Chia yewnian Pop Fiksyen

Chia Yew, its time for some nice literature, though in itself, mine is merely but a speck of dust.
A Pop Fiksyen type, to cater to Chia Yew's Appetite.

Pop Fiksyen Series 1:


It was so hot, he was not able to concentrate.


Suddenly, something shone and caught his attention.


Being ridiculously attracted, he went towards it.


Then he found out, it was just sand.


But then, slowly, he asked, why did it sparkle leh?


He checked back, nothing was there.


And then, he left, and the sparkles were no longer there.


He took a turning back, and saw Tok Bomoh before him, holding a yew tree branch, so he asked," Why la, I see sparkles but when I reach I only see sand?"


Tok Bomoh replied," Perhaps, perhaps, it was just an illusion."


Continuing," Or perhaps it was the moon."


He was angry and turned his back ,walking away.


Passing by that area again, something fell onto his head.


And so it ends.
I may not be the professional Pop Fiksyen writer, the Chiayewnian way, but that's just for the appetite for now. Perhaps, I might write something else someday.

Erfolg

It is not a rather peculiar case of anything of any sorts, but rather a simple tale of nothing.

This forgiving day, those little warm eyes grew weary and then were shut, all that was said was that I've never seen such kind eyes for a long time.

His shadows stood from afar, a stout figure of an authoritarian, many people would not see his point of view but to a rather strict extent, he conveyed it, at least, he made them hear him. His claws were no longer sharp and lay sheathed, he couldn't take a bite off of his opponents, alas, his fangs still bore a mark on their skins.

He laid down and started drifting into a dream, and it seems it swirled anti-clockwise. Who knew of that little part that he knows not of? He was not dreaming anymore but he stood up to his dismay, a figure of scarcity and alienness. He picked up his pace and strode away, but what he never knew was that face he has seen, a significant myriad of shapes pieced together, to form a perfect identity.

Though he lay fatigued, he wore his snickers and took his little coat and went out. But all of this story meant of nothing but an affliction of a series of random events that happened to him, and that you would just want to smack your computer by reading this.

Just drop it, he said, he couldn't find the capacity to let his books fall to his toes and hit his toes. That would be overwhelmingly stupid for himself to do so, and then he walked on, and continue living without his stubbed toes. We can continue this post forever, but if were to make any sense, I would have done it by now.

He came home, with his hat upon his head. Many a times, a lady would pass by and he would be certain to catch a look of her. His little figure walked along the path and soon he found himself home again. Little did he know that the city would not accommodate so much as to what he does in it, and he was just a measly old man who has retired into his husk. He knows a lot yet he knows nothing at all, but to go and proclaim everything which would mean the destruction of his fundamental identity, which he would certainly want to avoid.

The Bus came, and he hopped on, little to know that he had let go of his book on the bus station. Readily, he went on towards that very cosy place round the corner of the city, a newspaper editorial company, for whom he was invited to be interviewed. Later on he'd see that lady in red again, and that he couldn't help but to stare at her . She eloped by as he reached his destination.

There grew his shadows, as he walked in, but none of all that his fang could do, he was old. And that he said, was a quixotically interesting art of psychology he once possessed to make heads turn. He trod to the office where the editor had invited him. Sat on that chair, old, brown, perhaps a little dusty. And all he said was sound and full of fury, but signified nothing.

As of then he breathed his last, and of that moment he collapsed, no one knew what had happened later, but for this portion it did make sense, at least I hoped. But some said he had a smile etched upon his face, which he had never truly did until then.

Leaving back his legacy, we know of nothing of him anymore, but of his works. He had not died then but his last breath has been huffed out. The candle is blown and the curtain laid down.

If I had made you completely perplexed, that is probably the reason I blog. To fill in a little boredom with works that may make no sense, even at the umpteen time you try, but if you do, do understand that I am just filling in time and that I can in no way associate to any geniuses, gifted people. Thank you if you read until this PART, and I hope you can get some rest because I know that if you thought through it, you would have some kind of epileptic storm of sparks going through your mind.

To end, say your prayers and start it again.

A Miracle

That water fountain was drained,
its beauty now taint,
its people without ordain,
gave in to all bane.

Rather than go to great heights,
to build that of great might,
they blew their freights,
to which made them go blight.

Many a days do people see,
That of many they may be,
Of some had glee,
and many were of no blee.

And so the great preacher rose,
And those who came to host,
With few who opposed,
Became too dazed to boast.

Who knows that simple treat,
That made things meet,
Made a great deed,
That few rarely did.

Peace of the mind

The sun was blazing. His mouth was parched, and his feet grew weary of walking. He had no where to go, and soon, he thinks he will die. He ran away from his home, left razed by the regime that had taken over his nation, his birthplace. Parted from his family, he was left with nothing but the clothes on his back.

