The Coming of Apocalypse

"To your left! Left dammit! Shoot!"

The frantic noise of gunfire failed to drown the groaning, slumping noise of the undead. Marching like crowds of emotionless protesters, these mindless savages know no pain or fear. Their only motivation is to satisfy their bloodlust upon any living creature, before they themselves rot to their deaths. The only three still-breathing humans among the en masse undead relegated them as an endangered species. Who ever knew, that mankind had much to fear when their species itself became the minority.

"Down for the count!"

Jackson made a quick glimpse at a dozen or so zombies that he downed. With his MP7 submachinegun shouldered at ready, Jackson hastily backed off before turning one-eighty towards the opposite direction, catching up with his remaining team mates. Jackson and his other two comrades were part of Team Alpha, commanded by Wills, who was also among the trio of survivors. The other one is Morris. Wills turned his back quickly, unleashing buckshot slugs upon the undead with his Benelli M4 combat shotgun, covering Jackson as he moved closer towards him. Morris followed suit, turning to the same opposite direction as Wills, crouching on his left knee and putting down the undead parallel to his firing trajectory with his G36C assault rifle. Jackson reached them and the desperate survivors marathoned onwards, looking for a safe escape route.

"The chopper's ETA is 0430 hours. We can't miss this one!"

Working for a Private Military Company, their team was contracted by an influential pharmaceutical firm to rescue civilians in one of their classified laboratories, purportedly held hostage by a pro-environmental terrorist group. What was suppose to be a rescue mission degenerated into an unrequested change in their rules of engagement, as the classified facility they were deployed in turned into an endless night of undead parade. It appears the firm has been illegally experimenting with human reanimation, when things turned unexpectedly awry as the biohazard containment system mysteriously failed. The disease the test subjects carry spreads quickly, infecting civilians and their own comrades alike.

Team Alpha, originally deployed with eight men, was down to only the three of them. Those who did not make it with them were overwhelmed by the undead, and possibly joined their new brethren. Some were also killed when the civilians they rescued began showing symptoms of reanimation, failing to let go of their human instinct to protect, and died rather foolishly. Wills, Jackson and Morris did what they have to do for their own good: abandon the civilians, both the healthy and injured, and take off with only their lives. Being PMCs, their motivation for fighting is profit, not humanitarian assistance. Abandoning the hostages for their own safety was a sound decision, as far as their ethics is concerned.

"Aww hell. This is not good..."

As cliché as it may sound, the trio took the wrong turn and came face-to-face with a dead end. No longer having the option to flee, the still-breathing survivors, all military veterans, faced the armies of undead as if they were Spartans going up against the Persians; it was a severely disadvantaged 3-to-1000 battle. The three unleashed volleys of aimed shots, knowing well that firing fully-automatic without thinking will literally favour the zombies an instant hearty meal. The numbers up front were picked on three-by-three for every shot, yet the sea of undead was relentless: for every three undead given God's salvation, ten more took control of Satan's chariot. Jackson's MP7 overheated and jammed. He was down to his sidearm.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. Turn back damn you! We ain't got no KFC!"

Wills gasped when his shotgun ran out of ammo. This is not a videogame. You're not expected to find ammo by examining your environments or stumbling upon it by chance. When your firearm is dry, draw out your sidearm. When your sidearm is dry, improvise. When you have nothing to improvise, say hello to Jesus for everyone.

Wills threw his shotgun and reached out for the pair of SIG P226 handgun holstered on both sides of his legs. He fired several quick but well-aimed shots, double-tapping the forehead of every zombie that crossed his line of fire. Morris desperately tries to hold off the undead, at the same time that he tries to keep his cool. He's the only one in the group with a functioning primary weapon; the only guy with the big gun and firepower. If he's gone, they're all late night supper. Jackson, unflinched by the sight of the undead and the smell of death they carry, drew his combat knife out, charging towards the nearest undead, grabbed it by its neck before it could sink its teeth on him, and tore out its Adam's Apple clean all the way through.

