midnight's wishlist

Street lamps flashed like shooting stars

and I told you to make a wish.

Your teeth clipping lightly on your bottom lips.

Your eyes tight shut. A river of constellations,

flowing on these streets from the feet

of that frail majestic frame, which the owner

knows nothing of my wishlist.

I bet yours goes for balding Claire.

Her blonde locks once wrapped in your fingers.

Most visits was brief, but I'm still in the 4 hours trip.

Or does it goes for that big dream of yours?

To drop acid on summer cruise in the tropics.

"If I scream and leap off the deck,

Would Jeremy jump and save me?"

Lights flickering pierce through my eyelids.

Tuck my cold limbs in. You'll be in my care

seconds before we crash salt water.

Walks are dull, but I painted tonight's,

so my rewinds wouldn't be in black and white.

You tell me you wish we never missed the train.

"What do you wish for?"

Street lamps would frown listening to mine.

For so long it's impossible even for the stars.

basement party

"How now Mike?" Russ keeps on scratching his head.

"I've told you we need a bigger one right?"

"I'm not the stupid one who wrote S-A-N-T-A you cocksucker! How would I know? How would I know that the SANTA we're going to summon won't fit this pentagram we made for SATAN you dumb illiterate shit?" he was half screaming while kicking Aaron's dad's toolbox.  

Mike was really tired. Being the only one who's not sleeping for 2 days reading that old rotten book really mess him up. The responsibility was always on the brightest. He had his whole life worrying on legal contracts they might not ever be getting, but this current problem in front of him was so big it won't fit the sixth pentagram he has made today.

"When we're famous I'm going to ask Maroon 5 if they have someone as stupid as you in their band. If we did get all this done tonight of course. Aaron's parents will be here in the morning, and now we have to deal with this dumb fat old man who can't give us anything but toys! Its not even Christmas for god sake! So how now Russ, tell me. How now?"

"I don't know Mike"

"How about we ask Santa himself?" both of them turns their heads towards Ritchie.

The whole basement turns silent, along with the muffled grunt from the big man in red, halfway buried in the basement's cement floor. Ritchie was the most quiet one, only saying important things when it is needed.

"Okay. Okay. We talk to the big guy" "Let's see what's his opinion on this fuck up this retard caused"

Russ lead the four of them towards the man, who had now stopped his struggling. He then yank the red Christmas hat Mike had stuffed in his mouth. The man's breath smell of candy, as he breathe the damp basement air in and out. He had no choice. He was on his massive bed in North Pole forty-five minutes ago. 

"Are you the kid who misspelled Satan?" Russ nods

"I've been in worse situation son, don't worry. I've been stuck in much smaller circles. I'm not mad at all for this."

"Even Maroon 5 made the same mistake, they're the kindest group of kids I've met. Down to earth. Good kids. Anyway, I can help you to return me back to the midgets, but I won't this time. I refuse to let you all send me back"

Mike wasn't sure about what he just heard so he walked forward, while pushing the almost crying Russ out of the way.

"So how Mr Santa. I'm sorry but you're in our way. We have to send you back, this is the only time we get everything right, EVERYTHING right but the name. I really need to go to sleep. We're not gonna keep you here in the basement feeding you like a gimp. Aaron's dad gonna be so mad at us if he sees you. So please Mr Santa. Let us send you home. Please,"

Mike was leaning too close towards Santa, and Santa was purposely leaning back. With a movement like an alligator, he lunge his upper body forward driving his forehead towards Mike's nose. Blood sprayed on Santa's face from the impact.

"You kids have no respect! I said I'm not going back there before tearing you up to pieces you little shit! Everyone who ever accidentally called me treat me with dignity, plead for forgiveness, and talked to me in a way which shows that they do feel guilty! I am SANTA CLAUS! You guys? Implying that I'm fat with every sentence? stuffing my mouth with my hat? You won't be playing anything after I pull your guts out! Ugh! Ughghg!"

