read my thoughts.
``What is the Spectral plane,'' I stated in a matter-of-fact manner.
``Indeed, `what is the Spectral plane','' Uncle San said. ``I will explain to you soon enough, but first, we need to get you back to the Material plane completely. It is not safe to be at the Spectral plane if one is not prepared at all.''
Once more Uncle San stepped up to me. However, instead of putting his hand on my head, he grabbed hold of my arms and gave me a great tug. For a moment, I felt as though I was being wrenched violently through something that I couldn't actually see but could easily felt. There was a strange disorienting feeling that passed quickly and I found myself standing in the shop. Instead of merely seeming normal, things actually felt normal. Over in the corner, Shumei was looking at me like before, except she looked more alive, and her eyes were filled with concern. Our eyes met, and I had to quickly look away, for some reason.
Uncle San was still standing behind the counter as I looked about me to verify my surroundings. Yep, it all seemed to be normal as far as I could tell. Satisfied, I walked up towards the counter and looked at Uncle San dead in the eye.
``So, I'm back in the Material plane?'' I asked in a tentative sort of way, remembering vaguely something that was said soem time back.
``Yes. And truthfully,'' Uncle San said, ``you never really left the Material plane, not wholly.''
``I don't understand you,'' I replied. ``You promised an explanation.''
``Yes yes, that's right. I do owe you an explanation.''
Uncle San heaved a sigh and straightened himself a little. I could hear some of the joints in his back popping.
``Let's take a seat first. The explanation is rather long.''
(Story continues here.)
Monday, 3 February 2014
The Box
I didn't understand at first, but it soon became clear what needs to be done.
The box needs to be destroyed.
It didn't matter what it contained---indeed, I didn't know what was it that was contained within the six walls of the box---but it was clear what must be done.
The astute reader will be sure to question my decision on the matter. Why would I decide to destroy a box having not known what it contained?
To understand this rather obvious conclusion that I have drawn, one must first look back to the provenance of the box. It came into my possession from a shady but known character.
Let's just call him Bob. Any name would do, really, it didn't matter. It could've been a Joe or a Steve or even something as exotic as Obama. But for our purposes, he is Bob.
Bob passed me the box, his face a classic example of fear. I asked him ``Dude Bob, why are you giving me this face?'' and he had replied, unconvincingly I might add ``No worries! Don't worry! There's nothing to worry about! Just take the box.''
Of course I asked him what the hell was wrong with him, but he didn't answer directly. That was unusual because Bob was not known to answer in another way other than being direct.
When Bob passed me the box, he was looking about furtively, as though he were expecting someone or something to pounce on him from the shadows with short notice. I glared at him, almost daring him to take the box back.
``It's safe, don't worry,'' he said, trying to reassure me.
``Then why the hell you are acting like this?''
``Because it is not safe... with me.''
``Dafuq?'' I was incredulous, but Bob was a good friend. He was someone I would trust my life with. If he said it was safe for me to hold the box for him, I took his word for it.
I snatched the box from him. He seemed glad about it. And before he left, he told me the famous words.
``Whatever you do, don't look in the box. I don't know what the hell it contains, but it has caused me some rather unfortunate circumstances. And it's only because I was a participant in its inception.''
``Wait... hold on. Then how is it safe with me?''
``You are safe because of your ignorance. Just keep your ignorance on and you'll do fine.'' And with that, Bob gave me a quick salute and scampered off.
I didn't understand at first, but it soon became clear what needs to be done.
The box needs to be destroyed.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 03-Feb-2014 21:16:25)
The box needs to be destroyed.
It didn't matter what it contained---indeed, I didn't know what was it that was contained within the six walls of the box---but it was clear what must be done.
The astute reader will be sure to question my decision on the matter. Why would I decide to destroy a box having not known what it contained?
To understand this rather obvious conclusion that I have drawn, one must first look back to the provenance of the box. It came into my possession from a shady but known character.
Let's just call him Bob. Any name would do, really, it didn't matter. It could've been a Joe or a Steve or even something as exotic as Obama. But for our purposes, he is Bob.
Bob passed me the box, his face a classic example of fear. I asked him ``Dude Bob, why are you giving me this face?'' and he had replied, unconvincingly I might add ``No worries! Don't worry! There's nothing to worry about! Just take the box.''
Of course I asked him what the hell was wrong with him, but he didn't answer directly. That was unusual because Bob was not known to answer in another way other than being direct.
