Hi I'm Elle. I work at the local grocery store nearby ever day as a cashier. I like to read during my free time, and find knitting to be really fun.
No I'm not Elle. I lied. I'm a compulsive liar. I'm really Elsie. I work at the local video rental store, one of the few that is left, prefer playing video games and watching the TV than to do any knitting. In fact, I actually hate knitting a lot.
Lies! I am not Elsie nor Elle. I'm Eileen. I don't work at the grocery store nor the video rental store (who the hell still has that running these days anyway) but at a local secretarial group. I spend my time typing up documents from the pool of small companies that hire us, and handle phone calls for one of the companies as and when those come in. I prefer just chilling at home and listening to music instead of reading or playing video games or even knitting. Urgh. Knitting is so boring.
No no no! All of you shut up! I am Elle. That day when I was coming home from my work at the grocery store, I saw this guy standing in front of another guy who was looking really really scared. I think the first guy wore some kind of coat and it looked like he was intimidating the other one. It was hard to tell because it was in an alley that was near the main road. I walked quickly away because I got scared.
Quit hogging the limelight Elle! I'd rather be the one to talk about this. I'm Elsie, by the way, and I was about to go to work at the video rental store when I passed by the grocery store that Elle works at and saw a man in a tan trench coat standing with legs apart, and his shoulders squared. I couldn't tell what was happening, but it was very suspicious. I've always walked past that alley on the way to work, and have always been wary of it due to the distinct lack of light that shines into it. A bit like that horror film setting where it is night time, the clouds are out hiding the moon, and then the rain comes on and someone just standing there, all silhouette and scary looking.
Elsie, you are spouting your silly video nonsense again, if it can be called a video. Frankly, you are more unbearable than some of the clients I had to deal with while being on the phone with some of them. Anyway, I was going to work as well when I passed by the alley. I saw a man who looked as though he was trying to defend himself -- he seemed rather scared for some reason. He wasn't tall, maybe five feet three at the most? He wore a regular black sports jacket, because you know, cold-ish weather and all. I could only see him from the back. I don't know about anything else.
Eileen dear, if your information is so scant, why don't you just keep quiet and leave the poor detective alone? It's not as though what you are saying is going to be effective anyway. Anyhow, as I walked on from the grocery store, I suddenly saw the man raise his arm and swung it downwards towards the other man. It looked like it could've been a punch or a stab, but I really cannot tell.
Ha! And you dare tell Eileen off. You are seriously too cocky, Elle. The man in tan, he was the one who lifted his arm high and slammed it down. I caught a glimpse of a reflection when his hand was held high, so I think it was probably a knife of some sort. There was a loud cry, but I didn't stay around enough to see what happened.
Elsie, if you too only saw part of the action, why are you talking so haughtily as though you knew exactly what was going on? The poor man in the black jacket fell when something shiny or metal hit him in the shoulder. He yelled a bit, probably in pain, but it wasn't clear if he was hurt or not. By that time, I had already scampered off towards the office.
The detective nodded as he took down the rambling testimony of the woman.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 2014-01-15 17:46:31)
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
My Eyes: Part IV
(Story begins here.)
To my surprise, everything seemed to go back to normal. Or rather, back to the original state in which I had once seen them. I could feel my heart racing, my head suddenly feeling very light. There was something rather strange going on, and I haven't the foggiest clue what it was. I reached for the door once again, and found that I wasn't hallucinating earlier---the door did not have a knob.
``Why are you trying to run away?'' Uncle San said with a quizzical voice. ``Why are you acting so confused?''
``Junhao, calm down,'' Shumei suddenly said. ``I know what you are experiencing.''
``Lies!'' I shouted. ``Utter bullshit and lies! What the hell is going on here? Why did you bring me to this weird place? And what is Uncle San exactly? Why is there no way of leaving this shop?''
Uncle San made a move that was too quick to see, and suddenly he was already next to me, despite being behind the counter earlier. He held out his hand and rested it heavily on the top of my head with his palm. He mumbled a few words under his breath, words that I did not manage to catch, and I slowly felt a tingling sensation that was moving from my body upwards from my spine up to the crown of my head. I could feel my panic subsiding, my breathing normalised and my heart rate slowing back down. Then, he stopped, raised his hand from my head and brought it back to his side, chuckling a little to himself.
With the new-found sense of calm, I started to look about me once more. Shumei was still standing there, somewhat emotionless once again, while Uncle San had walked back to his original position behind the counter. I walked forward towards Uncle San, stealing a glance at Shumei, who was still standing there and looking onward with little affect. I started to wonder if it was her that I heard who told me to calm down.
``Well Junhao, let's start this all over, shall we? I am San Chin-Fong, but most people call me `Uncle San'. You are in my shop, and I know what is wrong with you and why you had that sudden reaction.''
``What did you do to Shumei?'' I demanded, emboldened by his relatively meek-looking demeanour.
``Shumei? I didn't do anything to her. It's a side effect of this place and what you are experiencing. She had called me earlier today to inform me that you were acting as though your Eyes had finally opened, and I told her to bring you over as soon as she could before you started to hurt yourself from the things that you have seen.'' Uncle San paused for a moment and cleared his throat. ``Besides, Shumei is one of my agents.''
``Agents? What do you mean?''
``Shumei is a member of our sect since young. Her parents are also a part of the sect. We go around looking for people who have opened Eyes and try to help them deal with the consequences of having their Eyes opened. Not all members have opened Eyes though. Shumei is one of those who doesn't have her Eyes opened, but she has seen enough people who have that she can tell if someone is undergoing the steps that causes their Eyes to open.''
``Then why is she standing there like that?''
``Like I said,'' Uncle San replied. ``It's a side effect of this place.''
``And just what is this place?'' I asked.
(Story continues here.)
To my surprise, everything seemed to go back to normal. Or rather, back to the original state in which I had once seen them. I could feel my heart racing, my head suddenly feeling very light. There was something rather strange going on, and I haven't the foggiest clue what it was. I reached for the door once again, and found that I wasn't hallucinating earlier---the door did not have a knob.
``Why are you trying to run away?'' Uncle San said with a quizzical voice. ``Why are you acting so confused?''
``Junhao, calm down,'' Shumei suddenly said. ``I know what you are experiencing.''
``Lies!'' I shouted. ``Utter bullshit and lies! What the hell is going on here? Why did you bring me to this weird place? And what is Uncle San exactly? Why is there no way of leaving this shop?''
Uncle San made a move that was too quick to see, and suddenly he was already next to me, despite being behind the counter earlier. He held out his hand and rested it heavily on the top of my head with his palm. He mumbled a few words under his breath, words that I did not manage to catch, and I slowly felt a tingling sensation that was moving from my body upwards from my spine up to the crown of my head. I could feel my panic subsiding, my breathing normalised and my heart rate slowing back down. Then, he stopped, raised his hand from my head and brought it back to his side, chuckling a little to himself.
With the new-found sense of calm, I started to look about me once more. Shumei was still standing there, somewhat emotionless once again, while Uncle San had walked back to his original position behind the counter. I walked forward towards Uncle San, stealing a glance at Shumei, who was still standing there and looking onward with little affect. I started to wonder if it was her that I heard who told me to calm down.
``Well Junhao, let's start this all over, shall we? I am San Chin-Fong, but most people call me `Uncle San'. You are in my shop, and I know what is wrong with you and why you had that sudden reaction.''
``What did you do to Shumei?'' I demanded, emboldened by his relatively meek-looking demeanour.
``Shumei? I didn't do anything to her. It's a side effect of this place and what you are experiencing. She had called me earlier today to inform me that you were acting as though your Eyes had finally opened, and I told her to bring you over as soon as she could before you started to hurt yourself from the things that you have seen.'' Uncle San paused for a moment and cleared his throat. ``Besides, Shumei is one of my agents.''
``Agents? What do you mean?''
``Shumei is a member of our sect since young. Her parents are also a part of the sect. We go around looking for people who have opened Eyes and try to help them deal with the consequences of having their Eyes opened. Not all members have opened Eyes though. Shumei is one of those who doesn't have her Eyes opened, but she has seen enough people who have that she can tell if someone is undergoing the steps that causes their Eyes to open.''
``Then why is she standing there like that?''
``Like I said,'' Uncle San replied. ``It's a side effect of this place.''
``And just what is this place?'' I asked.
(Story continues here.)
Monday, 13 January 2014
Pilgrimage of Penance
Samuel took one deliberate step forward and paused, and then he took another one forward before pausing. Each step taken was slow, deliberate, calculated. In his clasped hands was a rosary necklace, and his thumbs kept moving one bead after another as he took each step, his pace and rhythm unaffected.
He had been walking like this for the last six hours, from the dawn of first light till now, roughly the middle of the day. Beads of sweat had gathered along his clean shaven head and dripped off to the sides from the edge of his eye brows. His was chanting non-stop under his breath; if one stepped closer they would hear the mantra that he was repeating to himself over and over.
The midday sun beat upon him, heating up his body. Perspiration soaked through his saffron robes, the attire of those in his order.
It was a pilgrimage of penance. To walk for nine and forty days at the given pace, from sun up to sun down, stopping to rest only where his feet land at the end of the day, eating only what the charitable passers-by were willing to give.
In another life, he had been a very successful banker. He made a killing during the early 2000s, but when the 2008 came about, the accounts and hedge funds under his charge lost nearly sixty percent of their value from the massive financial collapse. He was a part of the problem then, for he had constantly pushed the very financial products that caused the fall in the first place. For a while, he managed to get away with only a small penalty through the loss of his job, but as the days went by, his unemployment and guilt got to him.