The hanging light was swaying hard with each movement as Santa's mass was almost equal a hippo, causing their shadows to sway on its axis. Russ was silent, he's glad that Mike made the circle small enough not to let that beast forelimbs out, seeing the blood dripping from his nose. Ritchie was walking towards Mike to pick him up, with no words coming from him too. Aaron can't take it any more, he want all this to be done before his parents get back. He rushed upstairs, then another floor up towards his parents room.

Aaron knew already where his father keep the gun. He pick it out of the drawer while taking a deep breath. He then sits on the bed for a good 5 minutes. He locates all the mops and pails in his head. Shovels in the backyard, a big old rug on in a roll under the stairs. His car still have enough gas to bring them all somewhere they can bury Santa if they really kill him tonight. 

Satisfied, he exit the room and went downstairs with the gun, now figuring out by himself on whose gonna make the shot. His few last steps was greeted with Russ on the floor, sleeping in a pool of barf.

"What took you so long Aaron?" "We're halfway done already, sorry we didn't wait for you"

Mike was bloody to the sleeve, blood still flowing from his nose. His stained hand was empty, but Aaron recognise a screwdriver on Santa's right eye socket. Santa's head was limp, now mishapen, and slumped forward, definitely dead. Cohesive lines of mucus and blood flowing from his facial cavities. Ritchie is soaked from head to the waist like he just got pranked with buckets of pig blood, looking at the dead old guy while holding a bloody hammer. Santa life's ended, thus begin the cleaning.

"Now let's take care of this, and make sure the next time you draw a bigger circle" said Ritchie while wiping his glasses

"I know Ritchie, I know"

"It's 3 now, we got half a Santa to be disposed, and we haven't met Satan yet. Where's your dad's saw Aaron? It's nowhere in the toolbox for fuck sake"

backfired

He must run, but he can't. He know, how it always gives him a better chance to spot movements when the target is moving so quick, even under the shades of leaves. He walks in a calm manner, slowly dissapearing into deeper part of the freezing woods, while always letting his back covered by the trees. He place his bet on the falling snow to cover his obvious tracks.

It is not anyone's fault but himself, that he missed the shot. He had a perfect aim, but mountain winds was indecisive most of the time, and this time it decided to punish him for his decision. He had been on his scope for an hour but still it bears more mercy on Ivankov, less on him. He cursed himself every time his feet sink in deeper snow, never has the combination of anxiety and coldness wears him this much. Knowing about the possibility of that they might have the advantage on the terrain, he must make sure that all his years benefit him good, regardless of how deep the snow pits are.

The smoke from the target's base was long gone in the air, and the hole on the fallen tree trunk look so comfortable compared to the long unknown road.  He trust his instinct, knowing that it is temporary, but the only sound he could hear in the ocean of trees is the sound of his own footsteps. Good enough for him. His feet beg for a rest. While he lean his back on the crisp surface, the thoughts of home never fail to make his rest more sedating. He really needs it, but he's afraid that he might fall asleep. He admits that he does need some, but he also need to stay alive.

Tightening his hug on his metal comrade, he wonders if the letter he sent had reached Aunt Betty. He promised himself to throw that ugly cunt out when he gets back. She's no good at all, not with kids, not with money, not with cooking. He could take care of the kids better. Audrey had thought her a lot. The sight of her in the kitchen dangling in his mind like the necklace he gave her on her birthday. The necklace is swaying on her neck as she moves from the counter to the sink. He keep staring on her neck while she was busy preparing for lunch. The snow keep on falling on his face, but now he's already thousand miles back in the warm kitchen, under hours of California sun.

Snap.

His drowsy circuits works hard to locate the source of what sounds like checkmate.

rare occurrence

"Tell me what you read, I will know what's in your mind, but no for sure what is in the text,"

-Tariq Ramadan to Christopher Hitchens,
  on the interpretation of the Al-Quran among muslims, civilians and scholars.

awesome!

His poem are so freaking long. In fact the whole talk itself consists of two poems! How the fuck nevermind. this guy is really really good tho

sleep/sceptics

I'll begin this with a question. Straightforward. I'm really bad at introductions.

Uhmm.

Have you ever had any encounters with the supernaturals?

I mean, having your life destined to cross path with something that could be deemed as out of the ordinary, and with the inclination to the other world. The usually unseen. The hidden reality. Those horror movies materials. I'm trying my best not to laugh for using italics for other world. My cheap effort on making things looks spooky. Other world.

Anyway, I'm here to tell mine. To begin with, let’s discuss on a bit technical side of this topic. Usually when it comes to discussing this kind of topic, we'll get ourselves divided into two sides; one is the sceptic kind, the denier, the logical bastards, and far on the other spectrum is the "I want to believe" troops. Which one are you? I am a proud sceptic. Up to the moment I'm typing this, I still am. Tell me stories on hauntings, inherited beings, witchcraft and sorts, you'll get that big-eyed look in my face where I would listen to every details of the stories, just because I loved it. 

I'm a sceptic who enjoyed this kind of stuff, because it’s fun. It is interesting to find out that people are very interested at things that hypothetically could harm you, and it’s interesting to realise that I do too. I love the process of listening to those stories, and having my mind working out so hard to debunk the stories, coming up with theories and conjectures, crossing out all possible explanations. And I could say that I'm not scared of the idea of ghosts, hauntings, and such. I'm more interested in finding more logical explanation about them, because for me, we are always scared of things that we don't know, things that we don't understand. Things which we're not clear about triggers our defense mechanism to label it as a threat. Darkness, Illuminati, aliens, ghosts.

And this "paranormal" stuff, sometimes could be explained with our own efforts. Internet says, the best way to keep yourself from going crazy in a supposedly haunted properties, is to get yourself a cat. That way, all those weird scratching noises at night on your bedroom door could be blamed on Mr. Boots. But then, there is also a story of a guy who had his pet cat dead by a speeding car, only to be awakened at the following nights by constant scratching sound. Mr. Boots now seems unhappy for his fate. Now the guy must find something else to blame.

I had my stories too. With my strong logic, it was easily debunked. Stories which don’t involve sightings are easy, frail to modern minds. None really disturb me for days. I had numbers actually, most of it involves what we would call, "unexplained noises," or "sounds". I'm sure there are a lot of cases out there, where families move out of their house due to this phenomenon. This could be easily explained, and with a sound mind, you don't have to spend on moving every year. This could be blamed on electrical appliances, winds, air pressure, structural integrity of the buildings, and also spirits. They do enjoy us listening to them having fun with their kind. I bet they do enjoy the sight of us fleeing from our newly bought two storeys. Fuck them.

Mine was simple, never too scary, leaves me baffled for days but not traumatised. I live in a student’s residence in IIUM, which are blocks of apartment-like buildings, with massive bathroom shared with the whole floor. A room is made for four students, with separate compartments worth 50 percent of privacy. One of my stories, involve me making a routine visit to a room where my friends/gangster squad reside. It was on the second floor, right in front of the stairs. As I made it to the door, I continued to knock few times, at the same time calling for anyone inside. With hands in my pockets, I waited after I heard someone saying "kejap!", which means "wait". I waited for what that expected twist of locks and doorknob.

I got none. No one greets me. No one opens the door for me. I waited and waited, and then I called them to make sure of their whereabouts, in the end I came to the fact that there was definitely no one in the room, nothing which is capable for uttering those words that tell me to wait from its non-existent throat, yet I heard it. I can't digest the fact that I heard a voice from an empty room, and then waited for the door to unlocked. All my senses and my body was already prepared to enter the space. It might be my ears trying to trick me. Hey, it could be anything. It could be someone's talking too loud from the next room. See, my logic is unbeatable. The possibilities are infinite. I just can't blame it on an invisible spectre who just decided to test my logic by imitating my friend's voice?

