Monday, 30 April 2012

Zygote: #atozchallenge #bersih

I write this because I don’t feel I truly get it. In my heart, in my belly, Bersih is just a zygote. It’s something important, alive, growing, but it is still nothing more than an unformed pre-baby, and I don’t know if it will live. True, it has survived three rallies, and is growing, but is this what it’s all about? Rally after rally because nothing has changed? Maybe it’s the fault in my brain that needs something firmer to grasp onto, like the way Thern pushes for a minimum three week schedule, but Ben lives from week to week. I understand the need to make a show, to hype up the demands - valid demands, reasonable demands - to make these people listen even though we know that they won’t. I understand that this is the only way to wake us up from our slumber because we are too comfortable, even in the midst of the diminishing of that comfort. I know that pushing this out into the world, onto social media is one of the only ways to make them sit up and take us seriously.

Right now it’s a demonstration, it’s a calling forth of people to arms. But to what arms? This is not a physical fight. It cannot be. It’s a battle of the minds, it’s a battle of the wits, but what battle is there when the words are not right, when the plan is pushed out unformed? So you may win this battle. But what next? What’s to say that anything will ever change? What if the people you hope on right now do not live up to your hopes? What if history repeats itself because we do not yet understand, we do not yet grasp, we do not yet fully know what it is we rise for, what it is we fight for, what it is that really must change?

It’s a certain knowledge, from a few that something needs to change, something needs to happen. And it’s anger from many, because they have been used, they have been duped. The DNA is there, the basic structure, the basic understanding, but it hasn’t been developed. It is the anger of the many that pushes this forward in its unfinished state, but what happens when the anger is abated, distracted, overwhelmed? What if all we are doing now is just an outburst of that anger, and when the jadedness falls into place again, there is no real change?

The question, for me, is always what next? And I can’t see that what next. The opposition is not as clean as they make themselves out to be. They are not as intelligent or wise or better able to govern than the incumbent government. Right now they are a viable option because they are all we have. But what if they turn out to be no better? What if, after all this ruckus about creating clean and fair elections, about cleaning up corruption, we find that they are just as power/money crazy?

Because all I see right now is finger-pointing, allocation of blame. It’s their fault. We were sabotaged. 

You have not yet been fully formed. 


A zygote (from Greek ζυγωτός zygōtos "joined" or "yoked", from ζυγοῦν zygoun "to join" or "to yoke"),[1] or zygocyte, is the initial cell formed when two gamete cells are joined by means of sexual reproduction. In multicellular organisms, it is the earliest developmental stage of the embryo. In single-celled organisms, the zygote divides to produce offspring, usually through meiosis.


I don't know what to make of all this.
What kind of government do we have that it can be suggested that they planted thugs with the protesters to create violence, and you can actually nod your head and think, true. Very possible. 
And what kind of opposition leader is this, who when Bersih was about to be concluded peacefully, was alleged to have spurred on the violent elements to break the barricade and you are able to think with sincerity, BN must have bought him off. Turncoat. 
And what kind of integrity is this, that when alleged that Bersih lost control of the crowd at the end blatantly denies it, in the face of the fact that there really was violence? Accuse everyone else all you want, it still happened, planted or not, provoked or not.

Most of all, what kind of nation is this that you really don't know if you can trust the mainstream media or the alternative media or the social media to tell the truth?

Let’s Tell the Main Story of Bersih 3.0
Malaysian EC is backward, opines fact-finding group - MalaysiakiniMedia bias on Bersih 3.0 stuns Aussie senator - Malaysiakini
Xenophon caught up in Malaysia protest - ABC News (Australian Broadcasting Corporation)
Did Bersih walk into BN’s trap? | Free Malaysia Today

Today, my heart breaks a little more.

Saturday, 28 April 2012


Where I get a little lazy because it's Saturday, I just started on Lynn Flewelling's Stalking Darkness and I really can't think of anything about Yuppie, except this song.
Looking for an orphanage
I'm looking for a bridge I can't burn down
I don't believe the emptiness
I'm looking for the kingdom coming down
Everything is meaningless
I want more than simple cash can buy
Happy is a yuppie word
Happy is a yuppie word
Happy is a yuppie word
Happy is a yuppie,

Nothing is sound

Yes. Switchfoot has  profound impact on my life.



A well-paid young middle-class professional who works in a city job and has a luxurious lifestyle.


I suppose in a way, I could be a yuppie. Sort of. *shrug*

Friday, 27 April 2012

Xylophone: #atozchallenge


They said that if you listened in the quiet of the night, you could hear the faint tinkling of the xylophone in the wind. You could hear it throughout the house, all the way to the nursery, but if you opened the door, the music would stop.

Mr Lee opened the door, Mrs Lee and Nanny peering in behind him.
“Didn’t you keep it last night?” Mr. Lee asked Nanny as he eyed the xylophone.
“Of course I did,” Nanny replied in a huff, wrapping her gown closer around her in the cold night chill. “Locked it in the cupboard, didn’t I?”
“You can’t have,” Mr. Lee insisted. “It’s right there in the middle of the table.”
“I did too, and kept the key with me too, I did.”
“Does someone else have a spare key?”
“Not that I know of. You ain’t accusing me of lying, are you?”
“No, of course not,” Mrs Lee interjected, glaring at her husband. “Look, it’s three a.m. And we’re all tired. Let’s go back to bed and talk about it in the morning.”
“Here - aren’t you going to put it away now?” Mr Lee said sharply as the two women turned to go.
Grumbling, Nanny shuffled off to her room to look for the key. She found it in her coat pocket. Under the watchful eye of Mr Lee, they locked the xylophone back in the cupboard. Mr Lee took the key from Nanny. “I’ll keep this for now.”

As he drifted off to sleep again, he could hear the sound of the xylophone, tinkling in the silence. He stared at the key in his hand.

Thursday, 26 April 2012

WYSIWYG and why I'm not geek enough to write about it #atozchallenge

WYSIWYG ( /ˈwɪziwɪɡ/ WIZ-ee-wig)[1] is an acronym for what you see is what you get. The term is used in computing to describe a system in which content (text and graphics) displayed onscreen during editing appears in a form closely corresponding to its appearance when printed or displayed as a finished product,[2] which might be a printed document, web page, or slide presentation.

I was initially rather interested in the word for today, WYSIWYG, which stands for What You See Is What You Get, until I realised that I’m not geek enough to write about it. I mean, QWERTY was one thing, which I made into a flash fiction about an unusually named geek. But WYSIWYG? Really, WYSIWYG is the reason I’m even able to write this here post on blogspot and do half my work on word and excel without me going absolutely bonkers (and I suppose many of you too).

I mean, head on over to the wikipedia page (linked above) and if you REALLY GET what you read after the first bit that I quoted, then YAY you! I’m not even sure I understand WYSIWYG right anymore, after reading all that.

