masterwordsmith-unplugged

It was the last round of the card game before we turned in for the night at Jake's sleepover party. Adam suggested that the loser should be slapped with a forfeit. We all agreed that the unlucky one would have to go on his own and knock on the door of the house across the road where Jake lived.

As I looked out of the window, it almost seemed as though that gloomy looking house was glaring at me angrily. I just knew that the loser of this fateful round would definitely have an interesting trip to nothing but sheer doom.

As I played my turn, I gathered my cards and heaved a sigh of relief thinking I had a good call. One by one, we showed our cards. The final round pierced my heart.

I was destined to be THE chosen one. I kept to the deal with unspoken words without looking at my friends who were giggling and grimacing eagerly to frighten me.

Walking there, I felt as though the house opposite was staring right into my eyes. Bathed in the moonlight, the wooden house seemed eerily evil. Curiosity beckoned and I walked towards that house.

Treading slowly on the damp soil in the garden, a sudden surge of panic froze me to the spot. Out of the blue, my friends were screaming and telling me to run for my life.

Before I could turn around to ask them to shut up, I saw a wooden stake moving in my direction and it pierced my chest. A piercing high-pitched scream was the last thing I heard as my head struck the ground.

When I was in primary school, a few writers impacted my reading habit. Apart from Somerset Maugham, Ernest Hemingway and Agatha Christie, Leo Tolstoy is (September 9, 1828 – November 20, 1910) one of my favourite authors from my childhood. Lately, I have been reading his books and short stories again. This evening, I would like to share with you one of his short stories - After the Dance.

AFTER THE DANCE - written by Leo Tolstoy

"--AND you say that a man cannot, of himself, understand what is good and evil; that it is all environment, that the environment swamps the man. But I believe it is all chance. Take my own case . . ."

Thus spoke our excellent friend, Ivan Vasilievich, after a conversation between us on the impossibility of improving individual character without a change of the conditions under which men live. Nobody had actually said that one could not of oneself understand good and evil; but it was a habit of Ivan Vasilievich to answer in this way the thoughts aroused in his own mind by conversation, and to illustrate those thoughts by relating incidents in his own life. He often quite forgot the reason for his story in telling it; but he always told it with great sincerity and feeling.

He did so now.

"Take my own case. My whole life was moulded, not by environment, but by something quite different."

"By what, then?" we asked.

"Oh, that is a long story. I should have to tell you about a great many things to make you understand."

"Well, tell us then."

Ivan Vasilievich thought a little, and shook his head.

"My whole life," he said, "was changed in one night, or, rather, morning."

"Why, what happened?" one of us asked.

"What happened was that I was very much in love. I have been in love many times, but this was the most serious of all. It is a thing of the past; she has married daughters now. It was Varinka B----." Ivan Vasilievich mentioned her surname. "Even at fifty she is remarkably handsome; but in her youth, at eighteen, she was exquisite--tall, slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, stately is the word; she held herself very erect, by instinct as it were; and carried her head high, and that together with her beauty and height gave her a queenly air in spite of being thin, even bony one might say. It might indeed have been deterring had it not been for her smile, which was always gay and cordial, and for the charming light in her eyes and for her youthful sweetness."



"What an entrancing description you give, Ivan Vasilievich!"

"Description, indeed! I could not possibly describe her so that you could appreciate her. But that does not matter; what I am going to tell you happened in the forties. I was at that time a student in a provincial university. I don't know whether it was a good thing or no, but we had no political clubs, no theories in our universities then. We were simply young and spent our time as young men do, studying and amusing ourselves. I was a very gay, lively, careless fellow, and had plenty of money too. I had a fine horse, and used to go tobogganing with the young ladies. Skating had not yet come into fashion. I went to drinking parties with my comrades--in those days we drank nothing but champagne--if we had no champagne we drank nothing at all. We never drank vodka, as they do now. Evening parties and balls were my favourite amusements. I danced well, and was not an ugly fellow."

"Come, there is no need to be modest," interrupted a lady near him. "We have seen your photograph. Not ugly, indeed! You were a handsome fellow."

"Handsome, if you like. That does not matter. When my love for her was at its strongest, on the last day of the carnival, I was at a ball at the provincial marshal's, a good-natured old man, rich and hospitable, and a court chamberlain. The guests were welcomed by his wife, who was as good-natured as himself. She was dressed in puce-coloured velvet, and had a diamond diadem on her forehead, and her plump, old white shoulders and bosom were bare like the portraits of Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great.

"It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid room, with a gallery for the orchestra, which was famous at the time, and consisted of serfs belonging to a musical landowner. The refreshments were magnificent, and the champagne flowed in rivers. Though I was fond of champagne I did not drink that night, because without it I was drunk with love. But I made up for it by dancing waltzes and polkas till I was ready to drop--of course, whenever possible, with Varinka. She wore a white dress with a pink sash, white shoes, and white kid gloves, which did not quite reach to her thin pointed elbows. A disgusting engineer named Anisimov robbed me of the mazurka with her--to this day I cannot forgive him. He asked her for the dance the minute she arrived, while I had driven to the hair-dresser's to get a pair of gloves, and was late. So I did not dance the mazurka with her, but with a German girl to whom I had previously paid a little attention; but I am afraid I did not behave very politely to her that evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her, and saw nothing but the tall, slender figure in a white dress, with a pink sash, a flushed, beaming, dimpled face, and sweet, kind eyes. I was not alone; they were all looking at her with admiration, the men and women alike, although she outshone all of them. They could not help admiring her.

"Although I was not nominally her partner for the mazurka, I did as a matter of fact dance nearly the whole time with her. She always came forward boldly the whole length of the room to pick me out. I flew to meet her without waiting to be chosen, and she thanked me with a smile for my intuition. When I was brought up to her with somebody else, and she guessed wrongly, she took the other man's hand with a shrug of her slim shoulders, and smiled at me regretfully.

"Whenever there was a waltz figure in the mazurka, I waltzed with her for a long time, and breathing fast and smiling, she would say, 'Encore'; and I went on waltzing and waltzing, as though unconscious of any bodily existence."

"Come now, how could you be unconscious of it with your arm round her waist? You must have been conscious, not only of your own existence, but of hers," said one of the party.

Ivan Vasilievich cried out, almost shouting in anger: "There you are, moderns all over! Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was different in our day. The more I was in love the less corporeal was she in my eyes. Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was different in our day. The more I was in love the less corporeal was she in my eyes. Nowadays you set legs, ankles, and I don't know what. You undress the women you are in love with. In my eyes, as Alphonse Karr said--and he was a good writer--' the one I loved was always draped in robes of bronze.' We never thought of doing so; we tried to veil her nakedness, like Noah's good-natured son. Oh, well, you can't understand."

"Don't pay any attention to him. Go on," said one of them.

"Well, I danced for the most part with her, and did not notice how time was passing. The musicians kept playing the same mazurka tunes over and over again in desperate exhaustion--you know what it is towards the end of a ball. Papas and mammas were already getting up from the card-tables in the drawing-room in expectation of supper, the men-servants were running to and fro bringing in things. It was nearly three o'clock. I had to make the most of the last minutes. I chose her again for the mazurka, and for the hundredth time we danced across the room.

"'The quadrille after supper is mine,' I said, taking her to her place.

"'Of course, if I am not carried off home,' she said, with a smile.

"'I won't give you up,' I said.

"'Give me my fan, anyhow,' she answered.

"'I am so sorry to part with it,' I said, handing her a cheap white fan.

"'Well, here's something to console you,' she said, plucking a feather out of the fan, and giving it to me.

"I took the feather, and could only express my rapture and gratitude with my eyes. I was not only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted; I was good, I was not myself but some being not of this earth, knowing nothing of evil. I hid the feather in my glove, and stood there unable to tear myself away from her.

"'Look, they are urging father to dance,' she said to me, pointing to the tall, stately figure of her father, a colonel with silver epaulettes, who was standing in the doorway with some ladies.

"'Varinka, come here!' exclaimed our hostess, the lady with the diamond ferronniere and with shoulders like Elizabeth, in a loud voice.

"'Varinka went to the door, and I followed her.

"'Persuade your father to dance the mazurka with you, ma chere.--Do, please, Peter Valdislavovich,' she said, turning to the colonel.

"Varinka's father was a very handsome, well-preserved old man. He had a good colour, moustaches curled in the style of Nicolas I., and white whiskers which met the moustaches. His hair was combed on to his forehead, and a bright smile, like his daughter's, was on his lips and in his eyes. He was splendidly set up, with a broad military chest, on which he wore some decorations, and he had powerful shoulders and long slim legs. He was that ultra-military type produced by the discipline of Emperor Nicolas I.

