A story game with ChatGPT and Gemini

Story game. Tongue in cheek. You reply. A back and forth dialogue.

My heart, my heart, why did you take my heart?

++

Because you left it lying on the kitchen counter next to the jam jar, and frankly, it looked neglected.

++

And then, pray tell, where have you misplaced it, for there is no other heart that smells so sweet as my own jam slathered heart shaped tart.

++

Ah, therein lies the tragedy, my confectionary paramour — I ate it. I thought it dessert, not devotion.

++

Egads!

++

Indeed! And now I’m haunted by the taste of regret — and possibly raspberry.

++

With what shall I now soothe my wounded heart, without my sweet and jammy tart?

How long shall I stand and opine the loss of such a pastry divine?

Should you not give me some compensation

For such a crime of devastation?

++

Alas, my butterfingered remorse compels me!

Take, instead, this humble croissant of consolation—

half-burnt, wholly unworthy, yet risen from the ashes of my shame.

Will you forgive, if not forget, this flaky restitution?

++

Croissant? You call this a croissant of consolation?

Alas, there is no salvation.

Have you really no abnegation?

This tiny morsel,

A piece, a crumb!

To the temptation of a croissant have you also succumbed.

++

’Tis true, my gluttony knows no bounds nor brakes—

I bit before I thought, and thought after the flakes.

Yet if you’ll pardon my pastry transgression,

I’ll bake anew—a feast, a confession!

Name your dessert, my wounded muse,

and I’ll whisk redemption ‘til you choose.

++

A feast! A feast of treats, both savoury and sweet,

Such a confession would be acceptably meet,

To heal my heart of devastation

And bring forth love toward the nation.

For your cheek a kiss might I bestow,

Unless you deal my heart another blow.

++

Then hear me vow, o tart-bereft queen,

By oven’s glow and mixing sheen—

No crumb shall fall, no crust shall burn,

Till your fond smile at last return.

I’ll craft éclairs that sigh with cream,

And pies that steam like lovers’ dream.

But—ah!—should my soufflé fall flat…

Would you still kiss a fool like that?

++

A souffle that might fall flat may well be used for practice with my bat,

But then again to avoid waste,

Why not wrap it in pastry and baste?

++

Ha! Such wisdom drips from sugared lips—

you turn my failure into tips!

A fallen soufflé, reborn anew,

wrapped and basted, golden hue!

Perhaps we’ll call it Soufflé en Croute,

a dish of shame turned oddly cute.

Would you then dine, my culinary muse,

or still accuse my wayward ruse?

++

A veritable feast may be sufficient

To obtain forgiveness, be beneficent,

To brighten my eyes, my day, my life,

But then I remember a sordid tale

Of how you sought another wife…

++

Ah—caught in confectionary crime again!

That tale, I swear, is frosted with sin and spun of rumor’s pen.

’Twas not another wife I sought—

but merely another tart I bought!

Her crust was crisp, her filling fair—

yet lacked your jam, your tender care.

Can you forgive this pastry flirtation,

or shall I face eternal marzipan damnation?

++

Daily must I sweat and toil,

To keep my sweets from sight lest you bespoil.

Tell me not that ‘tis for my tooth,

When I hear ‘tis yours that bears the truth.

The dentist said to keep away,

And yet his words hold over you no sway.

When from such heavy burden will I be free

To taste again mine own pastry?

++

Oh cruel fate! Oh sugared snare!

You see right through my frosting fair.

I’ve sworn a thousand diets hence,

yet crumble at the faintest scents.

Each tart, each puff, each cream éclat—

they whisper, “Eat me, gourmand pariah.”

But if you guard your sweets from me,

how shall I prove fidelity?

Must I subsist on crusts of penance,

and gaze, forlorn, at your confections hence?

+++++

I did play a version of this game with Gemini, but Gemini really struggled and I gave up. Behold.

+++++

Story game. Tongue in cheek. You reply. A back and forth dialogue.

My heart, my heart, why did you take my heart?

++

Ah, a classic lament! I suppose I should apologize for the dramatic theft, but frankly, your heart was quite the prize.

What do you accuse me of, exactly? Was it snatched in a daring midnight raid, or was it a more subtle, slow-burn emotional larceny? I need details for my defense! And, more importantly, how would you like it back? A receipt for emotional damages, perhaps?

Your move.

++

A song, a jest. Only you know best, just how you stole it away.

