Antonio

Antonio stood there, his hands close to his sides, his eyes darting from one side to the other. He was surrounded by armed men, something to be expected of course, given where he was. But the armed men weren't what that was causing him to shiver thusly. It was the man that he was about to deal with that made him feel so fearful.

``The Boss says you can come in. No tricks or we will shoot you,'' a gruff voiced thug said as he opened up the door to the office and stepped out of it, leaving barely enough space for Antonio to enter. With bated breath, Antonio gingerly stepped through the door.

``Ah! Antonio! Why have you come over to see me?'' A jovial voice came from the man seated behind the heavy mahogany desk flanked by two armed thugs. Antonio took a gulp of his saliva and made his way slowly towards that man, ignoring the opulence that surrounded him.

``Good... evening, Don. I hope I didn't disturb you with such a late call.''

``Nonsense!'' The Don replied, smiling inscrutably. ``Antonio, big banker of the City, there is always time for you, my old friend! Come! Has the cold evening air made you all weak-kneed? Take a seat and tell me how may I be of service to you.'' He gesticulated at the padded chair in front of his massive desk.

Antonio shuffled quickly towards the pointed to seat and sat down, glad that his fear had a pillar of physical support to keep him steady. The Don made a gesture, and one of the thugs next to him walked over to the table and poured a glass of brandy before setting it in front of Antonio.

``Now, my friend, have a drink to warm yourself a little, and tell me how may I help you.''

Antonio took the shot of brandy in one gulp and felt the warmth emanating from his belly. It steadied his nerves and he began his prepared speech for the Don.

``Don, as you know, there is a new stock offering on the market that is coming up soon. My bank needs to make use of that stock offering to make a killing. We've had... had some cashflow problems, what with the sudden drop in currency that our subsidiaries were holding as reserve.''

``Ah yes, the great Asian stock market crash. I've heard of it. I didn't know your bank was burnt by it, Antonio.''

``We were, a little. It is not too bad, but still bad enough. That's why we want to make use of the new stock offering to get back enough to refinance the lost reserves. We plan to short sell the stock, but lack the capital.''

``And so you come to me for the money, isn't that right, Antonio?'' The Don said as he leant back on his high-backed chair.

Antonio gulped as he waited for the Don's reply.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 31-Mar-2014 22:51:26)

Treasure Hunt

``No no no no no... this cannot be the case!'' Lucius stammered out as he staggered backwards in horror. It was his worst dreams come true, no doubt, and he was kicking himself for even thinking that it would turn out in any other way.

Just a few days earlier, Lucius had stumbled upon a yellowing piece of paper that was slipped in between the cracks of the brick wall of the house that he stayed in. He hadn't seen that crack before ever since he had lived in the house, but that was because the covering mortar had kept it hidden---it was only after accidentally bumping into the wall with a heavy table that he was shifting that caused the sliver of mortar camouflage to drop off and reveal the hiding place. He had picked up the paper and unrolled it, revealing some writing.

``NE 250N 170E 3 6''

That was all that was written on it. Reading the note, he had felt a strange tingling sensation through him, but he dismissed it outright as some kind of odd visceral reaction. Puzzling over it for days, he finally came up with a decipherment.

``NE''---clearly it was referring to the north-east cornerstone of the house. The house had four corner pillars that were made of stone, different from the bricks that made up the walls themselves. It was said that these stone pillars had been in existence since the very first incarnation of the house before the Civil War, and was what was left after it had happened.

``250N 170E''---it seemed to be the number of paces to walk in the two directions stated respectively. Or it could have been distance, but it was unlikely because there were no units associated with it.

It was the last two digits ``3 6'' that he had no idea what it meant, and was debating about it internally for a while. Curiosity finally gave in and he decided to just try out the coordinates and see where it ended up taking him.

He took his place at the north-eastern cornerstone, and walked out the two hundred and fifty paces north and one hundred and seventy east. There were intervening trees and shrubs, but he managed to keep a good track of his progress, advancing in one direction and keeping count while the other was blocked.

When he finally stopped, he found himself at the base of a tree. Then it dawned upon him what the first of the last two digits meant: it would take him to a tree. This was no ordinary tree---it was one of the really old ones that had lived through the Civil War era, so it was a monster with a crown so large it provided near impenetrable cover. That left the ``6'' as the last undeciphered digit.

A strange nagging feeling came over him. Did the ``6'' meant the number of feet downwards?

That led to him to return the next day with a shovel to dig at the spot. And when his shovel struck something hard, he quickly dusted away everything and looked at what he had found.

It was a freshly buried casket, its glossy surface still intact.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 30-Mar-2014 10:12:19)

Aiko

``Mew...''

``Oh! It's Aiko!'' Yuki said as she squat down, careful to hold her skirt down as she did so to avoid those horrible voyeur shots she's been hearing about. The calico tabby walked up to her and purred as she rubbed itself on Yuki's stockinged legs. She smiled at the cat and scratched her at the scruff of her neck before patting her on the head.

Aiko was a fixture of the Shinjuku train station. No one really knew where she came from, she just appeared one day like that. There was little doubt that she had an owner---Aiko wore the most darling little red ribbon collar that one has ever seen. And Aiko was a very friendly tabby, unlike some of the more feral strays that would hiss and bolt away from anyone who came by. Aiko was never afraid of people---she loved them.

And Yuki thinks that Aiko loved her most of all, because each time she came to Shinjuku train station, Aiko would seem to know and practically drop down whatever she was doing and make her way up to her. It was quite blatant at times that it made Yuki blush with embarassment, even though it warmed her deep inside. She was at the station with a group of her friends meeting up with another group who had already arrived at the station. The second group was playing with Aiko when suddenly she just ignored them and made a beeline for Yuki, ignoring even the other girls who were with her. It made her friends jealous, and they started teasing Yuki about Aiko being the reincarnation of her boyfriend or something. She protested at that allegation, but secretly wondered if there was indeed a deeper connection between Aiko and her.

Yuki pet Aiko on the head a few more times before smiling at her and standing up. Despite being a stray, Aiko had always been well groomed, like how all cats were, and Yuki didn't find it weird to be touching Aiko all that much. But then, it was time to head off home from Shinjuku. The tabby mewed a few more times in understanding before sitting there patiently to watch Yuki go. Yuki smiled at the tabby and skipped off into the station to head for home.

For the next few days whenever Yuki was walking through Shinjuku, she was half-expecting to see Aiko come greet her, but that never happened. In her mind she wondered if Aiko just found a new place to hang out, and was therefore not at Shinjuku any more. She shrugged and moved on in life.

One day, out of curiousity, she found herself walking up to the notice board placed in the station. She never really went there, but there was an unmentionable force that seemed to compel her to approach it. As she scanned the notices on the board, she found one that brought a tear to her eye.

``Road accident near Shinjuku station. Pedestrian hurt, and lamp post was damaged. A calico tabby was found nearby, crushed underneath the wheel of the offending car. Witnesses wanted.''

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 29-Mar-2014 10:03:30)

Box of Memories

Esther looked about her room frantically. She knew that she had left it somewhere, but it was just hard to remember where exactly it was. Standing at the entrance of her room, David looked on bemusedly.

``What are you looking for so frantically?'' He asked, a grin on his face, his arms crossed in front of him as he leaned on the door frame casually.

``My box of memories!'' Esther replied, not even attempting to look at him. She ducked beneath the bed and started to look around, grunting in disappointment when she realised she couldn't see anything under all that darkness. ``Can you hand me the torchlight please?''

David uncrossed his arms and stood upright, grabbing the emergency flash light that was held magnetically behind the door frame that he was just resting on. Walking forward and stepping carefully to avoid trampling on the increasing mess of the floor, he squat down and handed Esther the torchlight.

``And why are you looking for this `box of memories' now? You've never seemed to have talked about it before.''

``Well,'' Esther began as she switched on the torchlight and aimed its powerful beam into the darkness beneath her bed. ``I've just received a text message from Amanda that Alex had just passed away.''

``Oh? Her husband, your ex---that's mildly discomforting,'' David said, his face less easy-going. Talk involving Alex was never an easy subject between the two of them. It wasn't that David was the jealous sort, it was just that Alex and Esther had gone out for a very long time before he suddenly dumped her and went out with Amanda, while she, in what seemed like a fit of spite at that point, seduced David and made him her beau. Time had changed that spiteful union into something more meaningful, but realising that her initial attraction to him was from a completely selfish reason not borne out of true love had always been a sore point for what David could have called the best relationship that he had in a long while. ``If Alex had passed away, why the heck do you need your `box of memories' for? Please don't tell me you've been carrying a torch for him all these years?''

