His face hung so low his neck dissapeared behind his jaw and cheeks. His stares were lost on the ground, his gait was so heavy and his steps were so soft he barely walked, as all he saw with those eyes on the cold, concrete floor, and all that were seen on that face which lost its neck to its jaw and cheeks, were worries and more worries. He lost himself in his misery and his misery was always 'too much', as all work and no play had made Rons a very sad boy.He had taken a peek at his schedule and what he saw made him bluer than blue. He had 5 days left, 5 days of play left, but here he was, rigid as a stone, while his friends were running about in the courtyard, their skin glowed under the afternoon sun,chasing and kicking a ball around. They shouted at each other and howled at the sun like it was the moon. Yes,they were crazy, he thought, but they were having fun, he moaned. He was as cold as steel while they were as hot as coal, and while they were sprinting from one end to the other, here he was, erect as the pillar next to him, under the shade, taking in the soft breeze to calm his bludgeoned mind.What was everything was those five days. What will be nothing was those five days as he knew they would pass by while he agonized at each second ruined. His friends just ran and ran after a ball till a stray stab punctures it.He wanted to get in it with them, butAll he could do was look, as he was too afraid to move his legs, fearing they might crack and thus forcing him to spend the rest of those days with a cast as hard and strict as his spine now was.There they were, zipping around, shoving each other and not giving a care in the world; to them, they owned the world even though it was really the other way around. He wanted such freedom, he wanted to taste it and he wanted to break these chains that were attached in his head. He wanted to be them, even though he may split a couple of bones or spill a pool of blood. He wanted to live. All for a ball and a ball for all. That was how they think, that was all they think, he thought. That was how it should be, and all those burdens, every single one of them, would flutter away with the wind that was against his face as he chased and chased after the only two things that mattered, the ball and the goal of scoring a goal.He wanted to be but he couldnt. He had shoulders and shoulders were made to carry, backs were made to bend and brains were made to think and worry and worry about things more important than a ball and the goal of scoring a goal. He has a name and it is Rons, and Rons means responsibility in his and his friends' and the worlds' language, it means taking your load till you loose yourself in your misery. You care so much, it was 'too much'. It means all work and no play for a very sad boy longing for joy as his holiday was up in 5 days

When you saw your shadow being eaten by a larger one and when you felt, on your skin, a damp chill rolling on it you took a look up expecting to see rain clouds hovering over. And when you did you knew instantly you need to find shelter, as you wouldnt be able to beat the drench, no matter how fast you ran.You knew you were going to be There longer than the sun was. Yet, you parked your car far from the horizon, at a distance it required not a run but a marathon to reach. When the seasons deluge came suddenly, you are helpless. You have to wait it out.And while you are doing exactly that, you could do nothing else except to stare at the threads of water falling and to put your head in your hands and contemplate what a bore things are. To past the time you wondered when would this storm end. As your noggin floated the ground sank even further, as the rain, just like your stares, wasnt getting any lighter. But the dullness died quickly. What was worst than the drench was the darkness. You had stayed there longer than the sun was, and now the only company you have left is the night. And what a friend it was. It crept under your skin and made your muscles twitch rabidly. It dug into your skull and made your mind flick rapidly. You were frightened of everything, even of nothing as the grave's silence without filled you within with a heavy terror. You were afraid of every beat you hear as you thought you heard a whisper, and of every glimmer you see as you thought you saw the whisperer.And the whisperer came, in your thoughts, with a sharp grin and an even sharper knife, waiting for you and waiting on you for the right moment,the instance when your nerves are pressed, to press it on your veins. You tried to hush such images out by talking to the rain, asking it to come another day, and yet you couldnt deny the whisperer from breathing the air beside your neck, from illuminating a devious Chersire smile from the distant gloom and from noticing you are there, all alone,by and at the mercy of the Night and all its tenants that hunt in its sight.You need to get back. You need to get going. You need to get running. Screw the liquid, its just H20. Whats the worst that could go wrong. Your body would smell. You might get a cold. But at least your body wouldnt smell because it had been rotting in some drain,at least you wouldnt turn so cold because the vibrant red which previously coloured you had been spilt, at least you could reach home in one piece and not in the pieces carved from a blood soaked edge by a blood thirst man.And so you went off. When you saw your shadow eaten up by a larger one and when you felt, on your skin, a damp chill rolling on it you took a look behind expecting to see a Stranger hovering over. And when you did you knew instantly you need to find shelter, as you wouldnt be able to beat the Wretched,no matter how hard you punch, and so you ran

