Ranting Again

I wish you would stick your head into the toilet, you crazy little perfectionist. And you aren't really that perfect yourself.

And to the most arrogant, conceited, self-obsessed, narcissistic bunch of B's I've ever met,
GET OVER YOURSELVES ALREADY!!! 

Burning Sea

He had the face of an angel. Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fire on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own. 

The anguish was almost palpable in the screeching of the violin. He slashed the strings of the violin with wild, violent strokes and it seemed as if  it was screaming in pain. He ripped into the song, he tore the notes out of the violin and each note was translucent and throbbing. His eyes were closed and he seemed to lean his whole body into the music, to press his soul like an ear to the instrument. And yet, above the tormented screeches of the wooden thing, there existed a kind of beauty. 

It is the kind of beauty you see in the red of the blood. Sometimes, you see a gash on a dying man's throat and you are mesmerised by the rich, velvety blood flowing out of the hideous wound. You secretly think how similar the colour of blood is to the colour of a deliciously red goblet of burgundy. 

I see it in his eyes. I could see that he was sorely tempted by the dancing flames and I watch their ethereal movements from the reflection in his eyes. He longed for their feisty tongue to lick him into dust and ashes. 

Sometimes, it was as if when I looked into his eyes I was standing alone on the edge of the world... on a windswept ocean beach. There was nothing but the soft roar of the waves and the soft, white sand beneath our feet. When I look into his eyes now, all I see is an ocean of raging fire, ready to consume anything and leave no trace of the person behind.

I guess this is the good part of it, being burnt to nothing; this way, you are saved from the inevitable humiliation of a horrible, decaying corpse. And I wonder if this is what everything, to him is about. 

Merry Christmas

MERRY CHRISTMAS, 
   EVERYONE!!!

Happy? Or not.

I'm writing these ridiculous poems 'cause Wen Juin says that my poems are dark and dreary and ominous and I can't think of any happy poems. So, this is for you.

I like Barney,
He's so funny,
And I like Winnie,
But he likes honey.

Tada. A stupid happy poem with Barney and Winnie and honey. Isn't that just effing nice?  Oh how 'bout this one?

I'm so happy,
The sun is shining,
I'm so carefree,
I am smiling.

Or this one.

I'm happy today,
'Cause it's a summer day,
I listened to a bird,
And was nice to a nerd.

See, I made three poems just for you to brighten up your day. Don't you think I deserve a little something? Maybe a ticket to Italy???

Blood and Lies

Children of darkness, come to me,

And let us dance in this burning sea,

Of lies and secrets so profound,

It drowns the cries of agony, that hellish sound!

Come join me in this ethereal dance,

Where the melody shines like a thousand suns,

Waltz into this dance of blood and lies,

And dance under the Stygian skies.

The angels of death sing and await,

Those who are doomed and their star-crossed fate,

Their voices like honey, a baritone,

Rose to a lament, an anguished moan.

Travelling Nightmare

Here's an announcement: I'm going to Hong Kong this Thursday. Woohoo! Yay! Wheepee-doodle-y! Yippee-ya-ya! NOT!!! Abso-bloody-lutely NOT.

Alright, so some girls might be crazy at the idea of going to HK. I mean, wow, HK= Disneyland, shopping, food or whatever it is people do in that godforsaken city... But hello??? In case you guys haven't noticed, I'm not the Hong Kong type of girl. Here, let me explain why travelling in HK is such a total NIGHTMARE.

1. Hong Kong Disneyland:

Okay first, I am NOT five years old. I'm an N-year-old girl who is not interested in that particular theme park or whatever the heck it is. Don't get me wrong, I love Disney. But I hate life-size replicas of the Disney characters. They're so fake and I hate them. End of story.

2. No peaceful night-time stroll for me:

Won't you look at that? What the heck is that??? Everything is so bloody orange and red and yellow and bright and it hurts my eyes. I hate neon colours. I freakin' hate them. All the billboards and the cars and the lights. God, I loathe the lights. I used to dislike Las Vegas but Hong Kong is like, so much worse.

3. Food:

Excuse me, dim sum? Like I can't get them here. There are a few restaurants from Hong Kong in Penang that probably sells authentic dim sum like Dragon-I. And before you say anything, the airfare to HK is way more expensive than lunch in Dragon-I. Plus, I don't dislike dim sum but I don't particularly like them either. I still very much prefer pasta, salad and cheese. (Which is way healthier, by the way.)

4. History Museum:

I love history and I love museums. But I hate this one. Look at it. It doesn't look like a museum and it doesn't look like it contains history. It's like some shitty modern building built by some shitty architect who thinks his buildings are artistic but they really suck. Boo to Hong Kong's Museum of History.

5. Art Galleries:

Like history and museums, I love art. I love sculptures and paintings and historical buildings and ancient architecture. I love Michaelangelo and da Vinci and Caravaggio. But no way is that thing above an art museum. What kind of freaking art is that? God, oh God. Why has modernization gone so horribly wrong? 

And so, Hong Kong is basically made up of the major things listed above which I obviously abhor. And don't even think about shopping 'cause my dad's gonna disapprove. So, is there any reason at all I should like that horrible city? None. 

Look, I know I probably sound like an ungrateful brat (okay, maybe I am) but I know what I like and dislike and I definitelydislike  loathe HK. But since air tickets are not refundable, I'll just have to endure a week of endless torture. I guess I'll see you guys next week - if I'm still alive. 

P.S. Sorry to all Hong Kong lovers.