It seems this is the end of their show. Help was nowhere to be found and the gap between them and the ironically named dead end grew closer. Without any of them noticing in the life or death tug of war they're facing, a faint glint of a sniper scope watched from afar. A mysterious stranger, unbeknownst how long had he stood there, readied his rifle, zeroing in towards one of the undead. The click of his rifle confirmed the release of kinetic energy. Power comes from the barrel of a gun, and so is hope.

The Prodigy

I stared at the window,
The window stared back,
As if I'm a widow,
Confined in this room.

My words ripple the feeble,
My thoughts challenged the thoughtless,
Few comprehend,
Many falter.

Papers of unspeakable jargons,
Literary works astray rearranged,
The hundredth game I've played,
I cause them all.

Again I pass the time,
Waiting for nothing,
Yet nonetheless hoping,
For someone like me.

Paradise Lost

Postcard sent to someone

I miss them,
I want them back,
I want to go back there,
I want my paradise back.

Not here where I'm at,
Not with the drones,
Not with the honks,
Not with the buzz.

There's plenty of work,
There's plenty of anger,
There's plenty of depression,
There's little of sleep.

Give back my peace,
Give back my holiday,
Give back my life,
Give back my paradise.

My paradise, lost.

----------

Postcard received from someone

Burning tanks,
Smoking gun,
Fighting flanks,
Not fun.

Threading across the desert,
A mechanized goliath,
Built by a wizard,
With fire and death.

Machineguns ripping overhead,
Cannon shells thunder across,
Sands flying in your face,
Victory lies ahead.

I served my duty,
Where others fear,
One thing's for sure,
You don't wanna be here.

The Middle-Aged Recluse

Separated from the bright joyful, middle-class suburban neighbourhood of its surroundings is a small, old, decrepit house located on top of a hill.

The surroundings were an odd couple, mixed between tall, untrimmed grass rife with garden snakes, while the trees were lifeless without a single leaf populating its twigs. The outdoor appearance of the house appeared like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. Stacks of old tires were piling up right beside the house, posing as a dengue hazard towards any incoming visitors to the house. Old newspapers piled up on the righr side of the entrance, and unclaimed letters, mostly advertisement or sales promotion letters, were littered around the mailbox installed right beside on the left side of the entrance. It appears the owner takes only the important letters and discard the rest for mother nature to consume.

A slightly rotten wooden rocking chair lay close to the entrance veranda, with the passing southern wind occasionally giving it a ghostly presence of life. The windows around the house were brown and dusty. The curtains inside the house were drawn down and never drawn up. At times, a single life can be seen peering through the curtains only to disappear seconds later.

Inside, the smell of the house is intoxicating, as if someone had just opened the mummy's tomb. It was dusty and the air is too thick to breathe due to floating dust particles; it's difficult imagine if there is such a person who could survive in this condition. Also, the smell emanating from a toilet right around the corner is hardly describable by words. The only part of the house that isn't a dust or stink magnet is the living room. The television is still usable as electricity is present in this house, even if it looks otherwise from the outside. Unlike other things around the house, the television, though a bit old, seems to be cleanest object in the house. The couch, though pretty beaten up with missing foams and protruding springs sticking out, is nonetheless comfortable enough to be sit on. Both the television and three-person couch appears frequently used as there were little or no dust. Surprisingly well-maintained and clean.

The kitchen is not a sight that one's mother should witness. Imagine a restaurant kitchen that doesn't pass through health enforcement regulations, but with fewer people using it and you'll get the picture. Unwashed dishes filled the sink with a couple of flies feasting the leftovers. Since there is still someone living in this house, maggots are yet to find a home here. The kitchen's refrigerator frequently emits a loud, vacuum-like noise, signalling its lack of service. Frozen foods, canned foods; all the instant, quickly prepared meals populate both the refrigerator and the upper kitchen cabinet, respectively.

The bedroom is simple enough: a king-sized bed, a few pillows though most were used to fill out the extra spaces, and of course, a blanket. Like the living room, the bedroom seems frequently used, hence appearing somewhat cleaner than the rest of the house. Again, signs of wear and tear were apparent, but doesn't deter the present amenities from being useless.

