A Beginning in Sight

The storm finally passed. After two days of incessant rain and howling wind, the sun poked its rays through the clouds. Streams of light danced amongst the lingering shadows, bridging earth and sky. To describe the lands in one word was easy - wet.

Dhuergar Warhammer looked down at the rain-soaked fields and forests of his province and smiled. The experiment had worked! The knowledge of the new Storm spell had passed to his province's wizards just recently. There was now an easy counter to the Droughts that would undoubtedly plague his lands in any war, and as a dwarf his fear of Droughts was an especial one.

"Well. It worked." He turned to his friend and advisor who stood next to him.

Qualath kept his gaze on the lands stretched out beyond the battlements of the fort, surveying for any damage done by the storm. "Indeed."

Dhuergar turned from the view and stode towards the tower; Qualath followed a step behind. Dhuergar's brisk pace was easily matched by the half-elf.

"Be sure to have a note of thanks sent to our friend." Wizards from a neighbouring province had aided in the experiment.

"Of course, my lord." Qualath was efficient, and he had no doubts about the success of the new Storm spell; a note had been drafted the day the original agreement was signed. All that remained was for the official seal to be applied, and a rider to deliver it to its destination.

The pair were through the door and climbing down the stairs. "I want reports by this evening."

Qualath nodded in silence. That also had been looked to; forewarning had been given to the appropriate people. Those people were doubtless already gathering the necessary information for their reports. Qualath, however, would have to personally see to it that the war-room was prepared; only one servant was trusted to enter that room, and only when supervised.

At the bottom of the stairs Qualath stopped by Dhuergar's side. "By your leave, my lord."

Dhuergar did not pause in his strides, saying only, "Go, Qualath. No time to be wasted." There they parted ways.

They crossed paths again in the afternoon, Dhuergar almost walking past Qualath in one of the courtyards. Qualath was sitting on a stone bench near the center of the garden, his gaze fixed on a point in front of him. Curious, Dhuergar looked in the direction his friend was facing. There was nothing there; no flowers, no bushes, no statues, no paintings, nothing.

"Hmm." If there was one thing the battle-scarred dwarf knew, it was that his weakness was dealing with what he called the 'softer emotions'. Still, he had many years of experience dealing with other races, and was constantly learning how to deal with them. And though he never considered his old friend 'soft', he knew that Qualath had the heart of an elf. Quiet repose was a part of his character.

Dhuergar approached the bench and sat next to his friend. "Well."

No response.

He tried a more direct tack. "What happened to that elf lady friend of yours?"

Without turning his head, Qualath answered, "She - had to go."

It was a short answer. "I see."

"She was swept off her feet by some elf. A prince I think."

"Oh." So far, by Dhuergar's own reckoning, he was doing very well. "Hmm."

"Not much chance for a half-breed like me to impress her."

"Well, that's her loss." His reply was automatic, but, he also felt, the right one.

A smile threatened to tug the corners of the half-elf's lips up. He half-turned to face the dwarf.

"Of course."

And that was that. Dhuergar slapped his knees enthusiastically, pushed off the bench, and gave his friend a good clap on the shoulder. Just before leaving the courtyard, he stopped and turned to his friend again. "I will see you later then. It was good to talk." That, he felt, was a good finishing touch.

The smile came to Qualath's face finally, as he lowered his head to stare at his hands. "Yes. On both accounts."

And the day continued, as the two most powerful men in the faery province of Voide Knite prepared their followers for war.

Homeward Bound

The sun rose over the hill, casting brilliant colours upon the valley beyond. The city nestled in the center of the valley was already awake, and so were the surrounding villages. People here rose early to meet the new day. Two figures atop a hillrise looked down with the sun. Watching. Remembering.

"Back home, my lord?" One bearded face looked to another.

"Home?" The dwarf turned and looked up, ever so slightly, at his half-elven friend. "Home, Qualath? What home have we had these past few years? We are wanderers. We have traveled far and wide, moving with a band of believers - " he waved a hand back at the large camp packing up behind him, " - going where there was a need for leadership. Leaving once we heard certain news." At this, he turned and spat on the ground in a show of disgust.