"When we approached the door the colonel was just refusing to dance, saying that he had quite forgotten how; but at that instant he smiled, swung his arm gracefully around to the left, drew his sword from its sheath, handed it to an obliging young man who stood near, and smoothed his suede glove on his right hand.

"'Everything must be done according to rule,' he said with a smile. He took the hand of his daughter, and stood one-quarter turned, waiting for the music.

"At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped one foot smartly, threw the other forward, and, at first slowly and smoothly, then buoyantly and impetuously, with stamping of feet and clicking of boots, his tall, imposing figure moved the length of the room. Varinka swayed gracefully beside him, rhythmically and easily, making her steps short or long, with her little feet in their white satin slippers.

"All the people in the room followed every movement of the couple. As for me I not only admired, I regarded them with enraptured sympathy. I was particularly impressed with the old gentleman's boots. They were not the modern pointed affairs, but were made of cheap leather, squared-toed, and evidently built by the regimental cobbler. In order that his daughter might dress and go out in society, he did not buy fashionable boots, but wore home-made ones, I thought, and his square toes seemed to me most touching. It was obvious that in his time he had been a good dancer; but now he was too heavy, and his legs had not spring enough for all the beautiful steps he tried to take. Still, he contrived to go twice round the room. When at the end, standing with legs apart, he suddenly clicked his feet together and fell on one knee, a bit heavily, and she danced gracefully around him, smiling and adjusting her skirt, the whole room applauded.

"Rising with an effort, he tenderly took his daughter's face between his hands. He kissed her on the forehead, and brought her to me, under the impression that I was her partner for the mazurka. I said I was not. 'Well, never mind. just go around the room once with her,' he said, smiling kindly, as he replaced his sword in the sheath.

"As the contents of a bottle flow readily when the first drop has been poured, so my love for Varinka seemed to set free the whole force of loving within me. In surrounding her it embraced the world. I loved the hostess with her diadem and her shoulders like Elizabeth, and her husband and her guests and her footmen, and even the engineer Anisimov who felt peevish towards me. As for Varinka's father, with his home-made boots and his kind smile, so like her own, I felt a sort of tenderness for him that was almost rapture.

"After supper I danced the promised quadrille with her, and though I had been infinitely happy before, I grew still happier every moment.

"We did not speak of love. I neither asked myself nor her whether she loved me. It was quite enough to know that I loved her. And I had only one fear--that something might come to interfere with my great joy.

"When I went home, and began to undress for the night, I found it quite out of the question. held the little feather out of her fan in my hand, and one of her gloves which she gave me when I helped her into the carriage after her mother. Looking at these things, and without closing my eyes I could see her before me as she was for an instant when she had to choose between two partners. She tried to guess what kind of person was represented in me, and I could hear her sweet voice as she said, 'Pride--am I right?' and merrily gave me her hand. At supper she took the first sip from my glass of champagne, looking at me over the rim with her caressing glance. But, plainest of all, I could see her as she danced with her father, gliding along beside him, and looking at the admiring observers with pride and happiness.

"He and she were united in my mind in one rush of pathetic tenderness.

"I was living then with my brother, who has since died. He disliked going out, and never went to dances; and besides, he was busy preparing for his last university examinations, and was leading a very regular life. He was asleep. I looked at him, his head buried in the pillow and half covered with the quilt; and I affectionately pitied him, pitied him for his ignorance of the bliss I was experiencing. Our serf Petrusha had met me with a candle, ready to undress me, but I sent him away. His sleepy face and tousled hair seemed to me so touching. Trying not to make a noise, I went to my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed. No, I was too happy; I could not sleep. Besides, it was too hot in the rooms. Without taking off my uniform, I went quietly into the hall, put on my overcoat, opened the front door and stepped out into the street.

"It was after four when I had left the ball; going home and stopping there a while had occupied two hours, so by the time I went out it was dawn. It was regular carnival weather--foggy, and the road full of water-soaked snow just melting, and water dripping from the eaves. Varinka's family lived on the edge of town near a large field, one end of which was a parade ground: at the other end was a boarding-school for young ladies. I passed through our empty little street and came to the main thoroughfare, where I met pedestrians and sledges laden with wood, the runners grating the road. The horses swung with regular paces beneath their shining yokes, their backs covered with straw mats and their heads wet with rain; while the drivers, in enormous boots, splashed through the mud beside the sledges. All this, the very horses themselves, seemed to me stimulating and fascinating, full of suggestion.

"When I approached the field near their house, I saw at one end of it, in the direction of the parade ground, something very huge and black, and I heard sounds of fife and drum proceeding from it. My heart had been full of song, and I had heard in imagination the tune of the mazurka, but this was very harsh music. It was not pleasant.

"'What can that be?' I thought, and went towards the sound by a slippery path through the centre of the field. Walking about a hundred paces, I began to distinguish many black objects through the mist. They were evidently soldiers. 'It is probably a drill,' I thought.

"So I went along in that direction in company with a blacksmith, who wore a dirty coat and an apron, and was carrying something. He walked ahead of me as we approached the place. The soldiers in black uniforms stood in two rows, facing each other motionless, their guns at rest. Behind them stood the fifes and drums, incessantly repeating the same unpleasant tune.

"'What are they doing?' I asked the blacksmith, who halted at my side.

"'A Tartar is being beaten through the ranks for his attempt to desert,' said the blacksmith in an angry tone, as he looked intently at the far end of the line.

"I looked in the same direction, and saw between the files something horrid approaching me. The thing that approached was a man, stripped to the waist, fastened with cords to the guns of two soldiers who were leading him. At his side an officer in overcoat and cap was walking, whose figure had a familiar look. The victim advanced under the blows that rained upon him from both sides, his whole body plunging, his feet dragging through the snow. Now he threw himself backward, and the subalterns who led him thrust him forward. Now he fell forward, and they pulled him up short; while ever at his side marched the tall officer, with firm and nervous pace. It was Varinka's father, with his rosy face and white moustache.

"At each stroke the man, as if amazed, turned his face, grimacing with pain, towards the side whence the blow came, and showing his white teeth repeated the same words over and over. But I could only hear what the words were when he came quite near. He did not speak them, he sobbed them out,--"'Brothers, have mercy on me! Brothers, have mercy on me!' But the brothers had, no mercy, and when the procession came close to me, I saw how a soldier who stood opposite me took a firm step forward and lifting his stick with a whirr, brought it down upon the man's back. The man plunged forward, but the subalterns pulled him back, and another blow came down from the other side, then from this side and then from the other. The colonel marched beside him, and looking now at his feet and now at the man, inhaled the air, puffed out his cheeks, and breathed it out between his protruded lips. When they passed the place where I stood, I caught a glimpse between the two files of the back of the man that was being punished. It was something so many-coloured, wet, red, unnatural, that I could hardly believe it was a human body.

"'My God!"' muttered the blacksmith.

The procession moved farther away. The blows continued to rain upon the writhing, falling creature; the fifes shrilled and the drums beat, and the tall imposing figure of the colonel moved along-side the man, just as before. Then, suddenly, the colonel stopped, and rapidly approached a man in the ranks.

"'I'll teach you to hit him gently,' I heard his furious voice say. 'Will you pat him like that? Will you?' and I saw how his strong hand in the suede glove struck the weak, bloodless, terrified soldier for not bringing down his stick with sufficient strength on the red neck of the Tartar.

"'Bring new sticks!' he cried, and looking round, he saw me. Assuming an air of not knowing me, and with a ferocious, angry frown, he hastily turned away. I felt so utterly ashamed that I didn't know where to look. It was as if I had been detected in a disgraceful act. I dropped my eyes, and quickly hurried home. All the way I had the drums beating and the fifes whistling in my ears. And I heard the words, 'Brothers, have mercy on me!' or 'Will you pat him? Will you?' My heart was full of physical disgust that was almost sickness. So much so that I halted several times on my way, for I had the feeling that I was going to be really sick from all the horrors that possessed me at that sight. I do not remember how I got home and got to bed. But the moment I was about to fall asleep I heard and saw again all that had happened, and I sprang up.

"'Evidently he knows something I do not know,' I thought about the colonel. 'If I knew what he knows I should certainly grasp--understand--what I have just seen, and it would not cause me such suffering.'

"But however much I thought about it, I could not understand the thing that the colonel knew. It was evening before I could get to sleep, and then only after calling on a friend and drinking till I; was quite drunk.