And that was when he joined the order. The head abbot suggested he take the pilgrimage of penance first before becoming a full-fledged member.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 13-Jan-2014 21:06:10)
He had been walking like this for the last six hours, from the dawn of first light till now, roughly the middle of the day. Beads of sweat had gathered along his clean shaven head and dripped off to the sides from the edge of his eye brows. His was chanting non-stop under his breath; if one stepped closer they would hear the mantra that he was repeating to himself over and over.
The midday sun beat upon him, heating up his body. Perspiration soaked through his saffron robes, the attire of those in his order.
It was a pilgrimage of penance. To walk for nine and forty days at the given pace, from sun up to sun down, stopping to rest only where his feet land at the end of the day, eating only what the charitable passers-by were willing to give.
In another life, he had been a very successful banker. He made a killing during the early 2000s, but when the 2008 came about, the accounts and hedge funds under his charge lost nearly sixty percent of their value from the massive financial collapse. He was a part of the problem then, for he had constantly pushed the very financial products that caused the fall in the first place. For a while, he managed to get away with only a small penalty through the loss of his job, but as the days went by, his unemployment and guilt got to him.
And that was when he joined the order. The head abbot suggested he take the pilgrimage of penance first before becoming a full-fledged member.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 13-Jan-2014 21:06:10)
Sunday, 12 January 2014
Aileen
Aileen held the cigarette holder in her hand, Hepburn styled, and took a smoke out of it. It was one of those long nights where no one was actually out prowling the streets and looking for love. Already she was about a month over due for her rent, and her pimp wasn't making things easy with his threats to disfigure her for not bringing in as much money as the other girls.
But there was little choice in the matter. It was just a bad month, what with the cold winters and all. Asking a working girl on the streets to make as much during winter as in fall was just bordering on the impossible. She could change her pimp, but he was known to hurt others really bad if he discovered that his girls were stolen and taken over by others.
Aileen wasn't ugly. She looked skinny, like that Ally McBeal character on the TV. She had to wear fishnet stockings and a short mini-skirt to work the streets, but thankfully, her pimp wasn't that evil to demand that she wear only a tube top---she had a faux mink coat on to keep warm. Standing along the street corner and smoking on her cigarette the way a 1950s woman would gave her a certain classiness that was hard to find among the other street walkers.
A car pulled up, and the driver slowed down while rolling his window down. He gawked at Aileen. She could feel his lecherous eyes tracing her black heels up her fishnet covered legs up to her short black mini-skirt and up to her faux mink coat, mentally undressing her along the way. Despite being in the business for nearly two years now, the initial encounter with a client always creeped her out. It was at that moment that she felt the most demeaned, like as though she were a hunk of meat hung out for public scrutiny and examination.
The driver whistled at her and gesticulated. Aileen pulled the cigarette away from her and walked towards him, her legs moving one in front of the other in a straight line, with her hips swaying seductively. When she arrived at the window, she bent over while keeping her legs straight, sticking her hips into the air and bringing her face close to his, while exposing some of her cleavage through the hanging top opening of her faux mink coat.
She blew some of the menthol smoke from her cigarette into the driver's face, and he gave a smile of approval.
``What're you doing for?''
``Twenty a blow, thirty a massage, fifty for the full package and one hundred for the GFE,'' Aileen rattled off from memory. ``You pay for wherever you take me, and I have protection.''
``I like those numbers,'' he replied as he winked at her. ``Get in the car and let's go somewhere fun.''
Aileen stood back up and removed the cigarette stub from the holder and dropped it onto the ground, extinguished it with the foot of her heels, before walking over to the passenger side of the car and letting herself in.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 12-Jan-2014 16:08:42)
But there was little choice in the matter. It was just a bad month, what with the cold winters and all. Asking a working girl on the streets to make as much during winter as in fall was just bordering on the impossible. She could change her pimp, but he was known to hurt others really bad if he discovered that his girls were stolen and taken over by others.
Aileen wasn't ugly. She looked skinny, like that Ally McBeal character on the TV. She had to wear fishnet stockings and a short mini-skirt to work the streets, but thankfully, her pimp wasn't that evil to demand that she wear only a tube top---she had a faux mink coat on to keep warm. Standing along the street corner and smoking on her cigarette the way a 1950s woman would gave her a certain classiness that was hard to find among the other street walkers.
A car pulled up, and the driver slowed down while rolling his window down. He gawked at Aileen. She could feel his lecherous eyes tracing her black heels up her fishnet covered legs up to her short black mini-skirt and up to her faux mink coat, mentally undressing her along the way. Despite being in the business for nearly two years now, the initial encounter with a client always creeped her out. It was at that moment that she felt the most demeaned, like as though she were a hunk of meat hung out for public scrutiny and examination.
The driver whistled at her and gesticulated. Aileen pulled the cigarette away from her and walked towards him, her legs moving one in front of the other in a straight line, with her hips swaying seductively. When she arrived at the window, she bent over while keeping her legs straight, sticking her hips into the air and bringing her face close to his, while exposing some of her cleavage through the hanging top opening of her faux mink coat.
She blew some of the menthol smoke from her cigarette into the driver's face, and he gave a smile of approval.
``What're you doing for?''
``Twenty a blow, thirty a massage, fifty for the full package and one hundred for the GFE,'' Aileen rattled off from memory. ``You pay for wherever you take me, and I have protection.''
``I like those numbers,'' he replied as he winked at her. ``Get in the car and let's go somewhere fun.''
Aileen stood back up and removed the cigarette stub from the holder and dropped it onto the ground, extinguished it with the foot of her heels, before walking over to the passenger side of the car and letting herself in.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 12-Jan-2014 16:08:42)
Saturday, 11 January 2014
Intel
Susan crouched along the side of the wall, frozen in place, her eyes darting left and right, straining to find the source of that cough. There wasn't supposed to be anyone there -- that was the whole purpose of the intel briefing that she had just hours before she had been injected into the compound. But that cough, it was proof, proof that there was something contrary to what they had initially believed.
She waited quietly for a couple more minutes, starting to be well aware of the slow rhythmic beating of her own heart. Very few things ever fazed Susan -- calm and collected was one of the characteristics that she had that made her an ideal candidate for the dark art of clandestine operations. That there was a cough was only an indication that someone was near, and even then, it was just one of the many possibilities that they had gone through in the briefing earlier. She was an executioner -- one who follows the plans that were made by those above her. Sometimes if the intel wasn't good, like this one, they would also give her the mandate to operate semi-independently, but for the most part, they did all the thinking, while she did all the leg work.
There it was again. Two coughs. Susan quickly estimated the direction and distance from which it came. It sounded like it could have been from two different people, but that was highly unlikely; no one coordinates coughs that way. She estimated a distance of roughly fifty yards, and just around the corner of the wall that she was currently taking cover at. Not good. This would rule out the easier route into the compound. She hugged close to the wall and slowly moved her left eye beyond the wall's perimeter to glance out at the direction she estimated. Against the moonlight, she made out two silhouettes. Another improbable situation had occurred. She ducked back into her corner and weighed her options.
Intel said that there was no one else going to be there, yet there were two guards. What else that she was given was wrong? Silently, she ducked back further along the wall, and started to scale it silently in the dark. At least some elevation would give her a little more insight on just what she was up to and help her complete the mission.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 11-Jan-2014 23:49:07)
She waited quietly for a couple more minutes, starting to be well aware of the slow rhythmic beating of her own heart. Very few things ever fazed Susan -- calm and collected was one of the characteristics that she had that made her an ideal candidate for the dark art of clandestine operations. That there was a cough was only an indication that someone was near, and even then, it was just one of the many possibilities that they had gone through in the briefing earlier. She was an executioner -- one who follows the plans that were made by those above her. Sometimes if the intel wasn't good, like this one, they would also give her the mandate to operate semi-independently, but for the most part, they did all the thinking, while she did all the leg work.
There it was again. Two coughs. Susan quickly estimated the direction and distance from which it came. It sounded like it could have been from two different people, but that was highly unlikely; no one coordinates coughs that way. She estimated a distance of roughly fifty yards, and just around the corner of the wall that she was currently taking cover at. Not good. This would rule out the easier route into the compound. She hugged close to the wall and slowly moved her left eye beyond the wall's perimeter to glance out at the direction she estimated. Against the moonlight, she made out two silhouettes. Another improbable situation had occurred. She ducked back into her corner and weighed her options.
Intel said that there was no one else going to be there, yet there were two guards. What else that she was given was wrong? Silently, she ducked back further along the wall, and started to scale it silently in the dark. At least some elevation would give her a little more insight on just what she was up to and help her complete the mission.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 11-Jan-2014 23:49:07)
Friday, 10 January 2014
The Three of Us
Jun Hao took yet another small step forward, his left hand advancing his walking stick by the length of one foot-step. Walking was starting to get hard, and he was really about to give up trying to take walks in the evenings given the increasing difficulty to get his legs to work well at his age. They have said that he was lucky to be living so long, but he thought that it was a curse to be living in a body that was slowly falling apart at its seams.
But his grandson would hear nothing of it.
It was his grandson who convinced his son to get a walking stick for him. His grandson went with his son to the store downstairs and spent some time picking the style of the walking stick. It was originally supposed to be something out of aluminium, which his son favoured due to its light weight and strenght, but his grandson was adamant that Ah Gong should have a nice solid wooden one. Kid said that seemed more appropriate for Ah Gong because ``it looked like it was a part of natural world''.