The half-elf, Qualath, listened to his friend and lord. Dhuergar needed this. He needed to be reminded where they were traveling next. And, as his loyal advisor, he was going to make sure Dhuergar was prepared for any emotions that might get in the way of good, sound judgement.

"No, Qualath," the dwarf continued, turning back to face him, "though I am returning to my birthlands, I am not returning home. Though I am returning to the company of a dwarven nation, I am not returning home. My home is here," he thumped his chest over his heart, "and here," he pointed to the earth beneath his feet, "I bring my home with me where I walk. And I welcome you to share it with me!" He broke into a wide smile and gave his friend a hearty slap on the arm. "Come. Let us make our move."

They turned to face the sun and made their way down the hill, leaving the valley behind. Ahead of them was a band of dwarves, elves, halflings, humans, and even faerie-folk! The seasoned dwarven warriors were organizing the final preparations to pack up camp and begin their march. Above them, a flight of griffons twirled in the sky. It was a varied group, but they all had one thing in common. They had all sworn an oath of loyalty to Dhuergar Warhammer.

"You know, it's good to see you in a beard again, Qualath!" Dhuergar's laughter ran down the hill before them, washing over the band known as the Wanderers. It set the mood for the day.

They were leaving behind an elven province, and marching towards the dwarven lands.



A scowl marred the battle scars on Dhuergar's face. "What? Rule by proxy?"

Qualath looked across the table. Dhuergar was still looking down at the maps spread out on the table, but his attention was with his advisor. He had been trained to study maps with half his mind, while focusing on other matters with the other half. It helped on the battlefield.

"Yes. The Overlords will not approve of the Wanderers' intervention here. The Kingdom wants us here, but they will not anger the Overlords. So, you rule by proxy." Qualath's eyes followed Dhuergar as the dwarf went to the large desk on the other side of the room.

"I understand you have...more than a passing acquaintance with one of the Rulers. An elf, if I hear correctly." Qualath could hear the smile in Dhuergar's voice.

"Uh, yes, that's right." Qualath glanced over at the open door. He would have to get someone to look at that; it refused to stay shut.

Dhuergar was silent as he looked out the windows. After some time, he turned back to his friend. "Who here knows?"

"Everyone, my lord."

"Then it's just the Overlords who will not know?" Dhuergar stepped away from the windows and made his way back to the maps.

"Yes."

"Very well. Rule by proxy. For now."

"Of course. If there is nothing else?" Qualath straightened, as was his habit when he was on official business. Dhuergar was his friend, but he was a Ruler.

"No, no. Not at this time. I will be receiving visitors soon. I think you will be free for the rest of the day. If you have anyone to see..." Again, there was the hint of a smile.

Dhuergar looked up into Qualath's face, and could sense the unease there. He smiled at the half-elf, and waved towards the door. Qualath hesitated a while, then nodded at his lord and left the war room.

The Dawn of Sylvan Hold

A tale you seek, is it? Hmm. I have a good one for you then. Come, take a seat. Let me tell you of Dhuergar Warhammer and the Utopian province of Sylvan Hold.

In the previous age of Utopia, there was a province named Mithrils Hold. It was a young province, with not much history in the second age. Yet, however brief its appearance in the Kingdom of The Second Empire, there were many in the lands of Utopia that would sing its praises. But what of this province, you ask? What has it to do with the province of Sylvan Hold? Was it not a dwarven province? Right you are.

Here is how we, the people of Sylvan Hold, tell this tale:

It was dark when the riders entered the elven fort. The lead rider dismounted and quickly entered the fort. He walked quickly, his cloak still draped over him, the hood pulled up, hiding his face in shadow. The soldiers standing guard throughout the fort snapped to attention at the sight of him walking the halls. The clasp on his cloak was easily identifiable, and so was the decorated hilt of his sword peaking through the folds of cloth that hid his frame. Even so, his long and quick strides were enough to identify the man as Qualath, personal advisor and right-hand man to Sir Dhuergar Warhammer. This was the second most powerful person in the province of Mithrils Hold. Though he was not dwarven, it was rumored that he was the next in line to rule Mithrils Hold. And there weren't many dwarves that would not accept him.

