It got dark, figurative and literal. Hard to run away from, really. Natural order of things. With light comes darkness; the yin to the yang. Darkness itself being the norm; light, the incursor.
Ends justify darkness; they nurture it, they grow it. Beginnings destroy part of it, but it never goes away; it always returns.
It always returns.
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
Monday, 18 August 2014
Her Children
``Come on kids, dinner is served!'' Eliza called from the kitchen. Above her, the pitter-patter sound of four feet scrambling across the wooden floor boards was followed by the soft thuds of their owners charging down the stairs to the best of their abilities. Eliza smiled to herself. It was the life that she had imagined she would live, to be married with her beau from high school and to have two lovely children, Aileen, an auburn-haired girl of six, and Chad, her fraternal twin. She did not quite imagine that she would carry twins, let alone fraternal ones too, but she did have the thought of having a boy and a girl at some point. That they came together was a blessing.
The two rambunctious children ran the remaining short distance from the stairs that led to the main hallway into the kitchen, appearing at the doorway at almost the same time, jostling each other as they playfully fought to get into the kitchen first. It was an old game, one that Eliza was not really fond of due to the rough nature, but she had since given up on trying to convince them to mend their ways. Besides, the twins were evenly matched physically, and so there was never a clear danger of one accidentally hurting the other, and their childish naivete was an ironic entertainment for her.
``Stop pushing each other and come in like civilised children,'' Eliza said for the umpteenth time as she slopped a goop of steamed peas onto each plate. Dinner was a simple affair most of the time, some stir-fried chicken, a scallion omelette, and the peas, together with some mashed potato. Eliza was not much of a cook herself, but ever since she had brought the twins to the world, she had tried her best to improve her cooking while making the food as healthy and as interesting as she could. Her experience in cooking before her pregnancy was limited to making instant noodles with a pot of hot water, a skill learnt during her college days while living in the dormitories.
The twins grinned at each other while seemingly heeding their mother's exhortations and gave themselves one last playful shove before sitting themselves around the kitchen table where their plates were. Eliza had set the table for four---Simon was about to come back soon from work. It was rather unusual though, for him to be this late. Often he would be back before six, but he had called in to tell her that something cropped up on the office that needed some looking into, and that he would be back as close to six as he could.
Eliza looked at the clock unconsciously. It was a quarter past six. She debated if she should give him a call at the office to confirm if he was still going to be back in time, but quickly decided against it. It was not as though there were something urgent that needed his attention, and she knew just how important his work was at the office that even a small distraction could be disastrous.
There was a loud crash, followed quickly by another, and Eliza was forced to snap out of her day dream. She turned to look at the source of the crashes.
Aileen was lying prone, her face smashed up into the plate of food. Eliza shrieked in shock and went over to Aileen, moving her face from the plate of food and leaning her back on the chair, trying to see what had happened. Aileen's stained face showed no response, her eyes staring back at Eliza motionless. Frightened, Eliza released her grip from Aileen, who promptly fell back into the plate of food. She then turned her eyes towards Chad.
Chad was not in his seat. Eliza looked about and saw that Chad had fallen off his chair somehow. But like Aileen, there was a mysterious silence; no screams of pain, no cries of discomfort. But unlike Aileen, Chad had fallen into pieces, with his limbs cracked open as though made of some hard plastic, the gears and springs within showing themselves as bits and pieces of broken cogs were strewn all over the floor, some even rolling away.
The sight was too much to bear for Eliza, for she screamed bloody murder and swooned just as a heavy set of boots came into the house.
Eliza found herself in a hospital, feeling heavily sedated. In between consciousness and unconsciousness, she could swear she heard Simon talking to himself. All that she could remember was his repeating words of sorry, that he should have come back early and keep them wound up, that he was running the risk of them losing power while he was away. What he meant by that, she never knew, since she slowly slipped off into a long sleep that she would not awake from.
The two rambunctious children ran the remaining short distance from the stairs that led to the main hallway into the kitchen, appearing at the doorway at almost the same time, jostling each other as they playfully fought to get into the kitchen first. It was an old game, one that Eliza was not really fond of due to the rough nature, but she had since given up on trying to convince them to mend their ways. Besides, the twins were evenly matched physically, and so there was never a clear danger of one accidentally hurting the other, and their childish naivete was an ironic entertainment for her.
``Stop pushing each other and come in like civilised children,'' Eliza said for the umpteenth time as she slopped a goop of steamed peas onto each plate. Dinner was a simple affair most of the time, some stir-fried chicken, a scallion omelette, and the peas, together with some mashed potato. Eliza was not much of a cook herself, but ever since she had brought the twins to the world, she had tried her best to improve her cooking while making the food as healthy and as interesting as she could. Her experience in cooking before her pregnancy was limited to making instant noodles with a pot of hot water, a skill learnt during her college days while living in the dormitories.
The twins grinned at each other while seemingly heeding their mother's exhortations and gave themselves one last playful shove before sitting themselves around the kitchen table where their plates were. Eliza had set the table for four---Simon was about to come back soon from work. It was rather unusual though, for him to be this late. Often he would be back before six, but he had called in to tell her that something cropped up on the office that needed some looking into, and that he would be back as close to six as he could.
Eliza looked at the clock unconsciously. It was a quarter past six. She debated if she should give him a call at the office to confirm if he was still going to be back in time, but quickly decided against it. It was not as though there were something urgent that needed his attention, and she knew just how important his work was at the office that even a small distraction could be disastrous.
There was a loud crash, followed quickly by another, and Eliza was forced to snap out of her day dream. She turned to look at the source of the crashes.
Aileen was lying prone, her face smashed up into the plate of food. Eliza shrieked in shock and went over to Aileen, moving her face from the plate of food and leaning her back on the chair, trying to see what had happened. Aileen's stained face showed no response, her eyes staring back at Eliza motionless. Frightened, Eliza released her grip from Aileen, who promptly fell back into the plate of food. She then turned her eyes towards Chad.