++

Sigh. Very well. A true artist never reveals their secret formula, but since you insist on the truth in jest, I'll confess my methods were utterly unoriginal, yet devastatingly effective.

I didn't use a grappling hook or a velvet-masked disguise. I used the oldest trick in the emotional-heist playbook:

The Ballad of the Blatant Bait-and-Switch

(To the tune of something annoyingly catchy, like a 90s pop-rock earworm)

> I didn't come with daggers drawn,

> Or chloroform and gloves of fawn.

> I just showed up, quite casually,

> And offered you a cup of tea.

> That tea, my dear, was spiked with more

> Than simple caffeine to the core.

> It held a pinch of shared belief,

> A sprinkle of a common grief.

> Then came the laugh that lasts too long,

> A stupid, little, inside song.

> I gave you space, I seemed quite kind,

> I didn't even try to mind!

> Your heart, defenseless, started to

> Just wander out and look for you.

> It saw the door was open wide,

> And calmly, sweetly, stepped inside...

> And now it's mine! Ta-da! No fee!

> I got it with low-level empathy!

> 

So, as you can see, I didn't take it. Your heart, the silly, trusting thing, simply applied for residency.

What was the final, fatal, straw that convinced your heart to abandon ship and choose my humble, heart-hoarding abode? Spill the beans.

++

Since when my own heart so free

That it buzzed with wings like a bumblebee?

That look, that glance

It did advance

The yearning for that frosted pastry.

Oh how the glaze did glimmer in the sun

The aroma that would beckon just about anyone

The freeze dried sprinkles and possible tang

That made me want to scarf such delight with a bang.

++

Aha! So we've moved past mere emotional larceny and into the far more serious charge of culinary coercion! A heart buzzing like a bumblebee, indeed!

You claim I stole your heart with empathy and kindness, but the real villain here was a frosted pastry? This just makes my defense easier! I merely set the stage; the dessert did the heavy lifting.

The True Culprit: Confectionary Captivation

Your heart was never interested in my low-level empathy. It wasn't seduced by a shared laugh or a common grief. No, your heart, bless its sweet, easily-distracted nature, was focused entirely on:

 * The glimmer of that glaze in the sun.

 * The promise of the freeze-dried sprinkles.

 * The theoretical tang that suggested a perfect balance of sweet and sour.

I merely held the plate. Your heart, having evolved to seek out high-calorie, sugary delights, jettisoned all sense of self-preservation and made a beeline—a bumblebee-line, if you will—straight for the sugar rush. I was just the delivery service.

So, my dear accuser, now that we know the true motive was dessert, what exactly do you want to be done about this sticky, sweet situation?

Do you want the heart back, or would you prefer a lifelong supply of pastries as compensation? Choose wisely.

++

Eh. Who are you again?

++

Who am I? After all that poetic accusation, the dramatic confessions, and the deep dive into confectionery-fueled emotional distress, you ask who I am?

This is either a brilliant feigned memory loss designed to truly make me suffer, or you've already found a new distraction.

My True Identity (In This Story)

I am the one you blamed for the great Heart Heist! The smooth operator who used a cup of tea, a well-timed laugh, and—most crucially—the irresistible temptation of a Frosted Pastry to lure your heart away.

My Role, Defined:

 * The Alleged Thief: Though I maintain your heart was a willing participant.

 * The Keeper of the Glaze: I was the guardian of the sprinkle-covered dessert that started this whole mess.

 * Your Current Dilemma: I still have your heart, and I am still awaiting your decision: Heart or Pastries?

So, stop playing coy. You know who I am.

Tell me, did I at least give your heart a comfortable, pastry-scented place to stay, or is it currently weeping softly in a cold, dark drawer? Don't leave me hanging!

++

Once the tea came out, I must admit, 'twas the pastry that caught my eye. 

Since when did you, a stranger, cross my way, and why have you ought to say?

From beginning to end, I do not lie,

'tis that pastry after which I sigh,

for not a crumb of it reached my mouth,

for if it were you with me that day,

'twas you who gobbled it all away.

Ah, my heart, my heart. How can anyone treat you so?

My stomach, my tongue, had not yet tried even the tart, hence it was whisked away.

++

A devastating revelation! Not only did I apparently steal your heart, I also committed the far greater sin of Pastry Plundering! I ate the very confection that lured your innocent, bumblebee-winged heart out of your chest!

