30 November, 2010

in the tower 3

Arms laden with books, stationery, clothes and bedding, Mistress Rilleese led the two into an empty two room bed with a curtain separating the room in half.

"Unfortunately, we have no other rooms with spare beds available, but the two of you being brother and sister, we have decided to allow you to share a room. Normally this is not allowed, so this is a special circumstance. Be sure to be ready for breakfast by 0745 in the morning. Someone will come to escort you to the dining room and after that we will see which teachers are able to take you under their wings. Good night, children."

"But we're not - " Jacky began, but Rilleese had gone, "- brother and sister."

Luke shrugged.

"At least they haven't separated us."

"Come on, let's get out of here. Nat will be getting worried about us."

"Do you remember the way back, because I don't. I lost track of which direction we were going after the second turn."

"Oh, come on. I thought boys kept maps in their heads."

"Are you sure you know the way back?"


"Well then."

"We can at least explore. The sooner we know our way around, the sooner we get home."

"Fine," Luke dumped his stuff in a corner of the room. "Let's just not get caught."

The lights went out.

"I presume," said Jacky, "that was lights out?"

"Guess so," Luke said. "Let's go."

29 November, 2010

in the tower 2

"We finish school for vacation and what's the first thing we do? Go back to school!" Jacky rolled her eyes at Luke. "This is all your fault."

"Hey, I didn't know it was a school. Don't blame me."

"I'm not," said Jacky. "It was a joke. Can't you tell when someone's being sarcastic?"

"Apparently not," Luke muttered.

"Vacation? What vacation? School never stops. There is no such thing as vacation," the teacher said sharply, looking between the two children. "Who ever told you such rubbish?"

"Clarke, I haven't seen these two children before. Have you?" the teacher with a woolen scarf said.

The teacher scratched his thin hair and straightened his already straight collar.

"Come to think of it, no. They must be new. Are you children new?"

Exchanging glances, knowing there was no escape, Jacky and Luke both shrugged.
"Yeah, we're new," Jacky said.

"New or not," said Clarke, "shrugging is an ugly habit and you should know better than to shrug at a teacher. Also the word is 'yes' not 'yeah'."

Both children shrugged again.

At Clarke's fierce frown, Luke said, "Sorry, we forgot. We'll try not to do it again."

"I should hope not," Clarke fussed.

"We do it all the time at home," said Jacky, annoyed at being told what to do. Teachers!

"And where, pray, is home?"

The children shrugged again.

"Outside?" Jacky pointed.

Clarke sighed, exasperated.
"Outside? Nobody lives outside, save those slave to the Queen."

Luke almost shrugged again, but caught himself in time.
"Well, we came from outside. Sorry our manners aren't as polished as you'd like."

Jacky grinned at him, whispering, "Nice sarcasm, Luke and here I thought you didn't have a sarcastic bone in your body."

"I'm not being sarcastic," Luke whispered back.

"You are aware, I hope, in the outside, that whispering is rude?" Clarke harrumphed. "No wonder your manners are so atrocious. Listen to all those contractions!"

"What, pray, are contractions, sir?" asked Jacky, ignoring Luke's elbow jabbing into her side.

"I see, that we are going to have to start from the beginning with you two."

"Clarke," said the other teacher, "perhaps we'd best take them out of that horrible room to start with and find them beds and stationary."

"An excellent idea, Rillese. Come children. You may call me Master Clarke."

"And I, Mistress Rillese," said the lady, rewinding her scarf. "Come along now and tell us your names and ages. How did you end up in that room?"

"We just wandered there, I suppose," said Luke. "It was an accident. My name's Luke. I'm 14. So's Jacky."

Clarke shuddered.
"Well Luke and Jacky. We are going to break you of the use of contractions - that is after we have taught you the meaning of the word. Now, come along and don't dawdle."

28 November, 2010

in the tower

They hauled themselves into the open window, scratching their fingers on the cold stone. Once in, they brushed off the crisp snow from their clothes and looked down the length of tower they had climbed. Jacky caught a hold of the wide window sill as the height took away her breath for a moment. The spikes in the icy snow covered stones made a zigzag shape down the side of the tower. They looked so fragile and easy to break. Luke made a face and pulled her away so that they could explore.

