I'm supposed to read up on russia but russia is weird

"I'm a debater," I whisper as I read up on the History of Socialism.

"I'm a debater," I murmur as I research on Cyprus' failed economy.

"I'm a debater," I tell myself as I scroll down Wikipedia's page on the Israel-Palestine conflict.

"I'M A DEBATER!!" I yell when someone accidently opens my Google Chrome to view multiple tabs on Sex Air BnB.

Ocean Storm

I stopped, turned around and looked him in the eyes. They reminded me of an ocean storm, exactly the dangerous gray colour of the low hung clouds. I could almost hear the waves crashing, thunder booming above and cracks of lightning. As dull the colour gray goes, his eyes were striking, and they held my gaze in the sea full of people.

His long, thin lips quirked up at the corners as he moistened them slightly. He blinked once more and then turned to walk away.  Before I could follow him, he was already lost in the crowd.

That was the first encounter I had with the epitome of "tall, dark and handsome". He hadn't given me a clue to what he wanted when he tapped lightly on my shoulder that day. None of him looked familiar. I would have remembered his chiseled face anywhere. The only thing that kept me tugging at my memories were his eyes. I know I have not seen them before, but the image that I kept was incorporeal, as though I had seen them in a dream. 

The second time was during my parent's anniversary dinner. I had dressed up for the occasion, entering the embellished restaurant and taking a seat in front of my sister. We were right in the middle of the story of how our parents met, which we had already heard dozens of times- when I saw him again. He was in a dark gray suit that matched his eyes, complete with an orange silk tie. He was exiting the restaurant when our eyes locked. He smiled nonchalantly at me and then left, leaving me staring after the still swinging glass door.

The third time, though. The third time answered all of my questions.

After carrying out my quotidian rituals, it was almost midnight when I was walking back to my apartment. My pace was fast, I didn't want to risk spending more time in the late hour of an empty street. But as the saying goes, douchebags will be douchebags and no matter how you dress, rape is inevitable. At least, there should be one. 

I was cornered by three men, pepper spray already knocked out of my hand. My bag was dropped, and my shirt was torn. They took me then and there, on the cold, disgusting alley floor. They laughed at my begs and whimpers, and slapped me at my cries. After awhile, I didn't feel anything. All was numb.

And then all was pain. In my ribs, my arms, my legs, my face. They kept at it for awhile, until I felt a cold piercing in my chest. Warmth trickled and spread across my body. And they left me there. To bleed to death, trying to breathe with punctured lungs, gaping like fish out of water. 

At first, all I could see was the dark sky above, no such twinkle of stars, not even the faint glow of the Moon was present. Then I saw his eyes, and they didn't remind me of a storm anymore, but a calm ocean at dawn.

"Hey there, Clara," he whispered softly in a modulated voice, like an angel. "My name is Raziel, the Angel of Death." So he was an angel. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes," I whispered back, letting my eyes close. The last thing I felt was his warm lips on mine, ready to carry me to the afterlife.  

Prompt #1

Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

People had always called me weird when I was a child. They kept giving me sidewards glances whispering to each other 'Look, there's that kid who tried skinning Mrs. Jankis' cat.' Do you know how frustrating it was, to hear that all at the age of 6? Just got into kindergarten, just stopped sucking my thumb a week before? To hear such inaccurate stories? People need to learn the facts before spreading rumours. I totally skinned that cat. Alive, too. Gosh.

Then at 12 I realised that no, hurting animals just won't do it. Even the sound of their whimpers, seemingly begging for me to stop, looking at me with puppy dog eyes, -in which case, at most times where actual puppy eyes- won't bring me the sadistic pleasure I seek. I discovered my fetish when I pushed this little girl in pink off the swing. She scraped her knees and then cried like I just stomped on  her face. I wanted too, in fact. But then I saw her tears, falling down her reddened cheeks, the sound of her uncontrollable sobs, her wailing, the snot dripping down from her cute button nose. I loved that. The fact that I scarred her not physically, but emotionally. You can plaster a band-aid on a cut, but wounds that travels directly to a person's soul is much harder to heal. Trauma by torture? Nah, too much effort. 

So there we were, 20 years later. She sat there strapped on the chair, eyes big and glistening with the fearful tears, terrified of what would happen next. I whispered to her 'Shhh, it'll all be over soon. I just want to see you break down and cry like your mother just died.' 

And then I put on Grave of the Fireflies. 

A poem by me.

I am feeling down and angry and disappointed and stressed and sad and so I wrote this poem to describe how I feel 

Hajahqoshwiqhhsbbyqigsoa,

Jahahwiqhushqkdywgbaojsgwy aishqi,

Hahahqhshautwusvsyqhs,

Tqietqondbaiqo,

Pawywywisbaowgwisgaheuwy,

Iahwifakshjqsia,

Iauwuahhatqidgajgquwgajsiqhsoacis,

Jahshhsihqheyahqiywu. 

Hahutwisusjwhidt, 

Jahtqyywiahaogeiateiagiagsiqhaivquwou,

Jaywiqgsiwystqjsiqhsistwi,

Iwuifnkfiwkhtfjfhehqhfjab,

Jiwjsuwh, 

Kajayhahhahwuroshd,

Uwurignvockxjjwi. 

Uwhehwuqiehfjfjfiwuqoekshw, 

Heiieieowifiisjdjeh Irish kfiuaije,

my thumbs now slamming on the glass of my touch screen phone sounds like a machine gun and so in my head I am shooting someone 

Najshahqhyeowododjqi, iweushwk

Jurysugwuahqidhhw, 

Jwhshehehyeuroeiroquffhe, 

Haheywueieirritnciw

Jarieowifkdiejdi

Jwiruwofueihfuqii 

Sign Language and Star Wars

my first attempt at writing romance. so yeah i apologise in advance. coz i can't write romance to save my life
also, the overuse, of commas, because, i am a douchebag.

Shards of broken glass sliced into my skin, neck was sore from the physical shock of sudden whipping every time the car tumbled and hit the ground. Hair tangled, with every breath I took I felt a sharp pinching at my lungs. A trickle of warmth came down into the corner of my eye. I carefully turned around to the driver's seat and saw Isaac unconscious, head resting on the wheel, surrounded by a plush of white. His nose was probably broken by the air bag and he too was bloodied and bruised. Groaning in pain, I reached for my phone and dialed 911.

I remembered again, the look of despair I have never seen before, etched onto his pale face after we got our treatment at the emergency room. I was fortunate enough to escape with a mild concussion, a few broken ribs and some stitches along my arm. Isaac, though. He was devastated. The doctor gave him a simple, solemn nod and he- the boy I have never seen shed a tear, even when his mother passed away, who was always happy and all smiles- broke down, collapsing to the floor, shoulders jerking sharply up and down sobbing into his hands. Me? I just stood there, shocked, feeling completely useless while trying to hold back the tears pooling up in my eyes. We had been best friends for 4 years. I had to be strong. For him.

We learnt sign language together. He also lost his ability to speak. Psychological shock, the doctor had said, traumatized by both the hearing loss and the accident. He was depressed for awhile but after a few months of sign language, we both mastered it and started to communicate, if not normally, again. He tried his best to stay optimistic and then started to be like his old self again. Bubbly, slightly blur and in his own world, and laughing, always laughing. It wasn't like his old laugh, it wasn't loud and hearty, but more like gasps of air. I accepted it anyway. After all, it wasn't his laugh that made me fall in love with him in the first place. Nor was it his adorable face, or his lean yet muscly build. It wasn't his intelligence nor our similarities.

It was his smile.

The corners of his mouth curving upwards to reveal the rows of his perfect, white teeth, his eyes crinkling. He smiled that way when he sees food, mostly, or when he finds something amusing, or before he pulls a prank on someone, or when he just got the joke 5 minutes later than everyone else. That smile alone could pull me out of my darkest days. It was infectious. Whenever he smiled, I smiled.

I didn't mind that I wasn't going to hear his voice again. I didn't care that he wasn't ever going to hear mine. But it doesn't mean we both didn't miss it. I made a joke about it once, 2 years after the incident.

Today my friends were telling me how annoying I got when we watch Lord of the Rings and I say the lines, I signed. They don't appreciate me showing off my inner geek. Or they just hate my voice.

I remember when you used to do that and I can tell you, your friends have the rights to be annoyed, he signed back, a smile creeping onto his lips.

I made a sarcastic smile that said 'haha very funny except not' and signed back. At least now you don't have to ever hear my annoying voice again, huh? 

Usually when I made a joke about his condition, he would laugh it off, giving me a proper comeback. This time, though. He just smiled sadly at me and then turned towards the television. I didn't bring it up again. It was movie night and we were watching The Matrix (with subtitles. Not that he needed them. He practically knew each and every line). I felt sorry for him and I hated myself for it, mainly because he hated it when people look at him with pity in their eyes and treat him nicely, just because he couldn't hear or speak.

I tried to pay attention to the movie, but my mind wandered to other things. How the situation would be like if it were reversed, how it never would have happened if I hadn't insisted we go watch the release of City of Bones, how he forgave me for dragging him out, making him drive, telling me over and over that it wasn't my fault, that the idiot who rammed into us shouldn't have been driving while clearly intoxicated. But of course it was. If it wasn't for me, he would be able to hear Keanu Reeves' voice, the punches and kicks, the background music, the fan humming, the sniffs I was so desperate to hide. I could never forgive myself for harming the boy I was so in love with.

Birthdays came and went, Christmases, the ultimate finale of Sherlock, and Supernatural was on its 13th season. We became so close that we almost saw each other everyday despite he fact that both of us  were working 5 days a week. It was a Monday morning, 8 years after the accident, 19th of April, when I received his text.

need to see you. 

where? I replied quickly.

hospital. ward 436. Visiting hours just started.

I swear to God, that was the only time I got out of my bed, showered, and drove off under 15 minutes. By the time I arrived, anxiety consumed me whole. I prayed in my heart, out loud, and in between sobs that he was okay. I started assuming the worst, and prayed again that it wasn't it. When the elevator doors sprung open, tears were already running down my face, leaving black outlines from the mascara it washed away. I stopped- heart beating like helicopter blades, panting like I just ran a marathon- outside his ward and composed myself. Pushing the door open, I felt my breath hitch upon seeing him, curly brown hair all mussed up, a smile widening. The nurse was just finishing checking his blood pressure, and had started to jot down something on her clipboard. WTF? I thought. Like, really, block letters just came into my head. If there was a facial expression for ????!!!?!??!?!?!, I would have been wearing that on my face.

What's going on? I signed. His smile was so smug and happy, it was like I was Santa bringing him the complete Classic Who box set for Christmas.

I woke up this morning, he started. I woke up to the sound of my neighbor's dog barking. 

So? What's your point?

Amy! I woke up to the sound of my neighbor's dog barking. He signed slowly this time, to stress on the last few words. My hands flew to my mouth, tears (again? geez) flooding my eyes. I tried to say something and guess what? My voice sounds weird. I came here straight away and they were amazed. They didn't think that it was possible. It's a miracle, they said. So now they're keeping me here for further tests.

'Then why aren't you talking to me now?' I whispered at him for the first time in 8 years.

He looked nervous suddenly. I... don't know what to say to you. It's the first time after so long, I wanted to say something meaningful? You know how sentimental I get.

I walked to him and he stood up, towering above me, his eyes a perfect shade of stormy gray with blue specks bore into mine. 'Don't be afraid', I said softly.

He cleared his throat, and for the first time in 8 years, I heard his voice say the words I have been waiting for ever since the day we met.

'I love you.'

And because my brain doesn't analyse what comes out of my mouth, because I was such a geek, and because I knew that he would get it, I quoted Star Wars.

'I know.'

A Cold Smirk.

Eyes, dark and ever vigilant. Hair, black with fringes scraping delicately below the eyebrows. Skin, pale and smooth like a baby's bottom. Cheekbones, high and prominent. Lips, thin and at the lightest shade of pink, twisted into a cold, evil smirk. 

He stared.

And she stared right back into his intense gaze, his almost-evil sneer, his lean build, his long coat. She noticed how he walked, graceful and certain; light steps on the white snow. His face stood out in the crowd of business men and women, school girls giggling away, children skipping about; all wrapped up in winter clothes. 

Madness. 

She jumped violently at the sudden voice in her head. It was deep and unfamiliar, yet she knew it came from the stranger across the street. She looked at him again just in time to see him turning away, his trench coat swirling behind him as he blend into the crowd. She never saw him again but his face had been seared onto her brain. She wished she had followed him that day but the unexpected warning and her primal instinct told her not to. 

People say not to judge a book by its cover, but sometimes- maybe most times- it was inevitable. Judging a person by first look is human nature, evaluating the worst case scenario before attempting to escape, if you will. An average person of average status, average IQ, and average knowledge of the world would have stayed away from the man who portrayed evil. She wasn't exaggerating. The man had a look that would have silenced the president in a second. 

Yet, she was intrigued. She imagined a splatter of blood splashed across his face and oh, she was intrigued. And her curiosity had almost nothing to do with the fact that she had heard his voice in her head. Somehow, she didn't even give that a second thought. She just wished she saw him again. She wished she had followed. 

She became obsessed with him after that, speaking of a mysterious man with telepathic powers who lead a cult of similar people with similar abilities. Finally after almost 6 years into her obsession that became more and more worrying, Ava Lancaster was admitted into Bethlem Royal Hospital For Mental Illnesses at the age of 28 and was diagnosed with schizophrenia. 

Manifestation of the subconscious mind...?

So this is my essay I wrote for my Mid-Terms. I found the marks my teacher graded me with was justified. I realised only after that I could have done better. Out of 5 choices, I picked this one because I was simply in the mood for a little philosophy. Oh, and I have never actually seen The Matrix and I don't believe that reality and logic is overrated. So to the ghosts that I assume are floating about behind my shoulders, enjoy! 

5. Dreams.

         I stood there at the very top of the steep cliff. Barefooted, the grass tickled my feet in a pleasant way. The wind blew my long hair, whipping it across my face as I overlooked the sapphire-blue ocean. The water glittered like gems when it caught the Sun's ray of warmth. 

         This was my freedom, my escapade. No one was there to tell me to step away from the edge. No one was there to tell me to put my favourite flip-flops on. It was peace and serenity in the purest and simplest of forms. 

It was a dream.

         What are dreams? Are dreams just an escape from reality? A way to disenfranchise oneself from the world of constant strain and antagonism? I guess a dream differs from person to person. It can be a manifestation of the subconscious mind, something you crave for or somebody you lust. An ambition or a title you plan for your fantasy future. It can be from the past as you reminisce to an event you sorely want repeated or it can be unreal, delusional and the most pellucid form of radical nonsense.

         Quite similar to the question on life, there is no specific answer to what a dream is. But I am certain that you can never stop a person from dreaming. As opposed to reality, dreams tend to be quite wonderful. A gateway to heaven or a bridge to amity. Who wants to accept reality? It's overrated anyway.

        Like an explicit scene censored, my dreams are as unclear as the pixelated vestige of a stranger's past life. I dream of myself with unlimited knowledge of the universe and the power to soar through the clouds of uncertainty and cowardice. I dream of a utopian world without poverty, violence, traumas and heartaches from wars and abuse. Sometimes my dreams are out of this world, like time-traveling with an alien called the Doctor who wears bow-ties and thinks that no one is unimportant. Sometimes my dreams are simple, just to achieve enough in life to see the tears of joy forming in my mother's wise eyes.

       I sit and ponder. What if reality was, in fact a dream? This world we live in, the stress, the joy of being with friends, the hollow we sometimes feel, the flavours of life, was just something we play in our heads and our dreams were real? Maybe I'm in denial of reality or maybe I've been watching too much of The Matrix. 

        Dreams are what makes a person human. It is a melting pot of emotions painted with ecstatic beauty into vibrant images in a person's mind. It is a sign of hope; that not everything in this world we live in is truly bad. It is a sweet escape from the heavy chains of burden and responsibilities we wear everyday. My point is, reality and logic is overrated and it only boils the fury in our hearts. Dreams on the other hand- dreams are beautiful. I am utterly grateful to God that He granted us this magnificent gift to dream because what is the point in living in a black and white world if you're not allowed to splash some colours in? In the simplest of words, dreams are an art you create. You, and only you, control the movements of the brush. Not the other way 'round.