Jun Hao took another step forward and advanced his walking stick once more. It would take him around twenty minutes to walk from his son's apartment block to the school to pick up his grandson given his walking speed, and it would of course take another twenty or so minutes to walk back. He sighed. His son was in agreement with him to stay at home more rest up due to his advanced age. But his grandson overruled them all; he had countered that since ``Ah Pa doesn't come back to work in time, he didn't want to stay in school to wait for Ah Pa and would rather Ah Gong come and pick him up''. His daugher-in-law had divorced his son after giving birth to his grandson -- she had cited ``irreconciliable differences'' as the reason for the divorce. He shook his head. Kids these days, they never seem to try and fix their own marriages, always trying to find the easy way out. The last he heard, she had already gone on to date another man, someone richer than his son, and was probably about to get married for the second time, if rumours were to be believed.
He took another step forwardd and advanced his walking stick. Three generations under one roof -- his grandson, his son, and he. And now, his walking was starting to get bad. The walking stick was helping a little, but for how long? How long more to go before he would become yet another burden for his son?
Jun Hao thought to himself as he walked on slowly with his wooden walking stick towards his grandson's school.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 11-Jan-2014 00:04:58)
But his grandson would hear nothing of it.
It was his grandson who convinced his son to get a walking stick for him. His grandson went with his son to the store downstairs and spent some time picking the style of the walking stick. It was originally supposed to be something out of aluminium, which his son favoured due to its light weight and strenght, but his grandson was adamant that Ah Gong should have a nice solid wooden one. Kid said that seemed more appropriate for Ah Gong because ``it looked like it was a part of natural world''.
Jun Hao took another step forward and advanced his walking stick once more. It would take him around twenty minutes to walk from his son's apartment block to the school to pick up his grandson given his walking speed, and it would of course take another twenty or so minutes to walk back. He sighed. His son was in agreement with him to stay at home more rest up due to his advanced age. But his grandson overruled them all; he had countered that since ``Ah Pa doesn't come back to work in time, he didn't want to stay in school to wait for Ah Pa and would rather Ah Gong come and pick him up''. His daugher-in-law had divorced his son after giving birth to his grandson -- she had cited ``irreconciliable differences'' as the reason for the divorce. He shook his head. Kids these days, they never seem to try and fix their own marriages, always trying to find the easy way out. The last he heard, she had already gone on to date another man, someone richer than his son, and was probably about to get married for the second time, if rumours were to be believed.
He took another step forwardd and advanced his walking stick. Three generations under one roof -- his grandson, his son, and he. And now, his walking was starting to get bad. The walking stick was helping a little, but for how long? How long more to go before he would become yet another burden for his son?
Jun Hao thought to himself as he walked on slowly with his wooden walking stick towards his grandson's school.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 11-Jan-2014 00:04:58)
Thursday, 9 January 2014
The Password
Esther lay on the ground in a pool of her blood. The bullet had hit her in the stomach and exited from her back, missing her spine. But the damage was already done. Her intestines were bleeding profusely, and she was struggling to keep the exsanguination by applying whatever little strength she had in her hands to add pressure. Her gun man had left, satisfied that she would never get up again, confident that no one would find her alive to get the information that she stole, and miserly reminiscing the money that he saved from not having to fire another bullet through her head to confirm the kill.
`I must not die this quickly,' Esther thought to herself as she took in measured breaths to calm herself down. That helped her keep a smoother blood flow and gave her a rhythm that ebbed and flowed with the pain from all the internal damage and blood loss.
`Bloody amateur,' she continued to think, keeping her mind away from her current situation as much as possible.
`Who the hell doesn't confirm the kill? I just hope that Thomas would make his way here soon enough.' She took in a couple more breaths. Already she was starting to feel light-headed, a sure sign that the blood loss was getting dangerously close to knocking her out completely. `Damnit Thomas, where the hell are you?'
As if in reply to her plea, she heard a set of familiar foot steps that grew increasingly closer. `Thomas!' she thought to herself.
``Oh my god, Esther! Who did this to you!'' A frantic male voice accosted her as strong hands started stroking her face before leaving it in confusion as their owner realised that there was a bullet hole. Thomas saw Esther trying to stem the blood loss with her ever-weakening grip and immediately clamped one hand on top of hers. The added pressure changed the steady state a little and Esther coughed.
``No no no... don't die!'' Thomas cried as he fumbled his phone to call the paramedics.
``Thomas, no, I will die,'' Esther replied weakly. ``But there's one thing you must know. Sly Sam...''
``Stop talking love,'' Thomas cut her off. ``Save your strength.'' She ignored him and continued.
``Sly Sam's data files are on the server, and the password is... I love you...''
``NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!'' Thomas let out a feral cry.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 09-Jan-2014 22:43:39)
`I must not die this quickly,' Esther thought to herself as she took in measured breaths to calm herself down. That helped her keep a smoother blood flow and gave her a rhythm that ebbed and flowed with the pain from all the internal damage and blood loss.
`Bloody amateur,' she continued to think, keeping her mind away from her current situation as much as possible.
`Who the hell doesn't confirm the kill? I just hope that Thomas would make his way here soon enough.' She took in a couple more breaths. Already she was starting to feel light-headed, a sure sign that the blood loss was getting dangerously close to knocking her out completely. `Damnit Thomas, where the hell are you?'
As if in reply to her plea, she heard a set of familiar foot steps that grew increasingly closer. `Thomas!' she thought to herself.
``Oh my god, Esther! Who did this to you!'' A frantic male voice accosted her as strong hands started stroking her face before leaving it in confusion as their owner realised that there was a bullet hole. Thomas saw Esther trying to stem the blood loss with her ever-weakening grip and immediately clamped one hand on top of hers. The added pressure changed the steady state a little and Esther coughed.
``No no no... don't die!'' Thomas cried as he fumbled his phone to call the paramedics.
``Thomas, no, I will die,'' Esther replied weakly. ``But there's one thing you must know. Sly Sam...''
``Stop talking love,'' Thomas cut her off. ``Save your strength.'' She ignored him and continued.
``Sly Sam's data files are on the server, and the password is... I love you...''
``NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!'' Thomas let out a feral cry.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 09-Jan-2014 22:43:39)
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
``Friends''
Jill pounded away at the door. Bam! Bam! Bam! But there was no response. Why would there be? Wasn't it the only entrance to the room that she had unwittingly entered as part of a ``prank'' that her ``friends'' had got her involved with?
She leant on the door and slid down, dejected but still mentally alert. She wasn't about to give up -- there was no reason to. She surveyed her surroundings.
It was clear that the room had been meticulously prepared. Cold grey concrete all around, bare, a single small cross-barred reinforced glass window set high in the wall was the only source of illumination. In one corner, a metal framed single bed with a foam mattress on top with no sheets. In the opposite corner, a hybrid stainless steel latrine sink, welded into the ground, with a single roll of toilet paper sitting on top.
Her top had been brutally ripped off, exposing her naked breasts. There were a few bruises here and there from the struggle that she had tried to put up, but being over-powered by that many ``friends'', there was little that she could do. It was of little comfort that she was still in her jeans. Her phone had been removed from her, and her high heeled shoes were forcibly removed as well when she was thrashing about.
Then she remembered.
In one of the long side pockets of her jeans were a torsion wrench and a pick. She had been to the maker's fairre just the day before in the same pair of jeans, and didn't send it for washing yet. Her hopes up, she quickly turned about to re-examine the door.
It was a heavy wooden door with a brass door knob that had a key hole in it. It was clear that it was meant to be locked from the outside because of the key hole. But the locking mechanism was designed for internal doors only -- there were no other indications on the key hole that it was ever meant to be installed on the main door.
Jill felt her hopes rising. She removed the torsion wrench and pick from her pocket and slowly slid both of them into the lock. It would take a while, but she knew that she had learnt something from the fairre.
She was definitely not about to find out what that bed was for, nor what her ``friends'' had in store for her.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 08-Jan-2014 22:51:03)
She leant on the door and slid down, dejected but still mentally alert. She wasn't about to give up -- there was no reason to. She surveyed her surroundings.
It was clear that the room had been meticulously prepared. Cold grey concrete all around, bare, a single small cross-barred reinforced glass window set high in the wall was the only source of illumination. In one corner, a metal framed single bed with a foam mattress on top with no sheets. In the opposite corner, a hybrid stainless steel latrine sink, welded into the ground, with a single roll of toilet paper sitting on top.
Her top had been brutally ripped off, exposing her naked breasts. There were a few bruises here and there from the struggle that she had tried to put up, but being over-powered by that many ``friends'', there was little that she could do. It was of little comfort that she was still in her jeans. Her phone had been removed from her, and her high heeled shoes were forcibly removed as well when she was thrashing about.
Then she remembered.
In one of the long side pockets of her jeans were a torsion wrench and a pick. She had been to the maker's fairre just the day before in the same pair of jeans, and didn't send it for washing yet. Her hopes up, she quickly turned about to re-examine the door.
It was a heavy wooden door with a brass door knob that had a key hole in it. It was clear that it was meant to be locked from the outside because of the key hole. But the locking mechanism was designed for internal doors only -- there were no other indications on the key hole that it was ever meant to be installed on the main door.
Jill felt her hopes rising. She removed the torsion wrench and pick from her pocket and slowly slid both of them into the lock. It would take a while, but she knew that she had learnt something from the fairre.
She was definitely not about to find out what that bed was for, nor what her ``friends'' had in store for her.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 08-Jan-2014 22:51:03)
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
My Eyes: Part III
(Story begins here.)
I stepped back, partly in confusion, partly in anger. Things were not going well at all; I have no idea what the deal was, and this Uncle San and Shumei were acting weirder than I would have thought. I blinked my eyes.
