Flash Games

You really don't know how many Flash games you actually do play till you have an Ipad and can't play ANY of them. *pout*

It's HIGHLY inconvenient not to be able to Family Feud at home, for example, unless I've bothered to lug my laptop home.

*RASPBERRY* bully to you, Ipad.

The dangers of smoking

I can't help but think this cliché, but the imagery has been in my head for a while. The title, though, I find hilarious. I nearly called it Frozen Food. *laugh*

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She opened her eyes and the world slowly came into focus. Tree roots. Soft earth. Grass. She was uncomfortable, face down in the dirt. What the hell... Last she remembered... What WAS the last she remembered??

Her head hurt. Had she bumped it? She must have...

Awkwardly, she tried to sit up. She groaned softly - muscles stiff with cold. She focused on the ground, blinking slowly till the world stopped spinning. God, please stop the carousel. I want to get off!

A bus. She had been on a bus. She'd been on the way home. A pitstop! Someone had been sick, and the driver had pulled into a truck stand. She'd gone off to the side for a quick cigarette. What had it been, 3 more hours till her stop? She remembered thinking something like that. What the hell happened after that?

She patted her jeans. No phone. Damn. What time was it? She had stopped wearing watches a long time ago. Looking up at the sky was a mistake. The world started spinning again, and she had to refocus on the ground, choking back the need to be sick. Baby steps. Take it slow.

She tried again. Roots, trunk, branches, leaves, sky. It was getting dark. Sundown soon, she guessed. No idea, really. In the city, no one really sees the sun setting. Ambient lighting makes it difficult to pinpoint when the sun moves on and the streetlights take over. No such problem here, she thought, looking around at the trees. No artificial anything in sight. She was in some forest or something. I think. Maybe.

Better move her arse then. The woods at night didn't sound appealing. Where was she??

"Hello? Anyone there?"

The silence was deafening.
She suddenly felt very alone.

"Hello? Anybody?"

Something was wrong - more wrong than waking up, sick to her stomach, face down in a forest. She couldn't put her finger on it though...

Right. Stand up. Slowly...

She didn't appear to be hurt. Other than the dull ache at the back of her head, she grimaced, gingerly prodding her skull. No blood, no wounds. That was good, wasn't it?

No sounds of traffic. Which way was the road?
No sounds of people talking... No sound at all, really.

She froze.

No sound at all. No birds, no insects, no babbling brook... That was it! How could it be completely silent?? Something was seriously wrong. Where was she?? She braced herself against the tree. Moss grows on the... North side? Isn't that what they say?

"Wasting time," she muttered. She didn't know jack squat about life outside the city. Which train to take to the business district? No problem. Which berry was safe to eat? No freaking idea.

Right. She was going right. Just because.

She grabbed a longish twig off the ground & slashed at the tree. Wouldn't do to go round in circles. She started picking her way gingerly, navigating tree roots and noisily beating at the long grass to scare off snakes and the like, before stepping forward. Every now and again, she'd mark a tree.

"Hello? Can anybody hear me?"

It wasn't long before it started getting dark enough to force a decision. Option 1, seek shelter. Option 2, keep moving and risk breaking a limb. She probably shouldn't have moved in the first place. Too late now, Einstein.

Jeans and jumper in the woods? She didn't think she was going to be warm enough. What could she..

She froze.

What was that?

She could have sworn... A blur in her peripheral vision.

"Hello?" she wished she didn't sound as shaky as she felt. "Who's there?"

Her own pounding heartbeat was the only thing she could hear. She gripped the branch till her knuckles were white.

"Don't fucking mess with me," God, I wish I sounded bigger.

Nothing.

Right. Back to a tree, get a fire going, I'll be fine. She kept repeating that as she pushed at the ground cover, looking for dry twigs & leaves. Damn she really should have started this earlier.

In the end she just kicked whatever she could towards the base of the tree. It was getting too dark to tell dry leaves from wet ones. That God she had a lighter.

After a while, and a billion false starts, she abandoned all hope of starting a fire.

I am in some Serious Shit.

She stuffed leaves down the front of her jumper, trying not to think of how many bums were found dead in parks, having stuffed newspapers down their coats in an effort to keep warm.

She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She watched the vaguely grey trail of smoke as it wafted upwards from her lips. She stared at the lazy glow of the lit end. She was going to be alright. Somehow.

The cigarette suddenly went out.

She froze. Cigarettes don't just do that.

She relit the cigarette. Her hand was shaking. She exhaled, staring hard at the tip, almost daring it to go out.

Something touched her hair.

She started and screamed, scrambling away in the opposite direction, on all fours.

"Who's there?? What do you want??"

Nothing.

Her heart was pounding in her ears again, and she realized she was crying.

