Vertical Nautilus

Dancing light

2008-12-11T23:41:00.000-08:00

Across the sky
I will come for you
If you ask me to
Demystify
Your uncommon dreams
Stranger things have come true

"Across The Sky" -Emilie Autumn

Dancing light
Waving skies
Partly obscured
The sun shines

2008-11-09T19:24:00.000-08:00

A soppy Valentines' Day poem. Not what I could do, but I found it in a notebook I thought lost. Digging up memories.

Written: 11 June 2008

Dashing, running with all fears abandon
Straight into the day of all hopes
Lest that dream become a fragment
Of wistfulness, of life eroded

Gazinf with wide eyes at the passing crowd
In the covered walkway, in strong sun
Though a smile would set hearts aflutter
Waiting still seems to be better

Maybe therw would be another meeting today
Yet, in the empty day's retrest
Though the hand might be lonely
The heart only warms of 'if only'.

hope and emotion.

2008-11-09T19:15:00.000-08:00

Written: 7 June 2008

I have been trying to find myself all along
Looking at images finding a semblance among
figures wrapped in dresses crossing the street
books with all pretty stories laid in it
getting caught up with chasing dreams
winsome things
tired little bothersome things
the colours and sights spin so fast
'tis hard; to catch breath and make it last
I see the end as I turn around
and everything looks the same as it sounds
Been hiding in corners
watching prowling shadows of
past friends and lovers
Wondering who would give and try
saving the last dances for someone like me
Or would from vain reverie wake me tenderly
Forgetting purposes, drifting ad infinitum
looking forward to something
Yet looms the uncertainty and fear of finding nothing
I turn weary, time stops still
Be guided into joys or sorrows
The tiny voice still says
to anticipate a tomorrow

fog

2008-11-09T19:14:00.000-08:00

the fog treads noiselessly
on soft kitten paws
frolicking
amongst rolling waves
wisps curling round corners

reasons.

2008-11-09T18:58:00.000-08:00

He looked up at her with empathy the size of a marble.

There were reasons to almose everything--including why she handed in her resignation letter this afternoon. Over a simple lunch, her superior had demanded an explanation to it. She had tried, although not in the most polite of attempts, to tell her the aftermath of the incident, of which had caused a major commotion among her colleagues, had left her feeling too abashed to even set foot past the automated glass doors of the company for a second time, hearing the hushed whispers grate on her ears. Moreover, the situation was made even worse by her bosses, them having abdicated all responsibility in this affair. Hackles were reaised throughout the company and information spread like wildfire, some even leaking out to the press, heralding greater humiliation. It was all too much for her to take.

Besides this, Belimda Sandlers had also many current issues, many of these being annoyingly disturbing to the extremes. One such issue was that of her son Jeff, who, according to the teachers, had displayed abberant behaviour and was swiftly becoming a problematic student. She had already tried to explain but after not being taken seriously, desisted. If Jeff was not committing an offence or abetting someone else to do it, it was fine. Maybe he was just as sick of life as she was. Well, there was no cause for concern. There were reasons to almost everything. Almost.

a prayer.

2008-11-05T23:37:00.000-08:00

Written: nearly two years ago.

Dear Lord thou art whom in heaven,
As I get through this day
If it is Your Will, keep me in thy sight
In every possible way

Help me to put stormy skies
Out of my sight always
Trusting and relying on you
To lead me to better days

Help me to do thy Will
No matter how strong lures may be
To put you first in all I do
The heavenly view in faith I see

When at times I snare my foot in a thicket
Or thought your care wasn't enough
Teach me patience, lead me away
As I tread the narrow path

Not only for me but my friends
Who walk this way with me
Take them also into thy mercy and care
For a friend is as close as a friend can be

For the oppressed and the poor
The sick and the dying
I pray that you'll give them comfort
Neath the shelter of thy wings

Also for the lost in this world today
Is it nothing but a blessing to bo Your children
If only they could know you
Help them Lord with wisdom to learn

Lastly I pray that if it is your Will
That your blessings you may send
For this I sincerely pray dear Father
In Jesus' name, amen.

unimportant notice of change

2008-11-05T20:54:00.000-08:00

I would need a relink, if indeed people do link to this blog.

Willow Swans is Willow Swans no longer! Vertical Nautilus, a revamped name.

I used to think that revamped meant...oh nevermind. If I confessed, people would laugh.

Under the Lights

2008-11-05T20:23:00.000-08:00

It has been a long time, hmm? Little inspiration, but this came about today when I was flipping through old books. I count myself too naive for full-blown romances, but with a bitter tinge of death? I can accomplish that.

Hasty, but up to my standards.

Under the Lights

The sun had disappeared by the time her muddy boots met firm ground. The weather had undergone a metamorphosis: it was no longer sultry and sticky; the night’s cool breeze embraced her exposed areas of skin. It was refreshing, to be lured away from…but she had come here for a purpose. The dark, saturnine pallor of the sky reflected what seemed like archaic emotions: semi-love, semi-hate with a strong stain of regret. She suppressed the rising tide of trepidation trapped like a frantic bird in her chest and hurried on, dithering only occasionally, unsure of her next step. So much had changed.