``Oh don't be silly!'' Esther said. ``As if I'd waste my time pining over what is gone---I know I like Gone With The Wind, but I'm no Scarlett O'Hara! I need to find my box of memories because I need to get some of the momentos that Alex had given me before to bring to the wake to be buried with him.''

``You kept momentos from... that man?'' David said, his eyes wide open and temperament not as easy going as before.

``Well, they were pretty. But I've not touched them in years. That's why I'm still trying to look for that damnable box. Have a little faith in your own wife, David. I'm really not as flighty as you think.''

The light finally hit upon a pink coloured cardboard hat box.

``Ah ha! Found you!'' Esther shouted in triumph as she lay as flat as she could on the floor and stuck her arm deep in to drag out her box of memories.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-28 18:06:18)

Diary

``With eyes down low
The cold winds blow
My heart to you, my love''

Monty penned that sentimentally silly poem in his diary and stared at it for a moment, his mind elsewhere thinking about she who had inspired his little ditty. She was far away, physically, and he knew not if she was also far away, emotionally. Such things were hard to tell, given the way things are at that moment.

He sighed and paused his thoughts of the future. Putting down his fountain pen, he picked up the diary and started flipping it back to beginning and started to read some fragments of it.

The diary. Monty wasn't really a diary keeper, but it had become a habit of sorts in his mundane life, to write down whatever he was thinking at the moment within it when he so desired. Words that were kept in the diary were like valuable objects kept in a safe deposit box---it frees up the mind to think of other things while the precious thoughts and memories are kept permanently on paper.

It was an old-ish thing, that diary was. She had given it to him on his birthday nearly two years ago. They were together then, really close, really... intimate. They knew each other's thoughts, each other's ideas, each other's secrets, each other's desires. And she was a diarist too, suggesting that he kept one as well to help free his mind from the vagaries of life.

He had laughed it off, of course, seeing no reason to begin what he felt was an exercise in anachronism in the current era of fast Internet publishing. Nonetheless, when she gave him the book for use as a diary, he kept it, but didn't start to write in it.

That is, till about a year ago.

That was the day when she decided to go to an overseas college to get her post graduate degree. He couldn't go with her due to work commitments---she had said that the programme would last roughly two years, and that he could go visit her any time.

But times were starting to get hard, and air tickets were starting to become dear. He missed her something awful, and so, with great reluctance, Monty picked up the gift of the book that she had given to him before and placed it on the table, opening the covers and started writing on the first page.

A year later, he was still at it, writing his thoughts and emotions about her in it. They kept in touch still, but she wasn't much of a technology person, and the letters that he had written her before had so far went unanswered. Deep pangs of sadness hit Monty ever so often, and sometimes he wished he could just fly over to surprise her.

But he was afraid of what he might see once he got there.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-27 18:44:33)

Merchant

Tiffany eyed the merchant with suspicion. He was not, as they say, someone who looked particularly trustworthy, which was an important trait, considering that he was basically promising her something that, under most circumstances, should be considered to be so incredulous that it cannot be true.

He held it in his hands to show it to her. True enough it was a leather-bound tome with the words ``Necronomicon'' stencilled on top of it, its engravement betraying its once gilded form. The leather looked old, dry and brown leather, cracked in some places, but still old and well-kept. The corners were protected by brass coverings, and above all, she could almost sense an evil aura emanating from it, but she wasn't sure if that was just a hallucination.

``The gen-uine article dear miss! There can be no doubt about it! The Necronomicon, lost tome of the old Arabian necromancers, found some time back through pure serendipity, and now, in my hands to be sold to you,'' the merchant said, eying Tiffany carefully to gauge her reaction.

She betrayed little of what she was thinking. Years of hunting down ancient books of power from many a crooked merchant had strengthened her poker face. It was something that would come naturally, since the pedlars of such goods are often themselves either ignorant or merely shrewd, always wanting to extract the largest possible price they can from the unwitting. Ancient books of power were far and few, but their counterfeits and surrogates were plentiful, enough to feed the mouths of those who claim to have possessed the Real Deal.

She looked at the merchant dead in the eye for a minute. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, he blinked and looked away.

``Alright the,'' Tiffany began, ``you claim it is the genuine article, let's us hope for your sake it isn't.''

Tiffany rolled her eyes upwards to reveal the whites and started muttering a series of nonsense sounding syllables. At first, the merchant was starting to laugh at her antics, but suddenly, he found that the book that he was holding had started to shake violently to the uttered syllables. He tried holding it in place, but the vibrations became more violent and in the end, he had no choice but to drop it to the ground.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-26 18:25:55)

Worthington

Edward sighed. He wasn't a big fan of doctors partly because of the asinine waiting times that translate to a quick look-see and dismissal with yet another bag of medicines and umpteenth reminder of instructions on how to use them. It was a bore, really. He blamed it upon himself for his weak constitution which resulted in his coming down with a cold almost every other week, or at least because of the effects of his multitude of allergies that, again, does not detract from the reason why he was visiting the doctor's in the first place.

He pulled up his laptop and continued to work on his report. It was one of those dreary take-home things that the history teacher would assign just to get him off his back, something about the transitional period between Napoleon and the new republic. All French history, a total bore, considering that he was living in a place that is at least three thousand miles away from Paris, Edward could never understood the undying fascination of his history francophile.

Network access was, of course, non-existent. No clinic ever had free access to their wireless internet connection. But Edward had a copy of Wikipedia running on his laptop. It was far from ideal, being nearly two years out of date of the most recent edits that are live on the web, but for now, they would have to do. There was just so little that could be done without the aid of that fancy online encyclopaedia. His parents had talked about the Encyclopaedia Britannica back in the day, and from their wordy descriptions, he was pretty sure that Wikipedia was the far superior publication, if it could be called that in the first place. Besides, Napoleon was nearly two hundred years ago, and there was probably little changes in the past two years that would significantly alter the interpretation of the events that had occurred during that era.

Edward was glad that it was at least not to be written in French. He was sure that he would personally maim and dismember the history teacher if that were the case, considering that no one except that zealous teacher could even speak French in the first place.

``Edward? Edward Worthington?''

Edward cringed. He hated it when people tried to call him by his full name---it had a jarring pretentiousness that irked him even more than his history teacher. Replying in affirmation, he shut the lid of his laptop and stood up, making his way to the doctor's office.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-25 19:07:20)

Hearing

``Now tell me Mrs Boyd, did you or did you not hear the gun shot?'' The prosecutor asked with ice in his words. Mrs Boyd stood at the witness stand, her face flurried and confused, obviously in distress. Her direct testimony with the defense lawyer was relatively smooth-sailing, scoring quite a few points for the defendant, but the cross had been rather debilitating so far. Each question that the prosecutor asked elicited the same confused and befuddled response that made Mrs Boyd look as though she were covering up something or for someone, whether or not it were the case.

``Well,'' the Judge said from his position. ``Witness, you must answer the question or I will have to find you in contempt of the court.''

``I... I think I heard what sounded like a gun shot,'' Mrs Boyd stammered out.

``No, Mrs Boyd, allow me to repeat my question once more. Did you or did you not hear the gun shot?''

``Objection! Your Honour, the prosecutor is badgering my witness and causing her distress!'' The defense lawyer shouted as he leapt on to his feet.

``Your Honour, this is a very simple and crucial question that the witness should be able to answer easily. We are just establishing facts of the case that the defense did not bring up during their direct examination.''

``Overruled,'' the Judge replied before glaring back down on Mrs Boyd sternly. ``Mrs Boyd, consider this your final warning before I bring forth the contempt of court charges upon you. Please answer the prosecutor's question directly.''

Mrs Boyd took a big gulp of air. She did not like the look on the Judge's face. Turning away from him, she looked ahead. The defense lawyer was trying his best to not look at her, while the prosecutor was staring at her in contempt, as though silently daring her to speak the truth.

``Yes. I think it was a gun shot I heard,'' Mrs Boyd said finally.

The prosecutor could not wipe the smirk of his face.

``Mrs Boyd, do you need to wear a hearing aid normally?''

The room started to gasp. They could see just what was coming along.

``No, I don't usually wear a hearing aid.''

``But you have to?''

``Objection!'' The defense lawyer was up once more. ``Prosecution is asking irrelevant questions.''

``Your Honour, if she needs a hearing aid, and did not wear one when the crime was committed, then it will be clear that she was not really able to differentiate between a tyre bursting from a gun shot. Which means that she is no witness, even though she may prove useful for the alibi of the defendant!''