On one hand, I’m IT savvy enough to seem to be the unofficial backup (ha-ha) IT go-to person at work, but… on the other hand, WYSIWYG is the reason I’m able to do that. I just CLICK THE BUTTONS. I like buttons. Buttons are easy to use. Just don't ask me about code.


3 more posts and we're done with A to Z and April!
It's been a crazy month... so I'm looking forward to not blogging so much next month. I think all I've scheduled for next month is M. Pax's book launch (you can still sign up to host her launch here), the round up post for A to Z (not sure when that is, or what I'll write) and I suppose, resuming my weekly Fireplace series.

Also, if you're around Penang on May 5th, do drop by at PISA at 6PM for the Revolution Tour!
p/s I'm dancing. LOL!

Wednesday, 25 April 2012


It started when they were ten. Rose was the reigning class champion and Leslie, freshly transferred from out of town, beat her by two marks. Rose smouldered her way through Standard 5 and at the end of the year, beat Leslie by ten marks. Leslie took it with a faint grin and reluctant grace. In Standard Six, they tied. Neither was happy.

All the way through secondary school, their marks climbed neck to neck, each fighting not only for the highest scores, but as the years progressed, also for the highest posts. When Rose was elected President of the Tennis Club, Leslie merely smirked, secure as House Captain of Pykett. When Rose became Head Librarian as well, Leslie grimaced that he was only the Assistant Head Prefect.

“Get on with it,” their friends would say. “When’s Anne going to marry Gilbert?” they would taunt.

“Never!” was their immediate reply, the only thing they could ever agree on.

By a freak coincidence, both were accepted into the same university for the same course and their rivalry continued.

“Aren’t you ever going to give up?” Leslie stormed when she beat him by another mark in Economics.

“Only when you do,” Rose retorted, angry at losing to him in Finance.

It ended rather abruptly when they were twenty-five and had landed jobs in the same firm. Rose looked up at Leslie with tears in her eyes, and said “I’m frightened, Leslie.”

He held her hands in his and replied, “So am I.”

And they laid their war at rest.

Tuesday, 24 April 2012


“Bob, after you’ve done the dishes, make sure you remember to take rubbish out to the bin. I’m going out for drinks with the girls. Be back later.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh and don’t forget, Hannah’s coming over dinner tomorrow. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, dear.”
“She does so like that wonderful roast you make. You will be -”
“Of course, dear.”
“So sweet of you, Bob. Tata, and don’t wait up.”
“Have fun, dear.”

The two policemen stared down at the bludgeoned body.
“Couldn’t have been the husband, could it?” Detective Malloy said, twirling his unlit cigarette between his fingers.
“That uxorious little man?” his partner shrugged. “Hard to believe. But you know what they say about breaking points.”
Having or showing an excessive or submissive fondness for one's wife.


On other random matters, I haven't filed my taxes. =(

Also, the cheque's in the mail! Meaning, the revenue off Campaigner Challenges 2011 has finally been donated. Check out Cat's update here.

Monday, 23 April 2012

Tzatziki: #atozchallenge

“Yes, darling. Just one bite. Look, the aeroplane is coming,” Mother made the spoon fly through the air, making it hover at Zara’s nose. “Come on, open up.”
“No!” Zara folded her arms and stamped her foot.
“How about with some nice bread? I’m sure it will taste better with bread.”
“No!” She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose.
“Zara, you listen to me. If you don’t eat your Tzatziki, I’m not giving you any dessert.”
“But mommy, I don’t want it.”
“I don’t care if you don’t want it. You’re going to eat it.”
"Oh, leave her be, Mags,” Greg said, hiding a grimace as he placed his spoon down.
“You always side her. I thought we agreed about discipline, and being in agreement and…”
“Just one time. Let her off,” he said, winking at Zara from behind Mag’s back.
Zara giggled.
“What are the two of you up to now?” Mags said, turning as Zara ran past her and clambered onto her father’s lap.
The two looked guiltily at each other.
“Actually, dear, it’s quite… disgusting,” Greg said with a shrug.
Mags’ shoulders slumped. “I thought I made it right!”
“It’s not your cooking, dear. Your cooking is delightful. But this is just…”
“You said you wanted to teach Zara all about our wonderful Greek heritage.”
“I do, Mags, I do. But maybe not Tzatziki, please?”
“Fine. I’ll eat it myself.”


Tzatziki (from wikipedia)

Tzatziki or tzadziki(Greek: τζατζίκι [dzaˈdzici] or [dʒaˈdʒici]; Turkish: cacık [dʒaˈdʒɯk]; English pronunciation: /zæˈdziːkiː/ Albanian: xaxiq), Persian ماست و خیار, is a Greek and Turkish meze or appetizer, also used as a sauce for souvlaki and gyros. Tzatziki is made of strained yoghurt (usually from sheep or goat milk) mixed with cucumbers, garlic, salt, usually olive oil, pepper, sometimes lemon juice, and dill or mint or parsley.[1] Tzatziki is always served cold. While in Greece and Turkey the dish is usually served as an accompaniment, in other places tzatziki is often served with bread (loaf or pita) as part of the first course of a meal.


Because there are a lot of things I don't like to eat, cucumbers included. 

Saturday, 21 April 2012

Sleep, Don't Weep: #atozchallenge

Sleep, don't weep, my sweet love
Your face is all wet and your day was rough
So do what you must do to find yourself
Wear another shoe, paint my shelf
Those times that I was broke, and you stood strong
I think I found a place where I...

“Are you coming up yet?” He leaned over the banisters, watching her.
“Just a little while more.” Her fingers were covered in paint, her face screwed in concentration, putting the finishing touches on the rose.
“It’s beautiful.” He sat down beside her as she laid her paint brush down, throwing an arm around her.
“I’m a mess.”
“You’re a beautiful mess.”
She laughed. “Is this our nightly ritual?”
“It’s coming to be.”
“Oh, Sky.”
And then she was crying in his arms, a raw, heaving sob.

Sleep, don't weep, my sweet love
Your face is all wet 'cause our days were rough
So do what you must do to fill that hole
Wear another shoe to comfort the soul
Those times that I was broke, and you stood strong
I think I found a place where I feel I will...

The sheets were tangled around them, her head lay on his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Why?” he said sleepily, an arm slowly stroking her long, dark hair.
“I know we can’t afford it.”
“Afford what?”
“I bought a pair of heels.”
“How much was it?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Are you angry?”
“No, sweets. I’m not. Don’t worry about it.”