Chad was not in his seat. Eliza looked about and saw that Chad had fallen off his chair somehow. But like Aileen, there was a mysterious silence; no screams of pain, no cries of discomfort. But unlike Aileen, Chad had fallen into pieces, with his limbs cracked open as though made of some hard plastic, the gears and springs within showing themselves as bits and pieces of broken cogs were strewn all over the floor, some even rolling away.
The sight was too much to bear for Eliza, for she screamed bloody murder and swooned just as a heavy set of boots came into the house.
Eliza found herself in a hospital, feeling heavily sedated. In between consciousness and unconsciousness, she could swear she heard Simon talking to himself. All that she could remember was his repeating words of sorry, that he should have come back early and keep them wound up, that he was running the risk of them losing power while he was away. What he meant by that, she never knew, since she slowly slipped off into a long sleep that she would not awake from.
Sunday, 17 August 2014
It Was Supposed To Be A Love Story: Part 3
(Story begins here.)
Six months. It was merely six months after his graduation that he moved out to Mountain View to work at one of the many technology companies in the region when he received the email. His jaw hit the ground when he saw its contents.
``Dear Mike, I'm sorry. I know you made lots of big plans with me about our future, about how we will live together after I've graduated and start our lives together as a couple. I didn't want to remind you of this earlier because you were so happy then, what with your graduation and the getting of that dream job of yours, but I will remind you now: I am not the sort who would settle down. I still love you very much, but I cannot see myself living the life of a wedded wife; I just can't. It probably doesn't help that while you were gone, I got lonely, and went back to some of the parties that the fraternities were hosting, and kissed a guy there. No, we didn't sleep together, but I thought I should let you know. I'm sorry, but you clearly want me as a wife, but I cannot live that way.
``Let's break up now before you get even more hurt. Once more, I'm sorry it turned out that way.
``Love, Irene.''
It was supposed to be a love story. That was what Mike kept trying to remind himself each time he was alone in his apartment and looking at the few photographs that he had of him and Irene. A love story. But it did not turn out that way after all.
Mike took one look at the remaining whiskey in his glass and finished it all in one gulp before lying on his hands on the table and sobbed silently to himself.
Six months. It was merely six months after his graduation that he moved out to Mountain View to work at one of the many technology companies in the region when he received the email. His jaw hit the ground when he saw its contents.
``Dear Mike, I'm sorry. I know you made lots of big plans with me about our future, about how we will live together after I've graduated and start our lives together as a couple. I didn't want to remind you of this earlier because you were so happy then, what with your graduation and the getting of that dream job of yours, but I will remind you now: I am not the sort who would settle down. I still love you very much, but I cannot see myself living the life of a wedded wife; I just can't. It probably doesn't help that while you were gone, I got lonely, and went back to some of the parties that the fraternities were hosting, and kissed a guy there. No, we didn't sleep together, but I thought I should let you know. I'm sorry, but you clearly want me as a wife, but I cannot live that way.
``Let's break up now before you get even more hurt. Once more, I'm sorry it turned out that way.
``Love, Irene.''
It was supposed to be a love story. That was what Mike kept trying to remind himself each time he was alone in his apartment and looking at the few photographs that he had of him and Irene. A love story. But it did not turn out that way after all.
Mike took one look at the remaining whiskey in his glass and finished it all in one gulp before lying on his hands on the table and sobbed silently to himself.
Saturday, 16 August 2014
It Was Supposed To Be A Love Story: Part 2
(Story begins here.)
Mike sat there in his apartment, staring at that photograph of all the guests at the housewarming party, the very first time that he met Irene, his eyes all bloodshot from his insomnia. He took the bottle of whiskey and poured out another glass and took a large gulp from it, the alcoholic fire burning its way down his gullet before settling into a warm flame that radiated from within his empty stomach. Three days. It had been three days since Irene had walked out of his life. It was supposed to be a love story, he kept telling himself, and he stared at the photograph in his hand one last time before discarding it and picking up the next one in the sequence.
It was a picture of his graduation. They had gone out for nearly three years by then. Mike was a graduating senior, while she was a rising senior, both still in the same degree. Irene's mother died during that period from cancer, but Mike was there beside her, which helped to ameliorate the pain. There was a change in the course requirements for the degree during Irene's junior year, but they weathered through it all. She cut back on her partying when the two of them started getting all serious, while he never really left far from his shell of comfort---all he did was to invite her to join him in his shell. The year of his graduation, they started to talk about plans. Big plans. Plans regarding what was to happen during the year that he was working and she was still finishing up her degree. Plans regarding what happened after that. Serious plans, important plans. Plans that Mike thought they had agreed on.
Mike stared hard at the graduation picture, it portrayed a certain naïveté towards the future, smiles that seemed to come from the deep happiness from within, eyes that twinkle with nothing short of love and happiness. Eyes that now seem to him to be showing nothing short of deceit and duplicity. Disgusted, he tossed the photograph aside and took another large gulp from his whiskey.
(Story continues here.)
Mike sat there in his apartment, staring at that photograph of all the guests at the housewarming party, the very first time that he met Irene, his eyes all bloodshot from his insomnia. He took the bottle of whiskey and poured out another glass and took a large gulp from it, the alcoholic fire burning its way down his gullet before settling into a warm flame that radiated from within his empty stomach. Three days. It had been three days since Irene had walked out of his life. It was supposed to be a love story, he kept telling himself, and he stared at the photograph in his hand one last time before discarding it and picking up the next one in the sequence.
It was a picture of his graduation. They had gone out for nearly three years by then. Mike was a graduating senior, while she was a rising senior, both still in the same degree. Irene's mother died during that period from cancer, but Mike was there beside her, which helped to ameliorate the pain. There was a change in the course requirements for the degree during Irene's junior year, but they weathered through it all. She cut back on her partying when the two of them started getting all serious, while he never really left far from his shell of comfort---all he did was to invite her to join him in his shell. The year of his graduation, they started to talk about plans. Big plans. Plans regarding what was to happen during the year that he was working and she was still finishing up her degree. Plans regarding what happened after that. Serious plans, important plans. Plans that Mike thought they had agreed on.