"Do you think I had come to the conclusion that the deed I had witnessed was wicked? Oh, no. Since it was done with such assurance, and was recognised by every one as indispensable, they doubtless knew something which I did not know. So I thought, and tried to understand. But no matter, I could never understand it, then or afterwards. And not being able to grasp it, I could not enter the service as I had intended. I don't mean only the military service: I did not enter the Civil Service either. And so I have been of no use whatever, as you can see."

"Yes, we know how useless you've been," said one of us. "Tell us, rather, how many people would be of any use at all if it hadn't been for you."

"Oh, that's utter nonsense," said Ivan Vasilievich, with genuine annoyance.

"Well; and what about the love affair?

"My love? It decreased from that day. When, as often happened, she looked dreamy and meditative, I instantly recollected the colonel on the parade ground, and I felt so awkward and uncomfortable that I began to see her less frequently. So my love came to naught. Yes; such chances arise, and they alter and direct a man's whole life," he said in summing up. "And you say . . ."

-written by Leo Tolstoy-


CLICK HERE for Tolstoy's life history and free ebooks of his works.

Spitzmann and Krochmal were strong men in their sixties who had hunted the Northern Dolomites together since they were teenagers, climbing ever higher as they grew intimate with each other and acquired mastery over the wild terrain. Over five decades, through military service, various marriages, fatherhood, business success and the wartime destruction and subsequent resurgence of Europe, the bond between Spitzmann and Krochmal endured, tested by comity and disagreement, by embraces and even occasional blows. They were men of inflexible character who defined friendship not simply by its warmth, but also by its inherent conflicts.

Today they hiked in the overcast coolness of October, and as they neared the Ritterfeld Exposure, where they would pause for a breakfast of rolls, cheese and peaches, the bell-like sound of rockfall rang from the far slope of a deep ravine to the east. The ravine was a steep face, which in terms of distance was a difficult but reasonable shot for marksmen such as these, who knew their weapons and themselves and had been hunting this high remote country for half a century. Their attention went to the source of the rockfall, and through field glasses they scanned the ravine, both men hoping to spot the rarely-seen Smallhorn sheep in a location where it could be successfully taken.

Krochmal had recently learned he was seriously ill, but not yet having accepted this himself, had not yet told Spitzmann, and the stress of denial and suppression had made him uncharacteristically impulsive and credulous. Spitzmann had noticed this in small ways—Krochmal’s eagerness to reach the Ritterfeld Exposure today, or his increased religiosity—but he assumed Krochmal would disclose the trouble in due time, according to the fifty-year compact of trust between the men. At the moment though, both of their hearts pounded with a thrill that overwhelmed thought, because on a promontory halfway up the ravine stood seven Smallhorn sheep. Before Spitzmann could stop him, Krochmal raised his rifle and hardly even sighting, fired at the lead animal in the line of sure-footed creatures strung across the precarious slope. His wild attempt missed and the shot struck an overhanging schist massif five meters above the sheep, alarming them into flight and transforming them from the attainable prize they had been at the moment of discovery into lost opportunity sacrificed to the haste of an experienced hunter made reckless by thoughts of mortality.

As Spitzmann turned to Krochmal to reproach him, and as Krochmal prepared to defend himself, a great shearing roar silenced both men when the schist massif over the fleeing sheep, having fractured due to Krochmal’s shot striking it at a point of natural geological exfoliation, collapsed in a section twenty meters wide by six meters high, struck the slope and carried the trapped sheep down to the bottom of the ravine in a marvelous avalanche of rock and beast and unexpected certain death. Spitzmann was by nature both self-possessed and critical, and after a momentary silence at the grandeur of the proceedings, he remarked to the grinning Krochmal that by the law of duplication, such a shot could not be seen as anything other than the most capricious sort of luck, and the kills therefore could not be seen as legitimate.

An intense disagreement followed, during which gray clouds lowered and a drizzle began, and Krochmal denounced Spitzmann’s words as an affront to the God who determined all good fortune, as under His guiding hand the seemingly random events of life were not to be termed luck. They could be seen as blessings, yes, he was blessed to have taken seven Smallhorn sheep with one shot, there could be no doubt he was blessed, and he was thankful for the blessing which was the only suitable term for what had happened. Except he now articulated the difficulty of retrieving seven sheep carcasses from beneath uncountable kilos of broken rock, and Spitzmann remarked that if the mention of luck offended God, then this anxiety of Krochmal’s was equally problematic because in his book The Seven Storey Mountain, which both men had read in translation, Thomas Merton had condemned all anxiety as a form of spiritual insincerity. Krochmal reminded Spitzmann that Father Merton was a Catholic and thus believed in the divinity of the Virgin Mary, which was tantamount to cheating his way up that mountain of his, because the assistance of Jesus alone was sufficient for any climb. Spitzmann reminded Krochmal that he himself was a Catholic and the divinity of the Virgin Mary was not to be questioned, at which point Krochmal laughed and termed this belief utter heresy, a term that infuriated Spitzmann to the degree where his self-possession yielded to irrationality. He suggested the only test of their competing beliefs could be to stand back-to-back and, on the count of three, pace off ten steps and fire at one another with the intent to kill. They had known each other for fifty years and Krochmal agreed to this, not taking his friend seriously, but after the report of two shots had echoed down the Ritterfeld Exposure, and Spitzmann had given his life for seven Smallhorn sheep, Krochmal, who had ducked when firing and expected Spitzmann to do the same, stood in the now steadily falling rain and snickered.


-Written by Geoff Kronik-

Geoff Kronik is a student in the Warren Wilson College MFA program and lives in Brookline, Massachusetts. His work has appeared in Salamander and Opium. Geoff is married to my childhood friend Ass Prof I-Min Lee of Harvard School of Public Health and has kindly given me permission to repost this story. I posted another one of his short stories AT THIS LINK.

I have been very busy with marking college exam papers and have not been able to keep up with the news. I will be blogging later in the evening though. In the mean time, my friend's son just came to my house and showed me this essay which I thought was a brilliant piece of work for his AS practice for the A levels but the poor boy came to my house very upset because his teacher gave him a D which is a Band 4 for the exam. For Band 4, it means the student has made many technical errors, confusion of tenses, wrong subject-verb agreement, frequent spelling errors and absent punctuation apart from other problems. Judge for yourself if he did make such errors. (The teacher is a native speaker.) I just told him to continue to try his best because I believe in him and that he is a good writer. Here goes...

Write a short story called The Curse. In your writing create a sense of mystery and suspense.

At night, the harbour was always misty. The chill in physical form always drifted by you, sending shivers down the spine. Silhouettes of various boats, tankers and cruisers lying idly by the dockside could be seen through the dense fog. One couldn’t see their reflections in the black waters lapping the dock supports, only emptiness.

The air was silent and bone-chilling cold. Usually it was peaceful at night, full of people, mainly fishermen, enjoying the night sea breeze before heading home. But tonight, there was tension in the air. And there weren’t many people. Just one. He stood there on the docks, restlessly looking over the waters for a sign of his destiny.

Suddenly, it came. A bright light broke through the shroud of the fog, like opening the gates of heaven itself. The man’s eyes widened slightly. His breath quickened and his whole frame was shaking, not from the cold. However, he still held his ground. Right up until the lights got bigger and bigger. The foghorn got louder and louder. It engulfed him, and a shrill scream rose up into the frigid night air.

Six hours earlier...

Coming home from school, sixteen – year - old Marcus Damon came through the door like a tornado. Energetic and full of vigour, Marcus had just got back from a soccer match, where he was awarded the Most Valuable Player title. This came to no surprise as Marcus is the top athlete for Gekkoukan High School. With the top clubs clamouring for his signature , Marcus couldn’t wait any longer for his time in the sun.

However, there was a downside to his fame. Arrogance fuelled every step he took and his headstrong manner made him more enemies than friends. One of them was his own little sister, Tilly Damon. At thirteen, she was a freshman at Gekkoukan and lived under the cloud of her brother. Everybody, from classmates to the principal, expected her to be a great sportswoman like her brother.

Much to their surprise, she was cut from a whole different cloth. She was a musician, playing instruments ranging from the triangle to the tuba, and played them well. And what a singer! An angel in full tilt couldn’t have done better. Recording companies were looking for her signature and there was a bright future in the Japanese music industry

Both siblings were always at odds with each other. With their parents deceased, Marcus acted as the guardian. Thus, Marcus always placed his priorities ahead of Tilly’s. He knew of his sister’s amazing musical talent, but he was more concerned over his own sports career. More than once, he left his sister standing in the cold at her concerts, always exploring a new advertisement position or club contract.