The room, formerly dull with the grey cabinets and counter, suddenly presented itself in an amazingly fierce colour of red. ``Uncle San'' himself was a major source of the fiery red colour, his entire silhouette encompassing the sort of red that one would associate with that of a flame. Shumei was standing near him, and despite the fact that she was relatively dark in colour compared to the red emitted throughout the room, I could see that the red aura of ``Uncle San'' had engulfed her.
I kept on backing up, while looking around frantically. The counter and cabinets had shapes of red that reminded me of various curios that one might find in some kind of god-shop, except that some of them had shapes that were more akin to idols and skulls, rather than the more regular joss sticks and incense. I could almost see ``Uncle San'' smiling at my confusion and fear through the shades of red that was present, with Shumei standing next to him, nearly emotionless.
The red that was emanating from the interiors of the cabinets and counter seemed to be flowing and increasing in their reach, until tendrils seemed to reach out from them and snake towards me. I continued to back up, my fear increasing, my anger abating, until I hit the door from which I had entered. I turned around and tried to open the door, but found to my horror that I could not find the handle nor the knob. I couldn't remember if the door had a knob or handle in the first place -- it was Shumei who led me into the shop in the first place. Panicking a little, I turned around once more to face the snaking red, with the closest already trying to wrap its tendrils around my foot.
I screeched in horror and jumped up, blinking my eyes.
(Story continues here.)
I stepped back, partly in confusion, partly in anger. Things were not going well at all; I have no idea what the deal was, and this Uncle San and Shumei were acting weirder than I would have thought. I blinked my eyes.
The room, formerly dull with the grey cabinets and counter, suddenly presented itself in an amazingly fierce colour of red. ``Uncle San'' himself was a major source of the fiery red colour, his entire silhouette encompassing the sort of red that one would associate with that of a flame. Shumei was standing near him, and despite the fact that she was relatively dark in colour compared to the red emitted throughout the room, I could see that the red aura of ``Uncle San'' had engulfed her.
I kept on backing up, while looking around frantically. The counter and cabinets had shapes of red that reminded me of various curios that one might find in some kind of god-shop, except that some of them had shapes that were more akin to idols and skulls, rather than the more regular joss sticks and incense. I could almost see ``Uncle San'' smiling at my confusion and fear through the shades of red that was present, with Shumei standing next to him, nearly emotionless.
The red that was emanating from the interiors of the cabinets and counter seemed to be flowing and increasing in their reach, until tendrils seemed to reach out from them and snake towards me. I continued to back up, my fear increasing, my anger abating, until I hit the door from which I had entered. I turned around and tried to open the door, but found to my horror that I could not find the handle nor the knob. I couldn't remember if the door had a knob or handle in the first place -- it was Shumei who led me into the shop in the first place. Panicking a little, I turned around once more to face the snaking red, with the closest already trying to wrap its tendrils around my foot.
I screeched in horror and jumped up, blinking my eyes.
(Story continues here.)
Monday, 6 January 2014
Too Far
Tim sat there on the ground, his eyes smarting from the pain. Ah Seng stood there in front of him, fists raised, his lips locked in a smirk.
Tim could feel the blood dripping from his eye lids from the cut sustained when his glasses was cracked by the punch. The lenses had cracked, and the pices had sliced fairly deep into his eyelid.
``You bastard! I told you to give me your lunch money, but nooo, you had to be the tough guy, eh?'' Ah Seng gloated. ``See what happens?''
Tim could feel the pain coming on as tears streamed and mixed with the blood.
``I... need my glasses...''
``Go to hell!'' Ah Seng shouted before giving the seated Tim a firm kick in the stomach before strutting off like a bantam cock.
Tim felt the acute pain from the kick and picked up the lens pieces from the ground. The frame was dented out of shape from the punch, and his high degree glass lenses were ruined. He picked up the frame from the ground and tried to stare at it through his injured eyes. He hugged his knees together as he realised that without those glasses, he was effectively blind.
He cursed Ah Seng under his breath. This was the second time that year that his glasses were ruined by the bully. The last time he had his glasses thus damaged, he got into a lot of trouble with his parents. They were not from a rich family; life was hard but tolerable. He was the first child that they had managed to send to school -- his two other brothers never really had the opportunity to. But all that reading and studying probably contributed to his gradual increase in myopia, and the cost of the glasses was extremely high compared to what they could afford.
He got hell from them just to replace the first pair of glasses. Now he didn't know how to approach them to replace this second one.
Ah Seng had gone too far. It's time for a payback. But first, Tim had to cross a burning bridge.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 06-Jan-2014 23:42:50)
Tim could feel the blood dripping from his eye lids from the cut sustained when his glasses was cracked by the punch. The lenses had cracked, and the pices had sliced fairly deep into his eyelid.
``You bastard! I told you to give me your lunch money, but nooo, you had to be the tough guy, eh?'' Ah Seng gloated. ``See what happens?''
Tim could feel the pain coming on as tears streamed and mixed with the blood.
``I... need my glasses...''
``Go to hell!'' Ah Seng shouted before giving the seated Tim a firm kick in the stomach before strutting off like a bantam cock.
Tim felt the acute pain from the kick and picked up the lens pieces from the ground. The frame was dented out of shape from the punch, and his high degree glass lenses were ruined. He picked up the frame from the ground and tried to stare at it through his injured eyes. He hugged his knees together as he realised that without those glasses, he was effectively blind.
He cursed Ah Seng under his breath. This was the second time that year that his glasses were ruined by the bully. The last time he had his glasses thus damaged, he got into a lot of trouble with his parents. They were not from a rich family; life was hard but tolerable. He was the first child that they had managed to send to school -- his two other brothers never really had the opportunity to. But all that reading and studying probably contributed to his gradual increase in myopia, and the cost of the glasses was extremely high compared to what they could afford.
He got hell from them just to replace the first pair of glasses. Now he didn't know how to approach them to replace this second one.
Ah Seng had gone too far. It's time for a payback. But first, Tim had to cross a burning bridge.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 06-Jan-2014 23:42:50)
Sunday, 5 January 2014
Walking...
I walk, alone, along the path that lay before me. The sky was a sickening blue, the kind of colour that I didn't really enjoy because it reminded me of a time that was impossible to get at, a time of peace, happiness and comfort. There was none of this to be had.
I keep on walking. The sun beat down upon my head as ruthlessly as it can possibly be, while the wind howled against my face in as harsh a manner as it could. Each step that I take feels leaden. Dead. A strong sense of discomfort that was incongruous with the paradoxical weather.
I walk on. I have to walk on. Behind me I could hear the pitter-patter foot-steps of those who are in pursuit of me. My pursuers sounded like they were in a hurry, but they never managed to catch up, even as I take my heavy steps forward at a walking pace. It didn't sound possible. No, it was just not possible. No wait. It is possible. Under one and only one circumstance.
I am dreaming. I have to be. Otherwise it will make no sense.
Realising that I am dreaming, the sky transmogrified itself. The sun no longer beat upon my brow, the wind no longer blasted through my skin as though it weren't there. The same footsteps that I had been taking suddenly feel less heavy. But the heart, my heart, I can still feel the heaviness there.
No.
I cannot be dreaming, can I? This walk, I have to take this walk. From where I was to where I will be. I cannot avoid it. Perpetual pursuers aside. I cannot stop. I cannot return. This is real -- is it not the dirt that I feel between my toes as I take each deliberate step forward?
From afar, I can hear the increased hurriedness that my pursuers had. There was an unmistakeable sound. No way to mistake it, ever. But I still just keep walking. No other way about it.
I have to continue the trip. I have to make it to where I had to go. It doesn't matter if they catch up with me -- they can't catch up with me. I need to be at my destination, no matter the cost.
Especially if I am truly dreaming.
If I can't even reach my goal in my dream, how am I supposed to reach it in real life?
I stuck my hands deep into my pockets and kept my head low. The sun became relentless once more, and the wind continued its merciless cut through me. Far behind me, the pursuers were still chasing, but they never sounded any closer than they were just a short moment before.
It is going to be a long way left. I hope I can reach it before I wake up.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 05-Jan-2014 21:59:00)
I keep on walking. The sun beat down upon my head as ruthlessly as it can possibly be, while the wind howled against my face in as harsh a manner as it could. Each step that I take feels leaden. Dead. A strong sense of discomfort that was incongruous with the paradoxical weather.
I walk on. I have to walk on. Behind me I could hear the pitter-patter foot-steps of those who are in pursuit of me. My pursuers sounded like they were in a hurry, but they never managed to catch up, even as I take my heavy steps forward at a walking pace. It didn't sound possible. No, it was just not possible. No wait. It is possible. Under one and only one circumstance.
I am dreaming. I have to be. Otherwise it will make no sense.
Realising that I am dreaming, the sky transmogrified itself. The sun no longer beat upon my brow, the wind no longer blasted through my skin as though it weren't there. The same footsteps that I had been taking suddenly feel less heavy. But the heart, my heart, I can still feel the heaviness there.
No.
I cannot be dreaming, can I? This walk, I have to take this walk. From where I was to where I will be. I cannot avoid it. Perpetual pursuers aside. I cannot stop. I cannot return. This is real -- is it not the dirt that I feel between my toes as I take each deliberate step forward?
From afar, I can hear the increased hurriedness that my pursuers had. There was an unmistakeable sound. No way to mistake it, ever. But I still just keep walking. No other way about it.
I have to continue the trip. I have to make it to where I had to go. It doesn't matter if they catch up with me -- they can't catch up with me. I need to be at my destination, no matter the cost.
Especially if I am truly dreaming.
If I can't even reach my goal in my dream, how am I supposed to reach it in real life?
I stuck my hands deep into my pockets and kept my head low. The sun became relentless once more, and the wind continued its merciless cut through me. Far behind me, the pursuers were still chasing, but they never sounded any closer than they were just a short moment before.