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-24 18:02:11)

Pansy

``I bet that you can't bench press three hundred pounds. You look so scrawny even my ol' grandma can whoop your ass.'' Loud hoots could be heard from all around the gym as Victor jeered at Franklin.

``Shuddap, you stupid fukker,'' Franklin replied, flexing his arms as he did so. ``Only pansy boys needa insult odders ta feel good 'bout 'emselves. Now, shuddap and take de mashine. You wanna bet dat I can't do it, firs' show ya can do it yaself, foo'.'' More hooting could be heard about. Someone even yelled out ``shots fired!'' somewhere from the back.

It wasn't an ordinary gym, and it wasn't an ordinary insult being tossed about. Victor and Franklin were from two different groups of body builders who trained at the same gym, and for the most part, they kept to themselves. But ever so often, some crazy rivalry comes up and they end up trying to compete to see who can lift some weight at some machine the best. It was harmless fun with a twinge of dangerous sounding rivalry only because most of the members are testosterone-filled males.

Victor flexed his arms and said ``Alright then, watch and learn, you pansy.''

Victor set the weight on the benchpress machine to the three-hundred pound mark and lay on his back on the bench in front of it, wiggling a little here and there to get into a comfortable and stable position. He gripped the handles, and huffed as he pushed the weights up.

``ONE!'' The gym yelled. The bar went back down, and Victor huffed again and heaved.

``TWO!'' The gym counted off again. The weights went back down, and Victor took in several breaths before pushing it off again.

``THR--!'' The bar didn't make it to the top like last time and Victor dropped it back down, the metal weights clanking loudly.

``Oi! Don't bang the damn weights you punks!'' The gym leader shouted from his counter. ``I don't care what kind of game you folks are playing, but don't break any of my stuff.''

Victor breathed rapidly as Franklin looked on at him, bemused.

``Dat's all ya can do? Damn you have a big mouth. My turn, ya pansy. Also, rea' men use a barbell, not the pansy-ass mashine.'' More hoots and whoops were heard from the crowd as Franklin made his way to the bench press station and loaded up three hundred pounds of weight on the bar bell. ``Spot me, you pansy.'' Victor nodded grudgingly and took his place behind the bar bell.

Franklin lay flat on his back and got into a comfortable position. With an overhand grip, he pushed the bar bell out of its resting position, and started to heave it into the air.

``ONE!'' The gym yelled. The bar went down, and Franklin effortlessly pushed it back up.

``TWO!'' The gym continued. The bar went back down, and Franklin still didn't look winded as the veins on his exposed arms were throbbing under the weight.

``THREE!'' The gym was getting hyped out. Franklin had already won, that's for sure. But he didn't stop there. He went on for another three repetitions before putting the bar back on to its resting spot, and stared at the amazed look on Victor's face as he breathed heavily.

``And that's how you do a bench press, you dummy.''

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-24 10:23:27)

Late!

``Damn it, I'm late,'' Eustace thought to himself as he hurriedly powered on his laptop. It was rather late -- past midnight, in fact -- and he was starting to scramble for it. It was a promise that he had made, to write a story every day for the entire year, and so far he had been quite fastidious, meeting the deadline most of the time, cheating once or twice when he accidentally overran the daily time limit.

Those days were usually Saturdays, where he had evening rehearsals with the band that he was playing with. He could, in theory, write earlier in the day to avoid the whole miss-the-deadline problem, but day-time on Saturdays are sacred. They presented probably the only time in the entire week where he was at liberty with himself, being able to actually partake in his hobbies and other interests, away from the dreary work week that he had to deal with on all the other days. Sunday was different---it was a day of repentence, spent out at the church in the morning and with his cell group later on in the afternoon.

The machine took its time to boot up, which caused Eustace's scalp to prickle with an uncomfortable itch. It was one of those idiopathic things that would happen whenever he was feeling stressed or otherwise uncomfortable. He coolly rubbed his hands through his hair and scratched his scalp a little while looking at the laptop screen. It finally came online and he logged in quickly and pulled up his favourite text editor.

Staring at the empty screen, Eustace started typing:

``Damn it, I'm late,'' ...

Honour?

Amber stood in the middle of the debutante ball, dressed in a green taffeta that sets off her eyes in the most glamourous sort of way. John's hand was around her waist, and they were engaged in the midst of a waltz that the rest of the debutantes were also involved in. She beamed her happiness all about as she danced about with the most desirable man in the entire town, he with the simple name but a rather fat chequebook. Her face was plastered with the smile that was of pure happiness.

Except it was anything but.

It wasn't wrong -- John was incredibly rich, but he was nothing much to look at. He was as plain as a banker could be, earnest looking, with eyes that one would easily trust. But there was something deep and dark behind that face that no one knew save Amber and John.

He wasn't really the gentleman he appeared to be.

While in polite company, he was everything a gentleman could be, courteous, understanding, and even witty, things that helped defray his rather plain exterior. But that day, when Amber was out walking in the gardens with him, he showed his true colours.

He had the audacity to hug her tight and kiss her deep on the lips despite her initial protestations. Then, under the pretext of an encroaching storm, proceeded to make love with her in a shack that was conveniently nearby. It wasn't forced; by then Amber had swooned with the surprise intimacy that she placidly agreed to let him into her.

When the passion was finally over, she realised to her horror just what she had done. John then suggested a series of action that they would go through to legitimise their affair to retain both their honours. Seeing no way out, she agreed.

They danced on in the debutante ball as the evening drew near. By this time tomorrow, he would have proposed and she would have agreed and everything would turn out alright.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 21-Mar-2014 22:26:38)

Rainfall

``Son,'' Ulgon said as he motioned Elgon to squat beside him in the middle of the desert on the outskirts of the oasis that the rest of the tribe had been camping for the past fortnight. ``You're old enough to take a wife, and so it is time you learnt the most important story of all.''

Elgon walked softly towards his father, his bronze skin reflecting off the fading evening sunlight, his feet making deep depressions in the soft sand. He too squatted down, next to his father, and listened earnestly.

``The land wasn't always this way,'' Ulgon said as he gestured his arms, pointing out at the vast sand plains, of which small patches of oases could be seen. ``This whole land used to be fertile and green, with ample food, water and shelter. Animals roamed free instead of travelling in hungry convoys, and some of your ancestors even managed to get some farming going.''

``We used to farm?''

``Yes... a very long time ago. The fertility of the land was tied to the consistent rainfall throughout the year, a blessing from the gods above. The consistent rainfall made it easy to plan ahead for the crops, and as a result, food was always plentiful.

``For a while, it was good. Everyone started to have more free time to explore new ways of doing things, creating new tools, and even less practical things like art. It was passed down that everyone rotated to farm the crops for the rest of the tribe. There were some lazier individuals, of course, but overall, the system was good.

``But as time went by, the rainfall started to become increasingly erratic. On some days it was as dry as a bone, and on others, the fields of crops were flooded to the point that the roots themselves started to rot, destroying many fields of edible crops. Then one day, there was no rain. Everyone thought it was just one of those days and did not think much about it. The next day came without rain. Three weeks went without rain. By then everyone was starting to get worried, for the crops were turning into a golden brown before smouldering off into plant ash as the heat drew on.

``It wasn't just the crops everyone had helped grow, it was the trees and grass that were not within the fields; those just smouldered into a disturbing brown. Soon there were few if any plants growing healthily. The top soil was exposed and was weathered away over time. Some of the less visited spots turned into oases due to a regular-ish rain fall.

``It was at some point that the wise tribe elders realised what was happening. It was a punishment of the gods for the tribe's hubris! Everyone had spent so much time exploring how to make tools and art that no one was paying attention to the children, and as a result, entire generations of children grew up respecting only the tools and art, and not their elders. The lack of respect of the children of their elders was taken by the gods to be a sign that they too will be faced with the same lack of respect, and as a result, decided to punish the tribe by cutting back on the rain.

``The tribe elders who figured out what was wrong tried to teach the new generation of children to respect their elders, but had mixed results. The slight alleviation of the dryness seemed to suggest that they were doing the right thing, but the tribe elders knew they couldn't keep teaching newer generations forever -- they just didn't live that long.

``And so they started a tradition, where fathers would bring their sons out the week before they were supposed to be taking wives, and tell them about this story, in the hopes that their sons will remember the admonishment of their wise tribe elders from generations ago and help bring the tribe back to the life that they had lost so many years ago.''

Ulgon paused and looked at Elgon. The latter was looking into the horizon in the distance as the sun made its way down the horizon completely.

