The Shape of You [Love Story]

I: First there were the eyes

First there were the eyes that gleamed of sun and summer. Then there was the boyish gummy smile that made you want to smile all of a sudden. And that innocent smugness he carried around wasn’t just smart, it had to be orchestrated.

Yes, perfectly orchestrated. I really don’t think this is first love. Way too much to be first love. Love it is, is it?

Where was I? I was on the train. It’s about 6.20pm. And lucky, he was there again, with two of his friends. I see him in the evenings on this train often, and I know this train is his usual ride to his destination. Is it more than pure coincidence? That I’ve seen him twice in school but six times on this train now. As usual, no amount of tiredness can refuse a gaze at him.

Funny, he seems to enjoy sitting opposite me (well there is space anyway so go ahead to lounge anywhere?). Oh gawd, my heart is racing. School was intense today but nothing is more intense than your crush sitting right across. Should I get up and move to the next cabin? Or should I exit this train and get on the next one? I have to stop staring at him (I do that all the time so this must not be habit) because I have to divert once he realises the staring, and of course I have to look tired which is why I stare listlessly in the first place. My eyes are rolling now, this is getting weird and I have to pretend it is normal but it is not.

As I fidget a little, the view of the beautiful lake Catrun from the windows came into view. I looked over and was just amazed that the sky had nicely turned into a serene orange against a still lake. Going home during this time was definitely worth it when the sun was setting. I lifted up my mobile phone from my bag and snapped a shot of it, something that I’ve done about a thousand times already and I have a massive collection of Catrun’s lake pictures now. As I put away my phone, something caught on and I trembled immediately. He was glancing at me. Our eyes met.

Help. My heart was sending butterflies to my head now. Why is my head fluttering?

As if the train knew it was my stop to alight, I had just arrived at my station. The minute the train doors opened, I grabbed my bag and burst out of the train. He was still looking on when I ran out, what the hell.

OK, breathe. No wait, don’t breathe. Lungs did not care.

The Career-Switcher Nurse

There is a kind of courage and wretchedness in an older woman

Who had signed up to be a nurse and “career-switches” into

The comfortless ropes of what a nurse is supposed to be.

Once again made student in the nursing class of youths

Though now no longer a youth in body and soul

She is told to blend in to the faculties of the sanguine,

Studiously study and sit for the exams

When brain neurons cease to fire as she tires.

Hard work at studies also meant

Harder work at hospital hardships

Nourished in complications and complaints

Along sweat that drips by tears.

And if her self in her past career is gone,

The uncertain future of a novice nurse prowls

Honest misery that mutates her liminality.

Oh, gone too is the tree of self-worth

Which steadies the woman throughout life.

Still, her eyes dream of a dream no nurse else had.

Not just to care for the sick and needy,

A rare gem was in her vision to bring joy

To the world spinning uncontrollably

Calling in nurses everyday to quit.

Is it a surprise? She had detailed plans

That designed new places for nurses to rest,

Prescriptions for patients when they weren’t sick,

So they could never really be ill

And if they would,

They were already healing. She knew

Geriatrics could see aging as beneficial to

Breed new respect to all of the living

That people loved being in their 50s to 80s

And health in its ups and downs was

Without shame from biomedical practice.

Don’t blame the mature woman for wanting to be a nurse,

In some of her slowness and lethargy

She is just doing her best without her youth.

Don’t be mad at her for being frumpy,

She is already changing the world.

- Vania (Vander)

In Defense of Making Sense in Writing

I was told I didn’t make sense in my writing

In a mission which had projects that weren’t fit for the task.

Projects that were all over the place and showed trivial strengths

But I was to punch above the weight of this maddening bison

And write “technical” non-verbosity that sounded elegant

When the company was banking on millions in their greatness

Weren’t so great if you meant bright marketing and dressing up

Of mediocrity in their data and technological “breakthroughs”

With a kind of lacklustre speaking, seeing or knowing.

I didn’t want to think twice or thrice

Out came my art of writing in a piece of work that made little sense

To a person known as “C” like “C” knew everything about the world when in truth

“C” knew nothing at all about the work and me.

Yet “C” took all the words I wrote which “C” deemed little sense to go for a spin

And spun entire new meanings for it.

Making words sound lesser than any sense I’ve written

All the while describing my text as frustrating to read.

That words must sound in its image a cognitive “correctification” all the time

To words only subjective, perceptive and dependent on who, when or how so one thinks.

This became an anxiety that made me think what the hell was wrong with me

If I couldn’t write the way in the doneness of being correct to the T

And typing “like everyone else does or should be”.

