Call my name in your dreams

Call my name in your dreams
Even if I’m dead
Call, call for it always
The moment you lay on your bed

Call my name in your dreams
And I will instantly hear
No matter how far the world we are in
My love, I will always answer

Call my name in your dreams
If you feel lonely at night
And I will come and stay with you
Till the sun shines all bright

Call my name in your dreams
When you tremble in fear
I’ll come for you, my love
To kiss away all your tears

Call my name in your dreams
When things trouble you most
And I will whisper a prayer
For the strength, to gain back what you lost

Call my name in your dreams
When your world starts to break
I’ll come as the spirit of the reverie
To save you from any plague

Call my name in your dreams
Seek for me right ahead
And I’ll call your name in my dreams
Even if you are here, even if you’re dead

Daughters of the dragon

Daughters of the dragon


From where I sat I could see the old mansion stood near. Beyond the majestic birches and oaks, there its pinnacle could be seen, towering heavenward. I never knew how old the mansion was. It was already there ever since I knew the world. I did not even know why we live there as the place was not exactly similar with other homes of my friends. The structure, it seemed, did not belong to this country, and it was strange and so mysterious that not all its spaces I have journeyed in.

I was sitting under the shade of an old oak tree at the centre of the garden, where I found myself isolated from the outer world. It eased me to sit in such silence even though I was sitting idly on a chilly stone that was almost all-covered with lichens. The stone that I was talking about is a quarter half of our dining table in the dining room. It was so huge that even father would be able to lie on it like a bed. I always do so sometimes. The stone according to my grandmother was an empty sarcophagus, an isolated tomb that existed for hundred years, during the days of our ancestors. Only the moment she said it I realized the strange letters carved on it, that I can’t even read. One might avoid such an eerie place. But, instead of feeling afraid to be there, it made me feel close to my dear grandmother that I missed most.

By and by, I saw the soothing image of hers coming towards me like apparitions. With a smile she greeted me who was then but a nine-year-old girl.

“What book are you reading my dear child?” she asked sitting down beside me on the sarcophagus. I showed her a copy of Bram Stoker in my hand. 

“It is the story of Dracula, grandmother. The creature that drinks blood, that sleeps by day and roam by night!” I said excitedly, unconsciously uttering along some classic phrases from the old book and looking fully drown in my own imagination. Listening to my answer grandmother looked rather astonished. Then again, she smiled.

“Is that what the book says about him?” she asked again.

“Em…” I nodded and she gently stroked my rich black hair.

“Will you hear the story of Dracula, my princess, about what men call the ‘pricolici’?”

“Pricolici?”

“It means vampire in English,” she said. I turned at her instantly, looking with great sense of wonder and she smiled again as her lovely hand unceasingly caressed my silky hair and face. 

Thus, she told me the story of the brave Walachian who fights with all his life to protect his land, far in the land and times that I could not imagined. His name is Vlad Tepes son of Dracul, the dragon. 

To save his land the prince sought the friendship of Hungary and with a sacred marriage the camaraderie was sealed. The princess of Hungary was then brought to Romania, the weeping land of his husband. She was never allowed to go outside, only to walk and feel the blessed sunlight upon the walls of their tower. Her husband was a great Ruler like her Fathers, thus she kept faith in her little heart. But, the truth she never knew that a tyrant he was. He expressed a different way in loving his land by letting no outlaw to linger on her blessed soil. Therefore, every criminal and petty little thief was impaled and beheaded. Their blood, the tidings said, was drunk by him so that every sin of wrongdoers was buried in him forever.

But, one day the innocent queen of Romania sneaked out from the palace to buy a present for her beloved husband. She would buy the present herself and bid the servants to keep silent on her deed. On the route back home she noticed things that were unexpected; a price for a wrong turn. She could not say a word nor cry out a breath of suffering voice. She kept cursing herself for being too eager for the shop of presents, for being too ignorant to notice things around her, for being too wretched to discover the truth. Bodies lain around her had suffered a crude death. Some were beheaded and were left on the ground. Some were half-rotten with maggots eating up their melting flesh. There were bodies embedded to the stakes and the pointed sharp spikes came out of their cheeks. The smell of death lingered as if it was the realm of death itself. She fell on both her knees and her heavy mantel kissed the ground and the rich drapery of her gown stained as if with blood and the sin of The Ruler. At that very moment, there were tears coming down her eyes and she wept till she could not anymore, like stone.