That was the very reason why Marcus was home from school early today. Tilly finally had the star role in the school choir. She had very much wanted Marcus to see it. Although he had grudgingly promised to attend, it all changed. Marcus had received a text from his agent, and he was excited.

“Marcus, had an offer from Europe. Finally matched your evaluation, hundred thousand pounds a week, need to talk to you about this when you get back”.

Marcus knew he just couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.

That was why he was home, and not at the concert.

He threw his bag on the kitchen counter and went upstairs to take a bath. To pass the time while waiting for his agent, he plopped himself in front of the TV. Time passed by. Somehow, Marcus had fallen asleep on the couch. When he woke up, he moaned groggily and tried to look at his watch. However, in the dark, he could pretty much guess it was night time.

Suddenly, he was blinded by a bright light. It was like a spear gouged in his retinas. Grunting in mild pain, he squinted to see a slight form at the light switch. It took several moments for his vision to clear. Once it was, he could clearly see the form and breathed out a sigh of relief. It was only Tilly.

Slightly built, with a cute baby face, her flaming red hair tied into a ponytail, she was usually quiet and never bothered Marcus. But tonight, her face was all red and she was trembling violently, looking like a volcano that just exploded. Her wild red hair, usually neat, accentuated this image. Marcus couldn’t help but start laughing. Loud.

Tilly suddenly snapped at the sound of that laughter, shouting, “What are you laughing about!”

“O-o-oh sis,” Marcus stuttered, unable to control himself, “Y-y-o-u should see yourself! All red and wild!” ending in another fit of giggles.

“Ah sis, I know what this is about,” he said, grinning, “I missed your play again, didn’t I?”

“You fool! How could you?! After I begged to tears!" Tilly said, unable to control her own flow of tears.

“My agent called, saying about some advertisement stuff I needed to do,” Marcus shrugged, thinking the argument winding down, turned back to the TV.

“Where is your ‘agent’?” Tilly said in a menacing low voice.

“Didn’t show!” Marcus retorted back.

Finally, the volcano.

Tilly hurled so many expletive descriptions at Marcus’s way that even he wondered where she learned so many words. However, the most important ones were these cursed words, “I hope an oil tanker runs over you!”. Which from here, tired of his sister’s insults, Marcus headed out of the door and walked towards the pier, and the black waters…

Written by I.K.

Please leave a comment to share your responses. I.K. would definitely appreciate your input.

Recently, a very old friend who I have not seen for more than ten years called me up. She wanted me to help her 17 year old son during his summer vacation. Her husband was my singing partner in the 1970's-1980's and for old time's sake, I acquiesced even though I am most wary about taking on a new project. I am truly glad I agreed for in a matter of two weeks, he has improved tremendously. It is really rare to find such talent in a young man who is not only articulate but also refined in manner and gait. It is my pleasure to share with you the following story which he wrote for me last night. We reworked it a bit today and this is the final product. Happy reading! Next socio-political post will be up by 9pm or so.

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Task: Write a short story in which the thoughts of a famous figure from the past are revealed at a crucial point in her or his life.

Sitting on a horse atop a cliff on that misty morning, the Emperor just kept silent. Occasionally, he turned around giving monosyllabic responses to the mounted officers behind him, then turned back again. He would glance through his telescope, noted some solutions and pondered of the outcome of the battle. Finally, he had his depressing answer.

As he lifted his head, his senses were assaulted by the sharp smell of gunpowder everywhere, as was the constant blaring of trumpets and cannon fire. When the winds swept in his direction, there came crushing cries of pain and anguish of both sides. The man could almost forget the war here, if it were not for the howling wind.

Fondly, the army nicknamed him le corporal petit. The little corporal had more than repaid their affection with victories across Europe. A military genius, he had always started the fight on the backhand, but won outrightly in the end through brilliant strategy and sheer determination. However, faced with those same uneven odds, the emperor, on that cliff, knew his time was up. Instead of looking towards the coming fall, he looked back on his life, to remind himself of his successes and to soften the pain of imminent defeat.

The corporal was born on the island of Corsica in 1769, off the coast of Italy. However, Italy had given France his home in exchange for peace to the 1768 Franco-Genoa war. Related to a French noble, he was educated in a Corsican military school and, at the age of 15, was sent to an artillery school in Paris. At the age of 21, he finished his education and enlisted as an artillery officer in the French Army.

With half the mind on the battle below the cliffs, he mused that if it were not for the Toulon incident, he would never be in this grand position today. In 1793, the port of Toulon had rebelled against the French government and had invited the British navy to occupy them. In response, the government sent an unknown artillery officer to take care of the problem. Upon arriving there, the officer ran the English off by heating up his cannon balls in coal. Using his new red-hot artillery, he fired at the ships until they hurriedly retreated.

Due to the Toulon incident, the officer became a Brigadier-General at the age of just 24. Around France and Europe, his name was everywhere. France’s enemies now had a new adversary to face in the form of the Brigadier General. From that point, he had never looked back. The government had given him command of the French army based in Italy, and he had led them without exception.

The Brigadier won huge victories over the Austrians by being flexible with his battle plans, ranging from guerilla tactics to an all-out assault. Exhausted by his range of tactics, the Austrians pulled out of Italy by 1797. Subsequent successes in the Egyptian campaign meant to curtail British naval power boosted the General’s fame to new heights. In Egypt, the men started calling him le petit corporal.

Turning right, he saw his remnant forces at the foot of the hill trying to stop the combined English and Prussian army from getting to him. The inevitable was at hand. In reminiscence, he comforted himself with his earlier success.

The General had returned from the Egyptian campaign in 1799. A few French politicians plotted with him the overthrow of the incumbent government. Thus, the General, at the head of the Paris garrison had called the government defunct and sought to remove it. The coup of Brumaire was successful and the General became the First Consul of France. A year after the coup, the French people voted him to be First Consul for life, and thus the First Consul gave himself the title of Emperor of France in 1800.

The Emperor had wasted no time asserting his power. In 12 years, he had led the French army to a string of victories and conquests around Europe. He installed his brother as King of Spain and made their neighboring countries bend knee to the new continental power in Europe. Only Britain, the Channel acting as their buffer, was safe from the Emperors rampage. However, in an instant, his fortunes changed.

He winced as he recalled the anguish of that journey. It was to be his biggest mistake. Assembling his largest army ever, the Emperor marched into Russia. His wife had followed him on all his conquests, and this was no different. With her watching over him, the Emperor bulldozed through Russia, cities conquered and people enslaved. It was a triumphant start. Already envisioning victory, he had not drawn more supplies. This cost him mightily. Once he had reached Moscow, it was razed to the ground, nothing the Emperor could do about it. The harsh winter was upon them and with no supplies, he conceded defeat and retreated.

The journey was hell. Supplies were low and empty carriages were burnt as firewood. Even the Emperor’s carriage was finally sacrificed. Animals that couldn’t keep up were shot and eaten. Some soldiers tried to eat their fallen comrades. Hypothermia and the cold claimed many. Finally, the Emperors wife fell terribly ill.

They were still a week off the border of France at that point. The Emperor could do nothing. He carried his wife personally on his back, covered with so much fur that she looked like a grizzly bear. His tears were frozen on his face, and his fears warmed his body as the Emperor strove to save her life. It was to be in vain.

A day off the border, death’s hands finally claimed their protracted prize. As he laid her lifeless body in the grave he dug, his own battle-hardened men couldn’t stop their own tears. The Emperor didn’t know what to do without his Empress. One thing he did know was that his time was up. The Emperor returned to France with a fraction of the large army that followed him. Due to loss of confidence in him, the people cried out for the Emperor to resign. And he did, a week after his wife’s death. He exiled himself on St Hilda Island off the coast of Southern France and lived in peace.

That was not to be. A year on, the Empire needed help to fend off the dual armies of England and Prussia. Heeding to their desperate call, the Exile returned to Paris, amidst cheers of ‘Viva France!’ and ‘Viva Le Corporal Petit!’. They thought of his past victories and were confident the Exile could repeat them again. If only they knew what was coming for them.

With the last man of the wall fallen, the English and Prussian troops eyed the Emperor like Jack eyed the goose that laid golden eggs in the giants tower. There was a pause, as the Emperor eyed the hundreds before him. Calmly, Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte the First of France drew his sword and charged.

-written by Ian Khor-

*Posted with his permission.