C’s comparison of my work to boring writers in their “well-doneness”

Lands the finishing stake to the heart and the body is not the same.

So I strayed far from writing for a while.

It made me think, that not making sense in writing

Might be the world’s wrongest sin,

An injurious insult to art and science.

- Vania (Vander)

Mission Immeowsible

Crap! Its the dog that huffs and puffs and scatters everywhere

And begs for the tiniest attention, treat, pathetic hug

The Human does not have the obligation to give.

Does it know I’m Head of Pest Control for the neighbourhood?

The MEOWST almighty that rules over the rats, big bugs or

Them creatures that come out but then must soon hide.

This doggo wants to challenge me to a quick race?

Why should I care when dog had pea brains know none

About my Mission Immeowsible and all my meowtiple heroic deeds

I fronted the big office and ‘twas me the tabby guard of honour that

Humans can’t stop kissing and smothering but I won’t purr.

What about being Cat of the Year?

I was even featured in the news for having a funny pawsonality

But then you was mushy mushy and lickin?

Go away doggo, my fur don’t need no chase.

How sickening you let humans leash you and

Tell you where to go and how to fetch.

Tskkk the ugly way you stick out your tongue!

- Vander

Grief In Three Roses

By myself at a funeral wake,

Grief wiped my tears and knocked sense into my head.

It said -

Silly, silly, silly!

Grief is the thing that is born out of love.

A pain paid by the folly in love longing,

To escape the vanishing in a stormy whirlpool and

Beat through the new dawn a pensive sunrise!

The beloved gone now say -

For it is not my passing that is sad but your

Loneliness that memories of me must now be remembered

Fondly, as you live out your life bravely without me.

Grief can pour regrets and wish to better a loss but

It is mine, the leaver’s heart that passes you Grief in three roses,

Never withering as I had already died

For them to live just so you can see that

The first rose was the whole universe in the shape of my existence,

The second rose was the sand of my memories and the

Doneness of my purpose, promise and possibilities,

While the third rose speaks of all our dreams

That drew strength and the goodness of being together.

Do you have ours and yours to see?

The roses are in your Grief.

They do not weep silly to be your beacon,

In all due respect to Grief or me,

The dearly departed.

- Vander

Candy's Food Dreams

Candy was an impecunious woman who did not have enough to eat.

She was called The Welfare Deposit for donations went to her.

Her vacant purse never could fetch the ostentatious clothed menu

Loafing on bedazzling table settings, fine cutlery and white napkins.

Could people really use those? Why and whatever for?

She didn’t know what a true feast had meant.

Her thoughts of it were only in dreams,

For it was just pondering far heavenly to be.

So those dreams had the poached salmon fillet in the lemon sauce

With luscious greens and sublime blendered mash whispering of

A faint memory of tucking into tarty salmon when her father was alive.

Then lately it was the steaks which was a medium well

Again, why was there a medium she couldn’t tell

It was probably of medium temperature right for her tongue.

Or cooked to take on the well and healthy “medium” of communication.

In kitchens she wondered how chefs adorned the plates

To make palatable textures and colors dance.

She saw and salivate at restaurant windows,

Whole families with their little ones chop and chomp

To juicy squirts of meats around flowery broccoli strings,

Soups smelling like lobsters took smokes in heady brews

They sat and enjoyed the spoons, licking residues in reverie

Waiters had the piping tray of pies coming their way it

Was cloud nine but Candy was cloud ten and none.

Cloud ten for she saw the joy of others to their food a fantasia,

Cloud none for she could not deign to have them.

Why was she named Candy when life was stained hand-me-downs,

Outdated belongings and rations which helped her live but

Sweetness shall and must evaporate by her sprig.

- Vander

Luckers

All the lucky ones were the luckers.

They lucked out everything on the first bullet to the bullseye.

They didn’t need to shoulder slipping loads of slime,

Wait for hours for a turn to say or hear words they didn’t pine

Or try again at the hurting fourth or fifth go,

For not getting right at the indifference of a warped, backwards toll.

Luckers disappear completely at the right place and time

No hurry in a pickle

When meeting the pestilent drunk and deranged.

Luckers were fantastic, voicing chirps of agreeable notes

Saw laughter relatively close and bonus winnings come towed

While it all boils effortless to the watchers who could only blink and cry.

Lucky, lucky, lucky, four leaf clovers smoothed them over

Tamed their frazzled hair and mind, the auto dispenser kind.

Cinder blocks house their feet straightening up their backs

Over empire state they have stood to sponsor and compose.

Every year, lady luck made sure luckers’ birthdays never pass without love and attention

More than three dozens of handful wishes must show up as “handy” guide to their presents.