That night she left her son with the servant and went to see him in his chamber. There he was, standing at the fire deep in thoughts like a young slender birch tree. He gave her a smile once she entered. Yet, her smile had long gone. She stood before him, then, still like a stone staring only at the viewless point on his face. Though she touched him like herself and served his tea and all, she never answered his asking. He had asked her about her health and with all the sight she had seen that day, how could she answer.

At last he asked her about his son. There was a sudden tremor in her heart like spirit coming back to it. She looked straight into his dark eyes and spoke.

“Your son, what is your hope for him?”

“My son is my descendant. He must rule after me and continue my reign,” he said.

“And let him see things that you forbid me to see. And let him do the same. How I wish you would care for him,” she whispered and turned away to the door.

“You say it as if you had cursed me, my love.” He stared at her from behind rather menacingly and she could feel his blazing eyes devouring her, burning her, a helpless little candle. “If only a bird would realise how little the bird is when it perched upon my bough.” There was a claw clutching her heart as she listened to his words. With such heart-quailing authority, she stood there breathless, unable to breathe even a breath of sigh. Well, he was a king after all.

“If a bird could alter a bough, then let it prays for the season to change. Yet, it dares not.” The young queen finally said. She turned back to him, neared him, one step after another, and put the pendant that she had been clasping in her hands around his proud magnificent neck. She fix it right on his chest and looked rather solemnly at her present. The fierce winged creature flew with its wings stretched out while looping for its own tail. There was a splendid ruby at the centre of the dragon.

“The symbol of immortality for our love, for our children. My only wish is my sons and daughters to be protected. The lingering sins of their ancestors shall never touch my flesh and blood as long as my line shall last. That is my hope, and you, my Lordship, will you protect them?”

“Even after my life has strained away, my shadow shall stay, for you my love.” With that he kissed her and she smiled to him then, eyes flowing with tears. Even after she had left up for her chamber the tyrant himself stood alone cherishing but not regretting the promise he had made for her. On the same night she threw herself out of the window and was left hanging till early in the morning right next to the window of the king’s chamber.

“Therefore, Dracula roam on earth still to protect his descendants, to fulfil his promise,” my Grandmother said ending her story. She took off her necklace that she had been wearing for long and put it around my neck. It had a strange locket with a circle of a dragon and a red stone at the centre of it. “Keep that well, princess, and may you be protected forever,” she said and I looked at her, confused. 

“If they are not English, in what language do they speak, grandmother?”

“It is the language of the Walachians.”

“Do you know the language, grandmother? Can you teach me?”

“My dear princess, I can teach you ‘ma numesc…’ (My name is in Romanian).”

In the blink of an eye, everything disappeared. The image of grandmother had faded, she was no longer there. A gust of wind suddenly blew and I clutched the dragon necklace that I wore around my neck for so many years. I closed my eyes and whispered slowly under my breath “Ma numesc Sophia Dracul.”

Yet another poem...

i wrote this poem to my dear fellow trees which stood abreast a lonely road in my school(remember about the huge trees i mentioned before? those were the ones) . i had such a difficult time studying there since i was having problems with the administrators. What wrong could it be, when you are studying English language?! *somewhat pissed...* The trees are those that healed my heart, despite of how lonely and how screwed my days were. i love them and by just looking at them, all my worries wouldgo away. Anyway, it was an old story now. People had cut them down, while i was still studying there, when problems had plagued me the most. Despite of what the trees gave me, i couldn't do anything to protect them. i was such a useless person...*sigh* So, here it goes, a requiem for the trees...