Sleep, don't weep, my sweet love
My face is all wet 'cause my day was rough
So do what you must do to find yourself
Wear another shoe, paint my shelf
Those times that I was broke, and you stood strong
I hope I find a place where I feel I belong

“We might have to move,” he said.
His eyes were staring at the ceiling, unseeing. “The landlord wants to raise the rent.”
“Where else can we go?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m so tired, Sky. We’ve been working so hard…”

Sleep, don't weep, my sweet love
My face is all wet 'cause my day was rough


Sleep, Don't Weep by Damien Rice. 

Friday, 20 April 2012

Restless: #atozchallenge

I am the sea on a moonless night
Calling falling, slipping tides
I am the leaky, dripping pipes
The endless, aching drops of light

I am the raindrop falling down
Always longing for the deeper ground
I am the broken, breaking seas
Even my blood finds ways to bleed

Pace. Endlessly, up and down. Because the room isn’t long enough, large enough, wide enough.
“Sit still, will you?”
“But I can’t.”

Even the rivers ways to run
Even the rain to reach the sun
Even my thirsty streams
Even in my dreams

I am restless
I am restless
I am restless
Looking for you
I am restless
I run like the ocean to find your shore
Looking for you

“What are you looking for?”
“But I’m here.”
“I can’t seem to reach you.”
“Take my hand.”
“I can’t.” Her fingers grazed the wall between them.

I am the thorn stuck in your side
I am the one that you left behind
I am the dried-up doubting eyes
Looking for the well that won’t run dry

Running hard for the other side
The world that I've always been denied
Running hard for the infinite
With the tears of saints and hypocrites

Let go. Breathe in, release. “Why couldn’t it be? Why do things have to be this way?” she screamed, tears streaming down her face.
Silently, he wrapped his arms around her. “Trust me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I love you.”
“Do you?” Cynical. Broken. The spear that pierced the Saviour’s side.

Oh blood of black and white and gray
Death in life and night in day
One by one by one
We let our rivers run

“Oh, you call me that, do you?”
“I don’t know what else to call you.”
“My love.”

I am restless
I am restless
I am restless
Looking for you
I am restless
I run like the ocean to find your shore
Looking for you

“Which way do you mean it?”
“Any. Both. Which ever means most to you.”
A shrug of the shoulders. A smile, playing on his lips. “I am here. Find me.”

I can hear you breathing,
I can hear you leading
More than just a feeling
More than just a feeling
I can feel you reaching
Pushing through the ceiling
Til the final healing
I'm looking for you

Pace. Past the endless glass that separates. On and on.
“You’re still there.”
“And you’re still there.”
Fingers brushing against frosted windowpanes, losing sight. “Come back!”
“I’m still here.” His breath warm against her neck. “If you would step over, I am here.”

Until the sea of glass we meet
At last completed and complete
Where tide and tear and pain subside
And laughter drinks them dry

I’ll be waiting
All that I aim for
What I was made for
With every heartbeat
All of my blood bleeds
Running inside me
Looking for you

Step through, skin melting through the cold glass, a shiver passed through her.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can.”
“I’m slipping away.”
He held her as she faded through the glass. “Then I’ll stay.”

Looking for you


Restless lyrics from Switchfoot. 

Thursday, 19 April 2012

Qwerty: #atozchallenge.

"Is that really your name?" I couldn't stop myself from asking. 
"Yeah, it is," he replied a little shyly, staring down at his long fingers.
"That's kind of a quirky name. Is it a nickname or did your parents name you that?"
"A... A nickname, sort of. I'm not disturbing you, am I?"
"Oh no, no you aren't. Why would you think that?"
"Well, cos it's usually about this time that the girls go 'but oh you're so weird' and walk off."
I smiled at him. "I don't think you're weird. You're kind of sweet, actually."
"Thanks," he said, blushing.
"So why Qwerty?"
He shrugged. "It's easy to pronounce."
"But hard to spell."
"Everyone asks me how I spell that," he agreed.
"As if it wasn't obvious enough."
We shared a knowing smile, feeling some kind of bond, awkward as it was, for the first time during our blind date. Blind, nameless date. All my colleague had said upon setting us up was that we were sure to hit it off, strange and geeky as we were. I was a bit offended at that - I wasn't in the least geeky, was I? I didn't think so, but he insisted.
"You'll love him- or at least find him interesting," was his only explanation and I had to admit he was right.
I did find the young man named Qwerty rather interesting.


 I dozed off writing this one. The lack of sleep is catching up to me so this one will of necessity be very short and disjointed. And possibly full of grammatical and spelling errors seeing that I'm typing off my iPad whilst in bed on Wed night and scheduling it for sort of this morning (it's past midnight).

*note to self: typing off the ipad has no formatting. 

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Pyx: #atozchallenge

“There it is,” Max whispered.
A particularly loud snore came from inside the room.
“Why do you need it?” Jim whispered back as he peered through the window at the small round box that Max had pointed out.
“It’s supposed to be holy.”
“Uhm, well, I just might have a use for it.”
“This is crazy, Max. I can’t sneak in to the priest’s room to take that - that whatever it’s called. If he wakes up…”
“You can blame it on me. Come on, Jim. You’re quieter and smaller than me. I really, really need that pyx.”
“What for? I won’t do it until you tell me what for.”
“They say the sacred bread is inside it.”
“All this trouble for a piece of bread?”
“Well, they say it can heal. Please, Jim. My grandma needs it.”
Jim took a quick glance into the room. The priest hadn’t stirred. He pulled his friend away from the window.
“Has she seen a doctor?”
“Dozens. Nothing works. This is my last chance.”
“Why can’t you just ask him for it?”
“I… I just can’t, okay?”
Jim stared at Max for a moment.
“Look, I really don’t know if this is going to help your grandma. Do you think it will still work if it’s stolen?”
“It’s not stealing, just -”
“Is this what you’re looking for?” a deep voice boomed over them, causing the two to jump.
The boys looked up to find the priest standing over them, the little pyx in his hands.
“I could hear you, you know,” he said. “You boys woke me up from a very nice dream. I was just about to have freshly-baked shepherd’s pie.”
Jim looked at down at his feet sheepishly. “Sorry, Father.”
“And you?”
“Please, sir. It might save my grandma? The boys said the holy bread can heal her,” he blurted, almost in tears.
“Max, those are only legends. The bread in this pyx can’t do that. It’s faith in God and prayer that heals.”
“Then why won’t you pray for her?”
“I have, son. I have. But only God knows His reasons as to when and why he heals.”
“So she’s going to die?”
“Everyone dies. She, at least, has lived a long and full life.”
The priest looked down at the disconsolate boy.
“Here, take it,” he wrapped Max’s fingers around the pyx. “Maybe your faith will work a miracle.”



vessel for the consecrated bread of the eucharist. The term can also be used in archaeology and art history to describe small round lidded boxes designed for any purpose from antiquity or the Middle Ages, such as those used to hold coins for the Trial of the Pyx in England.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Ozone Layer: #atozchallenge