The sky was overcast and so the light within the room should have been quite dim. Instead, overhead were bright strings of light. The other windows in the room, also gave off reflections. Did only this window have no glass? Looking back at the window they had entered, no fresh air entered in and there too, was a reflection. Jacky and Luke touched the window, but there was no glass. They tried the other windows and punched glass. Odd. Was it magic or some sort of forcefield?

This room was sparsely furnished. Old and disused. Old clothes racks on wheels, old standing curtains, dusty desks and crooked chairs.

Voices came from outside the door, where silhouettes of people walked by. One of the figures glanced at the grimy door-window and paused.

"What the-?" The door - much like a classroom door slid open. "What are you children doing here? You know this room is out of bounds. Everyone knows this room is dangerous. I'll have to report you to your teachers. Tell me, name and class." The teacher snapped open a notepad and held pencil poised. Waiting.

Jacky and Luke exchanged glances. They were in a school? They had to be kidding.

23 November, 2010


I take it that you will appreciate my title. Not. Nevermind.

Not much to say. I try to be regular, but the computer is not always readily available every day. I be apologetically sorry regarding that. I try, but somedays summer grabs you by surprise and you come home in sweatsoaked clothes that after wringing out provide sufficient sweat to fill a rice bowl. That didn't have anything to do with it, but I had to say it. The imaagery was too good to pass up.

So when you think there's a lot on your plate. Think again. Because the Problem Miniaturiser is now freely available to all inhabitants of the world. Please consult your nearest Heaven-Earth direct outlet. Oh and beware the fire columns. Those are private offices. There are probably people busy in there. If you are unable to find any available workers, please make your way to the throneroom where the CEO will see you and provide you with a Problem Miniaturiser himself. He's never too busy.

19 November, 2010

when the moss grows

When the moss grows, the ground is wet, the plan is set.
When the rose dies, the hip will swell, no time to dwell.
When the stone stands, the thrush will sun, the deed is done.
When the beam falls, the grass will fade, through waters wade.
When the willow weeps, the rain will fall, then dance the ball.
When the moss grows, the gel will set, and we be met.

Thereafter change your clothes
by garden's hose
and enter in
the Speckled Tin
where further instruction
shall be by luncheon.

18 November, 2010


There was something to say, but again, I have forgotten it... and so on to something else more utterly random than a mango mousse pudding with dancing sago and sticky rice cakes.

One side cooked.
One side still raw.
Both sides about to burn.
What can you do?
Tell it to dance a jig?
Both sides are part of the same tin.

Insufficient sugar.
It tastes very plain.
Pretend it's an odd scone.
Pretend it is a soft bread loaf.
Cake, why will you not agree
With the picture in my mind?

17 November, 2010


A boy with shaggy hair and an oversized mouth spun in a sswivel chair, tapping his fingers in time to the inaudible music in the room.

"Look after your ears, Markus! Take off those earphones!"

"Aww, Mum!But you don't even like listening to my music."

"Then turn it off."

"I knew you'd say that," he muttered.

"Don't you know," said his grandmother from where she was knitting cooked spaghetti noodles into a plattter for the left over sauce, "that those ear things are sometimes actually bugs waiting to crawl into you head and take over your body?"

"Mother, don't talk such rubbish," called Markus's mother from where she stirred the steaming pot on the stove.

"It's true, Mayleen. Some of them pretend and then take over people, make them like zombies."

"You've been watching too much tv."

"Mum, you know Granma don't like watching tv," Markus swivelled on the chair to face his grandmother. "Anyway, Granma, don't you mean earbugs, in that case?"

"Ex-actly," she said as if that was what she had meant all along.

"Did you know that earbugs are..."

"Yes, yes, I know that," she said impatiently, waving one needle in the air before resuming the steady 'click, click' of her spaghetti knitting.