If I was unlucky, the luckers wouldn’t know

Why, it was unlucky to know what is unlucky

Luckers habituate the habit of lucky.

- Vander

A Humble Garden

If the world said “the best life” goes by premium biggies,

Big house, expensive car, designer clothes on clubby fancy

Stuffy price tags with enough zeroes on number backs,

Cosmetic faces negate plump bags of belly fat

Add cool pretentious vibe, bougie to a hashtag, prime time

I will tell you that a humble garden is all I need, just fine.

Fresh flowers, bushy green leaves and new buds to see,

Where warm sunshine hugs and welcomes the party of any

Lonely, tired, or anxious kinfolk for hours on end or the

Excited going to shout, share rare compliments making their day.

Sweet grandmas and granddads, brouhaha toddlers, gossip queens,

Wheelchair couples, camp mates, and queer may freely come and stay

Around lush, inviting landscapes kinder in sharing the good air anyway.

Conversations can go on repeat forever and might suddenly change but

Candid brotherly love passes the torch over to offer solace.

When the rain comes, there will be shelter and

Someone with a book might use that over another head.

The father of trees enjoys napping in the deep,

As the roots of trees are long!

So goodbye, lusty and materialistic fakers,

The odd lot of you may order greed and a cheat

For all the richness and creamy mania dreaming up a catch,

Lying full circle on an honest day and pacific night.

Would you EVER, ever laugh like a child again?

Liberated from your wanton wants and gains,

Hide and seek pang no dishonour champagne,

This humble garden is for humility’s fun group to play.

- Vander

The House That Had No Magic

There was a house that didn’t know magic.

Not that there was no magic but the inhabitants,

Nobody wanted any magic to think otherwise

And so there was none.

That imagination at all cost

Couldn’t have enraptured a magic of sorts,

To move mundane and petty goads

Glister goodwill from the heavens,

The magnificent pie impressing the plate.

First of all, there were no lights when it was dark in the house.

Only when they had to see for the benefit of seeing,

They put on the lights for awhile that returned to a

Darker than moonless pitch to startle in comfort.

For what else was there to see

Other than the rise of the electricity

Which must sting and be paid on every month’s due.

Let everywhere be dark and even the orange light,

That resembled the sun was taken away,

By the exhausting work daylight,

Rid tranquility, meditation and romance.

The dog sat through the black nights

Slumped and glum in lollygag

Among toys never so well played.

Second of all, there were no books anywhere.

Not in the living room, not in the study.

All the bedrooms, living and study only had things

“They must use”, “they must know”.

Anything else was “nice to know”,

Foremost “no need to know”.

And perhaps a “luxury of time to know”.

So the nuanced words of the ancients

Sending exotic knowledge messengers to inquests of

Inexorable thoughts troubling the future of mankind

Went unnoticed and slipped by untouched.

The house inhabitants were not privy,

Their minds eroded the magic of erudition.

Third of all, there was no such thing as art to be admired.

No one knew Van Gogh, Monet or Matisse

Of colours, shapes and objects invoking love, hate, fear or courage.

Artists or designers who made the bag or skirt they wore

Or the trickled down cheap wares they busily haggled for.

They said art was not practical,

Seldom an allure as it should the opposite

Wasting time, work, and effort uncooked.

None thought beauty surrounding them was almost always magic,

Unexpectedly done in the deed of the maker’s heart.

Fourth of all, there wasn’t any sound of music,

Not once echoing through the halls or rooms.

No one pumped to a catchy beat,

Banged and jumped to a bass drop

And swayed to the melancholy of sensual keys.

The speakers were left silent and musty

That restful birds had sung so beautifully unheard at the windows.

And if anyone tried to sing or rap or harmonise

They were tone and pitch deaf,

Mouths gone dry they rather not have tried.

No one clapped out loud or cried at the tune,

A tenor or lyrical pitied, magic blew and flew.

Last of all, the house did not have plants.

The evergreen from a pot of shrubs or two

Was nothing like flowers they didn’t strive to keep alive

To cover the concreteness and brutalism cascading the four walls,

Meeting dead ends to the four corners’ floors.

Flat without life, hiding away earth’s natural character

Dog and cat make better companion needs,

Why make with the hassle of climbing vines,

Watering intervals, inaccurate gardening guides.

Magic in a bloom out of cracks, they missed

New growth they hadn’t grew.

