Heni, do you remember

Heni, do you remember the first time you heard my voice? I was only a young girl then, in a family of warriors. I was the smallest and the weakest. The runt. Everyone told me I would never survive the harsh world to become a warrior of the village like my mother, father and brothers. You were only a chick then, still hatching and struggling out of your shell. 

You tap, tap, tapped at the shell with your egg tooth and were so small. All your siblings had already hatched and peep, peep, peeped at your mother who was watching over you. Even when your mother gave up waiting and left you because you took so long, I took her place and encouraged you to keep going. You may have been small, but you were a fighter, even then.

When you finally emerged, I don't know how long later, you had crooked toes on your right leg. Your siblings pecked at you, the other hens pecked at you and even your own mother pecked at you. Saving you from them, I helped stretch your toes straight.

It's never been quite right, but at least it wasn't so twisted and crooked. You must have been really squashed up in your eggshell, because the egg you came out of was tiny compared to you. Still, at least you could run and jump; and later on, fly very well - for a chicken anyway.

From the start, you've been a fighter, Heni. When my family saw you, they decided you were one to eat as soon as you were fully fledged, but when you followed me and helped me kill the rats and then the snakes that had been preying on the other chickens, they changed their minds. Even the older hens learnt to mind you. 

Remember how we used to do all those exercises together to build up our fighting muscles? My family used to say that because I was a weak runt, I'd never make a good warrior like the rest of them. You and I had to work extra hard to prove them wrong. You used to bounce on my arm to strengthen your flying muscles while I did all those jumping exercises. 

My brothers used to complain that I was making you tough to eat with all the exercises we did together, but I think it was those exercises that enabled you to climb the pecking order among the flock and become top hen. It was worth it, don't you think? Watching you fight and win every battle motivated me to work harder at becoming the fighter my family and village expected me to be.

You sang and clucked me on all through my most difficult training. No one had ever heard a chicken sing before. We even sang a duet once. Heni, do you remember the cluck, cluck, chicken song that I taught you? We were a hit. The whole village was rolling on the floor laughing and singing with us. Our village prided itself on all its children being emotionless, competent warriors. Warriors who frightened enemies greater in number than us when confronted in battle. So getting that kind of reaction was a huge success. We were great. 

Whenever I wanted to cry, you would sing to cheer me up. Whenever someone tried to bully me, you protected me. Like the time one of my brothers was being mean to make me cry, so that he could tell my parents and take my share of dinner that night. You remember, don't you? Crying was forbidden. It was a sign of weakness. You flew between us like a little feathery whirlwind and chased him away whenever you saw him for the next week. That taught him a thing or two.

Then when I came of age and passed the survival test that all the village's boys and girls had to take part in, you came to greet me ahead of everyone else. You know, I missed you as much as you must have missed me, but I wasn't allowed to show it. A lot of eyes crinkled in amusement when you decided to sit on my head, gripping firmly to my hair and refusing to budge even for the Chief when he gave me my first warrior's mark. 

Even a small sized warrior girl like me would make the village proud one day, they said. My ferocity would strike fear into the hearts of all our enemies when they saw that our whole village: male, female and animal were all fierce warriors. No enemy would be able to escape us. 

How you had puffed your chest out and preened at that.

My brother told me you had hidden in the forest and out of everyone's reach while I was away. My mother had been planning to put you in the pot before I came back, because no warrior should have a chicken for a friend. They said it was demeaning.

I'm sorry about that. If only I had been allowed to take you with me. When I had first tried to explain to you, you had been unhappy and sulky with me. Heni, I'm glad you didn't let them catch you and I'm glad you decided to still be friends with me when I got back. 

If you had come with me, the other boys and girls might have killed you for food, so it was good that you didn't come with us. Even if I did miss your company. You would have liked all the bugs I found. 

Later on, you had my back when no one wanted to partner with the short, little chicken warrioress. I think that no boy wanted to look like a weakling standing beside you. You were a better fighter than most of them. When no boy wanted to watch my back in battle, my parents were disappointed and ashamed of me. They refused to see me anymore. No one wanted me, except for you. 

We showed them you were as good a warrior as I was. You sounded the alarm when the wolves came that one long winter night and woke everyone up in time to chase the mongrels away. You earned me a new wolf skin that night.

In the spring, you helped me with the planting, even as they laughed at us. We finished our plot as quickly as anyone with a partner. You helped protect the young plants from other birds and told me when the deer came. You patrolled the ground for weeds and insects. We had the best crop three years in a row because of you.

Everyone used to fight over your eggs. They were the tastiest and most nutritious. I'm sorry you never got to brood on your eggs like the other hens did, but I guess it was because you were so fierce that even the roosters were afraid of you. Did you do that on purpose so that you could keep taking care of me? If so, thank you.

Heni, do you remember the summer we went with the other warriors to fight the Beaded Tribe in the Redgrass Plains? The sky was so big and the land so huge when we came out from under the trees for the first time. I couldn't imagine not having the trees protecting us from the sky. 