When the doors to the throne room opened, the second most powerful man in Mithrils Hold entered and went down on one knee. The only person he would kneel to gestured to him and called him to the side of the room.

"My lord."

"My friend, it is good to have you back. I could use some advice right about now. What news?"

Qualath sighed as he pulled his hood down and unfastened his cloak. "There is no easy way to say this."

Dhuergar glanced up at his most trusted advisor, the half-elf that saved his life so many years ago. He had feared that the news was not going to be good. Several weeks earlier he had received a message from a neighbouring elven province with which his own province had good relations. The two rulers had become close friends over the period of several years, and on more than one occasion, he had sent his berserkers to the elven province in military aid. The message did not come from his friend, but rather from one of his council advisors. The message was a short one, explaining that Sir Dhuergar Warhammer's presence was desperately required. It was grave indeed and he wasted no time responding to the summons.

Upon arriving at the elven province with his entourage, it was revealed that his good friend had been murdered at the hands of plundering orcs. The elves were not a strong military force and they were not prepared for a strike deep in their territory. Now their province was in disarray and they needed help. Fearing that the roving orcs might still be nearby, Dhuergar ordered his most trusted advisor to return to his province and oversee preparations for a search and destroy mission. Dhuergar himself remained with his personal guard to assess the chances of the elven province.

Now, his friend and advisor returned from his own province.

"It wasn't random, was it?"

Qualath lowered his eyes. There was no easy way, but he so wanted to save his friend from the anguish and pain that was sure to follow his news. "No. It was well-organized, beautifully orchestrated. Trolls from the north hit our search parties first. Then the magical assault began. Orcs attacked from everywhere. We couldn't regroup in time. It was your father's old nemesis."

"You are sure." It did not come out as a question.

"Yes. The pennants they flew were as those described. Some of the older dwarves would attest to this fact."

Dhuergar waved a hand at Qualath. "I do not doubt you." He paused to gather himself. "Mithrils Hold?"

"I am sorry." Qualath bowed his head.

Dhuergar's fist slammed down on the table. "Damn." Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it aside. He still had problems to solve. Later, he would have time to mourn. "The elves here have asked me to lead them."

"I know."

"It comes as no surprise to you? You knew then."

"It was the only course of action from their standpoint. There is no one else in line to lead them, unless you go outside ordinary sources. Also, their mystics probably foresaw some version of what you would be put through."

"Yes. And they saved me so I could lead them."

Qualath nodded. "There is much that is different about leading elves and leading dwarves."

Coming from anyone else, that would have been an insulting remark. From Qualath, it was a reminder. "I already know."

"You accept then?"

"Yes. Now we must save as much from Mithrils Hold as we can."

"There are two marches behind me. All that is left, all who survived the onslaught are on the way here."

"Very well then. Now begins a new history. The history of Sylvan Hold."

"My lord, the elves...they will not recognize your human title of Sir, nor your dwarven title of Thane."

"I know. Here, I am simply - Dhuergar Warhammer."

About Utopia stories

Utopia is one of the oldest browser-based multiplayer games, coming online in January 1999. In its heyday it could claim to be “massively” multiplayer, drawing over 100,000 players (more or less, depending on who you ask). It won the Webby Gaming Site of the Year Award twice, in 2002 and 2003. Being a text-based game, with an interface that hasn’t changed much since its first days, Utopia may not appeal to the gaming masses who are more graphically-inclined and for whom World of Warcraft and its ilk are true representations of massively multiplayer online games. Nevertheless, Utopia has its following.