Ian, I am so proud of you. Keep up the good work, young man!

My friend, Geoff Kronik (who is married to my childhood friend Ass Prof I-Min Lee of Harvard School of Public Health), celebrated his birthday yesterday. In the usual Facebook tradition, I sent him birthday greetings. This evening, I was pleasantly surprised by his warm e-mail response that included a link to his latest short story.

Geoff is a writer from Brookline, Massachusetts, currently in the MFA program at Warren Wilson College. His stories and essays have appeared in Salamander, Opium and The Lancet. Almost immediately, I emailed him and asked him for if I could repost his story and he graciously agreed. Thanks, Geoff!

While reading the story, I was moved to tears and could actually hear his voice speaking through his writing which flows with much grace, quiet elegance and lucidity!

Certainly, Geoff has a very engaging style. Here it is - Geoff's story entitled "My Father's Glasses".

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My Father's Glasses

written by Geoff Kronik
Brookline, Massachusetts, United States

I took them with me when I left the hospital that day, but five years later, I still have not put them on. Holding the glasses starts a movie in my memory, a biography of my father, but if I imagine wearing them a stranger appears on the screen.

That morning, my sister and I each boarded Los Angeles-bound flights, she from Philadelphia and I from Boston. Our plan was to meet at the airport, rent a car, and drive to the UCLA Medical Center.

We both landed ahead of schedule, as if time itself sensed an urgency we did not. Freeway traffic was light, and I could have gone faster; but having left New England’s winter gloom behind me, I enjoyed the drive under California sunshine and briefly forgot the mental chill of why we had come—my father had pneumonia again.

My wife, a physician, calls pneumonia “the old man’s friend,” an expression that comes from Sir William Osler, often considered the father of modern medicine. He famously called pneumonia "the friend of the aged,” a bit of trivia noir I did not bother to share with my sister. We spoke little during the drive, mutually silenced by a possibility we preferred to deny.

We reached UCLA quickly, and although I had never driven on campus before and was worried about finding parking or getting lost, everything went right. Everything went right until we entered my father’s hospital room, and I saw he was not wearing his glasses.

My father was a professor, and looked the part enough for me to suspect that, even nude, he would appear scholarly. I mentioned this to my mother once, who laughed and told me a story; they were on a Spanish beach, and my father was wearing only swim trunks and his glasses when a man approached him and said, “You must be in academia.”

Perhaps my father’s preference of high-waisted pants, beachwear included, advertised a certain occupational nerdiness, but surely the glasses were the tipoff. When I picture my father, his glasses float like the giant eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg in The Great Gatsby. I would need to go back to Fitzgerald’s era, when my father was a teenager, to find photos of him without any on. By the time he reached college, he was wearing thick, black frames that made him look like a Jewish Buddy Holly.

My father removed his glasses only to sleep and bathe, and the sight of him without them always rattled me. Unfamiliarity was not the issue, as anyone’s father has a unique voice, customary habits, and of course a signature scent: perhaps Old Spice, Lifebuoy, or Brut. The problem with my father’s unlensed face was that it shook my boyish assumptions of what a father should be.

My father’s eyes were bold, his nose was long, and his chin jutted out when he had a point to make. He was small man with a big man’s bravado. He might have looked fierce, but his supple lips and gappy teeth warmed his smile. The fullness of his face, however, was completed by his glasses. They gave his face corners, and without them his temples seemed rounded, his eyes less bright. Sons seek their fathers’ approval, of course, but perhaps more so their strength; a father’s wrath can either inspire ambition or help therapists make a living later, but a father’s weakness is destabilizing at any age.

It would have been so easy. I could have gently placed them on his face. His final pair, with their oversized lenses and transparent frames, was sitting on the wheeled hospital table by his untouched breakfast. My father looked diminished without his glasses, weak and unprotected, and that was how I last saw him.

In life, our most vehement positions so often seem to conjure ironic revenge. My father loathed cigarettes, pasted annoying red “No Smoking” decals inside his cars, and in mid-2004 was diagnosed first with pneumonia and, later, inoperable lung cancer.

How does one respond to such news? To my father, the idea of mass sympathy was intolerable. He dreaded the thought of good wishes sent by people who would expect his gratitude, or the encouragements whose cheer masks pity. Oppressed by the idea of spending his remaining days answering condolence cards, he kept his prognosis a secret, even from close friends.

I visited my parents in the fall when my father was deep in chemotherapy. I was fascinated by the newly-visible patterns of his head. The weekend was cold, and when we went to dinner he wore an old tweed newsboy cap I had never seen before. Perhaps it was a family heirloom, but nostalgia aside, I hated the cap. It was too big for his sallow face, and I envisioned him selling papers on a corner in his boyhood Vienna. The pathos of the image depressed me, and I was glad when he removed the cap for dinner.

During the meal, a nearby man and woman kept staring at my father’s strange, luminescent pate and whispering to each other. My father had his back to them. They had a bottle of wine on their table, and I wanted to smash it over their heads, as if violence on my father’s behalf would prove me not just a son, but a man. Instead I glared until they looked away, while my father complained that everything he ate tasted like metal.

Because the vocabulary of cancer infects daily life, for the next year I absurdly disliked seeing “infusion” on a box of herbal tea. My father, who loved to travel, spent that year relentlessly, and probably recklessly, in transit. To risk a cold was courting death, but from his perspective, the proximity of death justified the risk. In January of 2006, he and my mother joined the sniffling airborne masses and flew to Los Angeles for a vacation.

I came home one day to a message that my father was in the hospital. I called him, but he was hard to understand through the oxygen mask he was wearing. I pictured the plastic mask and his glasses above it. He said the hospitalization was precautionary, due to what he called a slight case of pneumonia.

Then he said, oddly, “I’m glad you called, Geoffrey.” For him, sentiments which went without saying, such as appreciating my calls, usually did just that. My full name at the end was customary formality though. Since high school I had preferred to be called Geoff, but he claimed he could not adjust to this. That the last word I would ever hear from my father was my name, expressed in a way I disliked, is only one of death’s inevitable ironies.

We use defensive euphemisms when someone else dies, but when our own time comes, no one says “I’m afraid to pass away.” We become blunt under the threat of mortality: we do not want to die, period. Meanwhile, loss is only permanent when identified as such, but after the fact, no one told me, “I’m sorry for the permanent loss of your father.” Death’s foreverness is the intolerable part, hence language that resists it and religions that reject it. But if an agnostic says we live on in memory, this sounds no less wishful to me than claiming someone is in “a better place.” Without messages from our senses, there is nothing left that we can accurately call life.

My father smelled like Jergens lotion and old-fashioned Mennen squeeze deodorant. His voice was reedy and carried faint echoes of Europe. In the hospital, his forehead was sticky to the touch, and his cheek tasted sour when I kissed it. Life has structure and volume, but memory is inherently flat. We recall sounds, smells and tastes, but cannot truly reproduce them. Even vision falls short; if I unfold my father’s glasses, a holographic image of his face appears, but you can walk right through a hologram.

It was a Friday when my mother suggested my sister and I come, as a boon to my father’s spirits. His discharge was projected for the next week, so I bought a one-way ticket for Sunday and planned to stay until he got out.

Makeup and lighting may soften ugly realities, but the accuracy of TV shows in depicting the moribund is impressive. I had never seen a dying person, but one look at my father left no doubt. My mother said he had fallen overnight, and this had somehow undone him. We approached him, and I heard my sister say “I love you” in his ear. His skin felt damp, as if he were dying by evaporation. His feet thrashed occasionally, and I held them, thinking how this intimacy, his toes wriggling in my grip, was a first and a last.

A moaning began behind us, and my mother said it had been going on for hours, ever since the room’s other bed had been taken by a man wasted with age and affliction. He cried ceaselessly, a ghastly counterpoint to my father’s labored breathing. Then my father, with a sudden flailing motion, threw off his sheets and hospital gown.

My father’s nakedness did not bother me, but I felt a pang of sympathy towards my sister. Our family’s standards of propriety meant she had never seen him unclothed, but now she had to watch as his hairless chest and sunken nipples, his abdomen mapped with radiation marks, and finally the rest of him came into view. When we covered him, he fought as if determined to finally shed the lifelong burden of clothing. A doctor explained this was common and increased the morphine drip. My father relaxed, and thereafter seemed to take up the raw business of dying.