It was partly her fault she felt hidden emotions awaken. Her life had been stable, but dreary. These years had been fulfilling, with a small town surrounded by the countryside. A cosy little nest where good things grow. However the past still refused to leave her. It amazed her how it could stalk her, a beast in the night intent on one victim. It frightened her to the point of paranoia, drained her of her energy, wasting away her sleepless nights. It showed: her students at the university had enquired if she had been in poor health lately. The past itself had vanished, but the traces the lingered in her unconsciousness and manifested itself even in everyday events were sufficient to arouse the sleeping memories that would bring it all back.

Really, Madeline, she chided herself, till now you’re still so frightened. She should not be, but as she pushed away another leaf frond, took another step, the picture of the past was coming into sharper focus. It was true; her fear still immutable, resisting erosion from time. It struck her as an old actress whose celebrity status had since flickered and died out, returning to her stage of old, now ruined, missing the razzmatazz, the atmosphere, the clamour of an encore, yet addled by change. It was like that, the only thing different being the intervention of reality. Hers was not a stage. The recapitulation was a stinging slap to her face.

She was on tenterhooks, of the house where she used to live in, the scene replaying forever in her mind, an endless cycle that would send her sprawling, down the path to insanity if she did not set her mind to put a stop to this. A night to remember, or one to grieve over. She wondered vaguely how it would look like, after her absence. It could be a contrivance, a trick, an illusion conjured out of the blue by a passing imp. Yes, she could believe that, too, only that someone had swapped the cards of her life with blithe satisfaction. A hedonist, yes. No wonder she was suffering.

She stepped, easily, over a stone in her path.

Oh Guela, if only you could see me now. Her thoughts dripped with rancour but this shielded her from the dismal thoughts that would cloud her mind, rendering her catatonic. Her husband was nowhere near her, unsurprisingly. She remembered his artifice when they were children, racing each other through the streets and alleyways, though they were reminded for the nth time: only paupers muck about. They became friends when their parents were running their own businesses. She was only nine, and her troubles cast in the wind so they bothered no one. He, too, was nine, with an adventurous spirit and a lanky frame that fitted him through most narrow spaces and doors left ajar. Technically children of higher social status had music education and were generally known to have tastes for aesthetic appreciation. However, in addition to that, there were ‘free’ periods where they each slipped out from their residences, meeting in the city square and had adventures of their own. Madeline refused to be a confined child. As far as she was concerned, she was a free maiden. He threw pebbles at her window whenever he passed.

They parted when Guela’s family moved away, but were reunited in a chance meeting in a grand party. The mischievous lad that had accompanied her had transformed into a remarkably handsome, mature adolescent, with sharp, well-moulded patrician features. There was no denying that she had changed; lost her playfulness, gaining graces and decorum. That mask of insouciance he wore the night they met obscured a sedulous, caring youth, charming her once again with sly satire and witticism, ever felicitous of words. She, too, was her own word-meister. His passion for music bestirred her to once again take up singing while he played compositions of his own on the piano.

Their typical, rather ostentatious dressing permitted nothing more than perambulations down the streets. Soon it became evident that their jovial times together had moved to—her mother’s words—‘greater things’. He began courting her tirelessly, plainly for ‘the romantic interlude between introduction and marriage’. Replete with poetic pleas and declarations that though a tad overdone (and that he bungled it on his first attempt by forgetting the words halfway through), it pleased her to no end; he was often rewarded with a shy smile and blushing cheeks. But she was just lucky to be treated like a precious member of the family rather than a possession, an object under the scrutinizing gazes of the city’s snobbish mercenaries.

As they knew they would, they were married on a sweltering summer afternoon in July. As the aristocratic families would have it, complete with a florid banquet comprising of guests by the hundreds, most of which they never knew. All thoughts of excess and barbaric lavishness were vanquished at the ceremony. Perspiring profusely in her wedding gown they exchanged vows and at the kiss she knew her life was changing forever.

A far-fetched romance, some would exclaim, ‘tis not true. She would only smile, like a magician who still keeps her tricks, and look away. She wished, earnestly, that none of it had come to pass.

She bit her lip as she rounded yet another tree, ruminating on the events.

They moved away from everyone else, settling on a mansion atop a hill, where the city lights were seen at night from the third floor windows. The mansion was neither impressive, nor intimidating, but it looked on the city as a kindly guardian. He helped with managing the business affairs back with his father, and life was led well. She made sure that every night, when he returned, drained and occasionally frustrated, she would be at the door to welcome him home, a listener to his woes, a sagacious and caring wife. She felt that this was the least she could do. She bore him three children. She felt this was the pinnacle of her life, abloom with promising things.

Sublime youth, she was only sixteen, back then.

But then, he tired of her.