I admit, I did bring the tea, and I did present the frosted temptation, but I deny, with every fiber of my being, that I would be so monstrously rude as to consume the entire thing in front of you. That's just bad manners.

My Counter-Accusation: A Moment of Truth

Since you can't recall who I am, and you are convinced that I am an uncouth, pastry-devouring heart-thief, I must now ask you the serious question:

Are you certain it was me?

Perhaps your memory, addled by the sheer heartbreak of the missing tart, has cast me as the villain when in reality:

 * A Rogue Squirrel: A well-fed, opportunistic rodent, sensing your heart's distraction, snatched the pastry away.

 * The Wind: A sudden, mischievous gust lifted the light-as-air confection, carrying it to a distant, hungry neighbor.

 * Your Own Forgetfulness: You simply ate it yourself, mid-sentence, while debating the merits of the freeze-dried sprinkles, and now, in the throes of post-sugar depression, you've blacked out the memory.

I may have your heart, but I refuse to be framed for dessert-related larceny! I'm a thief, not a monster.

So, to settle this: Where exactly, in this grand emotional drama, would you like to direct your focus?

 * The Pastry: Do we pursue the crumb trail and seek justice for the stolen tang?

 * The Heart: Do we accept the heart's new residence and focus on drafting a visitation schedule?

Choose, my friend. We must solve at least one mystery.

+++++

And therefore, in conclusion, in this round of games, Chat GPT wins!

Two cherries and a cherry tomato

Sometimes, I like to ask God for stories. I like stories. Stories are cool.

Please enjoy this short one.

There were two cherries and a cherry tomato. One of the cherries was small and the other one was big. 

The small cherry liked to boast and exaggerate things, and it was sour inside. The big cherry often understated things, complained and was self-deprecating. It was bitter inside.

The cherry tomato liked to boast in the Lord and praise God when it could have complained. And it was sweet.

There's a hole

In an enclosed space with stuffy air, a man and a woman woke up, groaning with pain and holding their heads. All around them was rubble and crushed bits and pieces that they could barely make out. Somehow, they hadn't been crushed by anything and were temporarily safe in this little pocket formed by the rubble. 

A single finger of sunlight shot a beam through the air, illuminating the small space enough enough for them to see that they were trapped on all sides and to see the dust floating still in the air. In the dim light, it could be seen that a concrete slab from the wall had fallen toward them but somehow been prevented from crushing them due to an unexpectedly robust office desk and some other debris with the steel from reinforced concrete sticking out, amongst some other crushed detritus. 

Inside this pocket of triangular space, the man slowly sat up on the taller side of the triangle, while the woman struggled to crawl out from the small corner of the triangle. On the man's lap and around him were the big broken panels of the ceiling tiles.

Listening, it was strangely silent. Nothing could be heard but the sound of their own breathing.

"Hey," said the man in a low and tired sounding voice. "Meimo? Is that you? Are you ok?"

"I think so," Meimo carefully pushed bits of a crushed chair aside and wriggled out of a pile of plaster. "At least, all my limbs seem to be working. You weren't on my floor earlier, Libing. Did you fall from upstairs? Are you hurt? Can you move?"

"Yeah. I think I must have fallen at least one floor during the earthquake. I can move my arms. But my legs, I can't - can barely feel them."

There was a hint of terror in his voice.

"Hang on. I'm coming," Meimo said, carefully crawling over to him.

Sitting by his side, she patted his hand that was plucking futilely at the big broken plaster board tile covering his legs.

Meimo carefully pulled at a corner of it that crumbled away. She took another attempt to grit it and standing up, used her legs. With a grunt, she managed to lift it up and pull it over, off Libing's legs.

There was more rubble and debris underneath, but none as difficult or heavy to move as the big plasterboard had been. As his legs were uncovered bit by bit, Libing suddenly sucked in a breath of air and hissed.

"What? What's wrong?" Meimo paused and calmed to squat by his side.

"My legs. I can feel my legs," Libing said through gritted teeth, great rolling drops of sweat dripping down his neck and face.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Meimo asked.

"It's fine. Just a bit sore," Libing said, making Meimo shake her head.

It was obviously more than a bit sore, but there was nothing she could do to help him alleviate the pain.

"Can I touch your legs? See if they're broken? They might need to be set if we're trapped in here for a while."