I was introduced to the game by my cousin, and was first attracted by the traditional fantasy RPG background. So much so that I wrote a story as an introduction to my in-game avatar. Of course, my naiveté was met with complete silence on the Forums for my Kingdom. Good thing I took an interest in the strategy of the game, otherwise I would probably have abandoned the game.

The story-writing was actually inspired by a collaborative-writing-cum-role-playing experience I had back in 1995, at The Dragon’s Inn. The Dragon’s Inn was a newsgroup on Usenet (alt.dragons-inn or alt.pub.dragons-inn) for role-players who would maneuver their own characters through collaborative adventures. I mostly just read the various entries posted to that listserv, but I did de-lurk to introduce my own character. The Dragon’s Inn was the birthplace of Lothaq, which became my alter-ego on the net, and also used as my nom de plume.

I’ve only written three Utopia-related stories, and they were all beginning of Age stories. The first two were shared with my kingdom-mates, while the last was written just for my own amusement, although it was also published at my GeoCities site. None had titles previously, and I even recorded them with just the Age number. I’ve given them titles for posting here, and will reveal the timeline in my backstories.

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold

I just finished reading The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold last Friday. The weekend earlier my sis had recommended it to me, after telling me about the upcoming film adaptation. The movie is directed by Peter Jackson, and is due out at the end of the year. I’ll admit that the association of an A-list director with the story piqued my interest. So my sis pulled out her copy of the book and handed it over to me. It doesn’t take much to get me interested in reading a book, but I did read the back cover before deciding to turn its pages immediately instead of putting it in a “maybe” pile.

The Lovely Bones tells its story in an unconventional way. The story is narrated by the – shall we say – spirit of a teenaged girl who has been raped and murdered, and now watches her family, friends and even her murderer from her personal heaven. The entire novel is narrated by our protagonist, Susie Salmon – no, not Simon; like the fish – from her unrestricted vantage point above us in heaven. The free-floating nature of our protagonist allows the narrative voice to follow any and all characters through space and time, but we are still giving gentle reminders that the narrator and the protagonist are one and the same. Susie’s viewpoint sprinkles our study of the world, and we get a sense for her priorities and her emotional stake in the characters we – both reader and narrator – observe.

This is not a whodunit, since we know from the very beginning who Susie’s murderer is. Neither is this a tale of vengeance or otherworldly retribution, although, in one delicious piece of foreshadowing, there is room for interpretation in the role played by that “perfect murder” weapon. In fact, when Susie is granted the chance to impart damning and conclusive evidence that would catch her killer, she instead indulges in those pleasures denied her by circumstance of her death.

No, this is not a mystery waiting to be solved. This is a tale about grief, and moving on, and how different people deal with loss as individuals, as a family, as a community. Those left on Earth aren’t the only ones coming to terms with the abrupt ending of a life. Susie, too, has her own journey wherein she has to accept her condition and that those she loved will also need to move on with their lives.

The Lovely Bones is a powerful novel, and its message creeps up on us as it does our protagonist. Susie and her family discover through the period of the novel that unexpected loss happens, and the only way past it is to remember those still with us. It is a good lesson for us, the reader. Honour those we have lost by living our lives to the fullest.

I’ll end this review by echoing Susie’s parting words to us, the reader: “I wish you all a long and happy life.”

About “The Keys”

“The Keys” is a much more autobiographical story compared to “A Crazy World”. The protagonist and I share many similarities, both in personality and circumstance. For example, both of us are sentimental people. That’s about all that I will confirm publicly though.

There is a link between “The Keys” and “A Crazy World”, as they both deal with a disappointment in my life. “The Keys”, however, deals directly with my sense of loss, instead of skirting the issue. At the time I wrote the story in early 2002, I was acutely aware that some part of me still felt a longing for the way things were in the past. Writing the story let me express that feeling.

It should be noted that though there are many parallels to real life, this is still a piece of fiction. Events and circumstances described are not exact parallels of what happened to me, but instead are meant to capture the essence of what transpired in real life. Similarly, there are embellishments to characterizations, meant only to make “The Keys” work as a better story.