The reason was unclear, and she was left in the dark, as his homecoming hours dragged on to the wee hours of the morning. She lacked the stamina to wait that long. Sometimes he would not even be home at all! Gradually his affected gestures became more noticeable. She did not deserve this: his laconic replies, when tender-heartedness turned officious. She brooded, even prayed about it, puzzled at his sudden change of character. Her kind and loving husband was not supposed to treat her this way. She tried to read between the lines, to uncover what had gone wrong, but it was onerous to do it daily.

At the end of the day, when he apologised to her, if at all, that seemed to wipe the records of hurt away. She reflected on it. I was such a fool.

Her fists clenched as the trudged up the path.

She swore under her breath she would never commit the same mistake, never again.

That night, she had returned after visiting some relatives to find Guela in the arms of another woman. The woman’s skin, she perceived had been originally porcelain white, but now it had a mottled texture. Her dressing showed more skin than what public company would have allowed. He, however, neither looked at her nor attempted to issue an explanation of the situation.

The explanation would be poorly-constructed, given such a scene. But still, she would have appreciated it.

Where had she gone wrong?

She had departed, now she came to revisit her past, its shadows haunting her for the past fifteen years. She had no wrongdoing that day, but still…

She paused, at last, in front of a clearing. The fountains and garden paths had remained intact, the gates swathed in wild plants from neglect. The ground was burned black where house once stood.

She had sat the curtains on fire when she fled.

She had watched as the tongues of flame licked into every room.

She had stood at this exact spot, casting her eyes on the orange glow from the windows, the frantically darting shadows within.

When she remembered her children, it was already too late.

She found a comfortable spot to sit down. A clump of yellow flowers grew a few feet away from her. It reminded her of one of their escapades. He had taken her, once, up to a hill where nature had conquered. At that vantage, one could see the city artfully lighted. Like a birthday cake. The golden glittering lights were beautiful, as the yellow marigold in her hand. So was the youth who had given them to her.

And something else, which she now removed from her coat pocket. A blade of about five centimetres. He had given it to her that day, telling her not to be downtrodden, promising better things for the future. He also said if she used it to end her life, it would be as if her blood was shed by him.

He had given her a reassuring pat, as they sat beside each other to watch the city and the stars above.

The knife nestled in her right palm. His promises had gone to waste, like the wine they had drunk during the banquet. He was wrong. There were no better things.

She gripped the handle tightly, his memento to her, for their better days. Despite his faults, she still missed him.

With a swift linear movement she thrust it into her heart.

There isn't much to say

2008-09-30T22:10:00.000-07:00

There isn't much to say (29 September 2008)

You've come here on your own; there isn't much to be said
They've gone silent, I had them locked in a cell
If you don't tape them up, much stories of us they tell
The hourse is surrounded by curtains heavy with dust
It rots but forgets even that time has passed
Wait for the sable uncertainty in the night
Feeling the dry rattle of a winter's sigh
You'd think it wouldn't bother me
As I take the world on a misfit spree
Maybe it did, maybe otherwise
But we don't have time to cry
The sun's still up, you should leave now, come
When the lunatics are here there'll be nowhere to run
My stories are told through the creaking floorboards
They're misused, but no one's taken to fault
Sundown is a time to shareWith others such as those in the air
Or them hiding in nooks and crannies
When they kill you it's not even funny
I'm very sorry you have to go for surgery
Without anaesthesia you'll even do it for me
There's nothing wrong wiht you once cross-examined
But with those doctors you can't be sure you're clean
Quickly now patch the wounds with my sewing kit
Though you could do it too with lies and deceit
Then rush out quickly as a flap-happy bird
But break a wing and you'll go down first
The hoary darkness swallows you and no one could care less
Well you see they're much too occupied with their own distress
Toodles! They're cutting you up on nights without a spark
Though you can't see, I'll be sitting with you in the dark

The Flood

2008-08-29T23:06:00.000-07:00

There would be something about it
That dismisses it as but a trivial dream
Reality's off a little bit
The light of hope is just a flickering gleam

They didn't believe it, not a bit perturbed
But who were they to blame
If I had stood there that day I'm sure
I would walk away all the same

Wood upon wood carefully laid
Only eight holding on to the dimming sun
Over mocking crowds, though it was said
Why, that day would never come

The sky split and poured down
And the keeper of lives swept away and away
To see ground swallowed by a watery gown
To see clean soil again someday

How did he feel when it wouldn't cease raining
Glimpsing the remnants of the living floating past
Perhaps the glowing warmth of relief, praising
That the Ark was made to last

accident

2008-08-29T23:01:00.000-07:00

Written:25 August 2008

star-crossed lovers on silver fields
secrets they whisper, tear-split dreams they have
under the cover of darkness to share

a gunshot never stirs the wind and mist
fervid exchanges under the eyes of the moon and cloudless sky
sublime passions weaves hopes, sighs, spider silk

senseless by strong dreams, love never issues subtle warnings
stumbling; laughter caresses the wind. the edge
closer, closer. then the gust carries a shrieking ejaculation floating in vain
the crevasse goes silent, a lone shadow peers over the blackness

blackness in heart, broken over carelessness

Illusions.

