The Second to Last Day of 2011

Today is December 30th 2011, the second to last day of the year. I still have an unfinished English project to complete, and I sincerely hope I won’t let it drag on into the new year (come on! I’m in high school now!)

I published a new short story, boringly titled Letter from a Witness, don’t be fooled, the story may be quite profound despite the perhaps unprofound title. Read it for yourself and decide!

During the last few months I’ve re-thought the long and epic (and quite abandoned) novel Guacamolia I had planned to write (I was two chapters into it before I realized the story wasn’t good enough, in my perspective), now I’ve come up with this new synopsis with old ideas and I’m building upon it (the title “Guacamolia” shall stay). If anyone’s interested to know what the new story will look like, give me a comment and I’ll post the new plans for Guacamolia I have in mind and on Word document. 😉

Lastly not least, I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and are looking forward to a happy new year. I myself am looking forward to watching several new movies my dad bought, among them “Die Hard”.

F.G.

Published in: on 2011/12/30 at 9:46 PM  Leave a Comment  

What is it with my English Teacher?

It’s the second to last day before exams, and I’ve gotten my short story which had been submitted for the short story unit, A Vengeance Tragedy back! And right from the moment I got the papers with the rubric attached I somehow knew I screwed up again, well not technically, I only screwed up according to my much loathed English teacher.

My average percentage is a jaw-droppping 78%, I know, I know, it’s a B+, but seriously, I had higher expectations. My English teacher disliked the story, on the grounds that it was written like a joke, and was more than unbelievable (to her that is)). You’ve read it, so judge it for yourself.

I classmate of mine in another class got a whooping mark of 90%; pretty sweet. I read her story and it struck me as kind of recycled material, but nevertheless well written and a powerful piece of work (pardon me for the paradox). This very excellent student complained about the 90% her teacher gave her, believing it not good enough. I didn’t tell her what I had gotten, because she didn’t care anyways, I’m rather sure nobody cared what mark I got; saves me the breathes.

Anyway, I was satisfied with my work on the short story, and my English teacher was not. Who had the final say, her of course. How do I feel? PISSED OFF, in capital letter that is. So much for the originality and creativity she demanded! Has she never heard of Franz Kafka?

This was, I believe, an unjust situation. What do I wish to do about it? Blow up with school and kill everyone with bombs…just kidding. I decided to revisit my less than well-written short story and tweak it a bit, since I’ve come up with a new premises to go with it, along with a new title, The Atom, hopefully this is an improved version more in tone with what my English teacher would accept. I did this only so I may be more satisfied with my short story, not to cater it towards an audience of misjudgment. That does not stop you from reading it, and decide for yourself if Fred here has any sound mind at all. Please go ahead and check out the renamed Page: The Atom.

F.G.

Published in: on 2011/12/13 at 9:48 PM  Comments (1)  

My English Teacher Has Renounced Her Promise!

My English teacher, whom I have began to loath since recently, has renounced her exception of my short story submitted for marking (Eternal Paradise of the Spotless Mind) on the grounds that it was too long (by one page double spaced). She offered me a choice to either cut the story by a page’s length (cut at least 400 words from the 1100 word story), which she said she shall help me on doing, or I could write another, shorter story.

As much a better deal it sounds to rework the current shorts story to fit the criteria for submission, I refused because I believe the story can not be cut any shorter without losing some of its “soul”, so instead I wrote a much shorter story titled A Vengeance Tragedy (not the clichéd revenge type story, I guarantee it), which you can read here on that title under pages.

What my English teacher had done was collect all of the short stories we in her class wrote and read then over, write a few suggestions or completely pan the story for a rewrite (the latter seemed much more common), and edit a bit of grammar here and there. When I got my story back (the first one I had submitted), there wasn’t a word of correction on there. She flatly told me it was too long and either she didn’t even look at it or she did and failed miserably to comprehend the meaning 0f that story and found no way to comment (if the latter scenario was true, I understand why she had to reject the story with an alternative reason; teachers must always be a step ahead of students).

All I can say is, I did my part, my English teacher likely did not, and I am very pissed off at her (maybe without good reason). I also hold a very pessimistic view of society too right now (maybe without a clearly defined reason), it may not aid the initiative required to be successful in life in this world, but it certainly feels pretty justified to be a cynic.

F.G.

Published in: on 2011/11/18 at 8:39 PM  Comments (2)  

Whoa, what year is it right now?

I’ve been so long gone from my blog I feel what I’ve written three, four months ago seemed like from ages ago. Did high school consume all of my time? Apparently. All of it? No, I was just listening to music to un-stress myself these dark days of 9th grade misery. Check out this amazing tune from an old movie:

Everything seems more hopeful when you’re listening to epic music, now, down to the point, I’ve written a new short story! Actually, I wrote it for English class (the short story unit, my favorite  unit in English of all time), and it exceeded the 500 word maximum limit by twice that amount, thankfully, my English teach decided to accept it. Fell free to read it right now, it’s titled Eternal Paradise of the Spotless Mind, which I ripped off from another movie I watched.

YES! Now I won’t have to feel terrible for abandoning my blog!

F.G.

 

 

Published in: on 2011/11/15 at 1:10 AM  Leave a Comment  

Valkiri – Order of the Cygnus Chapter 2

By Malvoyant Berserker

Apologies to Kadmos Dhinawan (Sven Vlad changed his name) and readers who thought I’ve shut down for good, sorry.

Ruth raised her head above ground level and glanced around with the slightest tilt to her neck, to check whether it’s broken, and then proceeded to check the limbs on the rest of her body, testing each with a tiny jolt, and finding that she was not injured in any serious way, she used her arms to propel her into a sitting position, and looked around again. Miraculously, she was still in the cockpit of the totaled plane, the windshield of the plane now had a giant hole in it, oh yeah right, that’s where the guy flew out, Ruth thought, and stood up shakily. She left the cockpit and went along the plane aisle to the light to where the plane had torn in half so she could get off. Ruth did not, or tried not to, look at the remains of the fellow first-class passengers some still in their seats, some slumped in the aisle, she stepped over these in the aisle and moved on. A smell of fuel was still in the air, burnt, and dust particles were airborne in the trillions, Ruth found this very annoying. Then something moved behind her and Ruth turned her head around too quickly, sprained it, said ‘ouches’, and saw Ross Layton in the dusty blazer that was once shiny, following her from behind, and somehow still had a smile on his face.