James lay on the grass, staring up at the blue sky above him.
“Did you put your sunscreen on?” Jeanette asked as she let the screen door slam shut behind her.
“That’s for sissies,” he said, barely turning his head to look at his younger sister.
“You wanna get skin cancer?”
“That’s a myth.”
“Everything’s a myth to you.” She pursed her lips, looking down at him, a mirror image of their mother. But instead of berating him like their mother would have, she took a seat beside him.
“What’s up, girl?”
She shrugged, plucking discontentedly at the grass.
“You don’t come all the way out here just to scold me about sunscreen and then sit in the sun. You have your ‘screen on?”
“Yeah. Ma made me. She don’t ever make you.”
“She knows I don’t care bout freckles. Or tans.”
“Or the skin peeling off your nose.”
James rubbed at his nose. “Is it peeling again?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“Aww, shoot.”
“See, you do care.”
He sat up, rubbing grass out of his hair. “Maggie’s gonna be at Science tomorrow.”
“That your girlfriend?”
“Nah, just a friend.”
“The friend you don’t want to see with a peeling nose. You can tell me. I can keep secrets you know.”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s nothing.”

The pair sat side by side, the young girl fair, with long blond braids, in a sweet gingham dress, the boy with tussled brownish locks, his bare back smooth and brown.
“So?” he asked.
“Is pa leaving?”
“That what you’re worried about?”
Jeanette nodded. “If he goes, ‘twill be like that hole there in the ozone. All the dangerous stuff might get in at us.”
“Nah, ‘sokay. I’m here, remember?”
“You ain’t big enough yet. Won’t fill the hole.”
“But I’ll get bigger.” He put an arm around her shoulder. “You just leave it to me, ‘kay? ‘Nyways, don’t think he will. Ma gave him a piece of her mind last night. Heard her.”
“What’d she say?”
“Said she can’t manage a place like this on her own. Told him his fancy thinking might just get us into bigger debt that if he just stayed here and worked the land. He said he’d think about it.”
“I hope he doesn’t go.”
“Yeah. Harvest won’t be fun without him.”

The ozone layer is a layer in Earth's atmosphere which contains relatively high concentrations of ozone (O3). This layer absorbs 97–99% of the Sun's high frequency ultraviolet light, which potentially damages the life forms on Earth.[1]


Also, for the heck of it, yesterday's wordle of my site:
Wordle: 17th 
I blame all the bunnies on Yuin-Y. 

Monday, 16 April 2012

Nymphomania: #atozchallenge

Continuing on from Ivy...

It was the cool breeze blowing through the room that woke me up in the middle of the night.
“Ivy?” She stirred beside me. “How did we get here?”
She merely curled up again and went back to sleep so I slid off the bed and walked over to the window. The overgrown forest I had hiked through this morning seemed to have been cleared in a day.
“Come back to bed, Ben,” she mumbled.
“Where are we?”
“We’re still in the mansion.” She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“But… it’s all different.” I turned back to look at her, taking in the room for the first time. I recognised it as one of the rooms we had explored upstairs by the painted cupids in the upper left corner, something I had been craning my neck to make out amidst the crumbling plaster. The cupids were as good as new now.
Her smile was beguiling, but I couldn’t help backing away. We had been sleeping on a bed of ivy.
“What are you?” I couldn’t help asking as she stepped towards me.
“Does it matter?”
“I… I don’t know. It might help.”
“Why are you afraid?” she asked as she backed me into the corner. I shivered as she laid her hands on my chest; a tingle, half of anticipation, half of terror.
“What do you want with me?”
“I want you. All of you. Stay with me.”
“What about my life? My job? My family?”
“Is it all that important to you?”
She pulled at me now, a soft insistent tug, like earlier in the morning. It was irresistible. We tumbled onto the bed, the ivy twining us around us, sealing us, making us one, until exhausted, we fell apart.
“I am Kissiae,” she finally said in the stillness above our laboured breathing.
“What does that mean?”
“I am the Ivy-nymph.” Her violet eyes glittered at me now. The long tendrils that had covered us wrapped itself around me, binding me tight.
“Am I your captive?”
“Do you want to be?”
“Would you ever let me go?”
“You have too many questions, little one. Let me stop them for you.”
Her kiss burst on me like a sunrise; multi-faceted, surprising, unexpected.
“Stay Ben, please.”
“Until morning.”
She nodded sadly, her hands reaching out to me again, pulling me into her.

The bright sun pierced my eyelids. I sat up with a groan. A bird twittered in the midsts of the trees outside the window, where the shutters hung loose on their hinges. The walls were covered with ivy again, the paint peeling, the plaster crumbling.
“Ivy?” Her name echoed in the empty hallway. I picked up my scattered belongings, pulling on my clothes as I ran stumbling down the same way she had led me. It was quiet now, except for the steady drip of water in the pool beside the thick old stem. I laid my hand on it gently, but it was nothing more than a plant.
I never found her again.


uncontrollable or excessive sexual desire in a woman.

But I concentrated more on the Nymph part, sort of.
A nymph in Greek mythology is a female minor nature deity typically associated with a particular location or landform. Different from gods, nymphs are generally regarded as divine spirits who animate nature, and are usually depicted as beautiful, young nubile maidens who love to dance and sing; their amorous freedom sets them apart from the restricted and chaste wives and daughters of the Greek polis. They are believed to dwell in mountains and groves, by springs and rivers, and also in trees and in valleys and cool grottoes. Although they would never die of old age nor illness, and could give birth to fully immortal children if mated to a god, they themselves were not necessarily immortal, and could be beholden to death in various forms.

Sunday, 15 April 2012

Myxomatosis, Manic and oMg! #atozchallenge

“Mommy, Bunny’s sick,” Yve said, staring woefully at her little brown rabbit. It seemed to blink at her unseeingly.
“Eww, don’t touch that,” Pat said as Yve’s chubby little finger started to poke at the sores on her rabbit’s head. “I think we need to take Bunny to the bunny doctor.”
Pat sighed as she put the little rabbit into their carrier cage, slapping Yve’s fingers away from her mouth. “Don’t do that Yve. You might catch whatever Bunny’s having. You don’t want to be sick, do you?”
The little girl shook her head.
“Hmmm,” said the Doctor as he stared into Bunny’s eyes.
“Hmmmmmmmmm,” said the Doctor again as he poked at Bunny’s sores.
“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” said Yve on the Doctor’s behalf as he took Bunny’s temperature.
“What’s wrong with Bunny?” Yve asked when the Doctor finally turned to them.
“Your rabbit has myxomatosis.”
“Is he going to die?”
“Oh, I think we can treat him. I’m glad you brought him in early.”