Where is the voice that calls upon me?
That calls such gaze towards you
Where is the prayer that you always give me?
That bless me in everything I do

Have I told you how much I miss
Your daily song that fills the street?
Have I told you everything has gone amiss?
Ever since the day you grow discreet

I have been waiting for your secrets
For I had told all mine at your knee
I hope to hear so your regrets
But you didn’t ever wait for me

I have been dying to gaze at you
Why you leave me when I need you most
Oh, wait for me you never do
Flying away like a memory lost

As I walked along that street
I know both of us are crying
Our silence devour our heart
Little by little as we are living

I’m sorry I can’t look at you
For I have fail to protect you
But, will you ever let me wait for you
Please then walk fast, I’ll be here for you

The memory we had in that rain
I shall keep it safe with tears
Will we ever then meet again
To cherish all the things so dear

Where is the voice that calls upon me?
That calls such gaze towards you
Where is the prayer that you always give me?
That bless me in everything I do

To the trees with love.

The failed looker

A poem this time... ^_^

The Failed Looker

Call me not a Shakespeare
For I am not He
Who formed those twisted words
Beyond the lives of many

Oh, how much I adore the lines
Of those sightful lookers
That twist and flow and sing and I
But one of those lovers

Ask me not what they mean
The twisted hymns that fly and fall
I’m not the saint of words
Who knows them all or not at all

Oh, through the glance of yours
You do abhor;
The insult on the breeze of my failures
Yet still my sight you do encore

Why ask you my sight
As if I am a foolish looker
My views are not as bright
As true as the witty mocker

I cannot find the key to my world
Of words of literature-toast
Now, my grave lies at the very gate
Which I used to travel most

My words are lost, their words are lost
My words are lost and theirs as well

Life’s a scattering poem
That people always face and see
If you realize and think
You, yourself a looker be

Seek me not on lines, on words on hymns
My affection goes on its trodden trek
Now, I’ve lost the key to my world
And I can’t find my own words back.

A leave taking

This is actually an essay that my teacher told me to write like end your essay with "...and she pat my back and left" thingy. i had a dark mind as a child and i could not stop myself writing things like this. This one reminds me most to Ryougi Shiki from Kara no Kyoukai since she had two characters in her. It may be weird to say this, but i also had this kind of thinking ever since i was small. The truth is, I can still hear her voice whispering to my ears sometimes (the effect of loneliness, so don't let your children feel that way... haha). Of course, the other me is also a girl (unlike Shiki) but with a bit masculine character, the reason why i don't have boyfriends and am not interested to have one yet... Anyway, this story is more like mine and since i wrote it years and years ago, i didn't describe things that well... as expressive as a writer should (even now, there are so much to improve still). Okay, happy reading...

A leave taking

‘Grief comes not in a single spy but in battalions,’ thus she whispered to my ears on, quoting her most favourite line in Hamlet. I stood alone on the ground under a gloomy oak tree hugging both my knees. Soon, I heard her voice again calling my name like a voiceless breath as if a reminder of my complete solitude.

The oak tree rustled above and I could see its bough swaying like hands reaching over the unreachable sky. By and by, the swaying ceased like the spirit of the wayfarer who struggled to reach the Promised Land. The more he walked, the more the dream faded. Suddenly, I heard her voice again, this time she was singing. It was the song of loneliness. I did not know why or how I knew it, though I knew not what she said. The song went deep within my heart with a hymn so melancholic to be heard, so loathsome to be kept in heart that made me hug my knees more tightly than before.

She was a friend of mine since childhood and I did not deny that we were so close. She followed me wherever I went, always, like shadows. Despite the time we had together, I got a secret that I kept hidden from her and avoided even to think about it, perchance she would find out. What friend did I possess that made me afraid so much to tell? What ugly secrets that I bore that made me be clutched by fear? 

Doubtless, she was like an apparition that was clever enough to know everything and powerful enough to stir the very depth of a person’s heart. Indeed, she was. I still could remember the story of a child who was neglected by her own flesh and blood. Nothing lingered in her mind and heart save nothingness. She was such a poor creature who in an early life was forced to face disgust and abhorrence.

But, one day she found a friend. It was just a voice at first calling her name over and over again gracefully like angel. Since she was the only one who heard the voice that was what she had in mind. Yet, little by little she could sense her presence, her touch, her kindness, her company till one day she thought that she could see her, the girl. She saw her standing in front of her like a mirror and she smiled a familiar smile and looked with similar eyes.

