Lines from my Darkest Week

There’s a cry in my heart for a meaning to live

There’s a hole in my chest searching out for relief.

Where can I find a peace in my mind,

When all that I think about is what’s behind?

The emotions are great and I hesitate.

The fear is real and I’m scared to fail.

The pressure inside finds no place to hide

And I’m left alone, exposed and prone.

I’ve been the giver; I’ve been the taker

I’ve been the seeker for the right answer

But where can I search for something unseen?

But where can I look for something within?

Who am I to the world outside?

I feel like I am standing in a divide.

An in-betweener; a man without a cause,

Who’s searching for meaning and has no time to pause.

Everyone has a place; of such, I was told.

But who can tell me mine? Come answer, ye bold!

Don’t tell me lies; or half-truths, be warned!

For I’ve been deceived; I have been faced with scorned.

Where do I belong? Are there many who sing this song?

Alone in the midst of the crowd; invisible to the faint and loud

Are there others like me; in this same misery?

Do I have brothers or sisters to call; when I begin to fall?

Perfect - Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Simon

In the afternoon, after I cooled down a little, the chief called me into his office. 

“You remember that guy you caught two nights back—Tony long?” asked the chief when I steeped through the door.  He had an opened file in front of him—Tony’s file.  In no mood for words, I nodded.

“Well, he was sentenced yesterday.” The chief looked at me to see my expression before continuing, “two years.”

I nodded emotionlessly.  In truth, it was an honest judgement since my report stated everything important.

“What’s troubling you, Thomason?”

“Nothing,” I replied coldly, “Just not happy, that’s all.”

“With?” prompted the chief.

“Life,” I stated plainly.

“You need a counsellor?”

“Not necessary.”

“Sure ‘bout that?”

“Yes.” I emphasized the word.

“Fine, then take the day off.”  It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.

I nodded and walked out.  With the rest of the day off and so many productive things that I could do, I decided to head home. 

This time Simon was not at the door with his empty bowl.  Instead, the bowl was only half-drunk and Simon was nowhere to be seen.  I did not bother looking for him.  He is a cat after all—when he is hungry, he looks for you.  I sat at my coffee table after I made my coffee and wondered about that day I found Simon.  It was my third year of consciousness and my sixth month on the force.  I was examining the crime scene of the murder of Elizabeth Lee.  She had been shot at point blank range in the back.  I was going through her room when a cat came through the open window.  I recognized the cat as the cat in her photos.  The collar that Simon wears now is the one Elizabeth was going to give him on his tenth birthday.  I kept Simon after I cleared up the paperwork.

The phone rings.  Where did I put it?  I made a mental note to get one of those gadgets that has everything in it so I would not need so many things in my pockets. 

“Hello?” I said after finding my phone in my left pocket.

“Mr. Thomason?” A woman’s voice answered.

I nodded.  Then I remembered that I was talking to the phone and said yes—I need to focus…too much daydreaming.

“I’m Samantha Lee.  Elizabeth Lee was my mother.”

“Yes?  How are you Samantha?”

“Umm…I was wondering…do you still have Simon with you?”

I didn’t know what to say.  I dreaded to say yes and hear her ask whether she could have him…after all he rightfully belonged to her.  I dreaded to say no and to come up with story on where he is now.  And most of all, I dreaded to lie. 

After a very awkward pause, I said yes.

“Great!” She answered and I felt sick—figuratively, I have never been sick for as long as I can remember.  I closed my eyes as she continued, “I am around the neighbourhood and I saw a cat that looked exactly like Simon running after a police car, and I thought that he should be with you…”

“I think that is him, Samantha,” I answered laughing a little, “You see, Simon doesn’t like being in the house all the time, and he gets out here and then.”

I heard a laugh at the other end of the line, and then I heard running and a siren as Samantha ran after the van shouting Simon’s name.  I hung up the phone after all I could hear on the other end was heavy staccato footsteps, a loud annoying siren, a woman’s effort in calling a cat’s name in the middle of a run, and the annoying panting when she tires.

I check my phone again.  The siren sounds still seem to be ringing.  No, the call has ended.  Now I hear a woman’s panting?  I look at the window in time to see Simon jump in through the window obviously exhausted.  He went straight for the half-drunk milk bowl before he spotted me and jumped.

“Hi to you too, Simon,” I greeted, “how was the little police chase?”

The cat gave me a curious look and went back to his bowl. 

I hear the lift.  I sigh as I walk to my door.  A fist greeted me as I opened the door.  I had opened it one second to late for Samantha to withdraw her knock.

“Sorry!” was all she managed.

I check my nose.  Not to see whether it was broken, but more as a cultural expectation.

“You can come in,” I said while I left the door opened for Samantha, “Simon’s inside.”