2008-08-26T08:59:00.000-07:00

How does one believe what one sees? Written: 22 Aug 2008

Illusions

Unnerving stares of insouciant doors
Out of the keyhole I see myself
On the other side my disquieting gaze
Is horrifying my vision moves fills with
Descending vultures encircling my sky

Crowd noises in laughable cacophony
Stop to think it's useless shutting my ears
My eyes do not distinguish peace
From cracking ice my refutations
Do not come through

What's in a name what is a
Maze only things clouding my vision
Heaving drapes and mournful scraping
The cries assail the self chained while
Disillusioned in perpetuity

Night weaves herself a gown
Glistens lovelier than mine a bed in finest comfort
What I see will never be as
Everything seems no one can tell
Where the world is going

snow flowers.

2008-08-26T08:46:00.000-07:00

Social Studies class was struck by a spell of chilly weather, and a further descent into boredom. Written: 22 August 2008.

Snow Flowers

Something that transcends the midnight curtain
Lurking counting snow flowers on the window pane
Painting a dream still lies uncertain
Mixing gently stirring smoke and soul

Snow flowers dizzy swirling
Bell-chine sounding through the gloom
Cursed a thousand aches bones creaking
Crushed does a wilting flower bloom

Sound-tormented ears hear the rain erode
Scattered thought dissolves into conscious rippling
Shadows nothing but haunting strains
Darkness seals we can do nothing

Oh where the Destroyer is
The singed, the cried, the screams, the
sighs were nothing I am nothing
Swooping upon the firmament

The Oddest Winter

2008-08-21T07:10:00.000-07:00

The image had little flavour of the poem, but it would have to do.

The Oddest Winter

The oddest winter came one day
When the curtains began to fade
It came to me as no surprise
But it seemed to be in Mother's eyes

It was lovely times, playing inside
While all outside was wind and ice
Sounding like an unrealistic contrivance
But 'twas not I begging for attention

From nowhere I heard a sudden cry
I wandered downstairs: it was quite a sight
The walls were disfigured with splashes of red
And Mother lay there without a head

A raving madman at the door
His rambling word made no sense at all
A limpid foul liquid splattered he senselessly
One that made fire imps dance merrily

Fires in winter, how funny it seemed
Keeping one warm and burning within
A girl like me thought it especially pretty
It was like a light show brought home to me

When at last it licked the carpet I stood
Ribbons in my hair turned to soot
Frankly I didn't at all mind the heat
Too carried away, it took me with it

These days I still wander this house
Quiet and dark, with no one to rouse
On days I dream the fires came back
I think of the day I was placed in death

Other days I search the charred halls
For one lost dear little doll
I must have dropped her in the fire
Try as I might, she was lost by the hour

If I do and someone comes by
Oh the mess! I hope they would not mind
Though I no longer eat, we'll have a tea party
With Annabelle, the empty house and me

Mirror

2008-08-21T06:21:00.000-07:00

Glittering shards at her feet
Through the looking glass    her image
Fragments      her world slants

Candlelights skims her pallid complexion
Midnight sweeps over    starry skies
Riot      snowflakes fly outside

Her threadbare gown flutters
Mindless recreant at    death's door
Shifting      feet stirs dust

Odious passions stir fear melts
Bloody red spreads    hands dithering
Stains      the diaphanous silk

Harm's done what to do
Mirrors bear nothing    dreams buried
Silence      tells no tales

A Poem of Affection

2008-08-08T00:40:00.000-07:00

Written on Thursday, June 11, 2008. For no one; an inspiration struck and compelled me to write.

A Poem of Affection

I used to have a dream
Of us walking down a rocky road
And though how tough it may seem
That dream connects us both

And then with fondness I remember
How you held my hand
How dreary it was no matter
Warm hearts singing through the span

The fields might be wilting
Brambles thick and unforgiving
Though my countenance was worth and sinking
‘One more step,’ you said, still smiling

When I in wistfulness looked back
For foolishness we missed the chance
But still thankful, still glad
I still took the time to dance

With you I established my dreams
And with you I’ll sincerely hope
That in the next light, another sunbeam
Walking alone now, we might cope

Night.

2008-08-07T21:33:00.000-07:00

Written on Sunday, November 11, 2007. My first attempt at something lurking at the back of my mind. It did not come out well.

Night.

A chilling breeze blew through the trees, the leaves rustling in reply. The area was the result of years of abandonment and neglect. The consequences were glaringly obvious: a flowerbed overgrown with weeds; a cemetery, cracked headstones with their faded inscriptions aplenty, and the house itself-a structure of rotten wood; shattered windows; of which remained jagged glass fragments still clinging to the window frame; and dusty, torn curtains billowing in the wind., painting a picture of desolation and loneliness. A lonely house, facing a lonely road with only a streetlamp and a bus shelter for company.