“My name is Séphia with diacritical E.” That was what she said on their first meeting and she who was much taken aback by the name would always remember it till the end. Then, I heard myself said it slowly under my breath that day right under the oak tree while I was hugging my knees that she was but my fragmented self, such words that the little girl said on the same day under the oak tree while hugging both her knees. And, the secret -how I wish I would not think about it – that was well kept, it seemed, for decades was but a silent hate, and I would if I could tell her that I hated her.

There was a sudden gust of wind rustling the boughs above vigorously and I closed my eyes while a guilty drop of tears slobbered from my eyes to my cheek. To ignore a friend was a matter of betrayal but to tell a friend to walk away was a murder.

“Séphia!” she called and there she was standing before me like a shadow. I stood up with quailing heart.

“Why didn’t you answer me?” she demanded with great power.

“I can’t hear you and I can’t hear you anymore,” came my answer.

“But, why?” she asked.

“Because…because I have kept a secret that I never tell. I know you will find it out, I know the time will come. Please read my mind, please and please do.”

“You have found other friends,” she said regretfully. She stared at me with wrathful eyes then, and I shut my eyes pretending not to cringe. “I give you love, Séphia. I give you hopes and I give you dreams!”

“You do not give me life. Is it a sin not to forget to live? Is it wrong to face the truth? I look at it and see that we are not alone. We will be accepted if we accept ourselves. You used to control me with your powers, with our loneliness and now I dream to see bliss, such dream that you have given me. We both can change it. I know we can.” There was an unbearable silence creeping to every space between us. She looked me still with eyes laden with words. I thought I see a tear, then.

“Are you ready to face it, Séphia?” she asked.

“I will take that chance.”

“And so be it.” The violent wind suddenly ceased and I could hear some birds singing somewhere up on the tree. I could hear her voice no more and would not forever. In that silence, I cried and cried recalling her leaving as if I could see her clearly with my eyes. The moment before, she smiled to me reminding me of the smile she first taught me.

“I wish you every success.” She patted my back and left.

Words to a Mother

Well, here's another story. Just like the first one, it was written years and years ago. The idea was not originally mine though all the words were wirtten by me. My friend came to me one day and asked me to write a story for her. I told her i didn't have a story to tell at that time but she pleadingly said any story would do. So, i picked my pen and began to write a story of a manga i had read. It is actually a short manga by Kaoru and i had made a little adjustments here and there, making it more like a fanfic than a short story. Hehehe.. well here it goes... i'm sorry for the grammatical mistakes i made. i don't have time to check it through...*cries*...

Words to a Mother

There was a boy that I met in the class, sitting at the front in the right corner of the classroom. Every time I walked briskly to the class for English lesson, I could see from afar the pupils scrambling here and there, making awful noise like hounds, and he, the little boy, stayed at his place scribbling onto his papers in silence. I never heard his voice, to be exact, since the first day I was transferred to the school. Thus, it was made clearly in my mind at first that he was mute.

There was some kind of jeers from his classmates calling him mute at times, and I scolded them for doing so. Well, that was the only thing I could do, then and telling them not to tease others of their handicap is what I did, an advice which I regretted saying. That is because later a few teachers told me that some times ago he did talk and only a couple of months before I came here he had simply stopped speaking, not in the class, not to the teachers and his classmates, not to anyone else. I was not the one to be blamed in this misunderstanding nor was it the boy’s fault for not expressing his golden voice. There must be some hidden matters in him which had laid back all his words into one feeling that only he possessed. Thus, it explained to me quite clearly why he always gave me a frown laden with indecipherable words every time I purposely asked him questions.

I never told anyone how much the boy resembled my daughter, a student in the same school with us. Indeed, for almost two months she stopped talking to me. Whenever I asked her questions, academic or non-academic, including the silly ones, I dared to give a million for charity if she answered. She would only sit silently eating her dinner, ignore me as if I was not there or turn her back on me heading to her room. At school it was impossible not to meet each other and every time our errands meet where both intersections joined, she looked at me like strangers as if a lamb mocking upon a slaughter.