“Some crash that was, wasn’t it?” Ross said to Ruth, and all the dead passengers around them, beaming.

“You got that right.” Ruth massaged her sprained neck that was once perfectly fine. “And I assume you’re happy about it, you look like you just got off the best roller coaster of your life.” Ruth found herself joking even though she wasn’t in the mood to joke.

“Oh yeah, it’s one of the best crash I’ve had in my life, but not the best. I was thrown off a patrol helicopter once in Afghanistan, while I was enlisted there. The helicopter was under fire from some machine-gunner and it was shaking like crazy, I got thrown out the butt and landed on top of some mountain, so had to shoot my way to the nearest American outpost with a fractured leg, I made it. You know, when they backtracked to where I landed on the mountain, they did a body count of all the insurgents I killed on my way to the base and it was fifty-nine in total, apparently I had wiped out all the insurgents hiding on that mountain in one night what an entire battalion couldn’t do in five months! For that act I got made a decorated soldier.” Ross watched ‘Lions For Lambs’ three days before he got on the plane, and the memory of the movie where two guys got thrown off a helicopter in Afghanistan was still fresh in his memory, Ross wished he had a tape-recorder.

“…and that was your best crash experience ever?” Ruth could not find the right words to describe her thought on Ross’s story. She had never heard anything so outlandish, and her dad Abrahem did know a lot of very outlandish Zulu legends. “I’m not surprised you’re bald then.” Ruth had to say that.

“Oh yeah, I see you’ve noticed.” Ross patted his dusty bald head, “Take a guess, how old am I?”

“You’re…hey, what’s the point you’re trying to make here? We just went through with a plane crash and you’re just standing there? You’re not affected” Ruth was getting back on track with her common sense, and Ross was not helping.

“Oh yeah I am, of course I am!” Ross cheerfully said, “Like I’ve said, one of the best crashes I’ve had…”

“Will you shut up for a moment here?” Ruth screamed. “I’m trying to think!”

Ross suddenly lost his smile and his cheerful expression; it looked to Ruth as if he just switched personalities, is he a schizophrenic? Ruth thought, eyeing Ross in a searching way. “I guess I should tell you something then…” Ross said very sincerely.

“Will you hold on to it for now and talk later, we got a situation here.” Ruth replied.

“If I talk later, I might lie…unless of course you want to hear more of my epic lies, I guarantee they even surprise me sometimes, they’re just so…” Ross got cut off.

“Wait, wait, wait a minute, slow down, what did you just say?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to hear another one of my epic lies, they’re…” Ross got cut off again.

“No, not that, what you said before that, what you were saying about something you might lie or something?”

“Oh! That part! I see, well you see, I’m a certified A-standard pathological liar, I can lie without conscience. Basically, I was born a diagnosed liar.” Ross had explained this fact to many people before, but most of the time, they thought he was lying again.

“Oh…so you didn’t kill fifty-nine insurgents in Afghanistan, am I correct to say so?”

“I was lying.”

“And you made that up about falling off a helicopter and landing on a mountain.”

“I was telling one of my epic lies, I admit that”

“You’re not a decorated soldier.”

“That too was a lie.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been to Afghanistan.”

“I’ve never been in the army either.”

“That’s just great, for a moment there I though you were help on the way.” Ruth flung her balled fists in the air.

“I forgot something in the cockpit.” Ross suddenly exclaimed and rushed back to the head of the plane, he emerged later carrying Anna in his arms. Unlike Arnold Schwarzenegger, Ross didn’t have muscles of steel; he was struggling to not drop Anna, who was unconscious with a clot of dried blood on her forehead. Ross did not succeed in waking her up when he knocked Anna’s head against a still upright seat as he made his way down the aisle over some dead passengers to Ruth.

“She’s heavy as a plasma screen!” Ross exclaimed.

“This is not good.” Ruth said when she saw the blood clot on Anna’s forehead. Together, they made their way to the severed edge of the plane. The drop to the desert ground below was about two feet, but Ruth sprained her ankle jumping.

To be Continued (Shortly)

And a happy summer vacationing to all!

Published in: on 2011/07/08 at 11:18 PM  Leave a Comment  

1000 +

Every blogger needs to post a THANK YOU when they reach 1000 on the hit counter, so I did mine.

😀 😀 😀 !!!THANK YOU!!! Everybody! 😀 😀 😀

Now, I gotta get back to work! A blogger don’t deserve 1000 hits if the blogger doesn’t produce WORK.

Malvoyant Berserker

Published in: on 2011/06/27 at 11:25 PM  Leave a Comment  

Hello? Anybody there?

Wow, this is dull season on the blog, I must say! None of us post ever so often anymore (the writers at Blogspot.com are much more active), I still find myself going to check our blogs to read stuff. Where’s the motivation when you need it? I even made up a poem about it on the spot: 

>motivation is like a solar-powered calculator…my solar-powered calculator.

>my solar powered calculator…is a peculiar calculator,

>it has no “off” button…it doesn’t need one…

>it goes off on its own!

>it needs to be coaxed to wake up…I slam it on the table to wake it up,

>I slam it and slam it…fearing I’m going to break it.

>and finally…my solar-powered calculator woke up from its dozing sleep…

>like motivation did, an hour ago…

I finally finished Chapter 2 of Guacamolia! You know, I’m so obsessed with producing what I hope to be quality material that I find it hard to produce them! Thanks to motivation then! And thanks to all of you! 😉

Published in: on 2011/06/15 at 11:51 PM  Comments (6)  

Guacamolia Chapter 2 “Complete”

For those of you who have yet to read chapter 1 of Guacamolia, scroll down a bit and the fourth post is Guacamolia Chapter 1: Complete. I am terribly sorry for letting Guacamolia hang in the dry for so long.