Myxomatosis (sometimes shortened to "myxi") is a disease that affects rabbits and is caused by the Myxoma virus. It was first observed in Uruguay in laboratory rabbits in the late 19th century. It was introduced into Australia in 1950 in an attempt to control the rabbit population


Okay, I know it's Sunday, but I couldn't post on Saturday so this is Saturday's M post. Rules were meant to be broken, right? *sheepish grin*

I'm really bad at writing cutesy bunny stuff (though I tried) so if you want the A to Z of bunny poems, drop by Yuin-Y's place at Ind Elwen Tinuviel.

It's been a manic-ish week at work - we were trying to rush out some accounts by Friday so I've been getting home at midnight-ish. Or so.
AND today was the first practice for our church musical!
Look! My name!
It's a freaky feeling. And I'm nervous and disorganised and talking really fast and confused and *takes deep breath*


Final "and" for the day: I'm on Pinterest. Like hah, really? Me? Yeah.

Friday, 13 April 2012

Lucky 7 meme (#atozchallenge)

I was tagged by Jenna at Meandering in a field of words for the Lucky 7 meme. So... YAY I HAVE AN L WHICH DOESN'T REQUIRE ME TO THINK.
What this means, apparently, is I have to take a current WIP, go to page 77, down to line 7 and pick the next 7 sentences to share.
My current WIP is actually a compilation of short stories so it doesn't get to page 77 so what I did was I took last year's NaNoWriMo, which is languishing in the world of "I'm gonna get round to editing this later" and used that.
The WIP is called Shell, and the 7 sentences are as follows:
She didn't make a move as they dragged Shell in to the room, heavily burdened with chains. His face was bruised, his body scarred. Each soldier had taken his turn to plant at least one fist or a foot deeply into him. He huddled against himself now, his face turned carefully to the ground.
"You can do as you wish to him," the princess said, slowly intoning each word.
"And his magic?"
"We have leeched it out of him."
So I'm supposed to tag 7 people, who are:

Gonna be dropping by to let them know I tagged them. =)

Thursday, 12 April 2012

Krazy man, farewell

January last year I did a show called The Indifferent Commissioner with the Penang Players.
I played the Lady (nameless, haha), with a krazy revolutionist husband (beside me).

Sometime yesterday, I found out (via Facebook, where else?) that he's passed on. He was only 37.
There goes another on the "I want to do a show with" list.

The post I was supposed to do, except I got home past midnight.
a narrow sea channel.
(Or, here.)

Oh well. 

Wednesday, 11 April 2012

Juxtapose: #atozchallenge (and an earthquake report!)

We’ll have coffee-coloured children.
With extra milk.
And lots of sugar.
Bitter sweet.

She hated the way they were always contrasted, juxtaposed, as if showing off their differences would drive them apart. They always said he was too black, too ugly and she too fair and pretty for the relationship to work out. His insecurities will drive him to kill you one day, didn’t you know all blacks are murderers at heart?

She had laughed. Are you insecure, honey? she had asked. Only when I need to be he answered. And that would be? Every week when I collect the dole on behalf of your parents. It helps the cashiers release the money.

Her father had glared at him then. “Aren’t your parents on dole as well?” he had growled.

My father is still lecturing at the University.
Stop it, dad. Come on, let’s go.

They had left the house silently after that.

I wish you wouldn’t egg him on. He might hate you even more now.

I thought he was trying to make me prove my worth.

The more you try to, the more he’ll say you’re insecure.

Fair enough.

I think your ego is big enough, as it is.


They sat side by side in the car, worlds apart, and yet firmly intertwined.


place or deal with close together for contrasting effect


It's been an exciting day. If you haven't heard, there was an 8.7 earthquake off North Sumatra sometime today... and we felt the tremors all the way here (which is Penang, Malaysia).
It was 4-ish PM when I initially thought I was a wee bit dizzy (which isn't unusual, but more so than usual) so I put my feet down on the floor (I usually sit with my legs crossed on the chair) then I realised that the floor was shaking. I looked out the window to see if there was some sudden earthworks being done, when I realised that the glass panes in the house opposite were shaking. Yeah, so that lasted for a while. Someone said it was almost 5 minutes.
Later on at 6-ish PM, there was another tremor. We were in the middle of discussing the script when it started shaking again. Quite a few shops closed due to "tsunami warning" but nothing's happened so far (was supposed to hit at 9.11PM and it's already 10.50PM).
That's a good thing at least =)
Don't know about Indonesia though.

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Ivy: #atozchallenge #flashfiction

Long black hair curtained shy violet eyes, which blinked once in the strong sunlight. She spoke with a soft, sibilant whisper, “Let’s go back in.”

“It’s dark in there,” I protested, but her insistent hand pulled at mine and I followed.

“The light hurts my eyes,” she said as we stepped into the dank coolness of the hallway. She ran her fingers over the walls as she walked, leading me deeper into the entrails of the abandoned mansion. We passed by space after space of forgotten glory, each one growing darker, quieter, stiller.

“What’s that?” I asked, stopping in the doorway of the largest hall I had ever seen. Traces of gilt still remained on the arches, the frescoes still partially visible.


“That sound.”

She cocked her head on one side, a look of puzzlement on her face.

“It sounds like violins,” I said. “Is there a gramophone playing in there?”

“Oh that. The walls are remembering. This used to be the ballroom. Oh, they had grand dances here once.” She turned away and continued walking.

I stared at her retreating back. “Wait. Wait – I don’t want to go any further in.”

“Come on, I’ll lead you.”

“Do you stay here? By yourself?”

She turned back to face me, beckoning from down the dark hallway. I could barely see her in the dim light, the fair skin of her face seeming to float by itself; her hair swished back and forth with her movement, only allowing me to see parts of it at a time. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Why don’t I go and get my torch?”

She shook her head. “No, don’t. You’ll hurt her if you do.”


“The house.”

“But what if it gets so dark that we can’t see where we’re going?”

She smiled. “It won’t. Trust me.”

I hesitated, but followed her. Her bare feet padded lightly, her dappled green sundress swayed to a non-existent breeze. It seemed to me that the further we got into the house and the deeper down we went, the hallways seemed to grow brighter with a slight green glow. The walls were covered with ivy now, and she often touched them as we passed by. Sometimes when she stopped, she seemed to almost blend into the walls.

“Where are we?” I whispered as she came to a stop in a yawning cavern, bigger than the hall I had admired upstairs. I wondered if it used to be the wine cellar.

“In the heart of the house.” She laid a pale hand on the thickest stem of ivy that I had ever seen. It seemed old and thick and hard enough to be part of a tree trunk. I wondered how it grew in the dimness of the house that never saw the light of day. Firmly, she pushed me against the wall; my bare arms shuddered a little as they brushed against the tendrils that swayed in the unfelt wind. The leaves rustled around me and she seemed to be communicating to them silently.

“Who are you?” I finally asked.

She smiled, her body pressing against mine. “Ivy.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

Her eyes widened a little. “Why would I?”

“I’m frightened.”

“Stay with me, Ben.”

She laid her soft lips on mine and the outside world faded away.


Ivy means a lot of things. Check out Wikipedia here. After all, as Taylor said, "If it's on Wikipedia, it must be true!" 

Monday, 9 April 2012

Hysterical #atozchallenge

Read part 1: Fuzzy
Read part 2: Gyroscope

Cherise stared at him. “You mean I’m stuck here forever?” She grabbed his lapels frantically. “I can’t be! I'm only twenty. I have my whole life to live and my boyfriend is waiting for me at home and he must be really worried by now -”

“Would that be George or Mike?” he asked, gently prying her fingers off him.

“Fine. I don't really have a boyfriend.”

“No, you seem to have several.”

“God, how did I get caught up in this?”

“By calling His name in vain, I suppose.”

Cherise fell on her knees. “Dear God, I really promise, if you would just let me get back home again, I'll be good. I'll go to church every week. I'll... I'll even read my Bible - when I can find it. I'll - “

Cherise scrambled to her feet as a loud siren blared in the distance. Footsteps pounded in the hallway and a young officer dashed through the door.

“Emergency in the bridge, Sir!”

“I’m coming.”

“Wait! Wait! Don’t leave me here!”

“Sorry, my dear. You can’t come to the bridge.”

“But - you said I was free to go anytime, right? Like even right now?”

“Yes, you’re free to go anywhere you wish on this ship, except the bridge. That is strictly off-limits to everyone except the crew.”

“But -”

“I’m sorry, I really do have to go.”

She watched as the man calmly walked out of the room, then fell back on the bed.

“Oh, God, what do I do now?”

“You could try using your brain a little,” a voice said out of nowhere.

Cherise sat up in a fright. “Who said that?”

“Me, of course.”

“Who’s me? Where are you? Are you a ghost?”

A low amused chuckle came out of nowhere.
“I’m the one who brought you here, Cherise.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you.”

“You do? Who are you? A maniac? A stalker? Oh my goodness, I have a stalker! I’m going to die!”

“Hush, child. You panic so easily.”

“But I’m scared.”

“Don’t get hysterical about it. Look, I brought you here for a reason.”

“You? Are you… who are you?”

“I am me, as you are you. For now, you can just call me Ship.”

“You brought me here? You? You crazy… thing!” Cherise started kicking at the nearest wall.

“I don’t feel pain like you do, you know. The only thing that will come out of that is the Captain will be quite upset if you damage anything. He does like a neat and proper ship. And I don’t want him to be angry with you.”

“What do you want?”

“The Captain is a good man. Just a little reserved sometimes, but very kind hearted. He called me soft-hearted, didn’t he? I’m very mean compared to him. I am being mean now, after all.”

“And your point is?”

“He needs a good woman -”

“And you think I’m the one? You must be crazy! You can’t just kidnap me like that and ask me to marry him! Why don’t you use your brain? Or whatever it is you have?”

“Stop being so silly!”

“But you -”

“He wouldn’t like you. You’re so… so… hysterical. And besides, you’re too young for him. No. What I want for you to do is to let him take you home and introduce him to your sister.”

“My sister?”

“Yes, your lovely sister.”

Cherise though about it slowly, a smile spreading on her face. “She does need a man, after all.”


1. Of, characterized by, or arising from hysteria.
2. Having or prone to having hysterics.
3. Informal Extremely funny: told a hysterical story. 
This will be the last instalment of this mini space opera series. I hadn't intended to do it this way, but there it is. The words take you to places you've never dreamed of. (And I discovered I can actually write something sci-fi-ishish. Double ish because it's not quite quite, but somewhere there, if that makes sense.)
I actually re-drafted this short story (well at least the Fuzzy and Gyroscope posts) into script format last Saturday night as a submission for the Short + Sweet acting, directing and playwriting workshops we were having and the actors loved it, or so they said. I don't know about Alex though, he didn't give much feedback.
Well if all goes well I'll probably be reworking that script, plus the extras from today's post, into a final script for submission. Rahr.

Saturday, 7 April 2012

Gyroscope: #atozchallenge

Read part 1: Fuzzy 


"What's wrong with the gyroscope?"
"Don't know, Cap'n. It’s been acting up since that strange girl appeared."
"Ugh, one of those? Look, what functionality do we have left?"
"We can manoeuvre a little, but that's about it. We're stuck here, sir."
“You sure? Have you tweaked with those
Captain John Edwards sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Let's go talk to her then."

"Hello? Anybody there?" Cherise called out, her eyes roving the seamless walls. "Mike? George? I... I wasn't trying to tick you off, you know? I was just... just... Look, I shouldn't have to justify myself to you. I demand that you let me go right now. Do you get me? Or I'll... I'll sue you. I'll report you to the police and then I'll sue you. So you better let me out!"
"Actually, you are free to go anytime you wish," a low voice came from behind her, making her jump. She turned, almost losing her balance, to face a man rather like Jean-Luc Picard, if he were much shorter, much fatter, had boatloads of hair and had a very jolly, florid face; in other words, nothing at all like the good captain, except for the shiny, sleek-looking uniform.
"Who are you?" they said almost in unison.
"Ladies first," John said politely.
"No, I think you should be the one explaining who you are and why you are holding me hostage."
"As I have said before, my dear lady, you are free to go anytime you wish. In fact I would rather that you do so sooner, than later. I would like to get out of this hellhole of an atmosphere as soon as possible."
"But how did I get here in the first place?" 
John cleared his throat. "We were rather hoping you could tell us that."
"But... But I don't remember anything."
"Anything at all?"
"Well, there was that embarrassing singing act that I was forced to do, then I ran to the bathroom crying because I was so stressed... that's all I remember, really."
"Did you broadcast a distress signal?"
"Distress signal? What kind?"
“Did you call for help?”
Cherise looked at him uncertainly. “I did say ‘Oh God’ right before I fainted.”
“Ah? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Our ship interpreted that as a cry for help. She is rather a soft-hearted being. I figure she thought she was rescuing you. What a pity we were passing by within earshot.”
“Your ship?”
“Yes, our ship. My ship. This ship. The ship you’re in. And the problem now, of course, is that with you on this ship, we can’t jump.”
“Jump? Why would you want to jump?” she looked down at his feet.
“Into another galaxy, my dear. Your, err, gravitational pull is upsetting our gyroscope a bit. The oscillation is somehow being pulled towards you - never mind, it’s rather technical.”
“Oh. Well then, um, put me back.”
“You see - there’s another problem with that. We don’t really know where we picked you up. You just appeared rather suddenly.”

