Winter

He lay his head down. The damp cardboard was ice-cold against his skin, although he had a full head of scraggly hair to keep him warm. The extra clothes he had taken from the hotel coatroom were already coated with a thin layer of frost, which seeped with ease through the thick nylon coats and leather jackets.

The skies were clear, and he watched his breath leave him in a plume of fog. As he inhaled, the cold sapped at his lungs like a knife, and he coughed wetly. The pneumonia was worse, but hospital fees were expensive, and medications didn't come easily without a prescription. There were some peddlers on the street, but there was a slim chance of finding any black market pills at this time of the year. Instead, he pulled the wet jackets close, tucking them under his body to keep the cold out.

A police siren blared, frighteningly close, and he pulled himself deeper into the alley's shadows. The wind whistled, drowning out the sounds as it howled through the narrow passage, biting at his face with cruel teeth. He pulled himself along with both hands numb in the snow, using the cardboard underneath him as a slide. The rancid smell of rotten food caught his nose as he passed a dumpster, full of the week's leftovers. There were some things not even the homeless would touch, unless it was a matter of life and death.

A sharp hiss caught his attention. By the restaurant's back door, a small porch light illuminated a wall vent, pouring a hot steam into the air. The dishwashers were probably running for the night. He pulled up close to the pipe, grateful for the warmth. Luckily, the pipe was unoccupied, and free for the night. He wrapped himself up as best he could, but the night air still nipped at his face and ankles. He closed his eyes and nodded off to a restless sleep.

The stars were out.

A Tearful Death

The Visitor
Oct 19, 2006

He was waiting for her when she got home.

He sat in the dark, on time, merely counting the minutes until she would return. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackness of the room, and the only sound was that of the ticking clock, counting by the seconds and minutes until she would return.

And suddenly, the front door opened, letting light spill into the room, chasing away the shadows. He rose as she entered.

For a few minutes they stood and watched each other. She seemed shocked, but then again, most people were, even though they saw him coming.

After a while, she spoke.

"I've expected you for a while," she commented in a weak but conversational tone of voice, as if she were talking about the weather.

"I know." he replied.

"You look more... weary than I expected. Not at all like I thought you would."

"Appearances are misleading. The occupation isn't the most rewarding in the world." He motioned to a maple dining chair. "Would you like to take a seat, before we end this?"

"Thank you. But if you don't mind, I'd like to have a cup of warm tea first, then lie back in my bed while you do... your business." She shuffled slowly to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh no, thank you very much," he replied, "but I can only stay for so long."

"I understand." She placed her warm drink on the bedside table. Rubbing her thighs with her hands, she turned away from him. "It's a very cold night tonight."

"Yes, I know. I brought the car along instead of the horse."

"Is that a joke? I didn't know this was so funny," she said, but there was a deep resignation in her eyes, and a glint of humor about the situation.

"Well, life is what we make of it, is it not? Humor can be seen in anything, and in my... line of work, humor is a necessary function- we armor ourselves with it, to prevent despair."

"I suppose it is. I'm just glad this is turning out to be so easy. I was actually quite nervous, but now that you're here, I don't really mind at all. I suppose there's no turning back now either."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the ticking of the clock matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Counting down the seconds, like a cruel Fortune, a despairing Fate.

"Do you have any questions before I do what I have to?" He moved from the shadows, took a seat in the chair opposite the bed, looking at her with his hands clasped.

"I... I do have one question..." She looked up at him with her eyes suddenly full of glistening tears.

"Yes?"

"Was it the drugs? Or just age? Or perhaps something else?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not the right person to tell you that. I'm here to do my business, and I'm passing through, just like everyone else."

She sat for a long while, without words, or movement. He sat equally as still and silent, waiting for an answer, a response, something.

Finally, she spoke.

"Are you going to kill me?" she said, her hands trembling as she reached for the cup.

He paused.

"You're already dead," He replied, touching her shoulder, and she was.

Taking the silk blankets, he tucked her in gently, closed her open eyes with tender love, and took the empty cup from her limp hands.

He pulled his hood over his head, picked up his scythe, and walked back into the streets.

The air outside was chilly. It matched the ice surrounding his heart, and the tingle of frost running down his spine.