- Vander

The Bermuda Sky [A Horror Story] Part 3

“Just kill it already!!!!! Can’t you see it?” Out of a corner, someone was standing behind the monster, a shadowy figure holding a long scythe with effervescent, glowing stones. There was an inscription on the scythe. Weirdly, I knew the scythe was friendly. What was that? Who’s there? I felt the perpetual glow push me out of my drowning state, a gentle strength skipping the deadly precipice. Something or someone was waiting for me to do something. Who? The wispy arachnid had its separated hairy child wrap itself around my neck, raising me four floors up into the air, dangling and stuck. From above, I could vaguely see a roofless room that had yellow chalks at the chalkboard. A basketball. There were scribbles on the tables. It was time, and I was fading out.. what was the point in struggling. And bending to breathe. And growing up. Let go, the mountains are beyond deers.

“Are you kidding me?! KILLLL. IT. Are you REALLYY DUMB OR STUPID???” There was this tiny girl in bangs, mad kid racing in a few feet away from the creature, just breaking in to my death scene, rude impudence fueling the all-knowing to taunt and batter by shouting. Worst, not the least helping. Again, reminding me why bold caffeinated Emma Chamberlain social media chatterboxes had produced daredevil good-for-nothings chowing down breakfast eggs and hash from their mother’s pan. JUST as I was about to die and nearing brain dead to do anything. Tight at the neck already. What the fuck! The monster was clamping the daylights out of me, not affected by the little bitch. Big monster didn’t even see or recognised that there was another annoying midget, conveniently prepared for succulent monster grub.

The glow was warming up to me now. There was a kind of rousing wickedness coming forth from inside my head. My right hand unbelievably started moving on its own, fighting the chokehold, the internal strength impervious and masculine, twisting and gorging out from the squeeze. The aggressive reflex shifted the tipping balance to an active influence and was answering fear in return. A thrust of wind, icy with a force and carrying a flow from a source within my right palm, blew and tore wide open the chest of the beast, grabbing the giant beating heart and bursting its core through the grip of my hand. From the chilly blast, flesh deformed till all the blood insides spilled out, dripping on the broken tiles. Complete, like I had done the act before, the confidence from a prior knowing. The heat inside me sent out clear signs again gesturing that I should have done so, and not fail cower away to the toilet hole I wanted to mark as my grave.

I fell to the ground first, one leg hitting a cement beam, letting out a scream and recoiling into a fetus. Gasping away, I saw my brother collapsed beside me. He had fainted, and he saw the whole deal of monster and my hand killing it. I brought my hand up to my mouth, not touching, merely plain searching for the innermost soul to gather the course of my hand. What happened? I’ve done something I didn’t think of doing. But it was familiar and sure by the hand. Am I an Avenger now? My knees felt rather jelly, and it was despicable to be an Avenger. I might be evil, just as I’ve felt myself wanting evil earlier. I burrowed out the throbbing heart, not even half wincing.

I managed on my feet, and looked around. That crazy kid, about 10 I believe, stood in front of my brother, a meter ahead. Her eyes were scanning and patronising. Leaping inwards, she sat on one of the fallen broken sinks, her cherubic cheeks got up close to mine, smelling of sandalwood. “Is this your first?” she began her inspection of my physique.

“What are you talking about??” I yelled back, alarmed at the girl, pain shooting upwards at the leg. Finding bruises and cuts amid the possible fractured ankle on my starving, heavily sleep-deprived body throws daunting tolerance and niceties out of the window. Snorting, she let out a sigh to confirm her disappointment, mouthing the words unwaveringly. “You’re a Seer Actinium. YOU ARE supposed to be able to kill hoards of these Numens. They are once humans though.” She dipped her finger into a blood puddle, wiped the finger with her handkerchief and continued.

“Some humans turned to Numens, some didn’t when Bermuda came. Some like you, became a Seer and had powers. Mortimer sent me. You’re a level 9 and we don’t see them often. We’ll be seeing you soon. You will be needing us.” She took a piece of mirror shard, going around in a slow, careful examination of her face at her reflection, absorbing her appearance upon angles, fair that nothing fazed her and bored she had to find ways to amuse herself.

I had to ask because this sounded now a ridiculous conspiracy. “Are you saying that I’m the Avenger now and the monster, the monster that I’ve just killed is called a Numen? Numen used to be normal people?” Sweat was still slick on my face and there was fresh blood on my clothes and across my body. “Uh, if you could say so, pretty much yeah. ” Little crazy girl was checking her scythe now, the stones had stopped radiating red, quietened to a black, the scythe inscription also an insipid grey. The heat I felt from the scythe had dispersed from back then, and it was just this petite girl extraordinarily holding up the adult, oversized weapon to her level. She tucked the scythe behind her back on a mount. I propped up my little brother against a knackered wall and felt my own tears brimming over Ken’s pale face. He became lighter and was now bone thin where he used to be a little overweight. Mom and Dad used to tell him to run laps outside instead of playing computer games and snacking on chips.