"Who are you??" she screamed, nearly sobbing now. "Why are you doing this to me??"

Then she heard it. It was little more than a whisper in her ear, so close she could almost feel the breath on her neck.

"Run."

Scared half out of her mind, she scrambled blindly to her feet and ran, tripping over roots and bursting through bushes. She could hear her ragged breaths punctuating the rustle of leaves as she tore her way forward. It was so dark - she couldn't see - she kept stumbling, grabbing at whatever was at arm's length to break her fall. It had to happen. She fell that last time, and felt her ankle buckle sickeningly.

She couldn't catch her breath, chest heaving from sobs, surrounded by the dark, ankle throbbing madly.

"Now now... You know better than that... Don't play with your food."

It was little more than a whisper.

"Yes, mother."

A whisper.

She opened her mouth to scream.

Glenn: A Multi-User Domain (MUD) story.

I'm re-posting this here because I found it in another blog, tucked away in old, old posts, and I'm afraid of losing it.

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Glenn never told me his last name. He was a slight boy, with serious eyes. He was Xenx and he was Bremen. He loved Dalenn unconditionally.

He wanted nothing. He offered everything he had. He took her hand and led her to places in the Labyrinth both wondrous and strange. He set up picnics at waterfalls he knew she would love. He gave her faerie wings and great iron swords. He weakened monsters and mobs, then stood back to watch her bag the glory of the kill. He stood between her and dragons, and piled gold at her feet. He basked in her joy, heart beating proudly when she laughed. He knew he had made that sound burst from her lips, and he was content.

Lyn gave him nothing. She was seduced by security and reality, and didn’t think he was going to be anything but binary code and ascii roses. She dismissed him as a young man who fancied himself in love with Dalenn. He had never met Lyn, never breathed in her strawberry-scented hair, never tasted her apple-glossed lips, never cupped the curve of her hips. Never rolled in the grass by the waterfall she loved. His devotion made Dalenn blush. Lyn couldn't understand any of it. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

Glenn made Lyn cry, though Dalenn would never tell him. His matter-of-fact tone when he spoke of his broken family and violent father made Lyn ache in unexpected places. Glenn scared her with his stories of blind rage. He would beat and bruise until the red wash left his eyes. He would take down larger contenders because for a while, he was a merciless machine. He was so much younger than she was, but had lived twice the life. She wanted to hug the pain away... or fuck till all that filled the room was gasping breath, no place for anything else. If only she could reach him somehow... But then again, it wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

When it came down to the crunch, Lyn took the easy way out. It was Dalenn who loved you, Glenn. Sweet, gentle Dalenn, with sunshine in her laugh and starlight in her emerald eyes. Lyn's brown eyes had never met yours. Nick was security. Nick was real. Nick didn't make her ache in any unexpected place. Lyn chose Nick.

Nick eventually broke Lyn’s heart.

Ah well... Life moves on as it always has, laughing at how we thought we were going to die from that little bit of pain. She thinks of him when she least expects it, that slight boy with the serious eyes. She still has a picture he sent her from their days frolicking in the other world. She wonders if he ever found a girl who loved him unconditionally, who wanted nothing, who offered everything she had.

The email address doesn’t work anymore. I know. I’ve tried it.

Tattoo

I'm not really pleased with this, but I've been fidgeting all day and I don't think I will stop anytime soon, so I'd better post it before I change it again. Sigh. Fickle be my middle name.

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I look down at the boy in front of me: the stumps on his back, the questions in his eyes. His father's lips are pursed, the distance between him & his crying wife, telling. He blames her. This could never have come from his side of the family. 

I force a smile. I hear myself asking inane questions like if Batman and Superman were to fight, who would win? Did he like school? What games did he & his friends like to play? All the time, calculating, plotting, planning... It always went easier when they didn't fight it. When they didn't fight me. When they didn't see it coming. 

Did he want to see a magic trick? I could show him one... My hands were like torches. I could make them glow. Did he want to see my glowing hands? See? Weren't they special? Watch them glow... They were warm. See? When I touched him... See how warm they were? Does his back itch sometimes? I think my hands could help with that. They're so warm you see - it'll help with the itch. Yeah it was hard trying to scratch something you can't reach. Why didn't he turn around & see if I could help with that. Look at mum. Look at dad.

"Look at mummy, baby. That nice woman's going to help you. Just look at mummy."

It's hard to hear her clearly through the tears she's trying to choke back, but the boy responds to her voice. 

I lay my warm glowing hands on the boy's back. I feel the familiar metallic burn in my throat. Feel the blood soak into my shirt, making it stick to my back. I bite back what is almost a sob. How the hell did they ever convince me that the pain was my lot in life, my destiny...