The next story is kind of similar- it also involves sound as the medium, but it happens in a room. In my room to be exact. As I said before, my room consists of four compartments, but for a long period of time, there were only two of us in the room. To have a weird stranger as your room mate is another type of horror, I'm glad I don't have to live through that. Let us call this friend of mine Gandhi, easy and memorable. They do look alike at some cruel angles.

Gandhi was a great friend and roommate, tried his best not to breach my 50 percent privacy, and having two empty compartment is a bliss. I kind of converted that unused space, as my private drying room for my laundry days, but it comes with a price. I never have anyone to be blamed for noises that I heard from that side of my room. The room is kind of divided into two sides at night, the living on our side, and the unknown at the laundry side. It is considered normal for me, to hear noises from the other side, and my logic keeps me on my sceptic path. The wind. That's the wind too. Yeah, totally the wind. 

Lots of things could be caused by the wind. The normal one is the sound of chairs moving, yes they do have chairs for the wind to play with. Other unidentifiable sounds mostly sounds metallic, other than that none really bothers me. Except for one occasion, where when I was in my bed, I definitely heard it, the sound of Gandhi entering the room. The combination of the door, footsteps, fabric rubbing, keys tumbling, chairs moving. A lot of frictions created on Gandhi's compartment, thus creating sound waves travelling to my eardrums, signalling human presence. I kind of waited for him to come back, to talk to him about something, so I lead myself to his compartment. I then lead myself into his surprisingly empty compartment. No Gandhi here, should I go back to my bed? This time the wind really fucks with me. I had my logic working so hard that night. Never is it a fun experience. I had nothing to be blamed on that but my mental disorder. 

Those are my stories, and oh I'm sorry. Those are part of my halfway-encounter stories. Does it weird you out to hear this from a self proclaimed sceptic? Until now, how much of my stories do anything to your stand? I'm really interested in that, sometimes I always see my potential as social scientist, but I keep reminding myself on the pay. I also see my potential as ghost-hunter. I feel that there's a lot of things that we could learn, in order for us to have the explanations on a lot of great mysteries in our plane of existence. Ghost hunters exist for this sole purpose, and money, and fame. For those of you who never have any concern on this other world issue, I totally get you. You don't need any explanation if you don't have a question. I do have a question. I'll begin my story.

I always have problems with sleeping. In my early years of my studies my sleep cycle is so messed up, I would lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling for hours until dawn. And I get so tired during the day. I would get up and smoke and try again for the next drift, but I just can't get to sleep. This happens for months but now I'm totally fine. In my second year I discovered narcolepsy first-hand. It’s a vivid experience, and tiring. Imagine yourself having to fight the urge to sleep every single seconds of your existence, and teachers are never a help obviously. The experience of battling it was surreal, I'll tell you why. Every time I fall asleep, I would be dreaming. Even for a minute worth of sleep. Theoretically I'm deprived of REM sleep, I understood it as I don't dream enough. The problem is, I have tried once to write down all my dreams every time I fall asleep in one particular class, and I got more than 40 dreams. 40 times falling asleep. 40 different dreams in 80 minutes of class. A dream every two minutes. I thought I was going crazy. My boundaries between real world and dreamscape was crushed. Imagine having the African guy sitting beside you to suddenly taking away your books and ripping it apart, and then the walls come down and it was all just a dream. Your face are just inches away from the table. African guy is sleeping too. This happen for months, but now I'm totally fine.

The never ending problem I have with sleeping, is that I always find myself awakened suddenly at night. It’s not that I have nightmares, apneas, or rashes for god sake. It's just my sleep mechanism suddenly decided to shut down its process and suddenly, I'm wide awake. Not really a big problem as I always have no problems falling back asleep, but this one time I had to sew my eyes shut in while my heartbeat is waking me up with very pump. My consciousness get stronger at unnecessary timing. My path of life collides with the supernaturals. I hate to admit that at one part of my life it did, and I can't find an answer to explain it. It's evading my logic completely.

