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Sunday, 24 August 2014

Into the Battlefield

Louis quickly donned his armor.
His choice was rather sparse, just a light headgear and a chest plate.
The expression on his face easily betrayed the fact that it was his first time in the arena.

Eyes darting furtively as he scanned his surroundings, he crouched into a defensive posture, awaiting the orders that would determine his next move.

His thoughts traveled back to his hometown, where his wife anxiously awaited his return.
His son had been three days old when the letter had found him, happily supping with the two of them by his side.

Now, two weeks later, he stood in the battlefield, clutching onto his weapons with a sense of unfamiliar, unexpected discomfort.

He nervously shuffled his feet.
What was wrong?
This was what he loved doing.
He was quite proud of himself for how skilled he was with his blade, hacking and chopping through flesh, drawing blood without flinching even once.

Carefully, he assessed his comrades.
They looked much more composed than him.
Could they see through his mask?
Would they be able to see through his calm exterior, see the tsunami of emotions he was within?

He hoped not.

They looked so much tougher then he had imagined they would be.
How was he supposed to defeat them?
They seemed weathered and confident, the experience clearly showing in their callused palms.

He realized he was trembling.
He had never known fear, definitely not when he was in the field.

The horn blew, indicating the commencement of the face off.
He lowered his gaze, then looked up again.
It was time.
Now or never.

He could picture his name engraved in gold.
Louis Santana: Masterchef 2015.

Thursday, 21 August 2014

Dream

I dreamt a dream the other night
That showed the end was near,
And in my dream's own private light
My nightmares froze with fear.

Convulsing, contorting, under the sheets
pulling at the seams,
Trying to escape my mental prison
Of my dreams within my dreams.

I passed a sky of blackness
And then a blood-red sea,
And then the fields of gray stretched out
Beyond infinity.

And a thousand fires raged
Fed by anger and by hate,
And a thousand wars were waged
As I neared the judgment day.

And as that fateful day, it dawned
I resigned myself to fact,
The world erupted around me
And I was powerless to act.

I tried to run, I tried to hide
I shouted and I screamed,
And wished that I had never dreamt
The dream I dreamt I dreamed. 

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

Nomad

A nomad to the world
My journey's yet to start
No home, no destination
I reside within your heart.

A bag slung over my shoulder
A quick glance to check my back
Out in the cold, I begin to fold
The night stares at me, black.

The stars fade over my head
The moon wanes to a sliver
I lower my eyes, say my goodbyes
I look around and shiver.

The wheels are set in motion
There's no coming back, I know
No time for regrets, favors or debts
I look down, my head hangs low.

All alone out in the wild
The world's a merciless place
I look in strife as I look for life
And count down through my days.

Tuesday, 29 July 2014

Unconventional

Their laughter ringed through the air
Their eyes, lit bright with joy
They matched their steps as they laid bare their hearts
That doe-eyed girl and that heart-led boy.

They'd known each other forever
A forever that was four days of glee
But the forever that they awaited
Was the one that they were yet to see.

Sometimes, somethings, someone
Happen, and you can tell without a doubt
Somewhere, somehow, someway
Everything will surely work out.

Their voices flowed through the air
Dancing with the wind, sweeping through the flowers
Smiles on their faces and a skip in their walk
As they embraced their forever underneath the stars.

Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Palindrome

Asleep.
Fading in and out of the dream world.
He blinked slowly, once, twice.
He propped his head up just a little to look at the clock by his bedside, it was five minutes past ten.
The bed felt so soft, so comfortable, almost heavenly.
His signed copy of Paulo Coelho's 'The Alchemist' lay beside him, he'd been putting it off for over two months now; 'Tomorrow', he muttered to himself.
Feeling a little lightheaded, he sat for a few moments on the bed.
He slipped into the shower, letting the cold water flow over his skin; it had a soothing effect on him.
A fresh set of clothes was ready and laid out on his bed for him to get into.
Sometimes he wondered what he'd do without his mother.
His food was waiting for him, piping hot, on the table; he wolfed it down hungrily.
A quick glance at the to-do list on the fridge was enough for anyone to tell how unproductive his week had been, all but one of the boxes was unticked.
Rob was a lazy man, he didn’t deny it either.
Files lay strewn across the floor, waiting to be attended to, waiting to be sorted and organized.
He ignored those, sidestepping them as he opened his front door and stepped through.
Letters, piled up into stacks, sat beside his front door.
He sighed, as he took in a few gulps of fresh air while maintaining a respectable pace.
The train sped through the twelve stations, eight of them underground, in less than twenty minutes.
If there was one thing Rob loathed the most in life, he thought to himself as he stood in front of the enormous gates of the glass building, it was his job.
He carefully adjusted his tie ever so slightly to the left as he passed Emma's desk, flashing her a fake smile and a thumbs up signal.
She glared at him, never mind.
He gave a slight nod to Lisa.
At his desk now, he booted up his workstation; “0 new mails”, it proclaimed.
Slowly, he got up and walked to the store room, there he fixed up his usual cup of coffee: no milk, no sugar.
He sat at his desk, staring at the clock on the wall across the room, almost as if trying to will the hands to move faster; they stared back at him defiantly, seemingly moving even slower than before.
He sat there with a smile on his face, an expression betrayed by the defeated manner in which the rest of him slouched.
Sighing as he looked at the pile of reports in front of him, he shook his head free of any treacherous thoughts that could distract him; “I will not give up, not just yet”, he said to himself; There were still thousands of pages left to go through.

This was not his dream.
This was not part of the plan.
This was not where he wanted to be.

He looked back at his desk, towards the photo of Anna clutching onto a newborn Chris, flashing the broadest smile imaginable; “Do it for them”, he said aloud to no one in particular.

And the hours went by.

He looked back at his desk, towards the photo of Anna clutching onto a newborn Chris, flashing the broadest smile imaginable; “Do it for them”, he said aloud to no one in particular.

This was not where he wanted to be.
This was not part of the plan.
This was not his dream.

Sighing as he looked at the pile of reports in front of him, he shook his head free of any treacherous thoughts that could distract him; “I will not give up, not just yet”, he said to himself; There were still thousands of pages left to go through.
He sat there with a smile on his face, an expression betrayed by the defeated manner in which the rest of him slouched.
He sat at his desk, staring at the clock on the wall across the room, almost as if trying to will the hands to move faster; they stared back at him defiantly, seemingly moving even slower than before.
Slowly, he got up and walked to the store room, there he fixed up his usual cup of coffee: no milk, no sugar.
At his desk now, he booted up his workstation; “0 new mails”, it proclaimed.
He gave a slight nod to Lisa.
She glared at him, never mind.
He carefully adjusted his tie ever so slightly to the left as he passed Emma's desk, flashing her a fake smile and a thumbs up signal.
If there was one thing Rob loathed the most in life, he thought to himself as he stood in front of the enormous gates of the glass building, it was his job.
The train sped through the twelve stations, eight of them underground, in less than twenty minutes.
He sighed, as he took in a few gulps of fresh air while maintaining a respectable pace.
Letters, piled up into stacks, sat beside his front door.
He ignored those, sidestepping them as he opened his front door and stepped through.
Files lay strewn across the floor, waiting to be attended to, waiting to be sorted and organized.
Rob was a lazy man, he didn’t deny it either.
A quick glance at the to-do list on the fridge was enough for anyone to tell how unproductive his week had been, all but one of the boxes was unticked.
His food was waiting for him, piping hot, on the table; he wolfed it down hungrily.
Sometimes he wondered what he'd do without his mother.
A fresh set of clothes was ready and laid out on his bed for him to get into.
He slipped into the shower, letting the cold water flow over his skin; it had a soothing effect on him.
Feeling a little lightheaded, he sat for a few moments on the bed.
His signed copy of Paulo Coelho's 'The Alchemist' lay beside him, he'd been putting it off for over two months now; 'Tomorrow', he muttered to himself.
The bed felt so soft, so comfortable, almost heavenly.
He propped his head up just a little to look at the clock by his bedside, it was five minutes past ten.
He blinked slowly, once, twice.
Fading in and out of the dream world.
Asleep.

Friday, 25 April 2014

Us

The page was blank. Just like his mind. His hand quivered, faltered, almost dropped the pen.

Everything had been perfect, like a dream.
Was it maybe, really that? Just a dream?
He wasn't sure what to believe or who to trust anymore.
His heart was overflowing with a million emotions, and yet, not a single one of them were betrayed in his expressions or his actions.
Everyone around him kept telling him how he ought to be feeling, how he was supposed to behave, but all he felt was an emptiness. A certain loneliness that he was beginning to enjoy the company of.
He put the pen down on the table.
He had intended to write down his story. Their story.
What was he supposed to write?
Where was he supposed to start?
Was he meant to start from the beginning, from the day they first met? From when their eyes had locked gazes and he had told himself that she was definitely the one?
Or was he to write about when she had first confessed her feelings for him, with a blush on her face and a smile lingering in her eyes.
Or perhaps the first time she had kissed him.
It hadn't been perfect. As far as first kisses went, it had been a disaster. But it had been the first time she had kissed him.
To him, that itself made it perfect beyond belief.
He looked at her name for inspiration, etched into his skin, into his arm.
Etched deep into his heart.
She had laughed when he had first told her about it.
The way she laughed.
The light twinkle in her eyes that he was certain only he noticed when she laughed, when she truly laughed.
Like that time.. When was the last time he had heard her laugh?
His mind was blank.
Just like the page.

The first time they had fought.
It had been over something rather silly, a dropped phone call. Something they both agreed was rather funny in hindsight.
The first time she had shouted at him. It had left him so deeply hurt, completely heartbroken at the simple thought that even for a single moment, she hated him for something.
There had been a hundred apologies from both sides.
And then she hugged him, and her momentary hatred no longer mattered. He knew she loved him.

He noticed the swiss knife on his table. It had been a gift from his father.
'It's not a toy', he'd said, 'only use it in case of emergencies when nothing else can do the job'.

He looked down.
The blank page stared up at him, taunting him, teasing him.

And then there was that night.
The abuses.
The tears.
The shouting.
The fears.
The hatred.
Their love.
The pain.
The sorrow.
His sobbing.
Her glee.
It's not You
It's Me.

His hand, trembling just a moment ago, steadily clutched onto the knife now.
What was this, if not an emergency?
With a quick, calculated jab of the blade he made an incision on his arm, right below her name.
A half-surprised gasp escaped his lips. The pain had been expected. What he hadn't expected was the ecstasy that accompanied the pain.

Finally, he was in control.

Slowly but surely, he kept cutting, till her name was encircled by a smooth red crevice marred by a few rough scratches.
And then he peeled her name right off.

Drops of blood sprayed out, falling on the table.
He noticed some of the blood had fallen on the piece of paper too.

At least it was no longer blank.