And a lonely girl with her books and backpack.

As Mari waited at the bus shelter, leaning against the lone streetlamp, strands of her long black hair floating in her face, she could not help feeling left out, and afraid. Left out as the streetlamp, bus shelter and the house had stood stock-still through time, watching the world go by and yet she had just walked into the picture with them in it. She felt like a new character in an old painting, as if the painter, after pondering for such a long time, for years and years, had finally decided to add her in with a flourish of his brushes. She felt as if the non-living things here knew more than she did. Not for the first time in her life, she felt small and intimidated.

The rustling leaves seemed to discuss of this new thing, sharing secrets among themselves. She would wish to hear them; a pity they spoke in such soft voices, and the wind whistled too loudly.

She felt afraid, noticing for the umpteenth time how sharp the broken window fragments were, glinting in the light of the full moon like the teeth of some bloodthirsty beast. True, the window frame could easily, with some imagination, be its jaws…

She shook her head to rid herself of frightening thoughts. It was eerie enough for her, this place, without scaring herself.

An owl hooted in the distance. She rubbed her arms. It was freezing, and she was lack of a jacket. She regretted studying in the library till that late. She should have been back by ten, due to her curfew but alas, she had fallen asleep and till kind old Mrs Camri the librarian woke her up at closing time-twelve midnight. When she reached home, she just knew she would be reprimanded by her brother.

She knew that she was making things hard for him-ever since Dad disappeared one winter’s day and Mum died more than ten years ago. They had been living out a life of their own. They were not very well-off; when the money ran out he had to juggle multiple jobs as well as his studies at the university, paying for water and electricity, her studies and his own, as well as for daily necessities, yet he was always prepared to give her a smile when she needed one, and most of his time just to hear her endless chatter about her day at school, and a hug just to see her dry her tears and smile. She was very grateful for having someone like him; she was not certain if her parents would do the same if they were still around. After all, she did not think someone who would vanish into the night, leaving his children without a thought for their survival, would be a caring individual.

Although her brother had done so much for their little family of two, and it was a matter of fact that he meant the world to her, she still wish that he would be less strict. There were many rules around the house, from timeslots to use the only study room they had to doing household chores. The curfews made her more than a little annoyed: coming home before ten meant that she had less time for herself and her friends. And although she inwardly knew that her brother had done all he could to make this “family thing work out”, as he would put it, a little bit of unsatisfaction still nagged at her inside, but she did not voice out, believing it to be selfish of her. Truth be told, she felt guilty for not doing anything “beneficial”, unlike her brother, who, in her eyes, could do almost anything. Then, she made a small promise that when she grew up and got a job, she would do all she could to make him happy.

That was not fulfilled, yet.

Now after leaving the library, all Mari had to do was to wait for the bus at the bus shelter by the deserted road, beside the abandoned house. Mrs Camri had looked a little worried when she said that, and she even offered to take her home in her car, but she had turned it down, confident that she could go home by herself. She had done this for so many times it was already a routine, having always come back the same way after her library trips. Mrs Camri had looked unconvinced, but she gave her a smile all the same and told her to “Be careful, dear.”

She had been waiting for the bus since half an hour ago and she was still waiting. It was strange, since the bus usually came within ten or fifteen minutes of waiting. Maybe it was slow at these hours. After all, she reasoned, there were less people during these hours.

Her mind was left to wonder about the past events and occurances. She believed this as “healthy”, as when the mind was doing these things it made new links to events which it, when active, was unable to think through and do so. This also helped her to identify certain mistakes, mistakes she would do her utmost to avoid.

Recently, she had heard from her friends that there were wild dogs roaming about the deserted places in town, especially late in the night. They reported lived in packs and stole food, even attacked people who had food or were alone. No lives were lost, but one had been mauled so badly it was certain he would never walk again. Her heart had ached with pity when her friends’ had filled with fear and revulsion at the extent of the attacks. Pity for both humans and dogs. Pity for those who had been injured and pity for the dogs. In their desperation, they had resorted to violence, and as far as she knew, most of them were scavengers and will not strike back unless provoked. She wondered what had made them so hungry. It was also pitiful that humans and animals could not live in harmony with each other and humans would just seek and destroy the other just to live peacefully. Would they not care for the dogs, too? She was sure if some sort of agreement was established, both could emerge unscathed. If only humans would be a little more understanding. If only…

A growl.

A growl had sounded not far away. She turned to the sound.

It came from the bushes a few metres away from her.

Another one.

She froze. She was not expecting an encounter with these creatures. At least, not now. I need a weapon to drive them away. She reached for closest the book that lay at her feet.

Out stepped from the darkness four dogs. Snarling, with gobs of drool dripping from their barely concealed canine teeth, they inched forward, one paw after another, yellow eyes glowing evilly like headlights, fixed intently on its prey.