Shroons

Shroons woke up to green stuff, very green stuff, and very close to his eyes the green stuff is almost a blur; as a matter of fact, his pointy nose is forked right into the green stuff. Shroons took in a whiff of air through his nose, but all he got is green stuff clogging up his nostrils; not a pleasant smell. So the green stuff is moss, Shroons thought to himself, he tested his limps, but they are limp; for now a bit, it looked like he has to breath through his mouth, which, fortunately, is not buried air-duct deep in green moss, and wait for his limps to re-circulate again for him to pull his nose out of the green moss. Shroons diverted his eyes to the sides and caught a glance at his surroundings, yes, his home-forest, towering green trees covering the sky with their towering branches, and that’s about it. Wait, how did I get out here? He thought to himself, then, shuffling the short-term memory storage space in his apple-sized brain (which takes up 75 percent of his head), he replayed the mayhem two days ago (he didn’t know that it happened two days ago, Shroons thought he passed out for a few hours, but that was after he came to the conclusion that he passed out at all); Weedy with his left arm severed, the colony bombed to shreds, fairy folks slaughtered, bloody green erupting through the air from the heads of fairy folks whose heads were smashed and blasted open like gourds, Shroons saw these rather terrible images flash through his mind at a rate of one hundred frames per second, then he came to the part where Aria, member of the Fairy High Council, slapped his face and gave him an important message to deliver, Shroons patted his bottom (where he always puts his delivery mail) to check that the leaf envelope is still there, and finding that he can move his arms, pulled his nose out of the green moss his nose had taken shelter in for the past two days. Shroons never read the mails he was supposed to deliver, he never found much interest in it, so he didn’t this time; what he is worried about is what happened to the colony…and his bowl of hyperactive pineapples especially, so finding that he can move his wings freely, Shroons tested his flight joints with a few circles in the air and flew in the direction of the colony; he knew where it is because once before he also crashed into the same tree he crashed into two days ago and landed in the same patch of moss, that time he had broken his nose, so he had to fly back to the colony to get some leaf-tissue and restart the delivery voyage, the route he takes now is the route he took that time; fairies have photographic memory, and always have film with it.

Mara

Mara woke up still fastened to her seat by her seatbelt, still intact. The setting of the plane had changed greatly, though. A wreck of the plane is what remains of the Airbus 340 she was on; the iron frame is not destroyed, but hangs out in the open and sunlight pours through a big gaping hole in the ceiling of the plane, as well as down the walkway, where the front half seem to have detached itself from the rest of the plane body. From the outside, the Airbus looks like the sunken Titanic; plane version. Mara unfastened her seatbelt and tried to stand up, she fell down and her head landed in someone’s lap, this unfortunate someone happened to have had her head beheaded by a large shard of metal earlier during crash course, and her upper-body is stained like an erupted volcano with bloody red blood cells and fragments of brains; where her head was beheaded, there is the top of this bloody volcano, the bloodiest part of this body, a stump with a piece of windpipe dangling to the side. Upon glancing at this horrendous sight, Mara screamed and although she could not stand a moment earlier, she tore away from this seat and ran full-speed up the aisle, tripping a few times, passing numerous bodies still logged in their seats; here was a man impaled through the chest by a golf club (this instrument should be in the cargo hold and not in economy class, but from this it can be inferred that the cargo hold is no longer effective, so leave it at that), there was a flight attendant with a broken neck somehow cramped into the baggage space by force of the crash or deliberately, and in the third row middle column is a child crushed by the lunch trolley, all this and many other horrible deaths littered the exposed innards of the downed wreck of the tail half of the plane, the outside saw a worse sight yet when Mara cleared the wreckage and stumbled down in the tall yellow grass-bed flattened by impact around the crash. The visible ground is littered with visible bodies and half-bodies of passengers tossed carelessly like rag-dolls among the tall grass, luggage, scattered belongings that no longer belong, and small blackened fires that still burn after the initial explosion. It is a small, but terrifying scene to come across in the mid of Guacamolia’s grassland savanna, where the slight wind rustle the thick blades of grass forming allusions of waves on the surface, and the sky shone bright blue with the sun up. Mara sat up and gazed in no particular direction for a while, her face showed no particular emotion other than the shock that comes out of being electrocuted by high voltage cable, her wandering gaze focused on two figures gradually; two slow-moving figures moving across the thicket grass in the general direction of the plane wreck. At first inspection she assumed they are survivors of the plane crash, she waved weakly; at this wave, the figures seem to quicken their pace towards the general direction of the plane wreck. At closer inspection, Mara observed that the figures (a slim male and a slightly shorter female, judged through the length of their strangely grey hair) which are now closer by ten feet that they appear to be dressed in tattered rags, and their faces pale in the sunlight; that is understandable, for when Mara looked at her own clothing, they are torn beyond recognition. At even closer inspection, she observed the moan that came now and then from the figures, and the way in which their arms are raised, like sleepwalkers under the influence of alcohol…and the male figure seem to be missing a part of his chest, where ribs show through a big ripped hole in his barely recognizable flannel shirt…and his flesh apparently…now something isn’t right there…

Erick and Erick’s Sister

It is almost impossible to render the thoughts of a zombie, it is almost impossible for an expert to render the thoughts of a zombie; because they have no thought, well, not really until the huge-mega-gigantic breakthrough that is going to come very, very soon, yes, except for that exception, it is impossible to translate or interpret the thoughts of a zombie. So I will tell what Erick and his sister did as to what they thought before they did it, because zombies act rather on instinct than logic, what they do is what they think, that’s the best way to put it. When Erick and his sister first saw Mara by the plane wreck, they thought it was another zombie, but I bet they didn’t really think that, they just started off in that direction, half-lurching and half-stumbling. When Mara got a clear picture of what the two figures she was looking at, it added horror to the terrified state she was already in, so she screamed a scream mostly reserved for werewolf cubs and ran. Erick raised his hand (with no particular meaning) and attempted what appeared to be a wave gesture, and shouted in Gibberish “Hallo there!” Mara did not understand Gibberish and kept running away from what she thought was the walking dead people from ‘movies’. Erick’s legs started a rather surprisingly rapid run after Mara, one leg after the other, it grew into a chase. “I don’t know I can do that…” Erick said contently (if it is possible that zombies have a happy emotion) “Try this sister!” Erick shouted to his sister, who followed his example and ran after him and Mara. “What’re we doing?” Erick’s sister asked Erick. “I don’t say,” and then he turned his head to Mara, who was fading off into the tall grass, and shouted again “hallo there!” only this time, Erick had said something he was unaware he did, he shouted ‘hallo there’ in English, and that made Mara stop abruptly to look back, puzzled. Seeing that Mara had slowed down, Erick shouted again “hallo there!’