Samantha rushes in to see her mother’s cat.  I sat at my coffee table and observed.  Samantha had changed from the last I time saw her.  She was more mature in every sense, but her fashion sense needed improvement.  At age twenty, media played a very important part in her life.  She dressed plainly with a blue baby-tee shirt and track pants.  She was most likely jogging when she spotted Simon.  I couldn’t analyze her face as it was blocked with her long ebony hair. 

I got up to get her a drink.  One minute and twenty-four seconds passed before she got up and sat at the coffee-table.

“He looks well,” said Samantha motioning to Simon.

“He is fed twice daily, he has no restrictions—he can go anywhere he wants, and he eats Miaowers the ‘ultimate cat chowder’.” I noticed she stared at me rather strangely, but she laughed at my last statement.  I wondered what was wrong with Miaowers. 

Now I could view her face.  She looked exactly like her mother, with her father’s eyes.  She looked at me and I quickly turned away.  The awkward silence lasted for fifty-three seconds, until she began talking. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I got the day off.”

“Sick?”

“No, the boss didn’t like my attitude today.  Well, no one liked my attitude today at the office.”

  

“Why?”

I looked straight into Samantha’s eyes.  Should I tell her my problems? Why should I even confide in her? It won’t improve my condition, and I already told the chief that I didn’t need a counsellor.  But she looked interested in my story, not the usual story that everybody had probably already heard—the man-recovered-from-the-river-now-works-in-the-police-force story—she seemed interested in my story.

“I have been having disturbances in my sleep.” I confessed, “I have been dreaming about the same dream for sometime now and I think it has to do with my origin.”

“What do you dream about?”

I told her all that I remembered from the dream.  All she did was nod with understanding, but what does she understand? She knows where she was born; I don’t even know whether I was.  That A.D.A.M. 13 mark on my back is a constant reminder of the past I am trying to recall, but all I have about my past is my dream and that mark.  Is my life meant to be such? Am I supposed to live like a vagrant for the rest of my life? Her eyes widened at the description of one of the scientists.

“Green eyes and cropped brown hair?” she clarified. I nodded.  The description was that of a plain man.  It wouldn’t even help in an investigation, but now as she sat puzzled, I recalled that there were not many people with green eyes and brown hair in the city—in fact, only a handful.  “You can see colour in your dreams?” Her question threw me off.  I thought she was thinking of all the men that could fit the profile, but she had drawn her attention on something more important.  She was right; colours in dreams meant that the dream was of a real memory—at least that was one theory.

“What does that mean?” I asked.  It was clear she was thinking a lot, but I was not sure what she was pondering upon.

“It means that your dreams could actually be concrete memories.  Real memories suppressed into your unconscious that it only manifests itself when you let your guard down—when you sleep.”  It was only then that I recalled Samantha’s vocation.  She was a clinical psychologist.  Great, I told the chief I did not need a counsellor and here I am with one in my house, but she knew about something that could help me in my hunt for the truth.     

I did not know how to respond so I just laughed.

“What did I say?” she asked blushing.

I laughed before replying:

“It’s just that I told the chief of police that I didn’t need a shrink today.”     

We both laughed together before we returned to our cups of coffee.  The awkward silence was unbearable so I broke it.

“So, these dreams could be about my past?”

“There’s a possibility that they are, Adam, but I can’t be sure.  There are many different theories about dreams, but as far as I can tell, it’s rare to dream in such detail, let alone, remember all of your dreams.  These dreams that you are having are connected somehow with your history.”

After the conversation carried on for another twenty-three minutes, Samantha took a look at her watch and decided that she needed to leave.  She took a last hold of Simon and left.  She left me with something to hope for.  Something in my past manifested itself in my dreams.  Just how exact they are, I will never be sure, unless I investigate.  

What We are For

We have been dead for far too long

The enemy's hand is for too strong

Break the chains

Let the Spirit reign

We can't remain in the past

It's time we change

Let's not be strange-ers

To the outcasts.

It's time the world knows what we are for

It's time to open up the door.

To our neighbors and friends

Let us lend them our hands.

Let's wash the feet

Of those in need

God, empower us all.

It's time the world knows what we are for.

Let us open our eyes to see

That people will not heed our plea

Unless our actions

Shows our passion

For the One who made us.

So let us be rid

Of our selfish seed

And be like Christ Jesus. 

Stupid Kid

This is a poem about...me
I'm sorry.

Stupid kid,

You thought you knew better.

Stupid kid,

But you just doused the fire.

You are dumb, your mind is numb to her voice.

This stubborn brain cannot remain your choice.

Stupid kid.

Stupid move,

You dug yourself a hole.

Stupid move,

You deserve the cold.

She was all that's right and in your sight, you stupid kid.

But now this game won't be the same; your rash-ful deed.

Stupid kid.

Stupid boy,

Your words can't be unsaid.

Stupid boy,

Get it in your head:

Girls like her do not appear so often.