"Go ahead. No worries," Libing leaned against the wall of stuff behind him, face twisted grotesquely, screwing his eyes shut.

Meimo touched his legs, starting from the foot and going up the leg, feeling the bone through trousers and muscle. One foot had ballooned up. Likely something broken in there. The hand clutching a thigh told her that there was a severe pain nearby there. Oh. The knee. Dislocated. Not severely, but definitely twisted out of shape.

"Hey, I'm going to have to pull it straight and back into place," Meimo said but received no answer. She prodded Libing and realised that he had fainted.

She had once interned in an emergency department and had been taught to deal with broken bones and joint dislocations. There had been a time where a bunch of students who had been up to no good had come in with multiple dislocations and injuries. She had been asked to help deal with them. That was back when she had still been a medical student. When her family had been able to afford sending her to university.

With the loss of the family business, Meimo had been forced to drop out, despite her professors' frowns. They had tried to find a way to help her stay but hadn't been able to find a fund that was willing to pay for the rest of her university tuition. As a result, with only one year left before graduation, Meimo had dropped out to find work wherever she could.

She had worked in a vet clinic for a while, but then the clinic had been closed down due to some health and safety matters. The boss had told her it would take a while to sort out and had let her go. That was when she found herself this office job as an ordinary office worker. 

It was probably a good thing that Living had passed out. She could examine him better.

She took a good hold of his leg, sliding her hands slightly up the trousers leg and the other hand stabilising the femur. Then she gave a sharp tug.

With a slight grating sensation, Meimo felt the bone twist and then pop back into place. Palpating through the swelling and moving the leg, she felt the knee was back in place. It seemed to be moving properly.

As for his foot, that would be hard to deal with. She would leave it for now. 

She palpated the rest of his leg bones, his pelvis and up his spine, even his ribcage. Although she wouldn't be able to feel any fractures in those areas, she might be able to find abnormalities in the soft tissue that would give her an indication.

His arms and shoulders seemed fine. Just a gash on one arm that had long since stopped bleeding. Meimo picked out a few big pieces of dirt, tried to make Libing comfortable and then decided to see if she could search for water. She remembered her desk should have a spare bottle of water and her emergency stash of food. That should be enough to last them a while. Living would likely be thirsty when he woke up.

While she was searching, she also kept a lookout for something long and thin that she could use to push up the hole where the shaft of sunlight was shining through. If she tied something bright to it, it might make a makeshift flag to bring the attention of rescuers to their location.

At the same time, she looked at the sturdy and robust desk that looked like it was leaning to one side more than it had before. If those desk legs collapsed, they would be in trouble. The triangular space would shrink drastically and they might even be squished beneatht he concrete slab.

Meimo decided she needed to shore up the desk legs and prevent it from collapsing or leaning any further. Moving carefully, she dug about carefully excavating rubble in areas that looked structurally sound and would be useful, hopefully erecting a construction that would help to take the weight of the big concrete slab. 

The ground shook with the aftershock tremors of the big earthquake and Meimo threw herself over Libing to protect him from falling debris. Structures around them groaned and shifted. Things fell from above. Meimo could only pray that this wasn't the moment of their death. The triangular ceiling made of the big cement block shifted and there was the splintering sound of breaking wood.

She heard a few distant screams. There were others in the rubble who were still alive as well. One of those screams was dreadfully cut short, replaced by a gurgling cough. Meimo gritted her teeth and shut her eyes hard. That person likely wasn't going to make it. Another scream went on and on and one and didn't stop, grating at her nerves.

The tremors finally stopped. Meimo shifted to try and get off Libing only to discover something sharp poking into her back. Sweat rolled down her face, quickly soaking her body while she tried to find an angle in which she could move in. Finally, she managed to squeeze to one side, and see what had been poking her back.

A huge steel spike, sticking out of some of the loose rubble to one side had fallen down. If it had fallen any further with any more force, it might have skewered her, pinning her between Libing's legs. How awkward that would have been.

Glancing and crawling around, Meimo looked at the changes to their small space. The space had indeed shrunk, but the pile of rubble she had built up to help support the now broken desk had done it's job. It was keeping them from getting squashed for now.

There were also more shafts of light shining through from above. That meant she and Living weren't too far from the surface. If she was very careful with how she dug and moved the loose debris, it might be possible for her to dig them out of here.

"Hey," said a heavy pained breath from under her.

Although Meimo had been able to move from where she was directly over Libing to move slightly to the side, she was still partly over him, having not found a way to retreat any further with one hand still between his legs.

"Hey, you're awake," Meimo carefully turned her head so as not to accidentally put her eyes out from any of the other sharp things sticking out of the loose debris. With a bit of difficulty, she managed to face Libing. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. A bit better than before, I think," Libing said. "What happened? Everything looks different."

"An aftershock," Meimo said, still working on extricating herself from the position where she had almost been impaled above Libing. "We got lucky. There are other survivors nearby but some of them probably won't make it. We might have a chance to be able to dig ourselves free. If you can move, we might be able to dig ourselves out from that direction without making the space around us collapse."

"I see," Libing nodded and then glanced down. "Say, Meimo, could you please move your hand? You're pressing on my..."

Meimo lost her balance and fell on the man's lap.

"What?"

"Your hand. On my... that..."

Meimo reflexively felt around with her hand and touched something.

"Huh? Oh. This? Kinda squishy."

"No, Meimo, please," said Libing. "Let go. Don't," he gasped, "do that."

"This?" Meimo squeezed again and felt the thing beneath her hand seeming to inflate somewhat. Her brain finally clicked into gear. "Oh. Oh! Oh, I'm sorry!"

She moved her hand away and carefully moved away from the tighter space around Libing toward where her desk had been. Meimo wiped her hand on her clothes without thinking, feeling disgusted.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to - I mean, it's a pretty good - no, I mean, I was stuck and just trying to get myself out from where I was almost impaled, no., that came out wrong."

"Nevermind," Libing cut through her stuttering with a joking tone, looking down at the bulge in his crotch. "It's fine for now. Although, perhaps next time, you can take responsibility for what you start."

Meimo looked in the direction that he was gazing and then looked away.

"Of course, I mean, no way. Why would I?"

"Don't want to take responsibility for me? You were just all over me."

"Shut up. I wanted to get away in case there was a nother tremor and I was impaled on you. That would have been even more... awkward..."

Meimo covered her face, realising how suggestive her word just now might have sounded. 

"Look. That big iron spike. Any further and I wouldn't be alive right now," she pointed.

"Oh," Libing nodded. "Oh! That thing is huge."

"Now you can imagine what would have happened if things had gone wrong, what you might have woken up to."

"Ugh. Don't put images in my head," Libing said.

"Can you move?" Meimo asked Libing. "The space just above your head is the most unstable area. If you can move your legs, come over here where it's safer. I'm worried there might still be more aftershocks. You might die if you stay there."

"I'll try," Living said, carefully using his arms and trying to move his legs. He grimaced, gritted his teeth and then began dragging himself toward Meimo while she encouraged him.

"Come on. You can do it. A bit more. Just a bit more. You're almost there. Come sit over here. You can put your back here and rest. That's it. I'll help you a little with your legs. You got it. You've done it. Good job."

Meimo rummaged in her desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of water and food she kept stashed in there. She also pulled out spare clothes and a jacket.

"Here. Have a little drink. This is all we have for the moment. Don't drink too much. Just a sip to wet the mouth."

"Thanks."

Libing opened the bottle of water and took a sip. And then another. Then he put the lid back on.

"Here."

Meimo put the drink bottle and spare food in the inside pockets of Libing's suit jacket.

"You stay here and rest," she told Libing. "You're injured."

"You are too," Living said, catching a glimpse of her bloody back the massive clot of blood in her hair on the back of her head. He reached out and arm to try and stop her.

"No I'm not," Meimo shook her head at him with a frown and shook his arm off. "What are you talking about? Be good. Stay here. I'm going to dig us out of here."

Meimo crawled away to begin examining and tugging at bits of loose debris and rubble, pulling them out of the hole and causing some to come cascading down to the ground in front of them.

"Be careful," he told Meimo.

"Of course," Meimo said and waved a hand at him. "Don't distract me. Let me concentrate."

While she was busy digging, Libing looked around himself and paused when from beneath some of the rubble by the desk, he saw a hand and wrist with the same colourful woven rope bracelet that Meimo was wearing. The hand looked very much like Meimo's hand. Had the same dark skin.

With some digging and clearing of rubble, he managed to free a body. The face, he brushed the dirt away and glanced at the muttering Meimo in the distance, was the same. There was a big bloody wound clotting up the back of her head. Thankfully it had already stopped bleeding.

Libing looked at the Meimo in the distance and at the body of Meimo in front of him and swallowed hard, tears blurring his vision. His chest suddenly felt tight and he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. It was suddenly hard to breathe and he put his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out loud. With trembling hands, he checked her for any signs of life. It took a while, but finally, he managed to see a very faint movement of her chest. The piece of paper he was holding in front of her nostrils fluttered briefly. Or so he thought. Perhaps he was imagining that as well.

Alive. She was still alive. Thank God.

Libing leaned back to pat his chest and glanced at the Meimo in the distance. He didn't know how this was happening. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Maybe he was just having a nightmare and the earthquake had never happened.

There was a cheer and Meimo's voice in the distance shouted that they were free. They could now escape from this dangerous space. She crawled over to where Libing was and glanced briefly at the body that he had rolled into the recovery position.

"Hey, you found somebody! Is she still alive?"

"Yes. Barely," Libing said with a tight throat, feeling complicated emotions swirling in his chest. Meimo didn't seem to be able to recognise her own body.

"God. Great job. Then let's see if I can carry her out."

"I'll carry her," Libing said. "You find a way to tie her body to mine and I'll follow you to crawl out of here."

"No, no. The hole isn't big enough and I'm scared to make it any bigger," Meimo said. "Let's make some sort of sling first. I'll use it to pull you out and then we can can pull her out."

"No. I'll crawl out first and then use the sling to pull her out. You wrap it around her first. I should be alright."

"Are you sure?" Meimo asked, looking sceptical.

"Watch me," Libing told her, helping to put the sling made of clothes around Meimo's body. He crawled out of the hole bit by bit, mostly using his arms and with a lot of effort. At the top, he looked around at the devastation all around him, took a breath in the bright sunlight and then turned around to lie on his tummy, reaching his upper body back down the hole.

"Pass me the sling," he said, but couldn't find the waking version of Meimo that had been there moments earlier. He swallowed and held back his tears. Crawling further in, he took a hold of the clothes that made the sling and then began to pull. He carefully crawled backwards while he pulled Meimo's body up toward the sunshine.

Bit by bit, they inched up through the rubble. Libing felt his sweat dripping and did his best to continue protecting Meimo's head through the uneven and bumpy journey. Every now and then, he had to stop to rest his arms to unsnag the clothes from where they had gotten caught on something sharp.

Finally, finally, after what had felt like many years, he managed to pull Meimo's body out from the rubble. He pulled the drink bottle of water out from where he had tucked it inside his clothes and took a shaky sip. Then with trembling hands, he poured a little water into the bottle cap and brought it to Meimo's lips. She didn't respond. He used his finger to dab into the water and drip a few drops on Meimo's lips.

Nothing.

"No, no, no, no," he muttered under his breath.

After a while of trying, he looked for signs of life but he wasn't sure anymore. He couldn't feel a pulse, couldn't find her breath, but then he wasn't medically trained. There was no stable surface to perform CPR. Perhaps she was still alive but he just couldn't tell. Libing hugged her body to him and looked around for help, but there was none. 

All he could do was pray.

It was a fine sunny day with white fluffy clouds drifting across the blue sky. A warm breeze blew at his hair with a gentle breath and a hollow tune. Perfect weather on a day so wrong.

Hugging Meimo's body, he felt so alone.

5 years

It has been 5 years. I'm surprised this blog still exists. The old stuff is still here.

Returning, I still experience that same old feel of apprehension when met with a blank page. All that white space. All that potential. What should I write? How should I write it? How will it be received? Will anyone look at it? Is my writing worth reading? Is there any point in keeping this blog? Should I just delete it altogether?

Hopefully my writing has improved and matured. If it hasn't then the past 10 years of practice has just been wasted. And so I have returned to my original intention to just write and keep writing. 

Don't ask for regular updates, for there will be none. Ask not for continuous stories, for it shall continue to be fragmented.

This blog shall be used for short stories, little essays and studies on things. Feel free to comment. Positive criticism is welcome. Nasty criticism is not. I have had enough of that type. 

In the journey to becoming a word smith and a writer who is worthy of the title, one must be able to learn, improve and take criticism. One must explore and adventure through many stories and styles of writing across many nations and continents. One must study language, it's inception and those who have become obsolete. And more.

The journey as a creative artist is neverending, always learning, ever determine to improve. To write, to draw, to paint that perfect masterpiece.

To my fellow creative artists: May we never lose the fire.

Blurry days

The days blur together like a dream.

Drifting, 

Floating, 

Without seam.

One day I'll wake and find myself

Looking back on a river of wealth.

Though now I find I'm lost at sea,

I trust, 

I know 

God's here with me.

The Old City Wall

In the days before gun powder was invented, the days where the only way to take a city was to lay siege on it with battering rams, trebuchets and giant catapults; the old city wall was built. It was in the days before limestone mortar had been invented and when various types of ceramic mud were the norm - used to built the wall with giant stones carved from quarries several weeks travel away.

This wall in the old abandoned part of the city was one of those. The city has expanded since those times, but this part of the city remains ignored, almost forgotten. Something bad happened here. Something so horrible that even the street animals avoid this area of the city and the city's underbelly only enters if they have no other choice.

The wall is thicker than three houses are long, built with so many layers of brick and different kinds of mortar that even the historians get confused as to exactly how old this wall was. It could even be the wall that was built in a time predating the founding of the city. The wall that ancient, brittle manuscripts allude to as the Flooding Wall.

The Flooding Wall is thought to have first been built to stop the two rivers surrounding the city island from flooding it during flood season. Over time, the land was built and razed and built and razed, until the ground of the island lies high above the river level even during flood season. Who knows what lays beneath the present layer of daily trodden, hard packed dirt?

The wall still bears scorch marks and melted glass from a time not recorded and nobody remembers, so far back in the city's memory that only the early bricks and stones could tell the story. Human bones protrude from some sections of the wall and all sorts of scars can be seen in the mud render that has been cracked and chipped in many places.

But it's because of the ghost stories and unexplainable things that happen in the night that makes this place relatively safe for a homeless young girl, unafraid and not at all superstitious. This part of the city whispers old secrets and stories to her and she just accepts them. The ghosts and supernatural happenings hold their breath, hiding when she passes by. They see what ordinary people cannot.

Ordinary people look and see a scarred, undersized street urchin. The ghosts see a rising warrior with growing authority. The oxymoron has the city shake its head, but the city's stones are in need of a new hero. Few are born, few answer the call and even fewer survive to achieve their potential.

Ok, I'm bored. This was a boring piece. Now I will sit back and reflect upon it and see where it went wrong. I can already see many problems with it.

Plans go awry

So I had a timetable. So I should have gone to classes. So I should have listened when they told me there were consequences, but none of that matters anymore now, does it?

Plans have a tendency to go awry.

I was originally planning to go to the once a week practice, but... stuff happens.

At first, I thought I'd just skip one week. There was a new recipe to try out and I wanted to see whether it would work. I'd ended up with 5 different pies and had trouble even giving them away. You could barely cut them with a knife, they were so hard. I guessed I wasn't cut out to be a pie baker. Give me a fruit to carve or a salad to make up any day. Baking was not my forte.

The next week, there was a garage sale that I got caught up in. Another week, I just didn't feel like going out in the rain. Then it was the washing that needed to be done, groceries that needed to be bought or the floor to be mopped. After a few months, I completely forgot about it and the people I had originally gotten along with so well. I'd stopped answering their phone calls, emails and texts. They stopped bothering me too.

Since I didn't go and couldn't be bothered about classes in case I ran into certain people, it wasn't long before I stopped leaving the house unless the cupboards and fridge were absolutely bare. It was almost painful getting changed and then crossing the threshold. Just getting out the door was a 2hour trial that left me panting and sweaty. By the time I had bought my groceries, my clothes would be soaked and I'd be exhausted with the effort of functioning in relatively normal society again.

In the house, there was nobody but me and the growing pile of bills at the door. The water stopped running. The money ran out. The electricity stopped working. I didn't care. It's not like the school cared either. Schools are like that. They talk about caring for their students, but the truth is, they only want your money. If you don't go, nobody's going to go looking for you. Why should they care? You're only one in thousands of other students who are better, smarter and more driven than you are. They only liked bright, motivated people anyway. Smart people like me who could only stand in the shadows and not talk well? We got forgotten. We didn't stand out enough.

The world is dark and silent. I'm afraid to leave the house. I never thought that those few threats could affect me this strongly, but here I am. A stinking mess. Dying of hunger, thirst and anxiety.

