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INFORMATION
Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'
Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling
or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.
CONTACT
FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves
CREDITS
Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
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To William.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:43 PM
I have often wondered about you.
The first time I caught a glimpse of you a rainstorm had cracked the sky open. Your piece of equipment was not within my view, instead it had been a seeming revelation of a rare occurrence. Your flawless attire sleek with rain, and faded London without her rouge laid bare, captured in your dark, discerning eyes. You appeared to smooth the creases in society, to bring normality to horror. I could not imagine what could have brought you to the crumbling stones lining the walkways, the hard stars for lack of a better view. You were here not for the scenery, for you hardly gazed into the sky, nor paused to hear rain shards plummetting on windows, the buildings, the ground. The gravestones. You were here, only to disappear again after a measly few pages, as unnoticably as you had arrived.
You had left me rapt with wonder, as if I had waited for such a thing all my life.
The moonlight was the spotlight, your slim silhouette outlined, and your shadow. Well, what could I say? It was nothing plainer than a blockade of light. You were never fated to dance as gracefully as the nymphs that haunt the people's dreams. Formal suits were never made for frivolous exchanges between two bodies. I wondered if you would dance, but I doubt you harboured much interest in dancing, or any social event for that matter. You were light and shadow, criss-crossed in ethereal silkwork.
You were calm and collected, and from the deliberate movements I knew you were here only for what you do. Never casting your eyes this way and that. Your countenance set in grim perfection, not a thing of beauty, but a thing of purpose. I wonder how did you feel, at your glimpse of the mortal world. Unsurprised, I think. Yet were you ever astonished at anything? Your features hint at a thousand things I think you already knew. Even speech: your words were evenly articulated, as if every word had streams of thought going before it, assessing it's durability, impact, simplicity. You did not seem like one favouring flowery speech; maybe plain, curt sentences would satisfy you the more. It is necessary, I know. Your glasses only emphasise your intellect; it's not as if it lies unnoticed.
I wonder what your motivation is. It pains me, or amazes me, that you do not seem to have one. Even serial killers are urged on by their dreadful childhood memories. Yet, I wonder what yours is, for an assiduous person, even you seem like a fanatic; a relatively noiseless one, that is. It would be unthinkable if you stated a lacking of one; for then, nothing could distinguish one straight as a ramrod as you from an economical tireless labour; such as a computer.
You don't seem to possess any...bodily desires. Abstemious, possibly, but I wouldn't want to draw any conclusions. I have never seen you smile with satisfaction at anything at all. What do you consider 'fun' or even 'worthwhile'? You won't get hitched this way. Do you care?
You are stoic, and that is quite obvious. I am filled with awe and fascination. It is almost a delusion that I try to grapple with, but like a mist it threatens to vanish away, hence I cannot strengthen my grip. I wish I had an identical self-control, or even half of your sense of duty. Sombre, yet not too much to incur depression.
Your countenance reflects not the rainstorm, but the disquieting thunder is all your own.
I don't know you, nor would I try to discern your truest personality that lies buried beneath that stern, silent facade. I wonder if you are happy. I do not know even what your death scythe does: what a curious instrument it seems. Just plainly knowing and doing enables you to be content, or is it not as what the events seem?
Your perfection scares me, yet fascinates. I am drawn like a cautious moth to a flame. I have never met a man like you.Labels: * prose, fanfic:kuroshitsuji, prose:fanfics
Trip her up and break her heart.
Time: 11:35 PM
Dated: 12 Apr 2009
Last night at 1am was very bizarre indeed. I couldn't get to sleep, then I eventually did, and when I woke up at my table this morning, I realised I had written this on a scrap of paper:
It has been nice, this journey to nowhere, but the scene's over and it's time to leave the screen. It'll be raining soon and my parade would be too drenched to continue the show. I don't wish to catch a cold and the bus would be here any minute to pick me up. No you cannot go with me as you live on the other side. There's the borderline between this place and that one. If this was a joke I would have told you it was. I've got mud on my shoes and a sprained ankle; too exhausted to play, too lethargic to follow you any longer. Leave me, or if you would, watch while I'm whisked away by the roaring wheels and spinning lights. Au revoir.
The troubling thing is, I couldn't remember anything about writing that.Labels: * prose, prose:scraps, writings
This is not an essay.
Time: 11:30 PM
I suppose much could be said of me right now, but I’ll simply write it down as distressing, when at roughly 9.40pm I realised it was finding things to complain about. Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake was open to The Pony Problem (page 3), inviting in a few unwitting words of wisdom and I was deep in thought after scrutinising the first two pages, seated in the cramped space with books haphazardly thrown into the rapidly dwindling available shelf space, frowning and attempting to match emotion and situations to paper by stringing words together. Or in some sense, leaving them out further created ‘final blows’ in my writing.
At the foot of stairs I saw that she was sprawled I saw her there, dead.
I thought hard if I would see those words in print on a Stephen King or a John Saul fiction. Well, they would look perfectly fine there, I thought. And I wouldn’t be disgusted if they appeared verbatim. Would they be just as suitable as mere occupants on wordy postings of a girl whose ‘O’ Level certificate was not even nestled safely in her hand? For a moment in time they resembled cheap hookers beneath a block of flats; one would be clutching a faux LV bag, the other in copious makeup would be blowing cigarette smoke in her face.
This is not even an essay, come to think of it.
Fifteen minutes into an essay and one meager sentence on paper. I was constantly clicking my pencil till the lead broke and I had to refill, time passed me by and as she sashayed, even-footed and deliberately, she cast me a pitiful, condescending—almost spiteful—glance (she made me feel I was wasting her youth) for being a failing aspiring writer. No, EXPIRING. My mother was going on in the kitchen at no one in particular (“Now where is that lunchbox?”), Utada Hikaru was crooning passionately in indecipherable words of Japanese in my ears and from the corner of my eye I came upon the library books I had newly borrowed this afternoon, stacked horizontally, their titles forming neat sentences one atop another.
My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Romeo and Juliet
Naked
I Was Told There’d Be Cake
The whole arrangement struck me as a form of entertainment; almost like a poem stanza and made me laugh very hard as I read it up and down.
And then all of a sudden, the mild diversion dispelled, I was seized with an urge to shout, to scream a throat-scouring scream at the music I now found unloving—it was filled with everything foreign and fright-inducing—my mother who was demanding for the lunchbox as if her life depended on their existence and if they vanished she would, too, and myself glaring accusingly at the book titles that stared dispassionately back, telling them all to shut the fuck up, for the world to freeze over and come to a resolute standstill because the noises were affecting my concentration and disrupting the flow of words.
Which is why I ended up with one pathetic sentence, you ridiculous, annoying—
Like a broken dam I was picking out the misfits, settling on one of them, then haranguing about how talented David Sedaris and the other what’s-her-name were and how they artfully managed to turn the mundane, solitary activities into stellar essays of truth and reminiscence, acknowledging the strings tied to our hands and the entire world, while here I was barely twenty, the words refusing to come to my head while I sat in this bloody hot thirty degree Celsius weather in shorts and t-shirt and not feeling any cooler. But even if I were to pen this passing observation down I doubt it would amount to much; while these authors could go on forever (pages and pages) about a single event/thing from different perspectives so they never seemed like the same thing again, though we people know they are in essence (and we are still enjoying this transmogrification tremendously and marveling at their wit).
Finding fault with inanimate objects, or what is lacking. It’s like trying to talk like a diplomat with a malfunctioning washing machine. Blaming everything on that hollow in one’s heart without ever realizing how packed the other chambers are. Messy, dusty attics are classified regularly under negative examples of organization but today I thought that it would seem to be a charming thing to have bits and pieces of other people’s lives up there, even if it was your own or your mother’s, and to stare fascinated at the mess and cobwebs and things left forgotten. Then at least I wouldn’t dwell on how empty my wardrobe looks and plan to fill it up with Topshop or Gap, or that another book would fit just fine into my shelf, failing which I would need to take off in search of another shelf.
But even the act of finding—look, this is what happens when I find myself in the company of people who are very alike. People who whine about how stupid dusting the curtains is and how worried they are about maths tests. People that some would be more than pleased to slap them in the face and holler “Shut up; we know these things already!” Have a go at them, if you please: no one is stopping you. But they make the world seem more real to me, more than Customer Service counters. “Ah, I’ve been there. See, I’m not alone/abnormal/going to the loon bin!” It reassures me that the internet is linked to the world of my five senses so basic etiquette is a constant and we introverts have nothing to fear.