It was a night which is one of the normal nights, no such things as premonitions. I tuck myself in my blankets after a day spent with my girlfriend, in my room like my normal days. Gandhi is present, and he was there all the time it occurs. I rarely keep my lights on even before I go to sleep, and I always rely on lights that spill from Gandhi's compartment so my territory will always be in a comfy, dim environment. Usually he never switch off his lights until morning, and it’s the same that day. I never shut down my windows, except for when it’s raining. I love the night breeze to brush all over me when I'm asleep, its heavenly and it works better than scented candles all the time. Great room. Blissful sleep.

Are you a fan of horror movies? I am. I fucking love horror movies. The problem is, the older you get, the less scary it will be. Cinemas help me a lot to get my adrenaline dosage, as it never scary to watch it on the laptop. What scares you? Clowns? Scare jumps? Sound effects? Visual effects works on screen, but the effect is minimised in a great value as you know that it’s on the screen. It will never get out of that two-dimensional plane and eat you, doesn't matter how scary it looks. You might get scared "watching" it, but you will never be affected with on-screen ghost "presence". Decapitated bodies, ugly faces, empty eye sockets. Give you anything, the terror would never reach you at the level of you having your life squeezed out of your guts, because your brain could assure you that it is not really there. Have you ever got ghost-pranked? You would easily get heart attack with a friend in a white cloth from head to toe, or a stupid mask, or they could just jump in front of you and shriek like a squished banshee, it could affect you million times more than scary movies. Why? Because you know, it’s not in the screen any more. The threat is real, it is in front of you. Imagine having that stupid boy in Ju-On sitting beside your bed, it sure look so silly on screen, but imagine having a boy of unknown origins, just poof out nowhere in your safe space, with his disturbing vibe and pale skin. On the screen its 1/10. In your room, in the air you breath, the scale could go to hell.

I woke up that night, to the sound of nothing. Literally nothing. No wind, no branches brushing no bat wings flapping, nothing. Just me and Gandhi and the two rotating ceiling fans. Take note that I'm really near-sighted, I've been wearing glasses since I was born and its 400++ nowadays. I opened my eyes to half darkness and half-blinded. Gandhi's compartment was still generously sharing its light with mine. I wasn't too eager to fall back asleep, my consciousness was not fully there, my feet was halfway outside the blanket. The usual night. The air was great for me to fall asleep again.

I was shifting to my right side, facing the study tables, when my eyes made up a shape somewhere on it. It was half-lit by the light, but my brain processed it as somewhere black in colour. My bag. My bag for classes. Eh no, it’s not. No it’s not my fucking bag. It’s not my bag when it is taking a shape of a person tucking his knee on his chin, on my study table. It really isn't. It was a person and if it is not, it does look like one. I can’t blame the wind, because I could see it. No way that fucking thing is a cat. It sits there silently, waiting, and I am screaming inside, as my body translate it into shivers. All I think of is not to make it realise, that I know it was there. I'm not alone in this space, and the other party is something that could harm me in unknown ways. I can feel him in my blanket, while my sight tells me he is not yet inside. His face buried in his knees, but unlike the Ju-On kid, this one is a full grown adult, and is not pale. The whole body is black in color. I fucking wish he doesn't lift his head up, and see my face full of tears and know that I'm not asleep. I'm too scared to look at him, but at the same time I'm too scared to close my eyes as I don't want to be conflicted on opening my eyes again. I don't want to open my eyes with his face inches from mine. How long has he been there? Is he saying something? How can I hide my shaking feet back inside my blanket? How can I reach my phone without letting him see my hands moving? Which holy verse to read? How can I hide the sound of my piss he would hear it for sure-  

I woke up without remembering anything.  But my drenched mattress betrays me for real. I lie in my piss for a good 10 minutes more, it doesn't change anything now. I think I got scared in a ridiculous amount last night my body just shut down itself after emptying the bladder. If it was a bear, I wouldn't feel anything as it chew on me. I tried to remember if I had any dreams, no I did not. I wish that was a dream. I took deep breaths, thanking that I’m still here. Gandhi doesn't ask me why I woke up so early, as he laughs at the sight of me drying my mattress on the window under the morning sun. Not so ashamed of it as my mind is still terrorised by you-know-who.