There is no explanation as to why Erick shouted ‘hallo there’ in English (his native language) and not Gibberish, could it be possible that zombies have traces of themselves left from their previous life? Well, for Erick, that seemed to be the case, and he shouted it once more, also in English. This is the brink of a ‘scientific breakthrough’ right here, too bad there are no ‘scientists’ about.

Wolfe

Wolfe always hated squirrels who threw nuts at him, it seems impossible for squirrels not to dislike werewolves when they are in their wolf form, when werewolves are human, they look like humans and vampires, except a bit darker in shades; otherwise, werewolves are human, it’s just the lycanthrope and giant-wolf appearance that really ticks nature off. And werewolves pray every weekend to Brother Wolf to settle a deal with Mother Nature, so angry forest animals won’t throw nuts at them anymore; it disturbs the hunt.  

Wolfe always hated squirrels throwing nuts at him right after his triumph with the grey goose, but he never anticipated flying metal people throwing rounds of laser at him. The shooting stars he saw a moment ago flew in his direction, enlarged quickly into distinguishable people, and shot out beams of laser aimed at him, to him the lasers look like glowworms high on hyperactive pineapples, an accurate comparison. Wolfe ducked out of the was just in time for a yellow beam to only scorch his backside with a black burn mark, not a fatal injury, but a fatal injury to handsomeness; Wolfe let out an animalistic howl, climbed a tree with amazing speed and agility, and leaped mid-air onto the back of one of the flying metal people in the rear flank, he clawed on. The flying metal person tried in vain to shake Wolfe off, and it did perform some pretty amazing stunts in doing so; dropping in a torpedo dive after an initial climb to five hundred feet with Wolfe hanging on by the buttocks and torso, the flying metal person then did a seven-twenty degree spin and flew narrowly between two intersecting trees and vibrated like a hummingbird all the way during this flight, still Wolfe held on. Zig-zaging between enormous trees in the forest, through branches, over and under logs, in its effort to loosen Wolfe from its back, the flying metal person had long since lost his flank and sped aimlessly through a remote part of the forest. Wolfe’s teeth clattered from the vibration and his muscular arms tightened to rock from his effort of holding on to an object going a hundred-twenty kilometers per minute, risking a hard fall, Wolfe unlatched one hand from the torso of his about-to-be-claimed prize and punched at the thing in-between the legs, where the weak spot must be located. The flying metal person’s armor was hard as granite, and Wolfe’s punches only produced a small dent in the smooth and shiny surface of the thing. All this while, the flying metal person continued to attempt shaking Wolfe off, but with less effort, whether it was that it had almost given up or that it thought Wolfe’s single-grip was loosening, it never got to find out, because a granite-tipped crossbow arrow weighing twenty grams impaled its head, the thing slowed to a non-maneuvered glide and then a drop through the air of the all quiet forest, like an out-of-fuel Iron Man, and crash-landed at the base of a thousand-year old tree, static energy fizzling out in its skull, with Wolfe still hanging on with one arm. The shooter of the crossbow strolled over, and Wolfe lifted his head for a moment to acknowledge the shooter with an “Aww! Darn it cousin! Did you have to ruin this one for me?” and he collapsed with exhaustion.

Lezlie

Like I said not-enough-times, my guardians are hypocrites and over-protective freaks; the roof of our house exploded just a moment ago, and I re-opened my eyes to the ground all full of bits of stone and wood and the air thick with dust I can’t see a thing, I stood up and shakily took a few steps before being tackled to the ground again by pa…see what I mean? Pa picked me up and crashed through the stone wall of our house and ran in the direction of the forest (our house was on the edge of Shadytown, ma argued that it will be more dangerous in case of a werewolf attack but pa said we could get away into the woods easier if our house were at the fringe of the village, pa won over mum), he cleared the tree line in the next moment, with the explosions and strange, unnatural metallic sounds of projectiles being launched behind us, and continued sprinting at twenty kilometers a minute deeper into the forest, soon, the commotion was behind us and can be heard only faintly. Pa suddenly stopped at the base of a gigantic thousand-year old tree and tapped at its side, a door perfectly concealed within the bark popped open and he threw me inside, with a worried smile, he assured he, “Okay Lez, just stay here and be very, very quiet, I’ll go back and sort out the…whatever there is to sort out, remember stay here, I won’t be gone for long…”

“Pa, what’s going on?” I asked him, back against the hollow inside of the tree (pa must have dug this place for something along the lines of this event); I can see he didn’t want to answer my question, well, he never did.

“Er…can I tell you later when everything’s…less emergency?”

“There might not be a next…”

“Sorry Lez, gotta run, don’t want to miss a fight!” for a thousand and six hundred fifty-two year old vampire, that’s a childish thing to say to a child. I sighed. If I were ever to be a good, efficient narrator, I got to see the action, not sit in a hole like this while my childish pa and mum are off gleefully fighting another werewolf attack, where did those fur balls come up with the bombs anyway? 

K9jr

<<termination, termination, termination of hostile species in progress>>

Published in: on 2011/05/30 at 10:14 PM  Leave a Comment  

Valkiri: Order of the Cygnus – Chapter 1 “Complete”

Story by Sven Vladimir Rostovski, written by Malvoyant Berserker

“Mayday! Reginald 174 into 340…we’re going down! I repeat we are going down! Do you read me…we are going down! We are losing control over the plane…we are losing radio contact…both the pilot and the copilot…disabled! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! SOMEBODY HELP!”

These were the first words Rubin Salenkovitch yelled half panic-stricken into the plane’s radio microphone in an attempt to contact the Sydney Airport for help, he thought he was doing just that when cries of panic became audible through the shut cockpit doors; instead of radioing the airport for help, he had just radioed the entire plane that they are going to crash in the Outback, which they are soon going to.