And damn, complaining is no big deal.
This is still not an essay; it never was to me, and so it never will be, if I could help it.
And I should have learnt to write better.
-FIN-Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
Asylum Tryouts: Glass Wall
Time: 11:13 PM
I thought I'd try this: one question and a barrage of answers, musings, 'what-we-call-it's whenever I'm not feeling exactly the most productive of persons. In fact, I'd like some cookies.
Fingers and knives. Your life is like yelling through the asylum bars, telling the nurses you're actually sane so you weren't supposed to be here. You plead, beg, scream till you're hoarse. Half the time you're trying to convince yourself. That you are, in fact, the voice of reason, the ONLY voice of reason that nobody listens to and makes a conscious effort to ignore. Isn't it strange: that it didn't occur to you why everyone strolling past these bars (the cruel, unyielding, cold barriers between what you have and what can never be yours) pick up the pace until they've left it all behind the glass walls?
It's a disheartening, uncomprehending thought. The difference between imagining it and knowing it's real is seeing it in the flesh. The word flesh was meant to be a word of pronounced relish; the noise of saliva bubbling 'neath your tongue almost equates to a blade slipping past tissue fluid. And for them, knowing for certain it's true hurts: someone they used to love has gone mad, and the final thing that tears at their hearts is that she believes it's not true. It's hard to connect with frayed wires. It's a double-hazard for you and everyone else. (At least, that's what the nurses say.) So deep within their hearts they solemnly make up their mind that unless your reality levels with theirs, they're not speaking to you again.
Of course, they do the coffin-nailing once they're out in the sunshine, where nothing bears even a mere resemblance to the piercing florescent lights that flatten out the white-washed walls like makeshift hell--only more successful. When they've left you behind. Though they've never been confined--not like you--they feel like they are inside. No wonder you detest it, kicking and shrieking for all it's worth, they muse, but this thought leaks out behind the backdoor of denial.
Hearts left to steep in jars. And they're oh-so-terrified and they cannot inch any nearer and they whine how the lace from your dress will wrap around their throats.
It's a maelstrom in here. You'll never read them, stuck and isolated against your own choosing. Pleading to live and die. The glass walls are evil--you've known this all along. Three, five ounces of reality are what metal bars give. The glass gives away everything--except freedom. It's like watching a game but you can't join in. Watching and watching, until you place a yearning hand on the cold, transparent surface and nothing feels real anymore. You can't speak; they're all on how sedating people make their jobs easier and unfortunately you don't speak Syringe the way they do. You find yourself saying this ten, twenty times to convince yourself moving pictures on glass walls are moving pictures and that you know none of the people in this film.
As usual, it doesn't work. Probably because you drank hot apple juice at 3pm.
Why, even I try to make sense of the loved ones.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
A Stranger In A Strange Train
Time: 11:11 PM
It is suffocatingly crowded in here. People jostle and push against each other like water molecules but somehow everyone is quiet at the same time.
He is Caucasian, the only one against a backdrop of Asians but then again he doesn't look too different. He stands alone, gazing absentmindedly around like the average commuter who only wishes for the long ride to end. His skin is sallow and pale, thinly stretched onto his lanky frame, yet not too much that it adds years to his appearance, and there is just enough pinkish tinge under the flesh to declare him healthy. I decided he has a soft appearance, like a completed, Photoshopped picture: airbrushed complexion, deep, feeling eyes looking into a place far away from here, and the marvel of how the background seems to blur off with distance from him. It's like they're not worth looking at. Or maybe it's just me.
I try not to be caught staring, but he turns around and our eyes meet. Once, twice. One second, two. And I look away calmly. As if I was merely casting a bored glance around the train cabin for something to sustain me through the ride. And he looks away as if nothing has happened. (How many times does one wonder if you're amusing someone else?) He is right.
My eyes roam and I feel like a downhearted poet seeing through the eyes of Mnemosyne. Or even Neil Gaiman, who is reputed to complete whole stories on airplanes. Or so my friend tells me. He slouches slightly, his hands gripping the ivory-cream handlebars firmly but with a touch of finely-poised grace that somehow looks completely unintentional, a casual way as he puts his weight on it and yet seems weightless. It looks so easy. He has a nostalgic look (or am I just dreaming?), like a 20th century Romeo with a different personality but unfortunately-Romeo genes. He exudes a calm gentleness that makes my heart lift with a sigh.
He wears grey denim skinny jeans that cuddle his legs and settle into layers of folded fabric at his ankles where they meet his shoes. His feet are covered by grey Everlast cotton sneakers of a darker hue, black laces, the sort I can't wear as I'd put holes in them faster than moths. His shirt is black with coloured splashes of red, pink and electric blue, with a caption I can't make out exactly, but though I will him to just turn around a little more for a glimpse, he doesn't. I am left in quiet suspense.
The lights in the gloomy tunnel flash on and off while the train rumbles to its own bass melody.
Our eyes meet once more as I wonder and I almost --almost-- miss the controlled intensity of his baby blues, shining from their constraints like white dwarfs, or radioactive material at the bottom of a well, radiating mersmerising and unexpected charm despite slightly obscured by straw-coloured locks falling all over his face, and not a bit sheepish. He's like the reticent book nerd in my class whom I never knew plays electric guitar. I think he's like Mikey Way without the glasses.
His eyes say you've yet to know me in a secretive way I'm certain I imagined it. He doesn't grin and I'm relieved: I could list off some people whose faces have been spoiled by their smile. In my opinion, anyway. He simply gazes out into the world with a forgotten, dreamy, detached air. I spent two-point-five minutes admiring his slender fingers, entertaining myself with possibilities of his name (I allocate a name to interesting people) but the train jolts to a stop at Outram Park and he disappears out the open doors without a second look. A gust, a whisper of wind.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
To Talk, To Speak, To Type
Time: 8:32 PM
His name comes up on MSN, and we talk. It has been a long time.
He's a thousand miles away from the boiling furnace I'm in, and probably further away than I think. He says hi, and 'how are you doing?' and 'sorry I couldn't get to ya earlier: my laptop crashed'. I tell him it's okay, and it's nice to hear from him again.
Through the mirror says:
Hello. How's the weather?
He types that too and it appears onscreen. We both send 'fine' simultaneously. I laugh softly. There isn’t anything remotely funny in coincidence, but if I giggle in my room no one hears me. I think I can see him grinning. In my mind he hasn't done that for three weeks now. I tell him about exams. I type slowly, one delicate word after another, an amateur ballerina showing off to her instructor, excited but nervous.
Through the mirror says:
The exams are here again. But thank goodness it's nearly over. You?
My hands are watchful of the Enter key: press it once and I could be getting it wrong. I see the reply in my head like a floating cloud. I think it too austere and emotionless. Come on, aren't we friends?
I think of two people connected by a thin piece of copper wire: the Internet. I pray my computer doesn't crash. I press 'backspace' till the textbox blanks. He tells me I have to keep trying. ‘Don’t give up, Remember what you said about Cambridge?’ Pep talk. I did say something about Cambridge University, how I wished so badly I would study there under the prestigious namesake: all for wearing a varsity sweater. I told him that only because he told me he lived in England before he came here. So, yes, I still remember that. I tell him instead of the books I've read, come across on the shelves of Borders, and any title that pops into my head as I go along. I've never read half of them.
Through the mirror says:
Want a list?
Him: Hell yeah. Spill it.
So I do. Death of A Writer, Poppy Shakespeare, The Chemistry of Death...the list goes on. I consult the library receipts clipped on the calendar for titles. I want this conversation to go on. He doesn't comment on how many of them concern the escalating process that extinguishes life. That's exactly what I like about this conversation: nothing that has been said has ever been said again. I think back; I remember telling him how normal this obsession of mine is. As normal as yours. He's treating it like an ordinary hobby, or so I think.
He asks what Death of a Writer is about. Sounds just the thing for a Saturday morning coffee accompaniment, he says. I don't know if he's making a joke, or being serious. I can't see if he's smiling or otherwise. My mind has started to churn because at this moment I figure: oh crap, I haven't read it yet. On the contrary, I still yearn to say something about it. It has become a habit so hard to shake off: gushing about books, films, and music, and the revoked memories of late-night SMS-critiques just spill out of the jar.
Through the mirror says:
I'm not sure yet. Haven't read it through. You interested?