Having said that, I do believe that one should write about what one knows. There must be something in the story that you can relate to closely, so that the writing is sincere. That’s what I did with “The Keys”; I wrote to capture my sense of loss and longing.

I’ve made one edit to the original version. In the third paragraph, I replaced “sad” with “cheerless”, since the original was redundant. It now reads:

… I’ve never seen my own sad smile. I can’t bear to look in a mirror when I think of her for fear I might see her standing next to me. A friend of mine described it for me: cheerless, nostalgic. I guess I’m a sentimental kind of guy.

I think it reads better with this slight edit.

To the person this story is about, you may have read the story now. It is history now, and I’m glad we can move past it.

About “A Crazy World”

I wrote this story in late 2001, after a long hiatus from writing of any kind. Not just creative writing, but any sort of writing. Of course, there was a catalyst that pushed me to write again. I was going through an emotional crisis due to changes in my personal situation. I sought some sort of catharsis in writing. It was a way to make some sense of how I was feeling. Writing it down allowed me to step back from myself.

“A Crazy World” is about disillusionment, mainly about “doing the right thing” or “being good”. I’ve had an atypical childhood, having experienced many different surroundings and mixed with a good range of people. I’ve had many kinds of influences, with few constants. One thing that stuck with me throughout, however, was a desire to “be a good person”. That was the only unvarying standard that I held myself to, while everything shifted around me.

Sometimes, I admit, it can become “tiring”. “Nice guys finish last” didn’t enter the lexicon for no reason; there is some truth to it. Still, I would not like to live my life to that maxim alone.

I wrote “A Crazy World” just to put down that sense of frustration and confusion. Sometimes you want to shout out loud; give in to baser instincts; look out for your own interests only, the rest of the world be damned. Sometimes you want to cry in frustration.

The story reads as quite a disjointed piece. It is frustrating, and not altogether captivating, but it was never meant to be anything other than the ramblings of an inner voice. The protagonist fills in for an aspect of me, a facet of me that was reeling from the “unfairness of life”.

I did not find positive affirmation for my beliefs. I did not heal easily. But I did learn to recognize that frustration in me. And I could look at it with some detachment, without letting it consume me, as it had begun to.

The Keys

The key goes in the hole, turns easily, unlocks the door. I know of four keys that would fit this keyhole. I’ve just used one of them. The landlord's got one. She's got one. And he's got one.

I push the door open, stamp my feet, and step inside. My hand finds the light switch in one move. I hesitate a moment, as I have every time for the past seven months. Then the hall light comes on.

I move into the apartment, holding the door open for her. Her ghost follows me in. A sad smile on my face as I close and lock the door, kick my shoes off, and hang my jacket. I've never seen my own sad smile. I can't bear to look in a mirror when I think of her for fear I might see her standing next to me. A friend of mine described it for me: cheerless, nostalgic. I guess I'm a sentimental kind of guy.

I go around the apartment turning lights on and opening windows. The air is quite stale in here; I only come around once a week. It doesn't take me long to go around the apartment. It's only got the one bedroom; living area and dining area are not separated by any walls. In the kitchen I set about cleaning a kettle and a mug; almost the only two items left in the kitchen. There's the old toaster that we bought on our first shopping trip together, sitting on the counter; now broken. And in one of the cabinets, two wine glasses sit. I'm pretty sure they're the ones we drank from on our last night together.

As the water boils in the newly cleaned kettle, I open the fridge door. There's nothing inside of course. It hasn't been turned on in months, so I have to air it out as well. Taking the mug in hand, I withdraw a tea-bag from the box on the counter. There's only two bags left. I remind myself to get another box on my next trip.

Waiting for the water, I turn to the phone table. I'm tempted to go pick it up. Old habit. We used to check the phone for voicemail when we entered. It's still plugged into the wall, but I cancelled the service long ago. It's been five visits since I trained myself to not pick it up to listen to dead silence for a few seconds.

The water's ready.