The Beaded Tribe had been attacking and raiding our land and village for a whole year and that summer, the Chief wanted to attack them first as a warning to put a stop to all the fighting. We had a peaceful summer that year and the image of you attacking made its way onto some of our shields. You were an inspiration, although I agree, they made you look more like a hawk. They weren't wrong. You had a hawk’s heart.

You proved you were as good a warrior's partner as any. There was nothing anyone could say to us after that.

Everything is different now.

The huge Westersun Tribe has been claiming new ground these few years. The village is gone. My family is gone. Even the Beaded Tribe is gone. Who would have thought that I'd have survived all of it because of you? Who would have thought that we would ever have protected a warrior of the Beaded Tribe, because he, like us, was all alone?

I didn't realise you were getting old. Chicken years are not as long as human years. I'm sorry I snapped at you sometimes when you were being irritable. Your crooked toes and well used wings must have been sore. You must have had the many aching joints that the elderly get with age and I never really noticed. I only knew you slept more, moved more slowly and didn't like to go everywhere on my head or shoulders anymore.

Thank you for protecting me one last time from the Westersun warriors who were after me. They never expected to be attacked by a chicken, did they? At least your calls alerted the Beaded warrior we'd saved earlier and he watched my back after you were cut down.

You don't have to worry anymore, Heni. You can rest in peace. I have a partner now. One I never expected to have, even if he is from the Beaded Tribe. We've cut a covenant. He'll watch my back and I, his. 

You know, the Beaded aren't as barbarous as we thought. They were just like our tribe, except few of their girls could fight and they liked to wear those coloured beads in their hair or on their clothes. They lived in the Redgrass Plains. We lived in the Redleaf Forest. What were we even fighting over? 

 Did you know, the number of beads they have tells you how strong a warrior they are? 

Mikan is quite handsome. He has fifteen beads: one for each year since he came of age and one for each battle he took part in. He even earned a big glass bead for bravery. You remember, you saw him when we saved his life with our dual attack. He couldn't believe how much damage we had done, until the Westersuns ran in fright. In fact, Mikan says we even scared him away. He thought we were a feathery demon. You would have clucked when he recounted the story. We didn't need him at the time, because I had you and you had me, but now...

Heni, I want to thank you for all you've done. Thank you for giving your life for me. Thank you for helping me find a warrior partner at last that I can spend my days with, who will watch my back, even as I will watch his.

Don't worry. You didn't get to see his best moves, but he's a good warrior himself. We'll be all right. The Westersun won't be able to catch us, because they're no match for the warriors of the Redgrass Plains and Redleaf Forest. 

If only our tribes had joined together earlier, the Westersun might have been utterly defeated. It's too late for such thoughts now though. There's no one left.

I'm sorry, Heni, but I have to go. We can hear more Westersuns coming this way. The ground speaks of their many footsteps. At least three hands in all. Fifteen or so. I have to go. 

Don't worry, I'll be safe with Mikan at my back.

Rest in peace, 

my partner,

my friend,

I will remember you.

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.

Once a week

The aim is to post at least once a week, but I don't know whether that will actually happen. It's hard to find things to write about sometimes.

Ok. I have found a story.


There was an old gentleman in a nursing home who had dementia. Although he's sweet most of the time and wanders around relatively harmlessly, this one day, he was in a cheeky mood. He sought out every staff member he could find and asked them if they knew a certain person, citing (his) full name and date of birth. Depending upon the staff member's response, he would grin or just move onto the next person to try his joke on them.

Some of the staff were rather unimaginative and didn't realise he was joking around. They thought he was being a little more strange and confused than usual. A few played along and pretended we didn't know who he was and weren't sure who or what he was talking about. He enjoyed that, but tended to cut it short, getting really excited about it, because the person both sides were rattling facts off about were him (surprise!). Which would make both people involved in the joke laugh.


So it's not written so well, but I think it was cute.

I guess you'll know if I don't have any ideas of what to write about. You'll be bored and wonder why you even come here to read anything.

In any case, please forgive this (what I call a rubbish post, because it's not worth reading), and perhaps I'll find something better for next time.

Maybe something to do with how I ate a 500gm packet of fizzoes lollies in one week when I normally dislike eating sweets (because they're usually too sweet for me).



...
Once a week he wrote a list and once a week he shopped. Once a week he did his laundry and once a week he gardened. Once a week, he dropped a coin, in the same spot of the street, and then would hide around the corner to watch a little boy in yellow boots run to pick it up and bring it home to his mother who once a week went to the store, but had not enough to pay for all the groceries she needed. Once a week, he smiled at the very end of the week, when all the things to do on the list had been crossed out and he had his once a week day of rest.

Once a week he did odd jobs for the people in his street, who needed their driveway swept, their leaves rake or linen draped out on the lines to dry. Once a week he made tea for a little old granny on her way to her weekly bingo game, because she'd stop to rest at the seat he put out and then give him advice on his roses. Once a week he baked a loaf of raisin bread for supper, but once a week instead of eating it, left it wrapped on the doorstep of the little boy in yellow boots. Once a week a neighbour would leave a jug of cream, sitting beside his wrapped loaf, and then they'd both walk away unnoticed.