"Then if my earphones were real bugs, then why wouldn't they have already taken over my brain, huh?"

"Because they were asleep. Not hungry. Already eaten a full meal. You leant them things to your friend last week, didn't you? They were new then, right? You'd never worn them before."

"Ye-es, but..."

"Notice anything different about him lately?"

"No-o, well, he does have a new pimple."

"That's right. What's his behaviour like? Is he more interested in something he's always hated? Does he say odd words he'd never actually say? Have a haircut he'd never normally have?"

"Ye-ah. Right. Whatever."

"Has he?" Granma pressed, grabbing another strand of spaghetti.

"We-ell, he eats macaroni and cheese everyday now, but he's always hated cheese. He says 'cool mate' whenever he sees me and has these extra long sideburn bits after the haircut over the weekend. But that doesn't mean anything, Gran. His cousin's come to stay with him a while."

"And does his 'cousin'," Granma made quotation marks in the air with her fingers as she continued to knit at breakneck speed, "often wear earbugs too?"

"You mean ear phones? Yeah. Everyone does these days."

"Ahhhh," she sighed shaking her head.


"Soon you'll find he's not interested in playing or talking with you or he'll always be giving you some new thing to listen to on you ipod so that you have to wear your earslugs more often."

"You mean earplugs and then it should be earphones."

"But do those little black things actually have a telephone in there? No, right? So it's not ear phones, my boy. Earslugs or earbugs. Mark my words. I'd throw those dangerous things away if I were you. Smash them. You'd see that they're not made of bits of metal and plastic."

"Mother! Stop it! Markus, go to your room and finish your homework before dinner. I'll be checking to see how much you've done after."

"Yes, Mum."

Slouching up the stairs, ear phones in one hand, ipod in the other, Markus shrugged off Granma's impossible story. Huh. People becoming zombies after wearing ear phones. Stories to scare little kids and he wasn't a little kid anymore... although, Fraser had been acting strangely lately.

Sliding into his desk chair, Markus sat to do his homework.

The next day at school, Fraser was waiting for him. First, he asked to borrow, Markus's ear phones, when Markus knew he had just gotten new ones himself and then he gave Markus a whole GIG of new music to listen to. After that, he kind of ignored Markus for the rest of the day.

That night, as he lay in bed listening to the new music, Markus felt something in his ears tickle. He pulled out an ear phone to stratch in his ear, only to feel some sort of gooey substance in there. He snatched at the other side, but it refused to come out.

Panicking, he fell on the floor, tugging on the wire until it snapped. The music kept playing in his ear and he felt the slithering tickle move deeper into his ear canal. Toward his brain. Gasping with fright, he flew out of bed and down the stairs to where Granma was now making spaghetti noodles. Only...

Granma looked up as he skidded into the kitchen, eyes wide with fright, barely able to talk. One glance was all she needed and she opened her arms to him, reaching out to take the other earphone still oozing goo in his hand. Holding him close, she crooned to him and slipped the other earphone back into his ear.

"I told you, didn't I?" she whispered as he pulled frantically at her iron arms. It was then that his gaze fell upon the spaghetti she had been making. One of the strands moved and slithered on the table, a comma with an exceptionally long tail. "Oh, here comes another," she said, holding him with one arm, while reaching up to her ear with the other hand and pulling another strand out of her ear. "Out you come, baby. There, there, it's all right."

Markus's eyes glazed over.

Ok, this story's a little bit too scary for me. Especially after dreaming of people turning into monsters all night that then attacked their former friends. Recurring nightmare. Go away.

Maybe I should stop writing this type of nonsense.

13 November, 2010

the dead mystery and an apology

What would happen if you died? Everyone wonders about it sometimes. Everyone has different theories. My theory has to do with a trumpet, clouds, a city that will never see corruption and the whole of eternity to learn cool stuff.

Mostly, people don't reckon on these things... that is until they've had an Experience that often has to do with coming close to death themselves. Whether personally or somebody close to them. For some other people, it's just an intriguing mystery.