“Oh. I’m just like you but I have a scythe, and I’m only the keeper.” She retorted back, sardonic to affirm the importance of doing one’s job as the whatever slayer, and to imply I only had one job to do right. “Why do you know nothing at all? You don’t even know how to land.” The insult revealed, insinuating a response. Ken did not wake. He was lifeless, but breathing I could tell. He might need proper treatment and help. “Fuck, how old are you? You seem to know a lot of things. Are you from an organisation? Do you have any medicine or know first aid or a doctor?” I started crying and hollering out in panic, murmuring too, and shaking. “Please, my brother might be dying.” Breathe, I had to. Think, think, think. What, I was so enraged, at the girl’s lack of emotional regard, knowing we were both hurt and Ken might be seriously hurt.

“He’ll be fine. Just leave him be. You’ll need to treat his wounds though.” Scythe girl lashed out impatiently, her pitch higher than it was. What’s with her?

“Here, give him this.” She threw over an envelope reluctantly and I bent forward to pick it up, opening it to see that there were a bunch of dried brown leaves. “They are healing leaves, you will make him eat.” She was walking away from us. “You don’t need water for hours when he has taken the leaves….”, Then all at once her presence was diminishing from the corporeal in a turbulent whirlwind, dissolving her talk and babyfaced features along with her scythe till it was out of sight. What remained was a light breeze. There was the sound of her scythe with the bowed, irregular contours hitting on the cement spot where she left.

I had a lot to process. I stared at the toilet divider, now already damaged and exposed, for awhile. I stared at my hands for that moment of truth again. A long while, and nothing. I waited. I rummaged my bag and did the bandages for our injuries, which fortunately did not require surgery or emergency aid. There was some water at the sink so I did my best to clean us up, wobbly limping on the side. I did have to walk slower than usual since my ankle twisted. There were several neck bruises and small cuts on my arms and Ken’s but they were minor.

An hour later, I heard Ken stirred and he had kicked against a hose getting up. I ran over to check on him and he hugged me in relief, both of us in pain, wildly afraid and in tears again. Jitterbug, I stuffed the healing leaves into Ken’s mouth, forcibly had him swallow it down which he did. I utter to him in that sweet tone Mom had always, deliberating the new might. “Ken, I’m a Seer. Watch me.”

To be continued.

- Vander

The Bermuda Sky [A Horror Story] Part 2

Read Part 1 here.

“You sure there ain’t anything or anyone in the building?” Ken warned, looking on suspiciously with his sweat dripping from his head. We walked and ran for miles before finding this school, a possible safe place now decrepit and dreadful against a familiar backdrop. Walls still standing up and strong, roof from the front looks fine although yet to be examined. It’s the school that we pass always, on the way home from the Jupiter mall in Mom’s car and on our bikes. Signboard missing, but sure about the Maple International School with the fancy courts that Mom would say on repeat, school for the rich children and their mollycoddling maids. Our 23rd day alive since Bermuda happened, vile giant creatures had arrived and took the towns, animals, families, my parents.. everything sped by fast and gone. We don’t know the nature of these lifeforms, their actual names or where they came from, at least the both of us. All the TVs and radios had wires fried when the circle moon broke into a triangle, its center still moon-like but different and diabolical this time. The neighbour who died saving us a meal and a shelter on our 10th day, only said it was the Bermuda calling out monsters. There must be an explanation somehow on Bermuda. What martian sick shit Bermuda could tear us all apart?

Ken and I saw them black wispy figures with smoky dark hands taking away Mom and Dad when we ran for cover and our fearless and protective parents had thrown us into the sewers, so we were able to make it out. How they died flabbergasted, not gonna say further, or think about it anymore, or overthink and weep silly again. Ken in denial blamed Christ, cried 2 weeks in and still had more grief to settle for grievance. Seeing as I was older, I had to be collected, firm and decisive to act on behalf of us. There’s no way we could ever mend the loss. Taking care of my messy brother after all that we’ve been through is the code I live for now. I’ve kicked his bullies and jailed their gangs before, but this IS the ultimate. Surviving the future ahead without adults, little food, sleeping in turns, the stench, clueless. We didn’t have enough on us on several occasions so both of us passed out walking and hiding and then woke up walking again, a long shot away from home.