Once a week he'd leave his boots outside on the porch and once a week he'd find them cleaned and polished in the morning. Once a week he'd open his door, for the little boy in yellow boots to sit on the step under shelter, while he waited for his mother to finish work. Once a week he'd give the boy a plate of cookies to eat with milk and once a week he'd have the best time of the week, spending time talking or playing games with that little boy.

Once a week there'd be a pie that he couldn't possibly eat all himself and once a week he'd invite the little boy in yellow boots over with his mother to help him finish it. Once a week, after pie, he'd go to the kitchen to find it cleaned. Once a week, he'd pretend he hadn't noticed, but grin to himself, after they'd left unseen.

Once a week he'd lie in his garden and look up in the sky. Once a week while laying there, he'd chat with the neighbour through the fence and sigh at the times long since gone by.

Eggs attack

Never underestimate your food. Most of the time, you think you are safe and that the domesticated food item will never attack, but sometimes you are wrong. Sometimes, there is the rebel food item that decides to lead a revolution, which in turn incites the other food items to follow its lead.

I was following the culture and lead of my forebears in the boiling, shelling and eating of eggs. Those who have gone before have passed down the saying not to play with one's food, although they never said what to do if your food is attacking you. Due to the attack, I put into practice the battle cry of: No mercy. No quarter.

I did nothing new or different in the way I had cooked or shelled the chicken eggs. Everything was perfectly normal.

Except one egg took exception to being shelled - that is it didn't just stay still to take the shelling calmly. I wish I could say it was a rotten egg, but it was far from the smelly kind of rotten. It was a rebel kind of rotten.

The shell burst apart the moment I cracked it and delivered a scathing attack up close and personal with my fingers, which questioned the integrity of my skin and belied the age old belief that the humble, fragile egg was harmless to the non-egg allergic human being.

Keeping calm, seeing as the egg finally surrendered to being undressed, I started shelling the next egg, which did the same. Only this egg's assault left splinters in my even-more-fragile-than-egg-shells skin. With a little more fuss, this egg too had to surrender to my superiority.

Having seen or felt (or whatever it is that eggs do) the aggressive, penetrating lead of the initial two eggs, the subsequent eggs continued the attack until my fingers were quite red, sore and displeased by the repeated attempts at surprise ambushes by egg shell. Happily, by the time my fingers were getting ready to rebel themselves at the potential cost in blood, the eggs were done. Beautifully and nakedly exposed in all their glowing white softness.

And as I am not one to remain prejudiced or in any way discriminatory against my food, I ate those lovely boiled eggs with drops of light soy sauce, in order to experience the fullness of their flavour.

Sweet savoury revenge.


This is a true story. It happened today.

Welcome to Bakusan

Welcome to Bakusan

Bakusan is a coastal mountain city located in Marusa Provice on the south facing side of Sulileng Island of the Taprisang Archipelago (or Taprisang Islands). The city population comprises of roughly 333,575 people and is known as a relatively relaxed tourist destination for those wanting to combine both beaches and mountains in their holidays. Bakusan offers cruise ships and island tours, as well as mountain hiking or climbing at affordable prices. For those that prefer more city dwelling, the city gradually climbs up the Bakusan mountain where a mix of various international cultures reside and fusion cultures have emerged. Near the top of the city, at least a third of the way up the mountain, in the Gentun district, huge entertainment complexes have been built; filled with restaurants, shops and game halls.

Known also as the City of Flying Chairs, Bakusan has a series of public chair lifts that stop at various platforms all the way up the mountain. For those who find it hard to climb the many stairs and slopes, the chair lifts are the ideal way to see the sights and reach intended destinations with little effort. Most locals continue to use what they call pin travel (ie their own legs), but are happy to point visitors to any of the many flying foxes or chair lifts. Common public transport vehicles are known as rattle cars, the local equivalent to a combination of a tram and bus, since the vehicle can drive on or off the tram tracks. The local market and Bakusan's local produce are easily accessible in the Market Square and associated arcades just east of the City Square, where one can try any of the local teas, sweets and savoury snacks.

At varying locations across the city, traditional housing is open for guests, starting at affordable prices. Homestays are common, but it is just as easy to rent a local traditional house, or even a foreign traditional apartment. Have a look in the Foreigner's District for an architectural mix of buildings from all ages of history, from all sorts of locations around the world and cheap accomodation.

Bakusan is popular for its floor entertainment within the Gentun district, where a reed or rush matted room may be hired for private parties or gatherings. Shoes are not allowed inside and serviced foot washing stations are usually located outside the rooms. Guests usually sit on the floor or on floor cushions. Rooms are catered by any one or a combination of the restaurants located within the same building. Within the building, hostesses, performers and musicians can all be hired for the event if requested at the counter or over the internal phone. If lucky, the famous Gentun entertainer, Marisol, might visit in one of her exciting new costumes.

Marisol is something of a living legend within Bakusan, being the only known 5 times winner of the Bakusan Entertainment Award, but her background is completely mysterious. Nobody knows exactly who she truly is behind the make up, nor whether she is actually a male or female as she has been known to cross dress with abandon and be a master of disguise, such that the city is sure that there have been incidents where she was not even recognised. Nevertheless, she has previously informed the media that she prefers to be referred to in the feminine. She appears and disappears with ease, which is quite a feat for a vibrantly dressed and painted person, even within the entertainment district. Marisol is famous for her conversation, fashion sense, dance and singing. She has been known to combine the local traditional dances with modern songs, revitalising the traditional songs and dance forms. She fraternises with both high and low social elements alike, often visiting if there is a particularly talented musician playing. Many charity events have been taken over by this lovely entertainer, although her appearances have reduced of late. Should violence break out, Marisol has famously de-escalated situations with a witty remark or gotten hands-on herself where she gave both sides a lesson in etiquette. During another famous incident, Marisol entered the private party pf a mobster and entertained entirely in sign language or mime, refusing to utter a single word. Whether she is dress as guy or gal, this unpredictable entertainer is sure to stun and delight wherever she turns up - if she turns up.

Unlike most of the other local entertainers, Marisol cannot be booked for an event, as nobody has her contact details or knows where she lives. Word can be left at any one of the entertainment buildings, but no guarantee can be given. Marisol imitators or lookalikes are warned that they may be mobbed by the locals or visiting Marisol fans for disrespect. Sudden and impromptu Marisol shows are available on occasion and with little notice, where tickets are sold on a first come first serve basis.

For those who enjoy mountain hiking and/or climbing, there are mountain ascending choices for every taste. The Bed and Breakfast Trail is the most popular, where one can stroll up the mountain at one's own pace, stopping by any of the numerous roadside stalls or bed and breakfast inns. Halfway up the trail is Tent Town, a large market filled with souvenirs of all kinds or rest stations where one might fall asleep in a tent after a cup of tea. For those unafraid of heights, the Treetop Canopy Walk is a fun way to sway oneself above the sea of trees to Tent Town. Besides the Bed and Breakfast Trail, the Climbing Trail and Mixed Trails are also quite popular with tours to the very top conducted daily for sunrise or sunset viewing for free. Arrive early at the meeting locations or miss out.

Beach goers will enjoy any of the stunning beaches of either the coarser yellow sands of Bakusan Beach or the finer white sands in the protected Kipply Bay. To the east, rock pools and rocky platforms may be explored or fished. To the west, Western Port, Bakusan's deep sea water port is located where fishing boats or day trips may be chartered to visit any of the local small islands. Trips to the local island resorts out in the coral reefs may also be booked here. Cruise ships drop by every other day, and so going for a few days trip or week's cruise is easy to arrange. Otherwise visitors may feel free to explore any of the port's many taverns and bars, exploring the fish market or even book themselves for deep sea diving lessons.

Bakusan is also a centre of learning for those interested in music, languages and other cultures. Walking the streets, one may hear any one conversation using a mix of words from various languages around the world. A shopkeeper may speak in one language to a local and the local may reply in another language, but both understand each other equally well. Alternatively a conversation may be peppered with words from various languages. To enrol in language or music lessons, visitors may visit the Language Centre of Learning on Hoofpad in the city's centre.

In the words of some of Bakusan's outstanding youth:

Come to Bakusan any time of the year,

The seasonal changes hold little to fear.

Come to Bakusan to stand on the heights,

And at night behold its many bright lights.

Come to Bakusan to explore its shores,

Enjoy the modern and the things of yore.

Come to Bakusan to fish on the sea,

Where waves are tame here on the lee.

Come to Bakusan, welcome one and all,

And if you meet Marisol, there'll sure be a ball.

(Bakusan High School Poem Contest winner. Jared Perly, aged 15)

Written by the Bakusan Tourist Centre, 2017.

(Please note that this is a complete work of fiction. Any similarities to real life people or places are all incidental.)

It's something like this

Throughout the busy market, full of shouting, roaring people, the little children of the street slip in between the gaps between people's legs, swimming through the throng. The ho-ak, they are called, belonging to none and all. They cover both face and body, so nobody knows exactly who they are, recognisable only by their style of dress or head covering. Some are fumblers, pick pockets, thieves. Some are muggers, gangsters, hirees. Some are desperate. Some are hoarders. All have their secrets.

Little Ho-ak Timmy, slips between the moving forest of legs like an eel. He's had a lot of practice in his lifetime. Four years makes him an independent young man, he thinks. His eyes flit and dart every where, hoping that nobody saw that he had slipped out of a trash can, where he had hidden the body of his little sister. She was starting to smell and he wouldn't be visiting her again. He had heard from the other ho-ak that it was easy to catch disease from the dead. It wasn't his fault she was dead. She'd gotten sick.

A nobleman with his horse flicks his whip at the small form when he darts under the horse to snatch a fallen bread crust from the gutter, before disappearing back into the crowd.