He looked up at the full moon smiling down on him, and that was when the tears began to fall.

Who am I?

Who am I?

I'm a sailor, on the sea of life,
Tossing and turning with the wave,
Never knowing what lies ahead,
Except the stillness of the grave.

I'm a explorer, in the wild,
Never seeing past my own nose,
Like life, like jungle, and all between,
Wherein I wander, no one goes.

I'm a worker, at the shops,
Toiling away, day ere day,
Past hours, weeks, months and years,
I kill myself, to earn my pay.

I'm a poor man, on the streets,
My life is cruel, and hard to boot,
I'm lost and starved and never safe,
Just like life, the point is moot.

I'm a migrant, in a strange land,
Outcast here, no home I find,
My life is lost, I have no hope,
To linger here is to break my mind.

I'm a hero, never-born,
Son of gods and spinner of fate,
Quest and journey, shield and sword,
I'll never rest, at any rate.

I'm a person, in my own right,
I'm lost and tossed and dead inside,
But what I find within myself,
Is hope, and faith, and naught to hide.

The Last

Jake stepped out of the hatch.

As far the eye could see: Destruction. The houses of men were reduced to rubble. Tines of lumber and metal thrust out of the ground like sharp spikes, and holes and craters littered the dry earth.

The air was dusted with a brown tinge, and the sun was blotted out by the thick black clouds. Everywhere was dark, and gray, and bleak.

"Hello?" Jake cried out. "Hey! Anyone out there?!"

The silence was the loudest sound. Not even the whisper of wind, or the rustling of leaves. In fact, the trees were all gone, as was any other living thing. Only Jake. Alone.

He lowered himself to the ground. The hatch stuck out of the ground like some sort of vile insect, the metal coating flaking in the harsh air. Rusted pieces fell to the ground like red snow. The sound of his shoes against the cold earth thundered like drumbeats through the hollows of the city.

As he walked, Jake remembered. The loud bang, the bright flash from outside the kitchen window. Ma dropping the onion she was mincing, father pushing him into the hatch, and then silence. Silence for the longest time, days upon days, until he finally gathered up the courage to open that door, the hatch to hell.

The wreckage of skyscrapers towered around him like vast alien structures, and the forms of ruined cars and vehicles came out of the mist-like dust. No bodies, no animals, no living being for miles and miles. No sound. It was a silent world: the silence of death.

Jake felt something touch his shoulder, and he ran for cover as rain poured down from the sky. Pools of water collected in the basins and craters of the earth as he ducked under the tilted edge of a skyscraper. Thunder crashed, and lightning streaked across the sky, heralds to death and destruction.

Jake huddled in the cold, cold world, pulling his coat close to his body. Alone, while the hiss of acid rain corroded and discolored the metal city. The overhang above his head creaked, and he shivered in fear and cold as the storm raged above.

A piece of metal made a decent cover as he headed out in the storm. With one hand, he held his coat closed, and with the other, he held the steel sheet above his hunched head. Rain slammed into the pane, pattering with a thousand hits as Jake made his way through the city.

The dust had subsided, by the acidic rain choked his lungs and blurred his vision. Thunder had deafened him, and lightning had blinded him. The smell of ozone filled the air as a bolt struck the wreckage of a distant tower.

Jake walked, and walked, not knowing what he was searching for. The rain drummed against his head and his feet matched the rhythm, as he plodded through the broken city. Eventually, his foot touched an edge, and he looked up.

The ocean. A distant horizon, and grey waters. Unpassable, lashing out with tongues of mist and spray in the violent storm, crashing against the shore with the clash of a thousand cymbals. A broken statue of justice and liberty, her crown and head long destroyed, and her book sunken, and her torch extinguised. Only her feet still stood, a testament to Ozymandias, and the horror of humanity.

Jake looked down. Rainwater collected at his feet as he bent over. He sobbed, and choked, as he reached out his hand. His fingers strained, his knees shaking, and tears running down his wet face. And then, at that instant, his life fled his body, the strain and shock greater than his body could withstand, tumbling him onto his side, his eyes wide-open and blank as the rain fell in pools around him.