At night, it appears almost lifeless, but occasionally, there is light, the sound of footsteps, the sound of basic human expression, the sound of running water, the stereo noise of television, and the smell of canned foods being cooked. A reclusive middle-aged man is said to live in here.

Mid-Semester Break

The sudden jolt of spark running through the cerebral cortex's information highway reactivated me from a state of suspended animation. I felt a bit drowzy, but wide awake. Peering through the darkness, my right arm reached out towards the small cabinet right beside my bed, rummaging my hands across without an eye contact looking for my handphone. As soon as the unseen yet thoughtfully familiarized shape of the Sony Ericsson w810i handphone became apparent through the feel of my hand, I immediately grabbed it, brought it closer to my face, and pressed the left button to light it up. It was already 1321 hours in the afternoon. As my apartment room is located next to a corridor, there's barely any difference between daytime and nighttime. Makes me wonder why do they even bother putting up a window in it.

I got up with the strength of a partially hibernated animal, scrambling the grip of the blanket, drawing out my foot to the floor, left foot first, touching on the mildly cold tiles, making my way to the door covered in darkness emulating a slightly boozed up but stable man, exiting my room with a small basket of toiletries in hand and straight to the bathroom. There's no need for me to explain how it feels like to go to the bathroom. It's a typical morning (or should I say afternoon) ritual for everyone and it all follows the same or either path: take a shower then brush your teeth. Mundane but preprogrammed, and a necessity as well.

Touched up with some common man's grooming, I put on my standard-issued wear: a random t-shirt from my locker and a Monsieur Nicole comfort fit, added with extra belt pouches to carry basic necessities like my handphone and a folding blade (don't ask!). As with all things that I took with me, it's either all-black or of dull colour. It's sort of my personal superstition that black or other dull colours lowers my visibility in public, thus attracting less attention, which may equal less trouble. Off I went leaving my room, taking my all-purpose Timberland backpack with my laptop and multi-purpose jacket inside. A small serving of energy bars and coffee is all that I need to start my day. With my boots fastened, I opened the door of my apartment, exited out and onto my own solo adventure.

"Adventure where?", you might ask, and I would answer, "anywhere!". This what a mid-semester break is all about: just you, your instincts, a modest pocket, and the whole map for you to explore. Take a bus at random and see what interesting places it might lead you to.

His Circumstances, Their Circumstances

The grass is always greener on the other side. At least, that was Mr Locke's first thought before he arrived at this place. Mr Locke was looking to purchase a new house. He wanted to move away from the decrepit state of his crime-infested neighbourhood and live in somewhere nicer.

One day, he saw a sales advertisement for a brand new house, conveniently located near a well-to-do housing estate. Without hesitation, Mr Locke immediately contacted the estate agent and made arrangements for a tour around the house tomorrow.

The next day, the estate agent came in front of Mr Locke's doorstep, fetched him with a car, and drove over to where the house is located, eager to give Mr Locke a tour. 15 minutes of driving later, they arrived at the house.

"Here we are good sir, your future home! What do you think?"

Mr Locke was temporarily left stunned and breathless. He couldn't believe his eyes, bewilderingly witnessing such twisted monstrosity.

"House? Is this really a... house?"

"Well, it's certainly shaped like one, and looked like one, therefore it IS a house. No doubt about it."

"It's just a large piece of thrown, crooked cardboard box held together by superglue and sellotape with the word 'house' spelled in crayons with three 'S'!"

"Thus we call it a designer's house! It's the result of combining the abstract concepts of Picasso and the deep poetry of Shakespeare. Of course, we have to mix in... a few bags of fertilizer and abandoned latrines to make it appealing to the human eye. The aesthetics and aroma are important elements not to be missed."

"My six year old daughter's a better designer! That's it, the deal o-"

"Excuse me sir, you've only seen the front of this house. I assure you that once you've toured the indoors, you'll surely change your mind."

