``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)
Showing posts with label WriteThis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WriteThis. Show all posts
Thursday, 7 August 2014
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)
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
Assault in Darkness
Ken craned his ears and listened, his eyes useless no thanks to the light sink that was taking away all forms of visible radiation. The space station was deathly quiet, and it was extremely unnerving.
There was no good reason why this was the case, but things were the way they were. Ken didn't have much of a choice. He was taking a nap in his room when he was radioed to check on the section of the space station that had gone completely silent.
And there he was right now. Trying to figure out just what was going on. In the darkness.
Of course he had a torchlight. But the problem was it would make him the single most enticing target for anything that could see, without him being able to discover where they are from. His immediate goal was to make his way to the tactical operations room of that section to get hold of an infra-red visor. At least that would mitigate the darkness a little.
A loud clattering noise came to him from behind. Instinctively, he turned and aimed his pistol in the direction he thought and waited.
Nothing. Nothing stirred. Nothing moved. Nothing at all.
Ken started to break out into a sweat. He touched the surface of his watch and glanced at the dim backlit display -- the tactical operations room was about ten metres straight ahead.
Keeping as low a profile as he could, Ken reoriented himself and made his way cautiously towards the tactical operations room. The fact that there was no one else in that sector even though it was one of the more highly populated ones normally was jarring---it made absolutely no sense. The sooner he could get hold of the infrared visor, the better he would feel about it.
A quiet rustle from his rear kept him on his toes, but he pressed on. He gained no tactical advantage in engaging whatever it was before he could see anyway, fighting against every instinct to turn around and fire wildly in the direction he thought that the sound came from.
A loud growl and a sudden rush of wind promptly made Ken regret his decision as he felt a sharp pain through his abdomen. He fired his pistol wildly in front of him, and in between the flashes, he saw the unhuman visage of his assailant, howling as bullet after bullet found their mark but somehow did not manage to slow it down a bit.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-07-09 14:46:00)
There was no good reason why this was the case, but things were the way they were. Ken didn't have much of a choice. He was taking a nap in his room when he was radioed to check on the section of the space station that had gone completely silent.
And there he was right now. Trying to figure out just what was going on. In the darkness.
Of course he had a torchlight. But the problem was it would make him the single most enticing target for anything that could see, without him being able to discover where they are from. His immediate goal was to make his way to the tactical operations room of that section to get hold of an infra-red visor. At least that would mitigate the darkness a little.
A loud clattering noise came to him from behind. Instinctively, he turned and aimed his pistol in the direction he thought and waited.
Nothing. Nothing stirred. Nothing moved. Nothing at all.
Ken started to break out into a sweat. He touched the surface of his watch and glanced at the dim backlit display -- the tactical operations room was about ten metres straight ahead.
Keeping as low a profile as he could, Ken reoriented himself and made his way cautiously towards the tactical operations room. The fact that there was no one else in that sector even though it was one of the more highly populated ones normally was jarring---it made absolutely no sense. The sooner he could get hold of the infrared visor, the better he would feel about it.
A quiet rustle from his rear kept him on his toes, but he pressed on. He gained no tactical advantage in engaging whatever it was before he could see anyway, fighting against every instinct to turn around and fire wildly in the direction he thought that the sound came from.
A loud growl and a sudden rush of wind promptly made Ken regret his decision as he felt a sharp pain through his abdomen. He fired his pistol wildly in front of him, and in between the flashes, he saw the unhuman visage of his assailant, howling as bullet after bullet found their mark but somehow did not manage to slow it down a bit.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-07-09 14:46:00)
Thursday, 3 July 2014
Rememberance
It was a day of remembrance. Not quite the independence day, but something close enough to it.
It was the day where the flag was re-planted on the land that had seen itself lost to a horder of invaders. It was the day the guerilla rebels managed to liberate their country from the legalist take over of the country that they were born and bred in, unlike their now former masters.
Chin-swee understood the bittersweet moment well. He was a young child then, nearly ten, but even he knew the stakes of the expensive game that his father and grandfather had to play to liberate themselves.
The oppression came subtly. First there was a quiet increase in the number of foreign workers. Then there was a slow increase in the number of permanent residents. Suddenly there was the displacement of the national flag, replaced with flags of other nations, with the land itself carved up in a manner not unlike the ending days of the Qing dynasty from the old China. Parliament was overturned, and a ruling council of the riches among the foreign born took over the running of the country, under the guise of being ``legal permanent residents'' that were therefore entitled to parliamentary privileges.
The citizenry were outraged. There was little they could do. Almost all forms of resistance were nullified during the build up years by the parliament itself. Those who dared to speak up were rounded up and tossed into jails, Stasi-style. The indignant few left learnt to keep their mouths shut and to scheme in the shadows, to plot the final solution in reclaiming their country for themselves and their progeny.
If justice was outlawed, then only outlaws would have justice.
Chin-swee's father and grandfather started the silent guerilla force, leveraging on the military knowledge that the participating men learnt during their days as a part of the conscript army to plan daring and bloody interventions. The foreign scumbags were quietly assassinated, propaganda distributed among citizenry, and key foreign-owned infrastructure were skillfully sabotaged to generate an air of distrust among their oppressors.
Then, in a single well-coordinated move, the highest level leaders were deposed through agents and the citizenry openly rebelled, ending the foreign rule once and for all, thus restoring their original flag.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-07-04 20:52:06)
It was the day where the flag was re-planted on the land that had seen itself lost to a horder of invaders. It was the day the guerilla rebels managed to liberate their country from the legalist take over of the country that they were born and bred in, unlike their now former masters.
Chin-swee understood the bittersweet moment well. He was a young child then, nearly ten, but even he knew the stakes of the expensive game that his father and grandfather had to play to liberate themselves.
The oppression came subtly. First there was a quiet increase in the number of foreign workers. Then there was a slow increase in the number of permanent residents. Suddenly there was the displacement of the national flag, replaced with flags of other nations, with the land itself carved up in a manner not unlike the ending days of the Qing dynasty from the old China. Parliament was overturned, and a ruling council of the riches among the foreign born took over the running of the country, under the guise of being ``legal permanent residents'' that were therefore entitled to parliamentary privileges.
The citizenry were outraged. There was little they could do. Almost all forms of resistance were nullified during the build up years by the parliament itself. Those who dared to speak up were rounded up and tossed into jails, Stasi-style. The indignant few left learnt to keep their mouths shut and to scheme in the shadows, to plot the final solution in reclaiming their country for themselves and their progeny.