"I piss in my dream, I realize the sink was oddly shaped, but I keep on spraying until I realise it was navel-deep, woke up to this shit"

I told everyone my "dream", it makes me feel a lot better, it makes me feel secured. Denying is good, thinking about it is not, and it happen just that one time, so why bothers? It could be all in my head. Who could tell me it isn't? No one. Gandhi bought my stories, so I'm sure he saw nothing that night. It could also be a dream, a half-dream, a lucid dream, anything as I know how I'm prone to those possibilities. All I know is that the fear, is real, it shakes me to my core that I'm as good as dead. What could be unreal, is what I am scared of. See, being rational really helps. I stayed in that room for the rest of the semester with no follow up visits. My room was still dim, and my windows are still welcoming the night air. I'm still a sceptic, I still am. But fuck it, I would never welcome that thing on my study table again. I flooded my tables with my books and dirty clothes, so that it won't have any place to sit. I am really a practical sceptic.

songs of a mortal

Tell me who you are and why are you here.

May we be clear on your true desire.

On whose behalf, on what sort of order.

On what that shine, will you claim this fire?

Your silence won't answer my questions.

So let’s make a trade of real intentions.

For the sight of you would crumble continents.

For my passion would rock all mortal nations.  

Tell me with your sweet whispers my dear.

What sort of tricks do angels play?

What smoke did you bring all this way?

What mirrors could hide what sight could tell,

that angels couldn't always mean well?

What shine could I ever trade your wings for my dear? 

Your presence I always crave   

and your sweet touch,
I never want to set my sight off you
if they could ever come down

and take off with your grace.

Promise me you'll never change.

Promise me that days would come and it will still be my flesh

in your loving embrace.

This mortal could always wish

for you to never be

like tides that sway for the sight of the moon,

but to stay and mend this festering wound.

we depend on you

porter robinson- sad machine

the more loving one

by Wystan Hugh Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us, we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

the takeoff

First day we aimed for the stars.
Second day we pack our bags.
On the third I never came.

It was a good day for you
to breach your shiny stratosphere,
but my feet was fear-anchored.

I'm no man to take you there,
and acrophobia screams louder
with their tenacious arguments.

There's no justification to believe
in tragic being who constantly cowers
before anything aimed upwards.

spiritual dating company

The Spiritual Dating Company building was about to close early, it's Saturday. The door swing wide and exit Mike from the glass door. He's wearing a black Slipknot t-shirt which now smell of incense, and now putting his jacket back on top of it. He rub his eyes few times, and few times, and another few times. While doing that he keep looking down at his chest. Nothing. He's not going home without getting a refund. 

"Fucking liar. How can I fall for that"

He lift his head up, and he could see it for the first time. Where could all this flamboyance be hidden before this? The street had less than ten people, but it is everywhere in the air. Madam Fu had never mentioned about seeing others. He stares at the people around him, fascinated and wondering if he had secretly been given drugs.

"That would be 50 bucks" his eyes are still itchy from the smoke that Madam Fu blew at his face.

50 bucks for seeing fancy strings that would bring you to your soulmate? Hell yeah. Mikey now got more than what he paid for. The strings is a freaking show by itself. It floats in the air like it was suspended in an invisible liquid, giving out a faint red glow. The weightless bundle started from the chest of the owner and then floats like the tail of a goldfish into the air and to anywhere the person they are connected to might be. Mike afraid that he might end up chasing those strings when he's drunk.

He then turns his head to the couple who just walked pass him while holding hands, and he shake his head as the two strings are floating separately from both the guy and the girl into the air and somewhere beyond the streets, absolutely disconnected. Those smiles would be wiped away if they could see it too. He stop himself from chasing them down, telling them about Madam Fu, because he got to find the other end of his strings. Its not attached to anyone in this street. He swears his strings looks better than everyone's.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The trip took him 3 hours. Its hard to be on the bus as the road makes his navigation confusing, so he decided to walk all the way to his destined soul. He can't wait to meet her, but what is he going to tell the girl? Is it even a girl? What if he's secretly gay? What if its a black guy waiting for him at the other end?