Mr Locke agreed anyway. After all, it's a boring Sunday with nothing to do back home but scraping away the profane graffiti scribbled by the next door chav. The estate agent opened the door to the disappointing-at-first-glance house, only to uncover more untold horrors for the already underwhelmed Mr Locke.

"It still looks a piece of s-, what in God's name? Who is this escaped mental patient?"

"This, good sir, is a Star Wars fanatic in a Darth Vader costume hired as a bodyguard for this house. He passed through Jedi exams with flying colours and could authentically recreate memorable dialogues from Star Wars episode IV to IV."

"Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father...... NO. I AM YOUR FATHER."

"This... this is a lunatic with a Darth Vader helmet! I mean, LOOK! He only wears a boxer, a pair of bunny slippers wielding a crudely-painted rod! I'd have him arrested for indecency rather than him arresting the indecent!"

"Sir, if you could give this man chance, his Jedi pow-"

"This is the last straw! You can have your mad house all to yourself. Good riddance!"

"You are beaten! It is useless to resist! Don't let yourself be destroyed as Obi-Wan did!"

Mr Locke stormed out of the cardboard superstructure stomping his feet loudly, stopping a taxi, and left with an irate expression while giving a middle finger through the windscreen. The estate agent and 'Darth Vader' looked at each other with a disappointed look.

"Dude, I told you the idea won't work."

"Man, how on earth can we pull a perfect con job? This the only best idea we could come up with."

The Librarian

In the near future, libraries are not just the centre of knowledge: it's a battleground between freedom and oppression.

This is the world where Lieutenant Percival was born in; a loyal, dutiful soldier of the 1st Library Defence Corps (1LDC), who continuously waged a defensive battle against the suppressive powers of the Global Censorship Initiative (GCI).

In 20xx, when moral panic among restrictive voices around the globe reached a global pandemic, the Global Censorship Initiative was launched and funded by power-hungry aristocrats, with tremendous reception from ultra-conservatives the world over. GCI launched Order 66, a massive campaign of 'book cleansing' or 'information cleansing', under the pretext of "championing the cause of God and banishing heretical materials for greater mankind".

20 years since its inception, countless number of books, a significant number being rare and priceless, were confiscated, marked for destruction, and burned to ashes. Many talented writers and even pro-book bloggers were held under indefinite detention without trial or summarily executed in cold blood.

Libraries the world over cried foul and rejected all demands by GCI to stand down. Knowing well the imminent threat of an armed response by GCI, the world's libraries formed the Coalition of Free Information (CFI) and began arming themselves as a means of standing up against the tyrannical GCI. Now, with armies of dedicated men and women, together with a military might rivalling a 3rd world army, this shall be a war unlike any other. The stage is once again set for Lieutenant Percival, hero of the Five Day War, to lead his legendary corps into victory once more.

*****

Percival and his men patrolled the interiors of the sun-lit library with diligence. It was a bright afternoon with a sunny weather and mild spring temperature, but barely an ideal time for picnic. Intel has pinpointed a possible library raid around mid-day, spearheaded by the elite 43rd Bookburners squadron. Books by Edgar Allan Poe and several children's fairytale are thought to be in their extermination list.

The library's architectural layout is simple enough: it's a moderately-sized library only one-floor high, with two indoor balconies left and right facing the library's center, where all books are located on the ground floor. There are also three outdoor balconies facing east, west, and south respectively. The rooftops are flat and not sloped, without any doors that allows access to it. The library's design encourages sunlight to penetrate through, evidenced by the number of glass windows. A few of Bravo's men can also be seen setting up Claymore mines around likely OPFOR entry points and oddly enough, placing desk lamps next to it.

1LDC's Strategic Operations Command had originally allocated 30 men for this mission, yet Percival requested only 12 men to accompany him, citing too much micro-management for a small-scale op might reduce their order and response efficiency. Knowing all too well of the Bookburner's rapid deployment, rapid entry tactics, a smaller, easier to manage squad might actually work better in countering them. His squad is divided into three fireteams: Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, each with four men. Alpha and Charlie are the assault group, while Bravo act as base guard.