Sometimes, I ask God, 'Who made this world anyway?' after which I usually have to repent before I actually say that the whole of creation is stupid, thereby implicating that its Creator is also stupid... because whether or not you believe in God, it is awful scary if you think about it. The one being with the power to create the whole entire universe or destroy it with a word or a look or a thought... that is scary. I'm fairly sure insulting is unwise.

So, God, knowing You can probably read this post and know what I'm gonna say before I've even thought it, here is my official apology: I sincerely apologise for even thinking such a thing. You are great and awesome and have a reason for everything that has happened and that has been done. I am the one who has behaved foolishly, for even putting the blame on You. It wasn't You who decided to betray their Creator and all their friends. It wasn't You who just tried to kill my sister and I in a very close call of a car accident. It isn't You who makes my life go wrong whenever I try to do what's right... Instead, it was You who saved out lives; it was You who walks me through life so I don't fall in every single pit and trap; it is You who tries to teach me wisdom (bad student though I am); it is You who have shown me what is right and then given me the ability to get right back up everytime I get knocked back down. No backing down. Whatever happens I know it's not Your fault. If anything, it's my inability to see or understand or hear or act as You do... that and the enemy.

Of course, I must be doing something right if my enemy is trying to kill me. So. Whatever. Just keep sailing. This day we fight! Stuff close calls with death.

For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.

God can't do bad stuff. He has a law against it. Since He wrote the law and can't be a hypocrite, well... but let us, my friends, not get into any theological or religious debates regarding the reality of the truth, perception and the fallibility of the beings called human.

The best thing about this world is the anticipation. The hope. The expectancy, knowing that all I see, all I know is but a shadow of what is yeat to come. Something bigger, something greater.

All people need to live for something. Whether it be their friends, their family, their study, their life's dream, their government, their people, themselves... or something much GREATER than they are.

"Tolerance!" they say. "Tolerance!" And yet they are intolerant.
"Discrimination! Prejudice!" they cry. "Political correctness!" And yet they perform corruptions, perversions and injustices that are in truth, morally unambiguously incorrect, based upon their own wishy-washy perceptions and understandings of the laws they live upon, looking for self-gain.

What am I living for?

I live to give my utmost for the exultation of God's glory. I live to expand the Kingdom of God and speak out the Truth. Only One is the Way, the Truth and the Life... and none come to the Father, but by Him. I live to fight and stand in the gap for my generation, to stand and proclaim His Mercy and Grace. I live to fulfill the Mission given to me, my life's job, my life's dream, so that when I die, I will hear, 'Well done, my good and faithful servant,' and not see disappointment upon His face.

I live wholly and utterly for Jesus. My utmost for His glory.

What do you live for?

12 November, 2010

to be or not to be

The question is not 'to be or not to be'.
The question is 'how to be what you ought to be'.

10 November, 2010

bloody placemat

From its undersurface, it dripped.

The red gloop fell in little drops from between the cracks of the twisted grass from which the mat was made. The smell was sweet, like summer's afterthought and no sound was made by the falling red baubles.

Looking up at the glass table, from the floor, a long smear and puddle could be seen, leading up to where the placemat drooped a little over the table's edge. Nearby a plate on which there had been a half-eaten sandwich and an upturned coffe mug. The dim glass revealed a small apartment. Neat, save for the coffee table. Precise, save for the growing stains on the floor and the knife beyond the peripheral vision. Even the phone had been carefully replaced after the call had been made. Nothing else had been touched.

The silence was comforting after the short battle. On arriving home before, it had been eery. Something had been wrong. The carpet hairs at the front door had been bent in the wrong direction. Someone had been waiting, but the waiting tension had been put down to the unease that had ridden the car back along with the day's stress and the thought that perfectionism was like paranoia. There was no paranoia here because, how would they know of this place?

Quiet breathing. No need to panic.

The door creaked. A little breeze followed by a BANG from the front door. So. The front door had been left unlocked.

A cacophany of noise.
Distant wailing sirens.
Blurred faces.
Babbling noise.
White noise.
Mouths moving.
Hands pushing.
Hands pulling.
Sharp jabs of pain.
Lancing lightning.
Gasping breaths.

Should have known.
Should have guessed.
Should have been faster.
Should have been wiser.
The warnings had come.
Notes had turned up.


This is what happens when threats are ignored.

White noise.
Blurred faces coming into focus.
The smell of antiseptic.
White walls.
White bed.
Hard bed.
Rigid sheets.


09 November, 2010

The TARDIS clock

The second hand ticked in the same spot for a full five minutes before Shade took any notice. He snorted to himself, fumbling in his drawer to see if he could find any new batteries that had not been used. Trust a new clock to run out of battery a week after it had been bought. Not that he'd bought it, but Rayne had said that she'd bought it the day before his birthday.

Using an old simple circuit to see if they still had any juice left in them, he tested one battery after another.

Almost gone.
Almost gone.
Another dead one.

He needed to keep track of time or he would be late for the concert and Rayne would just about kill him if he missed her play the solo. Glancing at the handful of batteries in the bin, he frowned. Wait a moment. At least half of those batteries had been new last week. He looked at the TARDIS-shaped clock Rayne had given him for his birthday and growled. He'd better replace the battery before Rayne came over tonight... but he had to finish his report first. It was more likely he would remember to get the new battery if he put the clock on his desk, so that he would see it later. By his estimation, he still had 3 hours left.

Lifting the blue rectangular clock down, Shade noticed a little crack in the glass. Blast! How did that get there? It hadn't been there before. He rubbed the crack with his finger and reminded himself to make sure Rayne didn't take too close a look at the thing. Might as well take out the battery while he was at it.

Click and slide, Shade flipped out the old battery and laughed when he saw the space behind the battery. Rayne must have called up a favour to have his picture painted where the battery went. He ran his finger over the painting only to find... it was no painting.

The crash of broken glass went unnoticed in the empty apartment. The neigbours figured somebody had accidentally dropped a glass or something.

Shade gasped and coughed, blinking hard. What on earth? He couldn't move his hands or feet and there were wires sticking into him. Wires held his arms up above his head and wires came out of his chest, abdomen, head - there were wires all over him.

Then came a thunderous sound.


Scattered glass regrouped like clear jelly and reformed over the clock face.

Shade felt energy being drained from him. A small but constant stream. What on earth? Was this a nightmare? He couldn't even pinch himself. Through the curved glass, he could just make out a crack of light and through that crack he could see giant sized furniture. What the-?

Hours later, Rayne stormed into his flat, her face a black cloud of anger. Opening her mouth to let loose a torrent, she spotted the clock on the floor and the neat pile of paper on the table that declared Shade had finished his report. Where was Shade? Why was the clock on the floor by his desk? Leaving presents she had given him was very unlike him.

Picking up the clock, she returned it to the wall where it's comforting, 'tick, tock' could be heard clearly. Nearby, a battery rolled and she stooped down to examine the red spots that dotted the carpet. It looked like blood.

On impulse, she took down the clock and turned it over to look at the battery compartment and was surprised to find it empty. Black and empty, just as she had found it when she'd bought it. Strange.


Maybe the clock had an internal battery and Rayne shrugged. She'd have to remember to replace the battery before the clock's internal one ran out. Where was Shade?

04 November, 2010


Amidst the goldstream turning the wake of whom has the butt still burning, there can be seen another story, whittled down, but undoubtedly Quory. In the blackest night the vacuum brings, the noiseless sound as engines sing. The harmony, the triple melody, the perfect cadence and then the pause with plagal radiance. Unfurling like ghostly feathers, the wings of energised particles through all storms weather the unleashing of the angry bees, together with the revealing of the queen. Like a virus behind the screen, between panels, you can see the sheen. Their numbers rise dramatically and then smart children touch the mildren and all the bees break loose. "Stop!" the gentle queen now shouts, afraid her bees will mete their bout, for in disguise she made some friends, kindly helping for her ends. So gently sings she bees to sleep, while wings glide silent through the Trident. In hibernation the bees add more to engine's harmonies, layers four.