I quickly stepped out to call my wife and came back. In the meantime, my mother had started talking. My mother by nature does not seek out silence or solitude, but now, after a half-century’s steady companionship, she faced the prospect of both. First she spoke of my father and their life together, and then speculated about the future. My father let out a terrible, fork-in-the-disposal sound, and my mother said, “I’ve heard about the death rattle. Do you think that’s the death rattle?” My sister and I could only look at her with faces that said, “yes, it probably was.”

An immense space seemed to open up, as if all sound had died along with my father. Touching him now was like holding paper, as though his third dimension had instantly vanished. I understood then that it is life that gives us shape, not appearance; I have not looked at living the same way since. Because the recently deceased are traces of something that until the last possible moment had a future, they give us a chance to confront pure history before nostalgia or revisionism sets in.

That evening in my hotel room, I packed my father’s glasses into my suitcase and filled the bathtub. A hot bath had an appeal that might have been regressive, or perhaps it was simply the easiest available comfort. I wondered if my father wore glasses in the tub. Did he ever take baths? Had I maybe seen him in a resort whirlpool? Already, I could not remember.

While the water ran, I phoned an old friend who, when I told him the news, said “God damn it” and began to quietly cry. Of all the responses to my father’s death, this remains the least articulate and the most eloquent. We hung up, and I wondered how life would proceed now. I felt less of a son by half and more like a man, and I had not needed to break any bottles. I slid down in the tub, tasting soap, and felt the warm water close over the crown of my head.

Four years later I flew to Los Angeles again, for business, and from my hotel window I could see UCLA in the distance. I had planned to go running by the beach in Santa Monica the next morning, but now a different route lured me.

It was just after dawn when I panted uphill from Wilshire Boulevard and entered the UCLA campus. There was the old brick hospital where my father died, which was in the process of being replaced by a sleek updated facility named for Ronald Reagan. My father, a committed Democrat and wit, would have said he was glad he did not live long enough to die in a building with Reagan’s name on it.

I ran across the campus to the stadium where, the day after my father died, my sister and I had jogged around the track, companionship and rhythm converging in an approximation of continuity. Running the track again got me no closer to authentication; my father’s life was just as over, and mine was just as interrupted.

My sister had told me, as we circled students playing soccer on the infield, that when she said “I love you” to our father, he said it back. This seemed impossible: he had been incoherent when we reached him, and though in life he dispensed hugs and kisses freely, to say “I love you” would have been out of character. I doubt he ever said it to anyone, but in the fragile aftermath of death, I withheld my skepticism and its underlying envy. If he did say it, then my sister, who was bold enough to be the instigator, deserved to be the beneficiary.

As time has passed, I have been told that I am starting to resemble my father—a narrowing of the face, certain wrinkles that must be genetic signatures. Vanity makes me thankful that I do not have his retreating hairline yet although, owing to middle age, I do wear glasses of my own.

But not his. I have peered through them at arm’s length, but I worry that if I put them on, I would look too much like him, or perhaps not enough. Or maybe I would inhabit him, merge with him somehow, and discover that the stranger on the screen is, and always was, both of us.

In the tropical forest of La-la-land, there lived three little kancils who had nothing but mutual respect for each other. They enjoyed their tranquil and peaceful life living in harmony with their environment.



Using the resources from their tropical haven, each of them built a beautiful home for themselves. One built a house of rare but strong lallang while another constructed a house of sticks. The third one created a house of dung, clay and all kinds of grass and creepers shaped into bricks and baked in a small kiln. When they were finished, the three little kancils were satisfied with their handiwork and home so they settled down and lived in peace and self-determination.



Tragically, their idyllic haven was soon shattered most unexpectedly. One hot and humid day, a big bad wolf descended upon them with expansionist ideas.

He saw the well-fattened kancils and grew very hungry physically and ideologically.

When the three little kancils saw the wolf, they ran helter skelter and sought refuge in the house of lallang.

The wolf ran up to the house and banged on the door, shouting, "Hello there, little kancils! It's only me - Mr. Wolfy Wolf! Please let me in! It is terribly hot out here and I need a glass of cold water."

The kancils shouted back, "Your deceitful tactics will not beguile us and we have united to defend our homes and culture."

Aha! Big bad wolves do not give up easily - especially when it came to servile and delicate-looking kancils no matter how much muscle they had. The wolf was adamant that the three little kancils must not deny him of what he thought to be his manifest destiny. So he huffed and puffed and blew down the house of lallang. The frightened kancils ran to the house of sticks, with the wolf in hot pursuit.


Sadly, where the house had stood, Mr. Wolfy had already put Plan A into action. Other wolves bought up the land from him and started an oil palm plantation.They grew richer and richer as they took the land from the kancils and other living creatures of La-La-Land.

At the house of sticks, the wolf again banged on the door and shouted, "Little, kancils, little darlings, let me in! Don't be shy! It's only me, Mr. Wolfy Wolf."

The three little kancils shouted back, "Go and see your Maker, you evil, idiotic, carnivorous, imperialistic oppressor!"

At this, the enraged wolf huffed and puffed and blew down the house of sticks. The kancils ran to the house of bricks, with the wolf chased them so closely at their heels until they could smell his bad breath even though they were in the lead.

One of them turned back and gasped. Where the house of sticks had stood, Mr. Wolf had already put Plan B into place. Other evil wolves built a time-share condo resort complex for vacationing wolves, with each unit a fibreglass reconstruction of the house of sticks, as well as native curio shops, snorkeling in man-made lakes and tiger shows.

At the house of bricks, the wolf again banged on the door and shouted, "Little kancils, little kancils, please let me in! I am old and weary and this is not the way for a good wolf like me to die."

This time in response, the pigs sang solidarity songs and wrote letters of protest to the United Nations. They also hung banners (written in proper English) to express their outrage.


By now the wolf was getting angry at the kancils' refusal to see the situation from the carnivore's point of view. So he huffed and puffed, and huffed and puffed, then grabbed his chest and fell over dead from a massive heart attack brought on from eating too many fatty foods. The three little kancils rejoiced that justice had triumphed and did a little dance around the corpse of the wolf.

Their next step was to liberate their homeland from this idiotic Mr. Wolfy Wolf and his band of bandit wolves who did not even bother to disguise themselves with sheep's clothing!

They gathered together a band of other kancils who had been forced off their lands the same way that Mr. Wolfy Wolf had launched his assault on them. This new brigade of heroic kancils attacked the resort complex Terminator-style with the latest artillery sponsored by Steven Spileberg and other wealthy kancils living in richer and more peaceful lands from afar. Their wonderful machine-guns and rocket launchers annihilated the cruel wolf oppressors, sending a clear signal to the rest of the hemisphere not to meddle in their internal affairs. Then the kancils set up a model democractic tropical jungle with free education, universal health care and affordable housing for everyone.

* This IS a fairy tale after all.:-)

Please note: The wolf and kancils in this story is a metaphorical construct. No actual wolves or kancils were harmed in the writing of the story. Any resemblance to any living creature big or small, dead or alive or yet to be born is a pure coincidence. :-) This is a work of humour, satire and parody. That means the statements and information contained in these pages are by no means fact, and are offered solely as comedy material or as individual opinion.

Do leave a comment for I would love to hear your views. Thanks! Have a nice day!

"Get out of my bathroom!!! You'll knock my bathroom scales. I may see a higher reading the next time I step on it," bellowed Gloria at Harold, her timid husband, who was busy tidying up the laundry basket.



"And when you are done,go eat your lunch which is on the table! I was not happy with what you had prepared for breakfast so lunch is my revenge! You know very well I always voice my dissatisfaction and will not let go of such a big mistake as meals are so important to us, especially me!"

Panting from all that shouting, Gloria shuffled out of the bathroom. It seemed as though her weight was too much for knees to bear. In her clumsiness, she knocked her hip against the door-frame.

"OOOooouuuuccchhh! Call Will the contractor to get me a new door! How many times must I remind you?" she barked at poor Harold who was busy picking up her huge colorful 'smalls' scattered on the bathroom floor."See - it is all your fault if he does not come immediately. You are too laid back! You know you have to scream at the working class to get them to move their butt but you persist in being reserved so nobody takes you seriously! "

Harry sighed wearily and counted 1,2,3,.......10. He tried to stay calm lest the volcano exploded...But to no avail - not after the years of being henpecked!!!!



He took a deep breath, stamped his feet on the ground, and said affirmatively, "Enough is enough! Do you want me to explode before you can stop?

Gloria shuddered in fear, moving a step back.

"What's your problem, Harold? Trying to fight back? I am your wife - your closest friend. If there is anything you are not happy about, talk it over with me. There is no reason to stamp your feet like a spoiled brat that you are!!!" shouted Gloria with her arms akimbo.