As Percival's digital watch hits 1320 hours, a familiar sound of spinning rotor motion that grazed many modern battlefields became audible as it closes the gap of distance: it was a Blackhawk helicopter, ferrying inside the all-too-familiar Bookburner commados in their standard all-black uniform with gas masks, contrasting the 1LDC's olive drab uniform and MICH helmet with a mix of black hooded masks and ones without. The Blackhawk locked its position onto a good insertion site on the rooftop, hovering a few feet above. Bookburners began rappelling down, regrouping to their squad upon touchdown. It's a relatively small shock trooper squad consisting of just four men made for rapid entry, tasked with securing the blacklisted books. Having served its purpose, the Blackhawk left and flew southwest from where it came.

The squad's demolition expert proceeded first, placing two breaching charges on the rooftop, down below being one of the library's hall, with each resulting hole from the blast sufficient enough for two men to rappel through. The commandos divide themselves into two pairs, one man on the opposite side facing the other, and on the count of three, blew an opening on the rooftop. The blast shook the building's foundation, dropping pieces of broken cement and bricks to the floor; dust particles circled the blasted hole for a few seconds. They arrived just as predicted.

"OPFOR on the rooftop!" yelled one of the men in Bravo on the comm. radio.

"Smoke em', Jones," Percival gave his orders.

"Hell yeah!" responded Jones with enthusiasm.

Positioned on an indoor balcony, Jones shouldered his six-shot Milkor MGL-140 grenade launcher and fired a torrent of blinding smoke grenades as a welcoming reception. As soon as the Bookburners rappelled in, they were enveloped by thick smoke, forcing them to use infrared goggles as they descend. The smoke grenades served only as a clever diversion. Using infrared vision in mid-afternoon under strong-lit conditions made visual contact with objects difficult, conveniently landing themselves onto a floor wired with Claymore mines. The aforementioned desk lamps had their heat signature amplified with infrared vision, masking the Claymore's presence. When the smoke clears, the previous bangs of multiple small explosions confirmed where all the bodies were.


Within a short span of time, the second wave arrives in typical fashion, choosing an alternate insertion site to the east of the library, at the library's park. The Blackhawk landed instead of hovering above ground. Bookburner commandos numbering around ten men began pouring out. With lightning swiftness, six Bookburners established a secure perimeter around the park, using improvised hard objects and solid park decorations as cover. Another four made a slow, careful advance towards the library's east entrance. The Blackhawk left while the Bookburners were in the middle of establishing the perimeter. Percival immediately redirected his two assault fireteams to respond to the second wave. Bravo's orders remain unchanged as they continue to stand guard inside the library, patrolling the building's indoor perimeter and keeping the endangered books out of harm's way.

"Alpha, I want you to take position on the library's outdoor balcony to the East and establish an improvised DFP. Provide Charlie with all the cover fire it needs. I'll tag with you."

"Wilco!"

"Charlie, split into two and flank em' left and right. If all goes well, we'll envelope those suckers in a pincer."

"Affirmative sir! Go, go, go!"

With the orders given and firing positions established, a low-intensity firefight ensued between the determined 1LDC defenders and Bookburner zealots. 1LDC soldiers, mostly armed with FN F2000 assault rifles and equipped with Modular Tactical Vests have significant advantages in terms of firepower and protection. It's an 8 VS 10 situation, yet proper analysis of the situation showed the 1LDC as the likely victor.

The overall loadout of the Bookburners during this operation was of poor choice. Favouring speed and rapid entry, Bookburners prefer to keep things lightweight. As a result, CQB-oriented weapons, such as HK MP5 RAS and Benneli M1 Super 90 are favoured, while Class IIA body armors are commonly equipped. Although these are excellent loadouts for indoor firefights and rapid movements, open engagement at ranges beyond 100 metres are inaccurate and disadvantageous. In these ranges, rifle threats are more commonly encountered, rendering Class IIA as nothing more but paperweight. On the part of tactics and strategy, the loss of the first wave responsible for extracting the blacklisted books has changed the situation unfavourably on their side, losing them the tactical edge of creating a pre-emptive strike.