I make my tea, pouring out the extra water from the kettle. Three visits since I left the extra water to cool in the kettle. I'd justify it to myself saying that I might want a second cup of tea. But I knew I was really just boiling extra water for a cup of tea for her. I still boil enough for two, even though I throw half of it out right after I make my own tea. Have to keep practicing. You never know really...

She said there's a good chance she would come back.

I take my tea to the one chair left in the apartment. This armchair has seen better days, but not while we had it. I'm not surprised she did not take it with her. I didn't bother when I cleaned out after her. Besides, I need something to sit in when I make my visits. And I don't think I could handle sitting on the bed in the bedroom.

I've gotten used to drinking my tea without any sugar.

Just in time for sunset. As usual. I'm facing the window, looking out across the park. The sun's about to go down, and the sky is such a wonderful colour. I'm reminded of her each time I see something beautiful.

There's that sad smile again. I can feel it.

Her ghost settles down in an imaginary chair next to me as I drink my tea. And the memories begin.

Over a year and a half now. Only a year and a half.

I'd graduated and she had just a few more credits to finish. Four years earlier I really had no intention of returning home. But four years can change a person. What changed? I wanted to return home to settle any and all affairs. And to make sure I was doing the right thing. So I arranged to go back and teach English as a second language for a year. I tried to get her to come with me.

Maybe I didn't try hard enough.

So I left and she stayed. We e-mailed almost every day. Talked on the phone a few times. Chatted on the net frequently.

But it was hard on her. And she needed to be independent, like she had never been before. She asked for space. I was accommodating.

Then he came along. And complicated things. She was confused. Unsure. But she needed to know if we were right.

"If you love something, set it free. If it loves you back, it will return."

So I agreed. She did not really ask me. She told me it was what she needed.

Just before I returned, she sent me an e-mail telling me that she was moving out of our place. She would not take everything with her, but she did need some stuff for the place she was moving to. She ended by saying she was sorry, but she still needed time and space. And if I would take her back, she would probably be coming back to me someday. But in the meantime, I should be free too.

So I returned to an apartment I didn't really want to live in. It didn't take long to find a new place and a decent job. The new place is a bachelor pad, with mostly new things. It's a good thing I make enough money and don't really spend too much of it. I'm not saving as much as I wish I could of course.

Six weeks after my return, she e-mailed to tell me they were over and he had moved out. She wasn't ready for me yet, but things were going alright for her. How was I?

Miserable. "Fine."

I miss you. "Job's going ok so far."

I miss us. "Wanna meet for lunch or something?"

I want you back in my life. "Here's my number. Call me if you want, for anything, alright?"

She hasn't called.

Once in a while I bump into a mutual friend. I try not to talk about her.

She's e-mailed a few times. I've written back far more often.

I had a casual affair with a co-worker once. It lasted all of two weeks. I knew that I wanted her. I'd been sure about us even before I left.

Close my eyes for a bit. I remember the good times, the bad times, the sad times, the happy times. I remember our first date. A walk in the park, subs from a small sandwich place, some forgettable movie, holding hands. I remember our first kiss. I remember sitting outside the library teaching her chess. I remember her taking care of me when I fell ill. I remember our first fight – I didn't take her side in a disagreement on an interpretation of something – and how we made up later. I remember our first night together and how it lasted until morning. I remember consoling her when she found out the family cat had passed away. I remember traveling on the train with her when we went to visit family.

It all had meaning for me. It was all special to me.

Open my eyes again.

And the memories stop.

Life has a way of intruding on our dreams. But hope is such a powerful force.

There it is! "First star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might." How does it go again? I can't seem to get it right.

I get up to go wash the mug and kettle. It's time to go.

I know I can make her happy. She only has to give me the chance. So I'll wait.

Only a year and a half now. Over a year and a half.