A bag whacks Little Ho-ak Timmy in the head, knocking his head wrap askew, so that he can't see properly. Hiding under a stall keeper's table while the man is not looking, Timmy fixed his head wrap up, hoping nobody noticed or saw him. His heart beats as quickly as the rabbits in the cage he is looking at under the table. Their black eyes plead, but he ignores them. Stuffing the bread crust into his mouth, his eyes search for what else might be edible. The stall keeper reaches down and grasps the boy by his shirt, throwing him back out into the roar and crush with a box to the ear that makes Timmy's ear ring. The giant butcher's cleaver threatens him and Timmy takes the hint, escaping into the anonymity of the market crowd.

Timmy hides between sacks of potatoes, wishing they were cooked so that he could eat them. If only he knew how to make a fire, he might be able to cook them, but potatoes are heavy to steal and taste awful raw. Raw potatoes, he knows by experience, can make him sick. Especially the green ones. Between the moving legs, he can see the edge of the market where the foreigners known as the Barbaro have barged into the crowd, chasing down and snatching ho-akak willy nilly, thrusting them into the big cage on wheels. The crowd offers up what ho-akak they can get their hands on to the foreigners in order for themselves and their children to be spared. Those taken by the Barbaro never return and word on the street is that they are sold into slavery in a land that spits fire and where the language twists the tongue into knots. With the Barbaro's presence, the market crowd thins a little and Timmy spots a bright orange thing hidden under a haphazard stack of boxes.

The moment the Barbaro disappear, the market regains its usual liveliness and Timmy throws himself through the legs toward his find. It is a partially rotting orange, but Timmy doesn't hesitate to bite into the good part of the orange, spitting out the rotten bits. He even eats the bitter peel. From his hiding place under a cabbage cart, he watches the on-the-spot employment of another stall keeper hiring a street girl who had been looking for work. The girl immediately changes her hair and headress style to inform passers by that she's now employed and untouchable to all but the worst vagrants and ho-akak.

Looking up to tops of the looming apartments above, he can see the fringes of a marriage ceremony occurring on the sun baked roof tops. The man and woman exchange head scarves and weave the more ornate and colourful cloths into the serious triangles of contract holders that have been cut and bound together. It's a beautiful sight, but the cabbage cart owner has found him now, and to avoid being kicked or whacked with the cabbage man's staff, he scurries back out into the people current, avoiding the people with fancy clothes and veiled faces. They tend to kick really hard.

If only it were easy to find enough good food to fill his stomach. After searching the entire day, Timmy's tummy is still growling like it was this morning. The sun is going down and with the growing shadows comes the cold, evening breeze. There's still the night market that he could contend with, but Timmy is a daytime ho-ak. He's usually too tired by sunset to go out into the more dangerous market place where the gangs like to roam. The ho-ak gangs are merciless and scary anyway. The food he ate today has made him feel sick, throw up and made his bowels run. Then again, it could have been the water he drank from the market fountain. If he were a dog, he might have eaten his own vomit. It was a good thing that a bakery woman had given him a mouldy bun. Once he had picked off the mouldy bits, it had tasted as good as fresh. Just hard to bite.

Joining up with his fellow sleep mates, they run through the alleys, climbing houses and jumping over walls, each taking a different route until they meet up at the giant hollow statue that they have been using as their base, hoping no one else was able to follow them to their hide-out. There, they squeeze in with the other ho-ak boys and girls, so that they can stay warm for the night.

Last night, Timmy had been kicked out, because there was not enough space. That's why he had spent the night by his sister's body. She had been annoying while she was alive, but now... he missed her company. Tonight, he managed to find a nice warm place right inside the statue body and another ho-ak had to go find a trash can or uninhabited crack in a wall to huddle for the night.

Tonight, Timmy prays he will dream of a home where he has parents and a family who love him. He prays for a house, a bed and a full belly.

Rest

Rest, they say, will do you good;
But rest, I say, is hard.
To sit and lie,
Do nothing;
Fie,
Become a log of wood?

Rest, they say, will heal you fast;
But rest, I say, is hard.
No hands, no arms,
Do what, play yarns
'Til planking amuses last?

Today, tonight,
Tomorrow, we fight,
And build up all we have
To build, to bind
Leave nothing behind
And bring it to the gaff.

Unfinished.

Helpless

It was her posture that caught my eye. At first glance, she appeared an old woman in rags, shuffling about the camp and serving the soldiers. At second glance, I realised that she was in fact a young woman dressed in dirty soldier cast offs that were several sizes too large for her. When next she came near to pour more tea for the men sitting beside me, I examined her grimy face and unkempt hair. Her ankles were bound with clanking chains, hence the reason for the shuffling.

To see so many scars is not unusual in the war, but somehow, whenever I see young children and women marked in such a way, an unfathomable sadness wells up within me. Often, they are given these lifelong reminders of the war and its horrors through no fault of their own. When I asked my fellows about her, it took them some time to realise whom I was referring to.