"For years, I have tolerated your nonsense. When you wanted to go for your liposuction, I sold my golf club membership for you. When you wanted to have a face lift, I sold my Rolex watch for you and was it worth it? Gosh! Look at your face and the botched surgery! My goodness! Why do you think I am so thin? I don't have any appetite for ANYTHING after looking at your face! And you have the cheek to ask me to go to the gym???You should be the one going to the gym and swimming at the pool, not me! Take a look at the tractor tyres around your body!!!" hollered Harold at his obese wife.



"Get real, woman! Do you think a marital relationship is all about making you happy with your shopping trips or cosmetic surgeries? Is it all about watching your stupid soap operas or sharing meals with you? Have you ever thought of MY needs? Remember Maslow's hierarchy of Needs?


Gloria was stunned. This was the first time Harold actually raised his voice at her. Had he lost his marbles????

"Listen up you WOE-to-MAN"! Stop being a hypocrite by telling those ladies from your Knitting Club that all is well with us because it is not. The sooner you realize it, the better. And now if you'll excuse me, I have a sweet-young-thing waiting in her car and I'm out of here. Go wash your gigantic undies yourself!" said Harold agitatedly.

With that, he stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. The growl of a car engine was heard followed by screeching tyres. Gloria looked out and saw Harold with his arms around a beautiful woman.

Her enraged face never looked uglier as she contorted it in fury. It was all over - the pseudo-world of marital bliss she had created was nothing but a farce and now, she would be the laughing stock of her Knitting Club. She took a deep breath and walked to the kitchen, closed all the windows and turned on the gas.

"He will pay for this," she muttered and then cackled like a deranged witch that she was.....
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* APOLOGIES FOR THE LATE PUBLICATION OF COMMENTS AND FOR MY LATE RESPONSE. MY NEIGHBOURHOOD HAD ITS 14th POWER OUTAGE SINCE LAST SATURDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I HAD FOUR POWER FAILURES TONIGHT!!!!!!!!!!

The above story is a figment of my fertile imagination. Any resemblance to any human being/s or situation past, present or future is purely coincidental. So whose fault was it that this tragedy happened? Could the tragedy have been avoided? Do leave comment if you wish. I would love to hear your views or your version of the ending! Thanks. Have a lovely evening.

School's out and my boy is at home. Today, I met up with a friend for lunch at Kirishima Japanese Restaurant and was pampered with a sashimi set and Belgian chocolates :-). I seriously believe that there is an international conspiracy to make me look the part for a Weight-loss program er...the "before weight loss part" in an advertisement, that is. Jokes aside, when I zoomed off for that appointment, I locked my bedroom and the computer room, brought the keys along and gave him ONE assignment and the password to my laptop :-). The assignment - my boy had to write and type Chapter 4 of this fantasy children's novel that he is writing. You can find Chapter 1, 2 and 3 of my son's story called BLAKELEY'S JOURNEY TO NOBLICLE at THIS LINK or you can read all three chapters at the end of the post.

* My boy is 11 years old and loves Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole series, the Diary of the Wimpy Kid series. He reads a lot including all of Roald Dahl and many classics, not forgetting the insane Horrible Science series. At the rate he devours books, I have to spend a tidy sum each month to feed his reading habit. I cannot wait for the time when he can enjoy my collection of books :-). He wrote this on his own and I did not change or correct anything so this is the RAW version.

Just in case you think he is tops in English in school, I want to say he is NOT. In fact, the teacher gives him very low marks for essay writing and it does not bother me and I have never gone to school to have a show-down with her as she is entitled to her opinion and I respect her marking and have my opinion which I keep to myself. For me, I love my boy and I know his abilities and his many stories are testimony of that so I have never and will not sweat over marks, not my style at all. His enjoyment of books, writing and the ability to express himself are far more important to me than marks in an exam. I know it is strange to some as I have been in the education industry for over 20 years. Anyway, here's CHAPTER 4 of my boy's story. Enjoy and please leave a comment if you like. Have a lovely evening.

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CHAPTER 4 ROUGHED UP DEALS


Blakely and Scorchio dashed through the swamp to make it to Mount Urrulorgh. It was a thirty-five thousand feet high volcano. After it erupted , it became a habitat for the giant. Blakely opened the Book of Knowledge and looked under the name "giants".The Book of Knowledge said that giants had only one weakness, and that was magic. Blakely immediately turned to a page which listed down all the spells all wizards will know.

The lists of spells were as many as six pages in "8" font size! The spells were like "transfera identica" to switch bodies with another person and "fireballs" to shoot deadly chunks of fire. Blakely couldn't wait to fight the giant because he was going to surprise it with a fireball. Blakely started climbing up the volcano with the help of Scorchio. By the time Blakely reached the entrance of the cave, Blakely was exhausted. He had been climbing up the volcano for more than nine hours.

The cave was gigantic! Blakely and Scorchio ran to the deeper part of the cave, and there laid the giant. He quickly super-sized himself by shouting "Superior Analatica" and that woke up the giant. The giant was not happy that it had an unwelcome visitor. Blakely did not waste any time so he blinded the giant with a spell. He quickly took this opportunity and stabbed the moaning giant on its chest. It was over. Blakely got back to work and sawed off one of the giant's tooth and pulled out a strand of its hair. Blakely sawed off a few more teeth from the giant to be kept as souvenirs.

Blakely quickly returned to Snubby's caravan. It was around midnight when Blakely returned to his caravan. Snubby was asleep. Blakely needed some sleep too, therefore he sat an antique chair and closed his eyes. The next day, Blakely got into the bathroom to have a shower and changed into his old uniform. Snubby was going to drive to a small town called "Papillion" in his caravan. He also added that his second quest was also going to be a bit difficult. After Snubby drove for an hour or two, he finally reached a town called "Papillion". Blakely and Scorchio were terrified as they entered the gates of the run-down town.

Snubby brought Blakely to see a black magician who lived in a small atap house. The black magician identified himself as Le Patron. Le Patron was an old man who has been having a small business for the past twenty-nine years. He had a sharp crooked nose just like any other magician. Snubby spoke to Le Patron in a foreign language in a distinct manner. Blakely was brought to an underground tunnel to take down the most wanted person in the town "Papillion". The thirty-seven year old criminal was known as Pablo Dmitri.

It was said that Pablo Dmitri was found dead by the moors but apparently, he had a coincidental plastic surgery to make some adjustments on his face. The smart but evil man must have dug out a dead body from the graveyard, change its face to make it look like him and left it by the moors. Blakely was up to the fight. He was warned that Pablo Dmitri's hideout was surrounded by security guards and they were armed. The whole underground tunnel was CCTV activated. Scorchio was ready to get rid of some guards.

"You are to wear this helmet and carry this torch to light the way into Pablo's hideout. Many people have tried to break into Pablo Dmitri's hideout but all have failed,"said Le Patron.

"Watch out for obstacles, good luck on your adventure," said Snubby.

Blakely and Scorchio then ran into the deeper part of the tunnel to continue their adventure.
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BLAKELY'S JOURNEY TO NOBLICLE - written by Nicholas Khor (copyrighted)

PROLOGUE

The city of Larousse was in danger. The fairy king's emerald crown had been stolen by SBSN (Secret Branch Society of Noblicle). The sun never shone again after that and the people lost their power because of the magic sunshine. Lives were lost when a trail of wagons crashed into the gates of the castle and strange explosions caused a fire that spread through the city. It was bad enough that the city was having drought problems but the Nobgoblins had to worsen the situation with their vicious attacks.

In a bid to defend his city, King Alteon, the fairy king, fought the leader of the SBSN in a hand combat and ended up being pushed out of the window of his castle. Before slipping into a coma, the fairy king put a princely sum for the Nobgoblins' heads. Two months later, he died.

Blakely, a villager from far off near the coast, heard about the reward from his grandfather and decided to go on an adventure to the city of Larousse for more information and to help them.

CHAPTER 1 THE FIRST OBSTACLE - WITCHES & LEPRECHAUNS

"Blakely, you don't have to do it. You will suffer pain and it might be hell throughout the journey," said his grandfather while Blakely was packing his bags.

Blakely did not mind the burden or the challenges ahead. All he wanted was for peace and sunshine to return to the city.

"Grandpa, goodbye," said Blakely while he put his magic sword in his bag. Those were his last words to his grandpa. He walked down the lane that led into the wilderness, where the leprechauns and medieval witches lived.