Blood Secrets

Ugly scars of the forbidden past,

Lingers on the verge of sanity,

It rises from the midst of filth and dust,

Obscured from the light of clarity.

Thorns of roses crowns her head,

A Venetian mask in her hand,

Droplets of blood so bright and red,

Drips from her spiky band.

From the burning depths of her bloody eyes,

Holds secrets of her murky past,

An ocean of blood would not suffice,

To end her malevolence so deep and vast.

Happy Halloween

Finally! Happy Halloween!!!

Death calls upon those from their eternal sleep,

As the moon shines down this chilly night,

And thus begins the dawn of Hallow's Eve,

Unleashing all fear and fright.

Out, from the filthy mounds of earth,

At the end of every October,

To dance once more with the ones they love,

Before returning to their deathly slumber.

Corpses and skeletons dance the darkness away,

As the melody of their cracking bones fill the night,

The air is dense with putrid decay,

And the cemetery is a gruesome sight.

According to the ancient superstition, Death appears at midnight every year on Halloween and he has the power to call forth the dead from their graves to dance for him while he plays his fiddle. His skeletons and corpses dance for him until the first break of dawn, when they must return to their graves until the next year. The dance was called La Danse Macabre, the dance of death.

All classical music lovers, please listen:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM
P.S. I still love my previous poem more.

P.P.S. I'm a huge fan of Halloween!

The Mary Celeste Massacre

Lady Beatrice was devastated when she heard the news. A month ago her only son had boarded the HMS Mary Celeste, one of the grandest ships her sleepy town had ever seen.

One morning, Lady Beatrice was out gardening and was surprised when a boy came running to her breathlessly. "The ship, ma'am..." he gasped. "They... they found the HMS Mary Celeste near the port..." She immediately set off for the port while the poor boy was still catching his breath. They found the HMS Mary Celeste. Found? What did he mean by "found"? 

A motley crowd was already gathering near the port and Lady Beatrice squeezed through the crowd with difficulty. Apparently, everyone on board was found dead and the ship had simply drifted back to the port. The bodies had already started decomposing and it was concluded that they were dead for at least two weeks.

That night, Lady Beatrice sat on a cliff overlooking the port. The moon shone down and the ship lurked in the dark almost sinisterly.

"You killed Matthew and everyone on the ship, didn't you?" Someone behind her said. "I saw you that night, sprinkling poison into the tea leaves and I didn't know you were planning on murdering them!"

Lady Beatrice turned around slowly and found herself staring at her son's sobbing fiancee. "Stop this nonsense and come closer, child. Let me see you clearly." Catherine stepped forward into the light reluctantly and screamed when she was suddenly pushed over the cliff.

"My Matthew was a good boy," Lady Beatrice whispered to herself, tears glinting in the moonlight. "He was a decent boy until he wanted to become part of the crew and leave his mother alone in this godforsaken town. I just want to be with my little boy... Forever..." She peered downwards at the crashing waves for a moment and jumped.

I'll always be with you, my Matthew... 

The Bridge of Sighs

"Mais, Grandmere... Pourquoi? Why can't I go to the bridge now?" I remember whining. My grandmother had sighed and said, "You know why, Alice. I've told you the story before." I shook my head defiantly and told her to tell me the story again.

When I was young, I loved my grandmother's stories. Even then, I was enthralled by the eerie, macabre stories where the heroes and heroins in the stories die because of love. I was enchanted by the dark and foreboding background of the stories and I begged my grandmother for them every night before bed.

My grandmother had then smiled at me, relieved that I had decided not to be difficult and pulled me onto her lap. She cleared her throat as usual and began telling the tale. "Now, there was once a young lady who was very much in love with this young man called Demetri. However, another boy, Aidan was also in love with Valerie.

"When they got engaged, Aidan was mad with rage. He swore revenge for his unrequited love and eventually came up with a simple but destructive plan. He sent anonymous letters to Demetri claiming that Valerie was having an affair with the local goldsmith." Here, my grandmother would stop and explain what 'affair' means.

"At first, Demetri disregarded them and did not mention the letters to his fiancee. But one day, Valerie had went to the goldsmith's and had him make a beautiful golden bell with Demetri's name carved on it. Demetri, who was passing by jumped to the wrong conclusions and was furious with her for betraying his trust. He followed her to the bridge where they first met and confronted her. Frightened of her suddenly livid Demetri, she took a few steps backwards and fell headlong into the river.

"Demetri jumped in to rescue her but it was too late. She was already dead. He loosened her tightly clenched hand and was overcame with remorse when he read the inscription on the golden bell. Demetri never remarried."

"And that is why you are not to go to the bridge after dark, macherie. Valerie still haunts the river and they say she would pull little girls into the dark water and watch them drown and sigh with vindictive pleasure. "

I solemnly promised my grandmother that I would never go to the river at night and let her kiss my forehead. That night, when I was half-asleep, I heard the wind beckoning me to the river and I shivered. "Come, Alice..." the wind whispered, "come to me..."

The Lady Of The Sea

"One more story, Grandmere, s'il vous plait?" I would beg. "Tell me the one about the Lady of the Sea?" My grandmother would then sigh and say, "d'accord, one last story and you go to sleep, ma cherie."

When I was young, I used to stay with my grandmother in France every holiday. She had the prettiest little cottage by the sea and I loved it. Every night, I listened to the thrashing sound of the waves when it hit the sand and then wait for it to recede only to crash headlong onto the perfect white sand again. Sometimes, I sat by the window and marvelled at the reflection of the moon or the diamond sparkles glinting off the surface of the smooth water.