Before leaving the building I check the mailbox in the front. There's the usual junkmail, and one bill. Nothing from her. Not that I expect her to write me here, even if it is the only mailing address she has for me. If she were by my side, she would chide me once again for not checking the mail on the way in. I'd always forgotten to do that; she always remembered. I've changed since then, but whenever I make this trip, it seems a ritual for me to do it the old way again.

With mail in hand, I leave the building. Heading to my car I think to myself, yesterday was Friday. I haven't gone to Friday prayers in a long time. Maybe I'll go this week.

I think I'll have Chinese for dinner tonight. As usual.

There's four keys that I know of that would open that door. I haven't seen the landlord in person since I left; I deal with her through mail. And I rather doubt I'll be bumping into him anytime. But how I wish I could see that other key again someday.

A Crazy World

I don't see them. I've been waiting here at least half an hour. Been preparing at least two hours.

Maybe I'm just not good at this. Haven't really had too much practice. Father was a boozer; used to hit Mom. He finally left; she couldn't take care of us. Got put into foster care. Foster parents were alright. But I never really got over it.

Maybe I'm not doing it right. Tried the harder liquors, but some of them actually taste pretty alright. Can't have that. So I guess I'm stuck with this cheap beer stuff.

Pat my brown paper bag. Yeah, took one for the road.

Ok. The park bench then.

See, I did my research. There's lots of examples scattered around this park.

Maybe I should talk to one of them though.

What in the world would I say? Say, have you seen them? See them now? What's your secret?

Maybe I need to prepare longer. I mean, it's not like I was kicked out of that place across the street. It's just, the bartender was starting to stare at me. No, really, he was.

I think.

Yeah, I think, therefore I am!

Used to go to college. Engineering, would you believe that? Dropped out halfway through the third year. I'm not much of a problem-solver. I'm real good at disguising them though. And hiding from them.

Self-aware, I am.

Should be a real catch for the ladies.

Ok, maybe not now. I need quite a bit of freshening up. I may not be a swooner, but I can smarten up pretty good.

So what am I doing here you ask?

Lost my girlfriend? Nah. That happened after I dropped out of college. Coming to five years now. After her were a few casual and meaningless relationships. But that's ok. I'm not really looking right now.

Lost my job? No. Just on the annual sabbatical of sorts. I'm keeping myself busy with something temporary. At least, I'm trying to. I have good references, but I fear they'll have to let me go soon. My mind is just not into it.

Lost my apartment? No, I'm not homeless. My savings will hold me out for some time to come. I don't really need to work over the summer. Except that it keeps me busy.

Is there anything else one can lose? Anything important enough to drive one out here?

Didn't lose my wallet did I? No, no, it's still here. That's good. Lost it once. Was a pain getting everything straightened out.

Got my keys with me too. Means I don't have to sleep out here like some of these other guys.

Can't remember the last time I went camping. Was it ninth grade? Yeah, I think that was it.

This wouldn't be camping though.

So I haven't really lost anything. I'm not out here because I have nowhere else to go. Or because I'm so depressed with my life. Didn't lose anything so important that it's loss would drive me out here. Not in a desperate situation.

Or am I?

Ok, maybe I am depressed.

Lost my mind? Maybe. Just maybe.

What am I doing out here?

Just having an evening nightcap. Or two. A dozen? No. Surely not that much. To be honest, I wasn't really keeping count. I just kept sending for more. Not like I knew what I was doing.

What do I know?

It's a crazy world.

Has to be. What does being the good guy get you? Just hurt and misery. There's some satisfaction in doing good. But then the world has to slam you with something bad. That's my experience. I'm not being overly pessimistic. I have always tried to look on the bright side of things. Tried to be positive. But this last one...

Just a small piece of metal, moving so fast you see its work before you notice it. Commanding the attention of all spectators, drilling through the air. It flew, and left its mark. Shattering my optimism. And more.

That moment is etched in my consciousness. In the history book of my life, that moment fills a chapter.

It is the knockout blow that floors me, leaving me dazed, unsure about where I am and what I am doing. Every hit before that I could recover from. Every set-back the world dealt me, I could eventually understand. Not this; there is no understanding this.