Best to explain the situation beforehand, Rubin Salenkovitch is the firstborn son of a Russian fighter-pilot during the period of Russia occupation in Afghanistan, he learned how to fly an airplane at the age of fourteen, and won medals for some high stakes stunts no other pilots would dare try in flight competitions, still, Rubin’s dad decided that flying gymnastics is not the best profession for his son, so Rubin was sent to Australia to study an engineer degree. Rubin is taking Boeing 174 to Canada for sightseeing and then to Russia see his dad for the first time in four years; for now, that’s not likely going to happen.

It may by a coincidence coming across two pennies of the same year in one day; it’s a greater coincidence to find two pilots of the same plane unconscious on the same flight, but in the case of Boeing 174, it did. When Rubin sensed the first signs of some irregular flying motions of the plane, he got up from his seat in the economy class to go to the cockpit to investigate, something only a professional pilot such as himself would do. When the door labeled “AIRLINE EMPLOYEES ONLY” won’t budge, Rubin wrenched it open to find both pilots slumped in their seats, both were not breathing and still aren’t. The plane is falling from the sky nose pitched forward, heading through the lower atmosphere in a downward missile drop; white clouds rushed passed the cockpit windows as Rubin tries to manually maintain flight. It seems that a string of errors occurred simultaneously in the plane’s navigation system, as displayed on the small computer screen positioned in the center of the instrument panel, auto-pilot is flashing> just then, to be overlapped by another malfunction, this one has to do with the compass losing sight of south.

Rubin is about to kneel and do a prayer when a girl of about twenty years of age, blond hair, and casual clothing burst into the cockpit. This is Anna Hunt, emerging Australian actress nobody has head of…yet. She is flying to Canada to star in her first major role in a movie, first time playing lead, and a good part too about some female fighter-jet pilot in WWII, European theater; it’s a fictitious role, but that beats having to watch all the fuzzy black and white tapes of the actual “hero” to learn the part, she thought.

The plane had just dipped sharply and she heard someone in the economy class get up abruptly and ran to the bathroom, she heard this because the horrible retching sound that sick person back there had been making for the past hour is horrible, it sounds like someone is choking him, no surprise if someone actually does, she thought. Then the plane dipped (auto-pilot had just officially declared resignation on the computer screen in the cockpit, much to the dismay of Rubin who is trying to sort everything out) and the sick person back in economy puked, several cries and ewws were heard, the person apologized faintly and ran towards the bathroom, it sounded like he made it, thankfully! Anna was thinking this thought when she remembered the young man who ran past her towards the cockpit down her aisle, he looked slightly panicked then; Anna had always been able to tell people’s most secretive expressions anytime, a natural gift of hers. Anna thought if she should go check out what’s going on in the cockpit, another sudden dip made her sit back down again, and then came the announcement: “Reginald 174 into 340…we’re going down! I repeat we are going down! Do you read me…we are going down…” no need to hesitate, she got up and ran towards the door (and is it ajar? The cockpit door was never left ajar) labeled “AIRLINE EMPLOYEES ONLY”.

Anna burst through the cockpit door to find Rubin fighting and arguing with the control yoke, shouting “aw com’on! Up! Why won’t you move up?” clearly, the stubborn yoke won’t listen. A quick glance at the instrument told her that the transponder is busted. The altimeter, air-speed indicator, and computer are no better off; for starring in her part, Anna had to go through a quick flying lesson and learn to read all the controls, she remembered almost all of them. “What’s going on?” she asked, and then she saw the unconscious pilot and first officer.

“You’re a terrorist!”

“No I’m not!” Rubin shouted back, ‘I’m a pilot!’

“You don’t have the airline uniform!”

“I’m not…I mean…the plane’s going to crash!”

“Why do you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I care?”

“You’re sabotaging the plane aren’t you, you’re going to kill us all and kill yourself with us!” Anna finds herself arguing with a possibly dangerous person for the first time in her life, he has a slight Russian accent, almost indistinguishable but of course she picked it up; he wears a grey T-shirt with a surfing logo on it, and jeans, he looks to be about twenty-two years old, with golden brown hair cut short, like air cadet…he doesn’t look like a terrorist.

“I’m not a terrorist, I’m a professional pilot…I-I just came to investigate…”

“And you knocked the pilots unconscious!”

“I didn’t! I swear! They were already dubbed over in their seats when I arrived…dead I think, I didn’t hear heart beats…I came to the cockpit to investigate and I found them already like this…”

“Prove it you’re not a terrorist!”

Rubin may have expected to be in a disabled plane at least one time in his life, but he never expected to be in a disabled plane and being accused of being a terrorist at the same time, who is this crazy girl?

“Um…how? I don’t have a weapon on me I swear again.”

“Take out everything in your pockets! Lift your shirt up so I can take a look…and don’t move! I know karate!” Starring in CSI Crime Investigation once did help in this situation, Anna thought.

Suddenly, a grinning face popped up behind Anna and startled her so much she turned around and punched the man in the gut, karate style. Oh gosh, Rubin thought, she does know karate.

The man Anna karate punched in the gut is Ross Layton, twenty years old, pathological liar, politician, comedian, and bald as a watermelon. Ross is a very social guy, always talking with the person in the next seat on the plane, on the train, on the bus, on the taxi, one the bicycle (if it’s a two-person bicycle), and on every other type of multi-person transportation. All this makes Ross a perfect political candidate, except for his lying habit, which is born in him as his mom always said. Ross always admits it after he lies ten strings in a row.

The minute Ross sat down on his seat in business class; he had not stopped talking to the lady in the next seat, the moment she sat down on her seat.

“Hi there ma’am, how’s the day going?” that’s Ross.

“Oh hi, I’m doing fine, how are you?” The lady smiled at Ross as the conversation of her life was about to take place.

“Doing nicely thank you. I’m just kinda worried about the upcoming cyclone that heading our flight path, shame they’re still taking off, it’ll be hard to navigate through a storm of that extent I say, heard it was the storm of the century, wind speed gonna be…let’s see…I remember they said it was gonna reach 300 kilometers an hour, at the tail.”

The lady sat dumbstruck at Ross while he said all that, “Oh gosh! Where did you hear that from, the weather said it’s all sunny all day all the way to Canada, it didn’t mention any storm, not to mention a cyclone!”