My grandmother would tuck me deeper into the bundle of warm blankets and finally begin her story. "Once upon a time, there was a lovely maiden whose name was Helena." She would pause here to tuck my hair behind my ears. "And she had long, dark auburn hair like yours. Now, there was this handsome young man, who was madly in love with her and had asked for her hand in marriage.

"Helena's father, who was the chief in this little village did not approve of their relationship for Etienne was a poor boy who could offer nothing for his daughter. In an attempt to get rid of this boy, Monsieur de Volange, Helena's father, sent him on a war with the other young men. Promising Helena that he would be back, he gave her a stalk of rose and set off." My attention would then automatically shift to the vase of blood red roses on the table by the window.

"For months, Helena waited for her beloved Etienne. She would creep out of her house every night and wander aimlessly along the rocky shore." Here, my grandmother would turn her gaze to the opened window and stare at the sea for a moment before giving a secret little smile as if she had just seen Helena wandering past.

 "Years passed by and Helena had finally accepted that her Etienne was never coming back. She had given her heart and soul to Etienne and when his ship sank, her heart had also drowned with him. "Brokenhearted, the girl plunged into the dark water one night and they never found her body. Legend has it that she had finally joined her lover under the sea where his ship lies. Some people even claimed that they saw her wandering by the shore and out in the sea a pearly white ghost ship had resurfaced from the bottom of the ocean floor. And so, Helena and her Etienne are together again. People have since then called her, The Lady of the Sea."

My grandmother would lean down and kiss my forehead gently. "Sleep, mon amour. And never may your fate be as terrible as Helena's." It was in those nights, that I would dream of Helena, with her long flowing gown of blue silk, billowing in the wind like waves. Only in my dream, I was Helena and I never saw my Etienne again.

Till Death Do Us Part

Come past the nettles that mark my grave,

As the dawn of midnight strikes,

And fulfill your promise to keep me safe,

Under the moon so bright.

Poisoned wine flows from my parted lips,

Come kiss the pain away,

Onto my gown the blood wine drips,

Dead, on my wedding day.

Oh, come to me, my love,

The poison cuts my heart,

And let the phrase mean no more,

"Till death do us part".

P.S. Her name's Annabelle. She's pretty, right?


P.P.S. All poems are written by me unless stated.

Dato Maharaja Lela, "Pejuang" Kebangsaan Perak

This is for all students of Form 2 or above. (Of course, first formers are welcomed to read it as well because you're all going to study about it eventually.)

Right, remember the 7th chapter in Form 2 History text book? It's the chapter talking all the bullshit (excuse me) about heroes fighting for their -our- country. Oh, you know - the "heroes" who sounded more like terrorists, "heroes" who attacked the British because they had "menghilang kuasa untuk memungut cukai danmentadbir" or because the British had "melucutkan gelaranmereka". Yeah, I know! The British are plain atrocious, aren't they? These "heroes" have perfect reasons to attack the British, I tell you.

I mean, they got a warning letter from the British for not paying their taxes! What were the Brits thinking?! The office for paying taxes are located in towns. What did they expect the villagers to do? Walk out of their kampung to the nearest town (probably 1 or 2 kilometers far)once a month just to pay taxes? Why, how utterly ridiculous!

Alright, sarcasms aside. I've just been reading about DatoMaharaja Lela, "Pejuang Kebangsaan Perak", and did a search on the Internet. (For those who are really rusty in History, he's the one who killed Birch who was taking a bath. Seriously, how cowardly can he be? I mean, Birch obviously had no weapon with him - when he's taking a bath.) And, I found out that apparently Mr D. (Dato Maharaja Lela, for dimwitted eejits) captured and sold the Orang Asli as slaves to maintain his gleaming pile of gold. Birch, though hypocritically, abolished the practice of slavery and therefore cutting his steady income, was killed by Mr. D, the cowardly dog -I mean, ahem, hero.

Seriously though dudes, this chapter is very interesting. Especially when you look at it in the unpatriotic way. You'll be laughing to death like we did. Enjoy studying, third formers! Freedom is weeks away! (That is, if you survive the battle.)

Good luck, my sweet readers.

Ring Around the Roses

"Ring around the roses,

A pocketful of posies,

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down."

As I walked by the playground, I heard a group of little children chanting this rhyme at the top of their voices with their hands linked to form a circle. I guess this is perfectly normal child behaviour. The thing is, when I was small, my grandmother never let me sing this rhyme and warned me to never join the other kids playing this game.

Orphaned at a very young age, I was brought up by a fairly superstitious grandmother. One day, I came back from kindergarten and starting to sing one of the nursery rhymes the children had taught me. "Ring around the roses, A pocket-" My grandmother came out from nowhere and screamed at me to shut up. I had never seen her so frightened in my life. She was always the calm and composed lady.

I was told to go to my room and was forbidden from singing that rhyme ever again. Later that night, my grandmother came into my room and comforted me for I was still badly shaken by the previous event. When I asked her about the rhyme, her jaw clenched but after a long period of silence, she told me the story.

The rhyme was badly associated with death, caused by the Great Plague of London in 1665. The first sentence, ring around the roses, basically meant to gather around a bed of roses planted on a grave. Posies from the second sentence refer to a kind of herb that was carried everywhere as protection because it was said that posies could act as a prevention from the disease. And the third sentence, ashes, ashes, is claimed to be referring to the cremation of the dead bodies. Finally, the last sentence, we all fall down, obviously meant that everyone died at the end.