He feels like turning back, but if its a cute girl his 50 bucks would be wasted if he does. From the houses he could see strings floating through the walls, angled to various direction. The faint glow blend with the spilling sunset never fail to stop him for few seconds and stare, then he realise that he is in front of a house, where his strings suspended pass through the front door.

"Can I help you boy?"

He put down his newspaper, and walk towards Mike. His strings is the shortest he had seen today, it floats just above his house, a red piece of seaweed in a glass tank without any glow, without anyone on the other end. He shifted his eyes back to him, it would be so weird to be caught gazing at the empty sky. He had this street thugs look in his face, but he's white, so that's a relief for Mikey.

"Christine! Is this a friend of yours?"

He's glad its not Precious, or Tyrone. He could see the strings retracted back to his chest, as footsteps closing in to the front door. He's about to fall on the ground as his heart begin to send less oxygen to his brain. This is really his soulmate. Nothing can prove otherwise.

The doors open to a shadowy figure. It was larger that he expected, even larger than him. Suddenly it all came back to him. His school years, the bus, the concert. The lost years of his teenage life. It was Christine. Its Fat Christine. She's even wearing the same exact Slipknot t-shirt which renders his feet limp and he falls kneeling at the ground, the strings now glowing brightly in the ending sunset. Both father and daughter trying to figure out what's happening in front of them, as the weird guy is now shifting into fetal position in their driveway. He remembered the time when he flipped a trash can at Christine when they played Duality 3 years ago, and now he want his 50 bucks back.

"Mike is that you?" his cry gets more violent.

"Fuck you Madam Fuuuuuuu"

He chased red string on his way home that night.

change of heart

Her face is shiny with salty moist. Her bed is drenched in liquid that brought pungent smell all over the air. The room is quiet but there is a uniform sound of shaking bed frame if you listen closely.The one she had waited for, are now waiting for her answer with its inhuman limbs wrapped around her.

"I know it's a yes"
"You look so eager just now. I know it's a yes sweetie"

She should have said no, but her throat is clogged by a sharp, invisible lump that would make the word "no" sink forever in her chest. She already changed her mind the moment she realized how deep fear struck her flesh. The ancient fear. The innate response. The instinct to avoid one's demise, now yield at the face of true terror. Her hands are trembling in the cold air but her feet are chained rigid on her soaked bed. The minute tremor in her wrist weaken her grip on the gun but it wrap its hands above hers before it falls on the bed, while kissing her in the forehead.

"I come for the one who desire, I come just for you. I'll take away all your pain sweetie. This is nothing compared to all they gave you. This is pleasure"

"I'm a friend sweetie"

Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes keep pouring out streams endlessly. She wanted to stay. She regrets everything she wished for, the slow, the quick, the one that would make them regret it if she did. She don't want all that anymore. She really wanted to stay now. She wanted to make it through the night. She wanted to see the sun that she's forgotten how it looks like. The muscle of her neck attempt to twist her head to the window, but the fingers was holding her chin stiff. 

"No-no-no"
"Here, my sweet little imp. Open wide"

Her tongue flinch by the taste of the metal. She rest it on the back of her throat, then the hand helped her to angle it slightly upward towards her palate. It bury its face in her hair, but she never felt it. Never once her head was filled with so much details of her life, faces, places, all played in a clash of fast forwards and rewinds, while her body excrete everything it could as it sensed that it's the last time it would. Every part of her is limp, except for the hand that was holding the gun. She wonder if her thumb would listen to her now, if her saliva would jam the barrel, if she would be given a second chance.

"Now repeat after me, goodbye world"
"Hmm"
"One, two, three. Goodbye world"

"Gooby worfh-"