She tried to run; her feet would not obey. She stayed rooted to the spot, helpless against the advance of her attackers. She knew if she ran they would chase her: carnivores love the thrill of a chase. “What now?” She found herself asking.

Gathering all her strength, she hurled the book at the beasts; they darted in different directions, easily avoiding it and landed back on the ground on firm feet. She was certain they could smell her fear coming off her in waves, growing in excitement as she was slowly consumed by her ever-growing fear. She tried not to imagine what would happen to her as they tore limbs apart and shattered bone, staining the green grass a horrible blood red.

And then, without warning, they leaped toward her as one, a group of gnashing teeth, crushing jaws and nothing short of craziness. Her scream cut through the air as the flung herself backwards, crashing towards the dusty ground. Her back borne the impact of the crash and she raised her arms over her face in a last attempt to protect herself, however futile it may be.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyes a tiny crack and saw the deserted clearing, the dogs mere specks, a long distance away. A clearing void of bloodthirsty animals waiting to tear her to pieces.

A clearing with a figure standing among the pines, smiling at her.

“Brother…” She blinked, unable to comprehend the situation. She was still slightly dizzy after the ordeal.

He smiled and it was a heartwarming one, though the underlying sadness she did not understand. He began to saunter towards her as if nothing had happened, the smile on his lips that meant more than just that a smile.

He stopped a metre or so before he reached her. “It’s okay now,” he said. “You’re safe.”

The breeze blew gently again, a reassuring gesture, as if to affirm that.

She burst into tears, shining droplets flowing down her face, forming twin rivers, one on each cheek. She ran to him with her arms outstretched like a small child to her mother. She could not really believe that he had made the salivating dogs disappear but found out that she did not care if it defied all reasoning and logic. As what he said, she was safe, and it was all that mattered to her. She was safe, safe.

Alarm was written briefly on his face at that instant.

“Whoa, whoa,” He stepped back, avoiding her embrace. His hazel eyes softened momentarily at her hurt expression and then when she smiled, again he smiled.

A roar broke the silence and peacefulness of the clearing. A bus trudged towards them, towards the bus shelter, its twin headlights were rays cutting through the darkness.

“Erm, look, you go home first, okay? I…have something to do.” He looked imploring into her eyes, a plea for her to agree. All her puzzlement melted away.

“Okay!” She replied brightly. Then, signaling for the bus to stop, she began to climb the bus steps. Halfway, she stopped and looked back at him. “I’ll wait at home, ‘kay? It’s getting dark, don’t wander about too long.” Care and concern, just what a sister would give. And a smile of her own.

His expression became uneasy, like what people do when they were going to lie to their loved ones but were burdened down with regret. But when he looked at her to answer, all that was on his face was relief and happiness.

“Okay, you get safely home first.” She nodded gleefully like an innocent child as she again began her ascent.

“Wait!” She stopped. She looked, but he was already running off into the trees.

Before he vanished, she thought she heard “Sorry.” escape from his lips.

She was home. Home at last. Although her home was just a small cottage at the end of Barking Lane, and a humble one compared to all the other mansions with their swimming pools and huge gardens, this felt like home. She was not so certain she would feel the same if they moved to one of those glamourous houses. It would just be a house to her, and not a home. It would lack memories.

It was already very late. The bus at gone through a series of meandering roads until at last it arrived at the bus shelter near her living quarters.

She fumbled with the keys as she stood in front of the wooden doors. The lock clicked and she threw open the doors, catching a scent of old books and clothing.

As she locked up, the phone in the living room began to ring. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” It was her best friend, Keisha.

“Oh, you’re back! I called twice today and no one answered.” Mari thought it strange; her brother was supposed to be at home today.

“Erm, by they way, I’m very sorry for what happened.” “What happened?” She was dying to find out more. Many things had happened that she did not understand. She felt a premonition.

“You didn’t know? Er…your brother had a car accident in the evening, about eight plus. Erm, he died.”

She felt sick to the stomach. Everything had gone deathly quiet, as if the house was preparing her for the news. He’s dead? How…? Then how could he rescue me just a while ago?

She shivered and let the phone slip from her hands into her lap.

“Lucian!” She howled tears afresh, her face in her hands. The salty droplets made scarlet spots on her pink dress.

“Sorry”? What were you sorry for?

A Drop of Sunshine

2008-08-07T21:30:00.000-07:00

Written on Thursday, November 15, 2007. Cafes neatly tucked into a corner are on the list of favourite places. This story was inspired by Emmy Rossum’s “Slow Me Down”.

A Drop of Sunshine

I sat patiently waiting for my order at a little table in an obscure corner of the café, partially shielded from view by a heavy scarlet curtain. I love this café. Everything here was a part of home, the home which I had left behind at my departure. The people, the sight of numerous backless stools, neatly arranged in fours around each table, the idle tittle-tattle and hushed discussions suited the atmosphere to a T. The sight and scent of freshly baked cookies and strong coffee invaded my nose, travelling all the way up to my brain and filling it with cosy home-coming thoughts, like sipping warm tea on a chilly day.