20x10

Edward stood in front of the massive painting, lost in thought. It really wasn't about the cost -- he had enough to buy over a hundred of the same work of art -- but there was something mystical about the piece itself that held him captivated.

Twenty feet by ten, painted by a still-living painter who preferred to remain anonymous. The transaction was handled by an escrow agent. An oil piece, a rare one at that, due to its size. The agent had told Edward that it took nearly two decades for the painter to sort of finish the piece. The piece was bold -- it depicted the tragic battle of Waterloo, yet it had none of the bold strokes of a decisive brush. Instead, it was filled with nearly imperceptibly tiny brush strokes, each stroke meticulously placed upon the canvas, as though it were painted not with brushes but with pine needles. The details were exquisite -- each soldier that appeared on the canvas was distinct and had sharp contrast, their fear and valour alike striking to the viewer.

It wasn't really complete, the escrow agent had said, but the painter had to let it go. Times were getting hard, and sometimes great sacrifice of dreams are necessary to ensure their eventual attainment. Edward stared hard the piece, trying to see where it was that work was needed, but failed. It was clear that he would buy the piece -- his enarmourment was quite apparent to the onlooker.

The asking price was ten million francs, a sizeable amount of money for a piece from a mysterious living painter who was not yet among the ranks of the Old Masters. Edward thought it was a steal. He looked away from the piece and stared dead into the eyes of the escrow agent, who blinked reflexively.

``Deal.''

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 19-Mar-2014 21:49:15)

No Rest

I thought only the wicked get no rest. Apparently, I was wrong.

I was never wicked. You may not know me, but trust me, you have seen my name gracing your streets, and even some of your more prominent buildings. Or maybe an award or two was also named after me; it has been many years, and awards are as ephemeral as those who coin them and so it is easy to just lose count.

I could tell you who I am, but I do not wish to. I do not need additional veneration---I just want to tell you that I was never wicked. Take my word for it.

I died a long time ago, maybe in the nineteenth century, or maybe in the early twentieth century; as before, the exact time is unimportant. They buried me with full honours on the easterly slope of a small hill in a coffin and built a nice traditional Chinese burial mound on top of it, with a nice tablet for me on the front. Many chipped in and used bricks and mortar to build the small enclosure for the mound itself. They even planted an Angsana sapling nearby to keep me company and to provide shade.

Years passed. The Angsana sapling grew up into an Angsana tree, and I had even more neighbours. We laid there among the tall grasses peacefully, watching the sun rise, and the city growing and changing about us. The Angsana tree even tells of things that his tree-brothers have seen that caused us to grin in wonderment. Hardly anyone came to visit us, but it was fine. We enjoyed the rest after a whole life-time of toil.

Then one day, the Angsana tree informed us that he had heard from some of his tree-brothers that there were some exhumations going on in the farther patches. We were shocked---why were they disturbed thus? The Angsana tree said that his tree-brothers did not know why either, but mentioned that shortly after they were exhumed, a large fence was erected around the plot, and the tree-brothers who were within the fence were eventually felled themselves.

The tree-brothers who were spared were terrified and started spreading the news as quickly as possible. Something was changing, and it was about to break our century or so of peace and quiet.

At first, I did not believe it. The Angsana tree was a jolly chap prone to telling us fantastical tales, but as the situation grew dire, he started to sound more and more distressed. Then one day, I saw a gang of men in hard hats walking up our little hill, hacking away at the long grass and low shrubs with parangs. A couple of them were taking notes on their clipboards and nodding at each other periodically. They eventually came up to me and stared a little at my tablet, before writing something down. One of them used a red spray paint to mark a circled `X' on the Angsana tree, which caused him to panic a little and drop a branch that was already hanging a little dead. It fell within close range of the man marking him, and he cursed colourful words as he dived forward.

The reality was starting to hit us. It was our turn to lose our eternal rest. The Angsana tree was terrified---he had heard of tree-brothers who were similarly marked before being felled. I felt sorry for him. He was among my oldest friends there, and soon we were going to part, forever. We had a conference that evening among ourselves, but realised sadly that there was nothing that we could do other than to sacrifice our rest. The Angsana tree even cried.

I just wish they had left us in peace.

Confession

``Dear Father, I have a confession.'' John murmured in the confession box to the shadow of the priest on the other side of the rattan screen.

``My son, speak, and may the Lord absolve you of your sins,'' Father Ian replied from his side of the confession box.

``Father, I love this girl. I love her with the depths of my heart and with my very being. My love for her is second only to the love of the Lord. I long to hold her in my arms, to caress her face, to grow old with her, to be with her through thick and thin, through health and sickness, all the way till death do us apart.

``But Father,'' John continued on his own momentum, ``though I love her through the fibres of my life, I cannot be with her.

``She is with another.

``I feel loneliness, covetous and lonely. My love of her is strong, but as I lay alone upon my bed, my heart aches tremendously for her. The loneliness of my being remains unabated with my love of the Lord Himself.''

``Mercy,'' Father Ian muttered.

``Dear Father, absolve me of my sin of covetting her!''

``Son, is she married to the other?''

``No Father. They are not wed. They are not engaged either, just cohabiting. Somehow I feel that I might have displeased the Lord with my yearning of her like this.''

``My son,'' Father Ian began, picking his words carefully. ``While it is true that though shalt not covet, you are not covetting as yet. You've only told me your side of your feelings about her, but said nothing about actually speaking with her, to commune and communicate. You have not sinned, leastways not the manner in which you thought you have sinned.

``If there's a sin that you're committing, it is that of being passive,'' Father Ian continued. ``Try talking with her and may the Lord guide you with His infinite wisdom. Amen.''

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 17-Mar-2014 21:07:39)

Chest?

Deep in the penitentiary building where death row inmates were kept, it was said that there existed a chest containing the deepest secrets that each of those who had to leave the death row by the conventional way. It was always the same set up; the day before a death row inmate is due to exit the facility through the prevailing method of execution, he (there were hardly any female death row inmates ever) was given a single sheet of letter-sized paper and a pencil placed on a table in a room with his attorney and himself present, with no one else. A customary window with reinforced glass was necessary for the guard to ensure that the condemned wasn't going to rob the State of justice through suicide.

It was said that during those moments, the deepest secrets that these condemned men had were written down on it and slipped into a manila envelope that their lawyer would bring along. Once that was done, the sealed manila envelope was taken to the chest by the warden, where it would be placed in it that chest with all the other such manila envelopes. The wardens have claimed that they had never tried to read what was in the envelopes, but they did not deny that there was a chest of such terrifying treasure.

I heard about this from an old-timer. He was supposed to be lethally injected some ten years ago having spent nearly fifteen years on death row, but at the last moment his sentence was commuted to life due to age considerations. He described the ritualistic paper-pencil-envelope to me the way I had described earlier, and was the first to hint that there was such a chest hidden on site.

I was no inmate. Just a junior lawyer working with the local pro bono group trying to provide good but free representation for some of the more needy inmates. But that story the old-timer told me piqued my curiousity. A single chest full of the writings of men who knew that their time to repay the blood debt had come. I doubt it would contain any major secrets of any sort, but the mere idea that these men could even commit to paper their thoughts just before a judicial death was mesmerising.

Of course I asked the warden. And you knew what he had said. I was happy to dismiss the old-timer's words when on that one peculiar day I found a trap door in the warden's office that I had never noticed before. It was an old-time trap door complete with an iron ring to help lift it up with a crowbar. It was flushed into the surface, and I realised that I didn't notice its existence because there was always a small single-seater couch sitting right smack on top of it. Most interestingly, there was a crowbar next to it. I had little doubts what that crowbar was for.

Why else would the warden have a crowbar in his office?

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 16-Mar-2014 22:21:38)

Lucient

Lucient hacked away at his keyboard in his apartment. Thirty years in the business, and he still hasn't gotten over the habit of slamming each finger into the key just to type, even though he was typing on a relatively soft yielding computer keyboard and not a typewriter that he had been using. The editor wanted a proof copy by the next morning, and it was only just an hour ago that Lucient managed to get the interview all wrapped up. Typing into the wordprocessor---so different from the past. The words seemed to come out more readily, and felt less grave.

But some things stayed the same. His writing companion for the last three decades was still with him. His old tin coffee mug. It was something from his days serving in the military, a part of his mess-kit. Damn cup went with him through the war and back, and had even saved his life once through somehow managing to deflect a bullet just through happenstance. Even now, there was a very awkward dent in the tin coffee mug that he refused to straighten out. That dent had an air of nostalgia, just like the typewriter that had been sitting in its case on the floor near the leg of his large writing desk in the apartment.