Somehow, I understood exactly what she was trying to teach me. Once a person told me that parents do not teach children everything, the children will teach them something instead. Two months ago my husband and I was divorced and two months ever since that day she never talked to me. I knew then that the silence was but to upbraid our separation. I had nothing to say about it, though. The relationship had come to an end and my husband and I both understood that divorce was something that cannot be avoided anymore.

Sometimes it made me wonder what a bad mother I was. I had done the most unforgivable thing to a child, yet still, even after all that, I wanted her to act as the way she was towards me. It was the loneliness of a mother, I think, or perhaps the selfishness of a mother in less sentimental words which had forced me to have this kind of feeling. I didn’t really know how to interpret it but it was some kind of a terrible agony or wishing that I would like to utter even for a couple of seconds to her, my dearest- Would you please give an answer, or yell to me, or frown at me, or give me a curt nod at least? It would have sufficed, it would have sufficed…

One day I entered the class early in the morning and was shocked to death to find that the boy was sitting quietly at his place with dirty ragged uniform and a nasty bruise on his chin. On his desk laid ugly doodles and markings taunting upon his muteness. The fact that he and everyone else was not going to tell what had happed was highly dubious, so I scribbled something on the board, left some works for the pupils, took the little boy’s hand and dragged him out of the class. I took him to the sick bay hoping for a miracle in fixing the bruise.

“Would you please sit here? I’ll fix that for you,” I said taking responsibility for there were no attendants in the room. But, he just stood there frowning at me. I told him to sit again the moment I got hold of the first aid kit yet there he was at the corner of the room remaining the way he was before. Frankly speaking, I grew a bit impatient with him.

“I beg that you prefer to be in the class and have a new bruise on your face rather than being here?” There was a deathlike silence as I waited for him. He stood there as still as a tree and refused to sit next to me. Despite of all the kindness and despite of all the discourtesy I showed… why?!

“Oh, please say something! Your mother is going to be very unhappy to know this!” I said half-screaming. Deep inside my heart I could feel a brief but painful hot dismay seeping through. Suddenly, there was a ring of voice, I guess, it was shrill and bold like a bell, a voice that had never reached my ears. And, I saw before my eyes a little boy bristling in anger. It was indeed an astounding sight.

“I don’t care if she’s mute. I hate people calling that to her!” he shouted.

“Who says that she’s mute?!” I screamed being too excited to hear him speak.

“You don’t but others do!”

“Oh, really!” I demanded with a sneer noticing that it was the boy’s anger which had evoked him to blurt out his words.

“You didn’t understand, did you?!” he glared at me while tiny drops of tears appeared at the corner of his eyes. “If your mother is mute, she never talks to you and even to others. People jeer at her, calling her names and all that. But, she actually speaks. She has a language which only you could understand. She speaks through her eyes. You can even feel her words in your heart when she just looks at you or touches you. Yet, still people who never understand jeer at her, laugh at her, look down at her. Even she smiles at you, telling that it doesn’t matter at all, but to you it matters!

“I don’t want her to face it alone. Let them jeer at me instead. If she is mute, then I am mute like her.” I looked at him pitifully while he frowned at me still with anger. The boy, though was small in his age was old in his words. I sighed with a quiet smile on my lips. It was made clear to me now, how strange the relation of a mother and her child was. Their love never alters but is entangled in a peculiar knot. There was a long silence as I waited for him to cool down.

“Do you know what is the greatest music in this world?” I asked and he looked at me confused. I walked around the room and settled myself gazing out a window looking to the clouds which moved like snails up in the celestial sea. “When a mother gives birth to a child, she could hear the greatest and the most beautiful music ever created in this world. It was not Mozart’s, nor Beethoven’s.” This time I turned at him and looked straight into his eyes. “It was the cries of the child itself, the child’s voice, your voice! You know, it completes every weakness that she ever has and all her sorrows and woes are gone. It is the greatest pleasure that she will hear it always as long as she lives.

“But, when a mother cannot hear her child’s voice, it was the saddest thing ever happened in her life. It hurts here,” I said putting a hand on my breast. “It really hurts. So, would you please go back home today and at least talk to her. Please talk to her.” At that moment I felt tears in my eyes, yet I did not cry. The boy who stood before me wept but I didn’t pity him anymore, I was proud instead. All of a sudden, I heard a creak at the door and noticed that the door which stayed ajar before slowly moved and shut with a faint click. 