“She arrived the night after saboteurs planted a bomb that took out Marsden’s company. Word was that she was one of the saboteurs, but was given a reprieve for some reason,” Sharon, one of the body building blokes rumbled. With muscles his size, nobody would ever dare question him about his name. “Some of us were set on killing her when we had the chance, but after she’d been here a while, we started questioning whether she really was a spy.”
“She’s more like a deranged refugee,” Tim scratched at a crooked tooth and made a whirly loopy sign to the side of his head. “There’s something not quite right up there.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She’s kind of dumb,” Jan snorted and spat, his phlegm barely missing the Sharon’s foot.
“Not that it stopped any of you boys from taking revenge on her or using her,” Sharon elbowed Jan in disgust, completely knocking the man off his crate.
“So? A bitch is a bitch,” Jan shrugged, carefully resuming his seat in case Sharon decided to knock him down again. “And if she could talk, who she gonna complain to?”
“A dumb bitch like that,” Tim rolled his eyes at their antics, “would never have snuck into our camp, planted a bomb, snuck out again, and then set the bomb off. She would have blown herself up before she even got into the camp or been caught by the guards. They reckon the guy who set the bomb blew himself up with it.”
“Stupid girl was sitting in the middle of a thorn bush when we found her,” Sharon shakes his head in disbelief. “When we pulled her out, she didn’t even resist. That’s not to say she didn’t try to escape. Although after the Captain talked to her, she did go kinda crazy. I wonder what he said.”

At my questioning look, Tim clarified.
“He means Captain Peters with the impossible first name starting with a ‘P’. Bloke was killed last month, so you wouldn’t have met him. Great guy. Fun to hang with. Hey, you guys remember the time he had a drinking competition and out drank even Hein Steinz?”
Sharon shook with laughter at that.
“Captain drank us so under the table that when the Major came round the next morning, we were still drunk, but the Captain was still as perky as ever. Covered up for us by saying we’d had food poisoning because of some bad meat and then offered the Major some leftovers.”
“What about the time he got us together with a bunch of – ”
Sharon knocked Jan off his crate before he could finish his sentence, glaring a warning at the scrawnier man and then looked grinning round at us all.
“Anyway, Danno, you missed having the best captain a soldier could have. Captain Anders is all right, but man, you would have loved Captain Peters.”

I watched the young-old woman, hunched and shuffling like she was decades older, wondering what indignities she must have suffered at the hands of men like Jan, who only thought for their own comfort and amusement.

All three men drank a toast to their fallen Captain’s memory, eyes swimming with tears; except for Jan who was now watching the woman as I was, albeit with a nasty expression on his already ugly face. For a moment, I was glad I was not the woman. Immediately, I was ashamed that my first thought hadn’t been for her safety and excused myself from the group of friends who had fallen sullen and silent, staring at the fire.

Later that night, I was returning from using the cleaner officer’s toilets under the cover of darkness, when I heard a noise. Walking as silently as my boots would allow me on the sandy gravel of the road, I saw Jan approach the old-young woman who appeared to have just been leaving the kitchens. In the cast off light of a lit window, I saw suds still gleaming on her arms. The moment she saw Jan, she crumpled to the ground without a sound, forcing him to drag her out of the patch of light and back into the shadows.

For a moment, I was assailed with two thoughts. One that every soldier did it and that I shouldn’t interfere, forgetting for a moment that I was a soldier now too; and two that I should save her, at least to ease the guilt that would otherwise lie upon my conscience. It was clear that the other soldiers no longer saw her as another human being and my need to blend in warred with my sense of decency.

In the end I followed the sounds of a body being dragged and Jan’s grunts. What I was going to actually do, I wasn’t sure.

We ended up in the parking lot and Jan dropped the woman on the ground between two trucks.

“Thought you could avoid me?” I heard Jan sneer amidst the sound of something striking meat. “It may have been a while, but it doesn’t mean that I’d forgotten about you. You think everyone’s taken in by your stupid act? You and I know better, don’t we? Why else would Captain Peters tell me to kill you in the case we lost the war or the camp was overrun? You know something – some secrets and I mean to force them out of you eventually. You’re an enemy spy. I know you are. He was a stupid man, the Captain was. Always thinking he was better than anybody else, just because he could hide his dirty side better than the rest of us. We saw the real side to him that time he got a bunch of us guys together to teach you a proper lesson. I could organise an orgy like that again, if you’d like. You should’ve been executed like the rest of the spies.”
“Kill me then.”

The words were slurred, but distinct.

I thought Jan had said she couldn’t speak. I think he’d believed that himself, because there was silence for almost a full minute. And then he began to laugh. I wanted to block my ears from the ugly sound.

“So you can talk,” Jan said in between chuckles. I crept closer to see. “All this time and I was right and they were wrong.” There was a sharp schick of a knife being pulled out from its sheath. “You wanna die? I can help you with that, but tell me first why the Captain didn’t kill you himself.”
“Just kill me,” I saw the woman’s body jerk upright and her arms latch onto Jan’s, making him yell in surprise, trying to force the knife down toward her body. “Kill me. Just kill me!”