So kick your selfish hide and leave your pride forgotten.

Stupid kid.

If you ever find it in your heart

To forgive this dumb nut.

He would do his best to fill

This hole he's made, til it's a hill.

Though the mound may still be there

And it still shows so clear and bare.

He hopes to make it up to you,

Please just tell him what to do...

Cause he's a stupid kid.

Entropy

In a spontaneous irreversible process, the total entropy of the system and its surroundings always increases.

According to the second law of thermodynamics (above), the rate of deterioration of this planet we call Earth is increasing. It should hurt us as residents of this world that our world is already dying without our help.

We are the active ingredient that is added to this world to slow the entropy process. We are meant to be the 'outside influence' to change this entropy; not the direct opposite. Instead of making the world a better place, we are helping in the deterioration process--speeding it up in fact.

Imagine the world as a ticking clock. When the clock hits twelve, the battery runs out. We, as parts of the clock, cannot influence it into rewinding. We can't stop it from ticking either. It will continue to tick whether we like it or not. What we are doing to the clock now is the opposite of what we are meant to do--we are putting it closer to the twelve o'clock mark.

What can we do? As it was said, we can't stop it or rewind it. We can slow it down--make it 'tick' slower than before.

How? It is up to you. There are many ways to save the Earth, but the little path you take can slow the ticking.

Then God said, "Let us make man in our image, in our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground." (Genesis 1:26)

Are we doing our job?

Hood of Niadris - Prologue

In the time of powerful magicians—the time when the Great One, Avon, walked the land—Brack was a peaceful and prosperous land.  The Great One and the Gardeons, his disciples, taught the inhabitants of Brack the ways of righteousness.

But the Great Avon had to leave his land of Brack and return to Godholm when one of his own Gardeons, Avongel, betrayed him and corrupted the land.  The Great One left his Gardeons in Brack to keep Avongel from completely destroying his land.  The Gardeons succeeded in pushing Avongel and his grotesque armies of cryans and evoluns south of Brack, and managed to trap Avongel there.  Avongel took control of this place and it became known as Tophet, the land of smoke. 

In case Avongel was to ever break the spell that held him there, Niadris, a magician fawn and disciple of Halbark, one of the Gardeons, forged a helmet and planted into it the knowledge of ending the reign of Avongel if Avongel ever escaped.  By forging this powerful instrument, Niadris quickly made enemies, mainly bounty hunters, hoping to gain something back from Avongel by destroying it.  Fleeing for his life, Niadris hid the helmet in the Forest of Halbark.  There in the enchanted forest, the helmet was safe.  No Aizon could penetrate the magical thickness of the forest of Halbark. 

After a few centuries of imprisonment, Avongel found a way to escape—through the Menelandine border.  He released his Raiders of Night, his messengers of death, to prepare for his return to Brack.  The Raiders began a reign of terror.  In every village, town, or city visited by these Raiders, only ruins and smoke were left behind.  Armies of any kind fell to the feet of these Raiders.  Nothing stood in their way. 

More recently, the Raiders have completely devastated the territory of Meneland and have moved north into Kanine.  Their direction of destruction seems to be northwards and their next possible direction is east until the Avas Sea—in this way, destroying all of Brack from east to west.   

Perfect - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Adam Thomason

“Thomason is it true that you stopped all these criminals without backup?” said my boss, the chief, as he threw a stack of photos from a thick brown file on my desk.

“Yes.” My response was almost immediate.  I knew what he was going to say—not that I’m that good in predicting the future—but because this is the second time he’s said that this week…the sixty-ninth time this month…the three hundred and twenty-fifth time this year.

“What happened to your partner?”

“He couldn’t catch up.”  My eyes were cold…emotionless.  My partner, Diego, was probably from the lowest part of the food chain.  All I have ever seen him consume are doughnuts and that poison the companies laboured “carbonated drinks”.  It is to no surprise that he is as fat—and slow—as last year’s escargot. 

“He was trying?” suggested the chief. Diego was his nephew and he didn’t want to have to fire relatives.

“Yes, but he collapsed after his twenty-ninth step.” 

“What? Never mind, I want your report on my desk tomorrow.”

“It is already completed and lying on your desk bellow Steven’s report on the fifty-third car theft this week.”

The chief gave me a weird look—it would be classified something between confusion and surprise, and a tinge of anger.  When he composed himself, he walked out saying something about some donkey which had a dog as a mother being too smart a donkey. 