I went home late that night and was surprised to find the light at the living room was on. I was heading to my room when my ears caught a beautiful soft familiar voice scolding me.

“Why are you late? Do you know I cooked the dinner? It is already cold!” I was lulled for a couple of seconds to find her standing in front of the kitchen with hands akimbo. I saw a tiny plaster on her finger and asked, “What happened to your hand?” 

“I hurt myself in the lab. My friend has helped me with this, don’t worry,” came the answer. I wasted no time and grabbed her, hugged and kissed her with tears in my eyes. She didn’t walk away from me. She stood still and hugged me back.

“I just want to say that I love you, Nia. I love you so much and do you know that I do not have a million to give for charity!” At that time, I think, I saw the little boy in his mother’s arm. She hugged him tightly and cried just to hear a simple phrase from him- Mother, I’m home!

To The Grimm Reaper - A Letter

Well, for starter, i had chosen this short story of mine to be posted first. Maybe because it is my favourite and i wrote it with all my heart and soul, haha just kidding. it was somewhere in 2005, i think( i was just a kid, then), and i was sitting on my bed in my hostel, gazing at the huge trees very far away and listening to their murmurs. i really like those trees and i think they had cut them off, what a pity. They rained golden flowers every April and those cruel administrators, they just don't value stuff like that. Anyway, it was at that time i started to dream of a very weird story and started writing.

So, probably some people might have read this somewhere for i had really posted it at two different websites. Really, i'm not copy-pasting it, we are just the same person...hehe. So, enjoy and do leave a comment ^_^

To The Grimm Reaper - A Letter

Dear Mr. Grim Reaper,

I do not really know how I am supposed to tell you, yet I know well that you might patiently read this letter as you silently wait for some more errands in your office. For your information sir, I am deeply gratified for your highest concern and I thank you. The main purpose in writing this letter is to inform you regarding the event that is taking place almost daily at my home. I know I am just a little lady who is insignificant enough to bother you in your work, and I know I am not the one to complain. However, it happens to me almost everyday and I, myself cannot explain what is simply happening. You might name it as ‘post-shifting condition’ that you has always said when a family member died. I do not deny that it helps me to forget certain things and be ready to face life and move on. It almost lifts me into my typical daily life for many times now. Actually, it just confused me, that’s all and by writing this I am hoping that you could provide me some explanation and clarify what is going on.

That day Edward came to my apartment, like always. He nagged like a woman, scolding and asking me angrily why my house was dark and why I did not keep my house clean. He even reminded me of the things that passed and I just sat quietly listening more like a child than his own mother. When he was about to leave, he took the shopping bag on the table which he had brought in earlier and I walked him to the door.

“I thought you are supposed to be in the florist shop,” he said. “Don’t tell me you learn to skip work from Mrs. McCoy.” Mrs. McCoy, for your information, is a friend who also works at the florist shop. She always has some time to be absent though she is apparently in good health. She is two years older than me and with such happiness and good life, I think, you might not be meeting her in next ten years. Well, in hearing my son’s remarks I looked blankly at him and smiled. He promised me to come again the next day and then I saw him walking casually along the corridor, a hand in his pocket, jingling his coins and keys. After a few steps, he stopped, making a funny U-turn in front of the lifts, like always.

I couldn’t help myself but laughed in front of the door knowing that he had forgotten something. He always forgets the first thing he has remembered.

“But the way, Mother,” he said. “This is actually for you.” He gave me the shopping bag and left.

I really hope, Mr. Grim Reaper that you still remember my son, Edward, who stood next to me on the right during my husband’s funeral. He is my only son, the one who always tries to cheer me up after his Dad passed away three years ago. He is jovial, Grim Reaper, isn’t he? He is a kind of person who would make you laugh even after thousand years of sorrow. He also loves to nag at times, reflecting myself in my olden days. He has grown to be a nice young man.

If only he would just live with me, he might not have to face all those cruel things in life. He was scratching through his collage life, and I knew it, yet he told me he did not want to burden me with more financial matters. I recalled cursing his wretched sense of freedom that took him away from me. Somehow, no matter how hard, a parent would yield to every wish a child desires and he is the child of all my children, my only progeny.