Since then, whenever I hear the rhyme being sang, I see a horrible image in my mind. Four little children were in a huge, dark forest. And they were forming a circle with their hands linked and chanting the rhyme at the top of their voices. And then one by one, the children fall dead to their feet...

The Seduction of Water

The woman clutched her Afghan blanket around her more tightly, desperate for warmth in this frosty winter night. Her night gown billowed in the cold breath of Jack Frost.

It was the middle of the night and she had woken up from a nightmare. It was her again. The little girl with the raven black hair and piercing green eyes that looked too intelligent for such a young face. Her lips, so like the lovely petals of a pink rose opened and formed a word. When she woke up trembling, the familiar voice was still echoing eerily in her ears, "Mummy, save me..." It was as if her daughter was still alive.

She had looked out of her window at the lake in front of her house. There was nobody there. No white arms protruding from the surface, no violent splashing of the green waters, nothing. Just the voice of her daughter ringing in her mind, calling her out to the lake. And just as the she was about to turn away from the window, she caught sight of something. It was her daughter's ribbon, floating in the middle of the lake like a water serpent.

It was too much. The water lapping at the shore, the gentle cry of the wind, the voice that haunted her night after night and finally the ribbon... Her daughter's ribbon. She grabbed an Afghan blanket and made her way to the lake. Her heart throbbed against her ribcage and she could hear the water lapping in her dreams. The lake had called to her, just as it had called to her daughter. And in her mind came that poem, "I will arise and go now, for always night and day; I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; I hear it in the deep heart's core..." Hadn't her daughter said it was her favourite one by the Irish poet?

She walked to the rocky shore of the lake, climbed up a huge one, and peered into the black depths of the lake. A white face stared back at her, her green eyes dead and lifeless, her lips was washed white by the cold water but the lips pulled itself into a gruesome smile. And the woman let out a terrible scream.

Napoleon Bonaparte

God, I absolutely bloody love Napoleon Bonaparte. Yes, he's the brilliant French general who eventually became the King of France.

He was not only a man of politics and clever strategies; he was also consumed by passion for his lovers. And that is what I love about him. Here's an original letter he wrote to his wife, Josephine de Beauharnais:

Dec. 29, 1795

I awake all filled with you. Your image and the intoxicating pleasures of last night, allow my senses no rest.

Sweet and matchless Josephine, how strangely you work upon my heart.

Are you angry with me? Are you unhappy? Are you upset?

My soul is broken with grief and my love for you forbids repose. But how can I rest any more, when I yield to the feeling that masters my inmost self, when I quaff from your lips and from your heart a scorching flame?

Yes! One night has taught me how far your portrait falls short of yourself! You start at midday: in three hours I shall see you again.

Till then, a thousand kisses, mio dolce amor! but give me none back for they set my blood on fire.

P.S. Mio dolce amor means my sweet love.

P.P.S. Wasn't that sugary sweet???

P.P.P.S. It was said that his last words were: "France, the army, Josephine..."

Announcement

Beloved readers, due to an extremely useless and absurd examination in the start of October, I am therefore unable to post as much as I used to.

I promise that I'll catch up after the examination and I'll miss you guys. Please be patient because I know that you guys are the best. Love you.

Here's a nice poem from Alice Cary (may I write like her):

My soul is full of whispered song,—
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are full of life and light.

And another from Lord Tennyson:

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.

Wish me luck!

Dumb Attorneys

I received this from an e-mail and according to it, scenarios below are from a book called Disorder in the Court, and are things people actually said in court, word for word, taken down and now published by court reporters.

ATTORNEY: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all? WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
WITNESS: I forget.
ATTORNEY: You forget? Can you give us an example of something you forgot?

ATTORNEY: What was the first thing your husband said to you that morning?
WITNESS: He said, 'Where am I, Cathy?'
ATTORNEY: And why did that upset you?
WITNESS: My name is Susan.

ATTORNEY: Now doctor, isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it until the next morning?
WITNESS: Did you actually pass the bar exam?

ATTORNEY: The youngest son, the twenty-one-year old, how old is he? WITNESS: Uh, he's twenty-one.

ATTORNEY: Were you present when your picture was taken?
WITNESS: Are you shittin' me?

ATTORNEY: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th? WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And what were you doing at that time?
WITNESS: Uh... I was getting laid!

ATTORNEY: She had three children, right?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: How many were boys?
WITNESS: None.
ATTORNEY: Were there any girls?
WITNESS: Your Honor, I think I need a different attorney. Can I get a new attorney?

ATTORNEY: How was your first marriage terminated?
WITNESS: By death.
ATTORNEY: And by whose death was it terminated?
WITNESS: Now whose death do you suppose terminated it?

ATTORNEY: Can you describe the individual?
WITNESS: He was about medium height and had a beard.
ATTORNEY: Was this a male or a female?

ATTORNEY: Doctor, how many of your autopsies have you performed on dead people?
WITNESS: All my autopsies are performed on dead people. Would you like to rephrase that?

ATTORNEY: ALL your responses MUST be oral, OK? What school did you go to?
WITNESS: Oral.

ATTORNEY: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
WITNESS: The autopsy started around 8:30 p. m.
ATTORNEY: And Mr. Denton was dead at the time?
WITNESS: No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy on him.

And the best for last:

ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for breathing?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY: I see, but could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless? WITNESS: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law.

Stone Angel

Oh come, my stone angel,

Pray spread your mighty wings,

When howling wind dies to a whistle,

And turn all gloom into spring.