I looked at the mug shots of the people that I recently put behind bars.  Why do they need to commit crimes?  I knew from analysis that there were roughly four groups of criminals: they had no other choice, they wanted revenge, they were dared into doing it, they wanted easy money, or they just felt like it.  Out of the eighteen photos, I can only see that only one really needed money—Tony Long whom I caught just last night.  I caught up with him in an alley.  He had been fleeing the patrols by taking the narrowest paths.  He gave me more thrills than the rest.  He had stolen two point three thousand dollars worth of diamonds.  When he realized that he could not escape, he begged me to let him go, because his daughter was dying of cancer and he had already used up all the money he and his wife had saved on her chemotherapy.  I arrested him but allowed him to say one last goodbye to his wife and daughter.  I left a check in his house which was enough for his daughter’s treatment for two months.  His wife will find it in two hours and twenty-one minutes time when she returns from visiting him from the locker.

I put the photos away in my almost full file of solved crimes, grabbed my jacket and headed back home.  I plugged the headphones from my mp3 player into my ears and switched to the radio function.  The radio station was playing some new song named More than a Simple Life by Fantasies are Fake.  I listened to the rock beat and the catchy tune of the chorus.

It’s more than a simple life

For most of us at least.

We have to work hard,

Before we can even feast.

We got to earn a living

Before we can start life.

Not like many heiresses

Who’ve been to Paris,

And such,

And only had a simple life.

Besides the jibe at the celebrity, the song actually had meaning.  I thought about Tony Long who had a ‘more than a simple life’.  He was an honest worker, but always spoke what he believed in.  His bosses promoted him twice this a year, but still his wage was not enough.  He asked for bonuses and searched for other ways to get money legally.  He took loans and borrowed from friends, until finally resorting to theft.  There are so many people with more than enough money and so many with not enough.  All we have to do to make the world a better place is to get rid of all these poverty by making the rich poorer and the poor, richer.  Though luck.  No comfortable sane business man would give up his luxury of a mansion to live in a ‘lowly’ apartment.

“Simon, I’m home.” I announced as I opened my front door.  My Toby cat appeared at the door with his empty milk bowl in his mouth.  I went to the kitchen to fetch him his milk, poured it into his bowl before relaxing into my couch.  I switched on the TV and browsed the channels until I found the local news.

“Crime rates are dropping,” announced the anchor-woman, “All this due to Chief inspector Miles and his team.”

I should be angry that I wasn’t acknowledged, but what’s the point?  It’s useless.  I watched as they interviewed the chief on his strategy and I couldn’t help smiling.  The chief mentioned about equality in the department, and all that gibberish about how well he treats his staff.  I was shocked to hear that he did not mention anything about a dog’s son or a ‘whole donkey’.

I fell asleep during his speech—I could not help it: I hear his voice everyday—and had that same dream again.  I dreamt that I was in water—no, some sort of liquid that does not burn your eyes—and restricted.  I could see people in lab coats starring at me in disbelief.  Then I see total blackness.  In the same dream this process repeats itself like I was blacking out and coming back again and again.  I would not call it a nightmare, but it did make me feel strange. 

I woke up at five in the morning.  Instead of getting ready for work, I sat down on my coffee table and pondered over the dream.  It has been three weeks since I started dreaming about the same thing and every time the dream became clearer and clearer like a focus function on a camera had been activated—I could even make out the faces of some of them. 

 I did not sit and think for long.  I got ready and left for work at six-thirty.  Like a robot, I reached in my pocket and listened to my mp3 again.  I was in no mood to hear the morning crews of the radio stations joke about, so I switched to my songs and listened to my playlist.  The song: Mirrorman by the Magicians soon blasted through my earphones.

I woke up today

Feeling a little drowsy.

But I know that life could not wait

For me to be ready.

So I went to the bathroom

To freshen myself again

Than I looked into the mirror

And saw the…

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

What is it you see?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Why it is only me.

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Who is to say I am he?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Well, you have to be somebody?

I turned on the shuffle function and changed the song—I was in no mood for thought-provoking songs and that album by the Magicians was entitled: Think About That.

A smooth melody soon sang through the phones.  It was the relaxing voice of Jane Benedict singing Chosen. 

From the beginning of time,

We were chosen by God

We are here for a reason,

Placed here by God.

To look after his creation,

Every rock, sand, or sod.

We are chosen by the Almighty

To care for our city.

We are created for a reason.

We are chosen for a cause.

We are created for this season

We are chosen for a cause…

I gave up and switched off my player.  The song did not help my mood—firstly, because I did not know where or when I began.  My earliest memories are of those five years ago when I was fished out of the sea in the beginning of winter—not with bullets in my body like the movie.  I suffered from hyperthermia and apparently that can lead to amnesia as well.  I did not know how I managed to communicate with the people in English, but I did.  I later discovered that I was the ninth in twenty bodies recovered in that week alone in the same river.  I was the only survivor.  All of us had a mark on our backs that read: A.D.A.M. followed by numbers—my number was thirteen.  Eventually I joined the police force hoping to uncover the truth about my origin, but until now, I have learnt close to nothingt.

With a face that could scare Simon, I stomped into the HQ.  No one talked to me the whole morning because of my face—not even the chief.