When Bob passed me the box, he was looking about furtively, as though he were expecting someone or something to pounce on him from the shadows with short notice. I glared at him, almost daring him to take the box back.
``It's safe, don't worry,'' he said, trying to reassure me.
``Then why the hell you are acting like this?''
``Because it is not safe... with me.''
``Dafuq?'' I was incredulous, but Bob was a good friend. He was someone I would trust my life with. If he said it was safe for me to hold the box for him, I took his word for it.
I snatched the box from him. He seemed glad about it. And before he left, he told me the famous words.
``Whatever you do, don't look in the box. I don't know what the hell it contains, but it has caused me some rather unfortunate circumstances. And it's only because I was a participant in its inception.''
``Wait... hold on. Then how is it safe with me?''
``You are safe because of your ignorance. Just keep your ignorance on and you'll do fine.'' And with that, Bob gave me a quick salute and scampered off.
I didn't understand at first, but it soon became clear what needs to be done.
The box needs to be destroyed.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 03-Feb-2014 21:16:25)
Sunday, 2 February 2014
Student Unearths Rare Book
SINGAPORE -- Last night at the National Museum, a hitherto unknown book was unearthed through serendipity by Teo Xinyin, a primary six student from Ming Qiao Primary School. Xinyin was on a National Education trip organised by the school to view the exhibits relating to ``Our History---Past, Present and Future''. One part of the exhibit included an archaeological dig site that was near the National Museum.
Curator Dr Tan Chin Leong revealed that the archaeological site for the exhibition was an on-going expedition undertaken by the Museum, and had opened up some slots for students on their National Education trips to take part in, supervised.
``The book that Xinyin found is quite interesting because we were not expecting such a bound tome to be found in Singapore during the late nineteenth century,'' Dr Tan had opined about the find. ``We believe that this may be evidence of some early book trade with the West even before Western literacy was a thing on the island-nation.''
When asked about her thoughts about the find, Xinyin told this reporter that she was not expecting to make an actual find, let alone a ground-breaking one at the dig. She had also mentioned that she enjoyed the experience a lot and is considering to be an archaelogist when she grows up.
The book in question is a nineteenth century edition of a grammar book written by the highly influential but obscure grammarian Ernest Blofeld. According to Dr Tan, there were few works of Blofeld in the world, but each had proven to be seminal in the study of the English language.
The book will be presented to the public in a special exhibit at the National Museum in a year's time after suitable restoration works have been done on it.
--MT
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 02-Feb-2014 19:54:17)
Curator Dr Tan Chin Leong revealed that the archaeological site for the exhibition was an on-going expedition undertaken by the Museum, and had opened up some slots for students on their National Education trips to take part in, supervised.
``The book that Xinyin found is quite interesting because we were not expecting such a bound tome to be found in Singapore during the late nineteenth century,'' Dr Tan had opined about the find. ``We believe that this may be evidence of some early book trade with the West even before Western literacy was a thing on the island-nation.''
When asked about her thoughts about the find, Xinyin told this reporter that she was not expecting to make an actual find, let alone a ground-breaking one at the dig. She had also mentioned that she enjoyed the experience a lot and is considering to be an archaelogist when she grows up.
The book in question is a nineteenth century edition of a grammar book written by the highly influential but obscure grammarian Ernest Blofeld. According to Dr Tan, there were few works of Blofeld in the world, but each had proven to be seminal in the study of the English language.
The book will be presented to the public in a special exhibit at the National Museum in a year's time after suitable restoration works have been done on it.
--MT
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 02-Feb-2014 19:54:17)
Saturday, 1 February 2014
Pub
``Leave me alone Bridget,'' Simon said as he tapped on the mouse click button on the trackpad of his laptop.
``But you can't just sit here with an empty glass,'' Bridget replied a little annoyed. ``You've got to have a drink, or else the manager is going to come after me again.''
``Sod off!''
``Fine, I'll just give you a glass of the cheapest beer we have on tap.''
``Yes, the cheapest swill you've got that will keep you out of my hair.'' Simon said absent-mindedly as he read an email on his screen. ``And put it on my tab.''
``Okay,'' Bridget said as she went over to the beer tap and filled a glass she was holding with Wud, the cheapest thing that was still considered a beer at the pub. It was the things that broke students drunk, and Simon fit half the bill. He was student, or so he claimed. The beer frothed creamily as it flowed out of the tap and into the glass, and Bridget skilfully kept the glass at an angle to avoid having any splash back. As the glass filled, she turned to take a glance at Simon. He was still sitting there staring intently at the screen of his laptop. It was roughly three in the afternoon, and was the lull period of the pub. Simon was a fixture of some sorts, always turning up slightly after lunch and hanging out there with his laptop till just before dinner.
And like always, he had to be cajoled to get a drink of some sort.
Bridget was amused at Simon. Bringing a laptop to the pub, now that was one thing that one doesn't see everyday. Except whenever she was on the afternoon shift and Simon was in. Which was on most days. She was also a student, but her classes for that semester were all in the morning, and so it was possible to take the afternoon shift for the entire week as a means of subsisting.
She looked back at the glass she was filling. It was full. Carefully, she lifted the lever of the tap to close the valve, and she placed the glass on a coaster next to Simon, who, by this time, had a rather strange look about his face.
``What's wrong?''
``Nothing.'' Simon said out loud. `It is not nothing, if only you knew what it was,' he thought to himself.
``Can you stop thinking to yourself, Simon? I am still your girlfriend, right?'' Bridget asked indignantly.
``Yeah, yeah, whatever makes you happy.''
``Don't you dare say whatever to me, mister!''
``Okay, okay! Don't you have to servet the incoming customer?'' Simon said without lifting his head from his display. True enough, through the door was a newcomer. Annoyed at Simon, Bridget walked over to the main counter at the bar and greeted the new customer.
Simon stared at the email intently and read it again for the umpteenth time.
``We regret to inform you that your application for financial aid has been denied due to an unprecedented large number of applicants for this semester. We have considered your appeal and have to deny you still because of the same reason. We apologise for the inconvenience and wish you luck in finding an alternative source for your college education.''
`What the hell is this supposed to mean,' Simon thought to himself. `There was never a case where financial aid was denied. There must be something up that I don't know about.'
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-01 20:29:23)
``But you can't just sit here with an empty glass,'' Bridget replied a little annoyed. ``You've got to have a drink, or else the manager is going to come after me again.''
``Sod off!''
``Fine, I'll just give you a glass of the cheapest beer we have on tap.''
``Yes, the cheapest swill you've got that will keep you out of my hair.'' Simon said absent-mindedly as he read an email on his screen. ``And put it on my tab.''
``Okay,'' Bridget said as she went over to the beer tap and filled a glass she was holding with Wud, the cheapest thing that was still considered a beer at the pub. It was the things that broke students drunk, and Simon fit half the bill. He was student, or so he claimed. The beer frothed creamily as it flowed out of the tap and into the glass, and Bridget skilfully kept the glass at an angle to avoid having any splash back. As the glass filled, she turned to take a glance at Simon. He was still sitting there staring intently at the screen of his laptop. It was roughly three in the afternoon, and was the lull period of the pub. Simon was a fixture of some sorts, always turning up slightly after lunch and hanging out there with his laptop till just before dinner.
And like always, he had to be cajoled to get a drink of some sort.
Bridget was amused at Simon. Bringing a laptop to the pub, now that was one thing that one doesn't see everyday. Except whenever she was on the afternoon shift and Simon was in. Which was on most days. She was also a student, but her classes for that semester were all in the morning, and so it was possible to take the afternoon shift for the entire week as a means of subsisting.
She looked back at the glass she was filling. It was full. Carefully, she lifted the lever of the tap to close the valve, and she placed the glass on a coaster next to Simon, who, by this time, had a rather strange look about his face.
``What's wrong?''
``Nothing.'' Simon said out loud. `It is not nothing, if only you knew what it was,' he thought to himself.
``Can you stop thinking to yourself, Simon? I am still your girlfriend, right?'' Bridget asked indignantly.
``Yeah, yeah, whatever makes you happy.''
``Don't you dare say whatever to me, mister!''
``Okay, okay! Don't you have to servet the incoming customer?'' Simon said without lifting his head from his display. True enough, through the door was a newcomer. Annoyed at Simon, Bridget walked over to the main counter at the bar and greeted the new customer.
Simon stared at the email intently and read it again for the umpteenth time.
``We regret to inform you that your application for financial aid has been denied due to an unprecedented large number of applicants for this semester. We have considered your appeal and have to deny you still because of the same reason. We apologise for the inconvenience and wish you luck in finding an alternative source for your college education.''
`What the hell is this supposed to mean,' Simon thought to himself. `There was never a case where financial aid was denied. There must be something up that I don't know about.'
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-02-01 20:29:23)
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