After having breakfast in front of the television and dressed myself, I locked the door while singing a lousy song that I just remembered. Then I found myself on the street walking to the florist shop. Everyone looked amazingly busy that day and the traffic moved with a strange rapidity. I walked heedlessly trying to reach the shop as fast as I could even though I knew something would hold me back, Grim Reaper, such things that I would suddenly remember from the deepest gulf of my soul. I would just buy some white roses, I think, instead of selling them and I would go back home in mourn.

Next day I heard a knock at the door and his voice calling me. “Mother, Mother, are you in there?” He opened the door and found me sitting on the couch flabbergasted. From where I was sitting I could see his black familiar figure holding a shopping bag at the opened door in silhouette.

“Why didn’t you switch on the light? It’s dark in here.” He groped for the switch on the wall and, lo and behold, the light was on revealing the loftiness of my apartment. I heard him sigh and saw him shaking his head. He put the shopping bag on the table and trudged reluctantly to the living room. I was sure he noticed a vast of withered white roses besides the television. He slowly knelt down picking up all the photo albums which were scattering on the floor.

“You know, when I was a boy, you always scolded me for making a mess at home, and I am a naughty brat am I not? A trip back home from a football match is all a neat mother can handle,” he said rather bitterly. I did not know why I slowly smiled listening to it. To think about it you see how ironic I have changed. After he finished tidying and cleaning the house he went to the kitchen for a drink. From the living room I could hear him complaining about my messy kitchen.

“You know, you didn’t lock the door when I came here!” he shouted from the kitchen. “There was a burglary next block yesterday. People say they disguise like beggars, begging for food. Mother, do you hear me?” I didn’t answer him. I was excited at that time, I guess. By and by, I had forgotten something, something very important. I was happy about it and I didn’t care if I would never remember.

“I need to go now. Don’t forget to lock the door.” He took the shopping bag on the table and I rose walking him to the door.

“I thought you are supposed to be at the florist shop. Don’t tell me you learn to skip work like Mrs. McCoy.” I smiled again feeling like a young trainee on probation.

“I’ll come again tomorrow, Mother. Don’t you forget that.” He walked casually down the corridor, a hand shaking his coins and keys in his pocket. After a few steps he turned back making an expected u-turn as he reached the lift.

“By the way, Mother, I forgot, this is actually for you,” he handed me the shopping bag while I was laughing and left. He was a nice boy, wasn’t he, Mr. Grim Reaper? He was kind too; too kind that he would probably help those beggars even he knew that they might be burglars playing incognito. By and by, I could sense tears flowing down from my eyes. Yes, he was too kind, and kind people, you said, never stay long in this world, and so he died two months ago being killed in a burglary.

I sobbed in front of my door all by myself while watching him walked away along the hallway. I wondered, Mr. Grim Reaper, and I wish you can tell me, sir, why I keep seeing him everyday and he gives me this bag of groceries which I can not even feel though I hug it tightly in my arms?

Hello World!

I'm trying this out because I'm bored.

I'm having a semester break for a month (thanks to my practical programme 3 months vacation was cut off T_T) and i didn't really know what to do. i have a silly novel to finish which my editor has been waiting for two years, a driving licence to get, two languages to study at the same time, some crocheted amigurumi to make, a classic and 3 more scholarly books to read, a nice piano piece to master and a lot of manga to read. Really, i had cut a few things from my list and one of them the paper building construction!!!! (which i love so much). A month is such a short time and now i'm adding a new activity for my things-to-do list and it is managing this crazy blog which i have newly-created. Since i'm not the kind of person who will be satisfied by just staring at the empty walls of my home and listening to the tempting murmurs of the waves at the beach nearby, i decided to do this, heheh...

i got a feeling that this blog will be more of a literature type. Because i didn't have much interesting topic to discuss, i will be posting some silly short stories or poems that i wrote in the past, when i was still young, when i still had no idea of what English grammar is like, haha... Anyway, enjoy your stay and feel free to comment on the stories/poems or make fun of them. i don't mind because i'm going to do that as well in this blog. That's all for now :P