There was a struggle for a moment, but eventually Jan fought her off and threw her to one side, holding his knife clear of her.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” he said calmly, putting the knife away. “I get it now. You’re desperate to die, but too scared to kill yourself. It all makes sense to me now. You wanted to die, so the Captain let you live. You’re no spy and if you were one once, you’re not now.”

He kicked her and laughed.

“Cos you’re nothing,” he leaned in and said in her ear, holding her hands clear of his belt. He forced her back down onto the ground and when she let loose a sob, he laughed again, moving with greater urgency to get any clothes out of his way.

I picked up a stone and threw it some distance away, making him pause for a moment.

Unexpectedly, footsteps crunched toward where I’d thrown the stone and I crouched down.

“Oi, Jan, where you gone?” Tim’s voice called. “What’s taking so long to take a piss and what are you doing out here? You gonna get us in trouble tomorrow with your gear the mess it is. Sharon’s about ready to wring your neck.”

Cursing under his breath, I heard Jan zip his pants back up and walk out to Tim.

“You just wrecked a perfectly romantic moment, you idiot.”
“Your dick ain’t going anywhere,” Tim snorted, disgust evident in his voice. “Don’t see what interest you have in a ragdoll like that anyway. There’s no fun in beating someone who’s already down. It’s just sick and you’re a dickhead thinking she’s a spy.”
“She ain’t a spy. Not anymore,” Jan crowed.
“What’d you do?” Tim’s footsteps paused.
“Don’t worry. I just finally managed to make her talk.”
“I thought she was a mute. What did she say?” their footsteps resumed.
“She’s crazy. Just wanted me to kill her.”
“I’d want someone to kill me too if a bloke as ugly as you came after me – ow. What was that for?”

After their voices and footsteps had faded away, I slipped around the truck to where the young-old woman was still lying, my stomach feeling heavy at the fact that I hadn't really tried to save her - that I hadn't the guts to face up to a man like Jan. Although nothing much would have happened if I had been found aside from some dirty jokes, I still felt my heart racing and relief coursing through my veins.

“Hey. Hey, come on. They’re gone now. I’ll help you back to your lean to.”

She didn’t answer me. In the dim light, her eyes glimmered, staring up at the starry sky. In her right hand, Jan’s knife glinted.

Hopeless

It started out with a feeling, which then grew into a hope. Perhaps he had succeeded after all. Perhaps he had survived and was on his way back. Then again, perhaps he had survived, but been captured. I wasn't sure what to think after the explosion last night. We hadn't expected there to be any explosion at all and certainly nothing as attention catching as it had turned out.

Something had gone wrong, but Prparim hadn't been able to contact me. Something had been jamming our radio frequency.

Wars are funny things. What would normally be considered illegal and dangerous, becomes allowed when you've been given something vaguely like orders. Orders can be funny things too, particularly when they've purposely been worded vaguely. Still, sabotage is sabotage, no matter the dressing.

Even if Prparim has been captured, he won't be able to tell them anything, because he and I don't know anything. We don't work under any of the normal operations. In all the paperwork, we're just civilians. Displaced civilians - which is the truth. We have no one left and no where to go. We have been disavowed and any guerilla operations that fail will fall heavily upon our shoulders. We are the scapegoats. We have gotten used to being out in the open, but it doesn't mean that we like it.

Wait, that's not quite right. Correction. I don't know anything, but Prparim does. He is always near the centre of operations. I tend to group us together because we've been partners for so long, but I forget that we're not on the same level.

Whether I want to worry or not, it's like a spot I can't itch.

Hiding here in the bushes, not daring to leave although time was up an hour ago. What to do?

It's dark, it's rainy and cold - and even if I wanted to get out of here, I can't. Not with all those soldiers tramping the grass into the mud.

Are they looking for me?

I feel like a mouse in a hole, a pigeon in the scrub, a rabbit in the grass, just waiting for the hunters to pounce. Any moment now, I'll feel their claws digging into my skin, their jaws around my neck, while they beat me to death against the ground.

Hope is an amazing thing. With hope, you feel less cold, you can be hunted and still expect something good to happen. So long Prparim is alive, I don't mind what happens to me. So long he survives and escapes, it doesn't matter whether I'm dead or alive.

A bright light glares through the leaves, blinding me for a moment. A heavy hand latches around the back of my neck, grasps hold of my hair and drags me out of hiding. My captor yells and his fellows gather around. Mud flies. My scalp burns, twigs catch my clothes and the grounds scrapes me. Heavy weights smash into me from all angles, sparking fires wherever they mark me. I taste blood. I see the mud shining in the torchlight and feel its moist stickiness against my body.

All around me, anger explodes in fits and bursts; and I am tossed, kicked and dragged along the ground in turns. I don't even try to understand what they're shouting. They're mad because some of their mates have died in the explosion. I don't care, because there's no way Prparim could have survived it either and if he's dead, I might as well be too. Without him, my whole plan has failed. Everything I did had been for him. It is better to die quickly, than to be tortured and raped, forced into confessions that are barely true. They'd never admit to it, of course. They never do. They never have. Even Command never recognised any of the other ladies' complaints when we were in training.