Him: Might be. Depends on you. (I'm reading that he's saying if I like it, he might, too.)
Him: Anyway, how are you?
I pause my fingers on the keys. I look up at the ceiling: it's still the same peeling, green paint that hasn't been painted over for years. Keeping the memories has never been so crazy. Early Sunsets Over Monroeville is playing again and I turn up the volume until the point where I get comfortable with the music and the neighbours don't hear enough to complain. Heck, they aren't even home.
I think I could be fine. Looking around , I decide that my normal society standards, I actually possess a relatively blessed life. My room doesn't flood every monsoon. That's fortunate. I know we both expect something more than 'fine'. Instead I tell him I'm a contented nonentity. It is a while later that he replies. I want to ask him something about himself, to take the camera away from me so I don't seem to awkward in this chair, my brain running a million miles and calculating the odds of this conversation being the most boring since three weeks ago. (I haven't even had the time to wave goodbye at the airport.) Something about being a flavorless friend hits me hard. I’d rather not think about it. I reply fast and steer us both away.
Through the mirror says:
Well let's just say I've been as usual, library fan.
Enough about me. How's your life.
I forget the question mark.
He has spindly fingers, like mine. But I told him that already, so it wouldn’t be true if I had repeated myself. Still, that’s where the resemblance ends. His were made to fold paper cranes (creaseless), insert a thread into the eye of a needle, and cradle a book such that it was an art of concentration and liberation in a carefree pose of the educated. Mine were meant for dropping things. Well I wouldn’t see them today.
Mindless Self Indulgence’s Molly is playing. He says he is settling in just fine. A little culture shock, after being away for two years, but it’s coming along all right.
‘She was a good girl and it felt great to be a liar.’
Through the mirror says:
Culture shock? You? Yeah, right
You even know what the indigenous people of the Amazon eat.
Him: Strange stuff, huh? Never expected it from myself. Things just are different, sometimes. Guess life made us that way.
It is strange, how everyone changes bit by bit. Like paint flaking off my ceiling surface. If this happens, everyone would be unrecognizable.
Through the mirror says:
Me neither. Crap, you’ve morphed into someone I don’t recognize. Where’s that exuding confidence??
Him: Haha. Will be back, eventually. My books have been shipped back here. The room’s cramped and a mess.
Through the mirror says:
You’ll be used to it in no time. It’s been three weeks and you haven’t unpacked?
Now we end up about his room. He complains slightly about the lack of leg-room at the desk, how he’s putting off all the cleaning till ‘tomorrow’. I ask if he kept the posters. Obviously he has but I have nothing else that would come out of me. We’re like two strangers who’ve just met, and probably had talked on the bus for a few hours, before we get off at the station. Distance is making this friendship wonky, or maybe it’s just me with the technical errors. I’m guessing it’s the latter. I announce rather proudly I’ve kept mine too.
We both have. Like the band t-shirt phenomenon we had caught on. The walls are plastered with different posters and printed photographs from various gigs, most of which I never had the chance to attend. It sounds silly, but I’ve learnt they tend to forgive you when you’re not yet twenty.
Through the mirror says:
Band shirt?
Him: Iron Maiden. Yours?
I wonder if he still does drums. Really, it wouldn’t be strange to ask, but at this moment there are things people fail to explain: how people curse train schedules yet the timetables have a pious following, jostling for space at the platform; how horrid I find being in bed nude with your other half (the next morning it’s the same person who embraces you from behind and you have to ask him if he wants honey on the waffles). They shouldn’t go together. It’s something everyone knows yet they don’t speak it. Like Voldemort, to draw an example.
Through the mirror says:
It’s more fun when you guess.
Him: A Rite of Passage is running through my head. Lemme think.
Him: Good Lord, this band can really play. Hmm, BFMV?
Through the mirror says:
Heck, tell me about it. And no, try again.
I want to ask him if he still does drums. Even better, I would blurt out to him that finally I’ve taken his advice to learn how to play an electric guitar properly. I stand up and head for the kitchen for a glass of water to clear my thoughts, still thinking. It’s puzzling how it’s difficult conversing with someone so close. I wish we stood side by side once more. Funnily enough that didn’t seem so hard. When his words didn’t make my world spin and the bottom of it fall out.
I wonder if he were to appear at my doorstep, would I still greet him with the same off-handed geniality. Or would I be the tongue-tied one he never had a glimpse of? The awkward girl: who never said anything she meant but wished she had meant everything she said.
Chick-lit is silly, I murmur to myself, underlining my conviction. I miss the cup and spill water. I curse under my breath. It isn’t as if anyone will hear me. I curse aloud.
I settle back in my seat.
Him: Damn, I have to go. TTYL. 5pm?
Through the mirror says:
Sure. Might still be on.
Him: Ciao.
I stare hard at the ‘Offline’ notice, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair.
Ciao, and I love you, I think.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
Coffee, Strudels and Angels
Time: 8:26 PM
It was daylight, but there was a figure in the corner.
It was daylight, but not quite, for the sun had barely lifted from the edge of the horizon.
The figure in the corner sat immobile in his chair, with his left leg crossed over his right. Occasionally he sniffed the air and smelled the well-known, buoyant sweet scent of candied fruits, which had drawn him and many others here.
He was small in build, but lean, thought Mrs Mackay the owner, and immediately wondered how she knew, with his body covered beneath all that suffocating fabric. She shuffled around in an endearing manner of a pleasant old lady, too old to run and jump, but too unyielding to give up and simply waiting for Death to take her. This man—youth, she corrected, he looked barely thirty—had been a silent stranger metres outside the café for an hour, leaning against the maple tree, head bowed, occasionally looking around. She had gone out of her shop and asked if he needed help, or whether he was waiting for something..
“Only for your café to open, ma’am.” Then she had let him in, and he had been there ever since. He had such a wonderful smile, it reminded her of fresh marigolds. She thought she might have seen him before.
In a navy-blue overcoat, pants and shoes of similar, if not darker, hue, the man looked just like any other person that would have walked into the café , except that at seven in the morning, there were no other customers around. He had sapphire blue eyes and hair the colour of spun gold.
Only sometimes, when the sunlight fought its way in through the dusty windows, that his broad wings were outlined in faint yellow. Then as the sunlight moved on, so did they vanish like dull tracing paper.
A soft, resonant jingle from the door meant that the first, loyal customers of Mackay’s Café were beginning to stream in. There was nothing like a fresh pot of coffee to start the day. The angel watched them impassively as each took their favourite spots; cheery greetings rang out across the café.
After ten minutes, he signalled to a waitress and ordered a latte.
The smells of breakfast for many customers permeated the air from the kitchen at the back as Mrs Mackay and two waitresses distributed the plates stacked high with varied meals. He sipped the latte delicately, closed his eyes and wished he could lose himself in the atmosphere at least for the moment.
“Gabriel.” He is momentarily startled by the voice, but he knew better than to be. Staring at brown-white froth that was his coffee, he sighed.
“Michael.” He stood before Gabriel, and their eyes met: they were of the same hue. They would have been carbon copies, except for that the new arrival’s hair was rather tousled.
“You looked like you just woke up, Michael.” Gabriel smiled and stretched his legs, which had been crossed for prolonged durations. “Had an early morning?”
“I wouldn’t be able to follow you otherwise.” Michael grinned and carelessly brushed his hair back. He settled down on one chair around Gabriel’s table, shifting his body until he was comfortable before taking a look around, seemingly for the first time. “Ah, nice place,” he remarked, “A little homey and austere for my tastes, but then, it’s just you.” Then, in a smaller, whiny voice. “You’re not very fond of sharing, aren’t you?”
Gabriel frowned. “How did you find out about this?”
“I did.” A dark-haired man, immaculately and formally dressed in what looked like attire for the working classes joined them at the table.
“Greetings, Raphael.” Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Technically, I didn’t tell anyone—”
“—except those in your sleep.” Raphael finished. “I could hear your inane mumblings from where I live, and we aren’t bunkmates.” “Though I had no idea he would be here,” he added quietly, eyeing Michael.
“Apparently someone isn’t very good at keeping the secrets he’s uncovered,” Michael smirked, yawning slightly. “And we do get bored on guard duty. Lucky you; you get to go everywhere, messenger.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to say something but fell silent as a waitress approached with two more cups of identical coffee and three chocolate muffins. Conversation lulled as the three of them busied themselves. Gabriel beamed at Charlene (it said so on her tag); she flushed and hurried back to the kitchen with the nervous smile of a fan who’d just shook hands with her idol.
“Do you come here everyday?” Raphael asked. “It’s so peaceful here, unlike the riotous city. I understand why you visit so often.”
“As long as time permits. I agree; time seems to flow at her own leisurely pace. And the people…” He gazed toward the general assembly; most of which were busy attending to their meals and chatting amicably to their neighbours. “They go about their lives, living day to day. More than one person revisit the café since their first stop in the morning. ” Gabriel sipped his coffee.
“Most of the time, we are content to watch,” Raphael murmured, following his gaze. Gabriel nodded in the affirmative.
“I might have underestimated the place. These are just splendid,” Michael wolfed down the remnants of his muffin. “Don’t mind me.” He proceeded to eat Raphael’s without his consent.
“You’re enjoying yourself, for once,” the offended angel said dubiously.
“Well I had the apple strudel once,” Gabriel’s voice went all dreamy. “Most delicious thing I ever had, though it was a little too sweet.”
Michael muttered something inaudible.
The group was quiet as a jingle sounded. A girl, barely the age of eighteen, walked in with nervous eyes and a small hurried steps, unspotted by any of the patrons as she found an empty table and scuttled to the chair, except by the three angels.
“Yet another consequence of an open-minded society,” Michael remarked, gesturing at her protruding stomach, a sure sign of pregnancy. The girl’s eyes resembled those of a trapped kitten in a drain, afraid of her surroundings, yet twice of what lay outside. Her eyes shot nervously from one end of the café to another, as if expecting anything to happen very soon.
“She’s afraid that anyone who knows her would come through the door any moment.” Gabriel’s voice was not that of an authoritative overseer, but that of a sympathetic onlooker as he fixed his gaze on her. “It’s rude to point.” He glared at Michael.
“Well my apologies, dear sir,” Michael said caustically, then “What is wrong with you? You’re acting like you’re dying to go over and hug her. Well, squeeze the life out of her and the child, anyway. Don’t tell me you’ve gone all soft on mortals.”
Gabriel hissed with anger and for a moment Michael thought he would be spending a day with Raphael-the-medic, but not before Raphael-the-peacemaker intervened.
“There’s no need to go to blows over this matter,” Raphael said gently but firmly. “Someone ought to think before he speaks again, and I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way you did.” He patted Gabriel’s shoulder.
“He’d better,” Gabriel said under his breath, the embers of his rage dying, and took a long drink out of the coffee cup.
“But really, I wouldn’t have minded even if you did. Hug her, I mean,” Michael clarified hurriedly. “It looks like she really needs it. I wonder if she has any relatives, or at least, people who care.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Probably, or not.”
“It’s sad,” Raphael said, almost to himself.
The girl was now sitting alone, with a bowl of liquid the colour of bleached lemons. She dipped her spoon into it slowly, then ladling up a small amount, brought it to her lips. She closed her eyes briefly as the soup trickled down her throat. The faintest of smiles fluttered across her features, and then it was gone. She lowered the spoon in slow-motion, and when it was centimetres away from the tabletop, she stared at it for a long, long while, as if she has realised something profound and important that no one else would understand.
She shook her head, breaking the spell, and set it on the table. Instead of finishing the rest of her order, the forlorn girl in jeans and T-shirt stared out the window in front of her.
“What lovely hazel-brown eyes,” Michael observed aloud, more of something to break the tension and silence than anything else. He received no response. “Earth to Gabriel.” He waved a hand in front of the messenger.
“Huh? What—I’m sorry, just spacing out a little.” Gabriel shook his head to clear out the thoughts.
“Hm.” Michael was unconvinced. “Well there must be the other half of the equation, speaking of which, I wonder who her husband is.”
“Strictly speaking, she would be underage to marry. Her boyfriend,” Raphael paused, letting his tongue adjust to the word. He had only recently learned it from another passing angel, which he had spoken to during his duties, and had just recently deprived him of the earthly joy of a muffin. “He should be accompanying her. It’s unsafe for a woman to roam the streets in this condition.”
“He could have vanished, then. In fact, I think he really did,” Gabriel stated simply.
“Poor thing,” Michael said, this time without sarcasm. “Such was taboo in the days of the apostles. What has the world become?”
“The Devil’s.”
The girl’s face resembled an ageing willow tree; already it had slight imperfections, imperfections so unforgivable to other girls her age. Her eye bags were prominent against her pale skin and whenever she shifted in her seat there was exhaustion apparent in the way she moved: languidly, seemingly intent to reserve her failing strength. She was a string stretched and ready to break.
“Poor thing.” It was Raphael’s turn.
“Strings weren’t meant to be stretched,” murmured Gabriel, draining the last of his coffee.
“At last, there goes the caffeine, the people’s favourite wonderdrug.” Michael emptied his cup; Raphael had already did so, minutes ago.
“Would love to have this again,” Gabriel said, staring at the bottom of the cup, which had brown stains.
“Yeah, definitely. What a break. When we revisit, and that’ll be…tomorrow?” Michael smiled.
“Nice place, this,” said Raphael. “Thank you for inviting us, Gabriel.”
“Well I didn’t,” he retorted, but a grin tugged at the corners of his lips.
“Shall we leave, gentlemen? My wings are stiff from the lack of use.” Michael stood up and stretched. He sneezed. “Excuse me; must be the dust.”
The two angels stood and the group walked toward the entrance, dragging their feet. Gabriel stopped abruptly and Michael narrowly avoided colliding headlong into his back.
“What in the world—” He screeched.
Gabriel turned, drinking in the busy scene, infused with bustle, and happiness. It was an odd combination, but somehow two impossible ideas seemed to match up perfectly.
The girl looked up at the entrance to the commotion. She stared at the three men who, oblivious to her, had been discussing her past, and her plight.
For a second her eyes met Gabriel’s, and all she could think of was how brilliantly blue they were to her. Such pretty eyes.
The man with the beautiful eyes gave her an earnest smile. It reminded her of a summer here and gone. She wanted to return it, but when she came to her senses they had exited the café.
“Tell me what you did to the girl. Was it that telepathy thing? Just knew you had it in you.” Michael shuffled alongside the other angels.
“No, it was not.” Gabriel was irritated, but his mood was not ruined. “What telepathy? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Break it up, I’m not a mediator.” Raphael stated sullenly.
The angels paused, simultaneously. The light caught their wings and the pinions were once again visible. Their earthly attire dissolved in the gust of wind as they, now clothed in robes of blinding white, with powerful wing beats took flight, vanishing into the clouds, and higher still.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
Under The Lights.
Time: 8:21 PM
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.
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
A Drop of Sunshine.
Time: 8:19 PM
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 cozy home-coming thoughts, like sipping warm tea on a chilly day.
I had come 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 souls, 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.
-END-
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
The rain at 5pm.
Time: 8:17 PM
-To the lonely people of this world.
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 gray 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.
FIN
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
|
To William.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:43 PM
I have often wondered about you.
The first time I caught a glimpse of you a rainstorm had cracked the sky open. Your piece of equipment was not within my view, instead it had been a seeming revelation of a rare occurrence. Your flawless attire sleek with rain, and faded London without her rouge laid bare, captured in your dark, discerning eyes. You appeared to smooth the creases in society, to bring normality to horror. I could not imagine what could have brought you to the crumbling stones lining the walkways, the hard stars for lack of a better view. You were here not for the scenery, for you hardly gazed into the sky, nor paused to hear rain shards plummetting on windows, the buildings, the ground. The gravestones. You were here, only to disappear again after a measly few pages, as unnoticably as you had arrived.
You had left me rapt with wonder, as if I had waited for such a thing all my life.
The moonlight was the spotlight, your slim silhouette outlined, and your shadow. Well, what could I say? It was nothing plainer than a blockade of light. You were never fated to dance as gracefully as the nymphs that haunt the people's dreams. Formal suits were never made for frivolous exchanges between two bodies. I wondered if you would dance, but I doubt you harboured much interest in dancing, or any social event for that matter. You were light and shadow, criss-crossed in ethereal silkwork.