The original plan was to insert the first wave via the rooftop, infiltrate the library, secure the cargo and reach the extraction zone. Seconds apart was the second wave: its job is to land on the library's park and create a safe, defensive perimeter for the first wave to be extracted and sending another small four-men team to assist the retreating first wave. If all went well, the 1LDC would've been stuck under siege, unable to properly fight off a light force of shock troopers as they were occupied with engaging the larger wave of Bookburners taking position in the park, and thus limiting their combat potential.

The rapid, aimed shots from both Alpha and Charlie ripped apart bricks and masonry, while the best the Bookburners could do is return fire by shooting peas on solid walls without any chance of hit or penetration. Flashbangs are worthless in open-field engagements. The four-men support squad meant to assist the now KIA first wave were pinned down by hostile fire at every direction, unable to advance further into effective engagement distance. Their covers were mere fodders: 5.56 x 45mm NATO FMJ rounds perforate any solid objects, penetrating through Class IIAs and straight into their guts like hot knife to butter.

When all the firing ceased, nine of the Bookburner commandos lay dead; five of them seemingly died while taking cover, underestimating the destructive potential of SS109 rounds. Among the dead, one survivor was found severely injured and taken in as prisoner of war. No casualties were sustained on the 1LDC's side. Overall, 13 Bookburners were killed. Everything was over in less than a quarter of an hour.

A few hours had passed and right on time, additional reinforcements and medical teams arrived in four Radpanzer Condor APCs, scrambling to their intended position upon disembarking. Percival took a seat on one of the bench in the park, while medical personnel walked past him with bodybags. He gazed his eyes upon the endless horizon of bright-blue skies, lighting up a cigarette trying to take it easy after a battle. He quietly remarked to himself rather cynically, "what? Another victory, again?” Indeed, he had high expectations for a difficult battle, but these so-called commandos were more like fresh recruits than trained professionals. Perhaps the GCI doesn’t put high priorities on securing the blacklisted books. Then again, his involvement in Russia on November last year made small-time operations such as this a child’s play.

The moment of tranquillity was short-lived when it was broken by the arrival of a friendly Mil-17 helicopter, sent to pick him up for debriefing and further updates. Percival took his eyes off the skies, threw his cigarette to the ground, and boarded the helicopter in silence, without even talking to his men before leaving. His war is far from over.


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NOTE

The Librarian is essentially a homage to Toshokan Sensou aka Library War, albeit grittier. I wrote this during Creative Writing class for an activity in which you must take a stereotype character (e.g: African-American rapper, grumpy old man, boring librarian, etc) and put them in unique situations where they behave outside of their common character trait. The one posted here has been extensively edited with more contents and additions.

Lieutenant Percival is a reference to Arthur Ernest Percival, Lieutenant General of the British Army during the Battle of Malaya. He lead the mass surrender of British soldiers in Singapore, one of the worst disasters in British military history. Quite an ironic choice for a 'brave war hero'.

In Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, Order 66 is a contingency order given by Supreme Chancellor Palpatine to Darth Vader along with his 501st Clone Trooper Legion to exterminate all Jedis. This event is also known as the Great Jedi Purge.

I spice up the story with common real-world issues that normally plagued us on a global scale (moral panic) as well as a few local-centric ones (banning of books, detention of bloggers/writers); a minor touch of faux-blockbuster at the start with a typical Hollywood movie slogan. The action sequences are influenced by Call of Duty 4 as well as a few Tom Clancy novels.