Speak to me, my silent protector,

Your icy gaze cuts my heart,

What do I do to make you alive?

Shall I wet your lips with the rain?

Come back, my angel of dark and light,

I hear you weep in this muted stone,

Unfold your wings into the Stygian night,

End this heart and its anguished moan.

Happy Birthday, Rach

Note: This is for Rachel. (You can be the girl if you want to.) Happy Birthday!

The room was large and jammed with rich and random contents; framed paintings to the ceiling, the floor covered with genuine Persian carpets, and there the piano, the great piano out of which had come this sound, shining in the middle of this mayhem.

The girl on the bench furrowed her brows in concentration. She, the centre diamond of it all, in a long, elegant gown of silk, played the lacquered grand piano with agile, unerring fingers, her hair a broad smooth yellow glow about her shoulders.

And there came that beautiful song, clear and shining through the dark air, the pristine notes, the crystalline music. So grand, so legible of tragedy and dauntless spirit.

The piano sang on in crashing cascades, the rapid notes melting as fast as they were born, so like the last thin snowflakes of the winter, vanishing before they strike the pavements. The notes were limpid and translucent and exquisitely distinct.

Back and forth she rocked on the bench as the melody went faster and more urgent. Her slim fingers flew across the keys with astonishing preciseness. Her body arched forward with her head thrown back in a moment of passion and the chords of music crashed down in a raging torrent and flooded the room. It was like the clap of thunder, the drastic drumming of an ancient war, the rumbling ground beneath the horse's hooves.

The melody slowed into a smooth, steady stream of notes and finally ended. Her eyelids fluttered open as her lips stretched into a slow, satisfied smile. The tall, handsome boy by the corner came forth and clutched her hands in his and kissed it gently before whispering,

"Behold, the poet of music."

Basketball With Devils

Note: Unfabricated story of how Wen Juin and I were bullied by devils half our age. Seriously. Non-exaggeration. 

There I was, on a fine Friday evening, jogging with Wen Juin in the park as is my routine. As usual, I paid no attention to the basketball players who were playing just beside the track and viceversa.

However, today, while I was jogging past the basketball court, a tall Indian man asked if I would join them. I looked past him and saw two little kiddies in primary school uniform. One was half of my height and the other was about the height of my hips. I refused profusely. And the guy positively begged. Look at the children, he says, just substitute until the other players arrive. Alright then, one game wouldn't hurt, would it? Besides, I couldn't bear turning down the little children.

And so, the guy - whom all of us call Uncle, taught us the basics. I was to block the little one and Wen Juin the other. He called them, "our man". Well, those two were perfect little devils. Note that from now on, all of the children are referred to "little devils".

That tiny devil who was just about my hip positively bullied me. And really, you couldn't blame me, can you? I have never played basketball before. And I've certainly never played basketball with a bunch of ill-bred, rude, teenager-bullying devils before. And so, our first few games ended in horrifying tragedies, with "our men" passing the ball to each other and the two of us chasing them in futile circles. Uncle was on our team but due to knee injury, he couldn't run or block or do anything except passing the ball.

Later came three more little devils who were equally evil. Look at the conversation between them (conducted in Chinese, of course):

Devil A: Are the girls good?
Devil B: (in a really sarcastic way) Oh yeah, reaaally good. I've never watched people play this way before.

See what I mean??? They were the ones who invited us to play in the first place. I have half a mind to leave but of course, out of courtesy, we stayed.

Fortunately, after Uncle taught us how to tackle and aim at the basket (or is it called a goal?) we of course, got considerably better. The little devils were slinging insults at us the whole time and we kept quiet for the sake of their delicate - but pointy - devil ears.

One of the devils, a fat chubby (but extremely malicious) one said to me, "You couldn't outrun me, can you? You can't outrun me, loser." Me??? Couldn't outrun you??? Hello, little man? I jog around the friggin' perimeter of the court you are playing in! I was just afraid I would knock your little ass to the ground and you would bawl like the perfect idiot that you are.

But in the end, after being bullied, pushed and thoroughly insulted, our team scored 5 to 6 balls. Oh yeah, and don't forget downright humiliation. (There were many boys from my school bus who were also there. There goes my dignity.) I think it was almost a tie! So there, suckers. Anyway, we left the court in an utterly battered but victorious condition. And I have to admit that Uncle was right, this was way more tiring than plain jogging. We were practically gasping for air as we dragged our bodies home. Oh alright! I will also admit, in great reluctance, that we had fun.

Thus, my beloved readers, this is my advice to all of you. Do not, in any way, underestimate the power of little basketball-playing, uniform-wearing devils. They specifically prey on unsuspecting teenage girls (they were probably afraid of boys) who are kind(like me) and "steam" (like Wen Juin).

Ta.

The Dying Pianist

Her long white dress flowed down to the legs of the cushioned bench. With her back ramrod straight, she poised her fingers above the black and white keys. She took a deep breath and with her head raised heavenward, she started playing the grand piano.

Out of the silence there leapt these perfectly formed and discrete notes, this multitude of cascading sounds that seemed to speak with crispness and directness, as if in beautiful defiance of the inundation of sound which I had so loved.

Oh, to think that ten fingers alone could draw these sounds from a wooden instrument in which the hammers, in a dodged rigid motion, would strike upon a bronze harp of tightly stretched strings.

Up and down the notes rang in gorgeous throbbing arpeggios, thundering downward to rumble in a staccato drumming, only to rise and race again. On and on went the sprightly melody, elegant, celebratory and demanding to be followed in every intricate twist and turn.