Mike stared hard at the graduation picture, it portrayed a certain naïveté towards the future, smiles that seemed to come from the deep happiness from within, eyes that twinkle with nothing short of love and happiness. Eyes that now seem to him to be showing nothing short of deceit and duplicity. Disgusted, he tossed the photograph aside and took another large gulp from his whiskey.
(Story continues here.)
Friday, 15 August 2014
It Was Supposed To Be A Love Story: Part 1
It was supposed to be a love story. That was what Mike kept trying to remind himself each time he was alone in his apartment and looking at the few photographs that he had of him and Irene. A love story. They met in college while both were pursuing degrees in computer science, he a sophomore, she a freshman. Some might even claim it to be a match made in heaven, for their quirks matched each other nearly perfectly. Of the two he was the more quiet, an introvert some might even say, while she was the one who was more out-going, always going out to parties, concerts, meeting new people, making new friends. He did not like parties at all, preferring a more scholarly existence while during college. They had met at a mutual friend's housewarming, a coincidence more than anything else. It being a housewarming, he found it sufficient of an excuse to leave the house to attend it even though the social aspect scared him, while she was still trying to learn her way around campus during that first semester and was naturally drawn to a party where there was at least one person she knew.
They met, and they started talking almost immediately, as though some unknown attractive force had taken over them and brought them close together. As the party heated up, the two of them found themselves moving away to quieter corners of the house and continued their chat, up to and until the party was over. Their mutual friend had taken a glimpse of where the two of them were when the party was concluded, but decided against asking them to leave, seeing that Mike was at least enjoying himself with the company of another, something that was a rare sight. Years later, when Mike asked her why she did not throw the both of them out of the house at the end of the party, she would simply reply that it was not the right thing to do then.
They chat through the night, sitting in the foyer under the lights. It was fall, and the weather was cool enough to lull the summer bugs into a slumber, leaving them to hover about farther away from the dangling lights. It was only when they saw the glint of the sun's rays that they realised how long they had been talking with each other. Mike did not know what possessed him that day, but he mustered the courage to ask her out for coffee some time. Irene, with her usual friendly self, readily agreed, though she blushed a little, as though she had already known what was coming up even before Mike knew where it was all heading.
(Story continues here.)
They met, and they started talking almost immediately, as though some unknown attractive force had taken over them and brought them close together. As the party heated up, the two of them found themselves moving away to quieter corners of the house and continued their chat, up to and until the party was over. Their mutual friend had taken a glimpse of where the two of them were when the party was concluded, but decided against asking them to leave, seeing that Mike was at least enjoying himself with the company of another, something that was a rare sight. Years later, when Mike asked her why she did not throw the both of them out of the house at the end of the party, she would simply reply that it was not the right thing to do then.
They chat through the night, sitting in the foyer under the lights. It was fall, and the weather was cool enough to lull the summer bugs into a slumber, leaving them to hover about farther away from the dangling lights. It was only when they saw the glint of the sun's rays that they realised how long they had been talking with each other. Mike did not know what possessed him that day, but he mustered the courage to ask her out for coffee some time. Irene, with her usual friendly self, readily agreed, though she blushed a little, as though she had already known what was coming up even before Mike knew where it was all heading.
(Story continues here.)
Thursday, 14 August 2014
He Learnt Silence
Know that the silence often conveys more information than anything that one could possibly hope to hear come out of another's mouth. It is one of the harder lessons that one could learn as an adult operating in the modern world. And it sure took Samuel quite a many misstep before he could finally learn this elegant method of eliciting previously unknown facts that could be used to illuminate various matters.
But as always, I jump the gun and start from the end. I apologise.
Samuel had been in and out of many relationships with the largest variety of women that one could ever dream up. Free-spirited hippy-like females, mainstream conservatives, and even dominatrices, he had approached them all at one point or another to date them. Yet at the end of the day, they all had dumped him. At first, his ego felt slightly bruised, but he managed to delude himself into thinking that there was clearly nothing wrong with him, and everything wrong with whichever woman it was who dumped him that time.
But Samuel was not a dumb man. After the umpteenth rejection, he started to notice patterns that appear. To him, it was a startling revelation. To us, it's also a startling revelation, for there are few who are sufficiently self-aware to reach the point where they can confidentally inspect themselves thoroughly and dispassionately to discover just what kind of flaws they have---hardly anyone attempts to look for the good points because their ego runs off effectively from their own [aggrandised notion of] self-worth and goodness. Samuel's insight was simple: he simply talked too much and never truly had the chance to sit down and actually listen to what she had to say.
In other words, he was trying to hard to impress that he was missing all the important signs and signals that she was trying to tell him, intentionally or otherwise.
Knowing the problem was half the solution, but actually changing his habits to solve the problem itself was an altogether different exercise. He began with small steps, like any sensible person, and slowly intensified it to the point where he could carefully and constructively insert silences to give her enough space to talk more about herself. The efforts were slowly showing their intended outcome, for soon each of his relationships were starting to last a little longer before they terminated. To his surprise, he found that it was no longer always the case where he was the dumped---by keeping silent, he managed to discover character kinks that he knew he was unwilling to live with and be the one who dumped.
He met a nice girl who went out with him for a good two years before they both decided to live together as husband and wife, and the last I heard, they are still married with each other nearly fifteen years on.
But as always, I jump the gun and start from the end. I apologise.
Samuel had been in and out of many relationships with the largest variety of women that one could ever dream up. Free-spirited hippy-like females, mainstream conservatives, and even dominatrices, he had approached them all at one point or another to date them. Yet at the end of the day, they all had dumped him. At first, his ego felt slightly bruised, but he managed to delude himself into thinking that there was clearly nothing wrong with him, and everything wrong with whichever woman it was who dumped him that time.