You were calm and collected, and from the deliberate movements I knew you were here only for what you do. Never casting your eyes this way and that. Your countenance set in grim perfection, not a thing of beauty, but a thing of purpose. I wonder how did you feel, at your glimpse of the mortal world. Unsurprised, I think. Yet were you ever astonished at anything? Your features hint at a thousand things I think you already knew. Even speech: your words were evenly articulated, as if every word had streams of thought going before it, assessing it's durability, impact, simplicity. You did not seem like one favouring flowery speech; maybe plain, curt sentences would satisfy you the more. It is necessary, I know. Your glasses only emphasise your intellect; it's not as if it lies unnoticed.
I wonder what your motivation is. It pains me, or amazes me, that you do not seem to have one. Even serial killers are urged on by their dreadful childhood memories. Yet, I wonder what yours is, for an assiduous person, even you seem like a fanatic; a relatively noiseless one, that is. It would be unthinkable if you stated a lacking of one; for then, nothing could distinguish one straight as a ramrod as you from an economical tireless labour; such as a computer.
You don't seem to possess any...bodily desires. Abstemious, possibly, but I wouldn't want to draw any conclusions. I have never seen you smile with satisfaction at anything at all. What do you consider 'fun' or even 'worthwhile'? You won't get hitched this way. Do you care?
You are stoic, and that is quite obvious. I am filled with awe and fascination. It is almost a delusion that I try to grapple with, but like a mist it threatens to vanish away, hence I cannot strengthen my grip. I wish I had an identical self-control, or even half of your sense of duty. Sombre, yet not too much to incur depression.
Your countenance reflects not the rainstorm, but the disquieting thunder is all your own.
I don't know you, nor would I try to discern your truest personality that lies buried beneath that stern, silent facade. I wonder if you are happy. I do not know even what your death scythe does: what a curious instrument it seems. Just plainly knowing and doing enables you to be content, or is it not as what the events seem?
Your perfection scares me, yet fascinates. I am drawn like a cautious moth to a flame. I have never met a man like you.Labels: * prose, fanfic:kuroshitsuji, prose:fanfics
Trip her up and break her heart.
Time: 11:35 PM
Dated: 12 Apr 2009
Last night at 1am was very bizarre indeed. I couldn't get to sleep, then I eventually did, and when I woke up at my table this morning, I realised I had written this on a scrap of paper:
It has been nice, this journey to nowhere, but the scene's over and it's time to leave the screen. It'll be raining soon and my parade would be too drenched to continue the show. I don't wish to catch a cold and the bus would be here any minute to pick me up. No you cannot go with me as you live on the other side. There's the borderline between this place and that one. If this was a joke I would have told you it was. I've got mud on my shoes and a sprained ankle; too exhausted to play, too lethargic to follow you any longer. Leave me, or if you would, watch while I'm whisked away by the roaring wheels and spinning lights. Au revoir.
The troubling thing is, I couldn't remember anything about writing that.Labels: * prose, prose:scraps, writings
This is not an essay.
Time: 11:30 PM
I suppose much could be said of me right now, but I’ll simply write it down as distressing, when at roughly 9.40pm I realised it was finding things to complain about. Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake was open to The Pony Problem (page 3), inviting in a few unwitting words of wisdom and I was deep in thought after scrutinising the first two pages, seated in the cramped space with books haphazardly thrown into the rapidly dwindling available shelf space, frowning and attempting to match emotion and situations to paper by stringing words together. Or in some sense, leaving them out further created ‘final blows’ in my writing.
At the foot of stairs I saw that she was sprawled I saw her there, dead.
I thought hard if I would see those words in print on a Stephen King or a John Saul fiction. Well, they would look perfectly fine there, I thought. And I wouldn’t be disgusted if they appeared verbatim. Would they be just as suitable as mere occupants on wordy postings of a girl whose ‘O’ Level certificate was not even nestled safely in her hand? For a moment in time they resembled cheap hookers beneath a block of flats; one would be clutching a faux LV bag, the other in copious makeup would be blowing cigarette smoke in her face.
This is not even an essay, come to think of it.
Fifteen minutes into an essay and one meager sentence on paper. I was constantly clicking my pencil till the lead broke and I had to refill, time passed me by and as she sashayed, even-footed and deliberately, she cast me a pitiful, condescending—almost spiteful—glance (she made me feel I was wasting her youth) for being a failing aspiring writer. No, EXPIRING. My mother was going on in the kitchen at no one in particular (“Now where is that lunchbox?”), Utada Hikaru was crooning passionately in indecipherable words of Japanese in my ears and from the corner of my eye I came upon the library books I had newly borrowed this afternoon, stacked horizontally, their titles forming neat sentences one atop another.
My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Romeo and Juliet
Naked
I Was Told There’d Be Cake
The whole arrangement struck me as a form of entertainment; almost like a poem stanza and made me laugh very hard as I read it up and down.
And then all of a sudden, the mild diversion dispelled, I was seized with an urge to shout, to scream a throat-scouring scream at the music I now found unloving—it was filled with everything foreign and fright-inducing—my mother who was demanding for the lunchbox as if her life depended on their existence and if they vanished she would, too, and myself glaring accusingly at the book titles that stared dispassionately back, telling them all to shut the fuck up, for the world to freeze over and come to a resolute standstill because the noises were affecting my concentration and disrupting the flow of words.
Which is why I ended up with one pathetic sentence, you ridiculous, annoying—
Like a broken dam I was picking out the misfits, settling on one of them, then haranguing about how talented David Sedaris and the other what’s-her-name were and how they artfully managed to turn the mundane, solitary activities into stellar essays of truth and reminiscence, acknowledging the strings tied to our hands and the entire world, while here I was barely twenty, the words refusing to come to my head while I sat in this bloody hot thirty degree Celsius weather in shorts and t-shirt and not feeling any cooler. But even if I were to pen this passing observation down I doubt it would amount to much; while these authors could go on forever (pages and pages) about a single event/thing from different perspectives so they never seemed like the same thing again, though we people know they are in essence (and we are still enjoying this transmogrification tremendously and marveling at their wit).
Finding fault with inanimate objects, or what is lacking. It’s like trying to talk like a diplomat with a malfunctioning washing machine. Blaming everything on that hollow in one’s heart without ever realizing how packed the other chambers are. Messy, dusty attics are classified regularly under negative examples of organization but today I thought that it would seem to be a charming thing to have bits and pieces of other people’s lives up there, even if it was your own or your mother’s, and to stare fascinated at the mess and cobwebs and things left forgotten. Then at least I wouldn’t dwell on how empty my wardrobe looks and plan to fill it up with Topshop or Gap, or that another book would fit just fine into my shelf, failing which I would need to take off in search of another shelf.
But even the act of finding—look, this is what happens when I find myself in the company of people who are very alike. People who whine about how stupid dusting the curtains is and how worried they are about maths tests. People that some would be more than pleased to slap them in the face and holler “Shut up; we know these things already!” Have a go at them, if you please: no one is stopping you. But they make the world seem more real to me, more than Customer Service counters. “Ah, I’ve been there. See, I’m not alone/abnormal/going to the loon bin!” It reassures me that the internet is linked to the world of my five senses so basic etiquette is a constant and we introverts have nothing to fear.
And damn, complaining is no big deal.
This is still not an essay; it never was to me, and so it never will be, if I could help it.
And I should have learnt to write better.
-FIN-Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
Asylum Tryouts: Glass Wall
Time: 11:13 PM
I thought I'd try this: one question and a barrage of answers, musings, 'what-we-call-it's whenever I'm not feeling exactly the most productive of persons. In fact, I'd like some cookies.
Fingers and knives. Your life is like yelling through the asylum bars, telling the nurses you're actually sane so you weren't supposed to be here. You plead, beg, scream till you're hoarse. Half the time you're trying to convince yourself. That you are, in fact, the voice of reason, the ONLY voice of reason that nobody listens to and makes a conscious effort to ignore. Isn't it strange: that it didn't occur to you why everyone strolling past these bars (the cruel, unyielding, cold barriers between what you have and what can never be yours) pick up the pace until they've left it all behind the glass walls?
It's a disheartening, uncomprehending thought. The difference between imagining it and knowing it's real is seeing it in the flesh. The word flesh was meant to be a word of pronounced relish; the noise of saliva bubbling 'neath your tongue almost equates to a blade slipping past tissue fluid. And for them, knowing for certain it's true hurts: someone they used to love has gone mad, and the final thing that tears at their hearts is that she believes it's not true. It's hard to connect with frayed wires. It's a double-hazard for you and everyone else. (At least, that's what the nurses say.) So deep within their hearts they solemnly make up their mind that unless your reality levels with theirs, they're not speaking to you again.
Of course, they do the coffin-nailing once they're out in the sunshine, where nothing bears even a mere resemblance to the piercing florescent lights that flatten out the white-washed walls like makeshift hell--only more successful. When they've left you behind. Though they've never been confined--not like you--they feel like they are inside. No wonder you detest it, kicking and shrieking for all it's worth, they muse, but this thought leaks out behind the backdoor of denial.
Hearts left to steep in jars. And they're oh-so-terrified and they cannot inch any nearer and they whine how the lace from your dress will wrap around their throats.
It's a maelstrom in here. You'll never read them, stuck and isolated against your own choosing. Pleading to live and die. The glass walls are evil--you've known this all along. Three, five ounces of reality are what metal bars give. The glass gives away everything--except freedom. It's like watching a game but you can't join in. Watching and watching, until you place a yearning hand on the cold, transparent surface and nothing feels real anymore. You can't speak; they're all on how sedating people make their jobs easier and unfortunately you don't speak Syringe the way they do. You find yourself saying this ten, twenty times to convince yourself moving pictures on glass walls are moving pictures and that you know none of the people in this film.
As usual, it doesn't work. Probably because you drank hot apple juice at 3pm.
Why, even I try to make sense of the loved ones.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
A Stranger In A Strange Train
Time: 11:11 PM
It is suffocatingly crowded in here. People jostle and push against each other like water molecules but somehow everyone is quiet at the same time.
He is Caucasian, the only one against a backdrop of Asians but then again he doesn't look too different. He stands alone, gazing absentmindedly around like the average commuter who only wishes for the long ride to end. His skin is sallow and pale, thinly stretched onto his lanky frame, yet not too much that it adds years to his appearance, and there is just enough pinkish tinge under the flesh to declare him healthy. I decided he has a soft appearance, like a completed, Photoshopped picture: airbrushed complexion, deep, feeling eyes looking into a place far away from here, and the marvel of how the background seems to blur off with distance from him. It's like they're not worth looking at. Or maybe it's just me.
I try not to be caught staring, but he turns around and our eyes meet. Once, twice. One second, two. And I look away calmly. As if I was merely casting a bored glance around the train cabin for something to sustain me through the ride. And he looks away as if nothing has happened. (How many times does one wonder if you're amusing someone else?) He is right.
My eyes roam and I feel like a downhearted poet seeing through the eyes of Mnemosyne. Or even Neil Gaiman, who is reputed to complete whole stories on airplanes. Or so my friend tells me. He slouches slightly, his hands gripping the ivory-cream handlebars firmly but with a touch of finely-poised grace that somehow looks completely unintentional, a casual way as he puts his weight on it and yet seems weightless. It looks so easy. He has a nostalgic look (or am I just dreaming?), like a 20th century Romeo with a different personality but unfortunately-Romeo genes. He exudes a calm gentleness that makes my heart lift with a sigh.
He wears grey denim skinny jeans that cuddle his legs and settle into layers of folded fabric at his ankles where they meet his shoes. His feet are covered by grey Everlast cotton sneakers of a darker hue, black laces, the sort I can't wear as I'd put holes in them faster than moths. His shirt is black with coloured splashes of red, pink and electric blue, with a caption I can't make out exactly, but though I will him to just turn around a little more for a glimpse, he doesn't. I am left in quiet suspense.
The lights in the gloomy tunnel flash on and off while the train rumbles to its own bass melody.
Our eyes meet once more as I wonder and I almost --almost-- miss the controlled intensity of his baby blues, shining from their constraints like white dwarfs, or radioactive material at the bottom of a well, radiating mersmerising and unexpected charm despite slightly obscured by straw-coloured locks falling all over his face, and not a bit sheepish. He's like the reticent book nerd in my class whom I never knew plays electric guitar. I think he's like Mikey Way without the glasses.
His eyes say you've yet to know me in a secretive way I'm certain I imagined it. He doesn't grin and I'm relieved: I could list off some people whose faces have been spoiled by their smile. In my opinion, anyway. He simply gazes out into the world with a forgotten, dreamy, detached air. I spent two-point-five minutes admiring his slender fingers, entertaining myself with possibilities of his name (I allocate a name to interesting people) but the train jolts to a stop at Outram Park and he disappears out the open doors without a second look. A gust, a whisper of wind.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
To Talk, To Speak, To Type
Time: 8:32 PM
His name comes up on MSN, and we talk. It has been a long time.
He's a thousand miles away from the boiling furnace I'm in, and probably further away than I think. He says hi, and 'how are you doing?' and 'sorry I couldn't get to ya earlier: my laptop crashed'. I tell him it's okay, and it's nice to hear from him again.
Through the mirror says:
Hello. How's the weather?
He types that too and it appears onscreen. We both send 'fine' simultaneously. I laugh softly. There isn’t anything remotely funny in coincidence, but if I giggle in my room no one hears me. I think I can see him grinning. In my mind he hasn't done that for three weeks now. I tell him about exams. I type slowly, one delicate word after another, an amateur ballerina showing off to her instructor, excited but nervous.
Through the mirror says:
The exams are here again. But thank goodness it's nearly over. You?
My hands are watchful of the Enter key: press it once and I could be getting it wrong. I see the reply in my head like a floating cloud. I think it too austere and emotionless. Come on, aren't we friends?
I think of two people connected by a thin piece of copper wire: the Internet. I pray my computer doesn't crash. I press 'backspace' till the textbox blanks. He tells me I have to keep trying. ‘Don’t give up, Remember what you said about Cambridge?’ Pep talk. I did say something about Cambridge University, how I wished so badly I would study there under the prestigious namesake: all for wearing a varsity sweater. I told him that only because he told me he lived in England before he came here. So, yes, I still remember that. I tell him instead of the books I've read, come across on the shelves of Borders, and any title that pops into my head as I go along. I've never read half of them.
Through the mirror says:
Want a list?
Him: Hell yeah. Spill it.
So I do. Death of A Writer, Poppy Shakespeare, The Chemistry of Death...the list goes on. I consult the library receipts clipped on the calendar for titles. I want this conversation to go on. He doesn't comment on how many of them concern the escalating process that extinguishes life. That's exactly what I like about this conversation: nothing that has been said has ever been said again. I think back; I remember telling him how normal this obsession of mine is. As normal as yours. He's treating it like an ordinary hobby, or so I think.
He asks what Death of a Writer is about. Sounds just the thing for a Saturday morning coffee accompaniment, he says. I don't know if he's making a joke, or being serious. I can't see if he's smiling or otherwise. My mind has started to churn because at this moment I figure: oh crap, I haven't read it yet. On the contrary, I still yearn to say something about it. It has become a habit so hard to shake off: gushing about books, films, and music, and the revoked memories of late-night SMS-critiques just spill out of the jar.
Through the mirror says:
I'm not sure yet. Haven't read it through. You interested?
Him: Might be. Depends on you. (I'm reading that he's saying if I like it, he might, too.)
Him: Anyway, how are you?
I pause my fingers on the keys. I look up at the ceiling: it's still the same peeling, green paint that hasn't been painted over for years. Keeping the memories has never been so crazy. Early Sunsets Over Monroeville is playing again and I turn up the volume until the point where I get comfortable with the music and the neighbours don't hear enough to complain. Heck, they aren't even home.
I think I could be fine. Looking around , I decide that my normal society standards, I actually possess a relatively blessed life. My room doesn't flood every monsoon. That's fortunate. I know we both expect something more than 'fine'. Instead I tell him I'm a contented nonentity. It is a while later that he replies. I want to ask him something about himself, to take the camera away from me so I don't seem to awkward in this chair, my brain running a million miles and calculating the odds of this conversation being the most boring since three weeks ago. (I haven't even had the time to wave goodbye at the airport.) Something about being a flavorless friend hits me hard. I’d rather not think about it. I reply fast and steer us both away.
Through the mirror says:
Well let's just say I've been as usual, library fan.
Enough about me. How's your life.
I forget the question mark.
He has spindly fingers, like mine. But I told him that already, so it wouldn’t be true if I had repeated myself. Still, that’s where the resemblance ends. His were made to fold paper cranes (creaseless), insert a thread into the eye of a needle, and cradle a book such that it was an art of concentration and liberation in a carefree pose of the educated. Mine were meant for dropping things. Well I wouldn’t see them today.
Mindless Self Indulgence’s Molly is playing. He says he is settling in just fine. A little culture shock, after being away for two years, but it’s coming along all right.
‘She was a good girl and it felt great to be a liar.’
Through the mirror says:
Culture shock? You? Yeah, right
You even know what the indigenous people of the Amazon eat.
Him: Strange stuff, huh? Never expected it from myself. Things just are different, sometimes. Guess life made us that way.
It is strange, how everyone changes bit by bit. Like paint flaking off my ceiling surface. If this happens, everyone would be unrecognizable.
Through the mirror says:
Me neither. Crap, you’ve morphed into someone I don’t recognize. Where’s that exuding confidence??
Him: Haha. Will be back, eventually. My books have been shipped back here. The room’s cramped and a mess.
Through the mirror says:
You’ll be used to it in no time. It’s been three weeks and you haven’t unpacked?
Now we end up about his room. He complains slightly about the lack of leg-room at the desk, how he’s putting off all the cleaning till ‘tomorrow’. I ask if he kept the posters. Obviously he has but I have nothing else that would come out of me. We’re like two strangers who’ve just met, and probably had talked on the bus for a few hours, before we get off at the station. Distance is making this friendship wonky, or maybe it’s just me with the technical errors. I’m guessing it’s the latter. I announce rather proudly I’ve kept mine too.
We both have. Like the band t-shirt phenomenon we had caught on. The walls are plastered with different posters and printed photographs from various gigs, most of which I never had the chance to attend. It sounds silly, but I’ve learnt they tend to forgive you when you’re not yet twenty.
Through the mirror says:
Band shirt?
Him: Iron Maiden. Yours?
I wonder if he still does drums. Really, it wouldn’t be strange to ask, but at this moment there are things people fail to explain: how people curse train schedules yet the timetables have a pious following, jostling for space at the platform; how horrid I find being in bed nude with your other half (the next morning it’s the same person who embraces you from behind and you have to ask him if he wants honey on the waffles). They shouldn’t go together. It’s something everyone knows yet they don’t speak it. Like Voldemort, to draw an example.
Through the mirror says:
It’s more fun when you guess.
Him: A Rite of Passage is running through my head. Lemme think.
Him: Good Lord, this band can really play. Hmm, BFMV?
Through the mirror says:
Heck, tell me about it. And no, try again.
I want to ask him if he still does drums. Even better, I would blurt out to him that finally I’ve taken his advice to learn how to play an electric guitar properly. I stand up and head for the kitchen for a glass of water to clear my thoughts, still thinking. It’s puzzling how it’s difficult conversing with someone so close. I wish we stood side by side once more. Funnily enough that didn’t seem so hard. When his words didn’t make my world spin and the bottom of it fall out.
I wonder if he were to appear at my doorstep, would I still greet him with the same off-handed geniality. Or would I be the tongue-tied one he never had a glimpse of? The awkward girl: who never said anything she meant but wished she had meant everything she said.
Chick-lit is silly, I murmur to myself, underlining my conviction. I miss the cup and spill water. I curse under my breath. It isn’t as if anyone will hear me. I curse aloud.
I settle back in my seat.
Him: Damn, I have to go. TTYL. 5pm?
Through the mirror says:
Sure. Might still be on.
Him: Ciao.
I stare hard at the ‘Offline’ notice, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair.
Ciao, and I love you, I think.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
Coffee, Strudels and Angels
Time: 8:26 PM
It was daylight, but there was a figure in the corner.
It was daylight, but not quite, for the sun had barely lifted from the edge of the horizon.
The figure in the corner sat immobile in his chair, with his left leg crossed over his right. Occasionally he sniffed the air and smelled the well-known, buoyant sweet scent of candied fruits, which had drawn him and many others here.
He was small in build, but lean, thought Mrs Mackay the owner, and immediately wondered how she knew, with his body covered beneath all that suffocating fabric. She shuffled around in an endearing manner of a pleasant old lady, too old to run and jump, but too unyielding to give up and simply waiting for Death to take her. This man—youth, she corrected, he looked barely thirty—had been a silent stranger metres outside the café for an hour, leaning against the maple tree, head bowed, occasionally looking around. She had gone out of her shop and asked if he needed help, or whether he was waiting for something..
“Only for your café to open, ma’am.” Then she had let him in, and he had been there ever since. He had such a wonderful smile, it reminded her of fresh marigolds. She thought she might have seen him before.
In a navy-blue overcoat, pants and shoes of similar, if not darker, hue, the man looked just like any other person that would have walked into the café , except that at seven in the morning, there were no other customers around. He had sapphire blue eyes and hair the colour of spun gold.
Only sometimes, when the sunlight fought its way in through the dusty windows, that his broad wings were outlined in faint yellow. Then as the sunlight moved on, so did they vanish like dull tracing paper.
A soft, resonant jingle from the door meant that the first, loyal customers of Mackay’s Café were beginning to stream in. There was nothing like a fresh pot of coffee to start the day. The angel watched them impassively as each took their favourite spots; cheery greetings rang out across the café.
After ten minutes, he signalled to a waitress and ordered a latte.
The smells of breakfast for many customers permeated the air from the kitchen at the back as Mrs Mackay and two waitresses distributed the plates stacked high with varied meals. He sipped the latte delicately, closed his eyes and wished he could lose himself in the atmosphere at least for the moment.
“Gabriel.” He is momentarily startled by the voice, but he knew better than to be. Staring at brown-white froth that was his coffee, he sighed.
“Michael.” He stood before Gabriel, and their eyes met: they were of the same hue. They would have been carbon copies, except for that the new arrival’s hair was rather tousled.
“You looked like you just woke up, Michael.” Gabriel smiled and stretched his legs, which had been crossed for prolonged durations. “Had an early morning?”
“I wouldn’t be able to follow you otherwise.” Michael grinned and carelessly brushed his hair back. He settled down on one chair around Gabriel’s table, shifting his body until he was comfortable before taking a look around, seemingly for the first time. “Ah, nice place,” he remarked, “A little homey and austere for my tastes, but then, it’s just you.” Then, in a smaller, whiny voice. “You’re not very fond of sharing, aren’t you?”
Gabriel frowned. “How did you find out about this?”
“I did.” A dark-haired man, immaculately and formally dressed in what looked like attire for the working classes joined them at the table.
“Greetings, Raphael.” Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Technically, I didn’t tell anyone—”
“—except those in your sleep.” Raphael finished. “I could hear your inane mumblings from where I live, and we aren’t bunkmates.” “Though I had no idea he would be here,” he added quietly, eyeing Michael.
“Apparently someone isn’t very good at keeping the secrets he’s uncovered,” Michael smirked, yawning slightly. “And we do get bored on guard duty. Lucky you; you get to go everywhere, messenger.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to say something but fell silent as a waitress approached with two more cups of identical coffee and three chocolate muffins. Conversation lulled as the three of them busied themselves. Gabriel beamed at Charlene (it said so on her tag); she flushed and hurried back to the kitchen with the nervous smile of a fan who’d just shook hands with her idol.
“Do you come here everyday?” Raphael asked. “It’s so peaceful here, unlike the riotous city. I understand why you visit so often.”
“As long as time permits. I agree; time seems to flow at her own leisurely pace. And the people…” He gazed toward the general assembly; most of which were busy attending to their meals and chatting amicably to their neighbours. “They go about their lives, living day to day. More than one person revisit the café since their first stop in the morning. ” Gabriel sipped his coffee.
“Most of the time, we are content to watch,” Raphael murmured, following his gaze. Gabriel nodded in the affirmative.
“I might have underestimated the place. These are just splendid,” Michael wolfed down the remnants of his muffin. “Don’t mind me.” He proceeded to eat Raphael’s without his consent.
“You’re enjoying yourself, for once,” the offended angel said dubiously.
“Well I had the apple strudel once,” Gabriel’s voice went all dreamy. “Most delicious thing I ever had, though it was a little too sweet.”
Michael muttered something inaudible.
The group was quiet as a jingle sounded. A girl, barely the age of eighteen, walked in with nervous eyes and a small hurried steps, unspotted by any of the patrons as she found an empty table and scuttled to the chair, except by the three angels.
“Yet another consequence of an open-minded society,” Michael remarked, gesturing at her protruding stomach, a sure sign of pregnancy. The girl’s eyes resembled those of a trapped kitten in a drain, afraid of her surroundings, yet twice of what lay outside. Her eyes shot nervously from one end of the café to another, as if expecting anything to happen very soon.