In the furious torrent of notes, I heard the resounding echo of the wood of the piano; I heard the vibrations of its giant taut bronze harp. I heard the sizzling throb of its multitudinous strings. Oh yes, on and on it went, ever pure and ever perfect. How can human hands make this enchantment, how can they pound out of this ivory keys this deluge, this thrashing, thundering beauty?

She stopped, the last notes hanging in the air, the violent rush of melody still pounding in my ears. And a still, eerie silence ensued, engulfing us in a great void of emptiness.

It seemed that she had used her remaining strength on this piece of music, pumping her own life and soul into the melody itself. Her trembling, white hands raised to her chest as she spewed forth a fountain of blood. The blood stained her white dress and spreadinto a large, red pattern. Blood dripped off the white, ivory keys in front of her.

Feebly, she bent forth and gave the unstained keys a light, parting kiss and finally slumped into a slumber she would never wake from. And all that was left was the bloody print of her lips on the creamy, white surface of the keys.

Happy Birthday to Me

Note: This is for me. May my wishes come true.

A bell chimed, the full golden circles of the sound seemed to penetrate the walls; shake the timber that carried the sound down to the earth like great organ pipes.

Again came that singing, that inarticulate whisperings of my heart. It was fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird; it was soaring high above in the bright night, illuminated by the moon and the stars and the city lights; it was crying with ecstasy, with intoxicating euphoria, with overwhelming elation.

I was in Paris, the city of lights, the light of my heart. I stood before the great Notre Dame de Paris, admiring her grandeur; the intricate carvings on the great columns even more delicate than the silk on a spider's web. And from within, came the beautiful chorus of hymns. It wove its way through the lovely stained glass and slipped into my ears.

Dies iræ! Dies illa! 
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!

(Translation)
Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!

Oh, how lovely the melody! It was honey, it was love; it was all things beautiful. I sighed in satisfaction.

Tuba mirum spargens sonum
per sepulchra regionum,
coget omnes ante thronum.

(Translation)
Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth;
through earth's sepulchers it ringeth;
all before the throne it bringeth.

Yes, this is my perfect birthday present. This is what I've wished for, what I've been waiting for, what I've yearned for. And now all this, is what I'm still wishing for, waiting for, yearning for...


P.S. Thanks to all of my friends who wished me and hugs and kisses for the presents. Love you guys!

Beauty At War

The one with the beautifully carved Corinthian helmet dismounted his white stallion with the grace and elegance possessed only by aristocrats and rushed toward the enemy.

The prince drew his sword and brought it down on the man like lightning. Unfortunately, years of training had prepared him for this, and the man raised his shield, knocking the sharp tip of the sword away from him and tried to jab the prince with his own. The counterattack was futile.

They were now locked in a battle, an ancient dance in which one would emerge victorious and the other would be sent to Hades. The man, whose body was so much larger and robust than the prince lurched forward and locked the prince in his arms. Just when the man swung his sword and tried for a second thrust straight into his heart, the prince snatched a dagger concealed in his left greave and drove it directly into the man's head.

There was a sickening crunch of his skull and his arms loosened as the prince relieved himself from the suffocating grip. He continued the battle, killing many of the enemies by his own hands. When he had finally managed to decapitate the general of the enemies and hold his head by the hair, his army roared in victory.

The enemies retreated but the second-in-command came forth, his face awestruck and disbelieving. Their general was said to be invincible and had won every single battle in his command. The man asked to see the face of this conquering hero, the one who had slain the indestructible and the prince consented.

He sheathed his sword and slowly, his slim, nimble fingers pulled off the heavy Corinthian helmet. Long, dark brown curls cascaded down his back and everyone gasped. It was a young woman, with piercing green eyes and a mouth like rose petals. High cheekbones framed her lovely, porcelain face as she stared at the man before her, who was flabbergasted.

The man dropped to his knees and kissed her feet. 'Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I never saw true beauty till this night.'

The Destruction of Italy

My lips parted in horror as the magnificent dome of the St. Peter's Basilica crashed to the ground with a deafening bang that seemed to silence the screaming people around me.

The breath caught in my chest and came out in rags as I stared at the scene before me, my face a perfect mask of grief and trepidation. I saw it. My lovely St. Peter's, tumbling to the ground and breaking into a million tiny pieces of dust and rubble. I saw it, as if someone had pressed the slow-motion button, saw every brick come undone from the walls as the gargantuan building connected with Mother Earth.

Flames licked up the walls of the Pantheon. Black, heinous smoke rose up from the occulus, else known as the Demon's Hole. Indeed, the smoke coming out was like the curled fingers of a monstrous thing, its talons clawing upwards at the sky. Beautiful, Greek columns supporting the Pantheon collapsed, bringing down with it the massive, grand building.

Umpteen priceless paintings burned in fiery, dancing flames. Gone were the works of my talented painters, who painted with passion and ardent solely for the love of art. It was the end ofMichaelangelo and da Vinci and Botticelli. Gone were the existing proof of the heyday of the Italian Renaissance. I could feel the marble statues as they came crashing down; feel pain as if I was one of them, feel agony as though I was the one buried beneath rubbles, limbs and torso scattered in the dust.

Fire, consuming all of Vatican City, all of Rome and eventually all of my beloved Italy. Italy, my secret lover. Precious, beautiful Italy, illuminated by her own flaming body. Ancient buildings, my personal sanctuary, gone in the wink of an eye. Gone was my Italy, love of my life, light of my soul.