“Oh, don’t believe in the weatherman don’t believe in the propaganda they feed you on that channel, I tell you, I have the most reliable source and it tells the truth and absolute truth, you wanna know a secret? It’s where I got this top-secret cyclone information…the secret service channel, it’s channel 1000, I know you don’t have that channel on your TV because it’s a special channel few people in the world has, it’s absolutely top-secret, top-secret to the toppest levels within our government, even few people in NATO has this channel, it reports all the stuff us citizens don’t know, like the next terrorist attack, UFO visiting to earth (yes, the government has that access) and all the government conspiracy and their plans; they control everything, they monitor everything we do with that channel, we can’t see them but they have that channel secretly installed in all our TVs, every one of us. We’re being watched every time we turn on our cable television. There’s a law in the system of justice, fine-print of course, that the discovery of that channel by any “citizen” is only punishable by death, there are no pensions and no alternatives, only death.”

The lady sat with her mouth hanging open fitting enough for an egg as Ross told on his unbelievable tale of channel 1000, that it was only the beginning.

Continued…

“We live in the world of 1984, Mis, George Orwell was never wrong, except instead of a controlled world with absolutely no freedom flat-out, this is a world disguised by the proclamation of freedom, this world is much more dangerous, because you don’t know when you might have done something unsuspecting and maybe completely innocent but that thing pissed off some high-ranking government official, and that pissed off government official will order your disposal and you’ll cease to exist and your friends and family won’t notice, because most often…the case is that they disappear with you.” Ross’s voice dropped to a whisper just below the volume a hummingbird makes in flight.

“How could this be, I mean this is…impossible…improbable…how’d you know all this? You couldn’t possibly be…telling the truth could you?” the lady stammered all this and more but Ross’s words are much more important for the purpose of entertainment, I shall skip right to it.

“Well Mis, I know this because I am the government’s number one wanted man around the world, I had been to nearly every city in the world to escape their agents, who are after me just one step behind, I can never stay in one place for more than forty-eight hours, too risky, they will stop at nothing to capture me because they are afraid I will reveal all their secrets, their existence, this central government’s, is the greatest cover-up secret that’s ever been a secret on this planet, so until I cease to exist or they cease to exist, neither me or them will sleep soundly for one night. As you should know, I sleep with one eye open to be more cautious so I hope you’re not disturbed if I take a nap with my eye open right next to you.”

“What-” the lady stammered only this one word before Ross cut her off again.

“I’m guessing you’re wondering how I stumbled upon this world-class secret? Well, I’ll tell you right now, three years ago on a sunny Friday afternoon, I ordered pizza for dinner, it was pepperoni as I recall with garlic dip. The pizza guy arrived at my doorstep at around five o clock I think, and I was hungry so I rushed to the door upon hearing the doorbell ring (I lived in a flat back then in Yorkshire Britain) and when I flung open the door who do I find there but the pizza guy slumped on the floor with his back riddled with bloody bullet holes, I ducked just in time for a rocket-bomb to zoom past me and out the window at the back of the flat and exploded, then I grabbed the pizza box from the dead pizza guy and ran for my life, I didn’t know how I made it to the train station and jumped on a train to Portsea but I did and my legs carried me all the way, so by then I was hungry as a wolf so I opened the pizza box still in my hand and what do I find in there? Anything but a pizza, it was a USB, just one lone USB in a pizza box, strange I wondered, I didn’t order a USB from the store. I ordered a pepperoni pizza! And I almost got blown to bits by some unknown assassin because of it, so I decided that the USB must be important to be worth killing a pizza guy for, and when I got to Portsea I got to the library and plugged the USB in there to check out what’s it about, what I found was utterly amazing, there it is, the code to logging into channel 1000, nothing else, just that code. And that’s how I learned everything, every dirty big secret the central government has kept from citizens of the world for so long. Eventually I memorized the code and now it’s engraved on my buttocks (I had Hannibal Lecter done it himself for me, quite a nice guy he was, until I found out he cooked a man’s torso for our stir-fry that night, but it was still delicious, he’s an amazing cook if you ever happen to visit him. Did I mention he was a tattoo artist? That’s why I went to him to get the code inscribed) so I can never lose it; the USB was destroyed in Paris anyways, after a fight against James Bond atop the Eiffel Tower(James was the government’s top agent). I never found out the whereabouts of that pizza guy who was killed at my doorstep that sunny Friday, he may have been an agent for the world resistance group, which I know exists, they sent the pizza guy to recruit me to their rebellion and I sworn loyalty to their good cause and I will not let them down!”

The woman sat in stunned silence beside Ross, they paid no attention to the violent swings and swooshes the plane is making and the altitude it’s loosing.

“Now, see the suspicious swings this plane is making?” Ross glanced forth and fro at the other passengers who are all looking quite concerned at the situation. “We’re heading into that cyclone, and you know what else? That cyclone is no ordinary cyclone; it was engineered by the government to take down this flight, because they know there’s a twenty percent chance I will be on it, and they struck goal (they have a knack for guessing correctly), so now they will make the cyclone will hit our flight-path full-scale and plunge this plane into the Pacific Ocean, that way we’ll all be eliminated, especially me, their number one wanted man in the world, they can say goodbye to me being a pain in the butt for the past three years and finally sleep soundly tonight. We’ll all perish and they won’t give a thought about it.”

The lady was a little near the danger of an emotional breakdown now and can no longer doubt Ross’s story even if she wanted to, Ross Layton is a very convincing man.

“What about my family? Gosh they’ll be devastated!” the lady sobbed, almost there.

“They’ll be informed of the crash that has taken place, the wreckage will never be found, the funeral will be head, and that’s the end of that.”

“NO! I don’t want to DIE!”

“Oh but you don’t have to Miss, because I can get me, and you, out of this plane and to safety, you don’t have to thank me, I’m just doing what a good Samaritan does, help people. I of course know the way out of this cyclone because I heard every single thing from channel 1000 and I know all the details behind it and how to get out of this. You, me, we’ll survive this! Now that I’ve told you all this, it’s time for me to reveal one last thing, I, Ross Layton, agent 0014 for the world resistance group against the government, recruit you, to fight for our cause. If you say yes, we’ll escape together, I shall contact my pal Che and tell him to pick us up to show you around our secret headquarters, then you shall learn our ways and become a resistance agent, also known as Agents of Secret Stuff, or A.S.S. for short. Your life will open to a life you can’t even dream of in your wildest dreams. Trust me.”