He was just trying to do the right thing. The tank at the back of the classroom had shattered. She was just standing there, staring into the broken tank, staring at the class' pet lizard. There were small cuts on the backs of her arms; she had been hit by broken glass, but she did not notice. She was fixated on the lizard, not caring about the drama that continued in the rest of the classroom. He saw her standing there, not crouching down like everyone else. Forgotten were the screams of the other children.

She was too far from me. My shouts failed to rouse her. And he noticed that too.

So did the shooter.

So what did he do? He did the good thing. He tried to help. He was a lot closer to her than the teacher, and the teacher looked worried about her just standing there. I don't know how he did it. But he did. He just acted. Ran between the desks. Ran straight for her.

And the shooter did the sanest thing a crazy man would do. He shot at the moving target.

The bullet did its job very well; too well. Two bodies fell to the floor; a boy's and a girl's.

He was being the good guy. I would have done the same. Except she was too far from me, and I was on the wrong side of the teacher's desk.

I should open up to the counselor more. I'm having fantasies about her. That can't be good. Maybe I should tell her that. She's a grief counselor, not a full-fledged shrink! Or are they the same thing? I should probably do some research.

Do I even have her number? I'm sure I could get it off someone.

Do us late-night park visitors use the trash cans? My paper bag is empty now. Better use the trash can.

Still don't see them.

Look to my left. No one there. Look to my right. Nothing. Just me and this bench.

Where are the pink elephants when you need them?

Time to start sharing the first stories

Over a decade ago, I joined in the masses in creating a personal webpage at GeoCities, a free webhosting site that had just popped up on the scene of the still-new World Wide Web. I didn’t know why I did it, except that it was a popular thing to do. In those early days, GeoCities was organized into Neighbourhoods, which were meant to be themed sub-addresses of the whole GeoCities concept. There wasn’t such a wide selection at first, and my natural interests led me to an Area51 address.

I was stumped when I first sat down to “design” my website. I didn’t know what I wanted to put up, so I went along with my interests. I wrote something about games, both PC games and RPG’s, and had some links. A couple of years later, though, I put my site to another use. By this time GeoCities was already declining in popularity. And of course, I didn’t have an audience for my website. But it felt good to share. To put something out there.

So when I wrote, naturally, I shared. I posted my short stories on my website. Later, I would proudly point acquaintances to my website, not to show off any design skills, but just to say, “Hey, I have a website, and I’ve shared some of my writing there.” There weren’t many stories, since I didn’t nurture that side of me, but they were there.

Yahoo! is now closing GeoCities, a relic of the old Internet. People have moved on to cheap web hosting, self hosting, or – as I have – blogs.

I still feel that need. It doesn’t matter if I have an audience. I’ve always written just for me.

So here we go.

An Introduction to Self-RW

If you want to write, you must read. And that’s not just an axiom of life, referring to basic reading and writing skills. Anyone who aspires to be a writer, must first be a reader. Now, I wouldn’t call myself a “writer” (I hardly put enough effort into it), but I do enjoy writing. More precisely, I enjoy telling stories. I have all sorts of ideas floating around in my head, and when the right mood strikes me, I actually manage to “put pen to paper”, as it were, to transcribe these stories.

It’s a good thing, then, that I also enjoy reading. I’ve always enjoyed reading, ever since my grade school days. I may not have been a truly voracious reader, but I did borrow my fair share of books from the school library. As I grew older, I also borrowed books from friends, and bought an occasional copy from bookstores. Unfortunately, my reading habits tend to wax and wane, as I don’t buy nearly as many books as avid readers do.

Still, I continue to read, trying on different genres and media. And writing excites me still.

This blog intends to chronicle my adventures in reading and writing, and I hope it will inspire me to keep writing. I chose the name for this blog because it represents both what I hope to accomplish and my philosophy on the issue. I Read and I Write, and both I do for myself, to explore and to grow. And I am fully aware that what I Read influences and shapes me, while what I Write reveals me.