Complaints. It makes such abuse sound so trivial.

I'm not doing this because I'm a patriot. I'm not here because I love my job. I'm here for Prparim because he asked me and of all the people left in the world, he's the only one I trust. I'm here because Command had killed my sister and tonight was to be my revenge. I'm here because I aim not to return. I just hadn't counted on Prparim insisting on taking my place. I hadn't counted on him blowing himself up, instead of escaping and hiding out somewhere until the war had ended. He knew. Surely he knew what I had done. I had practically shown him, daring me to stop me.

Perhaps he was as sick of the war as I was.

There's a pause in the strikes and through my rapidly swelling eyes, I see a gap, a chance, and I take it.

Cold wind stings my face and my knees don't seem able to bear my weight, but I force myself to stumble on. Faster and faster, but the wind passes me no quicker and there's mud oozing its way into the grazes on my knees. Heavy limbs weighed down by pain. Only my imagination races away. Blinding white flashes through my eyesight, starting from my right side and then everywhere else. I hear several cracks and a scream through the roaring in my ears.

The white fades and is replaced with a pair of boots. Familiar boots, familiar pants, familiar face, but an unfamiliar expression.

And I realise it was all a ruse.

Why would he fight for a country that never loved or cared for him? Why would he fight against the very country he was born in?
How had we ever believed him in the first place?

The explosion had taken me by surprise. It would take Command by surprise too and they would assume something had gone wrong and that we were dead.

I laugh at my stupidity - or well, I gurgle and cough and then cry silently while gasping, because broken ribs don't allow you to do anything more than shallow breathing. How had I never noticed all the problems we had encountered in our previous missions had taken place during a last minute change of plan - changed by Prparim?

I had trusted him and he had used me. Not unexpected, I suppose. To trust someone is to want them to use you for their own gain.

Here I was. The double-crossing scapegoat's scapegoat and I was about to die for something I didn't believe in.

I had been looking to die this mission, just not like this, but death is death and with it comes release from this dark life. In the end, I guess it's all the same.

  "Hi Gracie," his eyes gleam icy blue, even in this torchlight. "That bomb wasn't in the plan. You've killed a lot of men."

I can barely talk for the pain. I can hardly seem to catch my breath, but I can smile. Smile and laugh to myself.
Me? He's accusing me?
It won't be long now. I wonder if he ever cared about me. Will he miss me?

  "You almost killed me," he continues, squatting down and cupping my chin in his hand, forcing my head up. "I almost didn't get out in time."

The bomb was your plant. I only sped the timer up on a mechanism that was meant to make noise for a distraction that would trigger the signal early, so that the enemy would see me leaving and shoot me. You knew that. You saw it. You took my place, you traitor.

But the bomb killing so many of the enemy soldiers doesn't quite make sense. Why had they gone so far in order to deceive my people or are they deceiving their own people - or the outside world? Is Prparim keeping up appearances for my fighting countrymen? I don't understand.

  "I knew you were tiring of the war, but I never thought you'd try to kill me. It's a good thing I still care for you. I hurried here before they could beat you to death. There'll be a trial and you'll probably be sentenced, but don't worry, they've already agreed not to execute you on grounds that you are a simpleton and not quite sound in the head."

My eyes widen at the news and his smile grows whilst mine fades. Don't tell me. Don't tell me this is going somewhere I don't want to go. I would still rather die. The whole point was to get myself killed. If I don't die, what's the point? Everyone else I love is dead. I have nothing left to live for.

On the other hand, who is he calling a simpleton? How dare he?

  "I've already told them everything about our operations, so all you have to do is corroborate my version of events. Your Command will think you're dead, so to tell the truth, we don't even need to try you, but we have to keep up the show for the historians." He smiles, but it's not the gentle smile I remember. A corner of his lips twists it into a cruel smile. "Not that you're worth including in history. With my input, they already know that there are some things you fear worse than death. I hope you're ready for it. Oh, you're really hated in this camp for all those booby traps you laid and the nuisance you made of yourself. You were forever getting in the way of my plans too. It'll be good to finally see you get what you deserve."

I wince at that. It shouldn't hurt, but it does. I had never meant to be a burden to him. Not to him. Now though, I might have other ideas. My heart aches with the knowledge that the secrets I had spilled to him during the quiet of our missions have now become arrows to pierce me.

I'm never going to trust anyone ever again.

My wrists are pulled roughly behind my back and arms as thick as tree trunks lift me up from either side. I fight them. Futilely.

I refuse to go quietly to a fate far worse than death. I had escaped by joining the war effort and there was no way I was going back to that old life willingly.

Prparim is alive, but now, I wish he were dead.

I should have gone for a gun or weapon earlier, then they would have been forced to shoot me in order to acknowledge the threat. Never mind the fact that I don't know how to use a gun.

So much for my convictions.

I wish I'd had the guts to have killed myself earlier. It would have saved me from all this trouble.