The apartment itself was as old and nostalgia inducing itself. It was part of the massive building programme that the government had embarked on just after the war as a way of housing the veterans, a part of the ``service to country'' bill that was signed into law by the parliament after a strong grassroots movement by peaceniks and veterans alike for better welfare for those who had sacrificed their youth and sanity to fight for their country. Lucient had covered that event as it occurred; peaceful protests all over the country, getting more concentrated and heated as one got closer to parliament house itself. A few of the old news-clippings of the protests were pinned on the walls in the apartment, yellowing a little with age.

Lucient took another sip from his tin coffee mug and continued to hammer the keys to his story. He had a table back in the press office, but he much preferred his apartment for all writing purposes. There was just that magical something that was captured by his apartment that his office desk did not have, and for him, that magical something was more important than conforming to some rules put in place to control. As a senior correspondent, it was one of the perks.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 15-Mar-2014 12:16:33)

Azure Sky

Ying-hui fanned the three joss-sticks in her hand and held it high above her crown. Bowing three times towards the heavens, she then brought it to her eye-level.

``O Heaven above, have mercy on us poor souls! May there be rain for the thirsty crops, and may our river-banks overflow with an abundance of water once again! O Heaven above, please end the drought!''

Ying-hui held the joss-sticks high above her crown once more and bowed three more times. Once that was done, she placed the three joss-sticks into the large incense urn, sticking them upright into the sawdust. Behind her, everyone did almost the same, and started striding in lines to put their joss-sticks into the urn. In short order, the small village temple was full of incense smoke.

Ying-hui walked out of the temple and looked out at the fields. The paddy fields were drying up, most of the land was parching, with only small puddles of water here and there. She had gathered some of the more able-bodied men in the village to cut new irrigation channels to concentrate the poor flow so that a few fields would get enough water to guarantee a decent harvest, while sacrificing the yield from those that were too far from the water source. Despite that, things were looking grim.

The village elders ambled out of the temple and followed Ying-Hui, gazing upon the land as well. It was the hardest drought they had seen in their years of living in the village. The river that they relied on heavily for irrigation was half its original flow, and the ground water wells were at dangerously low levels. It was they who suggested to Ying-hui to adjust the irrigation channels to increase the survival rates of the fields that had the best chance to survive, and to sacrifice the rest. Before the current drought, the village had two or three very good harvests, and therefore had some spare grain and cash---they could afford to the very bad harvest that was to come this year.

``Chief! Chief!''

``Yes?'' Ying-hui replied, turning around to answer the child who called out to her.

``Will the gods hear our cry for help?''

Ying-hui looked up at the cloudless azure sky thoughtfully.

``Perhaps.''

Zoological Conspiracy

``Friends, Romans, countrymen! Lend me your ears!''

``Shut up you!'' Zebra brayed at Monkey who had decided to invoke a classic speech while standing atop the stone within his enclosure. ``It's not like you're the leader of us. You know full well it is Lion who leads us.''

``No! That's not true!'' Monkey shouted in reply. ``Lion has never been our leader. He's always sleeping, and seems to be sated by the things that the keepers have been giving him. It's clear he doesn't lead us, no way!''

``But who do you think you are, Monkey?'' Zebra countered, striped with perplexity. ``You're not as majestic as Lion, and you're not even as strong as Gorilla. Why would you think that you're an able leader than either of them?''

``Because I'm smarter!'' Monkey shouted.

``Caw caw caw!'' Crow crowed in laughter. ``You? Smarter? That's so not true! I can name at least three others who are smarter than you!''

``Shut up Crow!'' Monkey shouted as he picked up a pebble that was sitting next to him and lobbed it at Crow, who was perched on the branch of a tree growing outside of the enclosures.

``You need to aim better, Monkey,'' Crow taunted.

The zookeepers stepped out of their offices and started to go on their rounds. Hearing the loud yells of the monkey, the braying and neighing of the zebra and crow cawing startled the zookeepers, who spread out to find out just what was going on. It was the third time this week that such a cacophony had occurred, and the head zookeepr, who had been on the job for the past three decades, knew that the animals as a collective whole in the zoo were up to no good.

The last time it happened, it led to a major escape attempt by the elephants, several of the big cats, and half of the herd of grazers. It took the entire zoo three days to hunt down and bring back the animals, and even then, some had managed to elude their search efforts. Those that did were unlucky, as armed police were given the right to fire at these animals and take them down. Quite a few had died that day, including Monkey's grandfather, who incidentally was the one that led the escape.

Monkey glimpsed the movement of the keepers, and quietly ducked down from his rock. Crow kept standing on his branch, but kept himself quiet to not draw attention to himself. He wasn't going to sacrifice his vantage point through silly actions like drawing unnecessary attention to himself.

Zebra couldn't hear anything from Monkey, and assumed rightly that the zookeepers were out doing their patrol and wisely kept quiet.

Over in the corner came the satisfied roar of Lion.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-13 20:49:38)

Kiss

`hi amy, how r u?' Anton typed into the chat program.

`hi anton, i am fine. what are you up to?' Amy replied

Anton looked at the reply in the chat program and his heart lifted, the tedium of the work day instantaneously released at that one instant. He couldn't help it---he had known Amy since his days in college, but since graduation, he had been working back in his home country while Amy was pursuing her PhD at another college. The only time they could ever meet and talk with each other was over the Internet, the ansible of the times.

`thinking of u. ;-)' Anton typed, his face breaking out into a small smile.

`aww... that's so sweet. a little creepy, but still sweet. so, when are you coming over to visit again?'

`next month.' Anton replied before thinking quietly to himself of the things that he wanted to do with her when he could finally meet her once again, face-to-face, heart-to-heart. `can't wait to meet u once again!'

`i know! i am excited too! we should do something interesting together.'

`definitely!' Anton typed, his mind suddenly running through all the interesting things that they could do. Go out for a meal, watch the sun setting over the vast corn fields that spread all the way to the horizon, visit the nearby arboretum.

Or kiss.

That thought suddenly emerged in Anton's head, and he blushed a deep red, feeling his cheeks flushing from sheer embarrassment, even though he wasn't actually seeing Amy while chatting. Kiss. It was definitely something interesting, and he knew that they hadn't... done it. He felt a little weak in his knees, and was thankful that he was seated. It took him some guts to finally reveal his feelings for her, but by then, he was already overseas, and she was gave a lukewarm response that he took to be a somewhat positive outcome.

But to kiss her, an overt display of an intimacy that was so pure, sublime. To kiss upon her rosy lips, to sneak a taste of her sweetness through the most innocent yet most deepest of ways of showing love. Was it in the realm of possibility?

`are you still there? you've suddenly gone quiet.' Amy typed through the chat program.

`oops, sorry i was distacted.'

`for fifteen minutes? it must have been a good distraction!'

`hahahaha yes it was. wanna know what it was?'

`sure!'

`u <3'

Anton leant back on his chair and stared at the exchange between he and Amy. The kiss was definitely going to happen, he was very sure of it.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-12 21:43:33)

Trash Man

Imran drove the buggy carefully along the sidewalk, not wanting to tip the rows of trash bins that it was carrying. It was like any ordinary day, he was on his rounds, switching out trash bins from each of the six rubbish chutes that were present in each block of apartments. He was in charge of four blocks, which meant that he had to make at least eight trips to shuffle the six empty bins that he was always moving around.

Six empty in the beginning, switch out the bins that were in the first block of apartments, empty the bins back at the neighbourhood dump, then switch out the now empty bins with the next block and so on. It wasn't the pleasantest of work, but there was a steady income that Imran was thankful about. He had long been used to the sour stench of trash from these bins, so even that wasn't that big a deterrent.

Unless of course when it rained.

Imran stopped the buggy at the last chute on his final block, parking such that the empty bin was nearest to the hatch that opened into the rubbish chute. He got off the buggy and reached for the key that he had tethered to his trousers' belt hoop and unlocked the padlock that held the hatch bolt in place. It wasn't a particularly secure lock considering that all the chutes of the group of four blocks could be opened with the same key, but it had the deterrent of preventing people from reaching in to the chute and messing with the trash. The padlock was unlocked, the bolt pulled back and the hatch was opened. The familiar stench of organic rubbish wafted for freedom through the hatch.

Imran dragged out the bin. It was relatively full, and was starting to overflow some. He picked up his manual compressor tool and started to push down on top of the pile to keep the contents from flying about on transportation.

A sudden crying sound made him stop in his tracks, his blood running cold. He peered into the bin and saw a bag full of blood, with a tiny foot sticking out.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 11-Mar-2014 20:55:38)

Sword of the Shadows

``The Sword of the Shadows,'' Chairman Kim exclaimed as he held up the ancient katana to the light. ``It is finally mine!''

