She has a deep voice for a woman, smoky and a bit husky but calmingly soft. Her upbringing in a culture where to be soft-spoken is a virtue made her speak in a measured way, with word choices that have the right gravity to what she means to say.

Not too much nor too less, just right.

Hearing her speak is a relief to the whiny, uncouthness and general lack of care to what one says in these days.

Never a laugh out of place nor a stray pause.

She has her own beat , a rhythm of her choosing, a bit like raindrops.

She does overpronounce her ‘S’s though. Hissing them through her unseen teeth. Unseen while speaking but present when smiling.

He looks thirty but you would know he’s older than that. The manner of his movement through the world is smooth, unhurried and without waste of energy. It looks as if he practiced everything beforehand.

He would be unnoticed in a crowd, only those that pay attention to him moving would see his art.

He speaks clearly, so clearly that even the partially deaf could hear him. Never would anyone ask him to repeat what he was saying.

He does however, has a habit of using words that gone out of fashion, though not that often to humour or to come across as a snob.

Preferring one word if that is sufficient as a response or no word at all. when others speak to him, he would stay silent and the only thing one would see would be his eyes compelling you to not waste him time or tell falsehoods.

Her name is Fauziana and his name is Sani, and both are characters I’m using in my current writing project. Maybe I will trash this work as like the others, or I will complete it. Wait and see.

all the troubles that you have shown me is worth squat if compared to the things i’ve read in the papers.

stop feeling sorry for yourself and start making things go for you.

berlari terbang meninggalkan segala kesusahan dan harapan orang lain.

pentingkan dirimu sendiri dan saksikan semuanya meniggalkanmu.

semuanya perlu seimbang dan keseimbangan itu hanya ada padamu dan tidak pada orang lain.

berfikirlah untuk sendiri dan berhenti berharap pada orang lain untuk pendapat peribadi sendiri.

biar berpeluh jerih dalam panas terik kalau apa hasilnya yang akan kudapat nanti milikku.

…

this is what would come on the screen whenever the subject sleeps. the brain scans on the patient shows that the activity centres that is active is only the parts for listening and speaking. the parts for memory, sight and emotions is never active, only the parts for the most basic of bodily functions are working as normal.

the only reason someone would know the difference whenever the subject is sleeping or waking is by the difference in the output of the machine.

once the researcher tried leaving the room for a whole day to find out what the output on the screen was, and what he got was his whole day narrated meticulously.

all his activities, even trips to the toilet and the pickings of his nose was documented.

the main researcher thinks he knows what is going to be the focus of the subject’s narration, but he couldn’t be more mistaken he truly doesn’t know. such as now the researcher thinks the focus would be about him thinking that he know what the focus of the subject would be but actually the topic now is about his friend’s wife.

his best friend’s wife is currently participating in a talent tv show where the contestants are locked up in a mansion and trained in show arts

he remembered last night at his friend’s house while he was watching the tv together with his friend. how his friend who was wearing boxer pants and a t-shirt because it was hot. how his friend who watched his wife sing on the tv was excited in the wrong way. how his wife sang a dangdut number with moves that accentuates and shows her playful coyness to the most extreme. how the hip movements and her singing even elicited a grunt from his friend. how she growled when the show’s vj asked if that was how she sang in front of her husband, “oh! she plays rough!” exclaimed the vj, which was when he noticed his friend’s pink penis head peeking next of his friend’s hairy right thigh. it was when he excused himself and laughingly said that he needed to buy some sausages for his family’s barbecue tomorrow, this was actually a lie.

reflexively he pulls the wires from the sub vocal microphone and

of course the song that we sing now must end someday but until then, it will be the most beautiful of all. Garnished with sorrow and joy, pleasure and pain. A hot day ending in rain.

our heartbeats and footsteps are the rhythm and the constant hum of thoughts in our head as the current melody signifies the presence of each other

we complete each other’s song and none is leader of our dance.

we are a singularity of two.

I wrote that inspired by the song ‘A Slow Dance’ by the band Explosions in the Sky from their soundtrack album of the film Friday Night Lights.

Actually I wrote that with the intention of turning it into a short story but honestly I lost interest because it was hard to sustain the melody and theme of the first few sentences to the end.