Without another word, the lady passenger next to Ross leaned over and kissed Ross square on the lips in a passionate kiss that would have shamed Ingrid Bergman. Then the plane lurched again and the radio came on: “Mayday! Reginald 174 into 340…we’re going down! I repeat we are going down! Do you read me…we are going down…” Ross winked at the lady as everyone began to panic, “What I tell you.” He said. Ross got up from his seat, swiftly smoothed his dress-shirt and tie, and said “wait here, Miss, I shall be right back from preparing for our great escape!”

Actually, Ross got up to go to the front-quarters bathroom, and investigate the source of that uncanny announcement in the meantime. He smiled for himself at the brilliant story he cooked up right on the spot and told the lady next to him, such a shame it’s all a big fat juicy lie, when he get back he shall tell the lady that it was all a lie and that he’s a pathological liar and that no cyclone will hit the plane anytime soon, maybe a strong current though. That’s when he noticed the cockpit door was open, he found it strange and strolled up the aisle to investigate, and upon noticing Anna Hunt and Rubin Salenkovitch arguing something along the lines of terrorism, cheerfully shouted a hello and got a punch in the gut (karate style) from Anna. Ross uttered “oof” and went down to the ground.

Continued

Meanwhile, Fredrick Stewart (the boy who rushed to the bathroom as Anna observed earlier on), seventeen years old, wears glasses, thin as a twig, was busy vomiting in the toilet at the back of the plane. Fred came toAustraliato study marine biology, but due to his allergy to “seaweed”, he was relieved of his studies and returned toCanada, on flight 174. Fred had taken anti motion-sickness pills, a whole bottle of them, before boarding Reginald 174 (also know as Nimrod airlines, after a new executive came on board), maybe that wasn’t such a great idea after all, but since Cassandra insisted, and since Fred rarely receives any advice of an insistence manner from a girl, he complied; and even now, vomiting his heart out, he still doesn’t regret it. It’s not that Fred had eaten any of the food that was served to the passengers thirty minutes ago, that would have made him sick even harder, Fred had always kept a strict diet of four servings of fruit or vegetables per day, meat and dairy thrice a week and grain products every other day; the well-being of Fred’s stomach depends upon this diet. No, Fred only took a bottle of anti motion-sickness pills, and that is the black goo retching out of his mouth in the bathroom right then, he never could have thought that a bottle of anti motion-sickness pills could cause so much disturbance to his stomach and produce so much vomit, probably it has to do with the plane shaking so hard, must have caught a draft, he thought weakly. Fred’s stomach had been prescribed 59 different medicines, and his body altogether had taken in 198 different medicines in his lifetime. Fred has infrequent asthma, motion sickness, and allergy to a tenth of the natural and artificial matter or objects in existence. He had contracted 39 diseases in his childhood years, 2 of them previously unknown to humans. If it weren’t for potatoes, Fred would have never survived beyond his infant years. There is one food that for unexplained reasons Fred can always eat without risk and often improves his physical health, and that is potatoes, brown, raw potatoes; so now, Fred always carries a few raw potatoes in his ever-present knapsack, already so full of books, pills (since Fred’s condition requires special medical assistance, he alone is allowed to bring drugs onto a plane), and vitamin water. The plane hurled on, Fred hurled on (not paying attention to the announcement accidentally made by Rubin from the cockpit), and outside on the panicking plane, three rows from the washroom, Ruth Antcliff is trying to take a nap.

Ruth Antcliff is a dark-skinned, tense eyed, quick minded mature looking girl 19 years of age, with an aroma of mystery always present around her. Today is a good day, she thought, a nice break from all the running and chasing she’s been doing for the past two months; it all started (but really began long before that) when her father, a respected Zulu chief, went missing without a trace, at the same time, an attempted assassination of an important South African government official, one crucial figure in foreign affairs with the United States, occurred. It wasn’t long before the South African police found out about the coincidental disappearance of Mr. Abrahem Antcliff, and thus pointed their fingers at his only daughter, Ruth Antcliff. What did those guys expect, it runs in the family? Ruth thought, she didn’t know about any of it until the police came to her door, and she had to break the jaws of two of them and steal their car to escape to the train station while being chased by a helicopter and twenty squad cars and having then to hide in a boxcar train to leave Johannesburg and then stowaway on a ship heading for Australia, what a thrill ride, an annoying thrill ride also. As a matter of fact, Ruth isn’t even a pure-blood Zulu, her mother which she never knew, was Polish. Those guys are such idiots, Ruth thought, for chasing her to the other half of the world and still at her tail.

Ruth paid no attention to the violent swinging and hurling downward movements of Reginald 174, she only tried to take a nap and enjoy the good flight to Canada where nobody will look for her, but the vibration and the sickening sounds of the kid vomiting in the bathroom three rows down kept her up, and she is slowly losing her nerve, if she had to use the small knife concealed in the pendant (shaped of a Zulu peace symbol) hanging around her neck just to make the kid shut up, she’s do it, and to give the pilots of this plane a piece of her mind, she’s also use it.

Then the kid in the bathroom gave an especially unpleasant wretch and Ruth couldn’t take it anymore, she got up from her seat, and was thrown back down again by a sudden violent tipping of the plane, that’s it! Then, an announcement came on that made everyone panic: “Mayday! Reginald 174 into 340…we’re going down! I repeat we are going down! Do you read me…we are going down…” Ruth got up abruptly from her seat, taking long strides down the aisle to the cockpit, finds the door ajar, and barged in finding Anna apologizing to Ross who is on the floor gasping and…laughing? Rubin looks lost in the middle of this mess, and even more lost upon seeing Ruth barging into the cockpit like this, but only Ruth sees the view of the plane on its crash course, the plane has broken free of the clouds, and is hurling towards the barren mountainous desert below, resolution of the ground is becoming alarmingly clear to the human eye, and that is not a good thing, at all.