I had come in in the hours before noon. The occupants of the chairs, mostly old folk, for the young had departed for school and the working class, work, were kindly couls, offering extra seating places at their table, beckoning towards me with a friendly air to come join them. It had seemed that my hope of having a quiet time for myself to soak up all the missed times and old memories from the comfort of a window were about to be shattered, if not for quick thinking on my part. With dread building inside me, as what preceded important decisions and uncomfortable situations, I shook my head, adding a touch of politeness with a slight smile. At once I felt the fog lift and pass me by, the blessing of easy breathing and like a switch being turned on, conversation between the patrons regained their volume. I sighed in relief and after much shuffling to the back, found a small table for one, with windows facing the street outside; I idly observed the people walking past with umbrellas on hand, for the clouds were an ominous grey.

The dusty windows added a touch of nostalgia and I vaguely remembered, with an aching heart, how I felt leaving my home. The place where I was born, grew up, played in. I could picture myself three years ago, when I announced my decision to leave and obtain a higher education. A rebellious, headstrong young woman who, although headstrong she was, had ideas of a perfectly planned out future bobbing within her mind in a detached way, as if she had been made for this purpose. Bit by bit as she matured they formed an intricate plan, a strategy for battle against the world for her survival, until one day, maid the ruckus of a picnic, hopes blended with much courage and smoothly it slid out from her lips. Voila! A date was set, discussions were carried out.

The day before my departure I felt a growing urge to see this town again, the town I lived in all my life yet, admittedly, knew little about. I knew only the convenience stores where I picked up sandwiches on the way to school, the playgrounds where children lose themselves in their own imagination of faraway islands and treasure-hunting pirates on sandy shores. The familiar brick-red building of the post office, standing tall and erect against this dullness of the town. The sluggish outlook of the surrounding houses seemed to drive me to sleep. (However the mundane and simple life apparently has affected that proud structure, for through the curtain of rain I glimpsed the faded building, sticking up like a twig in the mud, yet it has lost its once-shiny coat of red paint, and also, I felt, its determination to stand out like a beacon of hope had wavered.) Then, the row of shops which had never once left my mind, I remembered with fondness like the back of my hand, starting with the barber on the extreme left and ending with the bakery on the extreme right.

But I did not do much to remember these places, only treaded its paths for the last time. On that day, the last day, I took a different path.

I took a walk on the outskirts of the town, leaving in my mind an imprint of what I would be leaving behind, walked the mostly deserted streets, attempting to memorise every detail of it’s dusty streets and the plain sights of people trudging home that I always took for granted. I took a walk around town, because the weather felt right.

Seeing them surrounding me, I felt a strange happiness wash over me, washing away all the efforts it took to me revisit, washing away the wistfulness (but not all could it take away). Gradually I felt like I had in the years before, like I fit into the puzzle of the quaint town, like I did like that yesterday before I set foot on the plane.

The lonely town welcomed me like it did my birth, and though no one seemed to remember me, no one smiled up at me, huddled up in my place, and no one waved nor yelled a welcome yell, it was fine with me.

My order came at last, a suspicious concoction of green liquid, with a slice of lemon and a generous heap of ice― crushed ice. I wondered why I had ordered a cold drink on a cold day.

It has begun to rain. I listened to the raindrops falling on the windowpane.

Taking a sip and tasting only sweetness, for the cold numbed my taste buds, I folded my arms on the table and laid my head on them, closing my eyes and drinking in instead the sounds and smells, the feelings conveyed with every word uttered. Colours and sights can wait; a camera lay snugly within the confines of the pockets of my blue jeans. The lacquered wood table felt smooth against my skin, giving me the impression of an acquaintance with nature. A shrill cry struck out of nowhere, a second later dissolved by a wave of laughter which subsided into the omnipresent ripples of conversation. A well-endowed waitress smiled at me as she held a tray of dirty dishes. I had no time to return her kindly gesture before she turned on her heels and vanished into the kitchen.

I think I will never forget this town, no matter which city I live in, which place I go.

It is now noon and the rain has ceased, I having spent an hour immersed in my reverie. Realising this with mild alarm I swiftly drained my glass and swept out the door of the café, the clear tinkling of an attached chime reaching my ears before I noticed my lone figure on an empty street, the friendly camaraderie now only seen but not heard through the dusty windows.

The inside of my mouth tasted still of that green drink, and the smell of freshly baked cookies and coffee lingered within my nose and in my memory. I looked back at the café. If I squint, I could just, but barely, make out the faint image of the smiling waitress.

I took a walk around town, because the weather felt right.

The Rain at 5pm.

2008-08-07T20:05:00.000-07:00

Written on 27 March, 2008 and dedicated to the lonely people of this world.

The rain at 5pm.