“We have to enter, to get food. There might be showers working too.” I told Ken while pushing away barricades blocking the institution’s front porch, some broken and some not, but all the same stained in blood. “We could go in, might be a fortress.” The school’s perimeter fences had a part of it toppled over for us to sneak in so we just needed to push through the main entry where the lock broke but wouldn’t open.

Something was holding those double doors fast behind, so we took a severed section of a barricade and pushed against it. The attempt failed and the door wouldn’t budge. “Go harder and faster, it might work.” Ken murmured, hurrying to grab another long, heavy clunk of steel. Nodding, I held up both hands on the other end to support it at the back. “OK, let’s push it a few times, it might give”. For two kids not even 18 years of age I admit, we were clumsy teens, uncoordinated and cared far less. After the 5th try, our clonk worked a wonder and one door collapsed behind its entrance, the other still standing but splintered. We backed away, puffs of dust and dirt hazing at a distance till we could see the opening at the doorway, clear to get in. Funny, we dashed in like kids. It was a decent sized building, larger than the houses we found earlier, and it had many rooms. Classrooms.

“Hey, should we seal the entry?” I called out to Ken. “Oh yeah, good idea.” Then he took the hammer and some nails we had in our bag (we were lucky to have found them in the home we sought refuge before we got here days ago, packed them in our large backpacks meant for backpacking). Ken rummaged a tiny pouch for the nails, pulled the hammer out, taking out pieces of broken wood he found and lifted them to board it up nicely.

I ran fast to the canteen, Ken ploddingly trailed behind. Pulling the knob and going in, my consciousness sank. I stood wobbly, shaken by damages I couldn’t believe. Dining tables were wrecked, lights fell onto severed floor tiles with pieces of glass shattered all over the left of its side entrance. The ceiling seemed to be ripped at its edges apart, leaving daylight casted over the floors below. I swung open the kitchen doors and the refrigerator was lying horizontal over broken tiles and a pile of debris. “Supplies” was written on one inner door I found. Going through it had bags of flour on a metal shelf. One bag had spilled out its contents over the floor with dirt and slime.

“Don’t touch that opened one”. My brother cautioned to me. “Contaminated yes?” I dragged the spilled flour bag over to one corner. Then I found something else there. At first, I didn’t think it was what it was, when I saw a torn box that had a sticker flipped upside down with handwritten random numbers on it. Didn’t seem like it had anything within. Still, any box could mean stuff we could use, so why not? I flung the box wide open and saw another smaller box in it. That was a box containing 12 smaller packs of Chocolate biscuits, 3 in a pack. 12! Expires a year later, which must be new. Now this was more practical than flour, we might not have water and salt to make bread or an edible. It should taste averagely good and weigh us down on the road.

I gestured over to Ken and pointed to the biscuit box. “Take these, not the flour. We don’t need extra baggage.” As though Ken could read my mind and knew what I was talking about, he rushed over to peek into the box. Right away, he slipped out a lopsided IKEA bag from his backpack and gathered the biscuits for us. I went ahead and pulled open the refrigerator door but it had nothing in it. We sighed together when our eyes met, empty and disheartened. There wasn’t anything else handy we could find there, after all the food cabinets and storage shelves have been checked. Ken popped into a classroom and got out, shaking his head. He did that for the classroom next door too.

Most of the stuff we saw and went through stunk pretty bad, mixed together with our terrible body odour craving to be treated. Not wanting to waste further time, we made our way to the toilets at the hallway and found ourselves a shower stall that still had some clean water coming through, though no heating. The flow of water stopped almost as soon as we had finished washing up, Ken fully dressed while tying his shoelaces. An immediate thump followed, quaking the floors and there was a loud crash coming from the hallway.

“OMG quuick! Get dressed!! Something’s coming!” Ken cried out, grabbing all our things. Loud, accelerated thuds from what seem like colossal footsteps sent shockwaves through the air and our actions hastened with the approach. My head was spinning. Putting on my pants, and reaching for the shirt, a blast came through, ripping walls and toilet bowls and the impact flew us to the back of the room. We huddled against each other, bracing silent and petrified. Tears were flooding away our senses and our bodies were at this moment pinned down by nerves. The black wispy ones appeared, this time raging and bigger than we saw, a monstrous arachnid organism scuttling its limps, rapid prods striking massive holes into the grounds of the toilet, smaller holes around caving in. We clung to the remaining walls, rolling about opposite directions to get away but it was lurching at us. The hairy legs compress a beckoning of dark lingering wisps, separating itself from parent to child, sandy string curling into and wrapping taut around our necks. The choke was impetuous and intense. All struggling and screaming had dissolved into a mute, my windpipe about to explode, body turning blue. I knew I was dying, my brother too.