I might try though one day.

I am certainly sure that if I had finished it then and there when I had the energy and interest, it would certainly look different.

In  short what actually I tried to write was a story of a married couple who through cybernetic means became conscious and aware of each other’s thoughts,  like the real story of the British researcher that inserted a chip into his wife and himself. They did this in order to feel each others’ environment.

The frame of the short story was thus:

• i. realization that everything has it’s end
• ii. flashback on how it came to be
• iia. whose idea it was to do it
• iib. the physical things done to realize it (surgery, therapy…etc)
• iic. the moment it came to be
• iii. how they lived life.
• iv. the reaction of others
• v. their reaction to others
• vi. the future

Everything was to be written in the first person combined, meaning the voice of the narrator telling the story would be actually be the combined voice of the couple.

This was because in my reality of the story, they had lost each of their individual identity and assumed the identity of their combined self.

So, my gift to you is that; I give liberty in using the material i had put down here to do whatever you want with it. do a poem, a story, write a song, make a painting, a movie, an animation, anything . go nuts!

Put me in the credit and and give me a link to your work in the comments. and don’t forget to whatever you did with mine public. M<ake it shareable like i did if you want to, make it not if you don’t want to.

Go Nuts!

I must’ve had a secret pair of eyelids. Transparent apparently, for I did not realise they were there previously.

These secret eyelids opened in earnest while the normal one were already opened and I looked at him straight in the eye. I mean, I felt them open.

From these two eyes, flowed rage like a waterfall upon him, a black and mighty torrent. He flinched when the eyes blinked and waited with a dreadful face anticipating rage-filled words from me.

“What did you mean, when you said that you’re out of Mango Lassi?”

“Well sir…”

A drop of rain freefalling from a cloud at 9.8 m/s/s, it fell smack on the pavement dispersing itself to become copies of its former self that would further come back falling to the ground.

A cat, female, looks at this event happening a few thousand times at the same moment. Yawns, and went inside the house to find it’s master.

The master was sitting on a sofa reading a book on fractals while listening to Ravel’s Bolero. Looking at those fine pictures of infinite coastlines and admiring the simplicity/complexity of a fern.

The cat strokes herself by using the master’s right foot. In this activity the master toes were a favourite of the cat.

Unknown to neither the cat nor the master, outside the house under the eaves sits a pigeon on top of an egg. On top the pigeon grows feathers.

Somewhere in the house is personal computer, currently receiving and transmitting 1s and 0s via the modem turning analog signals to digital and vice versa, downloading and uploading pieces of data with the girl across the road and another girl at the opposite side of the planet.

All happening while precipitation continues. The master turns on the TV and satellite service, nothing but the message “Service currently unavailable”, turns it off and continues reading.

Is it writer’s block when you could write but have no compulsion to continue after the first paragraph? Everything written feels like crap.

fiction no.1:

by the blade we live! by the blade we rule! by the blade we prosper!

The shouts were without any sense of weakness. The shouts as promises were sincere.

These are the shouts of those who knew what was expected of them, the hard life that is upon them.

To be sent to the far reaches of the outer sphere is an honour and burden taken by these young.

A thousand bushels per cycle for the house of each selected, a thousand for each that does not return after ten solar cycles, ten bushels for each young that would return after their tour.

Not that it matters very much though, the average income is a thousand bushels per cycle per capita. It is a matter of house honour to send as many young to bridge the gap of the Warp and worked to contribute towards the betterment of the race.

To be one who had stared into the starless eternal night for ten cycles and stayed sane. To understand the insignificance of one’s self when looking at the ego-busting sight of the galactic disk. To truly understand loneliness and helplessness when working in a on a one person sentry pod for days.

fiction no.2:

He made the sky his playground, he flew without effort and without any fear of falling.

On the ground was detached from everyone else, for only when gliding in-between the clouds that he felt truly in-control.

there were some more, but not up to standard and/or are deemed not safe for the image of me that I am trying to project to the world (the stories would only justify the suggestion that I am, regretfully a freak) and could harm the sanity of you, my readers.

*+*+*

I finally made up my mind, my political standpoint is the same as this guy. Just that for different reasons, eluvium’s views are because of philosophy, while me, on the hand, due to apathy.