And then, a person came along. And he took the boy. They left that desert, forever.

*
To start, A few quotes to whet your appetite:
"Therefore, whoever desires peace, let him prepare for war."
-Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus in De Re Militari.

"Man is the only animal that deals in that atrocity of atrocities, War. He is the only one that gathers his brethren about him and goes forth in cold blood and calm pulse to exterminate his kind. He is the only animal that for sordid wages will march out…and help to slaughter strangers of his own species who have done him no harm and with whom he has no quarrel ... and in the intervals between campaigns he washes the blood off his hands and works for "the universal brotherhood of man" — with his mouth."
-Mark Twain, The War Prayer.

A more prominent one:
"War does not decide who is right, war decides who is left."
-Bertrand Russell

#Additional quotes on War can be found here.

____________________________________________________________________

Evolution have brought us to this stage, for what we know, we have tongue to speak, ears to listen, and most of all a mind to judge, as such, then why are there wars? Do peace and compromise hold no value? It is how we believe our minds work. We crave for war and violence, that little primitive part of us that still tingles within us, one way or another, it could be present due to our survival instincts. Or rather just some of us have our own underlying motives to encourage it, be it for vengeance or profits or anything else.

Peace, in relativity, is rather complex. To have peace is to not have war, and yet to not have war does not always mean peace. It is not the war that we fight to conquer, but it is the wars we fight to secure the peace that is the one that counts. Terrorist are criminals, and no doubt terror acts, are a crime, and war, should it not be an act of terror, be it that it diminishes a nation, or its people, it terrifies everyone, the world. Shouldn't it be criminalised too?

If we continue to be ignorant of the atrocities of war, no doubt, we would soon find ourselves, living in a void, which we would destroy ourselves. Peace is anything but an illusion, and we know it more than anyone else, we have achieved peace before, and anything now is but to stop wars from ever happening.

Now it comes to the part where you can contribute, by visting some of these sites:

• Kuala Lumpur Foundation to Criminalise War
• Perdana Global Peace Organisation
• MALAYSIANS for PEACE
• Ministry of Peace
• War Child UK

To stop war, you must understand the atrocities of war, do not be complacent, be proactive, and see the world change, by little contributions of everyone, for everyone.

The Rather Peculiar Case of a Clock.

When this little boy grew up, he was rather compelled to follow the path of his father's path of a clockwork artisan. But as he did, he found that there was a pretty handful of issues to contend to.

This boy knew not the world and likewise did the world, as he was himself a much more latent person, and was never the sociable little player. And in all his free time, he used to think. And thinking soon became a practice to him, and long before he knew it, he found that rather this clockwork workshop, his father had, is a very interesting yet it was not what he had wanted.

He grew up then, as a precocious child and soon found that he was not the only one who lived off the lane, he find that in all the years of helping his father, he has understood how each piece of gear fits into a clock precisely, and how it was that these whole gears work together as a clock.

"This is my large clock", he thought," And maybe I would make changes to its little gears and make this clock different." He set out and never looked back. He knew that being a clockwork artisan wasn't at all the life he wanted, but as a settlement for his soul for a little bit of peace.

He pushed the little gears, changed them, and see that his works of precious clockworks coming to life, yet he was unable to change that large clock he had. The clock would always ring the same, and it would always end up the same, however more he push and clanked, the clock was ever the same. He tried changing all the gears but to no avail, he tried refining the gears but also to naught.

The gears chinked on and the world moved on, and that little artisan that continued to work on. He changed the clock, in his little ways, yet he found that the clock were not derived of its original behaviour, which proved to foil his efforts. Rather later then, he found out the truth. It was this little gears which proved to be of a difference, yet the clock as a whole wasn't. He realised, "If it is the clock that is not working, change the gears only, it will only put it back upon the state it were before it dislodged. But if to change the clock itself, is to change its entirety, then do so, but never stop, or it will fall back to what it was."

Commentary: To be exact, if it weren't metaphorical, this would make no sense. And it would also make no sense, if you can barely read the title. He also said,"I relish radish."

Laissez faire

The clock ticked, closing to the roman numeral "VI", 6. He was anxious for a treat, and truthfully, he was already famished. Clinching on to the ends of his consciousness, he reached into his pocket only to find a ring and $2.65; a dollar, 5 quarters, 3 dimes, and 2 nickels. The coins were never as warm as before.

The clock struck 9 and he was on the streets again. And now he was in an alley, and by him was a bonfire made by a few other vagrants. He is homeless, and all he had were these companions. The few coins he had, he spent on a little piece of cake that look so absolutely mouthwatering, and beautifully crafted, such a luxury it was.