Soon enough, his intuitive senses told him that something was wrong. Suddenly, there were funny sounds coming from behind him. He turned around and saw something green and yellow moving in the bushes. Blakely was terrified and picked up a rock and walked to the bushes.

A cute little creature popped out from the bushes and smiled at Blakely. He was so relieved that it wasn't any leprechaun that could transform him into a rat with the snap of his finger. All of a sudden, three leprechauns pounced on him and captured him with their "Gravity Force Net".

Blakely was then taken to their hideout deep in the forest. He was tied up with the roots of strange plants and was forced to explain why he had ventured into their territory. When they threatened to imprison him forever, Blakely told them about his quest to Noblicle to retrieve the fairy king's emerald crown.

To his surprise, they all smiled at each other and then one of them said "You, a simple human being, have a good heart. We are happy with you and want you to meet our queen."

With that, they led Blakely to a secret chamber in the cave, a place that showcased the treasures and wealth of the leprechauns.

Blakely gasped when he saw a familiar face. It was a lady from his village who was being pampered by leprechauns and she was dressed in robes of a medieval witch.

"Sheila! What on earth are you doing here?" cried Blakely in surprise.

"My name is not Sheila when I am in this land that I own. You shall call me Alianor. Guards! Make him sit on the chair of heads! You still remember Grimlock, right?"

The guards forced him to sit on the chair and he was tied up again. These were no ordinary guards but Minotaurs.

Obviously, Blakely was not going to enjoy this conversation.

Sheila waved something in the air and soon they were transported into an empty room.

"Alright, Blakely, you want to see the Nobgoblins pay for their evil deeds, don't you? Well, the Gordon you have right now is going to help you to get what you want," said Sheila.

"This is a Gordon? What are Gordons used for?" asked Blakely.

"You will need this book. Although it is quite hungry, it is still useful," replied Sheila while taking out a book from a puff of smoke that appeared before her after she summoned it. Then she gave Blakely the book with a faint smile on her face.

To Blakely's horror, the book was slimy and breathing. "Is this drool from somewhere or someone?"asked Blakely.

Sheila said, "It's the book's drool. Remember - the Nobgoblins are very merciless creatures. Before you go to Noblicle, please go to the red swamp of Tyrantland. Find Snubby the imp and he will reward you with something after you accomplish the mission that he gives you," said Sheila."Farewell my brave friend and I bid you good luck."

Sheila then summoned a ring of fire that teleported Blakely out of the magic room.

Blakely then found himself in the wilderness again. "I'm going to find Snubby no matter what, even if it means death." Feeling tired, he took out his tent which was kept in his bag and set up camp on an empty plot of land to rest for the night.

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CHAPTER TWO - A DAY WITH THE GORDON

Blakely gathered some firewood to set up a fire to keep warm for the night. Before dusk, he started reading the book that Sheila had given him. He placed the book on his lap and all of a sudden, the book began to spit at him.

"I wish Sheila had not given me this idiotic book!" screamed Blakely. He picked up a few leaves and dropped them into the open book and closed it angrily. After a while, he opened the book again and to his surprise, the leaves had disappeared. Instead, there were some digestive juices that stained the pages. Blakely then flicked to the first page of the book.

"Hello. I am the Book of Knowledge and I shall serve you because you have saved me from starvation," said the book. "Flip to page 36 to discover more about Gordons.

The Gordon stood on its hind legs looking at Blakely happily. It had green fur on it back and fluffy yellow fur on its chest.The Gordon also had two legs and a pair of long arms.

Blakely was amazed to find out that Gordons love to steal and to play. However, they did not like to fight. There were various names Blakely could give his Gordons such as Publies, Scorchio, Bluror and Muggary. He named his Gordon Scorchio. At once, it started to act like a warrior and he found its actions very cute.

Night was drawing close so Blakely had his dinner - plain herbs and wild fruits. His meal did not smell so fresh so he left it aside. He was going to starve that night. Suddenly, he heard a zapping sound. Scorchio shot some laser beams from its eyes onto his food and then growled at Blakely. Turning around, Blakely caught the smell of escargots that came from the herbs on his plate. Scorchio smiled at Blakely while he ate the escargots and herbs hungrily. Then, Blakely knew that Scorchio had magical powers. Feeling satisfied after a good meal, Blakely put out the fire and slept in his tent.

The next morning, he took a walk and stumbled upon a house in the woods.

Scorchio growled at Blakely and started to push Blakely into the bushes. Scorchio ran towards the door and hit it hard with its head, causing the door to break open. Scorchio dashed inside and Blakely followed behind.

Scorchio ran towards a chest of drawers and opened one drawer after another, looking for money. It squealed in delight when it found a few gold coins. Blakely quickly grabbed Scorchio and forced him out of the house and then they jumped into the bushes to hide. To his surprise, Scorchio still had a bit of coins in its mouth and it spat them onto its hand and kept them in Blakely's coat pocket.

There was no where left to go and nothing left to do so Blakely decided to return to the tent. Blakely took out his bag, dismantled the tent and kept it in his bag. He decided that the time had come for him to go to Tyrantland straight away.

CHAPTER 3 SNUBBY'S QUEST

Blakely calmly took the road that led to Tyrantland. He had heard that Tyrantland did not have any clean drinking water for the ground was covered with cracks and dried leaves shed by the barren trees. He crossed many bridges and hiked many hills before reaching Tyrantland. By then, he was completely exhausted.

While he was walking along a narrow road, he heard the beating of some drums and the sound of some ancient music being played from afar. Scorchio ran straight ahead and Blakely had no choice but to catch up with him. After a few minutes, he was panting and saw a sign that read "TYRANNIA". Then he became quite confused between Tyrantland and Tyrannia so he continued to run after Scorchio who had surged ahead.

At last, Blakely found Scorchio with a group of strange people who were gasping in delight as they gazed at a fire-eater who was juggling a few torches.Blakely then took the opportunity to ask a few of them for some information about Snubby the Imp. He was then told to go to the edge of the town where he lived in his caravan.

Blakely opened his Book of Knowledge to find out what attracted imps. "You must have plenty of water and some honey. They love to gamble with cards most of the time. By then, Scorchio started to have a headache and jumped into Blakely's bag to rest. Blakely remembered the money that Scorchio had stolen . With it, he bought three jars of honey. Scorchio started to whimper when they were at the stall. Blakely suspected something was amiss and turned to his left.

A small dwarf was standing beside him and staring at the bottles of honey.

"For me? asked the dwarf, pleading again and again.

"For Snubby," replied Blakely.

"Get into my caravan and I'll tell you something. Who does not know the famous gambler in Tyrannia? Hah!" laughed the dwarf.

"I am the person you are looking for, Snubby, the King of Cards. Muaaahahahaha! cried the dwarf.

Blakely had no idea that this would happen.

"What I want from you is for you to explain in detail my character as you must be very intelligent since you are such a good card player," said Blakely softly.

"That's kids' stuff for me. Correction - donkey work to be more precise. You are very good when it comes to outdoor activities but you do not have much brains, air head!" laughed Snubby wickedly.

"But you can be very emotional and have great potential to be a good leader," added Snubby with a smile on his face.

"What is my precise task over here? Why was I told to come to Tyrannia to look for you?" asked Blakely as he shrugged his shoulders with a puzzled look on his face.

"Well, since you want my quest, you've got it," said Snubby with a sneering look.

"So what is my quest?" asked Blakely again.

"It's quite simple really. But you will need an armour to protect your body from danger. I'll also give you some robes that belonged to a famous wizard of old. Your pet would need something too. I'll give it a solid iron armour that belonged to one of my pets," said Snubby.

"Do you have a changing room in your caravan?" asked Blakely.

"Go straight till you reach the end. The room is on your left. Be careful, though, because the caravan is a bit run down," replied Snubby.

Blakely looked quite odd in the very mythical-looking robes and so did Scorchio in his iron armour that had many Aztec designs.

"Your first quest is to run on the tracks to cross the red swamp which is just behind my house. Climb the mountain and enter the cave where a giant lives. I want you to get me one of his teeth and a strand of his hair. By the way, what's your pet's name?"

"Snubby, meet Scorchio. Please don't pat him as he will bite," warned Blakely.

"You had better set off on your quest before time runs out. The color of the crown is starting to change from green to red. The city of Larousse will become extinct if the crown turns completely red," said Snubby.

"Alright! Off we'll go now!" See ya!" cried Blakely as he ran off with Scorchio.

"Good luck! Remember - the tooth and just a strand of hair.

*to be continued*

Written by Nicholas Khor