*+*+*

Hope I’ll get out of this rut, write a book, write another, quit my job and father a son. ktnx. Bye.

The pleasure of silence without any care, I think I need long holiday badly. The tender touch of the wind in my hair. Have anybody felt this way;wanting to see everything as beautiful. The blade of long grass dancing in the breeze making murmurs that something will come and disturb this fleeting peace. The smile of a passing stranger making no judgments. Flocks of birds flying in formation seeking sustenance to fuel the high intake of their calorie consuming existence. The kind of silence that will make the thoughts in your head go in different branches covering a multitude of topics and ideas and memes then sudden all have and underlying theme, a theme that is not you, or something that you thought was never you, the thought of doing horrible things for the sake of doing them, murder, rape, mutilation and seeing acts of kindness suddenly shift to the perverse. My black and white is merging and becoming gray, why am I so intrigued by this decadence of my own morals and of the morals of others when I’m sure that it wouldn’t make a difference to my outlook and the outlook of others of me. This yearning for anarchy I have in my wants turning to me being the archetype of the system, a dictator who orders the live of other even when I and people who know me know that I could not.

One night a moth flying around saw something that interests it very much, it saw a flame. It wants to be one with it, to embrace it. When it got near the flame, the moth felt pain in it’s wing and so it got as far away from the flame it could. Then it found the concept of opposites because it flew straight into an open freezer, where it froze to death and caused many curses to come out of the woman that owned the freezer that has now a moth trapped in deep frost as the woman only opened the freezer again two months later when she got home from abroad.

I am the moth and the flame is words, texts and meaning and syntax. While the freezer is the complete chaos of misunderstanding and no-meaning. The women is you, dear reader.

It is was on a saturday evening when I was getting back from KL, i was on a bus going from kajang towards Semenyih.

As usual i sat upon the last bench on the bus as it would have the room to house these bamboo poles I call legs. I was actually sitting in-between a chinese kid who was busy sending SMSs to another person apparently not on the bus and three malay girls who were as usual too busy to care what other think of them,because they were like as any group of likeminded people did when they were together, they were busy entertaining each other. Amidst all this giggling and whisperings about pretend glances from men imagined and real towards them, and frantic keypad clicking. I noticed a solitary person in the in the bus, not busy with anything, and unlike me was hardly even awake at all.

From my bench behind her I saw that she had used her long straight hair as a kind of curtain. Whether it was to hide her face from the sun or to hide it from other people I wouldn’t know. but in doing so she had unintentionally revealed her neck. the kid beside me had finished sending his SMSs and busy reading replies and now was in throes of heavy T9 assisted thumb typing and the three malay girls are going off the bus and was looking for other places to giggle in. In time the SMS kid also arrived at his wanted destination, maybe he going to meet his friends. There was now not much to look at so I did as any guy in my situation would do, concentrate on the girl.

The sun was succeeding in doing what it was doing in the dreamy light of near sunset, which was to make skin of girls look silky and details be emphasized with shadows going eastwards. her neck was creamy pale white. with fine fuzz from beyond the sight barrier that was her collar, those small hair were coming up her neck in an inverse ‘V’ pattern until it came to the pit behind the neck where it would start to grow longer in fine filaments of darker than black and abruptly up from that her hairline starts.

It is known in wet and warm countries like this to shave the fine hair behind the neck to allow for better contact of skin and air, but the girl apparently have never heard done that. what does this imply? the girl doesn’t care about sweat? her hair was long on the back so it was useless to do so? I am thinking too much?

Then as usual, she did what people on busses do, she stood up and rang the bell. well so much for that. she got off that bus and walked home. I stayed on sweating amidst the indons and banglas and nepalese and vietnamese and malaysians and others that are smelling of the undried sweat the malaysian climate was excelling at producing. who am i amongst these people on this unair-conditioned bus , but the sweatiest of all, of stench and of lust. I am the paragon of this ‘thing’ here. when it came to my stop, the other passengers allowed me, their dominar, to get down first as proper respect demands.

Then I felt the urge of making lactic acid sting these legs of mine. so I walked home, while my mind and eyes were busy gawking and interpreting the abstract patter on the sunset sky. Seeing orgasmic symbols everywhere. HAHAHA!