The boy cries out. Tries to get away. His mother falls to her knees, reaches for him. Calista makes sure she doesn't get in the way, doesn't interrupt the transfer. I focus on my breathing, beyond the red haze, beyond the buzzing in my ears. Just breathe. Breathe.

I only know it's over when Calista gently lowers my hands. She speaks to the grateful parents. They're always grateful. They always don't know how to thank you. They always say so as they hurry to the door, eager to leave before someone sees them. Calista is all business as she sees them out, locks the door, gets the bowl and the sponge and settles down beside me. She peels off my shirt and cleans me.  She is as silent as I need her to be.

It seems an aeon before I am strong enough to stand. I go to my room & turn my back to the mirror. The wings are magnificent, impossible hues of blue and silver, cascading from my shoulder blades to the small of my back. Had they let him keep them, the boy would have been able to take flight. To soar.

"To escape..." I whispered.

He would have had to. Escape. The stigma. The shame. 

So instead, I took them. His wings. His stigma. There are a few of us who can, who will. The few of us you shun. Whom you pretend you don't see. We know who you are. We display your shame, literally, on our bodies, in all its glory, so you cannot meet our eyes. We are walking reminders of the Vote. The radiation fallout is all of our faults. We will be paying for it for generations to come. Some more than others. 

I have managed to hide the tattoos still - the red & purple vine hasn't yet broached the boundary of my turtleneck. Wearing pants hides the dragon encircling my ankle, weaving its way like a Grecian sandal strap, upwards to my left thigh. Thankfully, the third eye graces my right bicep and not my forehead. I can still manage trips into the city, glorying in ordinary tasks like grocery shopping or having a drink at a bar. I'm safe so long as I'm well covered.

There will come a time when I have to make a choice between hiding who I am and embracing the truth. Till then, I can still waffle between pretension and guilt, between the me naked in the mirror and the me I hide beneath the veneer.

It's a calling, they told me. You're chosen. You have a path. Embrace your gift and accept it with selflessness and pride.

Bullshit. 

They make it sound like you don't have a choice, but with the 20-20 vision of hindsight, I absolutely had a choice. I think that's why they recruit young - when they can weave you tales of the noble greater good, and sell you on how you are serving your people. You're too young to comprehend what you're giving up, what you're sacrificing... You're too raw to understand that though these people need you, they don't have to accept you.

We are isolated like lepers, as if genetic mutation is somehow contagious. As if we have all devolved back to uneducated, superstitious cavemen since the War.

I had never been in love, you see. I had never wanted to stretch out, exhausted, sated & naked beside another warm body and see lust, love & acceptance shine back from their eyes. I didn't know what I was giving up, Calista. I didn't know.

And then the tears came.

En Passant

In passing, I heard a baby cry, a mother croon & watched the graceful sway of her hips as she rocked it to silence. I didn’t recognize the language nor the lullaby – maybe it was Thai or Burmese, or any one of the dozen other tongues that scatter this small nation with big dreams. The baby was swathed in an old sarong, which looked clean, though bleached by the sun & constant washing. Plump cheeked, rosy from the screaming, the babe looked well cared for, well loved.

In passing, I saw 2 girls walking to school, hand-in-hand. They were maybe 9 or 10, pony tails on either side of their heads, swinging to a secret rhythm only they could hear. The elder sister walked one step ahead, on the outer rim of the road, putting herself between her younger sister & traffic. Their schoolbags trundled along behind them like shadows, bulging, pot-bellied shocks of reds and pinks and blues, perched on their rollers like fat old men on barstools. When did school bags get so full of knowledge that young shoulders no longer could bear the strain?

In passing, I saw the toothless old lady selling keropok on the pavement outside the bank. She is a familiar figure in Bangsar, packets displayed carefully on her tattered raffia mat of red, white & blue stripes: clear plastic bags of deep fried dark caramel banana chips, pale yellow tapioca chips coated with a sweet chili sauce, light-as-air prawn crackers and those devilishly addictive, spicy Indian nibblets flecked with fennel. RM10 for 3 packets, she says. She reminds me of my grandmother. I want to believe that her crow’s feet are evidence that she has laughed at least as much as she cried in her long life.

I sometimes forget to look – when I’m waiting in queue, when I’m in a traffic jam, when I’m walking past - so wrapped up in my little universe, so eager to get to my destination, bitching about the heat & humidity. I forget – that it’s the journey that counts.

52

I am attempting to revive what little I have in creative writing. I'm going to try to write one piece a week, no matter how short, for a year. I know not what is going to inspire nor what I aspire beyond getting the juices running again. Maybe it's escapism, maybe it's an overinflated ego.

In the immortal words of that tank engine, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can."