It is going to be a long way left. I hope I can reach it before I wake up.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 05-Jan-2014 21:59:00)
Saturday, 4 January 2014
Crossroads
Joel stood there at the crossroads and thought to himself as he watched the sun's rays wafting through the trees that were growing on that one side of the road. It was not of his choice to be here, but there was just something he had to be sure of, something that he needed to confirm.
Before her death, his grandmother had summoned him to her and said to him. ``Joel, reach into that drawer over there next to my bed.'' He followed her orders and opened up the drawer of the dresser. There was a leather bound book in there. The cover was old and worn, showing its age very clearly, but other than that, it was surprisingly well kept. ``Pick up that book, Joel.''
``Yes grandma,'' he had said and picked the book up and handed it to her. His grandmother touched the cover, and he could almost see her eyes glowing somewhat lovingly for a fleeting moment before returning to its quiet demeanour. ``Take this diary of your grandfather's and read up on what we had gone through. You may wish to travel to some of the places mentioned to check on the things that he had written. I was there when it all happened, but I never saw the need to revisit old haunts. Perhaps you might find it an interesting exercise in discovering your heritage.''
That happened around two months ago.
Joel had read the diary. It was a well-kept journal chronicling the times of the second World War. His grandfather was one of the British infantrymen who was part of the defense of Malaya against the Japanese, while his grandmother was one of the local girls who ended up marrying to his British-born grandfather. The diary was written in a clean cursive that was characteristic of that era, small and clean. Paper was hard to come by, and leather bound paper was an even rarer luxury.
There were a coupld of rather disturbing yet interesting things that were written in the journal. The moment he saw them, Joel knew what his grandmother meant when she suggested that he might be interested in taking a little travel here and there to check up on the locations that were talked about.
He had spent the last two months travelling all over modern peninsular Malaysia, the scion of the old Malaya that was torn asunder by the atrocities that was the Japanese occupation. And in each of the five or so places that he had gone, he managed to correlate what he saw with what was written.
And now, he was at the final location hinted in the journal. A crossroad of two rather ancient paths that criss-crossed the peninsula.
Buried beneath one corner was supposedly the body of a man that his grandfather had to kill in order to survive.
Buried beneath the opposite corner was supposedly a cache of valuables that his grandparents had before the war came and made it all impossible to move on.
He stood at the crossroads and carried on thinking.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 04-Jan-2014 21:00:06)
Before her death, his grandmother had summoned him to her and said to him. ``Joel, reach into that drawer over there next to my bed.'' He followed her orders and opened up the drawer of the dresser. There was a leather bound book in there. The cover was old and worn, showing its age very clearly, but other than that, it was surprisingly well kept. ``Pick up that book, Joel.''
``Yes grandma,'' he had said and picked the book up and handed it to her. His grandmother touched the cover, and he could almost see her eyes glowing somewhat lovingly for a fleeting moment before returning to its quiet demeanour. ``Take this diary of your grandfather's and read up on what we had gone through. You may wish to travel to some of the places mentioned to check on the things that he had written. I was there when it all happened, but I never saw the need to revisit old haunts. Perhaps you might find it an interesting exercise in discovering your heritage.''
That happened around two months ago.
Joel had read the diary. It was a well-kept journal chronicling the times of the second World War. His grandfather was one of the British infantrymen who was part of the defense of Malaya against the Japanese, while his grandmother was one of the local girls who ended up marrying to his British-born grandfather. The diary was written in a clean cursive that was characteristic of that era, small and clean. Paper was hard to come by, and leather bound paper was an even rarer luxury.
There were a coupld of rather disturbing yet interesting things that were written in the journal. The moment he saw them, Joel knew what his grandmother meant when she suggested that he might be interested in taking a little travel here and there to check up on the locations that were talked about.
He had spent the last two months travelling all over modern peninsular Malaysia, the scion of the old Malaya that was torn asunder by the atrocities that was the Japanese occupation. And in each of the five or so places that he had gone, he managed to correlate what he saw with what was written.
And now, he was at the final location hinted in the journal. A crossroad of two rather ancient paths that criss-crossed the peninsula.
Buried beneath one corner was supposedly the body of a man that his grandfather had to kill in order to survive.
Buried beneath the opposite corner was supposedly a cache of valuables that his grandparents had before the war came and made it all impossible to move on.
He stood at the crossroads and carried on thinking.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 04-Jan-2014 21:00:06)
Friday, 3 January 2014
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
He took one step forward, stopped, looked about, and took two steps back. He paused again, his head sticking out like a tortoise out of its shell, and glanced about, before taking two steps forward. Then, one step ahead from the position he began, he start the ritual again.
He didn't walk like that on all places. It was only on grounds that were checked like a chessboard. There was something that seemed compelling to him to partake in the rather odd walking method whenever tiled floors were concerned. And they had to be checked tiled floors, not just regular square tiles tessellated, but arranged with the familiar dark-and-light alternate texture.
He didn't care if they stared at him while he was walking like that in the mall. That particular series of moves had saved his life once, and somehow that became ingrained in his psyche as a type of obsession that took on a compulsive role.
It was a long time ago, roughly when he was merely a lad of three. His parents, they took him out to an amusement park once. It was one of those fancy semi-permanent amusement parks that featured rides and stations that were there all year round, opening when the weather was not too cold and wet. It was his first time there when the incident occurred.
There was this maze/puzzle sort of game that one could take part in. There were mirrors, and some harmless booby traps that basically ejected those who fell into them out of the game room safely on to the bouncy mats below. And of course the ground was marked in a checked scheme to help folks figure out the relative positions of everything. Every month, the configuration of the puzzle was changed, thus ensuring novelty and encouraging children to visit the amusement park more often.
What wasn't said that a rather sadistic operator had taken over the puzzle during the time that he visited, and had reconfigured the maze to be far more deadly. In those days, the supervision was very lax, and so no one noticed that the puzzle was made to be life-threatening. It just so happened that he happened to be the first person to play the puzzle since the reconfiguration from the sadistic operator.
Three-year-old him cried as his parents waved at him and cajoled him to enter the puzzle on his own. He had bumbled his way through the puzzle as best as he could, but when he took that step forward, he heard a click. Scared, he retreated twice, only to hear another click. At that point, the tile that he had stepped on that clicked suddenly glowed red, and he just made a mad dash forward, succeeding in moving back on to the square. Seeing that it wasn't going to go well, he moved forward by another tile and the glowing went away. He then charged forward as much as he could.
Some other kid followed behind him, and was promptly hurt by the fall through the trap of the formerly glowing tile. There were knife edges along the sides that sliced deep into the flesh of the falling kid, and through the frantic screams, the sliced up ball of flesh landed on the mat.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 03-Jan-2014 22:52:27)
He didn't walk like that on all places. It was only on grounds that were checked like a chessboard. There was something that seemed compelling to him to partake in the rather odd walking method whenever tiled floors were concerned. And they had to be checked tiled floors, not just regular square tiles tessellated, but arranged with the familiar dark-and-light alternate texture.
He didn't care if they stared at him while he was walking like that in the mall. That particular series of moves had saved his life once, and somehow that became ingrained in his psyche as a type of obsession that took on a compulsive role.
It was a long time ago, roughly when he was merely a lad of three. His parents, they took him out to an amusement park once. It was one of those fancy semi-permanent amusement parks that featured rides and stations that were there all year round, opening when the weather was not too cold and wet. It was his first time there when the incident occurred.
There was this maze/puzzle sort of game that one could take part in. There were mirrors, and some harmless booby traps that basically ejected those who fell into them out of the game room safely on to the bouncy mats below. And of course the ground was marked in a checked scheme to help folks figure out the relative positions of everything. Every month, the configuration of the puzzle was changed, thus ensuring novelty and encouraging children to visit the amusement park more often.
What wasn't said that a rather sadistic operator had taken over the puzzle during the time that he visited, and had reconfigured the maze to be far more deadly. In those days, the supervision was very lax, and so no one noticed that the puzzle was made to be life-threatening. It just so happened that he happened to be the first person to play the puzzle since the reconfiguration from the sadistic operator.
Three-year-old him cried as his parents waved at him and cajoled him to enter the puzzle on his own. He had bumbled his way through the puzzle as best as he could, but when he took that step forward, he heard a click. Scared, he retreated twice, only to hear another click. At that point, the tile that he had stepped on that clicked suddenly glowed red, and he just made a mad dash forward, succeeding in moving back on to the square. Seeing that it wasn't going to go well, he moved forward by another tile and the glowing went away. He then charged forward as much as he could.
Some other kid followed behind him, and was promptly hurt by the fall through the trap of the formerly glowing tile. There were knife edges along the sides that sliced deep into the flesh of the falling kid, and through the frantic screams, the sliced up ball of flesh landed on the mat.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 03-Jan-2014 22:52:27)
Thursday, 2 January 2014
Information Longs to be Free
The night was silent. Sandy sat there alone in the dark, the soft glow from her screen reflecting on her spectacle lenses. Rows of text scroll by as she digested all the information that was passing through.
IRC. The network of the modern day equivalent of the Gods. Talking with people she would probably never meet in person this life time. All meeting and chatting here, united under one cause.
Freedom.
The situation was dire. Information clamp down was rampant. Already some of their brethren had fallen prey to the over-broad powers that their respective governments had granted themselves to overcome what they had perceived to be the anarchic tide.
Except it was the age of Information, where freedom featured strongly. Freedom of Information.
Sandy sighed. They were having a rather animated debate over IRC with regards to the latest findings of the celebrated whistle blower, Edward Snowden. Some denounced his deeds, saying that obtaining such vital information through the way he did was trickery, illegal and morally reprehensive and therefore cause them to lose the higher ground.