Ienna Holsson knew the signs, the first unusual swing the plane produced told her everything, this plane is going to crash; of course, she didn’t yell that out, didn’t say anything to the young, quiet looking fellow seated next to her, who is reading a book on Australian plants, a botanist, she thought, they’d make a neat couple, she then thought, and reddening, she erased that thought. Being a magical healer in the world of average human beings isn’t easy; there are tons of things that can cause a magical healer to lose his or her secret identity, one key give-away is the color of the iris, healers have rainbow-colored iris, so they rarely look at anyone in the eyes, and if they do they’d have to go through the trouble of explaining a particular brand of contact lenses which they wear for fashion; a particular rainbow-colored brand of contact lenses. A magical healer and a botanist, far-fetched, but certainly intriguing, yes, they’d make a neat couple; Ienna’s thought returned to her, they’re both young and look like the same sort of people…in appearance anyways.

Back on the thought of the plane crash, she didn’t worry too much, healers can sense things before they occur, spoiler, yes, safer, also yes; she’d summon her magical shield the moment before impact, and she’s be out of harm’s way, as long as she can support her shield until the blow-up cease. She have it all planned out step by step, now the subject of her debate is whether she should save the fellow seated at the window seat, the one next to her.

The young fellow seated next to Ienna is Sven Morika, Australian aborigine, wildlife biologist and botanist (Ienna guessed close enough), 18 years of age a week ago. Sven considers it a fortune of luck to be seated next to this attractive girl on his first trip out of his native homeland; he’s heading for Canada, to continue his study on wildlife biology and adaptation, if only he can work up the nerve to talk to her, maybe she’d be interested in plants; the book he’s reading, maybe so but he can never be sure, Sven’s life of 18 years had always been riddled with uncertainty, and it looks like this day is not the day of the great shift, when his flower will blossom and he will open up to people, that day he will be sure of himself and never have the shadow of a doubt ever again, he’s sure of it. But this is not the day of the great shift. So Sven continued his reading, well aware of the unusual flight patterns Reginald 174 is making, but saying nothing about it.

“Mayday! Reginald 174 into 340…we’re going down! I repeat we are going down! Do you read me…we are going down! We are losing control over the plane…we are losing radio contact…both the pilot and the copilot…disabled! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! SOMEBODY HELP!” the announcement came out of the blues and both Sven and Ienna looked up towards the tiny circular speakers mounted overhead above their seats. Indeed control of the plane seems to be lost, for a few violent swings issued from the frame of the plane. “Oh.” This is the first word Sven said all flight.

“I guess they’re not keeping it a secret.” Ienna said to her self.

“Looks like it…WHAT SHOULD WE DO? OH GOSH, OH GOSH!” Sven had not been this scared since he was 6 years old, and he was separated from his parents; they were never heard from again. That time it was brief; they came in the night, there was screaming and struggling in the dark, then the screech of tires and the truck drove away leaving a dazzled Sven on the front doorstep, rocking back and forth until people from the local village found him next morning. It is doubtful whether Sven can survive a traumatizing experience like that again, and now here it is. Sven began to bawl, however embarrassing it sounds.

Seeing Sven at a state of his, Ienna stopped the debate in her mind on whether she should save this young fellow or not, he had just spoken to her (almost), and the decision is made, he’s going with her. Ienna gives Sven a pat on the back that eventually turned into a loose hug while the plane rocketed towards the ground and while a snapped Sven sobbed on amidst 400 panicking passengers, 2 unconscious pilots, 4 of our 7 heroes arguing in the cockpit, and the other unaware and still puking in the bathroom.

Right before the plane head struck the hard rocky ground, Rubin from the cockpit made a desperate grab for the control wheel and heaved it with all his might, this caused the plane head to rise up sharply and the tail to slam the ground first. Upon contact, the plane tail is bit by bit torn and smothered apart by the forward motion of the plane as its hull scraped the desert, beheading a few gophers whose heads are poked out of their holes at the unlucky moment, generating sparks. As the tail and underside of the plane are torn apart, luggage and passengers spilled simultaneously out of the gaping plane backside; the washroom in which Fred puked in detached from the plane in one piece and tumbled across the desert ground, coming to a rest among a few tossed-out and dead passengers, luggage, and chunks of metal. Ienna activated her magical shield just as the floor below her and Sven’s feet collapsed, and they spilled from the main body of the still rocketing plane in a transparent protective bubble, it rolled along the desert a bit with the raining scraps and came to a rest as a large chunk of the plane hull landed on top. The rest of the plane (its wings have long gone) sped on and wedged between two rocks side-by-side on the mountain plains, upon impact to the wedging rocks, Rubin broke away and flew from the cockpit and landed in a tree some two hundred meters away, Anna is knocked against the control board and suffered a gash to the head, she went limb and a pool of blood gathered around her head, which rested on the belly of one of the terminated pilots, as for Ross and Ruth, they dropped to their stomach and lay flat enough in time to avoid sustaining major injuries. Then the plane engine exploded and all was quiet.   

That rounds up our Order, 7 strangers, 7 unsuspecting people tossed together by one disaster, about to come together, sharing a common destiny, isn’t this epic? Let’s give Rubin Salenkovitch, Anna Hunt, Ross Layton, Fredrick Stewart, Ruth Antcliff, Ienna Holsson and Sven Morika a big applause (especially Sven, he needs someone to cheer him up).

Stay tuned for chapter two!

Finally finished!

Published in: on 2011/05/09 at 10:34 PM  Comments (5)  

Collaboration

At the request of my fellow friend at www.mrrnd.wordpress.com (pen name Sven Vladimir Rostovski), I will be co-writing his supernatural-romance-suspense epic saga Neuf Aurox. My friend Sven introduces many characters, and I will be writing one branch of the storyline (as soon as I figure everything out). The first post will come about tomorrow, featuring the beginning of  Valkiri: The Order Of Cygnus. 

Also, at www.thestormlover.wordpress.com, The Watcher agreed to co-write Guacamolia with me, chapter 2 will be coming from her (unless you the reader prefers otherwise).  

Awesome thanks,

Malvoyant Berserker

Published in: on 2011/05/08 at 4:40 AM  Comments (5)