before and after...

Post Removed...

Will do this again after Lifeline is out...

the third story...

Week 3 - Dumb Blonds

Life has never been fair. That is one of the most cliché sayings that I know. It is also one of the sayings that I believe to be true, regardless of when and where you might be. But I might say that I am more inclined towards sayings that regard themselves with blonds.

Sitting at the café, I have been attracting a couple of stares. I must admit that I am quite a bombshell, a blond bombshell to be more exact. I am never quite comfortable with calling myself a blond bombshell. It is demeaning to begin with. However, I relish the attention. It has quite an ego boosting effect. Whenever I need a good self-esteem boost, I just stand at a crowded area and wait.

I would be good for a couple of good, long flirtatious stares, but sometimes the braver ones would approach and ask for a number. I would then flash my ring and watch their mouth open in a sheepish manner. It never fails to perk me up. I just realised that I do have a mean streak, or perhaps it is just the dumb blond in me looking for a cheap thrill. The dumb blond in me is quite easily satisfied.

Though I have to agree that the dumb blond gets out far too often, I do need to learn to keep it in check. Picking up the pink pencil, I wrote on the open notepad: keep frivolous blond self in check. It is untrue that I do not have any means of keeping my dumb streak in check. In fact I do have a tried and tested method that I use all the time.

My method is my pair of spectacles. Yes, most would immediately say that a pair of spectacles will never be able to make me any smarter. Yet, I would like to disagree. I may not feel any smarter. But it does help curb the urge to commit the occasional act that might inevitably lead to being labelled as a dumb blond. And if you are still not convinced, just take a look at Superman. He wears a pair of spectacles and amazingly, everyone sees Clark Kent and Superman disappears.

I am getting bored. I am supposed to be meeting someone at the café. I hope I didn’t get the time and place wrong. It is something that I seem to have a talent for, mistaking time and place. Fortunately, my friends are an understanding bunch. They take it more of a joke than a relationship threatening habit. However, I am oddly impatient, I am bored waiting. Fortunately, I am easily entertained. Firstly, I need to take off my spectacles.

Finally, I see the reporter coming. I still cannot believe that I have agreed to this interview. I really hope the interview turns out well. Being blond is already a disadvantage. I really do not need an unrepresentative interview showing me off as just another dumb blond.

“Right, sorry I’m late. Shall we begin? And by the way, I’ve decided to title the article: A blond MENSA Moment.” The reporter rambled on as he eased himself onto the café chair.

“Sure, just let me put on my spectacles.” I replied.

new shoes...

New shoes, thanks to the English majors.

Old shoes, since junior college days i think...
I've been walking around sole-less for quite some time now. This bottom you see is actually the inside after the sole fell off. the brown part is not mud, it's where the rubber has all worn off.

the second story...

Week 2 - Union of Minds

It was getting quite annoying, annoyance bordering on vexingly irritating. While some girls might relish this sort of attention, I saw it more as an intrusion of my private space. Now, the occasionally intrusion has evolved into almost an invasion. And he isn’t even my boyfriend, yet.

I was confused, and that is putting it quite mildly. Being torn was more apt a description. My heart and my head had both decided, unfortunately, it seemed that they had decided on different paths. Why was it so difficult? There had to be an easier solution, a little time and a little thought would do. Maybe a little prayer.

The romantic in me wanted to believe that he is trying to woo me, albeit in his own little subtle methods. However, the rational part of me could never believe that these subtle hints that he is dropping are anything substantial. How can men claim that women are never explicit? Why can’t men be more explicit?

*

It was getting quite annoying, annoyance bordering on vexingly irritating. While some guys might relish the thrill of the chase, I saw it more as an intrusion into someone else’s personal space. She wasn’t even my girlfriend yet, these intrusions would prove unwise in the long run.

I was confused, and that is putting it quite mildly. Being torn was more apt a description. My heart and my head had both decided, unfortunately, it seemed that they had decided on different paths. Why was it so difficult? There had to be an easier solution, a little time and a little thought would do. Maybe a little prayer.

The desire to woo was strong, but to send the wrong signals have proven the downfall of many a relationship. The rational me had made the decision to start with the subtle hints that girls seem more inclined to use themselves. However, the romantic in me had started planning the extravagant candlelit dinners that would not be easily forgotten. How can men be explicit when being so would sooner thrust the relationship into a corner?

*

Perhaps he would call. I secretly enjoyed our conversations, though often we end up bickering. Bickering like little children. There was an old saying that bickering adds spice to a relationship, it keeps the relationship fresh. I can hardly imagine agreeing and being agreeable all the time, where is the fun in that?

I get the feeling that he secretly enjoys these hostile banters as well. Though, I must admit that his male ego has more than once been bruised by my whimsical self declared victory. He was sweet in the way that he just let me claim victory.

Yes, perhaps he might call.

*

Perhaps I should call her. I don’t want to admit that I enjoy our banter, which more often than not, ends up in a debate of sorts. It brings to mind an old saying that bickering adds spice to a relationship, it keeps the relationship fresh. I can hardly imagine her agreeing and being agreeable all the time, where is the fun in that?

I gathered that she enjoys these exchanges more than I ever would. Why I subject myself to these self-esteem damning conversations I would never really know. Perhaps, the enjoyment that I gather from these conversations have more than compensated for my deflated self-esteem.

Yes, why not? Perhaps I will call her.

*

I wonder what he is doing. Why is he not calling?