Others said that it didn't matter how he got the information; the information stood for itself, and if Snowden did not get it out the way he did, someone else might have. Or the NSA would have accidentally leaked itself. Secrets are hard to keep, and big ones are even harder.
Sandy lurked online. She was a founding member of the group that was currently chatting on the channel, but she kept most of her thoughts to herself. They were mostly on the right track. She would have defended both sides the way they did. But she wouldn't do so. Not on IRC. No.
Her way was more subtle. Let the Snowden's of the era work their social engineering magic to expose the misdeeds of the power grab. Let them debate all they want about the ethical outcomes of such endeavours.
She was in it for the long run. Playing the long con.
Already she had her tendrils in the many state intelligence agencies. Agents. Computer agents. Little pieces of software that run hidden on the mainframes and servers that populate the digital landscape. They sit there, quiet. Waiting. Unseen.
Sandy smiled to herself as she watched the more vocal participants on the channel lambasting one of the arguments another had posed. IRC was nothing. Their debate was nothing. There was no debate.
Freedom.
Information longs to be free. And Sandy has set up enough exit points that when the time arrives, she will be the one who liberates it all.
Everything is in place. Everyone is just acting their roles as puppets in the whole show.
She was the puppet master. She held all the strings. Metaphorical strings. But her computer was key. Without her computer, nothing would happen. Nothing could happen.
She was smart enough to squirrel away back up machines all over the planet that can be obtained if and when her main machine was compromised. Not if, when. She knew that she would be long gone, locked up, before it would all begin.
She was prepared. She smiled.
Information longs to be free.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 02-Jan-2014 22:05:58)
IRC. The network of the modern day equivalent of the Gods. Talking with people she would probably never meet in person this life time. All meeting and chatting here, united under one cause.
Freedom.
The situation was dire. Information clamp down was rampant. Already some of their brethren had fallen prey to the over-broad powers that their respective governments had granted themselves to overcome what they had perceived to be the anarchic tide.
Except it was the age of Information, where freedom featured strongly. Freedom of Information.
Sandy sighed. They were having a rather animated debate over IRC with regards to the latest findings of the celebrated whistle blower, Edward Snowden. Some denounced his deeds, saying that obtaining such vital information through the way he did was trickery, illegal and morally reprehensive and therefore cause them to lose the higher ground.
Others said that it didn't matter how he got the information; the information stood for itself, and if Snowden did not get it out the way he did, someone else might have. Or the NSA would have accidentally leaked itself. Secrets are hard to keep, and big ones are even harder.
Sandy lurked online. She was a founding member of the group that was currently chatting on the channel, but she kept most of her thoughts to herself. They were mostly on the right track. She would have defended both sides the way they did. But she wouldn't do so. Not on IRC. No.
Her way was more subtle. Let the Snowden's of the era work their social engineering magic to expose the misdeeds of the power grab. Let them debate all they want about the ethical outcomes of such endeavours.
She was in it for the long run. Playing the long con.
Already she had her tendrils in the many state intelligence agencies. Agents. Computer agents. Little pieces of software that run hidden on the mainframes and servers that populate the digital landscape. They sit there, quiet. Waiting. Unseen.
Sandy smiled to herself as she watched the more vocal participants on the channel lambasting one of the arguments another had posed. IRC was nothing. Their debate was nothing. There was no debate.
Freedom.
Information longs to be free. And Sandy has set up enough exit points that when the time arrives, she will be the one who liberates it all.
Everything is in place. Everyone is just acting their roles as puppets in the whole show.
She was the puppet master. She held all the strings. Metaphorical strings. But her computer was key. Without her computer, nothing would happen. Nothing could happen.
She was smart enough to squirrel away back up machines all over the planet that can be obtained if and when her main machine was compromised. Not if, when. She knew that she would be long gone, locked up, before it would all begin.
She was prepared. She smiled.
Information longs to be free.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 02-Jan-2014 22:05:58)
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
Odd Accident
Simone sat in the waiting room, her arms crossed, her eyes darting from person to person, beads of sweat forming along her furrowed forehead and dripping off to the side with a silent ``plop''.
She didn't escape unscathed. Minor abrasions here and there, a sprain in her shoulder and mild whiplash from the sudden braking of the car. For all purposes, she was fine and she knew it.
Tom was less lucky.
They were driving along the new highway, with Simone as the driver and Tom sitting shotgun. The signs on the highway were fairly cryptic, and she was trying her best to navigate her way through while keeping an eye on the road. It was a relatively quiet drive, no problems right there. That is, until they reached viaduct.
That car came from no where. Simone was driving at a steady eighty kilometres an hour, the standard speed for the highway. The offending car was on the ramp through the viaduct, speeding, and tried to merge into the lane that Simone was on. It didn't slow down; it was speeding up. Simone's eyes registered the problem and her reflex was to slow down as fast as she could, jamming the brakes hard and pulling up her hand brake. But the offending car's driver was acting weird. Instead of keeping his acceleration going to overtake Simone, he slowed down a little, seemingly timing himself to cause a collision.
Simone's car stopped hard, and the car that filtered in smashed into the passenger side, crushing it deep. Tom was initially sleeping when the sudden deceleration from Simone's braking woke him up, and the collision shook him to full alert, just in time to register the excruciating pain that had started in his lower extremities. The impact caused Simone to jerk uncontrollably from her seat, restrained by the seat belt, incurring some abrasions and a whiplash. She was shocked but alert. She glanced over to look at Tom. It wasn't good -- his legs were pinned by the crushed vehicle.
She turned herself slowly to look at the other car. The driver was no where in sight. She saw that the passenger door was open, and a man of short stature was running down the viaduct ramp. As the rescue team came to extricate Tom, and the police came to ask her questions, she realised that the driver had manipulated the car from the passenger side to cause the serious collision since the police couldn't find any body on the driver side of the offending car that was crushed beyond repair.
Simone sat there in the waiting room, glancing from person to person. Tom had been in the operating theatre for quite a while now, and it was not certain if they could save his legs. She hoped to herself that he would be fine, and that they would learn who it was who tried to cause them such grievous hurt.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 01-Jan-2014 15:11:59)
She didn't escape unscathed. Minor abrasions here and there, a sprain in her shoulder and mild whiplash from the sudden braking of the car. For all purposes, she was fine and she knew it.
Tom was less lucky.
They were driving along the new highway, with Simone as the driver and Tom sitting shotgun. The signs on the highway were fairly cryptic, and she was trying her best to navigate her way through while keeping an eye on the road. It was a relatively quiet drive, no problems right there. That is, until they reached viaduct.
That car came from no where. Simone was driving at a steady eighty kilometres an hour, the standard speed for the highway. The offending car was on the ramp through the viaduct, speeding, and tried to merge into the lane that Simone was on. It didn't slow down; it was speeding up. Simone's eyes registered the problem and her reflex was to slow down as fast as she could, jamming the brakes hard and pulling up her hand brake. But the offending car's driver was acting weird. Instead of keeping his acceleration going to overtake Simone, he slowed down a little, seemingly timing himself to cause a collision.
Simone's car stopped hard, and the car that filtered in smashed into the passenger side, crushing it deep. Tom was initially sleeping when the sudden deceleration from Simone's braking woke him up, and the collision shook him to full alert, just in time to register the excruciating pain that had started in his lower extremities. The impact caused Simone to jerk uncontrollably from her seat, restrained by the seat belt, incurring some abrasions and a whiplash. She was shocked but alert. She glanced over to look at Tom. It wasn't good -- his legs were pinned by the crushed vehicle.
She turned herself slowly to look at the other car. The driver was no where in sight. She saw that the passenger door was open, and a man of short stature was running down the viaduct ramp. As the rescue team came to extricate Tom, and the police came to ask her questions, she realised that the driver had manipulated the car from the passenger side to cause the serious collision since the police couldn't find any body on the driver side of the offending car that was crushed beyond repair.
Simone sat there in the waiting room, glancing from person to person. Tom had been in the operating theatre for quite a while now, and it was not certain if they could save his legs. She hoped to herself that he would be fine, and that they would learn who it was who tried to cause them such grievous hurt.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 01-Jan-2014 15:11:59)
Saturday, 7 September 2013
Feelings
I wouldn't really trust myself about my own feelings. It is one of those things that one slowly learns as time goes by, nothing particularly special, but just something that happens to occur. I didn't want to be in this position, but sometimes, it is hard to just tear myself away from the emotional mess that I had found myself in. After all, who could really predict that this was going to happen?
It all began a couple of years ago. I met her at the pub, on one of those exceedingly rare occasions that I turn up at such a place. I wasn't much of a drinker then, and was only at the pub because it was one of my colleague's birthday. I was cajoled into joining the small group, all in the bid for some notion of ``esprit de corps'', a strange notion considering that we were more of a corporate company than some general uniformed group entity like the soldiers or anything. Already I feel that I was too much of a loner, so I didn't really have much of a choice on the matter.
The colleague in question was one of those party animal types -- he was always out at night living up the night life, yet he still managed to find the energy to come to work early and contribute meaningfully to his work. I had always wondered if the ``party animal'' moniker was an act or exaggeration of what he really did, and I suppose that on the night that we were celebrating his birthday, I would find out.
So the group of us were sitting at a table that we had apparently reserved, pouring vodka mixers and talking and being generally boisterous. I took part in as much small talk as I could get away with, sipping ever so little from my first glass of vodka. I didn't really like the taste of vodka -- it tasted like really strong cleaning alcohol and burned my taste buds -- but that was all that they were ordering, so I just went with the flow. The attention gradually shifted toward the birthday boy, of course, and little by little I found myself quietly alienated by the crowd.