But Samuel was not a dumb man. After the umpteenth rejection, he started to notice patterns that appear. To him, it was a startling revelation. To us, it's also a startling revelation, for there are few who are sufficiently self-aware to reach the point where they can confidentally inspect themselves thoroughly and dispassionately to discover just what kind of flaws they have---hardly anyone attempts to look for the good points because their ego runs off effectively from their own [aggrandised notion of] self-worth and goodness. Samuel's insight was simple: he simply talked too much and never truly had the chance to sit down and actually listen to what she had to say.
In other words, he was trying to hard to impress that he was missing all the important signs and signals that she was trying to tell him, intentionally or otherwise.
Knowing the problem was half the solution, but actually changing his habits to solve the problem itself was an altogether different exercise. He began with small steps, like any sensible person, and slowly intensified it to the point where he could carefully and constructively insert silences to give her enough space to talk more about herself. The efforts were slowly showing their intended outcome, for soon each of his relationships were starting to last a little longer before they terminated. To his surprise, he found that it was no longer always the case where he was the dumped---by keeping silent, he managed to discover character kinks that he knew he was unwilling to live with and be the one who dumped.
He met a nice girl who went out with him for a good two years before they both decided to live together as husband and wife, and the last I heard, they are still married with each other nearly fifteen years on.
Wednesday, 13 August 2014
Love?
Anton sighed as he looked upon Eurydice, her horn-rimmed glasses staring back at him with the most uncompromising of faces. She wasn't unlikeable, he knew because he had a no-so-secret crush on her, but there were moments where her demeanour would change on whim and give her the dour expression that was her default. She wasn't easily amused either, outwardly, but he knew that there were ways to get beyond her high standards to elicit that elusive chuckle from Eurydice.
``What is it now?'' Eurydice finally said, breaking the silence, an air of annoyance clearly conveyed through the quivering of her lips and her folded arms. ``Do you have something to tell me or are you just going to stand there and stare away at me?''
Anton sighed once more and mustered whatever was left of his courage. Asking Eurydice out was already a hard enough thing without having to undergo what he was about to do.
``Eurydice, I love you. I love you very much. Will you go out with me?''
Eurydice's face was a mask of dispassion. It was hard to tell if she was considering the statement made or if she was merely waiting for more words from Anton.
A minute of uncomfortable silence passed. Anton looked on at Eurydice desperately, feeling the heat that was slowly spreading from his face to elsewhere, the type of heat more commonly associated with pure embarrassment while Eurydice still looked at him without batting an eyelid. He wasn't sure if she was actually secretly revelling in his discomfort or was struggling to find the right words to reply. It seemed certain to him though that the answer wasn't going to be something that he wanted.
``Love. Love is just a symbol given to a series of biochemical reactions that occur within your body. Unfortunately for you, I do not have the same set of biochemical reactions, and even if I had, I do not tend to symbolise it as Love. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but what you speak of is an impossibility. You think that you love me, but really, I don't love you. You are probably better off associating that symbolic feeling with someone else. I have dated enough to know that your kind don't last long in any relationship involving the likes of me. I wish you good luck, and if there is nothing else, I would like to leave now.''
Anton's jaw dropped in disbelief as Eurydice tarried for a while waiting for him to say something. Noting that nothing else was going to happen, she turned around and left, leaving Anton still standing there in shock and delayed sadness.
``What is it now?'' Eurydice finally said, breaking the silence, an air of annoyance clearly conveyed through the quivering of her lips and her folded arms. ``Do you have something to tell me or are you just going to stand there and stare away at me?''
Anton sighed once more and mustered whatever was left of his courage. Asking Eurydice out was already a hard enough thing without having to undergo what he was about to do.
``Eurydice, I love you. I love you very much. Will you go out with me?''
Eurydice's face was a mask of dispassion. It was hard to tell if she was considering the statement made or if she was merely waiting for more words from Anton.
A minute of uncomfortable silence passed. Anton looked on at Eurydice desperately, feeling the heat that was slowly spreading from his face to elsewhere, the type of heat more commonly associated with pure embarrassment while Eurydice still looked at him without batting an eyelid. He wasn't sure if she was actually secretly revelling in his discomfort or was struggling to find the right words to reply. It seemed certain to him though that the answer wasn't going to be something that he wanted.
``Love. Love is just a symbol given to a series of biochemical reactions that occur within your body. Unfortunately for you, I do not have the same set of biochemical reactions, and even if I had, I do not tend to symbolise it as Love. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but what you speak of is an impossibility. You think that you love me, but really, I don't love you. You are probably better off associating that symbolic feeling with someone else. I have dated enough to know that your kind don't last long in any relationship involving the likes of me. I wish you good luck, and if there is nothing else, I would like to leave now.''
Anton's jaw dropped in disbelief as Eurydice tarried for a while waiting for him to say something. Noting that nothing else was going to happen, she turned around and left, leaving Anton still standing there in shock and delayed sadness.
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
Monday, 11 August 2014
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Saturday, 9 August 2014
Friday, 8 August 2014
Thursday, 7 August 2014
Factory Talk
``Fascinating...'' Vladimir muttered to himself. ``There seems to be a correlation...''
``What correlation are you referring to?'' Anastacia asked curiously as she looked at the supervisor. It was yet another day at the factory where they were building the various parts of the panzer tanks that were needed on the war front, and there had been some issues relating to the quality of the output leading to Vladimir having to come down for his own inspection.
Anastacia was afraid of the supervisor, not because the latter was actually brutal (many of the supervisors were), but there was a flare in his eyes that seemed to suggest that he had some kind of supernatural experience, the kind of thing that was more likely to be observed in an old crone than in a thirty-something balding male. The look of a Baba Yaga, if the rumours were to be believed.
That he made the comment of correlation was not to be dismissed easily either.
``The House of Uranus is now presiding, and our glorious Tsar has decided to order a winter-based attack upon our enemies. It seems that this is not exactly the best time to launch an offensive, which explains why the quality of the tanks are suffering so much despite our best efforts to control the quality of the iron ore that is used to smelt into the sheet iron.''
Anastacia stared at Vladimir, terrified. The exact words that she wasn't looking forward to hearing, and he had said it all. It was discomforting. But the supervisor seemed to be distracted at the realisation to actually notice that she was there.
``Should I continue work then?'' Anastacia asked, desperate to get out of the way of Vladimir.
He seemed to be brought back to reality at that point and looked hard at Anastacia. She cringed from the scrutiny and could feel herself trying her hardest to avert the stare without appearing disrespectful. He was, after all, a supervisor and had various ranks and privileges over her. He could cost her her job at the very least, and perhaps her life at the very worst.
``Tell me, Anastacia,'' Vladimir began, scaring her with his knowledge of her name, ``do you believe in fate?''
``Fate, sir?'' Anastacia replied in a stammering manner. ``Why would you talk about fate?''
``It just seems so apt,'' Vladimir replied distractedly.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-07 16:47:39)
``What correlation are you referring to?'' Anastacia asked curiously as she looked at the supervisor. It was yet another day at the factory where they were building the various parts of the panzer tanks that were needed on the war front, and there had been some issues relating to the quality of the output leading to Vladimir having to come down for his own inspection.
Anastacia was afraid of the supervisor, not because the latter was actually brutal (many of the supervisors were), but there was a flare in his eyes that seemed to suggest that he had some kind of supernatural experience, the kind of thing that was more likely to be observed in an old crone than in a thirty-something balding male. The look of a Baba Yaga, if the rumours were to be believed.
That he made the comment of correlation was not to be dismissed easily either.
``The House of Uranus is now presiding, and our glorious Tsar has decided to order a winter-based attack upon our enemies. It seems that this is not exactly the best time to launch an offensive, which explains why the quality of the tanks are suffering so much despite our best efforts to control the quality of the iron ore that is used to smelt into the sheet iron.''
Anastacia stared at Vladimir, terrified. The exact words that she wasn't looking forward to hearing, and he had said it all. It was discomforting. But the supervisor seemed to be distracted at the realisation to actually notice that she was there.
``Should I continue work then?'' Anastacia asked, desperate to get out of the way of Vladimir.
He seemed to be brought back to reality at that point and looked hard at Anastacia. She cringed from the scrutiny and could feel herself trying her hardest to avert the stare without appearing disrespectful. He was, after all, a supervisor and had various ranks and privileges over her. He could cost her her job at the very least, and perhaps her life at the very worst.
``Tell me, Anastacia,'' Vladimir began, scaring her with his knowledge of her name, ``do you believe in fate?''
``Fate, sir?'' Anastacia replied in a stammering manner. ``Why would you talk about fate?''
``It just seems so apt,'' Vladimir replied distractedly.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-07 16:47:39)
Wednesday, 6 August 2014
Underground
The darkness was comforting to Caleb. It was the only place that he knew, that place where darkness overruled everything. There was nothing illuminating at all, but Caleb managed to make his way around relatively easily, having learnt how to echo-locate as well as having a heightened sense of touch and hearing.
It was a cave. An underground cave.
Caleb wasn't dumped into that place; far from it. If anything, he was born there. Legend has it that the cave was once populated by many people, and that it was well-lit, and that the only reason why everyone was in the cave was that there had been a rather large scale war that caused so much destruction top-side that the only people who survived were those who had been living deep in the ground to begin with.
That was nearly thirty years ago. The last time he remembered seeing anyone.
His parents died when he was ten. He was looked after by the remaining people in the community, the community that knew it was doomed to die because other than his parents, the rest of them were sterile.
No one could remember why.
Thirty years later, the last of the other people who were not Caleb had already been dead for ten years. The lights that kept the place well lit had dimmed over time and were completely out seven years ago. The slow plunging light levels taught Caleb the skills he needed for travel in the deepest dark, and it showed.
Caleb knew that he was the loneliest person. And he didn't need anyone else to prove it.
But he wasn't sad. He was nostalgic at times about the past, but those had eventually become memories where he could only vaguely recall. There was only one thing that he could remember with startling clarity -- he was to find a way out.
Too many years had passed, and no one could remember where the exit of the cave was. No one. They knew that at some point they would have to head out to the surface, since there was no easy way to keep food growing underground forever. They had basic nutrient-laced protein gruels that grew from bacteria that they reared, but they had remembered stories about the surface, where there was the sun overhead, and the large varieties of crops and animals that could be taken as food.
Food that was more palatable and nutritious than the gruel that they were making.
Caleb didn't have those thoughts in mind though. To him, finding a surface was a way to honour the memory of the community of people who had taken care of him while he was still young -- it was a way in which he could fulfill their final wishes, the ones that they all died before they could even catch a glimpse of. He personally had no reason to find the surface, having been used to living alone in the cave for so long.
But memories were all he had, and honour must always be kept, no matter the price.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-06 17:34:43)
It was a cave. An underground cave.
Caleb wasn't dumped into that place; far from it. If anything, he was born there. Legend has it that the cave was once populated by many people, and that it was well-lit, and that the only reason why everyone was in the cave was that there had been a rather large scale war that caused so much destruction top-side that the only people who survived were those who had been living deep in the ground to begin with.
That was nearly thirty years ago. The last time he remembered seeing anyone.
His parents died when he was ten. He was looked after by the remaining people in the community, the community that knew it was doomed to die because other than his parents, the rest of them were sterile.
No one could remember why.
Thirty years later, the last of the other people who were not Caleb had already been dead for ten years. The lights that kept the place well lit had dimmed over time and were completely out seven years ago. The slow plunging light levels taught Caleb the skills he needed for travel in the deepest dark, and it showed.
Caleb knew that he was the loneliest person. And he didn't need anyone else to prove it.
But he wasn't sad. He was nostalgic at times about the past, but those had eventually become memories where he could only vaguely recall. There was only one thing that he could remember with startling clarity -- he was to find a way out.
Too many years had passed, and no one could remember where the exit of the cave was. No one. They knew that at some point they would have to head out to the surface, since there was no easy way to keep food growing underground forever. They had basic nutrient-laced protein gruels that grew from bacteria that they reared, but they had remembered stories about the surface, where there was the sun overhead, and the large varieties of crops and animals that could be taken as food.
Food that was more palatable and nutritious than the gruel that they were making.
Caleb didn't have those thoughts in mind though. To him, finding a surface was a way to honour the memory of the community of people who had taken care of him while he was still young -- it was a way in which he could fulfill their final wishes, the ones that they all died before they could even catch a glimpse of. He personally had no reason to find the surface, having been used to living alone in the cave for so long.
But memories were all he had, and honour must always be kept, no matter the price.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-06 17:34:43)
Tuesday, 5 August 2014
Ass
Lucien pulled on the reins of the donkey as hard as he could, but the ass was actively trying to refuse any attempts at making it move. It brayed incessantly, and Lucien was driven to the verge of going completely and absolutely mad.
``Damn it, why don't you just move along calmly? Isn't that pack of crap heavy? If you just came along quietly and calmly, it would all be over quickly and you can rest in the stable. Now you're just wasting your efforts fighting against me and extending the amount of time that is needed to move the pack,'' Lucien said to the donkey in desperation as an attempt in convincing it to move.
``Your thought process is flawed, human. My kind may be beasts of burden under your form of slavery, but I am beyond that of a simple burdended beast. Your kind have tricked me into a servitude that I have no ease of escape from, and thus I am merely using one of the finest tools of disobedience that your kind knows -- striking.''
``You... what... you can talk?!'' Lucien ejaculated in surprise, standing there with the reins held loosely in his hands. ``I am not hallucinating, am I?''
``I do not know nor do I care about your delusions and hallucinations. Unhand me before I summon the rest of my kind to revolt completely against you heinous beings. Treating us as slaves just because we appear to be less intelligent than you... ha! We will show you how wrong you fellas have been,'' the donkey replied haughtily.
Lucien just stood there and stared at the donkey, amazed that the latter had spoken to him. He remembered distinctively from his reading somewhere that the vocal construction of the donkey's trachea was unable to generate some of the formants that were required for human speech. That and the different construction of the lips and tongue meant that some of the more common consonants in human speech were also hard to obtain.
Which meant that the donkey couldn't possibly speak to him.
The donkey eyed Lucien and brayed aggressively, startling the former into dropping the reins completely and running off. The donkey licked his lips and carefully turned himself around and started walking back to where they had come from.
Lucien was running through the town and screaming about a talking donkey that he had left behind with his packs, but no one paid any attention to him, treating him as just another ass mouthing itself off.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-06 17:22:01)
``Damn it, why don't you just move along calmly? Isn't that pack of crap heavy? If you just came along quietly and calmly, it would all be over quickly and you can rest in the stable. Now you're just wasting your efforts fighting against me and extending the amount of time that is needed to move the pack,'' Lucien said to the donkey in desperation as an attempt in convincing it to move.
``Your thought process is flawed, human. My kind may be beasts of burden under your form of slavery, but I am beyond that of a simple burdended beast. Your kind have tricked me into a servitude that I have no ease of escape from, and thus I am merely using one of the finest tools of disobedience that your kind knows -- striking.''
``You... what... you can talk?!'' Lucien ejaculated in surprise, standing there with the reins held loosely in his hands. ``I am not hallucinating, am I?''
``I do not know nor do I care about your delusions and hallucinations. Unhand me before I summon the rest of my kind to revolt completely against you heinous beings. Treating us as slaves just because we appear to be less intelligent than you... ha! We will show you how wrong you fellas have been,'' the donkey replied haughtily.
Lucien just stood there and stared at the donkey, amazed that the latter had spoken to him. He remembered distinctively from his reading somewhere that the vocal construction of the donkey's trachea was unable to generate some of the formants that were required for human speech. That and the different construction of the lips and tongue meant that some of the more common consonants in human speech were also hard to obtain.
Which meant that the donkey couldn't possibly speak to him.
The donkey eyed Lucien and brayed aggressively, startling the former into dropping the reins completely and running off. The donkey licked his lips and carefully turned himself around and started walking back to where they had come from.
Lucien was running through the town and screaming about a talking donkey that he had left behind with his packs, but no one paid any attention to him, treating him as just another ass mouthing itself off.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-06 17:22:01)
Monday, 4 August 2014
Tie
``No! No! No! That was obviously a sour note, right there! Have you actually looked at the score you are playing at all? Why are you wasting everyone's time?'' The conductor bellowed from his place right in the front of the orchestra.
Elsewhere, everyone else was trying to keep their line of sight away from Susan who was taking the brunt of the entire admonishment. She was a flautist, principal player no less, and was actually the principal player for quite a while now. But the conductor for the orchestra had changed recently, and there were some rather odd mannerisms behind him that she could not get behind properly.
In this case, it was the issue of ties.
It was stupid. She knew that she was playing the ties correctly -- there was no other way of playing the same note that is tied across bars other than just holding the note for the entire duration. Yet each time there was a solo part of the flute Susan found herself stopped rather rudely by the conductor for failing to play the tie correctly.
And she thought it was just a joke, at least in the beginning. How was it possible to misplay a tie and lead to a sour note? The other orchestra members were initially amused at what they thought was a diversion from the conductor, to bring out something as innocuous and impossible-to-get-wrong part of music like a tie; some were even looking forward to the tirade that would come by necessarily.
But it started to get old very fast. Susan was very sure that there was something fundamentally wrong with the conductor for pointing out that there was a sour note with respect to the tie. And today, she just had about enough of the abuse that she was willing to take.
Susan stood up from her position and glared at the conductor for a while.
``With all due respect maestro, how the fuck am I supposed to play that tie other than holding the note?''
The musicians around her were suddenly drawn by the rather vulgar manner in which she had delivered her displeasure. Those who averted their eyes initially soon found reason to turn about and look at the unspoken exchange between Susan and the conductor.
The conductor seemed to be mildly rattled as he swallowed his saliva with a rather audible gulp.
``You ought to... play the tie a little more... evocatively. That part is between two major... major leitmotifs, and there could have... should have... some change in dynamics.''
Susan glared at the conductor hard.
``It's a fucking sixteenth note tied with another sixteenth note on a piece at allegro. You tell me how to effect the damn dynamics change and I will do so.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-06 16:22:09)
Elsewhere, everyone else was trying to keep their line of sight away from Susan who was taking the brunt of the entire admonishment. She was a flautist, principal player no less, and was actually the principal player for quite a while now. But the conductor for the orchestra had changed recently, and there were some rather odd mannerisms behind him that she could not get behind properly.
In this case, it was the issue of ties.
It was stupid. She knew that she was playing the ties correctly -- there was no other way of playing the same note that is tied across bars other than just holding the note for the entire duration. Yet each time there was a solo part of the flute Susan found herself stopped rather rudely by the conductor for failing to play the tie correctly.
And she thought it was just a joke, at least in the beginning. How was it possible to misplay a tie and lead to a sour note? The other orchestra members were initially amused at what they thought was a diversion from the conductor, to bring out something as innocuous and impossible-to-get-wrong part of music like a tie; some were even looking forward to the tirade that would come by necessarily.
But it started to get old very fast. Susan was very sure that there was something fundamentally wrong with the conductor for pointing out that there was a sour note with respect to the tie. And today, she just had about enough of the abuse that she was willing to take.
Susan stood up from her position and glared at the conductor for a while.
``With all due respect maestro, how the fuck am I supposed to play that tie other than holding the note?''
The musicians around her were suddenly drawn by the rather vulgar manner in which she had delivered her displeasure. Those who averted their eyes initially soon found reason to turn about and look at the unspoken exchange between Susan and the conductor.
The conductor seemed to be mildly rattled as he swallowed his saliva with a rather audible gulp.
``You ought to... play the tie a little more... evocatively. That part is between two major... major leitmotifs, and there could have... should have... some change in dynamics.''
Susan glared at the conductor hard.
``It's a fucking sixteenth note tied with another sixteenth note on a piece at allegro. You tell me how to effect the damn dynamics change and I will do so.''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-08-06 16:22:09)
Sunday, 3 August 2014
Elizabeth: Part XXV
(Story begins here.)
Ordinarily though Anton would not take the socially obligated manner of calling a mere woman a ``lady'', but having lived in this county for a while now, he had realised that many of the women that he had the pleasure of conversing with or interacting with had little doubt about their pedigree, that they were ladies in the truest sense of the word. It was not about the hint of nobility in them---blue-bloodedness was not something that the social construct of the county cared much for---but more of the way in which they carry themselves that set them apart from the mere difference in gender. They were, as some might call it, dainty yet strong, docile yet not servile, sweet yet not saccharine.
In short, they were true ladies by manner of their carriage.
The horse and carriage made its way along the main road and turned in to the gravel road that led to the patio of the manor in which Anton and the housekeeper were standing in anticipation. The driver masterfully commanded the beast to slow from its trot to a walk as he steered along the curving gravel road. The carriage followed along smoothly and as it slowed down under the patio to a standstill, Anton could finally make out the features of his dining guests.
Lady Crawford was the first person who seemed to catch the eye of Anton; she was, after all, the lady whom he had caught a glance of while the horse and carriage were still making its way towards the manor. She wore a pastel dress that glowed a light chrome colour under the flickering lights of the gas lamps, with gloves and hat on. Anton could not quite see her face just yet due to all the shadows of her wide-brimmed hat. Mr Crawford was a man of stern consternation, though his eyes held a spark that seemed to betray his wild nature despite being in the shadows themselves. He was dressed in a regular dinner jacket and matching hat and pants.
The driver nodded at the housekeeper who tapped Anton lightly on the arm.
Ordinarily though Anton would not take the socially obligated manner of calling a mere woman a ``lady'', but having lived in this county for a while now, he had realised that many of the women that he had the pleasure of conversing with or interacting with had little doubt about their pedigree, that they were ladies in the truest sense of the word. It was not about the hint of nobility in them---blue-bloodedness was not something that the social construct of the county cared much for---but more of the way in which they carry themselves that set them apart from the mere difference in gender. They were, as some might call it, dainty yet strong, docile yet not servile, sweet yet not saccharine.
In short, they were true ladies by manner of their carriage.
The horse and carriage made its way along the main road and turned in to the gravel road that led to the patio of the manor in which Anton and the housekeeper were standing in anticipation. The driver masterfully commanded the beast to slow from its trot to a walk as he steered along the curving gravel road. The carriage followed along smoothly and as it slowed down under the patio to a standstill, Anton could finally make out the features of his dining guests.
Lady Crawford was the first person who seemed to catch the eye of Anton; she was, after all, the lady whom he had caught a glance of while the horse and carriage were still making its way towards the manor. She wore a pastel dress that glowed a light chrome colour under the flickering lights of the gas lamps, with gloves and hat on. Anton could not quite see her face just yet due to all the shadows of her wide-brimmed hat. Mr Crawford was a man of stern consternation, though his eyes held a spark that seemed to betray his wild nature despite being in the shadows themselves. He was dressed in a regular dinner jacket and matching hat and pants.
The driver nodded at the housekeeper who tapped Anton lightly on the arm.
Saturday, 2 August 2014
Elizabeth: Part XXIV
(Story begins here.)
The Master and housekeeper arrived at the base of the grand stairs without much fan-fare and the two of them made their way to the main door that just a couple of hours ago Anton had first gone out for his solitary walk. Mr Higgins opened up the door and motioned for Anton to step right through, with which the latter did quickly and without much fuss, his dinner jacket rustling a little from his movements. The housekeeper quickly followed through and gently shut the door behind him.
The sun was quite advanced in its setting for the day, with its long red rays of remnant light casting finger-like shadows from the trees and tall structures within its path. The gas lamps along the main road outside of the manor had already been lit, no doubt by the county's official gas lamp lighter (there was such a post in the municipal office, much to Anton's amusement). From a distance, Anton could hear the regular clopping sound of a horse that was trotting along while pulling a light carriage that was still in common use in the county, a mode of transport that had been rendered obsolete in all parts of the country save this one. The reason of existence was due to the low amounts of damage such transport had on the rural-roads that were still in use in the county itself, something that a more modern-day motor vehicle would have trouble emulating.
The clopping sound grew louder and within a couple more minutes Anton could make out the shadow of the horse and carriage that was just within sight of the main road. The driver was seated between two lamps that hung on either front side of the carriage which acted like head lamps, with a riding crop held in one hand while the other held the reins. It was a light carriage---more like a buggy really---with an open top that could be hooded up should rain occur. Anton could just make out the shape of two occupants seated in the light carriage itself.
And one of them seemed to be that of a lady.
(Story continues here.)
The Master and housekeeper arrived at the base of the grand stairs without much fan-fare and the two of them made their way to the main door that just a couple of hours ago Anton had first gone out for his solitary walk. Mr Higgins opened up the door and motioned for Anton to step right through, with which the latter did quickly and without much fuss, his dinner jacket rustling a little from his movements. The housekeeper quickly followed through and gently shut the door behind him.
The sun was quite advanced in its setting for the day, with its long red rays of remnant light casting finger-like shadows from the trees and tall structures within its path. The gas lamps along the main road outside of the manor had already been lit, no doubt by the county's official gas lamp lighter (there was such a post in the municipal office, much to Anton's amusement). From a distance, Anton could hear the regular clopping sound of a horse that was trotting along while pulling a light carriage that was still in common use in the county, a mode of transport that had been rendered obsolete in all parts of the country save this one. The reason of existence was due to the low amounts of damage such transport had on the rural-roads that were still in use in the county itself, something that a more modern-day motor vehicle would have trouble emulating.
The clopping sound grew louder and within a couple more minutes Anton could make out the shadow of the horse and carriage that was just within sight of the main road. The driver was seated between two lamps that hung on either front side of the carriage which acted like head lamps, with a riding crop held in one hand while the other held the reins. It was a light carriage---more like a buggy really---with an open top that could be hooded up should rain occur. Anton could just make out the shape of two occupants seated in the light carriage itself.
And one of them seemed to be that of a lady.
(Story continues here.)
Friday, 1 August 2014
Elizabeth: Part XXIII
(Story begins here.)
Six o'clock came as quickly as could be, but Anton was completely unaware of it till the housekeeper politely knocked on the door of the study when the latter went up to collect the former. Anton was startled out of his concentration of the piece of work by Tolstoy that he was reading by the knocking before realising where he was and giving a verbal consent to the housekeeper's entry.
``Master Anton, it is five minutes to six, and I have received word that the Crawfords are on their way to the manor. Will you be ready to come with me to the main door to welcome them to the manor itself as the master of the manor?''
Anton looked at the housekeeper quizzically as he reached for a bookmark to mark the page of the book that he was reading before closing it and setting it in the middle of the table in the study. Standing up and adjusting his attire a little, Anton gave a nod to the housekeeper who returned with a bow before turning around and walking out of the study, leading the way back to the main hall towards the main door as Anton followed behind.
The short walk from the study out to the atrium showed yet another view of the atrium where the grand stairs were. Instead of the muted colours that were only highlighted by the moon light through whatever windows in its path, the chandeliers and gas lamps around the atrium were lit to their fullest, no doubt by the housekeeper. Under the warm orange glow of all the flame lamps, the atrium exuded an elegant and cosy feel beyond that of luxury---there was a strong sense of familiarity about it as well, the kind of familiarity that was more akin to a home than a mere house. Anton was mildly amazed at the sight that was before him---the atrium in the way it was lit always amazed him, despite him having seen similar scenes before during the other dinner appointments that he had to keep up with in the manor. This time, however, he could sense an extra emotion that he had not felt before, something that was strongly in contrast with the woeful scene just the night before when he first laid eyes on Elizabeth.
(Story continues here.)
Six o'clock came as quickly as could be, but Anton was completely unaware of it till the housekeeper politely knocked on the door of the study when the latter went up to collect the former. Anton was startled out of his concentration of the piece of work by Tolstoy that he was reading by the knocking before realising where he was and giving a verbal consent to the housekeeper's entry.
``Master Anton, it is five minutes to six, and I have received word that the Crawfords are on their way to the manor. Will you be ready to come with me to the main door to welcome them to the manor itself as the master of the manor?''
Anton looked at the housekeeper quizzically as he reached for a bookmark to mark the page of the book that he was reading before closing it and setting it in the middle of the table in the study. Standing up and adjusting his attire a little, Anton gave a nod to the housekeeper who returned with a bow before turning around and walking out of the study, leading the way back to the main hall towards the main door as Anton followed behind.
The short walk from the study out to the atrium showed yet another view of the atrium where the grand stairs were. Instead of the muted colours that were only highlighted by the moon light through whatever windows in its path, the chandeliers and gas lamps around the atrium were lit to their fullest, no doubt by the housekeeper. Under the warm orange glow of all the flame lamps, the atrium exuded an elegant and cosy feel beyond that of luxury---there was a strong sense of familiarity about it as well, the kind of familiarity that was more akin to a home than a mere house. Anton was mildly amazed at the sight that was before him---the atrium in the way it was lit always amazed him, despite him having seen similar scenes before during the other dinner appointments that he had to keep up with in the manor. This time, however, he could sense an extra emotion that he had not felt before, something that was strongly in contrast with the woeful scene just the night before when he first laid eyes on Elizabeth.
(Story continues here.)
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