Once upon a time, it seemed so very far. Whizzing past what previously appeared like an ocean of time, I now stare at the exit door. With time, it brought new clarity and new perspective of certain things. The purpose of this little place I own too metamorphosed in its purpose and role. What was once a place to privately manifest my inner thoughts and feelings on paper is and would now be a little note on the corner of the web for interested audiences to get a little slice of me. Well everyone, this is my story.

One after the other..one after the other..one after the other..

Looking down at the undergrowth with searching eyes, I trudged on with extreme caution. My M16 assault rifle slung over my back, waiting lustily for some bloody action. Bruises and burns decorated my well travelled body. Deep scars told the tale of hard times, fresh wounds of recent battles. My face, numb from endless gore that befell my dark and weary eyes. With every step, my breathing got harder..heavier..deeper…more intense. It has been just five hours bit it seemed like five days since I last slept. The last dose of painkillers was wearing off. My shirt was filled with blood of people forgotten. Shabby pants only just hung around my receding waist, covering the seven inch gash that ran along my inner left thigh right up to my groin. With soggy socks desperately clung on to my blistering feet, I marched on.

My eyes scanned the surrounding terrain like a hawk, scrutinizing every single detail. We were walking on a red clay road with two abreast, side by side. On my left was a deep valley with a raging river unleashing its wrath on jagged rocks. A lapse in concentration will result in an untimely demise. Maybe not untimely but certainly unforeseen. Massive five storey high trees grew imposingly on my right, stamping their mark in between the thick undergrowth of thorny bushes and poisonous shrubs. The white mountains lay north-east of my current position. The range of mountains where even the fiercest of men fear to trudge. The air grew thick, signaling the impending tropical storm. Winds swept the menacingly dark clouds over us, preventing sunlight to hit the damp earth. Somehow, a certain unexplainable uneasiness weighed heavily in my heart. With every increasing step, my sense of trepidation and anxiety intensified.

With the roar of a thunder, distant cries pierced the air. Gunshots rained down incessantly from all imaginable angles. We, the Marine Corp. who pride ourselves in our ability to outwit the enemy were now being ambushed by the lawless guerrilla. I stood still looking at the frenzy the surprise attack made. As a bullet whizzed past my ear, I snapped back to reality and assumed a tactical defensive position. Unlocking the safety, I shot several bursts of ammunition at the charging enemy. My partner instantly changed into a retreat stance with his back against a tree.

The strike on us was precise and well planned. It was aimed at dispersing us and conquering us in pockets. They cut off our communication with our brothers in arms by attacking in three weak spots where our defense was the weakest. By doing so, they manage to pin us to the ledge of the ravine. It was a tactical disaster on our part. With no possible means of calling for help and with our safety in mind, my partner and I retreated to a strategic spot, high yet secure. From there, we slowly started to clear a path for our brothers. The surge of enemies continued coming. Soon, our brothers’ cries were drowned in the swarm of insurgents. We were shell-shocked. Fear was all too apparent in their eyes…..

Walking on the leafy path which leads to the mountains, with drooping eyes and slumped shoulders, we dragged our legs forward, heading to the place fabled to break even the toughest of gods. A demon which lives in those lands, merciless and ruthless. With the pursuing guerrilla hunting for remnants of soldiers on our backs, we had no option but to face it. Doubts of surviving this ordeal invaded my clouded mind. Like the cogs of a clock, steps of survival were in motion…

One after the other..one after the other..one after the other..

“Where it hurts most…..Where it hurts most”, the silky and ominous voice kept replaying in Abel’s head like a damaged tape-recorder. His legs and calf screamed out in violent retaliation to the punishing pace. A tempo that must not ease up. A little further, he willed them. Every movement of His body brought excruciating agony. With every draining step, His swiftness reduced in equal proportion. However, the damage was minimal. Just a laceration and not a puncture wound. Today, he is lucky. He would need more of it.

Thirteen paces behind, a man saw his quarry pass the evening market, through the arch and finally taking a left. A deadly mistake indeed on his quarry’s part. The man knew these parts of town like Santa knows his list. He cursed his lack of practice. However, he did not intend to be as charitable this time around. He vowed that his next shot will be his last.

A courtyard with high Victorian walls came into view. His lungs begged for air. Abel stopped and took in his surroundings. There were buildings on the right and a small shed on the left. In the center of it all, was a fountain with three statues of disfigured children, water spouting from their mouths. Their frail bodies, contorted in a way that resembled a three-headed gargoyle. He tore his eyes away from it, deeply disturbed. He managed to push that eerie image from his mind, barely. He knew that with only one entrance, it was essentially a jail. Knowing hiding here was not an option, he ran back the way he came, with all the speed a wounded and limping fox could marshal. As he turned the corner, a cloaked man sidestepped a pregnant lady, revealing a heinous grin that Stalin would be proud of. The only way forward now is back, back to the courtyard.

Excitement bubbled up within his guts. To him, the hunt was more important than the kill. It was his form of perverted art. Seeing his prey desperately struggling to avoid their impending doom was part of what makes him tick. It brought him unbridled joy, better than any prostitute can offer. He could smell their fear and desperation and that fueled him. They would beg, then struggle and then put up a meek defiance of their predetermined fate. But he would always decide the time and manner of their death. Always. This would not be any different. He is an artist and the Jericho 941F held tightly on his left palm is his paintbrush.
It was already evening. Orange light now bathed the building to the right, casting long looming shadows to the center of the courtyard, ever slowly creeping towards the fountain. The water itself shimmered and sparkled in the evening sun. A perfect setting for a masterpiece. His senses tingled with anticipation and excitement. He knew his prey was nearby. His eyes scanned the courtyard for any slight movement.