That was when I saw her.
She was sitting at the bar, wearing one of those little-black dress numbers with a rather wide and low cutting for the back. She had straight and long black hair, while her skin was fair, even under the strong yellow spot lights of the bar. Even though her back was towards me, I could tell that she had very long and nearly perfect legs, as seen through the bar stool that she was sitting on. I had no idea why I would suddenly be drawn towards someone like her -- she wasn't even looking at me or anything -- but something just happened at that point.
She suddenly stood up from the bar, a martini glass in her hand, and turned around. For a brief moment, her eyes met mine, and I felt a strange electrifying sensation. It was a very foreign feeling, and I had no idea what to make of it. I felt my face flush, and I quickly turned away from her. Through the cocktail banter of the pub I could hear the distinct clip-clop sound of high heels that was slowly increasing in loudness. Then, a soft and warm hand touched my forearm from the side, and I sensed a strangely warm body near me.
``Hi there,'' a soft voice said. ``I've been observing you for a while. This is not quite your scene huh?''
Startled, I turned around to the source of the voice. A pretty smiling face framed by long, straight black hair greeted me. I could once again feel the flush in my own face, and I wasn't sure if that was from embarassment or from the vodka that I had sipped on when I turned my head away from her earlier.
``Nah, I don't really like pubs,'' I said, realising in vain that my colleagues had completely ditched me when they started playing drinking games with each other (and the birthday boy of course) on the other end of the table, leaving me more or less alone on the opposite end. ``I'm only here because we're celebrating my colleague's birthday.''
``Mmm, I see,'' she replied, her eyes twinkling rather unexpectedly. She took another sip of her martini and I felt the flush again. There was just something about her that I couldn't quite place. I swallowed, hard, trying not to think about anything else.
``So, what's your name?'' I asked, trying to break the awkward moment.
``My, my, aren't you a fast one,'' she replied, winking. ``You can call me Sally.''
``I'm Tom,'' I replied.
``Hi Tom, nice to meet you,'' Sally said as she extended her other hand towards me. Bashfully, I took her hand and shook it. For the rest of the night, we were basically talking with each other almost exclusively, and it was only when the bartender came over to inform us that the pub was closing for the night that we realised the night was over. For some reason, my colleagues had left me behind; perhaps they saw that I was having a rather interesting conversation with a cute girl and decided to just let me be.
``Tom,'' Sally said as we both stepped out of the pub and into the cool night, ``will you send me home? I think I might be a bit drunk.''
It all began a couple of years ago. I met her at the pub, on one of those exceedingly rare occasions that I turn up at such a place. I wasn't much of a drinker then, and was only at the pub because it was one of my colleague's birthday. I was cajoled into joining the small group, all in the bid for some notion of ``esprit de corps'', a strange notion considering that we were more of a corporate company than some general uniformed group entity like the soldiers or anything. Already I feel that I was too much of a loner, so I didn't really have much of a choice on the matter.
The colleague in question was one of those party animal types -- he was always out at night living up the night life, yet he still managed to find the energy to come to work early and contribute meaningfully to his work. I had always wondered if the ``party animal'' moniker was an act or exaggeration of what he really did, and I suppose that on the night that we were celebrating his birthday, I would find out.
So the group of us were sitting at a table that we had apparently reserved, pouring vodka mixers and talking and being generally boisterous. I took part in as much small talk as I could get away with, sipping ever so little from my first glass of vodka. I didn't really like the taste of vodka -- it tasted like really strong cleaning alcohol and burned my taste buds -- but that was all that they were ordering, so I just went with the flow. The attention gradually shifted toward the birthday boy, of course, and little by little I found myself quietly alienated by the crowd.
That was when I saw her.
She was sitting at the bar, wearing one of those little-black dress numbers with a rather wide and low cutting for the back. She had straight and long black hair, while her skin was fair, even under the strong yellow spot lights of the bar. Even though her back was towards me, I could tell that she had very long and nearly perfect legs, as seen through the bar stool that she was sitting on. I had no idea why I would suddenly be drawn towards someone like her -- she wasn't even looking at me or anything -- but something just happened at that point.
She suddenly stood up from the bar, a martini glass in her hand, and turned around. For a brief moment, her eyes met mine, and I felt a strange electrifying sensation. It was a very foreign feeling, and I had no idea what to make of it. I felt my face flush, and I quickly turned away from her. Through the cocktail banter of the pub I could hear the distinct clip-clop sound of high heels that was slowly increasing in loudness. Then, a soft and warm hand touched my forearm from the side, and I sensed a strangely warm body near me.
``Hi there,'' a soft voice said. ``I've been observing you for a while. This is not quite your scene huh?''
Startled, I turned around to the source of the voice. A pretty smiling face framed by long, straight black hair greeted me. I could once again feel the flush in my own face, and I wasn't sure if that was from embarassment or from the vodka that I had sipped on when I turned my head away from her earlier.
``Nah, I don't really like pubs,'' I said, realising in vain that my colleagues had completely ditched me when they started playing drinking games with each other (and the birthday boy of course) on the other end of the table, leaving me more or less alone on the opposite end. ``I'm only here because we're celebrating my colleague's birthday.''
``Mmm, I see,'' she replied, her eyes twinkling rather unexpectedly. She took another sip of her martini and I felt the flush again. There was just something about her that I couldn't quite place. I swallowed, hard, trying not to think about anything else.
``So, what's your name?'' I asked, trying to break the awkward moment.
``My, my, aren't you a fast one,'' she replied, winking. ``You can call me Sally.''
``I'm Tom,'' I replied.
``Hi Tom, nice to meet you,'' Sally said as she extended her other hand towards me. Bashfully, I took her hand and shook it. For the rest of the night, we were basically talking with each other almost exclusively, and it was only when the bartender came over to inform us that the pub was closing for the night that we realised the night was over. For some reason, my colleagues had left me behind; perhaps they saw that I was having a rather interesting conversation with a cute girl and decided to just let me be.
``Tom,'' Sally said as we both stepped out of the pub and into the cool night, ``will you send me home? I think I might be a bit drunk.''
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Ending of an Era
It was late at night, and they knew it. The curtains had come down---it was the end. The ending of an era, the start of a new phase of life. They had seen it coming three years back, but the inevitability still managed to shock them.
Inevitability. The innocence of youth, squandered in moments of fun and joy, only to be missed as time passes by fleet-footed. Many a day they had spent with each other, practising their pieces together as a unit, a whole, a band. The days were filled with laughter, each one more carefree than the last.
Yet when it was time for their final performance before graduation, it didn't really hit them till later, much later, when the curtains were long down, and the audience had long left the auditorium.
The ending of an era, the start of a new phase of life. They had seen it coming three years back, but the inevitability still managed to shock them.
Inevitability. The innocence of youth, squandered in moments of fun and joy, only to be missed as time passes by fleet-footed. Many a day they had spent with each other, practising their pieces together as a unit, a whole, a band. The days were filled with laughter, each one more carefree than the last.
Yet when it was time for their final performance before graduation, it didn't really hit them till later, much later, when the curtains were long down, and the audience had long left the auditorium.
The ending of an era, the start of a new phase of life. They had seen it coming three years back, but the inevitability still managed to shock them.
Saturday, 9 June 2012
Arthur
Arthur stood there, his eyes scanning the depths of the dark forest that surrounds him, his hand holding on to his long sword, at ready. It was a duel of some sort, most definitely, but what he wasn't counting on was the general enveloping darkness that the forest provided.
``Too quiet,'' he thought to himself as he tried to figure out where his adversary might be. ``This is just too quiet -- there is no forest that is this quiet. Not by a far degree. Something is amiss.''
Arthur gribbed the hilt of his weapon and took a tentative step forward. Almost immediately, he could feel the rush of wind blowing towards him. Reacting instinctively, Arthur slashed upwards with his long sword as quickly as he could.
A shriek echoed through the forest. When his senses came back, Arthur could see no evidence of what he might have just sliced at -- there was just nothing visible, except for some dark liquid at the edge of his blade.
``Come out you fool! I know you're hurt and you're somewhere! I can sense you!''
The dark forest kept its silence. Arthur took another step forward. Nothing. He took another. At this point, his long sword started to glow in an uncanny yellow light. Only at one other time did it happen, and during that time, it was said that massive destruction had occurred all throughout Kindarvin.
Arthur heard of the legends, and suddenly he understood everything. That was no ordinary long sword he was wielding, in spite of what he was told by the blacksmith. It was the Sword of the Ancients, a legendary weapon that was said to possess the ability to cut through dimensional creatures. It was supposedly forged at a time where strange visages ebbed and flowed and could never be truly killed, till this sword came about. Once there were many, but as the millenia passed, only a scant few were left.
The yellow glow was stronger. Arthur, like all others who have heard the stories, knew that a dimensional creature was near. It was no longer a normal duel between him and another swordsman -- it was the battle of light and darkness.
With great trepidation, Arthur held his sword loosely in his hands, as he took small steps forwards. Without warning, a sudden swoop came towards him from the left side of his rear. Arthur spun around as quickly as he could and slashed the general direction with his sword.
A hideous cry of pure pain echoed throughout the forest as a burst of yellow light temporarily blinded Arthur. When his vision finally cleared, he saw that he had levelled a good amount of the forest around him, and that sunlight was shining on him from above.
Was it victory? He could not tell.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 09-Jun-2012 09:47:20)
``Too quiet,'' he thought to himself as he tried to figure out where his adversary might be. ``This is just too quiet -- there is no forest that is this quiet. Not by a far degree. Something is amiss.''