Viks was up because he couldnt sleep,so he decided to move to the living room to watch tv. He staggered out from his bed with a pair of swollen eyes,blakened sockets, a stiff back and a rigid neck,looking unlike the undead as he embraced their time of day. Viks got the shivers as the living room was dead and the night was alive.As he tiptoed down the wooden stairs, Viks hoped he was the only creature up although he feared the loneliness,as when all you could see are your hands and feet you are terrorised by the slightest bump, the stealthiest thump and the simplest caress on those limbs that connect you them.But Viks was a brave young boy who didnt buy into such irrational jerks.He soon shook it all out, telling to himself it was just crickets and dripping taps. He went on with a gallant look as he stared into the empty room, wanting to stare down monsters. He murmured "I am not a liltle boy anymore" over and over again for he believed this words were monster kryptonite,that, once hummed, would place a spell which spelled "MONSTERS DONT EXIST!" on the murky, silet room. He wanted teevee and teevee he would get danger or no danger. Viks was a brave young boy who didnt buy into such unreasonable inputs, and so he jaunt his way in, chests risen,from the last step of stairs to the living room.He turned the television on when he found the remote,and what he saw in it was a skinny liltle kid, bobbling his way back to bed, tired from watching tv.Suddenly a shriek was heard,the screen turned blank. His throat took a lump and his stomach slammed into his lungs, Viks was shaken and stirred as he realised who he was. Who he was was that skinny liltle kid who in an instant fell victim to what laid ahead.What lays ahead? he squirmed and shuddered discomfortly in the chair, with cushions and pillows wrapped all around him. He wriggled and wriggled all about,he was agitated, he couldnt just stay so he swayed from one armrest to another.He thought he had thought it all out. All there was to do ws to mutter those magic words "I am not a liltle boy anymore" and things would be as fine as things would be on that line. But now, admist the blank screen and the static roar emanating from it, he knew he was wrong. he knew he was wrong even though he still thought it was wrong to be thinking so illogically and to be fluttering so insanely. Viks took on his instincts and found his instincts took him on, thus he was here now smothered to the nose with cushions that were meant to be sat on with your butt and to be laid against your back. He was a knight, a knight with armour plates made from wool and fluff, pulsing to the rhythm of the cold freezing night.Suddenly, a flicker of an image registered on screen, his eyes balooned as large as chicken eggs as the brave liltle boy who was him reappeared in the scene. What lays ahead? it spiralled and spiralled in him before this. Now the spinning stopped, it was time to learn what happened, whether he still was that liltle skinny boy and not a skinny pile of bones. Viks quivered as he sunk deeper and deeper into his tent of cushions, till eventually it submerged his eyes blocking his view of the screen. He was scared, afraid of being a skinny pile of bones and not a skinny liltle boy who was just a skinny pile of bones to any predator which may lurk beyond his hands and feet and so wasnt worth a mea.But Viks needed the truth, he needed to know what happened. So he rose from his covers and glimpsed with a keenness not present since he started being a liltle boy again. He had forgotten his initial fright, he was pumped with curiosity,with a nosiness only possible through a boldness only available in that liltle brave boy who could stare down monsters and who would stray into living rooms chanting "I'm not a liltle boy anymore".What laid ahead was a mouse scattering about searching for the scrapings of the cheeze which that skinny liltle kid ate for supper before he went out of his room to watch tv, and when he was tired he went back to it and screamed a tear so bare it terrified the liltle skinny boy on this side of the screen. The liltle viks in the liltle brave boy this side of the screen was assured. He laughed a loud puff when he saw who he was, a fool the idiot box made fun off. He turned off the tv as he whipped out a joke mocking himself by suggesting it was enough suspense for one night. And so he bobbed of to bed, till a shriek was heard and brave skinny liltle viks found out his brothers registered him for fear factor, home challenge, where he was supposed to swallow a mouse whole for supper.

I was toast under this weather. Everytime I looked at my limbs,which were a golden brown, I thought of King Midas and saw him in the sun. It burned when he touched my skin, and each time he did I glowed and melted a liltle more. It was hot. The sky was a deep blue and the afternoon shine was a bright white and the shadows procreated were as black as night. I knew I had to get out fast before I was charred a black that black, but all I could do was sit thight and wait for the aircond to start. I stabbed the key in,the engine choked and choked till it eventually wheezed a smooth whirl that was followed by a loud static roar from the ducts and I thought I was safe at last. But, alas, I was wrong. I was wrong because this was a Proton, a Malaysian car with Malaysian components with Malaysian quality stamped all over them, and so instead of a soft, cool hush all I got was a scalding jet of air punched onto my face.It was a Malaysian aircond built with a Malaysian weather in it, which made me mad because it made me remember I am a Malaysian, the only nationality which comes with a gurantee that things will fuck up all around you.Things fuck up all around me,and it was exasperating when the door locks shut irregularly, when,from a whisper of air,the alarm beeped loudly, when the windows dont whine shut prefectly, when the seat belts ate into my tummy and when my tummy ate up my body and when my brain didnt snap synapses when it mattered and when my synapses snapped, in a different way, when it mattered. Things fucked up all around me not because I am Malaysian but because I fuck up, because I was a boob and a fool, a fool who only knew the art of eating and sleeping, a boob who only secretes sweat and plaque and saliva and not work when he was working and play when he was playing, who kept on thinking of work during play and play during work till all that were left were guilt and shame and shame and guilt.I stared at this truth, a truth so bare it drenched the crimson flush,coloured by the fumes from the ducts, off my face,till what was left in the rear mirror was a mask so white it shoud be snow.It was a fascade of snow white's after she ate the poison apple and before she kissed the curing lips, a peal so pale it could not bear life. I knew what I am and what I was were guilt and shame and shame and guilt. I ran and ran from the problems admist till I was crippled by them in the end. From there I glared and glared at the rear mirror, till all that were there were a fool and a boob,their crust boiled from a golden brown to a crimson flush by the air cond ducts.