Glossary

5.56 x45mm - standard NATO rifle cartridge. A popular calibre with many NATO countries or countries abiding NATO standards, it was first introduced during the Vietnam War

Class IIA - the most basic protection level offered by ballistic vests. This class would normally stop penetration by calibres of 9mm and .40 S&W

CQB - Close Quarters Battle

DFP - Defensive Fighting Position

Fireteam - small-sized military unit based on the need for tactical flexibility in infantry operations

Flank/flanking - an attack on the sides of an opposing force

Flashbang - aka stun grenade. A non-lethal grenade that emits a bright flash and loud noise, subduing any human in its vicinity for a few seconds

FMJ - Full Metal Jacket: a bullet encased in a shell of copper alloy or a steel-alloy shell. This shell can extend around all of the bullet, or often just the front and sides with the rear left as exposed lead. The jacket allows for higher muzzle velocities

KIA - Killed in Action

Modular Tactical Vest - abbreviated as MTV, it's an improvement over the previous Interceptor body armor (the current standard body armor of the US military). It features better comfort, mobility and safety

MICH - referring to MICH TC-2000 Combat Helmet, replacement for the old PASGT Combat Helmet. MICH features decreased weight while at the same time offering better protection, comfort, and less obstruction to the soldier's vision

OPFOR - Opposing Force

Pincer - both of the opponent's flanks are attacked simultaneously in a pinching motion

Shock Trooper - troops intended to lead an attack

Squad - a small military unit usually led by a non-commissioned officer

Wilco - Will Comply, used to indicate agreement and compliance

Books: Never Tired Of It, Can't Live Without It

Books, books, and more books.

Books have been around since mankind learned the arts of writing and documentation. It's nearly as old as the wheel, yet wiser. It brought civilizations to its glory, and to its ruin. People hailed its contents as a message of divinity, as well as expressing their disgust upon it with global protests. Books move, books made, and books endured, yet their overall base ingredients remain unchanged: just papers and text. Throughout one's lifetime, it's not unusual to grow fondly with books as part of your livelyhood from cradle to grave.

I can't really remember much of when I started reading, though like most children, I was introduced to books when I sat on my parent's lap around the age of 3 or 4, with fairytale favourites like Cinderella, Robin Hood, The Prince and The Pauper and others being inadvertently spoken to my pretend-to-be listening, still dumbfounded state of young, innocent mind. If I'm not mistaken, it was around the age of 5 or 6 that I started reading fairytales on my own. Again, as will most children, this is also the start of my manga-reading habits with Doraemon as the ice-breaker.

I always favour books that are imaginative, colourful and expressive. Born a Pisces, it's no surprise why I often indulge unhealthily in reading mangas and comic books for hours, which does take its toll somewhat on my studies in secondary school. I never really gotten into more technical, serious reading materials until after my SPM. At that time, I wanted to expand my knowledge about the military and firearms, another personal interest of mine since childhood. During the long post-SPM holiday, hundreds of Ringgit in my monthly allowance went up in smoke, and within three months, I have assembled myself a sizeable collection of military books, from thorough information on special forces to comprehensive books on small arms. The start of my university years also marked the beginning of my foray into classic literature, something that I have ignored throughout my lifetime, which I soon began to regret. It took only a few hours of reading and I instantly got hooked to Edgar Allan Poe. Never had any writer able to express the profound sense of intrigue, mystery and darkness like Allan Poe would.

I really love books. If some gluteus maximus forehead dictator resembling a cross between Hitler and Elton John would imprison me in a high security detention camp for reasons unknown (other than beating him in a game of hide-and-seek), I'd surely take The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks.

I'm not necessarily in it for that nerdy teenage fantasy of being the only tough, manly, handsome survivor left in the midst of the walking dead, arming himself with an arsenal of shotgun and a chainsaw on each hand, but if you factor in the aforementioned hell-bent crazed dictator, he might as well start some unethical research on biological weapons, unambiguously call it the G-Virus, purposefully left the decontamination and safety procedure relatively slipshod and let it spread to a nearby populated area or something like that.

While the rest of the population started panties-on-head panicking, I'll be awesomely waltzing through armies of the undead spouting cheesy one-liners, solving cryptic puzzles and essentially unlocking every locked doors like the master of unlocking that is me in the godforsaken mansion. Which will it be: the 'sunset' ending or the 'helicopter rescue' ending?