If justice was outlawed, then only outlaws would have justice.
Chin-swee's father and grandfather started the silent guerilla force, leveraging on the military knowledge that the participating men learnt during their days as a part of the conscript army to plan daring and bloody interventions. The foreign scumbags were quietly assassinated, propaganda distributed among citizenry, and key foreign-owned infrastructure were skillfully sabotaged to generate an air of distrust among their oppressors.
Then, in a single well-coordinated move, the highest level leaders were deposed through agents and the citizenry openly rebelled, ending the foreign rule once and for all, thus restoring their original flag.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-07-04 20:52:06)
Monday, 30 June 2014
Opening Lament
``No, no, no, and for the last time, NO!'' Lance bellowed at Randal, who looked at him with pleading eyes.
``But it means so much to me to play the lead for this opening piece!''
``You haven't reached the necessary level. And this piece is a real killer, if you haven't realised yet. That's why we are letting Jim handle it. You'll get the next time if you improve more. And that's final; stop annoying me!'' Lance said with an air of finality before walking away in a huff.
Randal stood there alone in the corridor, his head lowered. There was a much deeper reason behind his want of playing the lead for the opening piece---Aileen was going to be a part of the audience. The two of them had been corresponding on and off for the past couple of years, and she finally had the opportunity to come to New York to pay him a visit and listen to his performance at the philharmonic, and he desperately wanted to impress her.
Now there was little chance. The next concert that they were putting up after this one was nearly two months later, and by then, she would have returned to Chicago, an opportunity lost just like that.
But Lance had a point. Even though Randal was still part of the first flutes, he was still technically the newbie of the group. He was talented---one had to have talent to play in the philharmonic---but among equals, there was always the one who was first, and that was the principal player. There was nothing wrong with the way that Lance had arranged for things to happen; if anything, it was Randal's own enthusiasm to impress that made him temporarily blind to such an obvious fact.
Randal shrugged and fought back the tears in his eyes as he made his way to the sectional and pick up where he left off before looking for Lance.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-30 20:56:42)
``But it means so much to me to play the lead for this opening piece!''
``You haven't reached the necessary level. And this piece is a real killer, if you haven't realised yet. That's why we are letting Jim handle it. You'll get the next time if you improve more. And that's final; stop annoying me!'' Lance said with an air of finality before walking away in a huff.
Randal stood there alone in the corridor, his head lowered. There was a much deeper reason behind his want of playing the lead for the opening piece---Aileen was going to be a part of the audience. The two of them had been corresponding on and off for the past couple of years, and she finally had the opportunity to come to New York to pay him a visit and listen to his performance at the philharmonic, and he desperately wanted to impress her.
Now there was little chance. The next concert that they were putting up after this one was nearly two months later, and by then, she would have returned to Chicago, an opportunity lost just like that.
But Lance had a point. Even though Randal was still part of the first flutes, he was still technically the newbie of the group. He was talented---one had to have talent to play in the philharmonic---but among equals, there was always the one who was first, and that was the principal player. There was nothing wrong with the way that Lance had arranged for things to happen; if anything, it was Randal's own enthusiasm to impress that made him temporarily blind to such an obvious fact.
Randal shrugged and fought back the tears in his eyes as he made his way to the sectional and pick up where he left off before looking for Lance.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-30 20:56:42)
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Home Design
Eurydice starred at the catalogue that Edwin had passed to her for her perusal and she looked at it in pure amazement and confusion. There were just too many possibilities, and as she looked at each item, her initial concept for their new home started to fall apart.
``Hey sweetie, focus, will you? You're having that glazed look on your face again,'' Edwin said gently.
``But I can't help myself Edwin. I didn't realise that during the general sale, things were just THAT cheap. That made the possibilities much more for us! And I'm starting to wonder if my original design was too conservative.''
Edwin sighed. He loved Eurydice to bits, but he knew that at times she could be rather insecure, especially with regards to interior design, the new direction that she was trying to go to from her original specialisation of industrial design that she had a diploma in. To her, it felt similar yet each had idioms that were hard to conform to, but to Edwin they were the same and he felt that she never gave herself enough credit for the talent that she had. It didn't seem like much to her, of course, but Edwin knew better. He had actually helped her put together her portfolio and had a couple of friends who were in the industry vet her work, and they came to the conclusion that she was actually talented instead of whatever she thought she was. But he could never convince her on his own. He couldn't tell her that some of the industry heavy weights had already seen her work before either.
But this was for none of those. This was for their first home together. Home, not house, not apartment. A home. It was something more... intimate. Their home.
``Sweetie, let's just stick with your original design? No sense getting flustered like this, right? We had already agreed to your design, and we should just go for it. Instead of paying full price, we get a bigger discount, and we can use the amount saved for other things that the apartment needs that we didn't have the budget for before, yes?''
``I suppose you're right,'' Eurydice said as she sighed in resignation. All the possibilities slowly faded away into the background, leaving behind only the original concept that she had to begin with. She marked out the pieces of furniture in the catalogue and the two of them spent the next hour traipsing all over the place identifying the items and collecting them for payment and final delivery to their new apartment.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-29 22:41:21)
``Hey sweetie, focus, will you? You're having that glazed look on your face again,'' Edwin said gently.
``But I can't help myself Edwin. I didn't realise that during the general sale, things were just THAT cheap. That made the possibilities much more for us! And I'm starting to wonder if my original design was too conservative.''
Edwin sighed. He loved Eurydice to bits, but he knew that at times she could be rather insecure, especially with regards to interior design, the new direction that she was trying to go to from her original specialisation of industrial design that she had a diploma in. To her, it felt similar yet each had idioms that were hard to conform to, but to Edwin they were the same and he felt that she never gave herself enough credit for the talent that she had. It didn't seem like much to her, of course, but Edwin knew better. He had actually helped her put together her portfolio and had a couple of friends who were in the industry vet her work, and they came to the conclusion that she was actually talented instead of whatever she thought she was. But he could never convince her on his own. He couldn't tell her that some of the industry heavy weights had already seen her work before either.
But this was for none of those. This was for their first home together. Home, not house, not apartment. A home. It was something more... intimate. Their home.
``Sweetie, let's just stick with your original design? No sense getting flustered like this, right? We had already agreed to your design, and we should just go for it. Instead of paying full price, we get a bigger discount, and we can use the amount saved for other things that the apartment needs that we didn't have the budget for before, yes?''
``I suppose you're right,'' Eurydice said as she sighed in resignation. All the possibilities slowly faded away into the background, leaving behind only the original concept that she had to begin with. She marked out the pieces of furniture in the catalogue and the two of them spent the next hour traipsing all over the place identifying the items and collecting them for payment and final delivery to their new apartment.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-29 22:41:21)
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
Failed Observation
Lucius looked about him, his eyes darting left and right rapidly. There was no real danger to him for all it's worth, but it was just something that he had developed a long time ago while he was still with 987. It was impossible to walk along the streets then without actually paying that much attention---987 was at a war with the Red Knives, and there had been many brothers from both sides who had died from varios confrontations. As one of the sergeants, he was a prime target for the men-at-arms for the Red Knives, and so he did his best to stay out of the way.
But that was the past. A truce had been negotiated by the two Bosses, with the territories partitioned carefully and boundaries defined clearly. Word had been passed down to the very lowest footmen of the two organisations, but Lucius knew better. The Bosses may say one thing and demand that their underlings follow, but it was rare that everyone would actually be that obedient; there was a reason they were all in the whole shadow organisation structure in the first place. Already there had been talk from Lucius' men that some of the Red Knives have been spotted to be loitering on 987's territory. Respecting the truce, the 987 members did not do anything except keep watch on the interlopers, while the Red Knives seemed to be content at rattling their sabres, albeit cautiously.
Lucius had thought of reporting it up to his lieutenant, but thought better of it. It was only three people who were in the way, and they were not doing anything particularly aggressive other than merely trespassing. Reporting up was likely to cause his lieutenant to initialise some kind of action to capture the interlopers---his lieutenant was a particularly vicious and ambitious man, and Lucius feared for his immediate superior's recklessness. There had been stories of his lieutenant's exploits that were whispered among the rank and file of 987, and it was also rumoured that the reason why he was still there was that there was a very strong connection between him and the Boss, and that the latter had bailed him out on occasion before from the more serious consequences.
One thing was sure though, his lieutenant managed to get results, something that even the Boss greatly admired.
Lucius looked both ways of the road before crossing it. His well-honed observation skills failed him when he most needed it when the three reported interlopers suddenly dragged him into a nearby alley and stabbed him repeatedly with knives.
``Red Knives, motherfucker!''---that was the last that Lucius heard before passing out.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-26 17:41:45)
But that was the past. A truce had been negotiated by the two Bosses, with the territories partitioned carefully and boundaries defined clearly. Word had been passed down to the very lowest footmen of the two organisations, but Lucius knew better. The Bosses may say one thing and demand that their underlings follow, but it was rare that everyone would actually be that obedient; there was a reason they were all in the whole shadow organisation structure in the first place. Already there had been talk from Lucius' men that some of the Red Knives have been spotted to be loitering on 987's territory. Respecting the truce, the 987 members did not do anything except keep watch on the interlopers, while the Red Knives seemed to be content at rattling their sabres, albeit cautiously.
Lucius had thought of reporting it up to his lieutenant, but thought better of it. It was only three people who were in the way, and they were not doing anything particularly aggressive other than merely trespassing. Reporting up was likely to cause his lieutenant to initialise some kind of action to capture the interlopers---his lieutenant was a particularly vicious and ambitious man, and Lucius feared for his immediate superior's recklessness. There had been stories of his lieutenant's exploits that were whispered among the rank and file of 987, and it was also rumoured that the reason why he was still there was that there was a very strong connection between him and the Boss, and that the latter had bailed him out on occasion before from the more serious consequences.
One thing was sure though, his lieutenant managed to get results, something that even the Boss greatly admired.
Lucius looked both ways of the road before crossing it. His well-honed observation skills failed him when he most needed it when the three reported interlopers suddenly dragged him into a nearby alley and stabbed him repeatedly with knives.
``Red Knives, motherfucker!''---that was the last that Lucius heard before passing out.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-26 17:41:45)
Wednesday, 18 June 2014
Wielder of Words
Lucille sat at her computer, typing away furiously. It was nearing eleven at night, but she was still in the office, working away at the article. There was no way to walk away---how could she walk away from something as important as the scoop she had about how the government was literally cheating its citizens of its hard-earned pay through the myriad of tax schemes that, on the surface, appear to be favouring the poor with the low rates but in reality was more taxing on them in the long run?
It wasn't the first time she was involved in something like that. In the business, Lucille was known to be a rather efficient wielder of words, a no-nonsense journalist who went all out to get at the most hardened facts and to bring it out to the general public in a manner that was as accessible as it was sensational. It wasn't flowery prose either. Pithy text that was readable by the Average Joe---that had been her motto for the past decade as an investigative journalist.
But she had made some enemies along the way, most of them not willing to take her head on for fear of the charge of infringing upon her journalistic integrity---all her points had hard evidence backing them, and a few of those who tried had soon discovered just what kind of a rabbit hole they had found themselves in. This story was going to be no different.
Lucille wiped the sweat of her brow. She had been processing her facts the whole day, and had been typing for the past hour. At that time of the night, the office miraculously doesn't have its air-conditioning on, which made it all the more ridiculous considering that many of the journalists were still in the office at that time working on the stories that were due in a day's time to be included in the weekly periodical. She cursed softly under her breath at the heat, but soldiered on doggedly.
She knew that if she didn't write that article, no one else would. Those who honed the art of wielding words the way she did were fast thinning out due to the insane amounts of effort needed to get to the point and avoid the obstacles that often surround them. Many had either retired or switch jobs once they had been burnt, but she kept on.
She was the best there was at what she did.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-19 21:04:18)
It wasn't the first time she was involved in something like that. In the business, Lucille was known to be a rather efficient wielder of words, a no-nonsense journalist who went all out to get at the most hardened facts and to bring it out to the general public in a manner that was as accessible as it was sensational. It wasn't flowery prose either. Pithy text that was readable by the Average Joe---that had been her motto for the past decade as an investigative journalist.
But she had made some enemies along the way, most of them not willing to take her head on for fear of the charge of infringing upon her journalistic integrity---all her points had hard evidence backing them, and a few of those who tried had soon discovered just what kind of a rabbit hole they had found themselves in. This story was going to be no different.
Lucille wiped the sweat of her brow. She had been processing her facts the whole day, and had been typing for the past hour. At that time of the night, the office miraculously doesn't have its air-conditioning on, which made it all the more ridiculous considering that many of the journalists were still in the office at that time working on the stories that were due in a day's time to be included in the weekly periodical. She cursed softly under her breath at the heat, but soldiered on doggedly.
She knew that if she didn't write that article, no one else would. Those who honed the art of wielding words the way she did were fast thinning out due to the insane amounts of effort needed to get to the point and avoid the obstacles that often surround them. Many had either retired or switch jobs once they had been burnt, but she kept on.
She was the best there was at what she did.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-19 21:04:18)
Saturday, 14 June 2014
A Set-up?
Elle looked about her, trying to find the lock box that contained the controls to the security system that was designed around ``The Lotus''. Her contractor had given her a bump key and she was told in the briefing that the oil painting was going to be heavily guarded not with physical human guards, but with electronic ones. She had said that it wouldn't be a problem and that she would be able to bypass it, but was quickly rebuffed by the contractor that it was sheer stupidity to think so, given the significance that ``The Lotus'' has.
Elle was told that the box that the bump key opened was the main panel of the security system, and that it was possible to deactivate all the relevant systems guarding ``The Lotus'' that way. The only missing piece of information was just where this box is located in the entire museum.
Elle had started with a straightforward strategy: start from where the painting was located and do a search in increasing radii. It hadn't been going well at all, considering that she had already spent the last half an hour looking for the box. She was glad that the cameras had already been disabled a week earlier, each replaced with a looped version of the ``all clear'' corridors and what-not. Thankfully, it was some other guy who specialised in surveillance systems.
Elle wondered to herself about the reasons why their elite ``hacker'' could disable camera sub-systems to replace footage and yet couldn't find where the system override box was?
Just as she was about to give up for the day, she espied a small power box that she hadn't noticed before, located inconspicuously next to a power supply socket. She walked up to it and started to wonder if it was such a good idea to follow her orders to the letter. The entire set of arrangement sounded like a good way to assign blame on to someone, and to pin that blame so hard that there was nothing he/she could do.
The old question reared itself again, and Elle crouched next to the power box, wondering which course of action was the best.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-14 01:15:35)
Elle was told that the box that the bump key opened was the main panel of the security system, and that it was possible to deactivate all the relevant systems guarding ``The Lotus'' that way. The only missing piece of information was just where this box is located in the entire museum.
Elle had started with a straightforward strategy: start from where the painting was located and do a search in increasing radii. It hadn't been going well at all, considering that she had already spent the last half an hour looking for the box. She was glad that the cameras had already been disabled a week earlier, each replaced with a looped version of the ``all clear'' corridors and what-not. Thankfully, it was some other guy who specialised in surveillance systems.
Elle wondered to herself about the reasons why their elite ``hacker'' could disable camera sub-systems to replace footage and yet couldn't find where the system override box was?
Just as she was about to give up for the day, she espied a small power box that she hadn't noticed before, located inconspicuously next to a power supply socket. She walked up to it and started to wonder if it was such a good idea to follow her orders to the letter. The entire set of arrangement sounded like a good way to assign blame on to someone, and to pin that blame so hard that there was nothing he/she could do.
The old question reared itself again, and Elle crouched next to the power box, wondering which course of action was the best.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-14 01:15:35)
Friday, 13 June 2014
The Lotus
``The Lotus''. Elle looked at the oil painting in awe. It was the last known work of Xu Jiangxi, the reclusive painter whose known works were highly sought after by the Chinese central government due to the strong portrayal of loyalty and patriotism despite the use of nothing more than simple imagery brought to life by the vividness of the oil medium. But Elle cared nothing of that sort---the awesome she felt had nothing to do with the intangible qualities that the central government had claimed. It was more to do with the way Jiangxi juxtaposed the colours, the brush strokes and even the amount of paint layered atop each other that gave it a sense of realism beyond the mere view of just a pretty picture.
``The Lotus'' wasn't a large piece; almost none of Jiangxi's pieces were large, despite them using oil as the main patining medium. It was a very specialised skill, to make use of regular and tiny brush sizes with oil paints to provide the same sort of quality that larger oil paintings had. But the size of the painting mattered to Elle for only one reason---it made it easy for her to conceal the painting. She was currently in the Carnegie Art Museum, staring at ``The Lotus'' from her point on the ground outside of the regular opening hours of the museum. The Chinese central government had been adamant in getting the painting back, and have exhausted all diplomatic means, but to no avail.
That was when a Chinese agent contacted Elle and offering her the job of bringing ``The Lotus'' back to China.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-13 23:59:52)
``The Lotus'' wasn't a large piece; almost none of Jiangxi's pieces were large, despite them using oil as the main patining medium. It was a very specialised skill, to make use of regular and tiny brush sizes with oil paints to provide the same sort of quality that larger oil paintings had. But the size of the painting mattered to Elle for only one reason---it made it easy for her to conceal the painting. She was currently in the Carnegie Art Museum, staring at ``The Lotus'' from her point on the ground outside of the regular opening hours of the museum. The Chinese central government had been adamant in getting the painting back, and have exhausted all diplomatic means, but to no avail.
That was when a Chinese agent contacted Elle and offering her the job of bringing ``The Lotus'' back to China.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-06-13 23:59:52)
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Red Taped
``And that, was just stupid,'' Julian grumbled as he pushed the trolley full of equipment into the goods elevator. Next to him, Cindy was trotting along, nodding quietly in agreement with him. It was a rather silly occurrence that defied normal understanding. They had both headed out into the industrial zone earlier with the trolley full of sensors and interface cards, fully intending to set it all up according to the plan that their department head had passed to them nearly a week ago. But when they got there and as they were setting up the equipment, various heavy trucks drove past them, covering them with fine dust that were kicked up by the large heavily treaded wheels. And to add insult to injury, the duty manager had charged at them with two armed security personnel who claimed that they didn't have any clearance to be there, despite having all the paperwork done.
There was nothing else to be done except to return. Fighting with armed anything was just a losing proposition; might as well wait for the bureaucracy to come and and ``save the day'' instead.
And because of that dust-up, the two of them were literally covered with dirt from top to toe.
``At least there are now showering facilities,'' Cindy said as she held the elevator door open for Julian to push the trolley in slowly.
``Yeah, but what's the damn point?'' Julian replied, annoyed still. ``It was still a wasted morning. Not to mention that there is only one bloody unisex shower room on our floor.'' Julian grimaced as the elevator doors closed. ``Tell you what, you go shower first while I stow away the equipment in the lab. When you're done, go talk to the department head about what happened.''
``Me?''
``Yeah, you,'' Julian said, his annoyance getting plainer by the moment. ``I'm too damn irate to not make an ass of myself. Besides, we all know that you're his favourite team member.''
Cindy was silent. The conversation had started to turn awkward. The two of them looked at the glowing lights above, watching the display increase from one integer to the next. At the seventeenth floor, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Cindy stepped out quickly and held the door open for Julian, who pulled the trolley out gingerly, trying his hardest to not cause the small pile of equipment to fall all over. When he was successfully out of the elevator, he turned around and looked at Cindy.
``You go on first. I've got it all handled here.''
``Okay,'' Cindy replied as she made her way to the shower room that was behind the elevator shafts, near where the service lobby was located.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 05-Jun-2014 23:22:36)
There was nothing else to be done except to return. Fighting with armed anything was just a losing proposition; might as well wait for the bureaucracy to come and and ``save the day'' instead.
And because of that dust-up, the two of them were literally covered with dirt from top to toe.
``At least there are now showering facilities,'' Cindy said as she held the elevator door open for Julian to push the trolley in slowly.
``Yeah, but what's the damn point?'' Julian replied, annoyed still. ``It was still a wasted morning. Not to mention that there is only one bloody unisex shower room on our floor.'' Julian grimaced as the elevator doors closed. ``Tell you what, you go shower first while I stow away the equipment in the lab. When you're done, go talk to the department head about what happened.''
``Me?''
``Yeah, you,'' Julian said, his annoyance getting plainer by the moment. ``I'm too damn irate to not make an ass of myself. Besides, we all know that you're his favourite team member.''
Cindy was silent. The conversation had started to turn awkward. The two of them looked at the glowing lights above, watching the display increase from one integer to the next. At the seventeenth floor, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Cindy stepped out quickly and held the door open for Julian, who pulled the trolley out gingerly, trying his hardest to not cause the small pile of equipment to fall all over. When he was successfully out of the elevator, he turned around and looked at Cindy.
``You go on first. I've got it all handled here.''
``Okay,'' Cindy replied as she made her way to the shower room that was behind the elevator shafts, near where the service lobby was located.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 05-Jun-2014 23:22:36)
Sunday, 1 June 2014
Hill Defense
Eric, Thomas and Timothy were deep in their foxholes, staring out into clearing, their rifles held close and raised, aimed in front of them. It was the third day of the siege of the hill that they were on, and things were getting dicey. There had been scattered attempts by the enemy in charging up the hill, but so far, they had managed to repel them quite effectively. But ammunition was running low, and more importantly, water itself was starting to be scarce. The hill itself wasn't exactly a fortified position; it was at best a small observation outpost due to its slightly superior height advantage.
The jungles of malaya were full of water, from the dew that gathered during the dawn and the various fruits and plants. But actual potable water was hard to come by, especially for the hill. The nearest river or stream was nearly a hundred metres away from where the trio were located, and was deep in territory controlled by the enemy. There was simply no easy way of getting hold on such sources of water. The waging of a guerilla-styled defense was hard at times. The three of them were acting as static posts, the first line of defense, the one that will get overrun eventually without fail. It was already day three. They were sure that the next day's assault on their positions would be the last one if there was no relief in sight.
Eric looked at Thomas from across his foxhole, signalling him to ask if he had any water available. Thomas signalled back: not really. Timothy was in the front of the two in his own foxhole, not taking part in the signalling discussions, and manning the portable machine gun that was in front of him, resting on its bipod. His fellow machine gunner had been killed just a few days before they had dug in to this position, but it was alright because of the dug-in---he could easily manipulate the weapon himself.
A sudden rustling made the three of them forget their thirst temporarily, their adrenaline pumping. Eric looked in the general direction of the sound and thought he detected a scout from the enemy trying to determine the dug out positions. He signalled Thomas: possibly an artillery spotter. It was just about the right tactics anyway, the three-day delay being enough to reposition artillery to support the hill assault.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 01-Jun-2014 20:28:25)
The jungles of malaya were full of water, from the dew that gathered during the dawn and the various fruits and plants. But actual potable water was hard to come by, especially for the hill. The nearest river or stream was nearly a hundred metres away from where the trio were located, and was deep in territory controlled by the enemy. There was simply no easy way of getting hold on such sources of water. The waging of a guerilla-styled defense was hard at times. The three of them were acting as static posts, the first line of defense, the one that will get overrun eventually without fail. It was already day three. They were sure that the next day's assault on their positions would be the last one if there was no relief in sight.
Eric looked at Thomas from across his foxhole, signalling him to ask if he had any water available. Thomas signalled back: not really. Timothy was in the front of the two in his own foxhole, not taking part in the signalling discussions, and manning the portable machine gun that was in front of him, resting on its bipod. His fellow machine gunner had been killed just a few days before they had dug in to this position, but it was alright because of the dug-in---he could easily manipulate the weapon himself.
A sudden rustling made the three of them forget their thirst temporarily, their adrenaline pumping. Eric looked in the general direction of the sound and thought he detected a scout from the enemy trying to determine the dug out positions. He signalled Thomas: possibly an artillery spotter. It was just about the right tactics anyway, the three-day delay being enough to reposition artillery to support the hill assault.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 01-Jun-2014 20:28:25)
Friday, 30 May 2014
Untitled
The army of students marched on, waving their placards and shouting slogans, the entire width of the road taken up by their number. A protest of epic proportions---some had estimated that no less than three hundred thousand students were assembled from the far corners of the kingdom to protest against the coup d'état against the puppet government. They demanded that the democratic process be returned to them, and that the army stand down from their unconstitutional ways.
The military leadership was silent on the matter. Ever since they forcefully removed the government from the parliament house, there was no word from them when the democratic process would be normalised. There were rumours that many of the representatives in parliament were pre-emptively thrown into military prisons by the military police as a means of enforcing the martial law. No one knew what to trust.
The students knew what they wanted. They wanted due process to be returned. It started as a small movement, but when government was overtaken by the military, the small movement ballooned into a full-scale national-level issue. Many were inspired by their parents' actions back in the day, when a similar military coup was demonstrated against by them to force the rebuild of the second constitutional monarchy. But this time, there was more at stake.
The battle for their country. The battle for their freedom against the tyranny of the over-powerful military.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 31-May-2014 18:43:53)
The military leadership was silent on the matter. Ever since they forcefully removed the government from the parliament house, there was no word from them when the democratic process would be normalised. There were rumours that many of the representatives in parliament were pre-emptively thrown into military prisons by the military police as a means of enforcing the martial law. No one knew what to trust.
The students knew what they wanted. They wanted due process to be returned. It started as a small movement, but when government was overtaken by the military, the small movement ballooned into a full-scale national-level issue. Many were inspired by their parents' actions back in the day, when a similar military coup was demonstrated against by them to force the rebuild of the second constitutional monarchy. But this time, there was more at stake.
The battle for their country. The battle for their freedom against the tyranny of the over-powerful military.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 31-May-2014 18:43:53)
Sunday, 25 May 2014
Island in the River
As the day went by, Tom started to feel restless. He felt stupid. It was one thing to be out kayaking and landing on an island in the middle of the river, but it was another to somehow run the fibre-glass kayak aground, shattering bits of its keel, making it completely unseaworthy. A simple day trip was fast becoming more of a hassle than anything else.
Tom lamented. He had inspected the kayak before, and it was all fine and what-not, good for the sea. And he was no amateur either, having hundreds of kayaking trips prior to this one all over the place. Yet he managed to screw this one up bad. He blamed it on not scouting the island well enough---he might have discovered that the shore was lined with ridiculously sharp rock, as opposed to the sandy-type shores that he was expecting given what he had seen.
He sat there on the shore, looking across the river. The river was around two hundred metres wide, and the island was roughly in the middle of it all. Swimming back to shore was out of the question due to the strong underwater currents---he felt that when he was making his way over. There was no cellphone reception, and he didn't really bring anything more than a day pack, which meant that he had nothing that was usable for camping. Luckily it was summer time, and therefore the nights wouldn't be so bad. Food wasn't an issue because he brought along some dry rations that could last him a while.
His only hope was that Frieda would realise that he hadn't gotten back yet after she returned from her visit to her parents' place. He had sent her a text message telling her about his trip to the island for exploration and gave an estimated time of arrival back at the house, and he was hoping that when she returned, she would realise that he wasn't back yet and get all panicky and contact the right people to get help out to him.
Then he remembered that she had replied that she wouldn't be back till after the weekend. So much for a quick rescue.
Tom sighed. Things weren't going as well as he could. The rations wouldn't last, and the lack of water was going to be a problem. It wasn't that the river was salty, but that it was unfiltered. He'd rather take his chances at dehydration than to chug the river water and be down with some kind of massive diarrhoea problem from poisoning.
Tom stood up, resolute. Help wasn't going to reach him in time, and already it was getting into the late part of the afternoon, which meant that he had no more than three hours of daylight left. He had to patch the kayak somehow. At least the rest of the structure was doing okay, except for the shattered hole at the keel where water would definitely leak through. He started scouring the island for something to patch the hole with and to bail out any excess water. He knew that he wasn't going to make it off the island that evening, but he wanted to make sure that he had a chance of escape the next day when the sun rose once again.
For once, he was thankful that summer had the shortest nights in the whole year.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-05-26 18:01:24)
Tom lamented. He had inspected the kayak before, and it was all fine and what-not, good for the sea. And he was no amateur either, having hundreds of kayaking trips prior to this one all over the place. Yet he managed to screw this one up bad. He blamed it on not scouting the island well enough---he might have discovered that the shore was lined with ridiculously sharp rock, as opposed to the sandy-type shores that he was expecting given what he had seen.
He sat there on the shore, looking across the river. The river was around two hundred metres wide, and the island was roughly in the middle of it all. Swimming back to shore was out of the question due to the strong underwater currents---he felt that when he was making his way over. There was no cellphone reception, and he didn't really bring anything more than a day pack, which meant that he had nothing that was usable for camping. Luckily it was summer time, and therefore the nights wouldn't be so bad. Food wasn't an issue because he brought along some dry rations that could last him a while.
His only hope was that Frieda would realise that he hadn't gotten back yet after she returned from her visit to her parents' place. He had sent her a text message telling her about his trip to the island for exploration and gave an estimated time of arrival back at the house, and he was hoping that when she returned, she would realise that he wasn't back yet and get all panicky and contact the right people to get help out to him.
Then he remembered that she had replied that she wouldn't be back till after the weekend. So much for a quick rescue.
Tom sighed. Things weren't going as well as he could. The rations wouldn't last, and the lack of water was going to be a problem. It wasn't that the river was salty, but that it was unfiltered. He'd rather take his chances at dehydration than to chug the river water and be down with some kind of massive diarrhoea problem from poisoning.
Tom stood up, resolute. Help wasn't going to reach him in time, and already it was getting into the late part of the afternoon, which meant that he had no more than three hours of daylight left. He had to patch the kayak somehow. At least the rest of the structure was doing okay, except for the shattered hole at the keel where water would definitely leak through. He started scouring the island for something to patch the hole with and to bail out any excess water. He knew that he wasn't going to make it off the island that evening, but he wanted to make sure that he had a chance of escape the next day when the sun rose once again.
For once, he was thankful that summer had the shortest nights in the whole year.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-05-26 18:01:24)
Friday, 23 May 2014
That Oscillating Head Guy
The slow oscillation of the head was a dead giveaway. Eliza stared at the emaciated-looking man with great fear---she had seen him before somewhere else, and that time, he was much rounder, well-fed, affluent. But now, his skin was sallow and yellow, hanging loose about his cheeks, his exposed forearms showing nothing more than his skin and bones, his eyeballs showing through the thin eyelids that were present.
He had been observing her for a while, she knew it. It was one of those sixth-sense moments; she couldn't explain how, but she just... knew that he had been eyeing her. He had once propositioned her, a long time ago, when he was still affluent. But she didn't like him then, and still didn't like him now---in him she sensed the presence of a great disturbance, a type of evil aura that was hard to fully explain away. It was more than the mere lecherous feel that many men gave her. She knew she attracted lots of attention due to the way she looked, but in him she felt that there was something devilish and unspeakable beneath that exterior.
That feeling worsened when she saw his current look. When he found her observing him observing her, a thin smile formed on his withering lips as his head continued its odd oscillation. Eliza started to panic, and quickly unlocked her door and entered it. Almost at once she could sense him running towards her. She slammed the heavy oaken door behind her and bolted it up, glad for once that there were no windows that did not have the ugly looking iron grilles.
She could hear the furious pounding on her door as she dialled the number to the police post that was in charge of the neighbourhood. The pounding grew incessant and was accompanied by loud shouts of her name.
The line went through and was picked up by the operator. Breathlessly, Eliza stated her location and her predicament, and the operator assured her that he would despatch a patrol officer to drop by and check out her problem. She thanked him and put the phone down.
The pounding carried on for a few more moments before it stopped completely.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 23-May-2014 21:38:11)
He had been observing her for a while, she knew it. It was one of those sixth-sense moments; she couldn't explain how, but she just... knew that he had been eyeing her. He had once propositioned her, a long time ago, when he was still affluent. But she didn't like him then, and still didn't like him now---in him she sensed the presence of a great disturbance, a type of evil aura that was hard to fully explain away. It was more than the mere lecherous feel that many men gave her. She knew she attracted lots of attention due to the way she looked, but in him she felt that there was something devilish and unspeakable beneath that exterior.
That feeling worsened when she saw his current look. When he found her observing him observing her, a thin smile formed on his withering lips as his head continued its odd oscillation. Eliza started to panic, and quickly unlocked her door and entered it. Almost at once she could sense him running towards her. She slammed the heavy oaken door behind her and bolted it up, glad for once that there were no windows that did not have the ugly looking iron grilles.
She could hear the furious pounding on her door as she dialled the number to the police post that was in charge of the neighbourhood. The pounding grew incessant and was accompanied by loud shouts of her name.
The line went through and was picked up by the operator. Breathlessly, Eliza stated her location and her predicament, and the operator assured her that he would despatch a patrol officer to drop by and check out her problem. She thanked him and put the phone down.
The pounding carried on for a few more moments before it stopped completely.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 23-May-2014 21:38:11)
Thursday, 15 May 2014
Magnum Opus
The orchestra moved as one, hitting each note with poise, precision and pertinence. Eustace stood in front, swishing his conductor's baton rhythmically, keeping time while simultaneously cueing the different sections when their part was up. It was a contemporary piece that he had written, and was releasing it upon his orchestra for a dry run. The melodies and harmonies spewing forth were very familiar to him, and they sounded almost like what he had imagined over the past eight months as he was composing it.
It was a nostalgic piece that spanned the eras of music that Eustace had spent his life exploring. From the baroque period, to the Byzantine melodies, to the Indian scales, to the court music of southern China, they were all represented, their influence manifesting themselves under the ambit of a contemporary musical conversation. A modern Fantasia, Eustace would call it himself, but he was just too modest, despite being the doyen of modern orchestra compositions.
Eustace was an old man. Seventy nine going on to eighty. Sprightly. A wealth of musical experiences, having travelled to the far reaches of the world and spending up to a decade in each major region to absorb and learn the music culture there. This piece was, in a sense, his magnum opus. He knew his time was soon to be up, something about the way his wrists clacked where they never before, the way his shoulders loosened, the way his hips clicked in certain angles. The last time he composed anything was nearly five years ago, and he knew it was time for his final piece.
And so, this was born. The musicians were clearly enjoying the technically challenging piece---it catered to their sense of adventure and yet provide that calming effect of something familiar but still new and exciting. It was the final rehearsal before its debut in the evening, and everyone in the orchestra knew about the importance of this piece.
When the final note was held and dimished to soundlessness, Eustace stood there and held his baton out for a little longer, savouring that wonder he beheld. It was indeed a worthy magnum opus and would surely be much welcomed at the concert in the evening.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 15-May-2014 22:07:41)
It was a nostalgic piece that spanned the eras of music that Eustace had spent his life exploring. From the baroque period, to the Byzantine melodies, to the Indian scales, to the court music of southern China, they were all represented, their influence manifesting themselves under the ambit of a contemporary musical conversation. A modern Fantasia, Eustace would call it himself, but he was just too modest, despite being the doyen of modern orchestra compositions.
Eustace was an old man. Seventy nine going on to eighty. Sprightly. A wealth of musical experiences, having travelled to the far reaches of the world and spending up to a decade in each major region to absorb and learn the music culture there. This piece was, in a sense, his magnum opus. He knew his time was soon to be up, something about the way his wrists clacked where they never before, the way his shoulders loosened, the way his hips clicked in certain angles. The last time he composed anything was nearly five years ago, and he knew it was time for his final piece.
And so, this was born. The musicians were clearly enjoying the technically challenging piece---it catered to their sense of adventure and yet provide that calming effect of something familiar but still new and exciting. It was the final rehearsal before its debut in the evening, and everyone in the orchestra knew about the importance of this piece.
When the final note was held and dimished to soundlessness, Eustace stood there and held his baton out for a little longer, savouring that wonder he beheld. It was indeed a worthy magnum opus and would surely be much welcomed at the concert in the evening.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 15-May-2014 22:07:41)
Wednesday, 14 May 2014
Blackout
Eurydice blinked a couple of times to see if it changed anything; no change. She stuck her hand out in front of her and tried to bring it close to her face till she could see it; she couldn't see it even when it was a mere centimetre away. Eurydice started panicking.
``Help! Help! I... I think I've gone blind!''
``Eurydice? Is that you?'' A familiar voice shouted from across the room.
``Allen? Where are you? I can't see you!'' Eurydice shouted back in what she thought was the general direction in which the sound come from.
``I have no idea. I think the power tripped in the whole city all at once on a moonless night, which explains this pitch darkness that I have never seen before,'' Allen shouted back as he made his way carefully through the house towards the place where he thought he last heard Eurydice's voice. ``By the way, stay still and shout replies at me periodically---I'm trying to find my way towards you.''
``Oh Allen!'' Eurydice cried out in happiness. ``I'm so glad that it was the power trip instead of me going blind. You know how fearful I am on the glaucoma susceptibility that I have been told since I was young.''
``Yes, yes,'' Allen replied as he corrected his heading using Eurydice's voice. ``I know that you are afraid of that. But this can be a whole lot worse than getting glaucoma though.''
``Why is that so?'' Eurydice shouted back, her mind too shocked to be thinking carefully about the words that Allen said.
``Think about it, Eurydice. The city is powered using nuclear power plants, and there are spare diesel generators that feed into the grid if and when the nuclear power plants reduce in their generation capacity. They do lots of redundancy testing each week. Yet we are facing a city-wide black out that has lasted for nearly thirty minutes. That doesn't sound right to me.''
Eurydice fell silent, her mind starting to crank and process Allen's words now that she was starting to calm down. He had a point---there was no reason for such an extended blackout time; the spare generators should have kicked in within three minutes of a power drop from the nuclear plants and the site engineers should have been troubleshooting the reactors and they should also have brought everything back on line within twenty minutes. That none of those had happened was starting to get worrisome.
``Eurydice dear, are you still there?'' Allen shouted out in a questioning tone. It was hard to triangulate positions in the dark when there was no consistent audial source for echo-location.
``Oh! I'm still here! Sorry I forgot that you need my voice to figure out where I am.''
``It's alright,'' Allen said, his voice a whisper and yet sounding really really close to Eurydice. Without warning Eurydice found her waist wrapped by two powerful hairy arms, and her back was in contact with a familiar torso as her right ear felt playfully nibbled on.
``Oh Allen! You are such a rascal!'' Eurydice said as she giggled sophomorically.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 14-May-2014 23:20:04)
``Help! Help! I... I think I've gone blind!''
``Eurydice? Is that you?'' A familiar voice shouted from across the room.
``Allen? Where are you? I can't see you!'' Eurydice shouted back in what she thought was the general direction in which the sound come from.
``I have no idea. I think the power tripped in the whole city all at once on a moonless night, which explains this pitch darkness that I have never seen before,'' Allen shouted back as he made his way carefully through the house towards the place where he thought he last heard Eurydice's voice. ``By the way, stay still and shout replies at me periodically---I'm trying to find my way towards you.''
``Oh Allen!'' Eurydice cried out in happiness. ``I'm so glad that it was the power trip instead of me going blind. You know how fearful I am on the glaucoma susceptibility that I have been told since I was young.''
``Yes, yes,'' Allen replied as he corrected his heading using Eurydice's voice. ``I know that you are afraid of that. But this can be a whole lot worse than getting glaucoma though.''
``Why is that so?'' Eurydice shouted back, her mind too shocked to be thinking carefully about the words that Allen said.
``Think about it, Eurydice. The city is powered using nuclear power plants, and there are spare diesel generators that feed into the grid if and when the nuclear power plants reduce in their generation capacity. They do lots of redundancy testing each week. Yet we are facing a city-wide black out that has lasted for nearly thirty minutes. That doesn't sound right to me.''
Eurydice fell silent, her mind starting to crank and process Allen's words now that she was starting to calm down. He had a point---there was no reason for such an extended blackout time; the spare generators should have kicked in within three minutes of a power drop from the nuclear plants and the site engineers should have been troubleshooting the reactors and they should also have brought everything back on line within twenty minutes. That none of those had happened was starting to get worrisome.
``Eurydice dear, are you still there?'' Allen shouted out in a questioning tone. It was hard to triangulate positions in the dark when there was no consistent audial source for echo-location.
``Oh! I'm still here! Sorry I forgot that you need my voice to figure out where I am.''
``It's alright,'' Allen said, his voice a whisper and yet sounding really really close to Eurydice. Without warning Eurydice found her waist wrapped by two powerful hairy arms, and her back was in contact with a familiar torso as her right ear felt playfully nibbled on.
``Oh Allen! You are such a rascal!'' Eurydice said as she giggled sophomorically.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 14-May-2014 23:20:04)
Saturday, 10 May 2014
Elizabeth: Part I
Melancholy was written all over Elizabeth's face as she strode down the grand stairs of the house. Standing at the foot of the grand stairs, she pulled out her flute and started playing a haunting tune from Requiem. The sad whistful tune permeated through the household, and woke up Anton who was sleeping in the bedroom upstairs.
Waking with a start, he sat upright. He swore that he had heard a flute playing in the darkness, but it was not something that he had believed to be possible. There were only three people in the house, he, the housekeeper and his wife, and none of them played any musical instruments, let alone the flute. Sensing something amiss, he swung his legs out of the bed and on to the floor as quietly as he could and tip-toed his way out of the room, opening the door slowly and closing it behind him.
The corridor was slightly better lit than his room, with the quiet gas lamps glowing in the dark. The sweet sad tune was still played, and the music gave Anton goosebumps upon his skin. He made his way along the corridor until it reached the part which had a rail which overlooked the main atrium. He inched closer to steal a peek, and saw the willowy form of Elizabeth at the bottom of the grand stairs, playing away on the flute, a melancholous look upon his face that was revealed when her long tresses were blown back by an unseen and unfelt wind.
Anton could not believe his eyes. He had no idea who that person was, and more importantly, why she was playing a flute at that time of the night at that place. Seeing that she was alone, his courage came on strongly and he boldly walked across the corridor to the top of the grand stair.
``Who are you and why are you playing the flute at this time of the night?'' Anton asked, directing his question straight at Elizabeth.
The tune stopped, and Elizabeth put the flute down, turning to look up at Anton, her long tresses flying as she turned her head to face him.
``Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?''
Anton was struck by the beauty of Elizabeth. Her features were soft, like that of a lady of nobility from the colonial era. Her eyes shone brightly as she looked at Anton directly. He was about to smile and reply her when he noticed that she was a good eight inches above the ground, where nothing else other than the floor could be seen.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 10-May-2014 13:43:18)
(Story continues here.)
Waking with a start, he sat upright. He swore that he had heard a flute playing in the darkness, but it was not something that he had believed to be possible. There were only three people in the house, he, the housekeeper and his wife, and none of them played any musical instruments, let alone the flute. Sensing something amiss, he swung his legs out of the bed and on to the floor as quietly as he could and tip-toed his way out of the room, opening the door slowly and closing it behind him.
The corridor was slightly better lit than his room, with the quiet gas lamps glowing in the dark. The sweet sad tune was still played, and the music gave Anton goosebumps upon his skin. He made his way along the corridor until it reached the part which had a rail which overlooked the main atrium. He inched closer to steal a peek, and saw the willowy form of Elizabeth at the bottom of the grand stairs, playing away on the flute, a melancholous look upon his face that was revealed when her long tresses were blown back by an unseen and unfelt wind.
Anton could not believe his eyes. He had no idea who that person was, and more importantly, why she was playing a flute at that time of the night at that place. Seeing that she was alone, his courage came on strongly and he boldly walked across the corridor to the top of the grand stair.
``Who are you and why are you playing the flute at this time of the night?'' Anton asked, directing his question straight at Elizabeth.
The tune stopped, and Elizabeth put the flute down, turning to look up at Anton, her long tresses flying as she turned her head to face him.
``Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?''
Anton was struck by the beauty of Elizabeth. Her features were soft, like that of a lady of nobility from the colonial era. Her eyes shone brightly as she looked at Anton directly. He was about to smile and reply her when he noticed that she was a good eight inches above the ground, where nothing else other than the floor could be seen.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 10-May-2014 13:43:18)
(Story continues here.)
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