``Yes, Your Divinity,'' the Unterlord intoned, ``we are pleased to have served You to obtain this valuable artefact.''

``You have done well, Unterlord,'' Chairman Kim said as he held the sword firmly in his hands. ``But anyone can bring out an old sword and claim it to be the fabled Sword of the Shadows. I'm afraid you may have to perform the ultimate sacrifice.''

The Unterlord's face was replaced by a look of sheer horror. He protested vehemently but as politely as he could at the Chairman's suggestion, but the latter merely gave him a sardonic grin before slashing the ancient blade through the head of the Unterlord. The blade went through the skull like a hot knife through butter, spilling out cerebral fluids and brain matter. Yet it went on without resistance, slicing through the entire frontal lobe till the blade finally left the head proper through the lower jaw. By then, the Unterlord's head had been cleaved partially into two, his eyes registering a look of pure horror and unimaginable pain as his now-forked tongue flailed about and bled continuously.

Chairman Kim waved his hand, and a pair of guards came forth and dragged the maimed Unterlord away. The Chairman examined the katana---there were no blood stains on it, the blade was still reflecting light as though it were brand new, and the edge was as keen as ever.

That demonstration only proved halfway that the katana was what it was claimed.

Holding the sword forwards once again, Chairman Kim started to utter a string of unintelligible syllables. The blade started to glow crimson before settling on a deep violet colour. The radiation was cutting but seemed to have no effect on the Chairman himself.

He grinned heartily in the deep violet glow.

``Yes! This is indeed the Sword of the Shadows!''

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 10-Mar-2014 21:14:39)

Covert Mission

Neumann stood with his back to the replica statue of Michaelangelo's David, his service pistol drawn and ready to be fired. Vladimir was close by, he knew, but he just wasn't sure where he was. The museum was a large place, and once past closing hours, it was the sort of place that one didn't want to be in a firefight at. There was much cover, too many places one could hide, too many places from which a single well-placed shot was sufficient to terminate the opponet's life.

This wasn't Neumann's idea of a good assignment. But there was no choice. Headquarters had sent him a telegram that the KGB's Vladimir was on the loose with the intention of stealing the recently unearthed documents cataloguing early Nazi sympathisers who were based in the UK, and they wanted Vladimir to fail at his mission by whatever means necessary. Neumann thought it suspicious that such efforts were taken against the list, but it wasn't his place to ask questions. Besides, it was obvious why such a list would be interesting to the KGB---some of the more prominent people may be on the list, or in the worse case, their ancestors were on the list, a very distasteful way of being embarassed in a public venue.

A shuffling sound echoed from the corridor beyond the gallery. Neumann did a quick glance and started to move stealthily towards the direction of the sound. He was hoping that his other section mates were nearby---gunning down a KGB agent was no joke, and for things to end quickly and safely for them all, team work was paramount. Neumann had a couple of other roamers like him moving about the second floor of the museum where they were dropped off quickly by helicopter, securing room after room before clearing the entire floor. There were a couple of snipers who came along to set up spotting points on the second floor after clearing it, and the building's exterior was surrounded with roadblocks set up at periphery of a single block radius.

Neumann moved on, as silently as he could. The shuffling sound came again, and it confirmed its direction. He saw a roamer on the far side who was also following the sound. Giving the tell-tale nod, they made their way towards the corridor with the shuffling in a coordinated fashion.

The blast of a sub-machine gun ringed throughout the silent museum and Neumann found himself stumbling back into cover. He examined his leg; it was bleeding. He had been hit. His fellow roamer was less lucky---his body was riddled with holes and he had collapsed into a heap on the ground.

Neumann shouted frantically into his headset as he spied a shadow appearing from the corridor.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 09-Mar-2014 14:29:56)

Sleep

The mid-day sun beat upon the shorn head of Tien-Huat as he tried to doze off on one of park benches at the local community park. It was a Saturday, the weekend, and there were many people who were out and about at the park doing their usual outdoor recreational activities. A perfect cover for him to just sit on the bench and try to get some sleep.

Being homeless and out on the streets was illegal. Vagabonds were routinely picked up, processed and sometimes even charged in court of illegal loitering and other criminal charges, depending on how industrious the public prosecutor was when the arraignment was arranged. Tien-Huat knew a few fellow vagabonds who had been sent through the jail system by one of these many inglorious routes. Some of them deliberately got themselves picked up, especially those who had already figured out that they had no chance of getting out of the cycle whatsoever. It was preferable to be in jail, where there was food, shelter and perhaps some company from the other inmates. It sure beat living out on the streets where it was extremely hard even to panhandle---there were explicit laws against that.

The only catch was a permanent record. A tough trade-off.

Tien-Huat sighed through his closed eyes, the sun reddening the interior of his eye lids as he tried to take a snooze. The city was well-known for its greenery and relatively safe environment, but it came at a high price of demanding all manners of efficiency, while neglecting those who had fallen through the cracks. He wasn't ready to give it up yet; he still believed that he had some hope in getting out of his situation. He could always do some part-time odd jobs, like doing janitorial work for some of the smaller buildings. But such jobs were becoming harder to come by as many places started to contract niche companies to provide manpower for the service. Tien-Huat could apply to be a worker in these contract companies, but the catch was that they always needed a permanent address before they were even willing to consider him for their post, no matter how simple the job was.

Tien-Huat relaxed himself on the bench and tried to enjoy the warmth of the sun. A couple of years ago, he still had an apartment. It was small --- just a one-room flat --- but it provided shelter and basic supplies like water and sewerage handling. But the building was condemned for its age, and everyone was forcibly evicted. There was some small compensation given, but it came too little and too late for him to find a new place to live. He tried renting other similar one-room apartments, but it was a supplier's market, with many people muscling to rent the few apartments that were available. Tien-Huat cursed under his breath. He blamed it on the influx of cheap foreign labour, the many itinerant workers who flooded the city to fill up the lowest paying jobs of the niche companies. They had special concessions in getting a place to live that people like Tien-Huat didn't have, and so, they break the cycle faster than people like he could.

The thoughts flowed through Tien-Huat's mind as he slowly drifted into a deep sleep, something that he had missed throughout the week while trying to dodge the police officers who had seemingly increased their patrol to round-up people like him. He had been fairly lucky; he always had some respectable looking shirts and jeans that he wore which camouflaged his homeless state, but he never did know how long his luck would last given how conditions were starting to worsen. At least the city was in the tropics, which meant only needing to deal with relatively small variations of temperature throughout the year. But that was little comfort for Tien-Huat.

He slept quietly and peacefully. When the evening came around, his eyes were still closed. Some police officers were called in to check on him after receiving reports of a man who had been sitting on the park bench for the whole afternoon, mostly motionless. As one of the officers called out to him, the other gently touched Tien-Huat on his upper arm.

Tien-Huat's lifeless body slid down the bench into a lying position.

My Eyes: Part VI

(Story begins here.)

I sat down on the bar stool that Uncle San pointed out to me from behind the counter. Shumei was still standing in the corner, looking at me, though it was more of curiousity than anything else. It was clear that she was just going to observe and not take part in the conversation.

``Okay. But, ah, why are you suddenly speaking in perfect English when you were sounding like a deranged old man earlier?''

``I was?'' Uncle San said, looking a little confused. ``Nah, it must be in your head. Anyway I promised to explain what just happened.''

``Yes...'' I replied, waiting.

``Let's start from the beginning, shall we? We all live in the Material plane, and that's where we are right not, right this instance. Everything you see and do here exist as a part of the Material plane. It's boring, nothing weird happens, basically your regular life.''

I nodded my head. There was nothing new that he had just said.

``But there is another `plane of existence' out there. Coincidentally, that `plane of existence' is in lock-step with our Material plane, which means that things move at roughly the same rate as things that move here. We call this other `plane of existence' the Spectral plane. That's what the great pacifist Axolotl told us.''

`` `The great pacifist Axolotl'? Who's he? Also, if the planes are in lock-step, why is it dangerous to be in the Spectral plane and not in the Material plane. More importantly, why is it that for that moment I ended up in the Spectral plane?''

``I'm getting there,'' Uncle San said, his voice sounding a little tired. ``Be patient, will you?

``Axolotl is one of the beings that exists on the Spectral plane. Though much fewer in number than us, the beings in the Spectral plane possess strange powers that we do not seem to understand how they work. There has been stories that they can create and manipulate types of matter at will, but the way they do it is apparently incomprehensible given our current understanding of Physics. Axolotl is, as I have said, the great pacifist. Unlike the other beings that he described, he was less aggressive, and have the general philosophy of avoiding applying violence as much as possible.''

``And that's why the Spectral plane is dangerous and I cannot be in there?''

``Yes, in some sense,'' Uncle San replied. ``Meeting up with a Spectral being other than Axolotl would have been a terrible problem, because it is likely to attack with impunity, though technically you're never actually completely in the Spectral plane...''

``What do you mean? Didn't you say that I was in the Spectral plane just now before you pulled me back or whatever you called that thing you did?''

``No. I said that you were `sort of' in the Spectral plane. You are one of the people whose Eyes have finally opened. Unlike most cases, people whose Eyes are opened are only really partially in the Spectral plane, or more specifically, only their eyes are actually physically in the Spectral plane. The rest of their body is still more or less in the Material plane, though the percentage of body being in the Material plane varies from person to person.''

``That is freaky. So I'm just a pair of eyeballs floating about in a different `plane of existence'?'' I asked, incredulous.

``Effectively, yes.'' Uncle San sighed. ``This is where things get a little complicated. You will need to learn the conditions in which you will have a tendency to slip in the Spectral plane and learn how to control them so that you don't accidentally do that when you are not intending to do. This will require some getting used to but it is of the most important basic skills that you need to have.''

``Wait, why would I ever want to go back to the Spectral plane if it is as scary as you make it out to be? I have no wish to go back there, not especially if I'm going to meet up with scary things that want to kill me, and am just a pair of floating eye balls.''

``Because there will come a point in time that your ability to use your Eyes will be important for the very survival of our Material plane. Not just your ability, but others who have their Eyes opened as well.''

Auction Ticket

Anton stared at his computer screen with great interest. The auction price for the rare ticket to the ISS was rising at a rate that was starting to give him palpitations. It began at a price of one thousand dollars, and it was offered by someone who had won it at a raffle but couldn't go on the trip because of an immediate failure of the medical examination---she was too old.

The auction attracted all bids. Some comments left on the item included lamentations of the lack of money, and the questioning of the authenticity of the ticket itself. Others who had the money and had placed the bids exclaimed at the relatively low price that it was being offered, compared to the sticker price of nearly a quarter million dollars as sold on the website of the travel agency itself (there was only one such agency).

Anton leaned back on his chair and waited for the auction timer to run down. He had kept his reserve price near the two-hundred-thousand-dollar mark, but to pay off at that level would require selling quite a few of the stocks in his portfolio, something that he wasn't quite ready to make considering the recent increased attention of the ``activist investors'' who were trying to muscle their way on to his company board by buying as much shares and stocks as possible of his company.

The ticket. It seemed like an exorbitant item, but to Anton, it was a dream come true. He had always wanted to be an astronaut, but his father forbade him any other career choice other than to carry on the family business. He had the grades, he had the athletic prowess, he just didn't have the blessings of his father.

He could have bought the ticket straight from the travel agency, but why should he do that when there's an auction that may allow him to get it for far cheaper?

The minutes started counting down---there were five left. The current winning bid was Anton's own automated bid of nearly one hundred thousand dollars, which had held steady for the last three minutes or so. He wondered if he should raise his reserve price, but thought better of it.

Fifteen seconds remained. He bit his nails, waiting for the outcome. His bid was still the highest.

The auction closed and Anton raised his hands in the air in jubilation, only to find that his bid had been sniped at the last possible second.

Anton shrugged. Perhaps another time.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-03-06 20:51:47)

Windchimes

``Welcome welcome! Drop by to Ian's Windchime shop! We sell the most wonderful windchimes you will ever see and hear! Each one has its own delightful tinkle that will keep you entertained for years!'' Ian said as he paraded up and down his shop front, trying to get people to come in to see the large varieties of windchimes on sale.

He wasn't kidding on the variety though. There were tiny windchimes made of porcelain and a cork clapper that had the highest pitched and sweetest tinkles, and larger more modern-looking windchimes made of bronze with their own bronze clappers that gave warm and resonant deep chimes when the wind blew through them. When the wind blew through his little shop from the front entrance to the rear, the vast assortment of windchimes made the most melodious cacophony that one could ever hope to hear.

Yet there were still few who willingly stopped by to browse his wares. Most seemed nonchalant about the windchimes, while some seemed downright annoyed at their path being blocked by Ian as he tried to talk with them. The morning passed that way, almost like every other day. It has been five days since Ian first opened up his shop, and business never picked up. Dejected, he just sat there at the front side of his shop, and stared vacntly ahead, as his beautiful windchimes clinked and clattered above.

Ian loved windchimes as a kid. It was just one of those things that he picked up that no one else seemed to. To him, windchimes had a certain ethereality about them that was hard to describe yet easy to perceive. He had spent a lot of his time playing around with various windchimes, from the one that his father gave him to hang at the window in his room when he was young, to the larger ones at the temples. It had been his dream to share his love for windchimes with the world, but his parents had told him firmly that it would never take flight.

Against all odds, Ian saved money to open his own little shop to share his dreams, and by now, he was starting to realise that perhaps his parents were right after all.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 05-Mar-2014 21:27:44)

Roof-Top

Ah Seng sat at edge of the roof-top of the block of flats, his feet dangling some twenty storeys above the ground. Behind him his wife of fifteen years was pleading in tears for him to get away from the edge, while his thirteen-year-old daughter stood next to her mother, crying and restrained by the police officers who had made their way up through the roof access maintenance door once they received word that a man was found sitting right at the roof top. Below him Ah Seng could see that a crowd of curious on-lookers had gathered, and were marshalled out of a police cordon that had been hastily set up. He was glad to find that the fire department hadn't made their way on to the scene with their ladders and safety trampoline---this meant that when he went, he truly could go and never return maimed.

Ignoring the ruckus behind him, Ah Seng took a cigarette out of his front shirt pocket. A Marlboro, something that had kept him company for the past thirty years of life. He held it with his lips as he whipped out a lighter from his trouser pocket, lighting it. It was windy at the top of the block of flats, but it seemed that even Providence was smiling upon him and had given him his last wish of a vice before he truly went.

Ah Seng didn't even bother to turn around to look behind him. The police had kept their distance, having learnt quickly that Ah Seng meant it when he said he would make the jump immediately had they closed in upon him. The police negotiator had arrived, and was trying to cajole him to speak, but Ah Seng knew better than to keep that person engaged in conversation---too many television shows had reminded him of how that led to distraction and ultimately a failure in the cause in the first place.

Ah Seng took a deep breath from his Marlboro and held the calming smoke in his lungs for a bit before exhaling it into a small cloud of smoke which drifted off in the direction of the breeze. Though a little past forty, Ah Seng had thinning hair, and the few strands that were left were now dancing along with the breeze as though they were rejoicing at the inevitability. In the past, he had been handsome, very attractive in fact, with a head full of hair, a face full of smile, and pockets full of cash from the civil engineering job that he got. Not many were in that line of work due to the experience and time commitment needed, but Ah Seng was in the right place at the right time, and his company was generous enough even to sponsor his education at the polytechnic so that he could rise through the profession and be an assistant engineer instead of the odd-job labourer that he originally began with. Life was good.

His wife had stopped talking by now and was just wailing gibberish and had to be held back by the police officers. It had to be, he figured, since there were no sounds of footsteps that would normally follow someone who had managed to make some forward progress. It was just as well---he really didn't want to deal with her, especially at a time like this. He took another deep breath from his Marlboro and felt the smoke seep deep into his alveoli. Of course he knew that smoking was bad for his lungs, but here he was sitting at the edge of the roof top of a block of flats---why would he care?

He opened his mouth into a pout and exhaled the smoke. Perfect smoke ring. Perhaps there was a God after all. But to Ah Seng, even if God existed, He would have made his presence too late; it was time to go, well after the cigarette. Ah Seng shifted his butt cheeks a little on the ledge and wished that his bawling wife would just shut the hell up and leave him alone; after all, she was the very reason why he was up there in the first place.

Ah Seng took another toke. She was one of the many flappers of that time when they first met. She thought he was cute, and he thought she was wife material. They got married at roughly the time he graduated from the polytechnic and was at his new assistant engineer post. She bore him a daughter and he was delighted, working hard every day to provide for his family. It was bliss.

Then she cheated on him once.

He forgave her after much pleading, mostly because she invoked the helplessness of their child. For a while, it was good, and everything seemed to be back to normal. Ah Seng felt blissful all over again and soon forgot about her past infidelity. Then one day, she started asking for more money and saying it was needed for the price increase in groceries as well as for their daughter's school-related miscellaneous fees. He gave it to her unquestioningly.

A week ago he realised that she was supporting a gigolo all these while, even after he had forgiven her for cheating on him. Ah Seng couldn't understand why she cuckolded him this way and wanted to leave. At first, she pleaded for forgiveness once more, saying that she had been weak. Then she became increasingly verbally abusive when she realised that Ah Seng was no longer paying much attention to her.

Truth was, Ah Seng loved her deeply. But she had torn his heart asunder, and hadn't the will to live any more. Even looking at his daughter reminded him of his love of her in the past, and it was something he just couldn't live with. That whole week, Ah Seng went about settling his business, resigning from his job, writing up and notarising his will and in general preparing for a journey that he wasn't coming back from.

And now here he was, sitting on the edge of the roof top of a block of flats, feet dangling some twenty storeys above the ground. His cigarette had been smoked to a stump now, and Ah Seng knew it was truly time. Flicking the butt away, he turned around one last time. His wife saw him turn around and was momentarily silenced.

``Stop making a scene you hussy---go back to that gigolo of yours and stop pretending that you give a damn.''

With tears in his eyes, Ah Seng leaned forward and leapt off the building.

The breeze suddenly increased in intensity for a fleeting moment before calming back to what it was before.

Insouciance

Another day has ended and Samuel heaved a sigh of relief as he closed the lid of his laptop to keep it in his office cabinet. Crunching through the numbers made him particularly tired, but it was one of the many things that he had been hired to do, and given the current economic outlook, there was little that he can do except to quietly do what was given to him. Already turned down for three other jobs, this one was almost like a last resort for him, and with the rather meagre pay, he was at least able to make ends meet. Locking the cabinet with his key, Samuel was thankful of the job he had. Being single was also an advantage, for it meant that his expenses were significantly lower due to having no immediate family to support.

Samuel picked up his phone and plugged in the headphones and turned on the radio. It was almost like a daily ritual to him, to turn on the radio, and to just plug his ears with whatever the radio station decided to broadcast as he made his way back home aboard the crowded public transport, the radio acting like a talisman of isolation to keep him distracted from the closeness of all the other sweaty bodies of minimum wage workers just like him who were trying to eke out a living under the hyper-competitive market.

As he squeezed on the bus, he heard a news bulletin that he hadn't heard before.

``Our correspondent in Ukraine reports that the stand-off between the Ukraine army and the unmarked troops brought in from Russia has made a turn for the worse as shots were heard firing in Crimea. Reports have been mixed on who it was that fired the first shot. Witnesses near the region have described it as being a massacre as armed men from both sides engaged in a bloody urban battle. Many were injured when a rocket-propelled grenade was fired into a civilian building. So far, armoured vehicles have not taken part in the melee, acting mostly as barriers demarcating major zones of control. A Red Cross representative told our correspondent that humanitarian aid was lacking as aid workers are unable to enter the live fire zone due to the intensity of the fighting...''

Samuel sighed deeply and pressed on the auto-tune button on his radio to seek out the next radio station. Life was already depressing enough; no need to add more to it by listening to the plight of others.

The bus rumbled off from the road and headed towards the next bus stop.

The Left Behind

Ernie tried hiding in a corner, confused at the large throng of angry people charging in the same general direction and shouting all manner of slogans. He felt small and afraid, smaller than his eight-year-old self. Mother was nowhere to be found---she had brought him out with the intention of going to the supermarket to get some groceries and some treats, but she had since been swept away by the unending cascade of people.

The building facade provided little cover. All there was was a pillar that stuck out onto the sidewalk, and Ernie huddled behind it as everyone else marched on psat it, ignoring both the pillar the mendicant behind it. Ernie wanted to cry---already he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and about to fall as large drops of tears---but he rubbed them out of his eyes and tried searching for his mother among the crowd.

It was near-freezing weather, roughly the end of winter, but not quite at the end, where the temperatures would drop with a vengeance for a week only to be raised substantially over the next fortnight to welcome the slightly more enjoyable aspect of spring. Ernie had worn his warm down jacket that Mother gave him, and he saw that many of the people who were marching in front of him shouting slogans and carrying signs were dressed almost the same, except being a little lighter. Frightfully, his eyes jumped from one person to the next, hoping to find Mother among them.

From the corner of his eye, he saw another movement. One of the crowd seemed to be moving rather differently from the rest. It was a man in a blue hoodie and jeans, and in his hands was a sign made out of plywood and a two-by-four. Ernie saw that the sign had ``Bring back the motherland!'' on it. But more importantly, he saw that the man was making his way towards him. By now, his fear had progressed to the point where he was willing to try anything to look for Mother, and seeing that he had nowhere else to run, Ernie stood at the corner of the pillar and waited.

``Hey kid,'' the man said when he finally made his way through the crowd to where Ernie was. ``What are you doing here? This isn't a place for a kid like you you know?'' The voice was husky but reassuring, and it sounded like the kind of voice that Ernie's father might have had Ernie had a father that he knew of. Mother never talked about him.

``I lost my mommy,'' Ernie replied, the tears wallowing anew in his eyes. The little bit of kindness from the stranger was the final straw for Ernie, who finally lost control and bawled his eyes out when he realised the full extent in which he was in.

``Woah there kid,'' the man continued in his kindly voice. ``Let's find your mommy together, okay?'' He looked about him and reached out to the nearest person who was empty-handed and shouting slogans. ``Hey buddy! Here, have my sign, and bring back the motherland!'' ``Aye comrade! We'll fight for our freedom from those oppressors!'' With the sign out of the way, he looked back at Ernie, who felt more calm after the cry.

``Hey kid, come on, wipe your eyes. You've gotta be strong, okay? Now, let's find your mommy.'' With that, he picked up Ernie and let him ride on top of his shoulders.

Ernie was still in a state of shock and passively let the man lift him up onto his shoulders. But once up there, he was suddenly struck by the sheer scale of the march that he was seeing. In all directions, all he could see were people all dressed in their cold wear, with some holding signs, and many shouting slogans, and all of them walking in unison towards the same direction. He looked ahead and saw the imposing figure of an old colonial-style building---the parliament house. He could feel the energy in the air, the sense of dissatisfaction even though he was only eight. Awestruck, he kept his mouth agape.

``Hey kid,'' the man asked from below, ``see you mother yet?''

``No, not really...''

``Okay kid, if you see her, let me know. Otherwise we'll just keep walking with the crowd towards our freedom. Maybe one day you will understand what it is we are trying to do here and appreciate what has been done.''

``Maybe your mom wanted you to see this too.''

Zoo

``Mommy mommy! Why does that horse look so sad?''

``What do you mean it looks so sad?'' Tiffany sighed as she replied to Tim. It was the first time that they were at a zoo, and Tiffany was already finding it more tiring than she would want to admit. The day was hot and dry, and the zoo itself was at the time of the day where the animals just had their lunch and had evacuated their bowels this place and that. Which meant that near every enclosure was the slightly musty smell of animal dung.

Tiffany looked at the horse that Tim had pointed out. True enough, its head was drooping and it looked lethargic. It was trying its best to hide under the cover of the tree overhead but it seemed to not be doing its job well.

``I think the horse is sad looking because it feels hot in this weather.''

``Really, mommy? Can we help it in some way?'' Tim asked, his concerned eyes looking up at Tiffany. It was hard to try and brush off his questions whenever he looked like that---it was just too adorable.

``I don't think so,'' Tiffany said. ``The zoo tries its best to take care of the animals, and we should let the professionals do what they do best.''

``Okay mommy,'' Tim replied, somewhat dejected.

Tiffany took one more look at the horse when suddenly she sensed a voice in her head.

``The zoo doesn't really take care of us that well you know. It seems as though they take care of us well, but it's only on the surface. They just do barely enough so that people will think that they are treating us well. If you have a conscience, maybe you can help do something about it.''

Tiffany looked about, startled. Then she looked harder at the horse, and realise that it was looking at her. Staring at her, in fact.

``You are wondering if it is I who is speaking to you. Yes, it is I. Poor old me, standing here behind the fence so that all of you can see me like an animal. Well, I mean, I am an animal, but you people stare at us like we were enclosed and somehow not worthy of any care or concern. Please, if you can, do something to help us.''

``Mommy, let's go. I'm feeling thirsty.''

Tiffany shook her head to clear it and looked down at her son before nodding and walking away from the enclosure with him.

Behind them, the horse continued to stare till they got out of its line of sight.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 01-Mar-2014 22:33:18)