*

I wonder what she is doing. Is she waiting?

the first story...

Week 1 - Death at the Funeral

A light sobbing could be heard distinctively over the general silence. Many people kept streaming through the open doors of the hall. Many of these people I have never seen before. However, they seem to know me, casting looks of sympathy. A look that was as strange as the faces of these people.

I stood at the open doors, next to father and I held onto father’s pants, tightly, with my little fingers. Father’s face was grim. There was nothing especially different about father’s expression. His face was set in a typical grim look that bordered close to being expressionless. He gingerly shook all the hands of everyone that walked in through the open doors. I just stood there next to him, not speaking, just staring. As if I was part of the furnishings. It felt like an eternity.

I could hear the sobbing getting louder. Mother was there, near the front of the hall. Mother was sobbing. I could not understand why I was often chided for crying yet father did nothing when mother was now sobbing at length. I wanted to ask father why. However, deep inside me, I knew the tears that mother was shedding were different from the ones that grace my eyes.

The hall was large. It was larger than most places that I’ve been in my life, but it was definitely one of the cleanest places that I’ve seen. The white floors, walls and ceiling just made it clear that the place was made to be clean. The chairs and the table cloth were white as well. It was an overdose of cleanliness, an overdose of whiteness.

The people came in garments of black, a stark contrast to the clean white environment. However, the people that came seem adverse to the cleanliness. In fact, their actions seem to imply that the place was in fact dirty beyond my wildest dreams. As if sitting on the white cushioned chairs would leave a stain on their black garments, diluting themselves. I, myself was clad in a tiny black suit and I couldn’t wait to sit on the white cushions. They were inviting.

A sudden jerk pulled me out of my daydream. I looked up. Father’s grim face forced a weak smile as I looked up. His hand enveloped mine in his and at once I knew everything was fine. With his other hand he closed the doors and the room seem to ready itself for whatever that all these people had gathered here for. The hall grew quiet, and relatively colder, but because my hand was within my father’s, it didn’t matter.

Walking past the chairs of people, we travelled down the aisle. Everyone looked sad, some more than others. But generally, everyone looked sad. I wanted to ask why they were all here. However, father’s pace as he walked down the aisle didn’t give me a chance to. We finally reached the front of the hall and I saw grandpa’s picture placed in front of the bed that he was sleeping in. Grandpa was always sleeping. I couldn’t make too much noise in case I roused him. Apparently, all these people didn’t want to wake grandpa up as well.

Passing my hand to mother, father whispered to us to get seated. Father then put his hand onto grandma’s shoulders. Grandma was stoic, her face didn’t betray any sign of emotions that might have surged and raged underneath. Father gathered grandma, and held her as we made our way to the seats left empty for us. I sat next to mother and placed my head gently in her arms and curled up. Mother had stopped crying, the tears shut off as if by command. Father sat next to grandma, holding her frail hands in his.

Lying on mother, it seemed another eternity before anything else stirred in the hall. The people that had gathered just sat staring at grandpa sleeping, and we were leading them in staring. Sitting right at the front, we led in staring at grandpa sleep. Grandpa’s sleep was so enticing. I wondered too if great number of people gathered whenever I slept. Soon, all the wondering turned to a great blur as I too drifted to sleep, dreaming of a great congregation gathering to watch me sleep.

A gentle rocking lulled me from my dreams as I looked up to see myself being carried by father. Mother held grandma as grandma held grandpa’s photograph. They followed a few steps behind, walking ever so slowly, so gently, as if still trying to not wake grandpa up. However, the huge white hall had emptied out. We were the only ones left. Even grandpa had left. I couldn’t see grandpa at the front of the hall, even his bed had gone.

Once more we are standing at the open doors. Father’s eyes were slightly reddened as if he too had been crying. I couldn’t be too sure, I hadn’t seen it happen, neither have I ever remembered father ever shedding a tear. Yes, it seemed unlikely that father might have cried. Father turned to look at me, and said in a low voice, “Grandpa has gone to a better place, a place flowing with milk and honey.”

I nodded. One of those nods that I always used when I couldn’t be sure if I truly understood. At least the place that father described sounds like somewhere I can imagine. At this, father smiled and shook his head.

“You nod as if you understand, but how can I expect a 5 year old to understand death.” Father patted me gently and asked if I were hungry.

99 ballons...

watch and be moved...

http://www.godtube.com/view_video.php?viewkey=c975d005cd2c4d261f7f

The font always looks weird when I blog from work...

writing on the wall...

Well since BestWrites is closing its doors, I'll have no outlet for my excess writing. So I guess I start posting stories again. I'll start with the stuff that I've written for BestWrites. I'll psot them soon.

rushing a slow walk...

Because I'm a lot less Grim and a lot more Alvin, I'm blogging again.

Today after church Walte*r, SQ, Gilbe*rt and I went to Holland. There, we were walking around to decide which ice cream place to have ice cream and we were walking quite slowly. Outside Holland's 7-11, a girl approached us to do a survey.

Girl: Hi, can I have a moment of your time?

SQ: No, we are in a rush.

Girl: Okie, I guess you all should walk faster then.

grim...

I think my face would soon harden into a permanent frown.

For some reason I'm feeling less and less joy.

Have you ever felt like crying but you just can't because you've grown accustomed to not shedding tears?

I feel very tired. And the worst part would be going to army tomorrow.

I think I should change my name to grim.