Definitely need revising this.

02 November, 2010


Every time I think of something to blog on, by the time I get to the computer, I've forgotten what that thing was. I walk away from the computer and (fanfare) I remember... but too late (head donk). It's very sad.

So, I have been chewing cud on theories of space travel, based on what I know. The problem with vacuums is that there is a lack of matter within the vacuum. The problem with inertia is that it will keep going unless you can justify the change in force, whether it be an increase in momentum, acceleration or a change in displacement. Scoop, release. Scoop, release.

MAGNETS! Magnets are the best other possible form of propulsion in space. Everything is made up of the forces of attraction and repulsion. From atoms, to compounds, to people and cars to planets, stars and galaxies. Magnets. Attraction, repulsion and some form of propulsion. I guess combustion is still our best chance. Fuel cells would be great, but in order to move in space, you need to lose matter. I think. Get rid of matter in order to have sufficient force to propel you, so fuel cells would only be useful for maintaining some form of homeostasis/maintenance. I just need to think of a way to get these thoughts to congeal and fit into place as puzzle pieces. This requires more thought. Peanut butter and jam (who eats jelly in a sandwich? only those weird Americans on the other side of the world who have a different name and spelling for almost everything. They resist conformation and order all others to conform to their ideas - ok, generalisation, but that is what I have noticed in general, just... don't kill me, ok?).

(Btw, I have come to the realisation that Canadians are cool. I almost got pulped to a mush the day I likened them to their southern neighbours. Nope. Not doing that again. And I don't say this because I was almost turned into a smoothie. The whole world knows it anyway, so there's no need to justify. Again, I say, Canadians are cool.)

Besides my space travel theories... I have been thinking about the similarities between the tv shows, Bones and Castle. Can you imagine Brennan and Booth meeting Castle and Beckett? I can. Booth and Beckett sizing each other up. Who's the better cop? Castle hitting on Brennan and being amused by her blunt literalness. Who's the better writer? Hilarity.

Imagine they all had to solve a case together. Beckett and Booth would probably bicker a bit, but know without asking what the other is doing. Brennan trailing behind saying that she can use a gun and both Beckett and Booth telling her to stay behind, telling Castle to make sure she stays back. Castle contemplating the possibilities of the story behind the case, impressing Brennan who when she reads the bones, impresses him in turn. I don't know. The result would probably irritate me and highlight the similarities between the two shows.

Oh well. They're all still cool and they're all pretty good actors... I liked Nathan Fillion in Firefly and Serenity. Anyone else note how Brennan and Beckett both lost their mothers in a mystery murder? Brennan's kind of solved her story, Beckett's working on hers. Still. I'm glad they haven't revealed that gem yet. Makes things more interesting. Wonder if the two couples would be blunt enough to tell the other couple that they are obviously in love even if they're not together. Doubt it.

I even dreamed about the cross over the other night. Makes me seem like I'm a fanatic. Really, I'm not. I just don't want to study for my exam tomorrow, see? Anyway, it was a bit like how in the first episode of the most recent season of Castle (see, I don't keep track of numbers), where Beckett and Castle aimed guns at each other. All I dreamed was a scenario where I was stuck in the middle with all four aiming guns over my head and their partner to get at some villain beyond. Weird. I should not think about tv shows before going to bed.

When I write about ordinary things like my opinion... my English goes bad and reverts to my family's broken bad English. We do it on purpose at home. What is the world's English coming to? The surreality of a gorilla serving frozen jelly at a bar. The improbability of an elephant knocking at my front door. Why are people butchering the English language?

For fun. Phun. Pun.

One day, I will return to this post and delete it. The blatant expression of my thoughts is embarrassing. Have I ever said I sometimes wished I was an actor, just for the joy of all those stories and the chance to pretend I existed elsewhere?

Laterally did the sunflower sway
To the croc's windswept lay
When the butterfly realised its not May
And the pugs refused to pay.
Stuff it. Leave the rest for another day.