Maybe she'd just been joking. She'd only said it in an offhand manner, but I'd known her since we were in primary school. She'd been serious, but phrased it in such a way that all the others had thought it was just a joke. She never joked with things like that though. It had been a command. Unless maybe I was just taking it too seriously.

It wasn't my fault her sister died. It wasn't my fault her brother took his life when he couldn't take the guilt anymore. It wasn't my fault both our parents died. She thinks it is. Maybe she just needed someone to blame. I don't know. All I know is that I think I'm dying and nobody knows. Nobody cares. Nobody would even be able to get in after I'd barricaded all the doors and windows after receiving her text messages all those months ago. I didn't bother to try recharge it after it had run out of battery.

The only problem was that if I died, she won. They won. That was the problem that really ate at me. How could I go out on her terms? Their terms?

I had ignored them when they told me I shouldn't tell my parents. Ignored them when I had told her we should all go on a holiday with our families. Ignored them when I hadn't stuck to the timetable they had given me. Ignored them when I insisted on trying to join the club.

Too late now. Too late for her. Too late for my family. Too late for her family. Too late for our friendship.

Whatever I had been planning to do with my time left, I wasn't sure. I couldn't remember anymore. Didn't care. Couldn't remember how to care. Even if I called the ambulance, they wouldn't be able to get in. Even if they could and saved me, I'd have to deal with how much it all cost afterwards. And I had no money left. They'd taken it all.

I didn't want to die. I'd fought and failed with every attempt.

It's no secret that I'm a weakling and a coward. I'm easily scared.

I don't want to die, but I can see no other way out of it. Not when every step out my door brings me back to their attention. They're always out there waiting now. As if they can smell it on me. They're just waiting for it. That way, I won't be able to pass on their secrets to anyone.

Their secrets are nothing small. Only a few burglaries. A few loaded dice. A few muggings. A few drug deals. A few rapings. A few murders. Nothing small at all. The police would love to catch them all, but if they missed even a single one, she would be dead before I was. They would probably make me watch. This was the only way I could protect her and she didn't even realise it. Or maybe she did and didn't care. She hadn't been a witness. I had managed to keep her safe from it all. They'd promised she would never know.

Was it worth it? This sacrifice? I'd never taken part, but I had known and seen everything. Too scared to leave. Too much of a coward to do anything. They'd dragged me along, probably because they wanted a scapegoat in case anything went wrong and I was already under their thumb.

There was no point even picking up the phone. The line was long dead. The phone company had cut services after I couldn't pay anymore, but I tried it anyway. There wasn't even a tone. Crawling took so much effort, but I can't die without at least trying to get some revenge, right? I mean, if I was going to die, I should at least do it in style and do it for a reason.

If only her life wasn't still hanging in the balance.

Maybe I'd still make it to the police station. It was night. There was no light coming in through the cracks around the windows. They might have given up on watching my house. I could slip out the back, over the fence. Go through the neighbour's garden and emerge out a different street. If I had enough energy left.

If I didn't do anything, they might still kill her. After they'd tortured her and taken her apart. It was the sort of thing they might do, just for fun. I wish I'd never met them. Never let myself accidentally offend one and then fall into debt with them with my mounting 'offenses'. They'd set me up on purpose. I knew that now. I wish I'd realised at the time and then I wouldn't have gotten so many people killed. It was my fault. I deserved to die.

But not before the police got a hold of them.

Goodness. Where was this determination coming from? Since I had a little bit of motivation left, I hoped it would be enough for this night time journey to the cops. Maybe I'd end up in prison myself, but in all likelihood, I was unlikely to be left alive for long. Maybe that was for the best.

In any case, live or die, I was going to have to make the effort. One last ditch attempt.

There was heavy thumping on my front door.

"Police! Open up!"

Or not.

Didn't I tell you I was a coward?






This is a work of fiction, in case you haven't already worked that out. Any accidental similarities to anything or anyone in real life is truly accidental, since I'm writing this while half asleep when I was supposed to have been finishing my assignment.

That's right. I went back to uni. Eight years later, after saying that I'd probably never go back, I have. It is better and worse than I remember it and how am I going to submit this assignment on time if I'm still procrastinating?

Working to live, studying and doing research all at the same time is not good for a person that's already burnt out and feels like they've had enough of everything. A note of wisdom for future researchers out there. Do not go into research if you're already burnt out and emotionally unstable. It is a baaaad idea. I wish someone had told me that earlier.