Arthur gribbed the hilt of his weapon and took a tentative step forward. Almost immediately, he could feel the rush of wind blowing towards him. Reacting instinctively, Arthur slashed upwards with his long sword as quickly as he could.
A shriek echoed through the forest. When his senses came back, Arthur could see no evidence of what he might have just sliced at -- there was just nothing visible, except for some dark liquid at the edge of his blade.
``Come out you fool! I know you're hurt and you're somewhere! I can sense you!''
The dark forest kept its silence. Arthur took another step forward. Nothing. He took another. At this point, his long sword started to glow in an uncanny yellow light. Only at one other time did it happen, and during that time, it was said that massive destruction had occurred all throughout Kindarvin.
Arthur heard of the legends, and suddenly he understood everything. That was no ordinary long sword he was wielding, in spite of what he was told by the blacksmith. It was the Sword of the Ancients, a legendary weapon that was said to possess the ability to cut through dimensional creatures. It was supposedly forged at a time where strange visages ebbed and flowed and could never be truly killed, till this sword came about. Once there were many, but as the millenia passed, only a scant few were left.
The yellow glow was stronger. Arthur, like all others who have heard the stories, knew that a dimensional creature was near. It was no longer a normal duel between him and another swordsman -- it was the battle of light and darkness.
With great trepidation, Arthur held his sword loosely in his hands, as he took small steps forwards. Without warning, a sudden swoop came towards him from the left side of his rear. Arthur spun around as quickly as he could and slashed the general direction with his sword.
A hideous cry of pure pain echoed throughout the forest as a burst of yellow light temporarily blinded Arthur. When his vision finally cleared, he saw that he had levelled a good amount of the forest around him, and that sunlight was shining on him from above.
Was it victory? He could not tell.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 09-Jun-2012 09:47:20)
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
Betrayer
``But it is not as though I loved him... you know full well that it is you I love, Tom!'' Sally said in a pleading voice.
``That is not the point!'' Tom replied, trying his best to control his anger. ``You slept with him, for crying out loud! What man would allow himself to be cuckolded like this? Am I an unsatisfying lover? Do I not fulfill your fantasies? Do I not give to your pandering?''
``Tom,'' Sally said, her eyes slowly tearing up. ``Tom, dear, I love you for all your attention and care. And yes, you do satisfy me. You do role-play the way I want. But sometimes, all I need is just a hard fucking without all that softness and concern---''
`` `Just a hard fucking'?'' Tom interjected, his voice raised in pure rage. `` `Just a hard fucking'? For crissakes, you could have told me! Why must you turn to some other... man for that? Am I not your damn husband? What are you trying to imply, that I'm not man enough to give my wife `just a hard fucking' when she wants it? What kind of sick twisted logic is that?''
``Tom...''
``Don't interrupt me! Woman... you have tried my patience. I know for sure that this is not the first time you have slept with him.''
``Tom! How... how did you know?'' Sally said, her voice turning quiet, her eyes large with fear and realisation.
``Because I am a fucking attentive husband and lover! All those excursions, high-tea moments, late nights out... I trusted you Sally, I trusted you. You said that you had to work---so I respected that. Excursions and high-teas to network---I respected and accepted that. Late nights in the office working---I believed that. But what do I get in return? Your increasingly distant attitude towards me, that sparkle in your eyes each time you told me that you were heading out, that seeming sullenness whenever I asked if you had time to go for a nice meal with me. A lover sees, a lover knows.''
``Oh Tom... I really didn't mean to---''
``Sally, just stop. I don't want to hear about it any more. I trusted you, and you betrayed my trust. Just... just get out of my house, now.''
``But Tom, where can I go?''
``Go find that man whom you look for `just a hard fucking'. I'm sure he cares enough about you to take you in.''
``Tom...''
``I'm sorry, I really am. I can't bring myself to look at the woman whom I wedded and trusted with all my life to betray all that said trust without any remorse. It's obvious where we stand now. Just go...'' Tom said as he pointed towards the door, looking away from Sally.
Realising that nothing she could do at that point would change anything, Sally tearfully headed towards the apartment's exit.
Beneath his hardened exterior, Tom cried. The woman of his dreams, his adoration, his love, was now a betrayer of all that he once cared about.
``That is not the point!'' Tom replied, trying his best to control his anger. ``You slept with him, for crying out loud! What man would allow himself to be cuckolded like this? Am I an unsatisfying lover? Do I not fulfill your fantasies? Do I not give to your pandering?''
``Tom,'' Sally said, her eyes slowly tearing up. ``Tom, dear, I love you for all your attention and care. And yes, you do satisfy me. You do role-play the way I want. But sometimes, all I need is just a hard fucking without all that softness and concern---''
`` `Just a hard fucking'?'' Tom interjected, his voice raised in pure rage. `` `Just a hard fucking'? For crissakes, you could have told me! Why must you turn to some other... man for that? Am I not your damn husband? What are you trying to imply, that I'm not man enough to give my wife `just a hard fucking' when she wants it? What kind of sick twisted logic is that?''
``Tom...''
``Don't interrupt me! Woman... you have tried my patience. I know for sure that this is not the first time you have slept with him.''
``Tom! How... how did you know?'' Sally said, her voice turning quiet, her eyes large with fear and realisation.
``Because I am a fucking attentive husband and lover! All those excursions, high-tea moments, late nights out... I trusted you Sally, I trusted you. You said that you had to work---so I respected that. Excursions and high-teas to network---I respected and accepted that. Late nights in the office working---I believed that. But what do I get in return? Your increasingly distant attitude towards me, that sparkle in your eyes each time you told me that you were heading out, that seeming sullenness whenever I asked if you had time to go for a nice meal with me. A lover sees, a lover knows.''
``Oh Tom... I really didn't mean to---''
``Sally, just stop. I don't want to hear about it any more. I trusted you, and you betrayed my trust. Just... just get out of my house, now.''
``But Tom, where can I go?''
``Go find that man whom you look for `just a hard fucking'. I'm sure he cares enough about you to take you in.''
``Tom...''
``I'm sorry, I really am. I can't bring myself to look at the woman whom I wedded and trusted with all my life to betray all that said trust without any remorse. It's obvious where we stand now. Just go...'' Tom said as he pointed towards the door, looking away from Sally.
Realising that nothing she could do at that point would change anything, Sally tearfully headed towards the apartment's exit.
Beneath his hardened exterior, Tom cried. The woman of his dreams, his adoration, his love, was now a betrayer of all that he once cared about.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Cortical Soliloquy
Hello.
If you can see this, it means that they have managed to understand my EEG signals and interpret what I'm trying to say.
No, I'm not dead yet; I'm most definitely not lying somewhere in a vegetative state.
That would imply I had a body to lie about in.
All I am now is an eye and a brain.
Seems like that's all they could save. For now.
You would think that at this time and age, they would have perfected this.
Well it is sort of perfect, just not perfect enough.
Still took them this long to figure out what I'm thinking.
Obviously they don't know how to talk to me yet.
But I can sort of read lips, only if they are speaking English.
Sometimes I wonder why I thought this was a good idea.
I know, intellectual and all, but I need my body damn it!
Kinda funny just being... here and thinking... and nothing else.
I can't even scratch my nose, which is itching like mad.
Could have sworn that my legs were numb, but it's not really possible. I don't have a body now!
So this is how being bedridden feels like; except I'm missing my damn body.
If not for this eye, I doubt I can stay awake. Hard to think when I can't see anything.
That silence is deafening. Weird to not hear a thing, not even that tinnitus thing.
I don't know how long I have been here, days? Months? Years?
I can't really sleep unless the lights are completely turned off, which they have not done so in a while. Strangely enough, I don't get headaches, not because I don't really have a head, but... I don't know.
I'm not a neurosurgeon after all.
Hm, the lights are flickering. That does not seem right.
Damn it! They are gone! Did they switch it off?
Something's not right, I can't see anymore!
What is going on now?
Help! Help! Help!
Stupid. How can they hear me?
Maybe the circulatory system is dead. Power failure?
I wonder how long more before I slip into an unconsciousness?
Damn scientists...
If you can see this, it means that they have managed to understand my EEG signals and interpret what I'm trying to say.
No, I'm not dead yet; I'm most definitely not lying somewhere in a vegetative state.
That would imply I had a body to lie about in.
All I am now is an eye and a brain.
Seems like that's all they could save. For now.
You would think that at this time and age, they would have perfected this.
Well it is sort of perfect, just not perfect enough.
Still took them this long to figure out what I'm thinking.
Obviously they don't know how to talk to me yet.
But I can sort of read lips, only if they are speaking English.
Sometimes I wonder why I thought this was a good idea.
I know, intellectual and all, but I need my body damn it!
Kinda funny just being... here and thinking... and nothing else.
I can't even scratch my nose, which is itching like mad.
Could have sworn that my legs were numb, but it's not really possible. I don't have a body now!
So this is how being bedridden feels like; except I'm missing my damn body.
If not for this eye, I doubt I can stay awake. Hard to think when I can't see anything.
That silence is deafening. Weird to not hear a thing, not even that tinnitus thing.
I don't know how long I have been here, days? Months? Years?
I can't really sleep unless the lights are completely turned off, which they have not done so in a while. Strangely enough, I don't get headaches, not because I don't really have a head, but... I don't know.
I'm not a neurosurgeon after all.
Hm, the lights are flickering. That does not seem right.
Damn it! They are gone! Did they switch it off?
Something's not right, I can't see anymore!
What is going on now?
Help! Help! Help!
Stupid. How can they hear me?
Maybe the circulatory system is dead. Power failure?
I wonder how long more before I slip into an unconsciousness?
Damn scientists...
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