I am a man of few words when I speak. I am a man of whom few words were used when spoken off. And yet, it baffles the mind at the seeming contradiction which exists when I am logged on into the web, where I write and write and write till somebody screams afowl over words typed,or rather the volume of words being typed.And so I would like to address to the common man and his curiousity on this seemingly miraculous transition. A change,so unexpected and so unforseen, that money would fall from the sky and leap into your pockets as they shout "spend me! spend me!" with glee whenever it happened. And what you bought with that cash is your business,although I apprehend them being a suit of body hugging spandex, a collar, a whip and a pair of handcuffs. The common man might question my understanding of nature's science, even though I took and scored that elite distiction that is a low pass in physics,chemistry and bio at school, of why as of yet their hasnt been a gail of running 50ringgit bills gliding down from the stratrosphere. My dear fellow taxpayers, the question is not to do with my understanding of nature's laws, but of my comprehension of economics and even perhaps meteorology,which isnt a science of nature (and so doesnt count) since that ahma across the street could do a better job at predicting rain.I had slipped out of the topic at hand as I giggled with sadistic joy, grasping the idea that whomever that read the previous paragraphs would be overcomed by the merriments of monetary security, only to be dashed of it a few sentences later.Not to worry, for they shall, with a puff of a breath or two, regain what liltle is left of their sanity, and soon would be qualifed for that prestigious fraternity that is Tanjung Rambutan, of which I am in charge of the accounting of its finances.I had skipped out of the topic at hand, and I shall quickly take a bend back to the straight path. Why,oh,why,did these idle fingers jab and jab till ctrl alt tab,being punched twice, seemed to be a good choice of action? Well, with an honest heart I shall devour the contents of my mind, which are just as meriticrious as the contents of my hind. The truth of the matter, and the matter of the truth, is that there is no one single solution, just as there is no one single pollution worst than the stink that resides in both ends of my poles.I molest keyboards because I could, because there is a deeper need than the desire to be slothful, and that is for the inner shout to be heard and to be listened to.And that internal squabble may be about my wobbly figure, as opposed to the vanity that is Bradd Pitt, or the dark impulses that cajoled me to throw acid at him, or the lighter fantasies of being a female's Siren aka a Backstreet Boy which wouldnt 'Quit Playing Games with their Hearts'.I stabbed that rectangular chopper board for the thrill that eludes even spandex and spiked collars. It is a pleasure founded upon your leisure, your willingness to pave the maze that are my articles of thought and feeling.And it is you that give me worth, a worth that wouldnt dispend even after your long patience and persistence finally gave up and broke nto a thousand pieces,that resulted in a thousand shards of aggresive commentaries that started this attempt of an explanation in the first place. I dabbled upon that sad excuse for a typewriter because I wanted to discipline my wavy, uneven skills and my garbled knowledge to produce, to ptoduce something worth a smite and a jibe from the barely-literate. I wanted to curdle blood,to inject tears and to lessen cheeks for a laugh or two, I wanted to procreate the humanity within us that has been monopolised by hong kong soaps and bollywood goods and to realise, to show that it doesnt take a Priyanka Copra or a Louis Khoo or any face of botox to be human, as all that is needed to flush that face red, to cry that eye a river, to press that lips a smile, is the volumnious or economical use of words describing your friend is a whore

My eyes were sticky, my face grimy and my body was enamoured in saliva and sweat. My hair was a mesh, a tangle of yarn, a fibrous mess unlike a coconut's husk or a bird's nest. It was more to the latter as it was made from spit, just like the rest of me coated by the embryionic paste.I awoke and I was aware that I was awake and wasnt dreaming as I soon wish I wasn't awoken to the day. My eyes were stung, my lips were cracked, my hands numb. I knew I wasnt within a dream for I yearned for the crickets' quarrels, the pale gleam of the squinting moon, the ghostly caress of a night's breeze and even a lonesome howl as it spreads across the empty silent streets. I wanted the flattened hymns of twigs rustling,of the soft wind hushing and the lonesome growl of a vehicle to sing me back to sleep as I pressed myself against the soft fluffy pillows. I pressed myself against the swelling tide of day, against the needles of the clock that showed it was time, time to get up and get going. And I heard myself whispering "Whyyy?" to it, the clock,why should I act against the swing of its arms,why should I give the receding