It was History, repeating herself over again. Only this time, it wasn't just a city; it wasn't just Pompeii, it was all of Italy. It was every last piece, every last fibre of my soul.

I woke with a start, tears flowing down my cheeks and forming silvery tracks in the moonlight shining through my window.

A dream, just a dream...

The Dance of Death

He took his bride from where she was lying and pulled her to his chest. He wrapped his left arm around her painfully thin body and clasped her right hand in his.

His bride did not move a single inch. Though he seemed ignorant enough about that particular fact. He pulled her with him, steering her immobile body with ease for she was very thin... Like a skeleton. Their feet brushed across the smooth, marble floor of his mansion, moving in perfectly choreographed circles. A cool breeze blew in from the open windows and her white wedding gown billowed with it.

"Speak to me, my love..." he whispered, eyes lining with tears when his bride neither uttered nor made any audible sound. He buried his face in her hair and kissed the top of her head.

He tilted her backwards and her hair fell behind her, a shining curtain of black satin. The fire cracked merrily in the fireplace, its light casting long, eerie shadows of their dancing figures. Shadows that danced on the walls, mirroring their every moves to perfection. He waltzed with her to the window, both hands clutching her body to him now as his feet danced faster to the melancholic melody.

As he tilted her backwards again, the silver moonlight that poured in incessantly from the glass panes fell full on her face and he gasped in horror. It was a skull, encased in shrunken skin! A fleshless skeleton in his arms all the time. Empty eye sockets stared back at him until he dropped the corpse in complete aversion, his hands moving to clasp his mouth as he let out a shrill scream at the macabre thing lying on the floor that was his bride.

P.S. Here's the other version:
He held her, one arm around her waist and the other holding her bony hands. Her lifeless head tilted backwards and a dark, black fluid of decaying internal organs flowed out of her mouth, staining the white of her dress. He ignored the putrid liquid and the bluish skin of her already decomposing body and continued the Dance of Death.

Hannibal- Part 2

Mischa! I woke with a jolt. My whole body was shakinguncontrollably and cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

My head was aching terribly. I could almost hear the throbbing of my temples, veins drumming in the same rhythm, the same force. I held a hand to my head when the scream of a little girl sliced through the drummings and all hell broke loose. It took me a moment to realise that the scream had come from my mind and the little girl who screamed was my beloved Mischa. Flashes of images started penetrating my head with alarming force.

Seven men advancing toward us as my heart beats began to accelerate. Eyes, watching my sister hungrily, their lips slightly slack as drool started to gather around the corner of their mouths. My arms tightened around Mischa, holding her close to me and tears began to stream down my cheeks when I realised how helpless I am. I looked at my thin, strength-less arms around her in disgust and I knew that I could not protect her from harm.

Grutas pried my arms away from Mischa and ignored my screams. The hurls and kicks I gave him when he bent down to unchain her were futile. Mischa took his hands as he led her to the kitchen and away from me.

I covered my ears when my sister screamed and the men laughed in delight. "Hannibal!" she cried. "Hannibal!" And when I did not answer her for I was sobbing so hard I was out of breath, she called to our parents instead. "Mamma! Papa!" Her childish voice rang across the house as she called for help. Another scream squeezed through the gaps of my fingers and entered my ears. Laughter and joy when they took the first bite of my sister's flesh.

By then, my head was spinning and I was throwing up before collapsing to the floor and losing consciousness.

Eat or die...

Hannibal- Part 1

Note: Adapted and edited from the movie, Hannibal Rising.

I was barely eight when it happened. It was a bitterly cold winter night and Mischa and I had just lost our parents in the war. Mischa was too little to realise they were dead and she was pining for our mother.

I realised then, Mischa and I have no one but each other and I vowed to protect her for I loved her very much. Food was scarce in the winter and I had to therefore starve myself to ensure Mischa had enough to eat. I comforted her and was spoon-feeding her when the heavy, wooden door burst open. Instinctively, I pushed Mischa behind me, my arms spread out wide and protective in front of her, as though trying to hide her from sight.

The six heavily armed men leered as they saw us. My face contorted with as much rage an eight-year-old could bear and my sister's eyes wide and innocent for she was too young to comprehend what was going on. One of them took the food I was feeding to Mischa and shove it into his mouth with a mocking expression on his face.

Grutas, their leader stepped forward and pulled me to him roughly. "Now boy, I would like you to show me where you've hidden your food. My men and I are hungry and when we're hungry, we're not very... nice." I tried to reach for a wooden bat a few inches away but he was slamming me to the ground before I could reach it. His men pointed their guns at my sister as Grutas smiled and said, "the food, please."

Mischa and I were chained so that we could not escape. I lead them to the kitchen and tried to ignore the satisfaction as they searched in vain for food. Suddenly, another one of their man burst into the kitchen, his breath ragged, his hair and clothes lined with snow.

Grutas closed the cabinet he was examining and straightened. "Did you find any food?" He barked impatiently. The man nodded frantically, reaching into his pockets and drawing out a quail. Grutas kicked the man in the stomach. "This is all you've found?" He yelled as the man doubled over in pain.

Grutas snatched the bird from him and stuffed it into his mouth, with the feathers still intact. I covered Mischa's eyes in horror as I watched him tear the meat like an animal and devoured it. A wave of nausea swept over me when he threw the remaining bones to the floor and looked directly at me, his face and hands covered in blood and bits and pieces of meat.

"We eat or die..." he whispered, staring hungrily at my sister and licking his lips.