“She’s afraid that anyone who knows her would come through the door any moment.” Gabriel’s voice was not that of an authoritative overseer, but that of a sympathetic onlooker as he fixed his gaze on her. “It’s rude to point.” He glared at Michael.
“Well my apologies, dear sir,” Michael said caustically, then “What is wrong with you? You’re acting like you’re dying to go over and hug her. Well, squeeze the life out of her and the child, anyway. Don’t tell me you’ve gone all soft on mortals.”
Gabriel hissed with anger and for a moment Michael thought he would be spending a day with Raphael-the-medic, but not before Raphael-the-peacemaker intervened.
“There’s no need to go to blows over this matter,” Raphael said gently but firmly. “Someone ought to think before he speaks again, and I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way you did.” He patted Gabriel’s shoulder.
“He’d better,” Gabriel said under his breath, the embers of his rage dying, and took a long drink out of the coffee cup.
“But really, I wouldn’t have minded even if you did. Hug her, I mean,” Michael clarified hurriedly. “It looks like she really needs it. I wonder if she has any relatives, or at least, people who care.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Probably, or not.”
“It’s sad,” Raphael said, almost to himself.
The girl was now sitting alone, with a bowl of liquid the colour of bleached lemons. She dipped her spoon into it slowly, then ladling up a small amount, brought it to her lips. She closed her eyes briefly as the soup trickled down her throat. The faintest of smiles fluttered across her features, and then it was gone. She lowered the spoon in slow-motion, and when it was centimetres away from the tabletop, she stared at it for a long, long while, as if she has realised something profound and important that no one else would understand.
She shook her head, breaking the spell, and set it on the table. Instead of finishing the rest of her order, the forlorn girl in jeans and T-shirt stared out the window in front of her.
“What lovely hazel-brown eyes,” Michael observed aloud, more of something to break the tension and silence than anything else. He received no response. “Earth to Gabriel.” He waved a hand in front of the messenger.
“Huh? What—I’m sorry, just spacing out a little.” Gabriel shook his head to clear out the thoughts.
“Hm.” Michael was unconvinced. “Well there must be the other half of the equation, speaking of which, I wonder who her husband is.”
“Strictly speaking, she would be underage to marry. Her boyfriend,” Raphael paused, letting his tongue adjust to the word. He had only recently learned it from another passing angel, which he had spoken to during his duties, and had just recently deprived him of the earthly joy of a muffin. “He should be accompanying her. It’s unsafe for a woman to roam the streets in this condition.”
“He could have vanished, then. In fact, I think he really did,” Gabriel stated simply.
“Poor thing,” Michael said, this time without sarcasm. “Such was taboo in the days of the apostles. What has the world become?”
“The Devil’s.”
The girl’s face resembled an ageing willow tree; already it had slight imperfections, imperfections so unforgivable to other girls her age. Her eye bags were prominent against her pale skin and whenever she shifted in her seat there was exhaustion apparent in the way she moved: languidly, seemingly intent to reserve her failing strength. She was a string stretched and ready to break.
“Poor thing.” It was Raphael’s turn.
“Strings weren’t meant to be stretched,” murmured Gabriel, draining the last of his coffee.
“At last, there goes the caffeine, the people’s favourite wonderdrug.” Michael emptied his cup; Raphael had already did so, minutes ago.
“Would love to have this again,” Gabriel said, staring at the bottom of the cup, which had brown stains.
“Yeah, definitely. What a break. When we revisit, and that’ll be…tomorrow?” Michael smiled.
“Nice place, this,” said Raphael. “Thank you for inviting us, Gabriel.”
“Well I didn’t,” he retorted, but a grin tugged at the corners of his lips.
“Shall we leave, gentlemen? My wings are stiff from the lack of use.” Michael stood up and stretched. He sneezed. “Excuse me; must be the dust.”
The two angels stood and the group walked toward the entrance, dragging their feet. Gabriel stopped abruptly and Michael narrowly avoided colliding headlong into his back.
“What in the world—” He screeched.
Gabriel turned, drinking in the busy scene, infused with bustle, and happiness. It was an odd combination, but somehow two impossible ideas seemed to match up perfectly.
The girl looked up at the entrance to the commotion. She stared at the three men who, oblivious to her, had been discussing her past, and her plight.
For a second her eyes met Gabriel’s, and all she could think of was how brilliantly blue they were to her. Such pretty eyes.
The man with the beautiful eyes gave her an earnest smile. It reminded her of a summer here and gone. She wanted to return it, but when she came to her senses they had exited the café.
“Tell me what you did to the girl. Was it that telepathy thing? Just knew you had it in you.” Michael shuffled alongside the other angels.
“No, it was not.” Gabriel was irritated, but his mood was not ruined. “What telepathy? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Break it up, I’m not a mediator.” Raphael stated sullenly.
The angels paused, simultaneously. The light caught their wings and the pinions were once again visible. Their earthly attire dissolved in the gust of wind as they, now clothed in robes of blinding white, with powerful wing beats took flight, vanishing into the clouds, and higher still.Labels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
Under The Lights.
Time: 8:21 PM
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.
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
A Drop of Sunshine.
Time: 8:19 PM
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 cozy home-coming thoughts, like sipping warm tea on a chilly day.
I had come 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 souls, 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.
-END-
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
The rain at 5pm.
Time: 8:17 PM
-To the lonely people of this world.
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 gray 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.
FIN
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
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ABOUT ME
Charmaine/Emmy: FCPS, RSS, ___. Satire buff. Anglophile, pedagogue, nefarious grammarian-in-training and hedonistic pedant. Dreams of a pathologist office smelling of soap, disinfectant and disease. (Who forgets autopsies?) I'm a student and satisfied with it, and I'm not eligible to be a writer. Writers are sensitive, creative and they think out of the box but I'm more of a structured person. Then again everyone writes so writers are an exclusive category for published geniuses that do not include me. I like the glories of academia, medicine, reading books, dreaming and writing. I'm that sort of person who would rather party than study, whom one would make happier giving a medical journal/national geographic mag issue than, say, a fashion magazine. (I do read fashion mags when they come to me, but they aren't a necessity.) I'm boring/intriguing like that.
I am a step to University at the moment and I'm treading carefully in case I slip. I'm uncertain if I'll ever find a husband but that doesn't bother me much. This blog collects all my satisfactory writings.
Notes on writings
I don't usually curse, if at all, but at times for a piece of writing to be plausible certain undesirable elements have to be inserted to add reality to it. We all have seen our share of crude characters and for this, it would just be me writing about one. It's a little like writing about lust; written about, divulged, but never encouraged. To put this plainly: if it carries to reality, it is wrong. But since it isn't
technically reality, in my perspective it isn't.
I support pairings and I understand the norm do not. However I see no necessity to apologise for my head.
'You can't cut my heart into sections'
More books, more shelves.
Christianity, which in my perspective hinges less on modern-day hocus-pocus than the immutable truth.
My Chemical Romance.
Pathology.
German tank models.
Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson.
Vienna Teng.
Heath Ledger.
The Third Reich.
Bubble Tea.
Wishlist:
National/Victoria JC
Cambridge University
MCR album (2010)
A spiral-bound, shorthand notebook
Grimm's Last Fairytale (Haydn Middleton)
The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls (Emilie Autumn)
Young Adolf (Beryl Bainbridge)
Suspended Animation: Six Essays on the Preservation of Bodily Parts (F. Gonzalez-Crussi)
A Not Entirely Benign Procedure: Four Years As A Medical Student (Perri Klass)
Fry and Laurie 4 (Stephen Fry)
Mein Kampf (Adolf Hitler)
Emilie Autumn's The Opheliac Companion CD
Hannah Fury's The Thing That Feels CD
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NETWORK
I'm not too fond of alphebetical ordering.
Watson's Woes
Huddy Daily
SCHOOL:
Pearly
Ming Xuan
Cherie
RS choir
Marilyn
Mdm Haslinda
Keen Hoe
Arini
Sherilyn
Peishwen
Jasmine
Cheryl
Si Ying
Wei Loke
Liting
Sarah
Shi Mei
Michelle
Rui Xian
sadlydotcom
Derrick
Joey
Cynthia
June
James
Wendy
Vinus
Shi Yun
Yi Hui
COMRADES:
Jacy
JCOC:
Victoria
Canida
Sean
Medalene
Kareen
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ARCHIVE
January 2010
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