At his fingertips, just out of his grasp, sat a single white rose, growing out of the broken concrete and pools of acid rain, shining in the grey world, under the black skies and weathered wreckage: a symbol of innocence gone awry - and a fitting memorial over the grave of mankind.

Love

Have you ever been in love?
That's the title of one of my favourite quotes.
A lot of people say different things
About Love.
The Bible says Love is kind,
Gentle, Pure, not-sexy-until-marriage,
And a lot of other stuff.
People tell me love is special,
Love is cool,
It just feels
Right.
Some people, they tell me
They hate love.
Because it gets inside them,
All inside their armor,
Breaks them up from the inside.
I'm not exactly experienced,
So I can't tell you what I think of love,
Personally.
But this is what I've seen:
Love.
It makes your knees wobbly.
It can make you say the stupidest things,
Or feel bad for someone who is embarassed.
Love can make two people
remove the masks they wear.
It's what makes two people sit next to each other,
Even though there is plenty of room on the bench.
It's what drove those people to make
The two-handed mittens,
So you could keep holding hands,
Even when it's cold.
It's why God made roses,
And chocolate, and words,
And even music.
It's a song without words,
A conversation in your heart.
Love can make you shake,
It can make you laugh.
It can even make you cry.
Love lights your way through the darkness,
And you would sacrifice the world for it.
It can make you selfish,
Or generous,
Or even both.
Love is often like a flower,
It's found in the most unlikely places.
Or it can be just sitting there,
Waiting for you.
Love is fate.
Love is also madness,
But there is always some reason in madness.
True love stories never have endings.
Love is eternal.
It makes it very hard to talk sometimes,
Almost like you're drowning,
And you have to struggle for the right words.
Love is like picking roses.
You'd be picking them for a lifetime.

Beauty

Written at 12:30 AM on a cold winter's morning. I was walking outside, in the freezing cold, with pellets of snow bouncing off my face. I happened to look down at the ground, and realized my footsteps were breaking the smooth, perfect, surface of the new fallen snow. I turned around and saw what a path of destruction my footsteps had wrought... but just like that, the wind blew, wiped away the marks of my journey, and it was as if I had never been there. So I propped myself against a tree, and began to write.

Beauty
February 14, 2007

Beauty
Is in the mind,
Where God, love and peace come together.
Where order and feeling meet reality.

It is the thing that evokes both rest
And sadness in the heart.
It is found in symmetry, and also
In chaos.

It is the windswept snow,
The blue moon,
The still water.

It is the smile on the face,
The laughter of a loved one,
The love between individuals.

It is the mind,
The heart,
The soul.

It is in the eye of a beholder.
It is priceless.
It is ageless.

Beauty can end.
And Beauty can endure.

Flag

"We view flags with special reverence because they have historically served as symbols of the collective identity of those who fight under them, symbols proudly carried into battle at the forefront of attacking forces and waved to rally troops in disarray or retreat. The colors of a Civil War regiment embodied its honor, and the men chosen to bear them made up an elite. The post of flagbearer was deemed an appointment of great honor, and those who trooped regimental and national flags into battle were especially brave, for colors "drew lead like a magnet." A fallen bearer's banner would quickly be taken up by a fellow soldier, and many men willingly exposed themselves to enemy fire (often at the cost of their lives) rather than allow their regiments to suffer the dishonor of allowing their flags to touch the ground. Yet it was not the flag itself that was important so much as what it symbolized: that so long as the banner waved, at least one man from that regiment lived on, and thus the regiment itself continued to exist."


Flag
February 11, 2007


Bullets flayed the air around the soldiers as they dug themselves into the trench. The situation was hopeless. At least a hundred enemy soldiers, versus a small regiment caught by surprise. The base was captured, the enemy were ready and armed, and worst of all, the flag had fallen, signifying defeat and dishonor.

The soldiers contemplated their options. There weren't many. Die now in a last stand, or die later, slaughtered like pigs in a hole. There was an unspoken code between the soldiers in the trench. Die with honor, or die with shame.

"Jackson!" Private Tare cried, "Over the top!"