Read part 3: Hysterical


a device consisting of a wheel or disc mounted so that it can spin rapidly about an axis which is itself free to alter in direction. The orientation of the axis is not affected by tilting of the mounting, so gyroscopes can be used to provide stability or maintain a reference direction in navigation systems, automatic pilots, and stabilizers.

Friday, 6 April 2012

Fuzzy: a very late #atozchallenge and #fridayflash

Cherise groaned. There was a caveman playing rocks in her head, and the room seemed to be swimming. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Yesterday was a fuzzy recollection of too much to eat and… drink? Had she gone drinking? She didn’t think so. She remembered not so clearly ordering orange juice to the laughter of her colleagues.

George had been a total jerk, of course, trying to force her to down a glass of Tiger. She had yelled at him, saying that she would never ever go anywhere with him again. He had shrugged and laughed. Fuming, she grabbed her purse and walked out of the club with Mike, who had - was this right? - been egging George on. She rubbed at her temples, wondering if she would ever think straight again.

Mike had taken her to the new indie place out at Victoria Street and bought her coffee. At least, she thought it was coffee. Was it coffee? Was she there with Mike alone? As dubious as it seemed, she seemed to think that was right. Next - next was that blurred out part where she had been dragged up on stage to sing with whoever it was who had been singing. She had nearly died from embarrassment - at least that was a feasible reason to not remember that bit.

Come to think of it - where am I? she thought as the room stopped swaying enough for her to not recognise the furniture. At least she was in her own clothes. There was that. Her eyes focused on a little white clock on the wall. She had never put a clock in her room because she didn’t want to be hounded endlessly by the things she needed to do, though why a clock would give her that sense of hounding she had never quite figured out.

And where is the door? Cherise gazed around the room, trying to identify the familiar outlines of a doorway. The caveman seemed to be getting more excited the more she tried. The clock faded into the whitewash of the wall and Cherise gave up.

She lay her head back down on the pillow.

Read part 2: Gyroscope 
Read part 3: Hysterical



1. having a frizzy texture or appearance: a girl with fuzzy dark hair
2. difficult to perceive; indistinct or vague: the picture is very fuzzy that fuzzy line between right and wrong (of a person or the mind) unable to think clearly; confused: my mind felt fuzzy
3. another term for fuzzed. their former jolly sound has been drowned in swathes of layered, fuzzy guitar
4 . Computing & Logic relating to a form of set theory and logic in which predicates may have degrees of applicability, rather than simply being true or false. It has important uses in artificial intelligence and the design of control systems.


Will be at S+S workshops all this weekend (that's Short and Sweet to you) where we learn how to write and act and direct 10-minute plays!
Tonight's session has been awesome fun, and psst... Alex Broun is easy on the eyes. ;)

Thursday, 5 April 2012

Excuses: #atozchallenge

And this is where I come up with lame excuses as to why there was no post scheduled for 9AM, as usual, and why there is no fancily written fiction today.
You see, I fell behind. Because of work.
Because auditors work too much (you didn't hear that from me).

And you see, I was planning to do my E post last night before bed so I could work on the F one today before bed, but I had this call from a manager who needed me to emcee for a Breakfast Briefing this morning. And you can't say no, right? No. So I decided that I had to sacrifice some writing time for some sleep so that I wouldn't be a zombie in the morning (I hope it worked).

And also you see because I spent half a day at that briefing, I'm falling behind with my work. And therefore I am still at work tonight.
I'll try to get the F post written by tonight... because tomorrow's Good Friday, not that I'm going for the church service, but I'll be attending a Short + Sweet Workshop on Playwriting.

And that's my excuse.

Wednesday, 4 April 2012


It started with a weakening of the fingers. He hardly noticed it at first, always putting it down to a cramp from extended periods of writing. But the cramp never went away, and soon he could feel the trembling in his fingers when he pushed himself too much. He tried to ignore it as he continued to write, his mind running ahead of him at a hundred words per minute but his hands trailing along at an average of sixty words. Still he pushed himself, grimacing in annoyance as his writing speed continued to slow. He felt awful for the words that were lost in limbo, which faded away and were forgotten by the time his hands reached them.

Then his arms grew stiff, and he had to stop every half an hour to rest and stretch. He grumbled at this one; every time he had to limber up was time lost, words lost, inspiration running away. Reluctantly, he agreed to type out his stories on the computer, though half his enjoyment was sucked away by the unfamiliar clickety-click of the keys, instead of the scratchety-scritching of his fountain pen. The bright screen hurt his eyes, no matter how dim the technician tried to make the screen.

As time progressed, it was head that grew heavy with thoughts that wouldn't form properly, leaving words. Sentences that do not. Lapses in paragraphs. Sometimes. Work out no sense. Finally. Gave up.


a disorder in which an organ or tissue of the body wastes away/
defective nutrition/
any condition of abnormal development, often denoting the degeneration of muscles.

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

Fireplace reflection: Church of McDonald's (#atozchallenge)

And so you attend the church of McDonald’s, where a hot cup of tea warms the body but does nothing for the soul, where the savour of golden hashbrowns offers poor nourishment for body and soul, where the Happy Meal only offers you temporary satisfaction, not joy that lasts. But you attend because there is space in the carpark, and people you can ignore, and the music doesn’t make you wish for something more, something otherworldly and no one is judgemental about the things you eat, say and do.

Because they couldn’t care less and sometimes you don’t wish to care either.

And you are alone, as always, of choice, of necessity, because that’s the way this world rolls and no one cares enough for the lost soul in the corner screaming silently. Not even you. Because you are so wrapped up in your own cries for help that you drown out every other noise that seeks to intrude, even the ones that tries to help you. This shell, purely of your own making constricts, limits, pulls you into yourself even as you say you wish to break out, but you are not strong enough.

No, you are not strong enough against you.

And you think to yourself, how is this different from the church which has space enough for people but not enough for the world, which has space enough for rules and regulations and not quite enough for grace and second chances, which has room enough for one more, but not if you don’t act like they wish you to act. How is this church you espouse different from a club you join to push your own agenda, to show off your skills to the world, to tell people, hey look at me, I matter here, somewhere, somehow?

But that is what the church is supposed to do – remind you that you matter.

And so you cut your ties and run because you cannot stand intimacy, because you cannot stand if they see through you, past your hypocrisy, even though you desperately want them to, though you desperately want to be called out and put to rights and told there is more to living large than living loud. And so you run because you cannot love and have never been able to.

Because love makes you vulnerable and you haven’t found anyone whom you can truly be vulnerable to.

And yet again history repeats itself and you come to realization that it has never been the fault of the church, it has never been the people around you, it has never been the programmes you felt were lacking or the passion that was evidently gone, but it has always been you. Because at the core of you, you were always the lonely girl who was never good enough, was never pretty enough, was never kind enough, generous enough, normal enough, lovely enough, was never enough even though in your head you knew that you didn’t have to be.