Five p.m. found her slight form lounging comfortably in the center of a tattered armchair, drawing her knees close to her chest in a fetal position, her thin arms encircling her bony knees. Her eyes to the ceiling like a saint looking towards heaven. She felt warmth emanating from the cushion she was seated on, warmth her frail body gave to the lifeless cotton. Yet it returned that warmth to her chilling legs. So giving, so giving.

The smell of rain was delicious, a faint hint of grass lingered in the air, a nostalgic reminder of the days she used to pick flowers off their brittle stems. (Mama had chided her then. “Flowers have lives,” She used to say.) Rain spoke to her of freshness, of newness; spoke of recreation, of putting life back into order. It made cracked, dry soil whole. It placed droplets of beauty of leaves and flowers. When the clouds parted and the sun came out of hiding again, they would sparkle like jewels. She knew.

Watching from her station in the recess of the neglected chair, the rain continued to pour. The lightning that split the sky, thunder following closely behind. She winced as thunder boomed: its voice resonated greater than any lion’s roar. Rainy days were never silent. She often wondered why; the raindrops trickling off the trees—doesn’t that deserve the attention of the gods? Pretty they were. The whole world should calm down-no cars with their nasty fumes, no agony of loud, shrill voices-and listen to songs the storm had to sing. (It sang to her often.) But she was in no position to dictate: she was only a simple little girl. Her mother said so.

She needed quiet. All this noise made her head feel funny—what she wanted to say, what she could feel had all jumbled together and churned round and round, like the garments did when Mother tossed them into the laundry and turned it on: round and round, making her dizzy. She sat still, concentrated on nothing but the curtain of crystal droplets outside the window. Be still, be still. Focused on the tense muscles in the body. Feeling, searching, willing for them to stay put. Breathing deep, even breaths. In, out. In, out. Get rid of the tension. Concentrating so hard every limb stilled. The evening air made her want to shiver, but she wanted to be in stillness. Her mind and body battled for control. Body lost, as always. She shuddered inwardly. So cold it was.

She cracked a smile.

Unknowingly, the storm had begun clearing. The noise of loud and boisterous Thunder sounded further and further away. Yet it continued to emit noises, as if reluctant to leave. No lightning now, to startle her. It had disappeared with Thunder-

The steady drip-drip of rain reached her ears. Drip, drip, drip. The renewal of earth was nearing its completion.

With the ebbing storm, the magic was disappearing. She wanted it so badly, to come back. How many days have passed since she felt this way—the fulfillment of buried yearning of companionship? It would go away, like Mother who loved her, like Father who loathed her, like her sisters, who pushed her roughly away. No, it could stay here, with her in the house. The house had so much space, and one solitary occupant. It could remain with her, lull her to sleep with the song of rain and impending disaster.

She slid off her comfortable position, shuddering a little as the warm soles of her feet met cold marble floor. She had to do something. Make herself remembered.

Arms spread out like angels’ wings, fingers splayed to mimic feathers. Racing towards the window. Ebony hair fanning out, dirt-smudged grey frock billowing behind her like a big ball gown. Tiptoed. Run and run and run. Go to the window.

Her arms swung out in front of her, shielding her ribs from contact with the faded white wall. Frozen in motion, still on her toes, bearing resemblance to a withered faerie. Only for the moment, though.

She waited, waited.

Any time now.

There it comes!

Stuck her head out, pink tongue protruding within her mouth and caught the taste of rain.

A lovely crystal clear droplet. She couldn’t see it, but she knew. She swallowed it swiftly, before it blended with the other liquid in her mouth. (Saliva, she recalled.)

She looked down from her position at the window at the dull concrete pavement. Watched raindrops fall in parallel lines and shatter on the stony surface.

She looked up. The sky was white, like her cotton dress-before it got dirty. She could make out little patches of blue, scattered haphazardly across the sky. Was it playing a jigsaw puzzle game with her? She hoped the sky found all the pieces soon.

It did. The storm was getting ready to depart, to travel to another place, to let someone else on the other side of the world to admire and sigh and taste the rain, like she did. Then there was only blueness left.

With the last of its raindrops, the storm was saying goodbye.

This time, she waved.

The stories I will read,

2008-08-07T19:54:00.000-07:00

eventually:
Necrophilia
Knight in Shining Armor

Love for grace.

2008-08-06T03:28:00.000-07:00

His thin smile graced his lips for a mere instant, never lingering for more than a fraction of a second, then it was gone, like the flame of a defunct lighter. His eyes were slits, cracks in his mask-like face which betrayed no emotion except for the discreet leakage through them, which registered savoured bliss. Then they slid shut and on his features was a sign of contentment so slight but captivating as if he had been given the passionate kiss of death. He remained still in the flooding light of the room, the plain white-washed walls adding purity to the theatretical scene in the dark crevice of his mind. His gloved fingers still clutching the blade, now turning crimson. Slowly, slowly, he leaned to the motionless figure laid on the ground, her white smock blooming with fresh scarlet splashes--and her hair encrusted with dried lifeblood. And gently, gently, he laid his lips on her chilling blue ones.