Day-dreaming During Maths

A dark rider rode through the thick, black forest. He urged his horse to its full speed, weaving his way expertly in the closely packed trees.

Every now and then he turned his head around to see if he was followed but each time he saw sheer darkness. Thunder roared deafeningly above and heavy rain started to fall. He groaned softly. The rain that was pattering against his bronze helmet and body armour made it almost impossible for him to detect any sound or movement around him.
I stopped here, my fingers poised above the keyboard of my laptop, waiting for the words to form in my head. Unfortunately, the words were being rather stubborn today, hiding in the darkest corner of my brain, refusing to come out. They seemed to be playing a game with me; when they were being half lured out of their hidey-hole, when I could catch just the merest flicker of them, they disappeared back into their little sanctuary again.

Exasperated with their little games, I decided to take a break. I relaxed my curled fingers, tired from typing all day and take a look around me. Ahh... Paris, love of my life, my sin, my soul.

I was in a tiny, cosy cafe, in the middle of a snowy day. I could smell the aroma of the cup of steaming hot coffee in front of me, ready to fill me with caffeine and keep me alert for the rest of the afternoon. Directly in front of me was one of my personal favourite architectural building, the Notre Dame de Paris.

Ding dong, ding dong...

The bells of Notre Dame were ringing in a sweet, lovely melody. The gargantuan building itself seemed to tremble with the volume of the bells, sending tremors down the walls of the little cafe I was in.

Ahh... Hell's bells a-ringing. My secret melody. Singing an ancient tune nobody but I understand. Each metallic clang of the bells sent vibrations down the back of my spine. It was communicating with me through the peal of bells, the ringing vibrating in my ears. The bells were not only singing, they were insisting, commanding me to listen to what secret it wants to reveal to me. Yes, ancient walls, concealing ancient secrets, ancient truths...

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" the Mathematics teacher asked and I snapped out of my day-dream. She looked straight at me and I nodded my head fervently until she looked away. Dear God, I'm dreaming again, aren't I? Staring at the blank pages of my notebook I feel a twinge of guilt that I tried to ignore and disregard.

I glared at the sun as though its heat was the reason I was day-dreaming. A twinkling of dew in the midst of the grass caught my attention and I was off to dreamland again before I even knew it.

The Lost World

I was thinking how nice it would be if I discovered a lost world. If I were to follow one of my many dreams to be an archaeologist, I might have discovered a long lost ancient world. Or even better, a necropolis.

There I was, walking along the ancient, hidden pathway I had just discovered toward the most incredible place the world had ever seen.

At first, there was only the beam of light from my torch. But after walking for around fifteen minutes in the cold, damp subterranean, I could see a bit of light ahead of me. Dim, but it was definitely light.

I continued walking until I've reached the end of the pathway and was looking at the very thing I was searching for for years. My lost world. It was dark though. The only source of light was from the moon. It was as though I've stepped onto another planet. I released the breath I was holding unintentionally, letting it hiss through my lips as I realised something: I was the only thing that had breathed in this world since thousands of years ago.

I stood gazing at the dilapidated city before me. The silence that surrounded me was deafening, suffocating... I took a deep breath to calm myself and decided to venture into the first building I set my eyes upon. Ironically, it was a cathedral. A huge tree was posed in front of it, as if daring me to go any further. But then, Iwas an archaeologist. And my curiosity had drowned all my fear. Muttering what the heck, I stepped into the chilly cathedral.

It was rather similar to the cathedrals in Rome. The moonlight shone through the huge windows and to be honest, I was really grateful. I probably would have wetted my pants if there weren't any light save the torch I held in my hand. I walked past the cloister and entered a courtyard.

This is the cloister. And the one below is the courtyard. The stones paving the floor was ruined by time and the fountain was half covered in lichen. Nevertheless, there was an unassuming beauty about it. About the ruins, the silence...

And from the courtyard, I've found my personal favourite spot in the lost world. My very own world of stones. Hundreds of statues lay before me, some deformed and some still perfectly intact.

Ever since I'm a little girl, I've been fascinated by statues. I adore them. Their white, marble limbs, smooth, beautiful faces are enough to make me weep. As I slowly made my way through the silent, motionless crowd around me, I recognised many statues similar to those in the Louvre museum and the Vatican museum.

Satyrs and nymphs singing and dancing, and in their hands were violins, harps, accordions. Gods and goddesses stared down at me with the cold, arrogant stare of a royalty. Nine muses were also scattered across this magnificent garden of marbles. Imagine my thrill when I saw my personal favourite, Melpomene, the muse of tragedies. A marble tear slid midway down her cheek, and on her exquisite face was the most depressing expression. And in her hand, she held a knife, one of her personal traits.

Yes, I could definitely say I was in heaven.

My Trip To Rome- Part 3

I do hope that I can finish my entire trip in this post. I guess some of you are starting to feel bored with this topic, huh? Well, I'm sorry but I rather enjoy introducing my beloved Rome to all of you.

This is the famous Trevi Fountain. Designed by Leon Battista Alberti.

Imagine walking past fountains like these on your way to school. It's so goddamn unfair, don't you think?

Santa Maria Della Vittoria. Notice the pink ray of sunshine? Pretty, huh? It's a pity we don't make buildings like these anymore.

The Ecstasy of St. Theresa by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, one of my favourite sculptors.

 When I grow up, I'm going to migrate there. Seriously. I love, love, love Rome!!!


P.S. All information below the photographs are historical facts.


P.P.S. Despite my love for the Vatican and the churches, I'm actually not a Christian. Nor am I a Catholic.