Of course, that is to assume if there is such a thing as tolerance in fascism. More realistically, Elton Hitler will surely bind my hand with a knot made out of frozen gay, sandwiched my head onto one of the legs of his piano and started playing The Circle of Life in a non-stop 36 hour marathon made even worse with a bald, pregnant Britney Spears as the duet vocalist. And no books for me! Back to your cage, you monkey!

Being deprived of accessible knowledge to me is like being deprived the rights to use the john. You may hold it in for as long as you want only to delay the inevitable once kidney stones and painful burning sensation kicks in. It's utterly unbearable. It makes me wanna stand up and walk around my cell hoping fatigue would calm me down, but I simply can't when I doze off to dream all night long about opening a book and reading. So there you have it, Elton Hitler has won The Wheel of Fortune! He has completely annihilated my will to live and all hopes for a rescue.

Then, by divine intervention or pure coincidence, ninjas armed with dreadfully hated Add Maths textbook came crashing from the window and gave Elton Hitler much needed education on the effects of velocity x trajectory applied on both hemispheres of the cranium. The ninjas swiftly proceeded to tutoring "Bald Eagle" Britney and the rest of the late Elton Hitler's remaining henchmen on the fine etiquettes of meeting the maker. It was only a matter of time before the fist of Zeus crashed onto earth and life as we know it ends.

So where's the ending punchline? Nothing really. I fell asleep after reading through some bizarre story I found on the Internet about crossing to the alternate dimension after midnight. Since you happen to come past this essay by chance, let me ask you a question: do you like books?

The Dreaded Writer's Block

Something is not right
My thoughts are hard to come by
Try the best as I might
The pool of ideas froze dry
Curse you dreaded writer's block!

Perhaps it's best not to sulk
The park I went for a walk
Autumn comforts the mind with ease
The fine crackle of leaves and soft breeze
Back home I went for a shock!

Ideas glimmer and work flawless
Lightbulbs flash with bright glow
Time to pen them senseless
On my laptop, typed on free flow
Here it is, posted on my blog!

The Farthest Journey

In a sea of mist and rocks, a lone wanderer emerges. A worn out hooded robe covered his head and partially his torso. An imposing Scimitar sheathed to his back whiffs an air of respect; a submachinegun holstered at ready to his right hip. His trousers and boots speaks wear and tear throughout. he sets his eyes upon the mountain peak, determined to make it bow to his feet. He brought himself to the inhospitable ends of earth, confident of the words spoken by a mysterious letter in his pocket. "Seek us where the many shall not seek". This is where his journey begins.

Where others had failed, the lone wanderer defied all probabilities, tearing his way to the topmost peak. Not an ounce of mercy nor hesitation, his adversaries fell under his might, or sent cowering in fear by his presence. Along the way, he witnessed what was left of those who forsakened their journey, drowned under the waves of foolishness and temptations. Deranged, hopeless, left for dead, self-destroyed, or simply unspeakable beyond words. The still-breathing had lost their human reasoning, even attempted to slay the lone wanderer at the cost of their lives. Undaunted, the lone wanderer's untamed vigour mocked the obstacles that took away many before him.


As his hands grasped the last cliff, his sleepless eyes made partial gaze of his final destination. Ignoring human temptations, the lone wanderer firmly rejected the offer of exhaustion. Instead, he made his way to solid ground, upright he stood, both legs enslaving the earth; his awe-inspiring footsteps terrorized the mountains. The harsh whispers of the cold northern wind turned to silence, the erratic movement of clouds to a standstill. Lo and behold, the holy monastery dared to stand in his path!

Hasting his way through, the ancient structure grew ever closer towards the lone wanderer. Without warning, a disembodied voice made its presence known. Neither a soul or shape seen in the cold, barren mountains, yet its existence is undeniable. It spoke in a manner of a wise old man; natural echoes imposing grandiose to his voice, "welcome home, brave wanderer. Your strength and persistence proved us of your worth. We shall take you far".

This has been his farthest journey.