So you repeat that mantra that Jesus is enough and that’s all I need.

And the problem sometimes is that what’s in your head doesn’t always ring true in your heart, because you’ve learnt to live a lie, you’ve learnt that fiction is sometimes stronger, deadlier, tougher than truth, and somewhere between the words in your heart and the words in your head, you’ve forgotten how to distinguish between the true truth and the fictional truth and where the lines blur, there you falter. Because you’ve always lived in your head stronger than you’ve lived in the world and the disconnect between your thoughts and your actions translate stronger in your inward faith than in the life you live.

Still you hold on, like a bulldog, because you said you would.

And so you hope that your tenacity, your insistence in belief, your will to say I will will be enough to cover the faithlessness in your heart that tells you that what I cannot feel is not real. And you smile gently and nod when people talk about feeling the presence and glory of God to cover up the emptiness and dread inside because you haven’t felt anything in a long time and can barely remember when you did even though you know you did at one point, but it was never as real as they seem to say it is. And you wonder again if it is a fault in your brain and your heart that makes you never live in the moment, never be able to feel real life, except in the words on the page, in the stories that tell themselves in your mind.

But always you need the words, because without words you are not alive.

And you cry again when you remember the words, you have been faithful, spoken over you when you felt the most faithless, wondering if all you were doing was right, because nothing seems right anymore. Nothing seems real. And you wonder if you overextend yourself because you need to live in this state of busyness and comatose reality because it is when you push yourself to the edge and break down is when you are weak enough to feel his arms around you, if only in your head.

It is when you give up trying and break from the norm that you remember how real he is.

And so you attend the church of McDonald’s, exchanging the glory and majesty of songs lifted in worship for a quiet, solitary moment to think and reflect and remember that faith is real, even in faithlessness.

And Jesus lives in your heart.


I was going to post this as a fireplace on Sunday, but I didn't want to do two posts in a day or disrupt the A to Z schedule. So this is my post for C.

Sorry Czechoslovak, you've been booted off the list.

Monday, 2 April 2012

#atozchallenge: BYZANTINE

What attracted him to her was her use of the word byzantine. He was a lover of curious words, and he had heard her mumble under her breath about how byzantine the college office was with its multiple forms in triplicate . He had turned to look at her sharply, but she hadn’t noticed as she was engrossed in mumbling her way through Form 981015D and 9843210C in an attempt to obtain student housing before the semester actually started.
“I could help you with that, you know,” he had said as unobtrusively as possible when she had come to a stop in the middle of Form 354648Z.
“Uh, do I know you?” she had asked a trifle rudely.
“I… Well, I work in this byzantine office,” he said. “And actually, if… if you just fill up Form 6548E, you’ll probably… uh… be able to get a room by… O… Orientation.” He pushed the single form towards her.
“Oh. I hadn’t meant for you to hear that,” she said. He watched her cute little pixie ears turn pink. “Thanks a lot, Mister - uh,” she peered at his name tag.
“Ed. You… you can call me Ed.”
“Sure. Right. Uh - I guess I’ll just… fill up the form then.”
She gingerly pulled the form from his fingers and he smiled at her. He watched as she filled up the form, cocking his head every so often. This semester might actually be quite interesting if there were people like her to talk to.
“Have a good day!” he greeted cheerily as she passed the form to him and walked out.
It saddened him that the last thing he heard her mumble as she walked out of the office was, “Total creeper.”


1 relating to Byzantium, the Byzantine Empire, or the Eastern Orthodox Church.
2 (also byzantine) (of a system or situation) excessively complicated, and typically involving a great deal of administrative detail

A little bit of overemphasis on the word "byzantine", maybe. 
Funny, I was imagining him as a nervous little man with a bit of a twitch, but I don't think that really translated well into the text.  

Sunday, 1 April 2012

#atozchallenge: AZURE

Nat’anael couldn’t help sighing. She turned her ring over and over, finally holding it in front of her to stare at the sapphire that twinkled at her.
“What’s wrong?” Yve looked up from where she was busy writing a report for class. “Prince Charming not responding the right way?”
“He’s blocking me out,” she said, kicking at the legs of her chair. “Pushing me away.”
“If you look at it from his perspective, he’s being faithful.”
“I know! That’s why it’s so frustrating! He’s being faithful to me by rejecting me!”
“It’s not his fault,” Yve said pointedly, putting her pen down. “You could, after all, allow me to subtly leak your secret…”
“No!” Her emerald eyes flashing, she paced the room. “He can’t know. Not yet. Can’t you just imagine how awkward that would be?”
“He will have to visit the palace some day, Nel, pay a courtesy call to your parents, maybe request to see his betrothed and what would happen then?”
“I wouldn’t be at the palace so he wouldn’t see me, ever.”
“There will come a time…”
“The time is not now. I can’t stand to stay in on such a fine day. I’m going out,” Nat’anael said, grabbing her sling bag from the chair.
She clattered down the stairs, lost in her thoughts, coming to a sudden stop when she was suddenly confronted with a pair of blue eyes.
“Your Highness,” she mumbled in greeting, hoping that her cheeks weren’t too red.
“Nel,” he said quietly with a slight bow. “Are you just going out?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“By yourself?”
Nat’anael caught herself mid-shrug. “If Your Highness will permit?” she bit off the words, regretting them almost instantly as he flushed.
“I didn’t mean - at any rate, can you stop with this highness nonsense? I thought I’ve told you to call me Mait. Everyone else does. Why can’t you?”
She allowed herself to sink into his deep eyes for a moment, eyes that matched his heraldry, eyes that were mirrored in the sapphire that hung against her heart, eyes that were scrutinising her now.
“Because you always hold me apart,” she said as she walked away. “And I only reciprocate in kind.”
“Wait, Nel!”
She ignored his call, knowing that he wouldn’t chase after her. As soon as she was far away enough from the manor, she pulled out the ring that hung on a thin golden necklace from where it dangled between her breasts. The gem glinted between her fingers and she sighed again, wishing she could take back the edgy words that stood between her and Maitwe.
“Way to go, woman. This is exactly the way to make him fall in love with you,” she said as she tucked it away safely again.
She hated the way the azure skies taunted her.


bright blue in colour like a cloudless sky
Heraldry blue

The word "Azure" brought to mind the first novel I ever attempted (and which I still laugh over occasionally) which featured a princess with green eyes and a prince with blue eyes. They were betrothed to each other as babies and their parents exchanged rings that represented the colours of their eyes to seal it. This snippet derives from that story, which I haven't touched in about a decade.  


Last note, promise. I think I've turned off word verification, but then again I thought I did before and it somehow reverted back. So I hope it doesn't turn up anymore!