I love you Ken.. An illuminating bright flash, keen to a sun ray exposure blurred my vision and, a second shot back to reality brought it closer to a sight like it was calling out to me. There I saw the pounding heart of the Bermuda beast.

To be continued.

- Vander

Mind Your Time

Time to man swirls and goes in a turbine,

Never waiting for a change of mind.

Some only want to get out in the nick of time,

Sick of an early win, a late loss or what to choose regime

Picks the go easy that could cheat the times

Will all their fleeting joys just slip by?

Air of wind it allows nonchalance to be spun,

Deciding the next spin it could succumb.

If the breaking dawn passes into perennial dusk

Sooner than the lightning could charge its bolt

Does the life lay wasted and be left unknown?

What is the busy hour when it had gone and passed?

The intention and feeling of a memory,

The touch of a heart and kindly a thought flickers,

How bodies yours and others moved along in neat lines

On pavements and train platforms a recurring clockwork.

The smells of tangerine sweetened ahead spring

Of hinting perfumes drifting to a part of a dress.

The taste of soft bread pillowing your teeth on the morning bite

Fills you in on evoking moments not prone to the rush cart.

Go ahead to take it all in,

Things in the hours and minutes of serendipity

Things in the days and weeks you power through

Things that only you will know and forestall better

When regret changed its course and must show

The importance you could only get in time,

Mostly one at a time.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander or Vania (me). Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe juices and in no relation to any actual entities).

Durian Durian Durian

A spike of taste not quite the intimidation

Bulbous, silky fillings of yellow gave the prickle a name

Smells aside, you might renounce its fame

Don’t forget to get the best bargain.

Boxed and wrapped around in neat white styrofoam

Or fresh from chopped shells and pulled apart pockets

Enjoy the fullness and tenderness in the fruit you shall

Share quickly or savour only for yourself!

- Vander

Disclaimer: Durians are taken at this enchanted stall that sells them. Eat in moderation, otherwise get sore throat.

Rumourmonger

Boggled by little imagination,

Rumourmongers are smaller selves

Indulging in tacky hearsay.

A flash and flutter delighted by trivial fables

This villager sings bygone cantabiles 

Older than the hill his hut sits on to rest.

Most days dirt climbs up his shoes

Not bothering to clean,

He spits on the narrowing which harrows

A TV kicked into a dam. 

That he finds the living rather damned,

Strange electricity good for shorting sights

Startling news! He savours a sanctimonious shame

Pinning someone for the bigger fussed blame. 

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe juices and in no relation to any actual entities).

Hated, wherever she went

Madison was hated her whole life.

Younger, bullies shoved her into corners.

Older, people she knew forced her to quit her ways 

Because of how she looked straight at the world 

A brave wit weirdo 

Tearing away faux kindness and needless fairness.

Bludgeoning wobbling layers of manned society 

That people were told never to be like this.

And by her fearless just being free

Threw thousand daggers at one’s standing.

Often a blow, she was brutal at talk and act and everything else

Foraging with quick-feet morals and clarity.

Oh my, they dreadfully despised her 

Since she didn’t care about what so many others think.

They said goblins already told her to shut it or vanish!

Little did they know how maiming hurt she was.

Poor Madison wept the well, overflowing it till

The cobblestone walls collapsed,

Setting her water out running,

Desperately for help.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe juices and in no relation to any actual entities).

Redundant

If I was not needed, where would I belong?

If they needed me at first, why would they not need me now?

If it was their mistake to not see, why would it be my mistake?

I wish I was special, not redundant.

I wish they would put away others instead

So I could be left out of misery.

If I was born to be a nobody,

Is it too much to be wanted as a good human?

Why would men help some women and not other women?

Why do old people prefer old people for a chat?

Why are people selfish because of what they love or hate?

Why are people suffering for strangers they only just met?

Cold and gone,

I come and go in the minds of them.

Bye again, omitted as air.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe juices and in no relation to any actual entities).

The Spirit Twin Swords

Once, there was a girl with the spirit of twin swords. 

One sword of her soul burnt with the flame of a venomous vitriol, 

A volcano that pushed fear down the hills. 

The other sword also hidden in her,

Sent waters crashing through breached enclaves

Relieving the hottest, driest earth.

Whether flooding or burning was her nature,

It was not known further until 

She could heal while killing, reducing to ashes

Armies and troops that stood in her way at battle

Which she had won and still won again,

With or without the twin swords on her hands. 

It was as if all the Gods came in to the right rescue,

When girl appeared before the hundred weak ones 

Having threatened knives nicked at their necks.