seconds a twist of my arms and arise, and it soon replied "you need a life" and,as soon as that was uttered I stuttered back "bbut, ssttudying isnt a life" and it,with an evaporating sigh, spoke back "studying IS your life" and after I heard such I protested and its limbs just went on ticking,telling me to forget getting up and get going.I pushed myself up, my arms were slinged by the telling of the time,which told me now to forget about get going and get running.I sat in bed for a moment. My head was still heavy, my lungs heaved in several breaths. I bent my back, my chest slammed into my tummy's flesh. Slowly my hips were eclipsed by my stomach's dawning crescent, just as the waking sun might against the deep black morning sky.I looked directly at it,that waking sun that was my gut, and unlike a morning's gleam it didnt sting and so I continued gazing with full intensity at that slab of flab. It ate up my vision and I wondered incessantly, deeply why was it there, that frontal hump that was going to be there and no where else as I stood in campus, in the classroom, in the library in the labs in the lens of their eyes in the smirk of their lips at the end of their jabs and at the start of their stares. Everywhere that mary went mary's liltle lamb was sure to follow, and every single day it did exactly that with her to school and made the children laugh as they mocked her and yelled she was made of pork and bacon and fat and blubber and 80 kilogrammes worth of slights and sniggers. I shrugged myself off my glances and off the liltle children's glares and, with a curved spine along with a curving gut, I lept out of bed.I was up and running and I soon was falling as I tripped and I quickly found myself slamming into the tiled floor. My skull cracked, my crown broken. I promptly felt pain, the pain of crackled bone piercing into meat the pain at the end of a fork the pain at the end of a blade. I knew I was awake and I was aware that I was awake and wasnt dreaming a nightmare of me being humpthy dumpy falling off the wall or jack rolling down the hill as I wish I wasn't awoken to the chill of a stab to my face.I squirmed, I shrieked a deafening bark. I was angry, flustered with rage for being that stupid, for falling for a banana skin trick, for breaking my skin and then some more in the fall, for being the idiot that I was and for being nothing more.For being nothing more than a clown mimed in his mind as I stared blankly at questions and at solutions within lectures, within tests and within the choices I made or was going to make for my life that, once done, was made for life.For being nothing more than what I was as I stumbled upon peel after peel wile I slipped out of wat I could be of wat I could ave been of wat i could ave done if I took mind of tings more and not took m mind off tings. I was anrgy, flustered with rage against the chances missed and churned into not oppurtunities but 'accidents'.I was angry, flustered with rage for being nothing more than a boob, for having nothing more than that belly of pork and mary's liltle mutton stew to show for myself which made all the children laugh.I was angry,flustered with rage for having nothing more than that bloated center to show, which made a good crack for their rising cheeks and a great body of amusement,unlike the circus, for their chuckle to seize. I was angry, flustered with rage for being nothing more than a walking stomach and a man who trips upon peel after peel, till one day he would smash his head upon the tiled surface and be angered, flustered with rage, of it.I was maddened of myself, I was angry,flustered with rage and my blood was literally gushing out reddening my cheeks, my jowls, my ears, my eyes. I breathed an air of intelligence as I calmed down. I reached for the sink and I washed off the stains. I made rich ruby coloured wine with the tap water running. I took a piece of cloth and squeezed it upon the gashing wound. After a few presses I saw I made strawberry jam. I realised that I had prepared breakfast for I had produced wine and jam. And the bread and butter was on the table ready for a meal of a buttered jam sandwich and a glass of wine for my bloodied hands to handle and my bloodied gums and teeth to chew and my bloodied liltle lamb to grow and grow before it pursued her to school that day.Studying is my life, and it was passing grades and passing days.It was assignments, assessments and the marks that went into them which were nothing much. Studying is my life and so I made slacking a life,and so I tripped and tripped, and I protested,revolted against the way things are as the passing days led to nothing more than passing grades.And before I could take in a bite I was joulted by a sharp ring. I jerked up, confused. I looked around and I saw my bed and the snaking lines on it that I made during the night. My eyes were sticky, my face grimy and my body was enamoured in saliva and sweat. I awoke and I was aware I was awake and I wasnt dreaming as I was awoken to the continuous jingle of the alarm clock, its needles were showing it was time to get up and going.

Viks was in Singapore lately and he did nothing but work, work makes a smart kid dull and when a smart kid is dull he is dead and nothing more than that. He believed his mother believed he will be this if she new he was smuggling fresh packs of Tiger beer into his room, and as he broke each can with a loud hissling whistle with the foam bubbling and smudging his lips his eyes were oggled at the exposed flesh, at the pillowed chests, at the snaking legs and the hour glass shaped hips in between of a naughty liltle vixen from FHM. He thought how grounded he would be, how his curfew would be spent but no matter, he wouldnt let this go, no he wouldnt be a mama's boy because daddy's girl was waiting. He imagined her curled plump behind bounce and jiggle when smacked and he wouldnt mind, as no man would, if she turned the other 'cheek' for another smite.She purred 'I'm a baad girl' while she nimbled his ears and suckled their lobes when he flattened his hand and straightened his fingers, readying for another spank to punish her sins and to arouse his'. And soon he was aroused to the wheeze of the heatsink fans as he realised immediately the computer was running and his work wasnt.It was a dream. A dream for ol' dull Viks. With his back curled against the backrest, his head bent exposing his throat and chin to the screen, his hands, those hands that were supposed to redden her flesh to a nice flush of crimson rose, pressed upon the back of his skull, he awoke to a chilled air conditioned daft and the placcid blank of his work bench.He glared dismissingly at the monitor before his back began to curl again, this time towards the work bench. He hung his face low,his cheeks sagged and he looked tired and felt apprehensive against the task ahead. He lifted himself, ready to continue typing.And so he went off, tapping away on the keyboard as if it mattered, crackling that cheap piece of plastic as if it was everything,impelling each letter like it was the world to him and soon realising that it wasnt all those things and so he rattled the board like an AK-47 as he wished it was pumping hot lead into the CPU that was in front of him and later realised he desired a heavier and deeper 'tat tat tat' as a real AK-47 would be and so he punched the keys harder and harder till he was in the heat of battle and the cheap plastic goo became wrecked and twisted as it would be if it were pounded by bomb after bomb after bomb.He wondered off again, this time he was deep within his work when it happened. His face was swollen into a bright cherry red. He was within the hunt, the sprint of a kill, bloodlust bloomed in his eyes. He shrugged himself,he knocked his noggin a few times to jerk the predator's spirit out of him to be dull ol' Viks again. He took a pause before pressing on. He took a deep breath. His nostrils widened and his breasts rose. His eyes shrunk into a lazy stare, rinsed off that piercing look that he had.He placed his digits on the keys again. He wanted to do it because he needed to do it yet his spirits wouldnt and so he removed his wrists from the table and reached for his wallet. He zipped it open and there was nothing in it just like there was nothing in him right now as he was dull and so he was dead and nothing more than that. He mumbled a slight whisper of protest against everything, everything within his mind that was making him pay, the bill, the food, this room and this stupid f**ked up job he had that ate his days away. He wondered if he could get off the food by eating himself, for his skin is a sweet chocolate Cadbury and thought it might be made of it.He raised his arm and took a chomp. Yes indeed he was with a delicious minty taste on the side. Then his noodles began to cook up in his skull,like the good ol genus he was, and he realised he was a perpectual motion machine, immortal as the flesh he consumed would be the flesh that was replenished.He was off the mark again. He preambulated from the path from the game he was supposed to be on. Ol' Dull Viks must come into being and be nothing again, for he needed the cash, those polymer-based paper that wasnt real paper like the hell notesthat people burnt were. No, he protested. No they were hell notes after all for he had to go through heaven and earth to get them with no real time for any heaven or worldly pleasures."No!" He burst,'No!' he screamed against this order, he wanted to be Napoleon to shook it all up . He was reaching his edge and so was getting his yearning to be a Blown-Apart with his forehead swollen his eyes bloated his skin turning from brown Cappocino roast to brimstone red. "NO!" No! He wont do this f**ked up S**t anymore for some A** that didnt know a damn about software or the hardware that came with it. He was kissing his A** and licking his B*lls before this now he wanted to kick it. He had bent more than Beckham for him, for his cash and so this made him an a** as he noticed he was rich and he was poor. As he notices he was rich and he was poor. He was poor. He took this up in a deep reckoning. A still silence stole the air, his eyes fell back into a deep blank, he was poor and he needed the greens.Work makes a smart kid dull and when a smart kid is dull he is dead and nothing more than that. Yet he needed something to be somebody and so Ol' Dull Viks died bearing the brunt with a slight grunt.

I took a stare at the sky.Clouds pregnant with water hovered over us, ceased the day as they ate the sun and its rays. The deep blue sky turned a dark grey and was beaten into individual lumps,each fluffed at the edges. An inverted ocean, blackened to its core and wide to the mile,tarred our gazes above, ready for rainfall.My eyes soon descended to a side of a shoulder, heads were seen bobbing as we plod a steady gait. We,a band of friends clad in loose t-shirts and crumpled pants, were walkig twards a building as we witnessed creaking cracks of dry paint and charcoal smudges of sut w on its aging body.It was an elongated crimson coated apartment block, one of many that rose repetitiously at this Mcallum residential zone.It stood looking unapart from the others, as each comformed to the bored cuboid shaped construction and the sleepy grey concrete surroundings they were planted at. A dear friend's house was located within it,his place of solitude and refuge, now in the process of becoming ours' as well. A silent gloom was flt. The static air was whipped into wispy curls, the cold,damp interior of the clouds was furled on to the ground. The wind caught us and we sensed the descending chill,our skins wet as if we were within them touching the condensing vapour.The heavens were plump and were ready for gravity. Soon luminous branches of light streaked through the clouds, the massive shroud was diced in anger. The sun was mad. Mad at the lost of its dominion and so spitted lightning.A loud roar alike mountains splitting struck replying the affront. A clash was unsuing, and so we ran in. We dashed towards the open lobby and with our lungs puffed, stood gaspingly on its bare cement floor with our hands against the tile plated walls. An instantanious crackling cut through the damp calm, ears were brought to the lobby exits. The drains were awash with deluge,it slithered wildly with its wavy slashes broken only by raindrops.A lift was available,its box quiet and empty, and so it marked suspicious gazes on our faces. It welcomed us with a bare interior which was as still as the narrow Georgetown alleys on a moonless night.A sly predator patiently waiting obliging prey to enter. A trap. I carried a leg in. Its floor plmmetted down sharply, then hopped up violently. Our instincts seemed to be telling.A predator, in wanting of flesh to eat,in waiting of fresh crimson meat, or in the case of our skinny friend Henry, bone marrow. Our blood gushed as loudly as the downpour outside.Veins pounded the skin as did the continuous beads of droplets on puddles in the streets. The body was screaming, shrieking as loud as the storm, saying danger! The nude, coarse dynamics of its springs and ropes and the foul, draught smell made that box a heart stopper. And yet we entered it within a beat.Both fet were brought in and, in spite of the swollen bounce from the ground, Henry punced the button carelessly, without inherit worry or danger. The doors clamped hard chopping the air. A guilotine slicing through phantom heads. Years of public transportation had made us insensitive if not reluctantly accepting of roug, unrefined joults and jerks. Our bas minis were second only to the Russians in simulating zero gravity after the Russians, taking off on speed-bumps, and the third might be this elevator if it snaps.We were jumped to a hurried stop. The doors slid open. A quick dash with our bodies thrown in a hurry resulted in an unstudied leap,done before the monsther clenched its teeth. There we turned left and took the stairs up a level, as that mesh of springs and screws and scares (that lift) only stopped at odd floors. We plod our way up. We took large steps and climbed the stubby steps stiffly. Our hands slid through the broad railings, it took up an entire palm. The staircase was a piece with the wall, connected ceaselessly to it as if the ascending steps were carved out from it. To our left the stench of settled water, salted and rotting, overwhelmed us enough to ask for a stare. The stairs were hanging from the wall,and so allowed us a view from the other side. A large marsh, muddled, rich bron at its driest areas and a murkyne green at its lowest, strangely hosted a row of wooden, zinc roofed houses. Parallel planes of planks plastered together on top a rippling flat surface, made of thin tree barks tied together. Simple and skeletal,a home to a community of poor fisherman, surrounded by the sea and the town under the monsoon pour. It was an exposed ruler, bloated with huts, surrounded by still water. An eyesore with the negleted infrastructure and the uncleared fallen vegetation decomposing, ready to be swallowed by the urban cement and asphalt of 'progress' boasted by a town which had been decaying itself. A porcupine of jumbled pines, unlike a disorganised pile of matches, staked the left end. It had already begun.My eyes twitched, my brows knitted together as I responded to the stench flowing in my nostrils. What added to this fury was a wet pile of garbage, left heedlessly to the flies, which took up ground near a faded signboard, which letters were still readable. It stated "BUANG SAMPAH MERATA-RATA, DENDA RM500". A joke came up in my mind."Georgetwn, in Chinese, is called BinCheng,but the locals prefer it to be ChewCheng". My right foot then landed on the last step and at last,we were there. It was finally time to intrude into a friend's privacy.Without a thought and without a twitch Chang reactively bent his neck, both arms levelled with his jaw, peeked through the dropping parallel window panes. A stretched, ascending sylabble was yelled; "Cccccccciiiaa!". A character popped out, eyes hazy, shoulders slumped betraying the thinness of his neck, replied in a reducing tone with his lips refrained from lengthier gaps. A key was produced and he spirinted nimblely towrds the lock, absent-mindedly twisted it open then rushed back with a mechanical spurt back to his room. We stomped heedlesly in his direction. We walked towards his abode and stopped at the corridor for a glance through. There he was, spine receded, body sloutched, arms anchored to his sides,with his right hand been snaking around with an occasional, incessant pressing of a finger on a mouse. His legs were unhinged below a wooden desk.He sat there as firm as stone upon a chair. His face was equally frozen, as stale as expressions go and as still as nature went (zero Kelvin?), with eyes glared deeply into the screen, that gave him the illusion he attained Buddhahood under the Bodhi three. He was betrayed only by the spotting of fighting murlocks, gollems, anthromorphied bears, boars, bulls and birds as they hacked each other within a virtual three dimensional world displayed through a two-dimensional flat screen.A violent click decapitated a man-boar resulted in a crimson fountain of blood as it splattered the grainy trail. Chang alluded to this and to CK's obsessive, self-depreciating, unhealthy behavior, grabbed up his voice in a assertive tone while he grinned his brows in mock-seriousness,and said"Dota Membunuh. Setiap klik membawa padah!"in an obvious satire of the Health Ministry's latest anti-drug propoganda posters. (Dadah Membunuh. Setiap hisap membawa padah)A slight bolt of life arose across his broad cheeks,it blushed with a slight giggle. He was concious of his friends indictment of his situation."The next time CK goes to a farm, he won't find cows, only Tauren Chieftains!"Was the next stinging rebuke of his passive slide into virtual reality. Rising chests accompanied by bronchritic laughter burst through the silent daft, air particles were pressed upon to form "hahaha" sounds and CK's solid trance was equally brought to its edge.His faltering concentration and undulating smirks, just short of forming full laughs,gave notice to his faltering denial and so we continued on"Hmm...There's stillness in the air. Silence is 1500 gold, zero wood.""He's in a 'Killing Spree" Someone call the cops""Change your name to Mr Dota, so that one day after you did something great you can be knighted and be given the title "Dato Dota". IF you cannot do great things just buy it from pirates for 1500 gold"Our heads then rolled to Tai's, we landed devious marks on him. We stretch our lips, slit crescents formed on our eyes. A low smile broke, followed by a whispering of mischievious "heee heee heee" notes."You're next!""No I'm not""Yes you are"He turned a cheek on us, his head rolled from our sly looks and his eyes up into the ceiling. A quick giggle rustled his words, his disinterested fascade betrayed. Knowing well Tai's aversion from even slight vulgarity, I proceeded:"What Freudian slip did Tom Welling commit when he first met Kirsten Kreuk?""When greeting the hot lass,he introduced himself 'Hi! My name is Dick Swelling"Tai turned the other cheek, ready to receive another blow.Too bad we didnt have another one. An explosion of mouth wadding saliva drenched the room as H20 did outdoors. Amilase, gathered in congealed blobs on the lacquered floor, polished it further to a fine glaze, gave off a dim reflection off Chia's diaproving feutures."There are no flowers here to water please! Close your sprinkles."The hahahaha continued followed by more hahahahas. I'm tired of writing, its 1.43 am so i'm stopping right here. I'm just very sleepy.

The stale, dry, cool mechanical air was masked by strong,intrusive odours. Deep, potent stinks of steamed meat, of damp pungent rice, of stirred hot coco, of overcooked fried rice of soggy noodles of sweetened wet meatballs of red uncooked bloodied flesh of burned churned carbon of a weeks old ripened rotting vegetables and fruits of the fiery stove of the metallic oxidated pots and pans permeate the stale, dry mechanical air. The stench of servings cooked and cooking absorbed into that stale, dry mechanical air was a breath. A breath corrupted, corrupted and adulterated, a breath sucked in hessitantly The permiscuous fowling of something so bland, something so pure, so pure that it is transparent behold the innocence of things inside. Close to the cafes, the eateries are the shops that sold pirated and illegal DVDs, their spread of films,tiled uniformly on movable shelves, sometimes sprouted out of them callously and boastfully on the pedestrian's walk without a worry of eyes and aiming for eyes. The pomp, the regalia of illuminated screens of Samsung television tubes with their audio set to the max are pervasive as they are intrusive, sturbornly bombarding passer-bys with the latest titles chipped of the hollywood block,agitating, rudely aggravating the passive slide of a pedestrian's with a wall of sound and light in hope of turning their necks to the screen followed by their wallets to become customers without a thought of them becoming law-enforcement officials even when some of them are. Irreverent to the law, indifferent to the law, advertising their presence by being indignant to ears and eyes and minds.An ethic followed not just by the pirates but also by the gambling parlours, the arcade centres and the karaoke lounges, as their machines their 'entertainment systems' and the simulated 'life' which comes within in codes in chips in the wiring of things shout, shriek with an absolute madness in