He cuddled and hugged himself, while lying on a cardboard. Thoughts flew by as he recalls little parts of his memory. He was a victim of the Great Depression. He is homeless, without any family, and a beggar. All fault fell on him, he lost everything in a night.

***

He held on tightly a crowbar, and slowly pried off the lock that stood between him and that little fortune. The door opened, and in defiance, he struck that Rottweiler that impeded him. Blood was spilled everywhere, but none of his own. The splatter stained the walls and its body was left aside, as he proceeded into the kitchen.

It was dark and only the moonlight illuminated the area. Picking up a glass, and drinking off the tap. Bickering was heard. It would seem as though he had come at the wrong time. Then silence, and a sharp sound of shattering of glass was heard. Quickly, he crept towards a corner, while being wary of the silence, "Did they realise my presence?".

However strong the urge to run, the waning lust for gold, he pressed on, for his curiosity won upon his desires. And all he saw when he peer through that little opening, was shocking. Stunned as he ran for the door, all that anxiety was no longer there, though as it was, he felt, nothing, but freedom.

***

The cold morning breeze greeted him as he stood awoken, and he slowly headed onto the path towards that little house. That little motionless body was no longer there. The blood stains were no more there. Instead, the house that he saw was wrecked, of what it was, it now is not. As he walked through that little frame which had a door, he could see the glass that laid still on sink, of which he had placed on that night, and before him, was a corpse with a ring.

The Illusionist

So it was, I stood on the stage, where a mammoth crowd lay wide before me. The very cheer, a cacophony of sounds, the myriad of colours bedazzled me. I was mused. "I speak here on this very day, to give you one last speech", spoken in all my might.

"It may be the very last but I knew that, all in all, I have owed my achievements, through all your efforts, to give me what I am today. At the very least, I shall say thanks first, to everyone." The crowd cheered, roared with such enthusiasm, and I was enlightened that even the littlest of a flame could be rekindled, so easily.

***

His speech full of glory and passion, and finally he gives last note of appreciation to those most important to him. Slowly he tread towards the steps where he headed to the dressing room. His figure was slouching, unlike that of an authoritarian that he once had. The steps grew heavier. He was heaving, panting, and then he collapsed. Towards that room, he was brought into, and an ambulance was called upon. He had live a long full life.

***

The light was so bright, blinding me, and its warmth wrapped around me. I felt like a baby once more, and I cuddled, to an eternity, of sleep. At the end of my view, a figure slipped by, and my eyes opened, pinned upon the sky, which was spans an infinity of whiteness. I was no longer dozing off, but stood in disbelieve of what my very eyes had set upon.

***

He picked up his pace, and walked towards me. I could see his youth and vigor, and he looked upon me with all the curiosity, of a child. And then he was before me. He mumbled an indiscernible form of speech of which, I soon found out to be a greeting. He examined me, as I did of him. He was a young boy of approximately 6 years of age, a stout figure, light brown hair, and had some freckles. He was wearing a nice little sweater, along with a pair of jeans. He concentrated on the suitcase I brought, curious, and soon, I was dragged along by him.

***

He looked very much like Papa, and the indescribable euphoria at the moment enveloped me, and I was on cloud nine. I tried to bring him to my house to Mama, but he wouldn't budge. I soon took his hand and dragged him again. He gave in and a smile was etched onto my face.

Soon, we were in front of the door of my house, which was not locked, and I entered dragging Papa along. I made him sit on the sofa, in our cosy little living room, while I went to look for Mama.

***

As I gazed by all the little pictures that were on display, I couldn't help but notice the familiarity that I am experiencing. I felt no longer lost, and the man in the picture, resembled someone I know. He was one of those faces, which you can't forget, yet I am unable to recall. He was, a great man. "Mama, mama" and the little boy was back into the living room. "I can't find Mama." I told him I had to go and he reluctantly let me leave.

I slowly walked out along the path, as I bumped into a lady. Fair she was, and in all her grace, she was the most beautiful woman I've met. My head ached, as the recollection of memories, slowly flood into me, she was someone, someone I knew. But who? who? For a moment later, all I felt, was numbness.

***

Mama reached for me, and off the far side of my vision, I could see Papa clenching his head in pain. A loud hit, a car skid, and I saw Papa on the street. I rushed, teary eyes, towards him. He laid in a pool of blood, as I hear him say, "Mother, I'm finally back."

***

I was in a ward, white surrounded me and I couldn't help it but have this little tinge to give everyone a hug. Many were a good people who came to visit me, and I was glad. I had not felt so much better as I looked into the photos that were in this house of mine, as I see the one that was my Father, for he was, a great man.

And so I dozed off again, into my long sleep, seeking for an eternity of peace and serenity, of the dream I once had, of an illusionist.