The remaining twenty-three soldiers all leapt over the edge of the furrow. The sound of explosive rounds filled the air. Ammunition instantly tore into a soldier, and he fell facedown into the dirt. Jackson screamed as a bullet clipped his helmet, luckily deflected by the plating. Clouds of dust flew into the air as the enemy traced long gouges into the earth. The sound was immense, tremendous, incredible.

The ground shook and splintered as the lead rounds pounded away, seeking the warm home of a human body. Private Birch fell as he was pummeled with metal slugs, and a group of soldiers dropped like screaming flies as a hand grenade made its arcing path to their position, going off with an enormous snap.

"Hold men! Hold the line! Don't let -" The incoming command was cut off by a violent scream as the chittering of bullets rained down on the officer. "AHGGGG!"

Men dropped as the metal pellets came racing like a storm from hell. The smell of gunpowder mingled with blood filled the air as dirt ploughed up in their faces. The men kept running, falling, dying.

Sweat dripped from Jackson's forehead as he reached the flag first. The fabric was torn, smeared with mud and dirt, pocked with bulletholes. With a groan, he pulled up with both arms. The enemy turned their sights on him, and a stray round clinked off his helmet as he ducked down low.

Soon, Tare and Slim joined him, screaming as they struggled to lift the heavy weight. Ammunition continued to storm around them, as more soldiers joined the effort. Enemy tracers found them, ripping soldiers with lead slugs, the flag dipping and swaying, only to be stopped by the stiff hands of the dead. The treeline offered minimal cover, as soldiers fell, and more came up, like waves lapping on a shore.

"AGHHHH!" James screamed as a bullet tore through his leg. Private Stax was killed instantly, not a moment to scream, as rounds punched through his neck, shaking him like a rag doll before he slumped into the dirt. The heavy flag swayed once again, before Tare propped it up with his body, covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Screams filled the air, as soldiers died without a chance to gasp.

Whistling filled the air as a sniper fired a round straight through Jackson's helmet, leaving a neat hole leaking blood. He fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, as Tare sobbed, trying to dig the base of the flagpole into the muddy ground. Xavier put his weight into it, until the back of his uniform flew open as his chest exploded, a slug punching through his heart.

Soon, only 2 soldiers remained. Then a sharp crack, and only Tare was left, crouching, crying, covered in filth and blood and sweat, hanging onto the thin metal flagpole like a child to its mother. He looked up. The flag stood straight and tall, flapping in the wind; beaten, torn, defiled and broken... but still standing. He gave a tearful salute.

Then he was blown away in the next hailstorm of metal.

An Act of Mercy

I've been having those dreams again.

It's Deja Vu all over again. Once again, we meet the enemy, and once again, he is us.

First to go, last to know. It's the way it's always been.

We don't shoot to kill. We shoot to survive.

Once I was walking down the lazy streets of urban Toronto when I stopped a movement out of the corner of my eye. A small flare of pink stood out from the side of the street, a tiny spot of color on an otherwise bleak pavement.

On a whim, I stopped and bent over. To my horror and eternal pity, a small featherless bird lay there, just out of the nest, crushed on the concrete. Its wings were broken and it took laboured breaths, struggling to survive in the cold of the autumn.

I looked above for the nest, but there weren't any nearby trees. I sumerised that the bird must have fled the nest on its 'first flight' and, unable to fly due to malnutrition, the wind, or other circumstances, it had landed here, in the middle of the technological forest, the urban jungle.

And I looked again at the small creature, this pitiful bundle of down and beady eyes. I knelt next to it, wondering how the numerous cats and dogs of the neighbourhood had not yet noticed this tasty morsel. I looked on helplessly, tried to see some way I could save it, but from even just a cursory glance I could see it was beyond rescue.

I looked down at my watch. 10:09. With a heavy heart I picked up the tiny creature, this godforsaken life, this tortured soul trapped in a broken body. I brought it with me, crossed the street, approached the train station. I ascended the steps, feeling the warm body through my fingers, the broken bones jutting out against the soft skin. And then, I reached the tracks. From the signs above, the train was due in another 3 minutes. I breathed a soft prayer through the cold air, and placed the bird on the tracks. Then I forced myself to walk away.

The next day when I went back, there was no trace of the bird. I pray it miraculously flew away, but to this day, the memory of that little bird still haunts me in my dreams.