unison. Abundant, overlapping, intruding echoes screaming a million voices together. Spectres with an unfinished unending story boxed in alluminium cases. Howling, screaming, intruding the living in loops into loops. A roaring of machines, of ghosts in shells.On the highest floor of the largest mall in this oldest of Malaysian towns under the subtle glow under the humble abode of the simple electric floroscent lighting it was there.It is there, all the way up there on the sixth floor, the second last layer of enclosed open space before the sky. It is fouled to the scent of restaurants, food courts, food stalls, more restaurants and ventilation shaffs. It is beating to the theme of karaoke vendors, game parlours, the cinema, even more game parlours and the people indulging in them. I was walking along when I came to a halt, my legs were no longer moving.But the ground was.The ground was moving. The ground was shaking. All the way up there, a few feet to the clouds and a whole few kilometres from the real ground, it was shaking. The mall was stacked concrete to concrete, stacked up like one of those card castle, with all the weight from the vendors the restaurants the food stalls the game parlours the cinemas the shops the people, people like me being beared by those paper thin pions and it was shaking. I was shaken by that thought. I was getting the goosebumps.I was looking down at the verandah. A few steps ahead lay nothing but a huge empty hole holding only air and nothing more. No wonder I was getting woozy. No wonder I was being a coward. A liltle chicken without a chicken liltle in him or his fears of the sky falling down but being clamoured, paralised with worries of falling down into the skies.Yet I continued looking down. Nauseated. Purple to the cheeks. I kept looking down. Looking down at those ants below. Those ants called 'people' just like you and me walking around browsing, working, selling, sponsoring, buying with personal issues and personal burdens and personal feelings in their sweat,their chests their heart yet, from all the way up here, they were one,seamlessly interacting, moving together in a tango of organised chaos. cThere is no better anthill.There is no better anthill but, under a magnifying glass (as with a magnifying glass under a gleaming sun focusing its rays), there is no better inferno. The closer you get, the lower you go from the sixth floor to the first, the closer they resemble the havoc the stink the shrieks the stench of the sixth floor. It seems the crowds, the shops followed you down, hiding under different robes and costumes teasing you out of your sensibilities. Cheating you out of your eyes and ears.The sun was setting. The sun was setting under the cover of the dim flourescent lighting. I knew that from the digital display of my handphone. And it showed me the digits 18.00 telling me to leave, to leave this anthill, this inferno, this mall,'Prangin Entertainment and Shopping Centre' to be exact, for home.

The zoom of the months flutter by soundlessly, deceptively. My gut widened my weight gained my hair grew and fell and 'cut'ted and grew back and fell back and 'cut'ted back. Lessons done homeworks finished assignments complete semesters done. Holidays came Christmas became New Year's Day New Year's became Chinese'. New friends made new friends away old friends returned playstation played warcraft 'war'red DOTA frayed movies seen old friends went new friends returned Minutes strode into hours while hours ran into days. Days flew into weeks while weeks shot into months within a second's sly All these within a spark. All these without a hunch.Ephemerial, ever mobile and never in a static quantity, it whizzes by as it teases us, suprises us, shocks us,befuddles us. Incomprehensible, undefinable to the degree where change is perceptible yet not perceivable in its full altered state and design, it confuses us with unexpected change, a change not so random yet intangible that is within our humanity to aptly be overcomed by it. That is time.

I have nothing. Blank. Nadda. Nothing's up my mind. Yet, I felt something tingling, something tickling within me. Something isnt comforting. I looked down, amazed, shouted "Something's up my hind!"It swaggers from left to right as my butt cheeks jiggle from side to side. Sugary, thick brown, milk shake and a sweet baker's chocolate cake. It is the sweet excrement for flies to play, which we need to dispose off and so we have Indah Water to pay. It looks solid enough to be stuck in that hole. That hole in between those two meat chunks that when add up we call an arse.Hard, crude, lumpy, formerly food. It stains, sprays on those baby smooth flesh. Especially at the edges, it presses upon the hips, forming splots of coffee like stains. It smells as fish is stale as the garbage is fresh. It floats around the room even though its odour is heavy, heavier than air. It smells, it stains, it sprays everything a sweet baker's chocolate cake.As the piece of shit wants to drop down as it hung there in mid air, aerated by the smell of methane just passed , I want to know, why, I want to know, what, why the what is where it is now. Up in my ass. Hanging, dingling, bungee-jumping.It must be due to me being due. It seems those prunes does its magic over constipation a liltle to soon. I soon plop my way with that piece that's due to the door with the tiles the sink the mirror and, yes, the bowl on its other side. When I reach there, i opened the door and entered, and the rest is my business alone. Although you all might add, that posting is too.
posted by gohli @ 9:50 PM 0 comments