Up above, Abel hid in a small room on the highest floor. He knew if the pursuer found his position, the only way out was a fifty foot drop down to the dirty streets of Malaga. He knew his pursuer was here, silently hunting. He needed to know where he was in order to evade him. Slowly and silently, he crept up next to a window. He lifted the window pane to examine the situation. Down below, a silhouette was casted on the Victorian tiled floor. It would be the last mistake that he ever made.

Three thousand miles away, a spinster and her lover shared a bottle of wine under the moonlight.

Little Annabelle was a small town girl. She was living in a lonely world. She will take a midnight train to go anywhere. When she was eighteen, she met with a two roads. And as a traveler, long she stood. She looked down as far as she could. To try to see what was in store. To try to see beyond where it bent in the undergrowth. She foresaw a life with challenges ,excitement, adventure, a life of remarkable stories waiting to be told. However, she too envisage a place where strangers will be waiting up and down the boulevard. Their shadows searching the night. The xtreetlight people just barely living, hiding somewhere in the night.

Little Annabelle was no fool. She examined the other road. It was just as fair and perhaps even had better claim. It was grassy and wanted wear. Though for the passing there, had worn them really about the same. A path of familiarity lay before her. A place where she was more accustomed to. Tempting and inviting. A tricky decision indeed.

And as little Annabelle stood there in the early hours of morning, those two paths lay equally in lush green leaves. No one has yet trodden them. She stood there deep in thought. Choosing her path was no easy feat after all. In their choices, some will win and some will lose. Some were destined to sing the blues. By no straightforward choice, she kept the first for another day. However, little Annabelle knew how way leads on to way. The movie must go on and never end. It just goes on and on and on. She doubted if she should ever come back.

She was telling this with a sigh. Little Annabelle was not so little anymore. Telling this somewhere ages and ages hence, when she was twenty-two. About two roads that diverged, and she took the one more traveled by. She would pay anything to roll the dice just one more time. She did not stop believing. She held on the feeling and now, she has a chance to travel the first road she left behind four years ago.

I shall not disappoint..

Two words of wisdom i have held on to or used very often for the past six months..

1. Brick walls are an opportunity for you to express how much you want whats on the other side of it.

2. When a guy is romanitcally intrested in you, ignore his words but listen to his actions.

Pretty handy, don't u think?

Timmy hung his head despondently as he dragged his feet across the red clay dirt. His arms, hung over his shoulders, lifeless, with no certain movement. He wore a torn and thin yellow stained shirt, a hallmark of countless washings and excessive sweat. Wrapped around his back is the invisible bag from where it should be hanging. His red eyes, sore from the pain of the unceasing crying, made it hard for him to see where he was heading. “It’s the perfect punishment”, thought Timmy. The unforgiving sun released its rays upon Timmy, trying its best to cheer him up but to no avail. All it brought was more sweat seeping into his shabby shirt. The mixture of sweat and tears filled his cheeks, making a rancid salty concoction.

Upon stepping into the barely furnished living room, he surveyed his familiar surroundings. Immediately catching his attention was a figure at the right corner. It was his dad. He was holding the latest New Straight Times up to his eye level. His whole head and part of his body was shielded from sight. Nothing in the living room mattered at that moment. His eyes and attention was solely focused on that being that he calls his dad. As he took off his shoes and stepped into the rattan mat, his dad acknowledged his presence with a flip of the newspaper.

Timmy, knowing that the cat will soon be out of the bag, took the initiative to start a conversation. With a meek voice, he uttered the faintest of greetings. “Good afternoon, dad”. It was all he could muster. His dad, sporting a thick pair of tinted glasses and a strong jaw line, peeked out from behind the newspaper to give him a slight and bordering imaginary nod. With one sweeping movement, Timmy brought his hand from the bag to hold up a piece of paper, placed it on the table in front of him, and ran back to his room down the hall.

There, he slumped on his bed, burying his head in shame. The emotions of all the events of the day came back so vividly. The red circled number at the top right hand corner set his mind racing. What will dad think of me? How will I compare with my siblings? Will my dad shed the same tears as I have? It was as if a dam broke. He wailed and cried with all his heart. He had no reservations on the racket he was making. His heart ached, knowing how sad his dad will be. He thumped his chest unceasingly to bring the pain to a stop. But what it only achieved was to increase it to a higher agony. After what seemed to be infinite minutes, he stopped moving and curled up into a ball. Slowly, weariness took over him and he fell into a dreamless, restless sleep.

Night fell. There he lay on his bed thinking of the card he saw. Slowly, he got up and walked right down the corridor. He was met by a door. On the other side, was his precious son. Yes, he felt all the disappointment in the world. He felt that he had failed in becoming a father. It was not for the fact that his son scored appallingly for his last math test but that his son could not come to him for comfort but instead see him as a dictator who passes out judgment based on something as trivial as a number in red. He wished that Timmy was able to share his failings as much as his successes with him. He leaned his forehead against the door, one hand on the doorknob and the other palm on the door. His chin, quivering from the impending flow of tears. All he wanted was for his son to lead a successful life through proper education which he never had the opportunity. He did not mean to bring his son such pressure to perform. To only be able to comfort him and encourage him in all aspects of his life would be his privilege. Looking past the disappointment, he just wanted to be there to give support to his fragile son.

Sensing something or someone hovering outside, Timmy brought himself up to check the corridor. There, his eyes met his dad’s for the first time that day.