On the wish of a destitute, she is called out to

The spirit swords carefree to enter into a vicious force with her.

Where fiery aggression can be smothered by a wet douse

As she swung both blades

Bitter, battered clanks against shields of the enemy front. 

None of the villagers believed she can ever be defeated,

And placed a lasting belief she is the destiny defender of the lands. 

As time goes by more wars broke, were fought and came victorious,

But Girl grew weaker each day.

Both swords were slowly cutting away into her,

Stabbing into her bones and bleeding her veins,

But she had the strength to carry out a will to succeed. 

And so one night, the dragon of the twin swords spoke to her in her sleep.

There was the third sword presented and raised at her to receive, 

This one capable of carrying the weight of both swords

And puts all pain into faith, and cruelty into compassion.

So now the spirit of the twin grew larger than before,

Girl no longer had to suffer anymore because the third sword

Was the lost love and grace that the twin wanted to restore.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander, or Vania (me). Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

A Love Letter To Boss

Halsey, a sweet, intelligent girl had a job at a firm.

Doing her best always, she tried to prove herself as an upcoming success.

Even when alone, she worked past office hours,

Loving everything she did no matter how hard

Failure and criticisms stole her smile on the longest day.

One day, there was something Halsey could no longer forget.

She had loved her boss, so deeply so that,

It was more than fleeting love at first sight.

The boss on the oafish dictatorship voice seem

At times a scum, at times a soul so divine that sees and knows

Halsey not as a bird trapped, but an infinite talented star

That took all the sun, rain, clouds and thunder into her hold.

Three hour pep talks often he gave,

Were in the spirit to get off the dime, better than unsaid.

But there it is, this love wind blew in from the windowless,

Anticipating each call from this name madly in office.

Her heart had left elsewhere, already taken.

But Departure told this good girl to call it all in.

Goodbye, Mr. Boss, I had loved you too much so.

Remembering all the things he had told her,

Thinking if any kisses had any meaning,

Words that cared and cared not,

Never even a spark of an affair.

They were not meant to be, he a father, a husband,

A millionaire owner player feeding but never offering affection.

This time, a final glance at his distant frame,

Was all she could get, so by the last Friday,

Halsey packed up and left,

Mind and body would rather get the sack.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

Cold And Grey

Afternoon at the exit of a train station,

Creo, a boy of 13 years, rummaged his pocket. He had no wallet.

“5 cents is all I have today. 5 cents....”

Blank space in his head, he knew it over and over again.

Because he was so poor, unintelligent and forgotten by parents,

He did not have enough to eat, play or be schooled.

Bored, stiffed to the stale and near grey-skinned,

A mere glance at himself made him cold.

So cold where wanting to scream and cry only brought pain.

He sat at the steps near the ticket counter,

Looking at little boys and girls disgusted at him,

Fingers raised at him with teasing ridicule,

Boy did not even know how to hide.

Then a butterfly fluttered and plunged at him,

Its wings had broke, where one of it had snapped.

So he said out, filling his lungs with air, “Are we going to be ok?”

Then the butterfly twitched again so

He picked it up and left it in a safe little mesh box he found.

It was the box that belonged to Therus, an older man.

Therus watched Creo from afar,

Curious to him taking up his box and then

His heart stung a broken note with the boy’s kindness.

Boy had protected the butterfly nearing its end.

Knowing this young one had nothing on him, nothing to say,

But was the light above himself.

He was convinced when it was cold and grey,

There would not be a silver lining

When flickering quietly it must be

A rekindling heart, lighting its last embers.

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).

A Thousand Cuts

Wounds open, blood splats across the floor as if water

As though the body was now marshmallow and

Cuts were only softened to pain, mellow must not be felt.

How does it feel when you’ve worked so hard,

Gave it all and everything else

But failed at your job.

In a day’s letter for you to sign by office time,

You had to verify your failure with the heart

Nipped into a thousand cuts by your signature hand.

Binding it right into a buried shame.

So I went home, gashed my fingers open with scissors,

Fingers that held that mouse with that click a submit.

Where blood ran as though forever

Leaking onto anywhere it could land.

And then there it was, those open wounds

That could only wait for time not to repeat again.

Months away from August, countdown to resignation.

1, 2, 3, cold faces of corporate protocol will rework

Rewire old clocks with the bureau of compliance.

What is competence?

A sad place to be like everybody else,

To please a straight serve to get approved.

I look at the red under the skin which oozes on pressure,

Pressure which is set to burst the emergency bags of O+ and bad emails.

Is this the heyday death by a thousand cuts?

Adhere work for improvement,

To improve on superb work, for what?

- Vander

Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities).