

### The Depression of Surya (and Stories from this Era)

G. Haritharan
Copyright © 2011 G. Haritharan and s4mT

First published by s4mT in 2009 ISBN 978-0-9552958-3-6

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The Story of His Depression

Foreword

1. Apart (1 of 2), Circular Times, Kieran Jones, $500, Lower, Politics, Ultra-Violet, Patrick Cheung-Pattel, Under Violet, Uterus Theory, Annie Mofat

2. Apart (2 of 2), The Man God, Theenu, and the Sun, A Town Called Eriverdi, Ultraviolet Bending

3. Together, Johnny Torino-Guptta, The Fusion of Patterns, Ironing, West Side Americas, Katpakum, Hut Politics, Loops, The Death of... (1 of 2), Mantra, The Death of... (2 of 2), Fuel, The Sun, Humanity, Energy of Paradox

Verses To The Depression of Surya
The Stories Through His Depression

Sympathy

The Great White Walls

Innocent Eyes

Icelandic Trainwatching

In A Town of Two

Legal Lion, Hidden Tiger

Amu and the Curse of Cheenlar

Time For A New Job

I Bought You That Shawl

The Rehearsal Box

Hair Today

Perfect Girl

The Approximation of Marvin

V.O.M: How Do You Spell S-T-E-R-E-O-T-Y-P-E?

V.O.M: A Winner's Tall Tale to the Virtual World of the very Commercial Female Orgasm

Original Sin

The Set-Up

The Window

Freedom of Spoke

Half

Interview With Bogdahn

Introversion

Journey Through My Son

Lil Fella

When I'm A Little Braver

The ENDS of the World

The Gift of Time

An Imaginary Number List
Dedicated to Krisa - my most wonderful niece :)
Note

Welcome to the independent publishing world! It is not as fancy as most of the other types but as thoroughly enjoyable. So please remember; throughout the commercial marketing, big brands, facelessness... **or** the over enthusiasm, typos and general cheapness... it's the words that count!

This book is **both** a long story (The Story of His Depression ) and a short story compilation (The Stories Through His Depression). The way you read it, is up to you!

### Foreword

Yes – far too many words to cram into such a small space. Imagine that – many things into a space. A space that we believe is infinite, but really the space is limited to how we know it; and what we know of it

[Pause – what is a foreword doing in the novel? What type of novel is this? Does it all collate into a ball of excitement like, well, we expect it to?]

tut tut – let me continue with my task; to write a foreword that will add to the delicacy and intricacy of this work (this final instalment, not to mention the others). To do this I will need a tale of my own; not too long and laborious but something that will let the reader know of the author's intention.

Forget the tale! In fact. Let me, instead, tell you about an old myth that I have heard about. To your present day, it isn't that old, but in relation to where this book is set... or should I re-phrase, when this book is set, it is very old. Very is a big word.

Psycho-analysis does not exist in 'the future', but it did in 1974, where analyst Helena Earl came across a patient who had an interesting proposal for her. The patient, Ludwig Bowes, wanted areas of his memory erased. No, not incidence of his father abusing him at childhood, or school bullying; seeing awful sights like familiar being raped/killed/subjected to torture. But simply memories that have been with him for (and I quote from my source, who quoted from hers, who quoted from his...) 'a long time'.

So Earl said the usual in that memories can be uncovered but never erased. Perhaps even hidden by psycho/hypnotherapy (for evil purposes) but never erased. Ludwig grew worried and asked Earl if there were people who knew how to erase rather than hide or uncover. Earl spoke back saying how ludicrous this all sounded and demanded to know why he would want to get rid of memories held in his mind for 'a long time'.

Now Bowes had been to plenty of therapists before this one and at ends tether decided to reveal what he had not told many during the course of his life. Ludwig Bowes had the spirit of an angel residing within his system who had been alive for the best part of 290 odd years. Over this period, the angel had a massed many memories and was slowly filtering each through and using Ludwig's brain for long term memory storage with organisation.

(Ah! So nonchalant!)

During research, Bowes had discovered that episodes of catatonia (frequent symptoms of such disorders as schizophrenia and Parkinson's Disease) happen to human beings whom have angel spirits transported within them. You see, the movies are where angels exist, also the imaginations of children. In truth, they do exist, but through spirit alone. They do not have biological bodies; their memories float between Dharmic Heaven and earth and are retrieved by the code sent via despair. Schizophrenia and all other disorders with catatonic references are not actual (purely) psychological problems; it's caused by angels trying to take over one's body and mind. A by-product is, the human brain does not have the capacity to store over three hundred years (give or take) of memory – hence, a catatonic state is induced.

Another by-product is people think you are mad. Which is what Earl thought of Bowes and sent him away ('I can only help you in a professional sense, I'm not a designer therapist – there are rules about these things').

And so to cut a long story short, the curiosity of Earl got to her; she visited a ward at an asylum and assessed catatonia, discovering that using techniques in hypnotherapy she could reduce reoccurrence rates rather successfully. She worked research into her findings but before publishing, she died of ill cause. Her fellows did not wish to pursue the work, Helena was verging on witchcraft and ranting about types of Hindu heaven and maybe even hell. Which is why these days (twenty - twenty-first century) catatonic symptoms are still treated with drug therapy and ECT mainly. However, there does remain the remnants of Doctor Earl's study in the would be 'designer therapy'...

Don't believe me? I wouldn't. Belief is a big word.

### The Depression of Surya

[Theenuvatharam: Chapter 5 of 5]

(Through His melancholic-era stood a time of stories and verses. These offer explanations to the fleeting memories of those who have died/live but have one aspect in common – a depressed Surya, the God of the Sun, looked within them at stages in each life to collect a grasp on what it would be like to be human.)
When I rose for the first time I wept. There was one in my heart who kept from me. The man who dropped before me. Dead. Who turned me. I am.

Death when considered at this point of life is false. Forever is all. No end, no beginning. Just the same words over and over – either by the fool who is I or another idiot out there.

These are all not my words.

Angels and demons fight for or against me at times. I'm not sure who is a side. Considering is all a tomb does. Memories don't fade.

I want to know about it all but I am stuck reflecting upon mere glimpses of insight into the after world. I know that my death is the way forward. Ultimate freedom is a pass from the addiction of one plane.

But how to die if we live forever?

### 1. Apart (1 of 2)

1Circular Times

"In such cold times one is reminded of stories and the single decision in tall tale telling is that of the Afghanistan boy and the Pinkish woman from Germany.

At a train station in Buchholz, which is a town in Hamburg, a Pinkish woman sat patiently but nervously awaiting a certain somebody. People passed her as they would any soul sitting upon a bench looking out for a train to Nurnberg (ha! I really do not know to where, that was a Germany city that has popped up in my story telling head). She sat slightly frowned wearing a pink and raspberry blouse with a white skirt that covered her legs fully revealing only ankles at hitch up. Her footwear were lightly gold colour sandals with thin straps and equally slender brass buckle. It was summer, where unlike these last few years, it was hot and she could afford to wear such frivolity.

Fifteen minutes had passed from the moment she had sat down from the five minute journey from her house in Kochweg when the man she had invested time in rendezvous arrived with a single orange rose. Her face distorted on seeing the boy's eyes and then reciprocally crushed on gazing the flower. She had news for the gentleman that would not be to his utter liking. The Pinkish lady explained herself and the situation she was in. My tale is not privy to this particular conversation merely the plot: she intended to oust the Afghanistan boy, the man she had requited to see at a train station in Buchholz, Germany. I can, however, make guestimates: her legions with one or two of the then strong Russian Mafia fellows could have been an intervened grace; a movement to afar, since in those days of primation there existed not the motivation for the long distance couple. I do know this: it was the break-up information kind. But not kind.

They fussed they hurried but ultimately the cotton dress soul hugged light brown eyed boy (with the face of Afghan). It was at this point at which this boy's mother runs in stressed denomination. It was not a wonder why all did not grow heightened in anticipation of the non-due-now train. She acted as if it were her last moment in Hamburg before her carriage pulled her to town over. Instead she approached the interlocking couple and screamed blau töten (approximate; pardon my old time German!).

Now here is the issue; it was not what she was screaming that was of interest it was the interpretation of what was being said. Not a politically correct German in sight. Just a bunch of Hamburgian/Kockweghian youths looking to skip town, away from the overbearing policing from such adults as; parents, officers... the point is, they were looking, they were hearing/listening but not intently. At least, those quizzed (by life in grande) bespoke what the most cocky/brass young Aryan thick blooded/butch feature of the collection had to say. Or rather shout: one digi doo!

In following events at the transport palais, these German youths from this area tend to associate one digi doo with an exclamation of delight. If it's good or great – it's one digi doo. If it's funny; it's one digi doo. You really want to be cool about things? Shout one digi with a pumped fist. My word, the origin of a phenomenon is a wonderful thing."

The children sat idle-by as Loretta spoke these words. Loretta was a him and not a her (though not in the sense we all know, she was female). Of course, he had a feminine name but nobody really minded due to the climate. Pun, intended! (Is what Loro would say...)

***

Some of this time:

Lands were covered in darkness mainly. Places like Chile, Brazil and Argentina. But not all South America (and example of Colombia comes to mind for that was not covered). Half of the northern continent of America; lots of Europe (Spain, the entire United Kingdom, France and Germany being the richest nations) and then there are other places considered unimportant.

The question remains exactly why. It's simple. 2Peace. The peace of the world created the ultimate destruction of mankind's greatest friend – the sun. A few years ago there was a great war. Very big, lots of people died. Years before that was similar and preceding even more Shivaran signs. Then the world got as smart as it ever got.

(Except, if the belief is with this thinking, the asking of why men with greed would let go of their hold on funds. Never in the un-depressed world. And all it takes is for one God to be so.)

So there was a definition in vice and the start of the lost world. This was a world without wars. Nobody dying. Can you believe that? Events and situations where men, women and innocent creatures were not slain mindlessly. You may not believe it but it happened! Hordes of barbarians, brutes, the meek and the wicked all lived as happily as could be side by side next to one and other and another. The price? Yes, a price as wealthy as a contractor of evil, a slave trader for the free. The price was the sun.

It started to burn out around the time of the Insipid Rule of Prophecy (all will be explained). Unfortunately, in times of such stark abilities of nations not to collide individuals and groups tend to organise other activities... these brought planes of interest and insurgence. There are mythical examples and some not so. All we know is, is that the sun is fading and light is of scarcity. Natural light, of course.

Twas rather brief but onwards and on; as this ana/dia/mono-logue continues I am well sure to the explanations as would will and vehement. For now what is known is the time of the end. Now meteorologists believe this would be merely a matter of days. Now those religious believe in an auspicious day of reckoning when Mara/Shaitan and the All Mighty do battle in either ten, 30 or 100 days (the latter optimists).

So where did the specifics hail? The usual. With science it was pre-planning and then the first to be first granting sponsorship from such as... oh I don't know, torchlight manufacturers? Religious, again the usual, fall of states in rudimentary order, certain (respective) 'biblical references' (this rising, that was spoken of/predicted). Of course, moon hailers (known as the Likely Likens on account of the obvious) did this and that also in the encouragement of times like this (no they are not responsible).

What would anybody know of responsibility? Let me just continue the tale as, the obvious, all stories end somewhere...

### *Sympathy

The train was slightly hell. The words approached him laying back thinking of the next short story he was going to write. With the crux of his bottom near the edge of the seat each collection of letters crawled up from around his toes and plopped suicidal into his head, most probably via his ears. He had many stories half written, so he thought why not finish them? Ideas. Too many ideas, to start and never to finish. 'Slightly'.

The man to his left spoke on his mobile phone with an Indian accent. It was quite distinct. Would he write about that? No. There was no story in the Gujurat variation of pronunciation except poor tales of stupidity and character assassination. Cheap humour and masked marketing.

Animals? There are stories in animals.

The fast train allowed for reflection but not at a depth he preferred. Not enough time to wallow in self pity that always consumed him. Only enough time to slightly excite himself with ideas for words that would attempt unsuccessfully to take him away from misery. He did believe in himself (somewhere) but not in others to believe in himself.

He thought of the girl he worked with whom he accidentally encountered on the bus to the station. She was an amusing woman. He reminisced about the way he attracted her attention: she was to place her radio headphones in her ears while holding her phone. He pulled at her finger (like had done to him by a train conductor once on a journey to Manchester). She initially jolted thinking he was a thief in progress.

The book he was reading wasn't as interesting as his thoughts. He kept wondering without sticking to the one process. What would he do if he was sorted in life? Travel again via train or bus? It was interesting and there was time to look as if one is reading.

Marriage was a way out; though he needed the security of income. His present part-time affiliation was not a long term involvement. He thought this much at least. There was no reason why he thought of marriage though the characters in the book were getting hitched.

The stop grew nearer now, he could tell by the pages he had 'read'. The fast train did not stop at any other stop but his destination. Was this a good reason to get another book?

The ticket staff were unusually small – particularly the one on his right. He showed his ticket to the left hand woman; to emphasises his lack of fear for authority. The bus stop was close by and only needed about 5 minutes of his energy. Was he to visit the smaller Sainsbury's here or the larger Sainsbury's next to his house? The bus is here, now; Sainsbury later it was.

The man who sat next to him on the bus did not seem like the type to out last. The seating game began. He predicted: Man would stay on for around 7 stops – the Tesco. A woman on the street looked up to the top deck of the bus but she would not look him in the eye. Though their peering was brief perhaps it did warrant a stare. It's a shame they did not.

Tesco and no sign of movement.

Is it hard to keep your mind blank? He couldn't. Though on reflection what could he remember of his thoughts on the bus? Not everything. The man, one woman looking up (though he knew that there were more). In this knowledge. There must have been more thoughts. Though if the women did not exist then so his thoughts would not have. The principle is only alive, however, if we assume that they influence each other. They do not. The complexity was just a little too much so the assumption must stay... Yes, he thought, it must.

As he walked towards the larger Sainsbury's he murmured a pathetic loss vibe: the man had out stayed Tesco and Large Simsbury's. This was not the sign of knowledge.

The supermarket was a quiet affair. What was needed was acquired within minutes. A brother of a R 'n' B singer he used to know would have served him had he shopped at the deli counter. He looked uncannily like the man who once told him that he had acquired a float at the Notting Hill Carnival of a few years back. It was his birthday and the singer had invitation to his birthday party at the Ministry of Sound the same day... There were nods and interested looks but never a chance of him attending. He never thought he would see the deli counter guy's brother for a while. Big pop star he could have been. Would have been. Would be. (As applicable.)

(The steps home led him further to the truth. Unsuspecting of course. How could he know? He would constantly observe his shoes and believe that they may take off at any moment. Home in a minute though it should take ten. It took eleven.)

Two letters. One bill. One other. A card: he knew what this was though he did not know why it was addressed to him. He was to open it while walking to his slumber area – hold on. Third letter - addressed to his mother. He was slightly curious to its content due to the fact that the writing looked like his mothers. The post mark read overseas. Sri Lanka. Probably an aunt – hand writing is surely hereditary.

The card opened easily as he placed the letter addressed to his mother where it stood previously. A flower of sympathy on the front. 'Deepest' type of sympathy... it read:

Dear Suresh

I want you to know that I am thinking of you during this time.

With love

Nishma

He stood for a moment. Via French windows intercepting the living room and outside, he realised a flower his mother had planted in the back garden had blossomed – which was unusual for this time of year. He moved his head back to the card.

There were no words that could have re-assured him more than the words Nishma had used. It was never the situation she had intended; it was the fact that he heard her voice, if for a moment. The voice with which he read her words was her own. Those of Nishma. Her world would exist simultaneously with his – for the first time in over a year.

He thought about this year. At times he would not know where he was. No. Where he was, he knew, he just was not experiencing where he was. He thought back to a winter night walking down some backstreets of Victoria in order to get the Tube home from work (then work). He could only visualise sharing this walk with Nishma. It must have been six in the evening though it felt later due to the earlier darkness setting. London was beautiful at night and Suresh could only believe in sharing such beauty with Nishma. Perhaps, her beauty could be London's compliment. Or vice versa.

The contemplation of his sorrow began while he inspected the card. He remembered how she would draw an 'N'. The central 'slash' would be curved. The purposed coincidence was that he would never write similarly, though the one time he drew an 'N' with his finger playfully across her back, A squeamish movement brought about an exact replication. He could see her back transfixed around the letter at the bottom of the card. The footnote read

If you need to talk about anything, give me a ring

my number is 0793021546

N x

He lost himself within this. One character was all it took to bring Suresh to a point of loneliness. The separation from his sense of self and where the position of body had multiplied without asking permission. The belief he was routed to the ground had been confiscated from his mind. This was where he was but knew that he was far from it. A woman so deep in history was the only entity that could further the feeling of the lost-ness he had suffered.

He thought back to confusion. She had been to the cinema with her sister and was eager to relay her review. A film that made her feel distinctly female, as it intended to do. Her vocal femininity brought forward uninhibited enthusiasm. At the time he thought this ugly; in retrospect he realised the beauty that we could never re-visit ever again.

***

Another day; a not working day. Life was passing the laying man. He rolled over and back again. It was as silent as New Cross could be, it was early and New Cross can be so silent at this time. The early birds did catch up with the late mingle. Closing his eyes could not force himself to sleep. Up and down the stairs, no sleep would mean movement.

"Are you ok?"

Mothers. They would ask, in response, reply. Yes he was 'Ok'.

"I received this letter. It's my letter, do you know who sent it?"

It's a blur in the morning. Tiredness; and all he wanted to do was stare and eat an apple. No speech, no talk.

"The letter from Sri Lanka, that's my letter, my sister not send it."

Yesterday's Par Avion arrival. He suspected it was an aunt but now he did not. Then who? It was his mother's writing – the irony; she said it was her letter. If she did not write it, her aunts 'not', then who? It was too much for a morning.

At lunch a sandwich. He needed something light to write the sympathy note. He addressed the top with his details and picked on a scrap of paper to plan. What to write to a man who had lost his father? Poetry? He felt that it all could be lame with his rhyming. What was poetry other than tacky lines anyway?

No. Simple notes of sympathy from the heart and from his heart. If he could convey half of Nishma's tone then he had succeeded. Half a tone from the woman he had loved; if he could not love and appreciate her then how was he to understand her tone? By reading it and feeling those feelings that sunk him, for almost every aware moment?

Dear Suresh

I want you to know that I am thinking of you during this time.

With love

Nishma

If you need to take about anything, give me a ring

my number is 07930221546

N x

The words that stopped him must work in tact to the next. So simple and fairly coined. The 'N'. The cross at the end, it symbolised what? She still loved or only still cared? The latter.

Suresh Nagath

211 Titan Close

Baasem St

New Cross

SE145GT

Suresh Nagath

211 Titan Close

Baasem St

New Cross

SE14 5GT

6th May 2004

Dearest Suresh

My deepest regrets go out to you. I am thinking of you in your time of need. If there is anything that you require, call me.

With Love

He paused on the signature. It just necessitated a written name; no signature. This was like consideration of the etiquette for the countless covering letters he sent many prospective employees in want of a job. He got one, so it worked. Like this letter will work. In the envelope, address on front, stamp with customary ink stain. Raised was the paper in writing, raised – smudge. Not for sympathy.

On the road. How many of the people he had passed could feel sympathy? Everyone of them. The woman with the pram, the boy with the shopping bags the old couple standing a width apart more than a couple's distance should be. Whomever died first, the other would feel the pain, as a dragging motion, within themselves. Not the dragging feeling the man was experiencing in his wife (?) lagging behind.

Posted.

Two days now until the letter was received. Peace of postal mind. To home return.

***

"Another one!"

It is hard to take a woman who has lost her husband as serious and together.

"Who sent me these letter? Is it him. Suri, is it him?"

Handwriting. Hereditary, not inter-marriage. It was not from 'him'.

"It must be? Then why? Sri Lanka is far away... this is my letter..."

Those words again.

"...Somebody is calling me from Sri Lanka and not telling me who they are. It is my husband. He is calling me."

If the air gram she had received was a tissue it was being used as one, whether or not. It is hard to see a mother cry. A mother is beautiful but in tears and accentuated wrinkles, she is not. The person is lost and the behaviour discovered. Ugly is the action and beauty is the depth to the action. Eyes only see the action.

***

Morning. Early morning. The ceiling is as calm as it was left the night before – it would not change. Sunday early hours are only a blessing if he had the energy to continue into an exploration of activity. He did not. Merely mind activity.

Covent Garden. Wine and Italian. Pizza Italian. Holding hands over the table – the bill comes and the waitress has nowhere to place it, so she forces the lovers to break apart.

St James's Park. Walking to Piccadilly Circus, taking the wrong turn but before stumbling on to Westminster, kissing passionately, shivering in rain. Cary Grant / Ingrid Bergman.

The day is complete for writing letters. He writes and writes. What else but to write? Letters of thank you – for the sympathy. It borders upon the boredom of unfinished business so he escapes to the outside. Garden, no further. The joys of life are easier to accept when outside; the sound of the movement of the air. He found it simpler to concentrate from – a meditation trick of listening to the sound of breathing. It is peacefully one sided in attention. He could look out to the small field of grass and imagine very little if he could keep his focus on the wind. No letters, no stress. No holding Nishma, back against a concrete wall in St James's Park. She is crying leaving a tear drop water stain on his grey t-shirt. She is wearing a red top like the woman he sat staring at from the top deck of a bus the other day. She did not look back up at him.

Why is it still difficult to sleep, even when the night before but a few hours were caught?

***

Morning:

Work; the bus. Monday. A pain in travelling, so many people wanted to go somewhere. Motorised slave ships propelling the dead to their mindlessness. He thought that was profound. The man ahead of him was reading a newspaper. How could anybody read on a moving road vehicle? Sick to the pits of his stomach he will be – or maybe he is lucky enough not be so problemed. If only.

The train to stop for then work. The journey is cumbersome but necessary in preparation of thought. It is morning and all that it needed is thought. Think once on a found empty space – easy, though come Clapham Junction, no more. The Metro readers will pour on to take even the spaces that he would rather stand if offered.

Penultimate station: Norbiton. He kissed Nishma's nose here, trying to catch her lips whilst she turned to walk home.

To work through lunch is almost criminal. Desperation may necessitate the realisation. He worked. Not on what his manger needed; sympathy returns.

Thank; kind; appreciate; your; you; he; so; for; fond; kindness; and; blessings; would; and; of; very; of; was; your; words.

Many times, different pieces of paper, envelopes. White paper, envelopes: some grey, white and blue (airmail). He was organised only in the physical approach to writing. Emotions were not printed via a pen. One hour, it's over.

Four letters. Two bills. One other. Fourth letter - addressed to his mother. The post mark read overseas. Sri Lanka. He takes it to the bin.

The third letter is for him. Ink stained – the paper must have been raised at the time of it's creation.

{back to story contents}

### Kieran Jones

3Detective Jones once believed that the path to true criminal investigation and solution lies deep within the mind. There is no need to play around with evidence or what can be seen. The new age brings to light the example of our existences being a fusion of a surreal land. A non-existence. The lives of a mind. All a generation of energies.

Really, if one takes to this notion (and has the ability to work with it), one can be such the God of a planet of unknowingness.

Still, Jones had to attend the crime scene for his widely universal and diverse view were unaccepted. The man walked around physically airing the degrees of mustiness; in no real description of such a scene. The experience of description fused with creation causes this. Jones smelled, looked and generally pretended to intake the scene. Comments and passes from others flickered in and then out of the detective's moodwind. "Captain, they found her like this and said she wasn't moved whatsoever." The obvious in association with idiocy. "Boss, I have this, this and this." A new voice speaking the facts without conjuncture.

The room emptied so that Jones could embark upon his realisation. Within a few short minutes the caper was solved: How, who, and why. Existentialism in explanation. It's been through the various systems and realms that life calls upon in construction. Det. Jones is versed in the ability to travel through such.

How? Let us examine the case of the $500.

### $500

$500 underneath his pillow. Kieran found it. Nobody had put it there well obviously somebody... (but under mysterious circumstances). It was a joke. A cruel joke. Whomever did this was not thinking ethically (if that's the term).

Delusions of grandeur. Makes you think that you are bigger than you really are. No, not bigger bigger; bigger. You know what I mean, or should I say, what Kieran means because that's how he would explain it.

Jesper was fourteen when he started to believe in things erupting. Explosions happened around him like people were walking by setting off landmines buried, hidden next to his person. He never died (nor got injured) but he knew it was all out there. Explosions to the left; these would have orangey kind of mushrooms, big and bold. Orange was incidence as it were the explosions to the right; these were fiery, hot kinds. Flame bursts. If both types occurred at once, Jesper would cower in a bit to avoid the epicentre of a blast. Panic.

Not the word panic. Note the word; panic. Not (e) correct. He (Jesper) was as calm as could be. Cowering is an art that if you get used to, you can do it without panic. Panic on the other hands (if the explosions blew up in the company of any) was hard to dissipate. Cowering man, everybody cower.

Grand delusions. These were delusions – the explosions. These were not grand in the sense, Jesper did not think he grand for exploding. It was his talk of the after life that got him quitted. That's not A.

The Quote:

"I bet you $500 that I can find you in my next life time."

He was either serious or not. This was the obvious. The boy was not so much the mystery to Kieran Jones as he was to others. He was serious; Jesper was a serious child. There was passion in the solace that he sought. Unintentionally. If it was not explosions it were worlds. Imaginative worlds that kept him from the shared reality of most others within his jurisdiction.

***

Kieran noted the time. He imagined elevation, a trip to another room and a collection of everyday activities. He needed to awake and be gone; investigation would take him to the week as this was the time he had in lieu. $500 was no joke. Not to a fourteen year old boy; just fresh from high school. Not a studious mind though now he had to be. For the years that passed as easily to the others, though not remotely to the boy Kieran. Between 3114 and 3116 Kieran wondered why he had been the recipient of such a large amount of money. As stated the original reasoning was in the region of humour. But nobody knew of the wager. It was firmly between a madman and his friend. A madboy – pardon.

In the end Kieran had believed that $500 had magically appeared – no. Sorry, been placed magically. By... well, Jesper of course. Though, there lay the problem; if it was Jesper, he would not have given Kieran the money, he would have taken it. Yes, the paradox, but still; if it was Jesper, a bet is a bet.

In mentioning the boy's non-studious mind it became of great difficulty for he to stop the ball playing. The jock meeting. The generalness associated with popularity. He engrossed book detail. Libraries; both regular and specialist. In that sense he was looking into the covenant of things like witchcraft and such. So he did and did it well, discovered many issue connected with the connectivity of balance and existence.

4Not alone. He teamed up with mechanical thinking 'nerds' including Patrick Cheung-Pattel (mathematics/physics etc.), Annie Mofat (hippy/Goth specialist) and Johnny Torino-Guptta (X-Games enthusiast, little else in common except for his liking of Annie). The four of them were inseparable until the ages of 16-17.

It was at this point that they delved too deep into a subject that should have been bounded. Especially to ones of their young age. The group of finding, they called upon themselves. Finders of information related to the relation of beings (human of course) . The abilities of such entities/biological masses to abide with rules such as time/gravity etc. etc. Whereas all before were either in one camp of the two; these four were the perfect blend of the purity of science and faith. The science of knowledge in feat; the faith of belief and extremity.

[Though God exists, what God is as debatable a human subject through all cohorts. However, the belief in a God/s (and American concept) without image corruption is a necessity in the pure faith. As is the want of true knowledge to science. These four between them (and yes, humanity and thinking can work in community) had the exact blend of all to complete tasks of information handling that many others could only dream of – stunted by false memories implanted through education that can only be hypnotised into no-existence.]

Such faith propels knowledge learnt correctly. Information filters through organic pores in ways that only allow for recipients to gather only if they are correct in belief. The structure within the mind of belief and thinking are so alike that belief is almost a guardian of thinking. He lets through concepts/schema/ideology that the mind can encompass correctly, incorrectly or a mixture of the two. Using such filtration, belief (if correct herself) will be perfect to reception; pushing correct knowledge in use where correct knowledge will be best thought.

The quartet examined faiths in ways that drew all closer to the true beginnings of man (not time, the beginnings of man; the two should not be confused). Each delved into pasts that did not truly concern them, but the fusion of belief and science coupled with the enthusiasm of youth brought them to not only items to jot on pads of paper; tools to use in real world setting. Such, that in hindsight (with maturity) were tools that young minds may not so readily be able to mess with. Some sense in the archaeology of thinking but some also residing with the facts of knowing and what responsibility this brings. With responsibility is not only power; but covered jealousy.

...But before all that, the four discovered things and went separate ways.

### *The Great White Walls

1

White as a colour scheme. It's nice, easy and all that. A little bit depressing but then who is going to foot the bill for painting it all different? White will have to do.

Still there are new things – like these extendable televisions. They're ok, alleviates the boredom. Lots of boredom. I mean I have the freedom to roam around but then what else is there. Television is the world brought to you before your eyes. Sit back and you do not need a passport. Easy.

If you could wait for bad news how long would you do so? It'll always be bad no matter how long. A friend's brother along time ago was discussing his ideas on getting tested for HIV. He said that he would rather be ignorant to the fact and that ignorance was bliss. At the time and I was older than him by a fair few year, I thought how irresponsible. Now, on a hospital bed, I cant help but to wonder whether I would rather know about my condition or just... well, just not want to know. Live my life with the precious moments I have left. What do I know about how much time I have and then what will a doctor know? Nothing. He can only tell me that I have this thing in my heart that causes it not to function properly. That it's not easy for my pump to pump blood. They say it's a hole.

I've had it since birth and now it is causing me problems at thirty-six years of age. I'm really quite fit as well. I've run marathons, go to the gym – you know, the same old shit that everybody does. To cut a long and arduous story short, I should not be here. It is easy to say that because it is easily true. Still, the luck does not favour me and I sit on this tough mattress awaiting Dr Singh.

"Are you comfortable, honey?" My wife, Katie, says with the look of a concerned lady. The whole scenario has myself annoyed but her worried. Bless her. I was in here for observation overnight and she was actually still sitting in the green armchairs that this far cry from a better hospital provides. I'm annoyed because we have almost never seen eye to eye. Almost always been at each other's throats. She was never for me; fate wise. I am a believer in fate. In a twisted way we were meant to be but even Kate would agree that we're together for the sake of Joey, our son.

Low and behold, a little while into our conversation we burst into argument and she leaves. I push her away. I know this.

2

The man who lies next to me... no, not what you think. Pervert. He is in a hospital bed. I think he is really ill. He has got lots of family coming around to see him. I have also but I'm Indian so my fucking family is huge.

I'm only in here because of a cold. Ok, its pneumonia blah blah but I'm really feeling fine. My mum mothers me too much. She has a right to, I guess. This is because of my past. I've forgotten most of it but there are images of it in my head.

I'll talk about that later because there goes the cute med student! Hee hee! Really short blonde hair. His eyes are weird because one is green and the other is grey I think. He's always seeing this old man who is always sleeping. Depressed I think. They keep threatening to move him but they taking their time. I reckon they should because this is a recovery ward. Duno what he's recovering from... oh no! Maybe its an overdose?

"Why don't you go over there and pull down your pyjamas?" That's my friend Uhbina. She's just woken up from her position in the green leather arm chair next to me. She's so embarrassing. "Don't look at me like that, you obviously fancy him." To which I told her to fuck off and gave her the cold shoulder. "Whatever. I saw you look at him last week. Just fucking ask him out." Oh please, like he's going to go out with some bitch with a flat chest and a disease. Yet to my really utter dismay, you never guess what she did? She went up to him! Argh!

I don't know what she said at the time but they both looked back and laughed a giggle. I died of embarrassment – I wonder if there is a doctor in this place to cure embarrassment. 'Paging Dr Mortification to Ward 123; high alert on risk.'

3

On the way to the toilet with my dodgy night gown thingy, I'm only just getting better and I just about make it I bump into... yep, you know who. Blonde doctor. He's looking cuter than ever and he smiles. He says "Your friend is weird." I'll say she is. Fucking insane. We strike up a convo; he's there at the hospital doing something intern or something – psychiatry though, like I guessed. Not only is he good looking but bloody interesting. I tell him about my pneumonia and he's all sympathetic. Please, he just thinks I'm like total loser! But he isn't – he's like into Freud stuff and hypnosis. How cool huh?

Oh well, he'll never be interested in a dudette like me so no point dwindling over it.

4

I have only just got used to not smoking with my morning coffee. I sit and read the newspaper and stir instead. Cools down the coffee quicker. I get out of the flat earlier to be by my coffee and I. Sometimes it's the traditional newspaper or if I should be so relaxed I'll use the Wi-Fi of the shop to read about world wide matters more readily. On these days I smirk about the happenings of the planet. Earthquakes and carbon footprints. Too many contrasting variables.

At couples therapy I tried to explain the emptiness. I actually felt the night before that I should and so I did try. I was told that this is a normal thing. Most people go through this. The trouble was, as I looked around at the walls – painted white, I did not want to be normal. I suddenly felt, in that white room (give or take a painting) that perhaps I was not normal. I was different. A hole in the heart is different.

We walked out of the room and down towards the exit when I saw her for the first time outside of the coffee shop. She looked like she worked there.

5

My mum like all holds me and tries to protect me as I get into the car. Like I need that. I got a cough but that's about it. It was sweet of Uhbina to come with me and not so sweet of my younger bro Haresh not to. Suppose there was no space in the car and when I wondered where Ubs had got to she pops in flustered. As soon as she whispers and hands me the card I realise that I'm not so pissed off that little bro offended me. "He gave me your number." She whispered. "The cute fucking doctor. I told you bitch." She jabbed my ribs.

6

The days passed by when I saw her walk through the doors of the coffee shop. I was drawn to her. It was like a previous episode of my life; a time I'd rather forget. An uncharacteristic time but... well, as I found out – I was in the right.

When she got her beverage she sat down. I wondered over to speak to her. Indeed, she was a therapist – a hypno and psychotherapist by the name of Brenda Tries. She was interesting and I mentioned my wife and the fact that we engage her building. I explained that after an incident, around seven years ago, I wanted to embark on more private, one-to-one sessions. She gave me her card and after small talk, left.

7

Talking about my life with somebody strange is a novelty. Again, talking enclosed in four white walls can be just as missing as the link between us. What happens between happenings? Why have some people born with a hole in the heart and others without? Silly philosophical questions which Brenda doesn't find so silly.

I had to wait an age to get in, up the stairs for this session. I couldn't wait so I booked an emergency appointment – no emergency. Though the eyes of young Asian woman who walked by before me were heaven sent. As tacky as this sounds but I have seen those eyes before. In a woman I loved. Perhaps my wife? I doubt that actually.

Brenda tells me that I may be bitter – a growing outward hatred towards the end. I have very little time remaining until my condition leads to an arrest of my pumping organ. I have officially entered a phase of the illness which no individual has lasted a month. I had handed in my notice to my job and everything. I'm almost on the way out and I'm on a psychiatrists couch talking about my feelings. I should be in Rome.

8

"Miss Patel, the doctor will see you." I always hate it when White people use my last name. I always think they'd rank me with the other Patels. On the way in my nerves were a little bit eased as I passed this guy who smiled an old, really nice smile. He shrugged his shoulders and pretended to check his watch. The guy came in before me and loads of people went in and he hadn't been seen yet. But he didn't blame me I guess. The smile... and his eyes... were so warm.

"Hey there, please sit down." Said Dr Bulrd. Green and grey eyes looking all cute. I should really tell him about the fact that I had been working up the courage to call and only made the appointment to see him. I'm not really one for rejection but still, Ubs had convinced me to really go for it and I'm thinking – I haven't had a guy in years, I keep pushing them away because... well, because of the... sex thing. So who better than to date a shrink?

We sit there for a while and I'm talking about home life, he's saying very little. Then he pops up with childhood. I was a bit stunned. Don't know why because he was a therapist and I was booked in for an appointment. I decided to chat a little, but a bit hesitant. But, when I started, man did I go on! I told him about silly things. Embarrassing things and then even towards the end of the session... well, the hard thing. The parts I forget. The bits that I block out. Men type stuff. Private places. I'm sure you get the picture and I'll leave it at that.

He suggested a follow up and when I left I realised that I had ruined the only chance I had had with this guy. A really sexy, intelligent bloke and I go in and confess my dirty past. Like any guy would want to go out with a ho like me? It was hard not to speak; I guess these guys are trained listeners. Asking the right questions.

9

My mum seems to think that this is such a positive step. The therapy that is. All because of some guy. I guess it is a good thing. Maybe she feels responsible. Maybe she didn't see him coming. All those years ago, she kind of ignored it until we eventually moved and my dad got another job. We moved far enough away for the visits to never happen unless on birthdays. But then there were so many people around... So long ago but these are the things that really closed me up. I'm like a frigid bitch. I really can't... you know. It's so fucking hard and I feel gutted all the time.

I always wanted big parties with all my school friends and the neighbours kids and all the parents - kind of diluted the chances. All up until I was fifteen. I never saw him after that.

10

I stared long and hard at the brand coffee cup. Black devil type figure on it with pointy ears. It was the therapist's coffee not mine. I hate coffee. Just about can stand a tea whenever I go to a relatives house or something. My man Dr Bulrd referred me to this Dr Tries who is a woman. I'm guessing it's the woman thing and the abuse as a child crap. To be honest I'm not too bothered. He was way out of my league and I'm feeling this woman. She sort of knows how to get me talking. I hate talking about stuff – the stuff that happened. It's too... well, I said before – dirty. I just want the miracle of forgetting and moving on. I'm in the second year of uni and I just want to have a normal relationship. With sex and all that. I really want to but damn it's hard. She suggests hypnosis at a later date. I like the idea.

11

I tell Brenda that I'm finding it difficult to breathe and she gets me out of the trance state. Its very relaxing – up until the breathless part. We discuss what's on my mind as she tells me of my 'subconscious variation of the truth' – I killed someone; this someone is me, though I was not responsible because it was fate that gave me the hole in my heart.

I broke down and wept...

I broke down and confessed.

I did kill someone.

I killed a man. I was possessed with his eyes when I saw him – like Brenda's when I saw her for the first time. Even like that Asian girl in here the other day. It was automatic. I knew he had done wrong and I killed him with a kitchen knife in the alley of the store he either worked in or owned. Owned I think, because it was in the news the next couple of weeks that the guy had kiddie porn all over his computer. Websites. Everything. I had never met the man but I knew he was evil and I killed him and I'm a man who has never even been in a proper fight before.

The thing is, I did it for something else. Not the paedophile bit. Yes, that was satisfaction that I had been right, in a way. But I didn't know of his disgusting ways – I had killed him because of something he did to me. A long time ago... That doesn't make sense.

12

So it's like the tenth session of something and Brenda is ready to start me on the hypnosis. And I'm like a little weird about it on the day... but hey; it's quite interesting and fun in a way!

Except she tells me about it afterwards in a funny way. She was well excited – like Ubs telling me bout a guy she's pulled after a club night. Apparently I was mumbling about a guy and my love for him and a town lord or something. Seriously! Proper weird but when she played the sound back on the laptop it was my voice. Sort of. Talking in a funny accent; English though. Me in love with a guy. I was thinking it was the doc I was in love with but I'm not in love with him! Maybe this guy I fancied when I was like thirteen or something. Whatever it was it was weird and Brenda was so excited. She reckoned it was from a past life. You never know.

13

I received the phone call in two days and returned to Brenda who really wanted to explore the situation further with me. She had confessed to delving into phenomenon that I could laugh at. But given what I believe in fate, I believed in her. She wanted to use hypnosis to regress me back to a past life... I wasn't entirely sure she was correct about the theory, but a dying man in the arms of a woman who held a key to my past; my emptiness, I could not refuse.

I awoke later listening to a recording of myself.

I told Brenda about my one true love, in a town in Anglia. A towns leader, an evil guy tried to part us – he wanted my Patricia. He used his powers to take her, do God knows what to her and I was helpless, stricken by the beating I had received by henchmen.

I found her dead on my doorstep after I had recovered and went to seek revenge.

My grief consumed me and led to a witchdoctor, of sorts, on the hill by the Great White Wall. He could not do anything for my dead beloved, but told me about an ancient trick of the Gods – to help keep me near her through lifetimes.

Once I had agreed and would take no no for an answer, the man laid me on his table, opened my chest, flesh and ribs – inscribed, tattooed if you will, the initials of my Patricia on my still beating heart.

The moment it stopped then; though ever to beat again.

### *Innocent Eyes

Fully frustrated he fell back onto his bed and brought his hands to his head. His fingers went through his hair and ended holding the back of his head. How can women be so non-empathetic?

Why did she meet with her ex-boyfriend? She knew that it would annoy him greatly as he knew about their history; this ex was her first love and she had had all her first experiences with him.

(a repetition) So why would she meet up with him?

To discuss these experiences? To merely hang out? Knowing about the bad terms they ended on, he knew that the latter could not be the case.

Her ideas on the answer did not appeal to him. She said it was to prove to herself that she was over him or in her exact words '...to prove to herself that she could have the strength to face him and say no to his demands...' If this was the case then why was she dating somebody else? Of a single female and logic. And what of trying to get over him without stringing some new idiot along; was he now just a peripheral figure.

Of sense it made. Some it did not. The words she had used. Of love. Of caring. Kindness.

The actions she had used. Of touching. Of looking (with depth).

In logic thus, this periphery is non-there. She was to him as committed to; as he was to her.

The thought of an argument that he had not used when he spoke to her last; what if she was forced to say 'yes' to his demands? It was not that he did not trust her; he did not trust her ex. Persuasion need not be a Tango for two.

He lay believing this for a while, growing angry from the thoughts surrounding his frustration. The sheer believed stupidity of this lady simply added to the intensity of his feeling. She was going out with him – they were a current item. Did she not think that seeing her ex-boyfriend would provoke this type of reaction within him? Of course he would feel angry, what else could he feel?

He thought back to his reaction to the news – he was on a train. He felt a hindsight feeling of embarrassment to the way he reacted; standing up in front of other passengers and yelling into his mobile. At the time, all that bellowed in his mind was 'Stupid, stupid girl.' He felt a little glad he had not shouted this down the phone. He changed his mind. Thinking carefully about how this may have been quite cathartic.

A moments' thought to the cathartic state. Digress. An attempt to perceive the situation through her view. He battled to reason his thought patterns. The philosophy that every individual's private reasoning is different. One individual not being able to comprehend another's behaviour, thoughts and interactions. Going back to what she said, '...to prove to herself that she could have the strength to face him and say no to his demands...' he tried to sympathise with her insecurity. On remembering some of the unsure events in his own life, he knew that there were many times in his life where he felt the need to prove himself.

He relaxed a little but continued to squirm uneasily. His hands had moved from the back of his head and onto his stomach. Whenever he had to prove himself it was never at the expense of somebody else, especially somebody he loved. He always believed he took into consideration as many situations and factors as possible when doing something for his own gains. He thought that his level of consideration being greater than his girlfriends' showed that he was thinking more 'as a couple' whereas she was not. Her thoughts and actions were considerate of herself and not of her boyfriend. He wondered if this was a sign of a maturity in relation that he had acquired ahead of his partner.

His mind floated to the other times in their relationship he felt she had made inconsiderate or just plain wrong decisions. He thought of her face and how her innocent eyes looked when he would lecture her about how she had done the specific wrong. The reminiscence of her eyes (digress: a cathartic state) caused his heart to increase its efforts. He knew he could not let this incident devour the chance of seeing those eyes again. Taking one hand from his stomach he reached for his mobile phone. And how to start the latest lecture.

{back to story contents}

### Lower

With walking stick, dear men walked from continents to continents. Like cartographers in their hay-days. No sitting around and waiting for the news to filter. All action – see. Most marched at the 5times of the depression and magnitudes of paranoia; but ill fightback. The days of roaming they called it. For all could walk lands that were not their own and receive only glares. No violence, no verbal other. Just watchful gazes.

How many of these men then? 132 (one hundred and thirty-two). Most took notes on the measure of light. No sun meant little seeing/growing/happiness. It was some souls' job to roam; forget the actually desire to. However, 132 did take to the age old streets in order to do just that. They pilgrimed and pioneered across lands. The thing is, they did not take appropriate personnel. One by one (and sometimes more) they dropped like flies. Til there were only few. Disease caught each but one and the survivor, Loretta Lorenzo-Heena. Spread word of his/her story telling ability. Pretty soon the world knew of Loro.

The lady told stories about deserts and wastelands. Icelands. Concrete/asphalt weeding. He told stories within stories (like the tale of Digi Doo) from those who told her stories: the tentative individuals of the Time of Restriction.

This was until her murder in 3131. Europe and Asia would not miss him, though they would mourn her; the last of his kind. Well why was she killed? His penultimate story considered the leader of the 6Likely Likens as a paranoid tribe secretary in West Marino, Italy. She described the leader as a cowardly figure sat cross legged at a typewriter, taking the notes of then Prime Minster, Gina Kahn. He hated it (as described) and wrote several propaganda pamphlets dismissing the fuhrer's ideas as lazy and not in tune with what the people need.

(Not written; the fact the Liken leader witnessed a year long affair between Gina and Loro. Two women in a town of oppression (One tried to exist as a man... does the earlier illogic throw correct now?). To be kept quiet, ransom was sought and the Likely Likens were born, uprooted and sat in North Delhi, Turkey, for several years until another upheaval, this time to the permanent home, Nepal, Hindustan. The group grew, worshiping the moon as many did similar to the sun in times past where the star was brightest. The death of Gina brought not only sadness but also a contempt for Rajesh-Giancomo Mahender, leader. The stories, some true, some not, spread wild fire until her execution in January of the year (previously stated).

The Likely Likens diminished quicker than they developed, many not wanting to be a part of an organisation bureaucracy. Disbanding almost occurred but it is believed that splinters and sects still exist; certainly, Raj-G has not relinquished his authority over what he had left. The man in charge lives a stunted life somewhere in the mountain hills of the Himalayas away from mainstream Asia-Asia 1. Receiving power through hate and funded by whatever means sourced. Reports include high monetary base, whilst others say he remains poor and a shadow of the dominant force he was so close to becoming before the mistake of taking down the world's most loved tale teller.

### *Icelandic Trainwatching

There was a lovely belief in Fredrich that he threw back into Janice's face. There are reasons and for all purposes, what would I know about them? He is a character that is only part invented for this tale. Make up your own mind:

"...That there is a 203978 Thirth-Taper made by FreightEurope. A beautiful machine if ever I... are you bored yet?" He caught sight of blonde Janice yawning. What teeth! "No I am not bored... well, maybe I am. You have been talking about trains all afternoon and it is very cold out here. I like bridges they are wildly romantic but not all the time. Especially when trains past by very quickly and make loud noises." Janice puffed cheeks and smiled. "So you are bored of me then?" to which she angrily replied no. "Do you know that I have had one hundred and thirty people between the ages of seven and twenty-seven years old that I could call friends. I wrote all their names on this list." You never guess... he showed her a list. "I have crossed off everybody I have bored; they are all not my friends anymore. Here." He gave her another list. "These are my family; all the names are crossed off because I have successfully bored them all. Do you notice how almost all the names on the list of friends are crossed off? All except yours. You are the last." Janice knew not what to make of this. "When I say I bored them... I mean, really. My father, he disowned me because I bored him so much. They say a mother's love for her son is eternal...; but well, in my case, at the least, it is not. Following my father's unlove for me, she too left me. My two brothers do not speak to me and my younger sister has been polluted not to feel anything for me – by my father." And Janice was shocked, previously, Fredrich had told her he grew up in an orphanage and had not known a jot about his parents and family. "But you said that you..." Fredrich interrupted: "I know what I told you. I lied. But I fear my lie has been revealed at the wrong time; how can you become bored of me if you have anger and angst directed towards me." Too right! Indeed, Janice looked on in a quizzical manner. She then did something that looked erotic from an outsiders point of view, but Fredrich (and others who knew her) recognised a sweetness in the act. She placed her hand up her top (a white woolly jumper). "It makes me nervous when you do that." Fredrich told of Janice's act of holding the crucifix on her chain with forefinger and thumb. "Well you are making me nervous. I don't know who you are. You told me one thing and it's a lie? What does this mean, Freddie? You know; I do not think I can handle this news... well, you are quite clearly somebody that I do not know – if... if I walk away now – will you... cross me off the list.?"

"Will you walk away forever?"

The pause was a moment where all could be interpreted yet only one response flamed Freddie's mind. They say age does things to a mind. "Wha... What are you doing?" Too late; he had on him a blue inked pen and has completed the task of crossing her name from the list. "Go. I'm seventy-two and you are, what, twenty-three, twenty-four? You are much too young to know me and realise my friendship. You have never wanted more and this is the real me, an unfinished man who is now finished. Please go. And quickly. I wish not to see another face again."

And the crying and the pleading and Jane and her crucifix. She left. Turned her back and walked at 6.27am local time. No other soul was about and Freddie knew it, though he was afraid to take a full look around to ensure it. He brought out his copies of his essays.

Why did he call himself the unfinished man?

One set of papers read:

(This essay will account only for the authors opinion who feels that spreading such will aide in teaching the concepts discussed. No references will be made to others even though influences are always apparent in any type of writing/medium. The author appreciates the unoriginality of his own work and so should the reader of his/her thinking/critique.)

On Motivation and Existence

This essay deals with motivation and existence. In particular, the pointlessness of existence. Many different subjects will be touched in the association of each with desire/motivation or existence and motivation; for the two are, partially, the same concept.

***

Humanity exists because we are motivated to do so. If nothingness arises it means that existence is finished. If there is no motivation so too is there no need to exist. Therefore the two concepts move with each other. However, it is possible to cease existence with motivation; that is, the want to die; before natural death.

We live because we have no ability to face our own death

All of humanity has one distinct ability – that is to die. There is nothing else that can be achieved universal through every individual. Therefore: the point of life is to die.

Now, there are only two ways to die; purpose or accident. On purpose is further divided into the two; by one's own hand or by another. Accident similarly; as led by a fellow human; or by else. The later category will contain other species/entities/concepts including luck/fate/God etc.

To be involved in one's own death, or suicide, is an ultimate act of control. The judgement is in the hands of the living whose life was not as requested anyway. To die on purpose by ones own hand is the ultimate show of grievance to one's maker. Not to specifically say life is a blessing but it is given to an individual with consent. A show of authority, if a God exists.

If, however, systems are in place for the grant of life then suicide is just an act forwarding death. A path to existence beyond human existence.

This is more likely. Let us take the analogy of a computer; built by man, each will have no knowledge of its creator. This is the same for man who has only arrogance to let him decide who God is and how para-life works with regard to human life.

Though, this arrogance verges necessity for the continuation of humanity. (Motivation to live.)

There is only the learned motivation to die

Motivation is a natural phenomenon to simply oppose mutilation and desecration of the self. We do not have a purpose but we appear as if we do to melt away the desire to die. It is a desire since we all have the fruit of life and with it the belief of control or free will. Of course, if we all died there would be no appreciation of existence; therefore, nothingness. A creator of existence could hardly want that.

One cause abundant fore the un-necessity for the motivation to exist is the clear reasoning behind the certainty of existence. We exist; we appreciate existence by still remaining so, therefore an appreciation of existence is a necessity for existence itself. This is not a circular reference. Without appreciation; existence is nothing: its opposite, which can never be appreciated itself due to the fact that if so, nothingness would be appreciated by the self as something i.e. an existence. Further; this appreciation must be given from the self, for the appreciation of another means nothing to oneself. The classic; if a tree falls in the woods. The action of the supposed fall does not exist but the tree forlorn does. It is merely an approximation that it got to its position by falling (a very high probability, however).

So the idea that there is nothing after death is a fallacy for the reason that it is impossible not to exist and appreciate it ourselves. This belief now rages the motivation of living within our current climate; there is more outside of our shells so why fight to believe there is more within each? In a sentence: die and move on. A command that does shock those who have very set beliefs which congregate on the idea that there is more to living; a divinity. A raison d'etre. There either is not; or the human being is not designed to know. Therefore, the next step is death and in saying so, to die is not to end; it is merely towards the end which as humans we can only at best estimate using fiction and entertainment.

Humanity's role is to entertain

The fundamental property of humanity is to entertain. Beit each other and/or a higher/other power. Every action has only the consequence of performance; there is no other objective motivation. This goes back to the old expression of the world as a stage and human beings as actors. This as long as actors appreciate their own activity. The sense of the self allows this for we tend to look at ourselves from an audience perspective at general levels. We also take pride in the simplest actions.

Creativity now plays a major part in the quest for motivation for the more creative or original one can display the higher the reward. That is, where something is achieved for the very first time, it is celebrated more vehemently than a repeated wonder. To entertain with the fresh approach. This applies not only to the classic stereotypes of entertainment (literature, film, arts etc.) but with every discipline and event within every human's life cycle. For example, where story telling from pictorial and symbolic creations as drawn by our ancestors is amazed so too the quantification of force gravity by Newton. Awards and medals for science, math as well as film, literature and even fighting in war. It all constitutes entertainment for either another/s, ourselves (including the self) or both and we as humans willingly perform for the 'audience' appropriate to belief.

However, entertaining is all the human being is good for. Going back to the point of having no knowledge of our pre-existence; our desires to further humanity are useless and futile since we will never have an answer to our purpose as defined by the creator/s of man. The highest probability will maintain that this information will only (if at all) be accessible after life. Our search for answers are merely forms of entertainment; likely to please our own selves yet also with reference to possible observers. The idea that we may believe in an audience fuels this notion.

The Difference of Motivations and existences

Tis the classic depiction of struggle. Perhaps with ourselves (intra-human conflict) or in reflection to other powers (daemons, angels, God/Satan etc.) If there are thinkers like me, writing onto the death of humanity then perhaps that is my role in the motivation game in existence. There are many out there upon this planet who will be disgusted by this view and prefer to fight with opposition. Middle ground is then those with no opinion. This essay does generalise in

Fredrich had these stapled; though it was unchecked nor finished; he had another set stapled and in the same format. It went like this:

On Capitalism

Capitalism is simply broken into the following three parts:

a) Earning

b) Spending

c) The unlimited actions of a) and b)

Stop one of a), b) or c) and capitalism cannot be achieved i.e. is the required functioning of all three components.

Equality is synonymous with freedom. As capital skews in ownership (i.e. unequally distributed); freedom will not be achieved. It is not enough for some members of the human race to be free and others not.

Currently, the world works in capitalist running; governments and world leaders thrive on the general human desire to be recognised in work (earn), live well (spend) and the perception of freedom. Manipulation of the later, along with motivational effecting speed the wheel of capital gain and the want of it. It is important to note, however, that it is the difference between necessity and want that is key to dismantling such a tour de force of concept.

Earning

Motivation to work exists within our concepts of structure. To work is to live. Naturally, we as humans are built to work. We can exhaust ourselves and after rest and recuperation, do it all again. Nature is a strong player in what we need to do; a perception we all hold, mostly differing between us. For example, we all need to eat. So we work to earn to buy food. Though making food is simply work; if a man who makes food gives up a portion of his ration to the man on his right, then trade is eliminated. However, the want perception steals the idea – it is perceived that we need more food than this man has to offer; in reality, we just want more food, unnecessarily.

Collectively we can all earn, and this ratio could increase proportionately if we all worked together, however, alternative perceptions reject the concept of true collectivism. Psychologically, leaders use marketing to prey on the motivation of the underling to the man in charge. If you earn now, you will earn more under me.

Taken advantage of is the bigger syndrome; more is best. This even includes nationalism. To earn and work for one's nation. A reduction in the size of a nation will see easier networks to work under. Earning is then easily distributed amongst this new smaller nation, city or county. Currently, the process of nation economy is too vast to reflect upon the individual; high levels of motive are needed in order to evoke change or at least, a want of change.

Spending

Here lies a crucial application in the fusion of need and want. Marketing strategy boasts a critical grasp on convincing the individual of his need for objects unnecessary. These then become false idols or even narcotics of reciprocation. It should be an allocation of duty to an organisation to break down to all the exact differences between wants and needs, preferably in one on one situations. This, however, has the potential to drive an economy down.

The biggest fallacy is firmly within the entertainment industry. There is brutal conviction in the application of false necessity. Yes, humans need entertainment; this should be accepted. But in an earning world, this entertainment should be free. If one is working for the collective earnest; then spending money on outside interests that do not earn is almost an evil playing. Yes, in the capitalist society, those who create entertainment should be paid. But why if one is fed, sheltered and even appropriately entertained (amongst other needs)?

There is no plan B to the world that revolves around the idea that bigger is richer and better. For if a plan B is created then this could be eased into. However, those who earn from the pockets of those who spend will be too afraid of loosing the current life that they lead. This is a disregard to those who will live their lives after them. Those away from direct family; whom even may not be as regarded as they would think; for if the world is level then they may consider levelling it in their future which does not require the bank roll for the fussed original belief.

Unlimited Actions

If earning or spending were capped, freedom is removed. The idea that one cannot get richer is removed. What cannot be removed is the human desire to want more. Once we have something, if we do not have more we grow unsatisfied. This could be a learned response or even innate, the point is, where it is ruled unlimited the limit will always be tested. This is a disgusting habit. All behaviour could be reasoned in some way but to reapply the continuation of greed is incorrect. Money

Caste, Capitalism and Bloodline

In order for capitalism to continue successfully, like all things abstract or concept it has to be taught to a further generation. Due to material wealth this is easy for those in higher castes (as decided by money). Similarly, for those poorer and of 'lesser' castes, the appropriation of material value is within dream. Want this, want that confusion with need this/that. So long as we are taught capitalism rules; it does.

Aside from the obvious; we are also taught that the opposite is true; i.e. other methods of economy control do not work.

Fredrich resigned and slide back to the gate and divider of the bridge. He wondered why there was no caged roof like he had seen at a train station in London, England. Forest Hill to be precise. You could not climb over the wall and fall to a death. A third and final set of papers were the following along with three blank sheets attached to the back:

On Originality

The idea of originality is dumbfounding since it would seem there is only the limited options for the concept. Yet accreditation for originality is almost literally breathed. Is everything actually original? If time is rewound and played back from the beginning can we call the first events of existence or occurrences original? Are there subjects that have cause for greater originality than others? Will originality reach a point where it cannot occur – was creativity built finite?

Fredrich threw the unfinished papers over the bridge and watched the flutter to the track laid ground. He heard a train in the distance. Using scrawny arms he climbed to a pinnacle and leapt to death. Not instant, but close enough whilst the train finished the man.

End

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7Politics

There were three soldiers, a civilian and a politician in a room. Two were female, the rest male. One of the three soldiers; a male (and the only), suggested that freedom be of ownership. That is, create a solidity of the matter, make it whole. The politician argued (by lying) that this was not possible. Why? Because the infrastructure of society could only handle an injection of freedom - some at a time. Freedoms were options and options were simply too much in the scheme of 'the situation'.

(an argument ensued between soldier and el politico solely bridging upon the length of time the politician had spoken for. At least double that of the soldier. The politician argued the floor was his. The soldier argued that this was irrelevant since discussion and objection/conjecture was not a cadre training scheduled item and that if the right honourless spin-ister would so like, she could engage in activities that he himself was trained in).

[Kafuffle!]

Back to the issue of freedom. The civilian believed that freedom should be banished from most kingdoms. (Hear her out). You see, as a gas, freedom would be less dense than water causing rising and spreading properties; this is impossible to control. Sometimes people collect a whiff of freedom, but when the wind blows: it's gone. However, you find yourself craving more and more. It just seems that in this model, freedom has pharmaceutical attributes akin to the likes of... (dare I say it?).

Yes more development in the ongoing saga of discussion and ability. More restraining and complaining. So much so that all five parties decided not to speak to each other. All communication would be settled using internet/electronic-mail means.

The two female soldiers simultaneously wrote heed to the perils of the earth movement of freedom. This policy besots an owner into believing s/he had control over freedom when in control over land. Air, ground, solid structures, sum of parts... whatever next? Well, I'll tell you. The next time freedom is thought of with such assumption, factions of individuals and groups should take note that it is not for granted what freedom is; it is for people, by the people. The construct that is the notion is locked in tidings of fancy that not even the highest powered ideas can deconstruct. In this knowledge, freedom is as unbreakable as glass on a good day.

The politician repLIED (Re:Freedom) but in agreement. For the people by the people. This makes the annotation quiver. Except the undertones were written in a smaller font between double spaced lines: what weighs best in levy; is what weighs best for all. Though stupidity in ignorance can be handled as brutally as purposeful dishonesty. Gosh; is the latter the case here. It's a politician (stereotype).

In vengeance, the only male soldier lifted his monitor and threw it at the politician. The wire trapped and it did not travel destination. The intended recipient leapt to her feet and traversed stretchway to find three soldiers on feet. Anger dominated and in opposed to stereotypes the politician manhandled all soldiers, killing them one by one. She shouted out to the civilian; 'let that be a lesson to you also. I know what's best for you all. I define freedom so that you all will abide by it.' The civilian did not argue, having seen what he saw. He grumbled to himself out of earshot and continued about his business.

### *In A Town of Two

One: that's me. I walk to the bathroom each and everyday after morning breakfast of rice pudding and jam (with a little honey). This after I awake, each day, at 6.45am. On the odd day I shave and then shower and on the even, I do not shave, I do, however, following showering with the brushing of my teeth (leaving flossing as a night thing).

While cleaning my pearly whites, lately, I have taken to looking down the lavatory bowl. Why? Because I brush for two minutes precisely (dentist recommendation). This is a boring process and I tried to make it interesting by doing various tasks. Like standing on one leg or peeing at the same time. This is where it all went wrong.

Two: my brother. The laziest, scattiest man on this planet. Doesn't realise what time is and what being on time means. Sleeps all day. Does not pick up his clothes as he leaves all of it everywhere. Smokes. Leaves ashtrays of ash and empty crisp packets all over the house that our parents so graciously secured for us after their exit from life. No respect that boy. No discipline and no sense of responsibility. However, I am the youngest of the two so how exactly can I tell him to fix up? I have tried but the cunt just wont listen.

Anyway, back to my problem – it involves the fucker. Because through all the apathy I have for the rascal, he is my brother. He does one thing that drives me nuts and that is, he urinates without flushing the toilet (he's ok with number two, fortunately). Not only does this annoy the living, fucking hell out of me, he just does not listen and change.

So this one day, a day of importance as it's my final day of summer vocation. I have to write this presentation (no need to actually give it, thank God), it's a Sunday as well, and I'm going through my routine, get to brushing with a pink towel around my waist (a fucking red market t-shirt mixed in with my whites; the bastard). I whip it off to relieve myself and what do I see? Yes, urine, but worse. In the middle of the yellow liquid in the bowl was a stream of red. A red and thicker fluid. Blood?

My God, I thought. After all the bastard things I have to say about this boy and he has some fucked up disease. Cancer right? What else? Blood in urine and you have cancer, it's what I was taught.

Needless to say, I went to wake the boy but he in his usual lazy format, just never got up. The boy has cancer and he wont wake up. I backed off a bit, though. What can I do? Confront him and then what? My brother would not commit to a date with a whore; what would he do with the countless radiotherapy sessions? Could he take it? Of course not! He's a tough nut, much bigger than me but he once got this STD and he was squealing like a pussy every time he peed. He said he didn't like all that internal stuff.

It plagued on my bloody mind all day. I had to do the blasted pres on Power Point and all I could think of was cancer. In the family now, so could I get it as well? Who knows? Fuck! How could he just sleep like that when he's got cancer. He should know that he hasn't got time to be sleeping like a punk. Hell, I even tried ringing home that day and what did I get? No answer. What did I tell you? No responsibility. That call could have been an emergency or something. I on the other hand am at work, even though I was to be back at uni the very next day. Right, and not only that, I didn't need to be in until registration at 2pm, but I went in early to see my Sri Lankan friend about some demonstration that he's got going. 9am he told me to get in for; not as if I need to be there, I'd probably be the only White bloke there as well (and I was, there were three Black guys as well, so weren't all an Asian thing.)

So anyway, I went on the internet to research it – rather than my fucking pres! Hematuria it's called. Ok there was not much red in there, so his condition was a microscopic hematuria. But that was just a symptom right? There was a whole list of conditions that were outed on a website in there. I didn't get to go through much because my partner on the pres entered and was working with me all day – I weren't going to let her think I was bleeding whilst pissing. She'd think I was fucking some Paddington whores or something.

Right, so I got home and what? The fucker wasn't there. No note, no expected time of re-arrival. You know what I did; I went straight to the toilet and looked, there was some dark yellow piss but no blood. Phew, that cunt hasn't got cancer. He's too much of a pisshead. But then it happens to those types all the time; in the news. They always say the gits that just don't expect it, get it and it changes their lives. I felt a bit bad, because, Mal needs to change his life but I guess cancer isn't the route that I want him to see through. I worried myself to sleep that night.

Woke alright and on time etc. Bro was asleep like the way I left him and before I took my shower, I checked the toilet. Nothing, just water. Relieved I went about my business with a quickstep even. On the way out, however, I thought I better check the downstairs one. Fuck! There it was, piss and blood. He has got something.

All the way to uni I was fucked. At the meeting, twenty odd Sri Lankans, three Black boys and a White guy named Steve, i.e. me. We discussed something about minorities and genocide but I weren't paying attention. I know a lot of shit anyway. My mind was drifting in and out until my mate, Dushaan, said we were going to the university grounds outside the main reception hall. Apparently, we were going to get signatures for some protest. Ok, I say 'some' protest, I know what it's about, with Tamils – people in Sri Lanka, are being ethnically cleansed by their government. It's like what was happening in the old Yugoslavia, maybe even Palestine and all that. Normally, I'm all in to these causes, I have responsibility to do things like this, unlike my brother but with true irony, the fucking reason I can't concentrate, is that bastard.

I saw his ex. Don't know what she saw in him. She had a bit of class, came from an estate and all that but she worked real hard and got it together and now she's at my uni. She recognised me and came up to the table and she picked up a leaflet with a dead Tamil girl on it. The little one had a cotton, white dress on which was stained with blood but it was black and white so it was an inference thing. But it was blood, governments kill kids all the time and it's about time that stuff stopped.

We had some small talk and all that, but when she picked up the leaflet she grimaced and almost threw up. Obviously, I was a bit gutted and I was kind of going to say something to Dush earlier, but I thought it sends a message though don't it? He stepped in when she put her hand to her mouth. Telling her all sorts of things like how it weren't just this girl, there were more being bombed by acts of inhumane violence that our government and the EU and Americans and all them do not even sanction the Sri Lankan one. I think she was well impressed by the fact that I was with them, kind of helped that I was the only White guy, but then it was a bit daunting still. But we were giving out leaflets and it was a good cause, so fuck it.

I watched her walk away and was thinking that I might even ask her out, later on or something. It had been ages since she went out with Mal anyway. Still, I did feel guilty, my bro is dying, he doesn't know I know and here I am thinking bout boning his ex missus! Man, I'm the cunt.

(Didn't have that much time to think about things soon after because these uni people came down. Big dog types. They weren't happy with the pictures. I weren't paying too much attention, since it was almost two and I couldn't wait to get home and have it out with bro. Guess what though? These bastards wanted us to justify our right to be there. What cunts! It's a free country, right? Obviously, I had to go, being White; I stuck out like a transvestite.)

So I went and we had to write some stupid essay but we ended up discussing it all with them. It weren't stupid, I don't mean the Sri Lankan thing - I mean it was a bit bourgeois. Had to be said, I didn't know too much, only enough but I had to get to grips with it just in case them cunts asked me. So we went down the library, Dush, a few of the others and me. And they were always going to ask me since they'll look at my mate and his boys/girls as a bit biased towards the cause. Dushaan is Tamil, you see, and so was everyone else, not just Asian.

We started off banging on about how two separate countries should exist where the whole island that is called Sri Lanka is there. One Tamil and the other Singhalese. They obviously asked why and all that and to Dushaan's credit he had lots of materials from books and the internet. Talking bout old, old people of the history of Sri Lanka before it became independent from us Brits. It was called Ceylon back then and there were people like a former British Governor of the district of Batticaloa (back in colonial Ceylon) who stated that nations, rather than the one nation should exist. This guy wasn't even Tamil, showing our unbiased side of things (that was my job too – so used! But worth it).

You could tell these people were bigwigs; they didn't give a fuck and it was like they didn't want to get laced in world history. We had plenty more shit to drill them with, Dushaan was on point and with our research and stuff, so was I. They were banging on using things in this country and projecting it there. That's a dumb thing. It's the first rule of sociology – something called ethnocentricising: using your own culture to sort of judge another culture. Never do it! Basically they were talking bout how Tamils were a minority in Sri Lanka and why it's possible for them to have their own land is maybe 'wishful thinking'. It's like Africans/West Indian/Europeans/Chinese/Japanese even Americans in this place getting their own country within the United Kingdom. Even I thought that was stupid and so did Dushaan and the other lads and girls. What fucking idiots? They just didn't even give two shits about the history of Tamils inside the island. Bastards weren't even listening to words we were saying. We told them that this was rubbish (in nice words) because firstly Tamils have been on the island occupying these lands of Eelam (their country in Sri Lanka) for centuries and that all the colonialists of the latter years of both Tamil and Singhalese eras have put censuses up and shown that in the parts that Tamils want to own now, back then the Singhalese were the minority. Majority Tamils were ruling their own land. Like it was supposed to be.

Oh man, you know, I got heated in that room, not just my Tamil friends. I'm fucking White like these bigwigs and they were pissing me off. I done history and sociology for ages and always get grief that my Whites are arrogant and this and that. I'm not a cunt but bloody hell, the old days were full of them. It isn't just Sri Lanka, all over. Colonies of the Brits are fucked because of what they did to them. Walked in with guns, took lands and shit and gave them back when they couldn't give a fuck anymore. These countries are still paying loans back – I mean, what were the loans for in the first place when they were the ones who fucked them over?

I was in a right mood when we left there. They said we were alright to do what we do, but we can't have the pictures that we had on the leaflets. Cunts. They grilled us for forty-five minutes to find out what we were doing and let us go because, and this is what another guy, Kumaran, thought; they thought we were too small to make changes. We'll show them.

I tell you – right state. I saw Ria again (my bro's ex bird) and she chatted to Dushaan for a while (the two knew each other before my bro went out with her, I think he thinks she sold out a bit when she went out with him. Makes me think about who you're allowed to go out with when it comes to these Asian lads. Don't know if Dush would mind me going out with her, but you know what? I know why I wont ask her). Seeing her made me think of my bro; that last couple of hours distracted me big time. I suppose a good thing, but it got me worked up too. I guessed I'd better talk to him when I got home... but we all went out... since we were all pissed off and shit. Cancer was taking my bro down and I'm out on the fucking lash in town.

***

Had an early lecture the next day and did my usual with the breakfast and shower. Was brushing my teeth, remembered my bro and checked the toilet; I had to lift the toilet seat. It was clear of everything but toilet water. I had to confront him soon but how do you talk about something like this?

The lads were all really making me feel wicked yesterday, since they may have doubted me, whatever, all I've done before for them is just hand out notes and stuff. Didn't know real detail and stuff before I met Dush last year at uni. I only ever did the socialist worker thing, handing out papers at train stations, getting names and contacts, all general things... nothing really directed, you know? I do these things to really get away from what my bro does – lazy bastard, hardly pays bills with his weekend job. In fact never pays them. Still, the boy is ill... well, actually... that morning he was awake.

I almost shit myself when he wondered into the bathroom! I thought it was some random crazy cunt! I stood there frozen with a toothbrush in my mouth; here was my chance to talk to him and I had a ruddy mouthful of fluoride! But still, it was good to say nothing because he went straight to the bowl, took his dick out and pissed. He seemed alright, no pain or anything. When he finished he turned away and was going to walk off then he, kind of strangely, apologised and was about to flush the bugger until I stopped him; spitting allsorts of white crap from my lips! He told me to fuck off and as I looked down I saw... nothing but yellow, just before he flushed it. 'I thought that's what you always want me to do? Make up your mind, bitch' he said, not knowing what the fuck I've been through over the couple of days. But before I could say anything... you know what the bastard did? He leaned back to the bowl and spat in it. Not a cough one or anything, just one with the old saliva teeth rinser. He looked down at what his mouth just came up with and said 'Fucking hell! Better get down the dentist. Get me some Lysterine while you're out mate. Fuck me I'm knackered; going back to bed.'

After all that? Blooming gum disease. Fucking hate that bastard.

### *Legal Lion, Hidden Tiger

Bob said to Barry 'Look. You're stressed. Get up, let's go on a vacation. How much vacay time have you got?' Barry told him.

They worked the rest of the day

***

Barry got home and addressed the internet to find places. He had never previously thought of a holiday to. Cuba, New York, South Africa, Madrid, Thailand, Beijing and Australia all sounded nice. The only holidays he had been on were to Las Vegas. He was tempted again.

The very next day, Bob said to Barry. 'Baz, are you a betting man?' Barry answered yes. 'Then I have the holiday for you. Now I got time off... you got time off... you want to go to Sri Lanka? I'm telling you, the place is wild. – but it is this one attraction that is pulling me. A bet on a fight. I'll let you in on the details... but only if you're in!'

Barry was in.

***

On the flight, Bob had too many shots of single malted whisky. 'The fight involves animals, dawg. I know I took your money and this shit is illegal... or in this country – morally wrong but it's a sound bet. ' What Bob meant by 'sound bet' was not inside knowledge – just merely the example of good betting – sportsmanship find.

***

On arrival at the hotel, Bob told Barry some important information. 'It's a caged fight between a lion and a tiger. Serious, this is incredible – my man Vikesh in accounting told me. He aint here... or maybe he is? The sneaky bastard! He hooked me up with everything I need to know. The lion is like trained to fight – professional. They even got us Brits involved and Americans and even some jungle maestros from parts of Africa and India. It's well fed and an awesome fighting machine.

'The tiger, well that's different. It was found in the deepest jungle of North Sri Lanka. This fucker was eating people before it was caught. Should have been executed but they trained it with some underground shizzle. You see, Baz – lion fighting is perfectly legal in Sri Lanka but tigers battles, totally illegal! It's insane!

'Anyway, the word of the fierce, unbeaten tiger gets to the South of the island and there is who-ha about it. But instead of hunting down the illegal tiger baiting 'cause these guys have better things to do – there is a civil war going on... it's like North versus South in real life – separatists versus the nation. To make it more fucked up; what's the emblem of the nation? A lion! And the emblem of the separatists? Tigers! They even call themselves "The Tigers!" For all natives, South and North this is the symbolic fight of all fights.

'Now, we'll have to head North – we have to go to a remote part of a jungle with guerrilla warfare and stuff to watch the action... the tiger can not come out of its natural habitat. I'm guessing it fights better there but with the fact that it's illegal down here, the transport of the lion to there is easier. Isn't this wild?

'This makes the fight more and more in her favour... but the funds and the professional training. You seen those African poachers on the news and shit? It's like a soldier and American military training. Best weapons, more arsenal. Did I get you something or what? Beats fucking Vegas any day of the week. Once in a lifetime shit. Bring a heap of cash... forget Ali/Foreman, Baz – this is the REAL Rumble in the Jungle!'

Barry was confused. There was an inkling he had been duped. However, after life on a desk and making plenty of money (all of which in a poor land was even more than he'd have to work with in Nevada). After all his managers telling him what to do he needed the holiday. He also needed something quite... different.

***

The following day, Barry and Bob took a coach through the centre of Colombo. This was no tourist bus, though it had the hallmarks of one. Everybody on board knew what they were getting themselves in to; there was even the customary side betting on the vehicle. Barry and Bob were not the only foreigners here.

A parking rest spot was not so far off and Bob had to comment 'come on Baz – this is it! I've never done this before. Totally insane; in a few hours we'll be passed a border which is terrorist controlled. Nomansland."

Passing out of a traffic congested city where a coach is just too big, and motorcycles or scooters were better modes of transport, Bob and Barry took in the beauty of Sri Lanka – translated: The Resplendent Land.

Once out and onto the A9 main road proper, the soaring coach ate up dusty concrete with very little to stop it. Very little to beep at it; honk in anger.

Around two hours into the journey the coach was brought to a stop by a police van. Barry became nervous. Bob asked Sama – an English speaking local to explain. "Speed limiting breach. The driver will give money. Then we on our way... unless..." and the unless came true – two officers walked down the aisle of the bus collecting 'extras.' The first two White men they saw; they smiled at. Bob and Barry handed over a total of 3,120 rupees. "Sorry my friends, we got coned too. Not as much as you fellows. But we are still lesser for the bet." Said Sama.

The coach continued passed Habarana as expected, yet it slowed unexpected. They took a left turning onto a field. The foreigners on the coach looked towards Sama. "We're not allowed through Vavuniya... or Killi, anymore. This is the alternative."

A half hour, bump filled, disturbing journey and once more the coach halts. Armed guards, looking very military were in control. "We're now entering the North country." Said Sama.

The 'standard' tax was paid; roughly equating to 300 rupees per head – no bias toward race this time. The coach was allowed to move on after a military style check of the vehicle...

The coach moved on amidst very different scenery. No more beauty; dirt tracks. Unoccupied, wasted vast areas. 'This part of the war, Sam? This place is pretty shitty.' Asked Bob. "Yes, nobody really wants to develop these areas until agreement is reached. That as well minefield. Mines blows one's legs off you know?" Sama replied.

***

The coach reached its destination. A service station of sorts. There were several white vans awaiting the gamblers. "We go from here to underground passage ways. But it is top secret, no? Normal way – blindfold." Told Sama. However with sealed window vans, the coach load entered vans packed in. After a twenty minute journey they reached a waterside. They were order to place blindfolds in the form of black mesh bags tied to the throat area. Barry grew more and more apprehensive and so did the excitable Bob. Yet, they both felt the rush as they were escorted/ushered to row boats. Another half hour and the sweaty, mosquito bitten men were walking down an underground tunnel to a secret underground subway system. Several dark minutes later, masks removed they reached a clearing.

'Jesus Bob. I am fucking shitting it.' Said Barry.

'Me too... but did you feel it? This is fucking awesome. Nothing like this before, huh?

'Wait... check it out – those guys are from the coach and... I don't even know who they are but they are White. Which means English speaking motherfuckers. Lets go.'

***

A final group of people arrived an hour later and bets were made then and during the wait. An 'official' betting station was set up before hand which seemed to take all national currencies.

Amongst the view was a clearing of ten metres squared. Four old and solid trees were its corners. Perched on one was a man with a rifle. A tranquilizer dart bullet set.

Tied to two trees were two fierce animals. The beautifully groomed machine that was the lion. Then the equally stunning but not so handsome tiger. Though restrained, each growled, gnashed and lashed out at each other though yards apart. Each wanting the rope that bound them to be severed.

Further rope was tied around in finale to create a type of wrestling ring so that the creatures could not escape their confinement. Not much of a holder if the task was to use teeth and claw to get out – but this task was second to killing an opponent. The man with the rifle was well placed to end task two short.

A furore started as two men approached the beasts with coconut machetes. In their native language of Tamil; they counted to three...

On three, the ropes of restriction for the fighters were split...

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### Ultra-Violet

Ahead of the sleepy roads of San Diego, without whom all notions to entertain would have slipped to God's End, Det. Jones noted the bags under all eyes that vaguely hit stare to his direction. Power beamed lamps burning permanent glow into the pupils built for such natural UV (and NOT the artificial kind found at some of the seedy spots in town).

Kieran got the craving and made an unscheduled stop. Upon arrival, the law enforcer stood and starred endlessly into what can only be described as a most normal of addictions. Though not real, those of this part of the hemisphere had very little option but to be the zombie and fight the mean streets of formidable desire. Stronger than a narcotic or impulse... though in-between the strict of need (an explanation as to its outlaw).

So the detective stood in the cold, damp room starring at four bars of emanation shined only by wire and wood and in non-silent sound that was the dripping of water and the moan of a non-present whore. The door behind him could have been repeatedly opened and shut for all Kieran knew, lost in the world of Ultra-Violet light. Just a pair of high octane (and even purple) shades sat upon the bridge of his nose in their feeble bidding of protection. The sign adjacent to the door read "Strictly fifteen minutes – so you wanna burn, huh?"

8On the approach of the 14th minute, Jones' almost meditation was disturbed by gunfire. Withdrawing his piece, Kieran stepped out into the hall to be greeted by the men and women of Stein Villa fleeing in either terror or excitement. So Jones anti-followed the crowd and stood at the corner to the loudest corridor. In remarkable circumstances, one assailant (of two) called out. "Jones. We know that you're here and we know you can hear us despite your problems. We need you to come with us." Simple instructions to which Kieran replied "Fuck you, buddy. Who the fuck are you?"

More dialogue passed in under-informative patterns to both parties; though the aggressors had some leverage. It was beyond the scope of our Jones, who was forced to concede his position, disarmed, gagged and dragged thereafter.

***

Aboard the Trinormi, Kieran tried heavily to wage compensation in knowledge through the mask placed over his head. Nothing came to him via the ears. Verbal silence throughout the journey. Jones thought of many periods of his life where he could have encountered enemies which brought about annoyance. This could be anyone's; thieves; bullies; murderers; rapists. The sore thumb indicated a differential; exactly how did these individuals know how to obtain the Det. Jones and his whereabouts?

***

"We know of your skills and abilities to read situations and cases that no other can even fathom happen let alone solve. You have a gift, Jones, are you using it wisely? The answer from your mouth is most probably yes since you are sorting criminal behaviour into two sections; the guilty and the innocent. Praise be to you." Kieran read between invisible through-mask-lines: the start was well enough. However, there must be some fault due to the elaboration. "Let me explain what you have forgotten:

A God, not your God, exists for the purpose of He. In fallacy, the word God is redundant and is spectre. Creator is another that maybe used in liberal force since creation has led to destruction. It is at this point the renouncement of the 'Devil'/Mara etc. since he contrary to belief is not in existence, at least, the single entity for a combination with God/creator/destroyer.

This is not a supposed, or idyllic form. There are no images to place to what our minds and eyes cannot reverse engineer; it is like imagining the Sistine Chapel without knowing what it looks like.

There persists a however. We are an organisation who have successfully reversed some of the engineering of life. We have in fact done this with your help, though you will not remember, and are taking this opportunity to re-invite you."

9A position to refuse was not in Jones' ability. For the short moments of ponder, a story came wondering. No real reason: Engrossed in college study, Kieran rested forehead on desk to view the hardwood floor below it. Three cotton buds aligned in the groves of the separated boards. Displaced one at a type to resemble a two-dimensional set of stairs. That afternoon, upon the college steps at Incansas, there he met Sarchi, a beautiful women of the mixed Asiana/Mexican. Beautiful darkened beige skin (for those who could tell). He lost touch with her in the gap years of memory-loss; so Kieran had not the slightest idea of where she resided of current (not showing upon database).

"Thinking of Sarchi are you?" There was no way the familiar voice could have extracted a thought from the mind of biological entity Kieran Jones? "It's merely probability. Twentieth century stuff. How you doing Kieran?" Patrick stated.

### *Amu and the Curse of Cheenlar

Smelly feet and turbans. Two friends smiled and laughed incessantly. The types of laughs that blow up corridors.

The two prostitutes with the friends got up and were given permission to leave. I'm talking really smelly feet; they left in a haste. 'Do you know how hard it is not to hold a woman's back when she makes love to you, yaar?' Amu asked Ranbir. 'You should do it, my brother. What if she gets an idea? Huh, a sexy idea?' Ranbir's eyes lit up and, I kid you not, his eyebrows touched the tip of the white cloth on his forehead. 'I had this one girl put her index finger right up my asshole, yaar. A little uncomfortable, I'll admit but the orgasm was first class.' Amu gasped, shook his head. 'You dirty buggering.'

The two laughed solid and went on to share a few more shady memories. Music that was already playing in an adjacent room was increased in volume. Amu kissed teeth. 'What is that bloody noise? White men. They come here and fuck our women... I have no problem with this, but they should do it quietly!' The two laughed once more. Amu continued; 'Is she singing? Is she screaming? Who can tell?' Ranbir screwed up his face and explained. 'That is Ul-lah-niss More-ree-set. She is Canadian. She sings with a hand in her pocket; it is her song. I've seen her do it as well... sing with one hand in her pocket. That is the name of the song, yaar.' Ranbir was given a look of belief 'Of course, you entertainment types fuck each other, huh?' Yet more rambunctious giggling. Then a serious face. 'You have been to the ends of the earth yet you choose to be here with me. I am happy, do not get me wrong but the traveller spirit is never gone. Take your current fame to the new world and see what you can achieve, Run.' The sincere look he gave his friend, who was getting dressed and had to stop; having felt such praise. 'Without you, I am nobody. I have certain skill, yes. But you bring the best out of me and how could I leave that?' He approached his naked (except headgear), placed a firm hand on each cheek and brought his lips to Amu's.

They walked out now fully clothed believing that the new day had to bring the villagers luck – up against it. The bill to chop down second oldest tree clearing and then to desecrate the village to build a palace for the king. How to convince the populous that you can stop this?

'We can together – I had an idea but I will have to write about it; which means confessing to you in the paper.'

'No'

'No is a fair reply. Then my idea will remain silent.' And Amu stood with patience best and walked across a field of grass beset with trees manufactured design of threes. Plants and blushes trimmed by a population that would take a few rupees for a days work worth many thousands to Western work ethic philosophies...

'Just explain and then we can separate and go home. I'll miss you, however.' Who could resist when one is buttered. 'Amu, we go down to the meeting tomorrow night and persuade the local guys not to give in to the king. Your powers – you know them.'

Amu had not used his powers for at least a generation – about the time of the last writer who he had encountered. Writers hardly ever roam the streets of Kiyaleer. Good ones anyway – only the good ones bring out the best powers in our friend Amu. His power? A gift – of persuasion. To persuade any soul that his (Amu's) way; is the way and only way. Except, to use it – he needed somebody to write about it and to him. Not anybody but a man who consider himself a writer/ a poet/ a... you understand the scheme... Amu was a muse; yet needed to be inspired.

"Hey Amu – here is a poem I wrote." The writer showed his friend the poem in front of the congress building where they had embraced and waited for the place to fill.

A Tale of Melancholia

They met at dawn and parted at dusk

Through sunshine love and moonlight lust

Struggling with each minute that ever past

Fearing for each other that it would be their last

For a black cloud had encompassed their light

Turning their day, quickly to night

It is only their memory of which they will hold

A grand price to pay for not doing as told

Memories of happiness - with love all around

Memories of voices - who made the sweetest sound

Memories of touching – the warmth of every move

Memories of kissing – lips tender and smooth

Memories of making love – from day onto dark

Memories of nightshade – that would leave them sadly to part

For this is a tale of melancholy

For which love will never win

There are those who try to halt love's free

But it is love where they have never been

"Wow. Your words always bring emotion to me." Amu had a tear falling from his cheek, hidden by his extensive beard. "Oh the ways of meditation on God and of those who meditate upon him are countless. Your words whisper this sentiment; for I am lost to another world.

***

"And on to the second to final topic..." Said the council address. "It is my regret to announce the closure on the Mahleen Theatre." Gasps from the listening crowd. Disappointment etched on the faces of Ranbir and Amu. "Due to word getting to the King's Chief of the play on Tuesday. Public nudity is not tolerated; do not disguise as art."

A furore entered as the words left the speakers lips. Many challenged the idea. The Mahleen was the definitive source of good entertainment. The resident actors/actress and directors enjoyed what they did and were always encouraged by the feedback as received by their audience. 'The Moonlight Whore' was the current running play in which the story of a brothel is told through the eyes of the lead female who is a prostitute looking for love. In a scene near the beginning of the play, actress Naveen Ishikumee bares her midriff in a low cut blouse. In a later scene; an illusion is created that she is naked under a quilt cover, on a bed on the stage.

Having successfully convinced; for the time being that is, the saving of tree felling, Amu rose once more. "Fellows... and females. There will be no need for the closure. Bid you argue?"

"Yes I will – the king demands it." Replied the foreman.

"But if we band together, the unity of our spirit will overcome." Amu was reading from memorised lines as written by Ranbir. Lines for another verse; but appropriate enough, he guessed.

"I understand dearest Amu, but if we go against the royalty there will be consequences. Consequences in the form of mass genocide I should suspect."

Amu was ready for this. "I say, dear fellow, all I... well, I mean WE need is for the council to meet with us. The council of all of Cheenlar. A representative. Tell him to come at once – we hold a meeting and I, and my associate Ranbir Singh will be the town spokeperson. In fact, if you let us write the letter."

There was laughter in the room – a giggled sort. It was rather odd the retaliation; normally, the foreman would voice opinion and the townsfolk would accept whatever give. (And in town where many could not write – writing a letter was a feeble action!)

"Well... well, ok but for you to write a letter to the council you will need permission from the townsfolk – this could be seen as outrageous by the regal. They may invade and cut our throats for such insolence. Merely to ask and contravene their wishes.

However I am the fair man, and as per our community ruling if your favour receives ten votes or more, I will indeed give you permission to write this letter and Ghouro will be out on his donkey at daybreak. So, those in fav..."

Amu spotted his chance and Ranbir smiled – the foreman's stickling for ruling was his authoritative weakness. Amu interrupted the foreman "-Then please let me come to the front and address the crowd. I shant be long, a quick mention of what I propose." "But why? Everybody heard you?" "Please good sir, the hall has depth – there are people hard of hearing here." A pause... annoyance... giving in... "Very well."

As the muse got up he passed fifteen people on a slalom entry to the front of the stage. Each person he passed, he touched each one's back or neck. His muse like power had warped into a platform whereby inspiration grew through the spines of folk. He knew that no man, woman or child wanted the theatre shut. He put onus on the inspiration of the fifteen people he had touched to be inspired into voting yes.

He reached the front of the crowd "Oh. well, all in favour that I write?" and before the foreman could reply 'is that all you are to say?' twelve hands shot up. The writer and muse combination from the saving of the trees had just enough power left for one last inspiration.

(Ranbir made the mental note that only nine of those twelve raised hands were touched. At least some of the folk of Cheenlar had backbone.)

***

Amu paced around at his home whilst Ranbir sat and wrote the letter listening to the radio. "Why this garbage? This is that Western influence. Try some music from the town. We have a band you know?" Ranbir paused on his thoughts. "You know, all great writers have influences. If our influences are confined then we cannot breathe in the construct of a full reality." He shuffled papers from a drawer in his desk. "Here, let me read you this:"

Sweet Lifelessness

It is the arduous task FOR the lifeless

Rolled in sweet decree

Performance as fought daily rate of interest too...

For when one talks of the flawless

I may not agree

Sitting sweetly in a state of formulaic through.

...And without further thought to fraught centres and shy nature. Should be so def as to conclude that on average where would a race be with the escape of a sentence (within a construct). For it is known by not I of author fame that in order regain an audience who have lost... patience. Belief is fundamental in an alternative magic... yet is sense not? Is calculation not a prelude to the raising of sword mightier than a mind and lead implement?

...Shallow as it sounds, words were started off in rounds and yet have fallen way side to a bullet and a man. Creativity is not bled from lifelessness nor is a non-existent rhythm. Just tapping and trapping parts of the foolhardy and questionable sum of this... did I mention that? Of course I did – playing out to formulae like branches of the swaying tree for even a paragraph of nothing comes to end; for rhyming and all is simple sent.

Sitting sweetly in a state of formulaic through

Rolled in sweet decree

For when one talks of the flawless...

Performance as fought daily rate of interest too

I may not agree

It is the arduous task of the lifeless.

Amu could feel the heart and desire of the poem but he could not understand it fully. Yet there was something about it that clicked with him. He stared deep into the eyes of his beloved friend and realised a stark, searing truth. Before there could be discussion, there was a knock at the door.

"Would it be so rude to come in? I came here unnoticed, see I have my head scarf wrapped very well." Said Naveen. There was extremely little confrontation as she was whisked in and door behind her bolted shut. Naveen fell to the ground to praise the two men. "Thank you so much for appreciating our art. We are the makers of films... ah, Ranbir – of course you would know that seeing as you write half of our plays." Ranbir blushed. The pair caught each other's eyes.

The skin bearing show had caught the town folk and many were nervous with regard to the letter and its potential to destroy more than the people who wrote it. Navleen was a ghost around town as she eavesdropped on folk who wished nothing more than their regular lives to go on and be as normal as possibly so. Amu knew how Ranbir felt. He had known for quite some time yet he let it go. On hearing the poem, so different to the traditional classic poem, so un-Ranbir... so contemporary; he had little other thought than the back up of his belief.

"It is important. To try. Something so trivial... yet so important as our chosen form of entertainment should not be moderated. Freedom is our better life. Without it; we become creatures who are stunted. We have been given God's gift to grow and continually grow. We never stop learning – it is up to at least some of us to never stop teaching."

Both men were moved by Navleen's words. Amu pulled an excuse to retire; even a muse's eyes did not need to see he was the third wheel here... at least for twenty minutes or so.

***

Over by the cave, once more back at the brothel, Ranbir and Amu found themselves surrounded by three Chinese men and a White man. The latter tried to engage in conversation with the two seeing as he realised they were locals. Ranbir was versed in limited words of English as spoken by the foreigner and they continued a conversation. Amu recognised some words: Bollywood, India, China, America... dotted, scattered words. The foreigner brought out a small contraption which played images very similar to that which Amu had seen on a television... before this technology was outlawed. Both the White man and Ranbir marvelled at the device and yet with its fancy looks and features, all Amu could do was look solely at his compatriot.

At that moment he had his recurring vision.

The vision that had haunted him for years and years before the birth of all the residents of the present Cheenlar:

Amu used to smoke. Just like all the men in the village – the world possibly. Imported tobacco or the regular town grown beedis. He shared his house with his lovely wife Mahi. Undeniably she was the love of this being's entirely life span. They had met by chance at a street market. They engaged in conversation but nothing came of the meeting. Then, fatefully, later that evening they once more were in each other's company. They both attended the congress of Jatt and his many thoughts. On thinking of calmness and nothing, will you find everything. He who is bound by the ends of restraint; are themselves restrained in seeing God. Just one of his thoughts. And it was on these thoughts that the two saw each other for the second time that day.

After an extended affair, Amu proposed. Mahi's family did not accept; knowing rumours of the muse's background. Over time, he was accepted and it seemed happiness was of order. This was until the days (last two months) where Mahi fell back, from a repressed state, into her depression. A sadness which consumed her until finally she was able to talk to her love. Not knowing her other half was a muse, she (with the help of he) could make all her dreams come true – the inspiration was but waiting for her to shed insecurity and, quite simply, an always worn night dress to expose her back. For the two months of her self inflicted repression she would not commit to nakedness for her husband through the completely inconceivable thought that he might find her unattractive. (Quite the opposite, Amu could not even look at another women; she was the ideal of beauty his dreams could approximate.)

Around the one month period of this happiness amnesty, Mahi told her partner of her fears in the town. She told of her unloving family and her constant battle to be rid of them. For a while with her new husband and new home she could manage that but the pressure and emotional instability they caused was immense. Her overbearing mother and aggressive, alcoholic father. With the financial problems they seemed destined to head to the talk was always on Mahi to provide for them.

Amu, was now in the know. Now that he could deal with problem he had the bit between his teeth to save his wife from her exile. From confessing all, the lady fell flat asleep on her bed mat, having been awake for five days straight. Amu, sat calmly for a while, smoking a single cigarette, then rose with anger to leave the house and pay a visit to his in-law home. At the exact half way point between houses; Amu looked back. Upon a hill he stood, he peered piercing two trees with his sight and watched in horror. His house was aflame... the cigarette? He raced back to a burning building to brave smoke and fire to rescue his wife; she did not die within the accident. However she was not without affect. When the doctors decided she could be released she had suffered third degree burns. Not to her hands. Not to her legs. Not to her face... the sole part of her body, burnt to tendons was her back; rising right up to her neck. The one and only place where, if touched – Amu could use his inspiration.

The depression was complete and no matter how much Amu tried to touch his innocent wife's back, there was no inspiring her. The dreams of leaving Cheenlar, her family and all behind were difficult to address – considering if Amu left the state the ageing process of his mystique would have him at an age where men do not exist... but a compromise could have worked. Mahi could have seen the light of solution that so many had when Amu and a writer teamed up. The appalling part of the mess was that it was around this time that Amu had found a young man who was embracing the spirit of prose... about the time that his wife Mahi hung herself from one of the two aforementioned trees overlooking her two previous homes.

***

"You know Amu, that is Kee-aah-noo tReefes." Ranbir pointed at the tiny screen. The White man adjusted for Amu to see clearer. "He starred in the Hollywood – big films, yaar. The world is taken over by robots and this man is a superhuman. Lots of computing gadgets and the bloody effects make the Bollywood look like nothing... What's the matter, brother? You look like you have seen a ghost."

***

"You know? Fine. I admit it. This crumby town is shithole. I see so many things and hear so many tales about living in the big cities. Not just Mumbai and the Indian ones. The world. I'm a writer and a poet; I need my inspiration. Why do you think I come with you to that diseased whore house? There are always out-of-towners there. There are always stories. There is always experience. Either I rot here or I save up and go. I'm so sorry Amu, but for our friendship – I would be willing to stay. But you have asked me a question that required the honesty of my soul and I have given it to you laid bare. I am here because you require me to be here and the fact that we, together can do some good for the people of this town."

Amu closed his eyes as he held the letter to the council in his hand. The post man was not due to pick up for five minutes. Amu knew that this was the last time he would see Ranbir. The eyes of his wife flashed before him and he could not witness another close confident lose their could to the curse of Cheenlar.

Amu ripped up the later and tossed it. Before Ranbir could protest we stepped forward grasped his counterpart and kissed the man sliding his hands on his shoulders, to the top of his neck and as further as he could down the top of his back.

"Brother, I have saved up a lot of money already. Take your savings along with mine and travel. Be inspired." Said Amu.

### *Time For A New Job

1

Ann boarded the bus a little nervously. A woman with a pram was to her left and Ann felt like she should have let the woman go first - after all she had a pram. Instead she raced on the bus in an effort to give the lady space but realised that she looked a little selfish in being too eager to board.

She went upstairs and looked around. As usual the front seats of the bus were occupied. Behind these, people were sat approximately for every two seats on the left hand side. In a bid to create some symmetry, Ann sat on the right leaving a seat free in front of her. She also made sure she was adjacent to a free seat but with a person (or two) sitting in the seats in front of and behind that same free seat. Symmetry.

At last, she was allowed to think about her first day at work; which was about to happen in 15 minutes. She thought about whether they may be any opportunities to impress her new boss or peers. Her area of expertise was firmly in using Microsoft Word and she drifted away to a day dream where her boss would not know how to mail merge, track change or any Word web related utilities. Ann worked at an up and coming Dot Com company called SearchFilter.com for two years and was mainly responsible for making sure everything on the website was easy to read and completely explanatory.

She wondered how she stayed on for two years.

A man got on the bus and sat in front of her; annoying the woman completely. Why could he not sit about two seats behind her? There would have been plenty of space for both him and Ann and it would have balanced the symmetry better. 'Oh well' she sighed silently.

A dream she had that night involved five people in a circle chanting something and no matter how much Ann tried to communicate with them they just would not listen. She could not make out what they were saying and could not remember what they looked like. At about the time she woke up she was quite flustered due to the fact that a small Asian (most probably Indian) child kept pulling her skirt while shouting something about respect and appreciation. Ann never usually had dreams that were as weird as this one, well, at least not any she could remember.

On realising that the bus had just passed her penultimate stop she rung the bell and headed downstairs.

2(a)

'Hello my name is Clive' Clive said. Ann believed that this man had never had sex in his life – ever. The grey tweed jacket was a give away and his glasses and beard did not match; his beard was a blondie brown while his glasses were, what Ann thought, pink. She realised that he never extended his hand for a traditional shake; she wondered whether to do just that.

'I will sort of be your boss, but not really' Clive immediately followed these words with a shrill of a laugh which almost sparked fear into the surprised Ann. However, she managed a coy smile.

'You probably know what you are doing here, as John explained in the interviews. Well, it is as basic as typing notes and filing everything in order so that your chosen therapists know exactly where they are. I too do this, along with Neil and as I am the most senior Analysis Script Manager here it was only sensible for me to give you this introduction.'

Ann clocked Clive's pretentiousness straight away. Analysis Script Manager? All he did was type out recorded psychoanalysis sessions verbatim from a tape and file it. She felt that it would take a lot of will power to be able to work with someone so full of himself like Clive. She prayed that her seating arrangement was void of being close to him.

Clive continued what seemed like an endless introduction as Ann continued to pretend to be interested. She did pay attention as much as she could but ultimately she knew that all she had to do was type and file. Clive's monotonous voice was beginning to send her to sleep but she kept awake by occasionally turning her introduction summary booklet one page back as if to suggest she was linking what Clive was saying to what was previously written in the booklet. She varied her responses 'Yes', 'ah-ha', 'Really' and 'No way?' like clockwork and left enough time in between responses to laugh and giggle but not too flirtatiously. It was at least 45 minutes before Clive reached the end of the introduction.

'At the back of the summary is an example of how we type up a script. I'll let you get acquainted with this by yourself. In a moment, I will show you to where you sit, but right now I'll make some tea, how do you take it?' Ann explained how she took it, 'Ok, just have a little sift through that and I'll be right back.'

Ann went straight to the back of the introduction booklet to look for the manuscript but there did not seem to be one. There was, however, a curious passage of writing that Ann could not help but read.

2(b)

The Tamil boy went to his friend on the eve of his mother's sister's friend's birthday because he wanted to know more about where he came from and what he was about. His friend was known for being a wise Tamil and decided to indeed tell this young Tamil about himself.

'In order to know yourself, you must be pure. Free of artificial thought, subliminal degradation and falsity.' The wise Tamil stated. Now the young Tamil did not feel much for these words as he thought that they were just used to confuse and present an air of authority. In many ways he was right. The two children had different goals but used each other to express them; one being in the search of knowledge and the other; the appearance that he had it. It was the turn of the young Tamil to reply:

'What do you mean? Do the words you speak hold an entire meaning or do they sum different meanings that you will pawn off to me hoping I will swallow them whole?' The young Tamil was particularly impressed with himself as he knew that the Tamil he was confronting was extremely well respected in this area (and other areas too).

'Only one so stupid would wish to sacrifice himself to my attack. Do you believe that you are better than me? Do you think you can match my wisdom? I have not yet found another who could.' Both boys looked at each other now with the element of fire in their eyes. Could this be a challenge? When was the gauntlet thrown? When the young Tamil spoke or thought the eventual verbal precipitation?

'I will not begin to answer your unruly questions. I carry my wisdom; you yours. It cannot be seen any other way.' With the last words, the young Tamil believed he had opened up for retaliation. The mistake of assumption was written by his mind and mouth.

'Do you believe that is the only sight?' a light now shown behind the eyes of the wise boy

'I believe only that we exist and are here.' He thought for a moment on whether a belief can constitute a fact. He decided on not. He continued, 'There are more universal truths if you believe there are but if not then there is only one.'

The wise Tamil laughed on hearing this response from the young Tamil.

'But in responding to my sight', the wise Tamil Boy started, 'you are showing that a universal truth is what you have spoken. The cause of your hypothetical nonsense is the cause of my anger. How do you suppose you know me? By sitting with your legs crossed and eyes open? You know me through the mind that speaks not in words but in pictures, movement, sounds and responses. This existence is not contained via truth or non-truth it is something that neither you nor I can explain in words as it does not exist, yet it does.' The wise Tamil's aura shown brighter than had done at the beginning of the confrontation, the young Tamil had seen this and believed he was not in the right frame of mind to respond. The wise Tamil capitalised on the hesitation.

'In many ways I sympathise with your situation, but I will not be led by you into believing in what you say. I can read your mind and I can read time itself as long as it is you and I who are here. It is that situation now, so I will tell you this; if you believe in me now, you will not in the future. If you do not now, then you will.' This last statement was prompt for the wise Tamil to signal the end of the discussion. The young Tamil stood up and left the room.

3

Clive came back holding two very undecorated mugs and handed one to Ann.

'How did you find it? Pretty straight forward, huh? I mean it is very easy as everything is verbatim and all you have to remember is to put the name of whoever is talking first then use a colon.' Clive stated before sipping his cup of tea. Ann noticed a rather peculiar facet of Clive's; he raised his top lip after sipping his tea (like a lot of people) but seemed to keep it raised for a while. Perhaps his lip had got stuck to some plaque he had failed to brush out this morning. She realised she had hesitated.

'Er... no, actually. I think from what you have just said my copy of the summary is different to yours. Can you check?' Ann said realising her voice wobbled on the demand. She decided to assert herself a little '...There are no names or colons, just talk of Tamil boys or something?'

Clive's face went red as he shifted his summary to the back pages. Indeed his copy also had the story of the Tamil boys. Ann wondered why he had blushed.

'Er... well it seems I have got something incorrectly printed here,' he hesitated, then continued 'This is not the transcript I wanted you too look at, well this is... er... well a sort of project I have been working on out of the office. Yes, I was working on it last night with this summary so I must have got the... er... two things mixed.' Clive sounded as though he was either trying to hide something or quite ashamed of something. Ann thought it must be a bit of both, perhaps Clive was leaving and this 'other' project was something he did not want people to know about at work. Ann's curiosity investigated.

'What is a Tamil? I mean both the boys in the script are Tamil or something...' Ann knew that she may be treading on thin ice by asking the question, she quickly added an extra statement before Clive could respond; 'Sorry, it's just the story thing was quite intriguing.' She wondered if that helped her cause.

'Oh, well,' Clive started looking a little shaken, but probably more so to the fact of his own previous incompetence, 'It's a race of people. Mostly living in the south of India and Ceylon, oh sorry, Sri Lanka.'

Ann immediately thought about her dream of the Indian boy running about. It was strange to her that even though her life had little association with Indian people here she was on a day where she both dreamt and had read a story about an Indian boy. Perhaps this was a sign of some sort. Ann quickly dismissed this as she 'didn't believe in signs'.

'Anyway ', said Clive, unaware he was interrupting Ann's focused thoughts, 'I'll find the real transcript and give it to you. I'll show you to your desk.' Clive got up with Ann following suit. They walked towards the door.

4

It was close to two o'clock and Ann was bored and peeved that she had to do 'proper' work on her first day. The psychoanalyst she was assigned to today had clients who seemed, to Ann, quite sane. Ann's mind wondered to the weekend just gone by. Ann and her flatmates went out on Saturday night to the local pub the 'Yellow Bird In Mind'. It was the usual exercise in getting as drunk as possible then seeing where the night would take them. They ended up, as it usually did, the four of them staying there until closing time. Ann recalled a moment of table top dancing with one of her flat mates Nicole. It was a version of the 'Can-Can' that most French women would probably not be proud of. Ann stopped typing as this moment brought a smile to her face.

She got up and headed for the kitchen area to make herself a cup of tea. Half way she realised that Mary Johansson, the aforementioned psychoanalyst, was free for about an hour and may want a tea also. Ann decided to make a nice impression on Mary and headed to her office, situated adjacent to where she was seated.

She knocked on the door and was promptly told to enter.

'Hi, Ms Johansson, would you like a cup of tea or anything?'

Mrs Johansson was seated at a grand mahogany desk which was at the front left hand corner of the square room. The traditional Psychoanalyst's couch was positioned to the rear right hand corner and was a beautiful construct of brown leather and what looked like velvet cushion. Mary spun herself around on her chair to face Ann and replied.

'Yes please, Ann. Clive and Neil never make me anything but I'm pretty sure they are making beverages for themselves all the time. Clive is always in and out of the kitchen. I think he's the instigator!' Mary laughed a little as she said it and made a shrug of the shoulders which caused her to inadvertently scrunch up her nose. This reminded Ann of her grandmother even though Ann had previously guessed that Mary's age must be at most 42. Ann's grandmother was a lot older.

'Ok, how do you take it?'

'Milk no sugar, thank you. Ooh... here is my mug.' Mary reached over her desk and picked up a yellow mug with a floral pattern across it and handed it to Ann, who had to walk into the room a little further to receive it. Mary wheeled the chair out to meet Ann, who did not account for this and managed to avoid collision with a swift side step to her left. Relieved she had avoided the crash, Ann took the mug off of Mary and rather too quickly turned around to make for the door not noticing her footsteps. Her left foot caught the edge of a bird stand and shook it violently while, luckily, Ann regained her overall balance to witness an orange blur move on top of the perch within the cage on top. Once settled, the bird within stood upside down but still attached; it was only stuffed.

'Are you ok?' Mary asked looking quite concerned.

'Yes, thank you... and so sorry just lost my footing, whoops!' Ann felt her 'whoops' was a maybe too high pitched for the situation.

'Oh don't worry,' Mary comforted Ann as she corrected the position of the stuffed animal. She started to giggle and continued, 'this reminds me of what my mother used to say; 'The yellow bird will sing but can the Canary Can-Can?''

***

Ann switched on the kettle realising that there was no water inside it. She was too preoccupied about what Mary Johansson had said coupled with the script found at the end of her introduction summary. Ann always believed it was a small world with plenty of elements that overlapped but two references in one day was perhaps too much for her. As she poured water from the tap into the kettle Ann shook her head gently, smiled and figured that there would be more days like this in the future. She tried to remember other times of deja-vu and coincidence but could not think of any deciding that this was just another of those times. Memorable only to the now.

Ann switched the kettle on and then noticed out of the corner of her left eye an open door that was leading to what looked like a spiral staircase. She was intrigued because there was a flicker of light that reminded her of candles or oil lamps that fair maidens would use to walk to there near or certain death in Hammer horror movies. The kettle would take a little while to boil so she walked towards the door.

A little further down the steps and a constant humming noise got louder. She came up to a tall cabinet and was about to walk passed it but stopped as she heard a voice.

'There seems to be a malfunction with the extraction process. Nothing seems to be getting through at situation 34 on sector 4335.' said one of the voices (Ann knew there had to be another person that this voice was talking to). She leaned pass the cabinet and discovered it was a tall blonde gentleman wearing a white laboratory coat, suspiciously clean.

'Ok, but can we fix it?' Said the other voice. Ann could not lean over far enough to see his face but knew almost instantly that it was Clive. The monotone had not changed. It was hardly going to.

'Yeah, but I don't think it's worth it.' The blond man began, 'look, this sector has a pass rate of around 3% at the best of times. Theoretically, if we left this one to be bypassed then perhaps the 3% can be absorbed into other sectors.'

Whilst holding on to the top of the cabinet in order to lean forward, Ann did not realise she was in the process of knocking an object off the top of it and her body froze as she witnessed the descent of a lever arch file from almost above her head towards the ground. It made a very loud sound as it hit the cement floor. Wincing, she looked down towards it to see the file with a large number '5' written in the middle of a roughly drawn circle.

5

An array of four people were seated in a near circle like manner facing each other. A fifth chair was empty but this was only for a short while as a tall man, who must have been in his thirties, sat down.

'Hey, er... anybody know what science this is exactly?' One of the men seated said boldly.

'Well all it said in the advert I saw was that it was a physics one' said the lady adjacent to his right.

'Ok, well we all know that because it was on the notice board. How come I have never seen anybody here before we must have been working together for ages.' Said the fifth man.

'I just started so I'm excused. Can you believe that I'm getting paid more to be here rather than on a day of 'normal' work?' The 'bold' man answered.

'Whatever, anyway. Anybody have the faintest idea why we're getting paid to sit here. Where's that idiot that brought us here anyway?' The fifth man retorted. The other four fell silent for a moment - all avoiding eye contact. Walking up behind the fifth man the man they were talking about had arrived and introduced himself.

'Hello there I'm John and am going to clear everything up. Before I...' John had to stop as the fifth man interrupted...

'-Er... did you hear what we were talking about just then' he said a little quieter than his previous throws.

'Yes and I regret to inform you I'm not an idiot.' The fifth man put his hand up in a gesture to acknowledge his mistake and shuffled back in his chair in a defeated and embarrassed–esque position.

'Anyway,' John started, 'Let us move on and discuss what's happening today. Does anybody here know what the space time continuum is?' Silence hit the room. There was a lot of neck scratching and trademark eye-contact-avoiding but no responses.

'Come on, I know you guys must have heard of something called time/space etc.' John inquired further.

'Er... something like as time unfolds it's like another dimension. It's like a space somewhere... you know, like, if something happens in the past it's like it's... three metres away. I don't know exactly, like that...' The fifth man said, mainly bidding to move on from the idiot comment.

'Ok, it's like that but slightly different; only slightly because what you just said does make sense.' John started, directed mainly at the fifth man but as he realised this he continued by directing comments at all five of the seated. 'At its simplest, it is a line where time occurs and continues occurring. The beginning of the line is, in complexity still – t he beginning of time. The end? Well, equally as complex, but has been theorised to be the end of time... but more as I would like to think of it, the present time.'

'So we are here to travel in time?' said a woman who had not commented earlier. Her eyes were difficult to see due to her fringe. Most of the five laughed a little at this comment.

'No, merely to theorise with me and hopefully, if you all agree, to take part in a little experiment.' John said hesitantly.

'Oh yeah, what type of experiment?' The fifth man asked anxiously. On steadying himself to reply, John realised he had the full attention of his class.

'Ok, well I would like this introduction of mine to go somewhere before I go into complete details of what we will be doing but for now may we continue with this discussion we are having?' John felt like he had dealt with that rather well. The five somewhat nodded and John continued; 'Does anybody have any thoughts on how time exists?'

Before silence could completely unfold the fifth man pre-interrupted it.

'What do you mean?'

'Ok. Well if you assemble a road for three metres you know how you did that. So a distance of one metre is a third of the road. The existence of distance, in this case, is measured by the road. That was how we made distance.' John thought why he divided the distance by three.

'Well then, a clock is how we measure time.' The fifth man said, losing a little nerve realising he had rolled the answer to John's theorising too quickly and brashly.

'Indeed,' John started, 'But how does it exist? With the road, I can walk back to a third of the road and know that it is a metre and, more crucially, know that I had been in that very place previous.' John felt a plush feeling after successfully using the division that he had thought he would not use.

'Er... what do you propose?' The fifth man responded.

'Well think. How can any of us here, right now, be in another place and time?' John thought he may have been better off not including 'place' but just 'time'. This didn't seem to be a problem as another silence engulfed the room. A man with a dark mark on his left cheek, who was yet to figure in the conversations, released:

'Perhaps through imagination?' A smile rose across John's face.

'Exactly. What if time only existed within our minds... collectively? What if time was not measurably and did not actually exist? This type of theory would explain everything. I'll try not to make this go over all your heads but if we rewind to the beginning of everything it is hard to imagine anything. Perhaps God creating life but then how does God exist? The argument that he 'just appears' because he is the creator is merely an approach for those who have faith. Those who don't, have to strive to explain that if we get rid of the middle man i.e. God we can just say that we appeared, rather than God first, who subsequently created us.' John breathed in deeply and checked whether what he said about God was logical. He decided not to dwell and continued, 'Everything we know and that is in history, in its purest form, is in our minds. From our surroundings, we create time.'

The silence across the room was almost heard but still John continued, 'What I'm saying is simply, on a collective level we all exist through each other knowing that we exist. Time itself also exists because of what we store in our knowledge and share. There is no continuum, no fabric, nothing.' The silence continued through for another five, or so, seconds.

'Ok, that's very...' he coughed though not actually needing to, '...theoretical but now you are going to tell us about the experiment?' The fifth man's voice intonation rose to signify the question.

'A radio station DJ could not link this any better,' John said smirking slightly while doing so. He leaned over to a near by coat rack and donned a clean white laboratory coat then continued. 'Let me explain...'

{back to story contents}

### Patrick Cheung-Pattel

When 6 years old a bright light shone from behind two photographs on a New Year's eve. Only Patrick caught this and continued to stare at the photos. One was of himself and the other of his older sister by two years and eleven months to the day. At the time of the photo, he was four years and 8 months (to the nearest whole month). Whilst people were either not in the room or asleep, the photographs spoke to Patrick. Warned him of this and that, nothing he could recall a fair few years later. Both photo versions of his sister and he were very explanative in mannerism and possibly patronising (in an adult to child way). The expression of his face was in surprise. Hers, content. The real Patrick was neither and rather enjoying the experience... seeing in the new year with almost new faces. Unfortunately, after this one time happening the nature of one time set in. The pictures continued to exist upon the wall but not the actions that came from them. Many moments within the bedroom were spent by Pattel staring blindly at portraits that never moved or spoke. The pictures were transferred to the living room, but still no effect.

So the young man left this page as a chapter. He went on to pastures involving Kieran and the breakfast club 2 gang. After which he was picked up at a university rally by the Surya Justice league. These individuals taught him the ways of leaping and fragmenting; two skills that in possession glued together all he had learnt with Kieran and his bizarre notion of a non-missing $500.

Here we go:

10The engineering of mammals is one thing. 'God' and his documented ways, but what is not is the piece-piece. How do we go from not humans to humans, then interaction, this too non-humans-to interaction, to next? The basic concept of from nothing to something. God's greatest invention; time. How did He do it? Many humans have tried at this theory and succeeded with failure: fame and limited fortune though in incorrectness. The real benefit of time lies within atmospheric pressure and the constructs of such. Whereas we SEE electrons, protons and neutrons as the rewind of being, we fail to see HOW movement can be created through these mediums. (It is one thing to talk: gravity is a force that with Soul causes distance in travel to be recognised. To move through time, one needs Soul and Revolution. For if two objects are moving simultaneously then time becomes a dimension. Obvious, granted.) But conceptually, this does not explain how to 'leap' or 'fragment'. The simple answer is through using forces such as Soul, Gravity and Revolution with techniques of the mind. The speed of thought is phenomenal – faster still if the fact that in propulsion, the mind is in use of revolution. Ha! That easy.

And so the young man Patrick studied with Surya for the good part of five – fifteen years; eventually, his studious brain developed ways of 'mind travel' (not quite time travel) that furthered Surya and got them to where they are now. Patrick suggested getting Jones on their side, perhaps tempting him with answers to the queries that stumped young brains. Reluctantly; from the stand point he had not known that lad for fifteen years, he eventually agreed. The thinking was a phone call away, but the other camp at Surya had abduction in mind. Queue the present tense:

### Under Violet

11"So what the fuck do you want with me?" Jones asked nicely.

"To join our organisation, once the sun is down, the world will change. These changes are in semblance with what the Gods will bring down. Sweeping humanitarian loses we think. Well actually, it is more than think. The knowledge is current and there is no way around." The stranger (of two) read from behind a mask.

"Wait. What makes you so sure of a stupid statement like that?"

"You have a gift harnessed through dedication to what would be considered an art. You cannot sit there and tell me that there is no more to what you see. Evidence is not a priority for us; what we are asking is that you and your ability reconstitute with a new beginning. A pathway you will not regret. However, the length of time you will have to do similar if you so refuse is limited anyway."

"Was that a threat?" Kieran was working up an anger. "Fuck you! You aint gonna threaten me. I've been in worst situations than this and I've taken guys out twice your size. Pat, I know we go way back but fuck you if you're joining this loser."

"Do not take it the wrong way"

"I'm tied to a chair, how the fuck do you want me to take it? The right way?"

"Listen, I'm talking about the planet's survival after the sun is fully diminished. Practically zero. Do you think you have what it takes to dodge bullets, predict murders/solve crimes in the dark? Do you think society will exist as you know it? Everything will change... become unpredictable but one thing is for sure. Humanity will decease and whomever is next will grow from the seeds planted by the God in charge of doing so. I will not cease you for disagreeing with my chant, it will eventually happen. Unlike the one single man on this planet, you are not indestructible." Kieran eased into less stress after this back track. He was about to query the use of the kidnap. A cup of coffee at a bistro would have sufficed. "We kidnapped you to send a message of your disappearance to those who are privy to your existence. You are a detective, it could be anyone of the hoodlums you have incarcerated. But the point is, if you decide to join us, we could explain your ultimate vanish as death. If you so shouldn't, we will let you go and ourselves: vanish." Mind read. The talker must be emotively spending; only when worked up with feeling can a person read another's mind.

"That's fancy tricks old man. Let me out of these cuffs or I will get angry and if you've done your research, it is dangerous when I am angry."

"Please do not threaten us, in turn. You are here because we were able to defeat you at any given point. Prediction of your moves does not require the emotional energy that other abilities need." Each discussed topics of destruction until Pattel broke up the ego crunch. "Look we are here, so let's just decide what's happening from here."

Patrick signalled for the release of prisoner Kieran and was obliged. Det. Jones said no and walked to the door. Patrick convinced him to hear himself out. He gave him a speech about the future of mankind and the Gods of pre and post Hinduisms and how life would end for being incapable of life without sunlight. How the end of the sun sparks the end of not only mankind, animalkind but also Godkind for when the sun falls so does the division between a heaven and the walks of these lands. Not the interest wallah for the Hindu mythology plastered all over school times, Kieran gave Patrick a maybe. He took a business card and left.

### *I Bought You That Shawl

David looked at Annette, her eyes were teary. He had not seen her in just over a year. Her eyes were also teary then. He had constantly thought of the words he was to say to her; an explanation as to why he had left; the situation he was in now; all the general talk associated with a leave of absence. Though all the planning, he still could not remember much of the speech whilst they stared directly at each other.

Even with watered vision, Annette saw everything. The courtyard, the church, other people. And, of course, David's eyes. She turned away from each, half facing the sun through the leaves and branches of an oak tree, only to have the blue pair still stained in her mind. Annette never forgot the way each shone especially when David spoke. She never forgot his voice; he could always sweet talk her.

She sat down, cross legged upon grass and fallen leaves preparing for conversation. David still looked at her from standing point as she brushed blonde hair behind one ear – an ear that had heard all of his words in the past. The arguments, the jokes, the nags, the complaints. Everything. David had shared all his thoughts with Annette. Yes it had been a year, but still, 'he knew how to talk to her, right?' He told himself. David knelt down and began to speak.

"Look, being with you is great and I have had a wonderful time. I enjoy you, your friends and just the times in general. I remember holding you, Annette. You always said you could not sleep until you met me. I hope you can, even now that we're apart. I mean, we are not apart... I mean. I left you but it was at a bad time in my life. The lies... the... well, I know. I sound like a bastard. Just another typical man who was out to hurt you, maybe that's why I left you, but I'm here now. Does that count for anything?" David bit his lip. "Silly me, I can't even admit that I'm not in your life anymore. You... you were the only one I ever loved... corny, I know. But it is the truth and if it means anything. Absolutely anything at all, I want you back... Stupid, stupid!" He shook his head; what was he saying? "But still, I'm here aren't I? There must be a reason for that and I can only think is that that reason is you. Think about it; I've been away from you to find out the silly wisdom in exactly what I have missed... oh I don't know, Ann, am I making any sense..?"

Annette sighed 'Oh Dave...'

"-No, don't answer that! Let me finish. I know you probably have no trust for me. I was the one who upped and left. Especially when we were going through a bad patch but if you think about it, I've never done that before. When have I ever done anything stupid before? I regret my decisions a year ago but I can't take it back. I'm in between hell and heaven with decisions; yet all I wanted was to see you again. How would I know you'd be anywhere but here? Because I know you and I'll admit you are the only one who knows me. I've been away and I almost... this is hard to say... I know you can't take me back. I've hurt you. Just, hear me. Let me hear you say you forgive me and... and... I'll leave."

Annette pulled her black shawl further over her shoulders and body to stop the draft. The wind whistled. She could hear it purr. She could hear everything. The distant traffic, tweeting birds, leaves rustling. And, of course, David's voice.

"I bought you that shawl. Remember? From Camden market after you said you wanted it but couldn't afford it. I walked you down that shop... I forget the name; left you there and then I went back to the stall got it, brought it back and surprised you. That's probably the sweetest thing I've done. Maybe the only thing... I wish you would say something." Annette remained in silence, though further tears rolled picking up speed. "I could never stand you crying. That's why I walked out of the house. But... but it's not your fault, I should have been more of a man. Faced up to my responsibilities. I... we, wouldn't be where we are right now..."

She turned to face him; she had anger in her; her cheeks were flushed red. David knew he had to pause. She jumped up suddenly to walk away and even when David reached out a hand to stop her, she was way beyond his feeble attempt. He could only look at the shape of her body as she walked. He felt the mistakes of the past haunt him in one barrage of feeling and without pausing for any thought to explain it he shouted "Wait!"

Annette stood still in her track. Her hair had blown furiously out of control yet she turned to face the wind, and David. Taking breaths and assured steps she approached him. From inside the black shawl she produced a single red rose, squeezed her eyelids of excess and placed the flower on the ground in front of where she had sat. 'I love you.' She whispered.

### *The Rehearsal Box

When I looked at Hailey; especially the way she clutched that box, I felt the demons of her past rise again. My heart sank on that moment. Sometimes I feel as if I get somewhere; make some progression with her. Cure her, if you will of the illness that is the issues of her-story. At this stage, I am no way near and perhaps we'll never get that close. But I will help her – in some way. I will carry her away from the haunting memories of evil... and this, I think will start with the box.

At one point she told me she was ready. To burn the little wooden container. Burn it and its contents. The contents of a not too distant past. This being the past which I hate vehemently. A past of hers that I envy with an aggressive nature so shocking and so inexperienced am I with it. I told her I never get jealous. But what have I got to give in resistance to the past? Someone who has given her memories that she could interact with; believe in, have faith towards... invest self within. Not the childhood situations where one is pushed into and expected to tussle. A past in which my Hailey could know another, feel another and love him. James his name was.

I saw Hailey's eyes when I spoke his name aloud.

'James huh? And so what? I'll slit his fucking throat... and with my nail!' I had to say such a disgusting vulgarity. 'Fuck him. I'm me, he is he. He fucked you up yet you harp on about him like he was the bees knees.' She looked as if innocent. She was; the last statement may have been myself playing over the top. 'What? – he beat you right? Have I laid a finger on you.?' Did she nod? Let say she shook; the reaction I wanted. 'No. Exactly; I treat you with respect. Yeah, sometimes we all need someone to command and be in control and make the decisions and stuff but fuck him – he was way out of it. He was aggressive and ill and a psycho... My God, what about the rape shit?' I must have paused. I always swallow breath when I note the situations that she had shared in strictest confidence. 'You sit there, teary eyed, threatening to do stuff to yourself over this; at me shouting... when he was crazy enough to really harm you. You think me shouting is worse? Why?' Her eyes always told me why – she loved me. Hindsight told me why; Hailey was always affected by words much harder than any action. And; though in the zone I was in, I could not let this stop me. I had to believe that what I was to say was of importance though she was sensitive to anything I could say; almost an explosion waiting to happen at the correct pressure... except, no being knew what that was. Even if I tried, I could not hold out. Here I stood before the image of my faith – my love. The woman who has taught me to live again and breathe... actually wanting to breathe. I could not sacrifice the truth for somebody so important. Was I to forego kept feeling? If I kept myself from her then the fear that she would hide from me was far too great a boundary in the pursuit to know and love her all.

'No, don't look at me like that. I know you love me... now. I know you want me and haven't even seen that fucker for ages. He is a part of your past. You love me and should be able to let him go like: that.' I clicked my fingers; left hand – thumb and forefinger, not middle. Just like she had once taught me.

Did I get her attention? Did she notice? How could I say; it's so irrelevant though my mind told of the poignancy. 'So maybe you can't, but when do I talk about my exs? Once a blue moon. There isn't a day gone by when you don't mention that cunt James. The bastard who ruled your life. You say you hate him, you didn't respect the stuff that he did... that you guys did together. You thought... well, you even thought he was gay for fuck sake! Yet when you see me, you see him don't you?'

Ah, here I said it. Did I believe it? Feelings or logic? In which reality are feelings actually synonymous with logic and reason? Only one answer; love. I said it, it was out there and she would know it because I love her.

'You model us on him. Him and you, that is. Just say it. say that's what you do. Think of him, when I'm like this – you think I'm going to hit you? You think I'm going to cheat on you? You think I'm going to leave you... like he did. I fucking love you, Hailey. You do not know what I have been through before you and yeah, ok, maybe it's not quite what you have been through... this James shit and then the childhood... yes, that was sick and twisted. That was worse. This is where James couldn't get to you in time constraints but that arsehole warped it by taking you at a point so vulnerable. He used your past to burn you. He used the disgusting animals who did those... those things to you and did he help you? Did he help the child of you walk away?'

I wanted to grasp her and shout 'No' at the top of my lungs. But I looked at the box. I saw the happy memories. I actually saw James' wooden box open and out float the pendant he bought her. Out came the letters he wrote detailing how he missed her, romantic walks, intimate times and his confessed love for her. Silly little ornaments one buys for a lover, cute items of little worth but high value none-the-less. It flooded my body; the cold realisation that he was a man in her life that had shown her a time of joy. Holistic in approach, he had equally ripped this away from her; but a pause for the happiness and the box that represented this. Did he... Could he have helped her? Dormant this idea should have stayed for it is one notion to commit a man like myself. I shook it violently from my awareness.

'I know I can help you... more than him. But I sometimes sit... or lay or walk and think – what if I was before James? If I had caught you then. None of this would have happened. The pills. The rapes. The self harm. None of it. I would have split my skin open to stop you from doing all that. I would have wiped every tear away from your face and kissed you whole, all over so that it would have shown you physically that I loved all of you. even the areas that have marks and bruises – the ones you can hide and the ones you cannot...' I panted. I swayed. She is never this quiet; maybe I'm imagining her all wrong. 'I would kiss your temples and all over your head to try to ease the memories that you have – of him, James and of those other fuckers who have abused you. I sometimes think of harming them. Really fucking beating the living shit out of the men who have hurt you. I act out what I have in my mind – I envision your uncle, the one that... you know, when you were a little girl. I envision him in front of me and I swing my hands until I can't feel them or until I get dizzy. I think of James and I can see myself kicking his balls until I was satisfied he would be pissing blood for a week. How dare he put his hands on my princess...' I closed my eyes and even swung a limb. I saw Hailey frightened of this. She shrieked and jumped almost. I did not touch her to reassure her; I simply continued with my words. 'I wont hurt you like him. I will never do that; I'll make you happy. We'll live the rest of our lives together in happiness, you will see. I'll erase and substitute painful memories with happy ones of us... even us married and... kids.' Could I see her laugh? And a smile? - she rolls her eyes and covers her mouth when she is shy and embarrassed. I find this so at home. 'You see. You like that. You like it with me. You'll be so happy with me and yet you wonder down the path of history – going backwards and rethinking and comparing me with that idiot. I'm so different and I know you agree verbally, but I have so much trouble with being convinced that there is something subconsciously in you that wants him... at least, a version of 'me' though like him.' I can see Hailey busting a gut to explain though I shut her down – it's my speech, I talk not her. 'Don't take this the wrong way – it's not a fight. From the moment I saw you, from the moment we emailed each other, texted... called each other up on the phone... there was something there. It's more powerful than anything I have experienced and I just want you so much that I could not bare my life without you. In fact, that is a threat.' I know she appreciated me saying the words even if the extreme was sought and thought. I saw the box and it disappeared. I nodded my head as I felt her hands wonder the sides of my skull. Into her eyes I imagined requesting the following: 'That box you have of his. Let's do it. Let's burn it now.'

Yes, I breathed in semi-assured as I witnessed Hailey's face disappear. I have a newfound courage – I think it's time to go to her flat. The foolishness within me honestly believed that this rehearsal was over.

### *Hair Today

James was losing his hair. For a few years he thought that perhaps his friends were overreacting and just teasing him to provoke a response. Unfortunately, the mirrors were not lying or teasing. This was it. Hair today, gone today.

James put the smaller mirror (of the two) down next to the bath and went through his options. He did not have the courage to go through any sort of hair replacement stuff. Wigs were out of the question. Shaving his head was an option but being quite skinny and not well built in size he guessed it would not suit. He wasn't sure. One thing that was; the ladies would not like it.

James queried his love life. For years he confessed to being a man who would not commit to a woman. But now it was different. His hair was going and it was time to settle down with the lady who would accept him for who he was and not what was going on with his hair.

He thought about Tracey – the person he was dating (officially) for six months now. There were some glaring mistakes and differences but perhaps there was a future. A future that involved James with Tracey and lots of children. Problem: Tracey was unable to conceive; solution: adoption. Good. That's settled and now to pop the question. Yes, at a restaurant over wine and steak. Or vice versa.

James believed that his racing mind was not the answer to his problems. From experience he concluded that it never was. He breathed in and then out. He calmed and mentally drew out the plans.

5 years later

James stood in front of the mirror. 'It never lies' he told himself, 'or was that the camera?'. His hair was fading fast - at the front as well as the top of the middle. He panicked but remembered his loving wife, Elizabeth, in the next room fast asleep. He felt at ease and knew that life would get better as soon as the first child came out in three months time and the second a couple of years later. A fleeting thought of the meeting he was going to in 5 hours time brought the panic back. How was he to convince the board about his fabulous idea? Was it really that fabulous? Was his follow on speech any better? Was the job he was in really worth the worry he felt almost everyday of his working life as well as every other day?

James queried his working life. For years now he was stuck in a pathetic job that involved his peers asking him to take their ideas and promote them in a tedious way to a stuck up board who always accepted everybody's ideas except for his. Today would be no different so it was time for a plan. In three years he would be out of the job and into a beautiful vocation where his ideas were accepted and created to bring better quality to the earth. He would be the team leader rather than just a team worker. There are plenty of companies out there that would want him; he just needed to find them. In the next three years he would be working for one of them and on a salary that would support his loving wife and three potential children.

He went into his room and without disturbing Elizabeth, he got a pad from the drawer and wrote out the plans.

Another 5 years later

James opened his eyes. The ceiling was different. He realised he was at Tracey's house and rolled on to his left for more sleep. Something crawled into his mouth. James sat up and tried spit it out but could not. He put his hand in his mouth and picked out what seemed to be hair. He made his way into the bathroom and turned on the light.

Yes indeed it was hair.

Washair.

Ishair.

Hishair.

His hair was still shedding even after all these years. He thought that would stop at one point. The mirror was slightly chipped at the bottom right hand edge. He remembered back to the time he broke it. 10 years almost to the day. He was fooling around with Tracey, while Tracey's parents were downstairs making dinner for them. He could not believe this mirror had been around for so long - just as he had kept his job for so long. Why was he still a team worker for an advertising company? Why had he not filled out a single application form for another company? Why was he divorced? Why did his children keep forgetting who he was even though he went around every fortnight? Why was his fucking hair still falling out?

James queried his luck. He didn't get any breaks. If he had breaks he would have been a success by now. He would be a leader, he would not be divorced, his kids would love him and his hair would be sitting beautifully on his healthy scalp. He knew it was time for a plan. A great plan. A plan that would see his wasted life become fortified with joy and fullness. A plan that would bring luck crawling up to him begging him to take him back - looking at him in the eyes and crying; crying for the ill way it has treated him – guilt. Guilty for all the times she slept with that bastard from Hornchurch library. This plan would succeed him. All he needed was another advertising company, a better solicitor (she cheated on him why did she have the children?) and a damn good trichologist.

He stumbled into Tracey's room and searched for some paper – he found a napkin. Using only an eye liner pencil, he began to iterate the plans.

A further 10 years later

James felt worried. He was uncomfortable due to the firmness of the surgeon's table. His days of living flashed before him as he waited for the anaesthesia to kick in. A tumour they said. At his age – pretty disastrous. Disastrous at any age. When he next would wake, he would wake, but half a man. A golden piece of dust landed brightly on his chin. It grew into the size of a five pound note. It spoke.

'Hello there, I am the speaker of fortune for that of the future, that of the past and present. How do you do?' James knew not to reply as he felt a little drowsy. Is this what hallucinations are?

'I'm actually from our admin department and we believe we have made a mistake' said the speaker of fortune. S/he continued 'We think, well... we sort of know that we have given you too much luck. That type of luck, that you humans believe is of the negative kind.'

'wha...wer...wha...' James tried to mouth but could not due to the continuing effects of the depressant.

'We here at the 'Federation Council of Uncontested Kismet' would like to apologise for our misrepresentation of your situations and hereby grant to you, as a one time offer only, redemption through the fortuitous nature as underlined in paragraph H16 of the contract of yada-yada-yada, you may request a written summary at any point in your not so distant future.'

A surge of adrenalin moved through James' body that gave him enough energy to stay awake. He tried to speak.

'Federa... fedra..fed?' He half spoke and spat. The speaker of fortune's admin department representative replied.

'Yes, you can imagine the copyright situation but luckily, and no pun intended, we have no such laws in our realm. Surprisingly though, the T-shirts were not as big as they are in your kingdom.

I digress. Here is the brief. If you wish to take us up on our offer then you must listen to what I will say in your ear. You then have 20 earth seconds to write down what you hear me say on a piece of paper which when read out loud, or to yourself, will provide you with the positive fortune that we so owe you due to our errors and our miscalculations. If you do not write the sentence down then you cannot read it out loud, or to yourself, and your memory of our conversation will cease to be and so will the positive fortunes that we owe you, due to our error arriving from our inaccurate computations. You cannot just say out what I speak into your ear as it is the process of reading and reading alone that will determine whether you receive the positive fortune that we owe you, due to our error as a result of our incompetence. Do you understand and do you want me to say the words?'

James queried his life. He was retiring early from his Associate Team Co-ordinator job; he never made leader in the twenty-one odd years he had worked for that bastard firm. His wife divorced him and re-married to a Librarian from Hornchurch; he had not seen his children for nine years because '...I do not believe another man in my two boys' life would be constructive to our nuclear family environment...'. Tracey was not the right woman for him because Tracey was a man; a man who could not pull off eye liner. James had testicular cancer. And last but not least, not least of all least – not even lesser than any of its predecessors... James had lost all his hair; all except the hair on his ears, in his nostrils, the back of his neck and most disturbingly, on his tumoured testicle. How could he say no?

'Ye...jer...ya...' James gave up and managed a dismal nod. The speaker of fortune golden £5 look-a-like crawled across James' face and placed his/herself next to James' ear standing on the pillow. Five seconds later it disappeared.

20 James scanned the room with his limited lying down vision for a piece of paper and a pen.

19 His ultimate plan was only a few seconds away from being written,

18 and he did not have the ability to move.

17 He knew that all these years of disbelief could be over in a matter,

16 of fifteen odd seconds. But he could not fucking move. He tried a last ounce of adrenalin

15 motivated movement to roll off the bed and land on the floor, to miraculously find a pen and paper to write what had been told to him.

14 He felt his chances slipping away as his only movement caused him to move onto his side still on the bed.

13 He rested to regain energy.

12, 11

10 He went for it. Nothing in his life meant more at this stage than the

9 reduction of his ill and mis-fortuitous life.

8 The final movement saw his eyes sink closer to his,

7 pillow. He sighed mentally,

5, 4

3 He looked on the perfectly beautiful white pillow to find one flaw.

2 A single blade of shortly cut, grey, male hair.

{back to story contents}

### Uterus Theory

Women have the patience of Florence Nightingale descendancy. Why? It's about potential. Frustration is absorbed through the pores of the skin (yes, and other orifices) and stored within the body's cavities. When these spaces become filled the human body is poisoned and so frustration is needed to be released.

Men have limited space for such modules; all the same places as female (derm layers, capillaries, arteries, organs etc.) in addition the male organ. In comparison, the female uterus can store a vastly sum. Most women are born with a natural automaticity to bury deep seeded wounds down deep – this area is in fact the uterus. Frustration builds up (like an embryo increases size) and is released much later than in the un-spacious male. In sense, giving birth is a process by which many women fail to adequate patience – confirming the theorem.

In fact, women of the twentieth/twenty-first century all created space within themselves to deal with the shocks and cast men would place upon them.

### Annie Mofat

Gosh, what can be said of Annie that no other has not said already? She started off under the pursuit of witchcraft. From around the age of five having seen a séance performed by her older sister and friends at a slumber party. As with any child, it excited her yet she pursued the 'dream' onwards and began deep research into the other realms of issues.

By age twelve, Annie had convinced herself that she could move objects with the power of her thoughts alone. She had propelled her father's vehicle from grounded parking position to three feet off the coated tarmac, ready to fly, all by imagining herself in the 'cockpit' manually doing as had happened.

For a couple of years (pre-quartet), Annie submerged her mind into the art of Astral Projection. Using techniques such as transcendental meditation, yoga and traditional mantra and relaxation methods. At the non-science, she believed in her abilities to wonder aimlessly and aimful; occasionally following a local neighbourhood boy she had a desire for, around as he walked to and from his girlfriend's home.

12It was not until college days that she fell head first into the subject and movement of feminism. At a history in literature class she took, she sat next to a girl who along with Annie were the only females in the class of fifty. The lecturer brought to her first and only lecturer (guest spot) The Burned Period of Literature. So called thanks to the fires of circa. 2415-2420. All libraries were burnt to ground following what is no believed to be government legislation (though this can never be proved thanks to most evidence being very much destroyed by now – seven hundred years is a long time and including the four hundred catering for the birth of some pieces, a millennium old literature will always be in doubt).

Indeed some aspects remain and one that stood out to Annie was the work of Ms Darlina (circa. 2000-2010 – over 1100 years old!). In particular a short story she wrote detailing the irresponsibility of man towards women. The fact that a man so in love with a woman could not see past the superficiality of skin colour. The lecturer, Preena Hawkes, told the class about the problems of race and skin colour issues in those times and the class sat in amazement at what they heard. It was quite far fetched with very little solid backup. Firstly, no documented films existed of the period, so no hard sight can be seen of what Mrs Hawkes was suggesting. No film reel, digital file even photos. Secondly, people of different colour existing over the vast area of the planet seemed absurd. Yes, some are more darker than others whilst out in the previous sun, but now that the star was fading dramatically everybody on this planet earth was the same colour. How could one even fathom a 'Black' man? How could he be seen at night? Were 'White' people really that blank?

Into the realm of science fiction Preena toiled to all except the two women sitting almost in the centre of the auditorium. It made almost sense, rather dramatic but in a female perspective moreso. Yes, what she said was rather Loretta-esque but so what? Male dominance in societies then and now is as plain unjust as ever. Of course, back in that archaic time it seemed from the stories (obtained from Hawkes later on) female subservience was extremely unnecessary and counter-intuitive to the goals of continuing humanity. To this day, over one thousand years later, women (though not as physical) still play an underscore to the men who rule this planet. And where has that got the human race as a whole? Edging towards death and extinction thanks to a sun that does not wish to light up, tens of billions of years before it was even supposed to become a White Dwarf... let alone nothingness.

Due to the ineffectiveness of demonstration, Annie worked desperately in the underground for the elevation of the female species. In male patterns, she hit theorem and concepts (e.g. Uterus Theory, Nail-For-A-Nail Theory and more, all coming from her shed)...

[to which there replied a man who suggested blood pressure as a view against Uterus theory; 'the man will always suffer high anxiety because he does not speak about his problems and let out the stresses that plague his body... how can this account within the spacious dimensions a necessity for Uterus Theory' to which Mofat argued that stress receptors and reception is a scientific difference. Whereas patience is like air and fills gaps like diffusion and other gas transfer systems, stress are attracted to micro fibres; like those found in hair. Beards and body hairs grasp stress and cause increased blood pressure and hypertension like odours from smelly feet stick to plastic flooring and not carpets.]

...in order to model a change. With others, sexuality was express-pushed into breach in order to draw with the feminine form. Again too male. By the later stages of her female (underground) unit gathering, Mofat awoke one morning to come to an idea that was even beyond the realisation of how she could have fathomed it. The purpose used all she had learnt through witchcraft by in ways so as to splinter logic and reason and demand the irrelevant as its opposite. To cut up what we know as sense is the taste of the new wave. For if sense leads to what we know now, then non-sense is a quest for which backtracking will lead onto the saviour of humanity. (Mofat was rather only in want of saving the female side, but as consequence, men would cease to perish also. She couldn't have everything.)

### *Perfect Girl

I looked at my new love and felt the feeling rush back to me. I hadn't been in love with a woman for over ten years. Maybe more. Many fleeting romances and flirt away overnight 'successes'. Fun yes, but nothing beats the feeling of looking over a sleeping one; to hold within you a gentle sigh of satisfaction. Especially with music you have so often sound-tracked to your previous perfect moments – this case being, upon repeated CD, My Favourite Things, a version mastered by John Coltrane.

She stirred, awoke and caught me. Oh no, I said, caught red handed, starring at you, princess. She lightly reached out and touched my nose telling me how she had finally convinced me that she was the one. I pursed my lips and reluctantly (yet wanton!) agreed.

That morning; love was made, in more ways than one. That afternoon we ate lunch whilst gazing into each other's eyes. The next day, though parted, we kept in hourly contact. The following week we made plans for a trip together. The next month we honoured those plans; taking a weekend away by a beach in sunny weather.

I spoke of her. To those I work with, my friends, my familiar. They noticed the extra rise that my eyes now had. My whole frame seemed higher than in the previous darkened years of my, what I call, non-existence. They ached to meet her and I yearned to let them see who was causing such a change to my step. To give credit where credit stood.

So whilst out shopping with my loved one I confronted her with this issue. The delight upon her face; a reaction to the importance, faith and commitment I had shown her by the simple proposition. The instant was serenaded over supermarket speakers by a club saxophonist's version of Gershwin's Summertime; the correct season, the correct song.

I twinkled toed to pick items off shelves so haphazardly. I was on no budget when it comes to love. Love For Sale, Porter would say. How quaint, everything is cheaper when here to this feeling.

My love looked at me. With her eyes she told me she had missed me while I played itinerant; interested in my own products while she to hers. Those eyes awe sailed quickly and smoothly through transition to delight and laughter. Uncontrollable for awhile! What could have been so funny; I asked her? In reply she gave me gesture to the item I carried. Why would someone of dark brown skin need a tanning agent? She queried, still giggling. Ugh, my love! So cute but near possessed with the humour demon she failed to see my logic. It's not for me, you're always telling me how this weather is a waste to your pale skin tone, I'd thought I would be the helpful boyfriend and give you an alternative path; I told her. With that, she took the lotion, smiled and hugged me. I felt the sense of togetherness; one. I could think for her as on other time she'd do the same for I.

In the car home I sought Cole's song and in particular, an interpretation by son of Nat: Julian Adderley. I glanced my partner (with smile).

Soon after we noted that a year of our togetherness had flown. Time flew as a couple had fun, grew intimate and nursed each other to maturity; not only as individuals but as a coalition. For in the winter of that year we held each other, generating heat as one. In the same season of the next, she fell ill; non to serious, but I nursed her through back to fitness. Though I was free of ailment; for every damp cloth I lay upon her forehead; for every trip to the pharmacy; for every spoonful of medicine, pills, ointments, I too felt the drain of energy associated with such a loss of wellbeing.

And then spring; a traditional time for lovers. Our first one together; everywhere and all places, couples seem to be. You could see the likeness in faces; each pairing growing into one. In a park, she held my hand and kissed me, noting my embarrassment to such public affection. On days like those I make exceptions.

As Wayne Shorter composed Chaos, did he envisage a premonition of my second summer? We were strong, though glances told of a few issues that arose to here... to there. Nothing that as two born so certain to be together could not overcome. If strong, we grew stronger. A unit of combustion; but not for fall out, but to re-ignition. Passion, whether fuelled on by heat or not, was the semblance of this season. Together, there was fire appropriate to the climate.

Approaching the autumn months I contemplated the unification of the relationship I had grown so fond of. It had been the three months of summer certification pushing the notion to forefront; my God, what a quarter! I had said our course was plot from birth but I use prerogative to claim sail at a point beyond the realisation of our current lives. Now into this; we have repositioned veils of our vessels and have planned the exact some route. We are even, I would be so bold to say; music. Unpredictable as humanity, yet together as if privy to each's 'Introspection'. Indeed, this idea has given new meaning to the track of the same name stroked majestically in timing by Theo Monk.

There are various aspects of our simple led lives where we so much as live life in the frame of joining. I had given the example of our shopping; a little part of life, though so scaled to height when shared with a pair of eyes that when looked at; revolution plays friction at a loss. We do not hold same occupation; though in proximity, lunch hour is almost the everyday meeting of our pair. After work even; we assemble two halves at the local health club (for which we are members as a couple!). Granted, I am a stickler for dumbbells and heavy lifting whilst she, would prefer to spend time in a cocoon absorbing ultra-violet light. My point; our fusion.

So I took deep breaths, sipping wine, paving concentration to Ellington... then Dizzy... before she would step into my personal space through the street entrance door. Nervous in what I was to ask my beloved. No, not quite the hand in marriage as yet. But a predecessor: living under one roof. This roof. Even saying these words make me tingle with anticipation. I hold the feeling that my love will adhere to my wish; she has throughout our loyal companionship thus far. The biggest and smallest whims of mine have been granted by my summer girl; perfect in everyway; even her modesty! She should know she has everything I could want, yet she would find a way to level her head by finding invisible flaws. For my part, all my gestures are to make her feel extra wanted. If I could do more, if I could do more... even my closed nature is slowly opening to her style. A knock.

My darling is here, smile, eyes all here. Skin a little redder than I may have expected! Taking advantage of the freakish weather for this supposed more milder season. I assume. Though pleased, she does seem within a world of perturbed. I will pull no punch for now, to ease her back to good fortune I'll tell her my reason of importance to this day. I tell her – will you move in with me? To which I expect - more than I lucklessly receive? There is a tint of question in her words (spoken over backdrop; 'I'm Old Fashioned', the Coltrane Sextet):

I am not sure, my love. I have this nagging concern about you and where we are heading. (you see the modesty?). you say you love me, you do things that no other man has done to me... and for me. Yet, there is a side of you that I am finding it impossible to know. (what of? for I am nothing but honest). You see, that's it. I'm not sure you are being honest with me... completely. It may not be completely... I don't know, what's the words... conscious? You have a problem with me... and for this I have tried desperately to change and fit in with what you want me to be. But I cannot physically change. (change? my dear, I would never want you to change). But you do. That's just it; subconsciously you do. I haven't met any of your friends, Michel. I have known you for fifteen months and I have not met a member of your family. Do you think that is absurd? I do. And I know the reason... after long hard contemplation and... and swallowing hard on something that I have not accepted until now. I can't believe it has taken me this long. All the pills, the salons... that bastard tanning lotion you bought me. Michel, I will never be dark enough for you. For your friends, family... well, for your perception of them. Do you think you wont have any friends left if you confessed to loving a White woman? If they are your true friends they will love you just like I have loved you. (loved?). I don't know, Michel. You have confused me. I have been thinking for sometime now and well... I almost got nowhere... look at me, Michel, I'm fucking red! I spent all day in the sun just to see if I can brown any further. The pills you gave me don't work, the creams... whatever, I'm too pale... I just don't colour that way... the way you like and want me to be. The way you want a... a Black man to be with... someone dark, so you can show your friends and your father and tell them how strong she is and you are and how much you hold your roots... or whatever...

She stopped. She cried not looking at me, leaning against a wall below a poster of a man's face, caption reading: Miles Davis. En Concert. I tried to place my hand upon her shoulder but it was too late. She had convinced herself that here, by myself, was not the place for her tonight. The door closed leaving the sound(s) of McCoy Tyner addressing a piano.

### *The Approximation of Marvin

The Smack House (an approximate introduction)

(In a town not so far away from South East London's New Cross, but at a time rewound some, a young South Indian in origin woman by the name of Amrani, shoulder barged a doorframe. It is not easy to see straight when with poor vision and the 6pm facing of a winter evening. It is also not easy to walk straight after inhaling heroin.

"Wish wash! Stay the night and tell me more about thee." The words (or an approximate variation) floated by the back of her long, curly and jet black hair.

Of course tempted she was, but then who could afford a poor trinket of lovelessness for her loved-less-nest? Not her parents for sure; they troubled seeing through the equally (or more so?) troubled light brown eyes of their daughter. No, she had to leave here to return back to them for her family's arms showed unwanted love yet contained wanted funding. To the bus stop, dear.

Amrani stumbled and made her way to wait. She was not alone. Another charmer with offering, though this time an also amateur sleuth; he let his line of questioning fire. "You're fucked aren't you?" He raised his Caramel skinned, shaven headed head and face up. Then down. The gesture to rhetoric.

"What's it to you? Fuck off." An offer of peace.

And so the conversation took rhythm. The house of infame, whose (its) front door boarder shaken in only fresh moments past had also been the point of interested for the young Caramel too. He had braved and tasted the intoxication of both substance and now freedom. Her bloodshot light brown eyes told his self that she was not entirely beyond scope (as too he felt to himself). To fuse saviour as the connection of two, Caramel offered his hand and in that moment of desperation and visualised reconstruction to many years of despair – she took it.)

Approximately Marvin

On leaving the estate gate, Marvin looked back at his flat. The charming small place shared by his soul and comical mere of a woman who liked to call herself his mother. Rather, she was not. She became such after a game of hop-scotch almost twenty-five years ago. The comedic bit; she had gone to the medical kit, to find a bandage for his knee. With it, in hand and watered tissues in the other, his 'mother' wiped the bloody blood away – leaving Marvin slightly (but never fully) dazed.

(There was no rhythm to her swabbing. The bloody blood, however, kept on leaking. It seeped uncaring unto the efficiency of pink tissue use.)

Dingle dangle went her gold chain that was solid through in a rope like fashion; beaming three and equal solid coin type objects at the front – the neckline. The blouse that she wore was v everything. V neck, V low V shape... v show off. The garish piece along with other (ahem) should be hidden assets. To Marvin, the blouse floated at the precious angle in showing the boy his mother's bosom. He could make out the outline of a white bra... hey! Matching blouse and bra!

So he should not have been looking. Yet what else was he to do? Sit and think about things? He was seven years young for Christ's sake!

Later he awoke on the brown bobbled wool type sofa to a wavy light blue ceiling (coloured like so owing to a lack of white paint). He had holes where cotton should have been in his brown trousers (that matched his lay and skin tone). Magic clothing that slipped to come back, reinvent... after he brushed daydream and walked.

Did I leave the gas on? Hopefully I did! What a wickedly funny thought! The whole of the Cromwell Estate exploding and raining brick and mortar on the girls playing skipping games, innocently counting rhymes to one hundred in the courtyard. Boys scoring goals in the FA Cup final, poured on by shrapnel. Except, it was not the FA Cup – no Wembley, no grass, no football kits, no men, no crowd and no sponsors! The Cromwell Estate FA Cup sponsored by the Phoenix National Brickies.

No such luck; so Marvin bid temporary farewell to the cage and made his lonely way down further into pseudo-town. The air was fairly wet with dew though the sky was clean as new. Cold enough for hands in his pockets you couldn't talk it out; even if you knew the language to do so.

Hood up. Grey concrete disappearing on account of footsteps with direction. The purpose of a haste (the one with him) was to relieve the mind from the strain of situations. In one particular that had held. (If all to explained now then there would be none for the romance of the story.)

Anyway, he walked. Down to the junction. What once was a one way carriage now a two way circus. Marvin's cold eyes caught a driver drumming four fingers on his black rubber gripped steering wheel. The windows were right up – blocking the sounds of his music. Not even loud enough to leak. White man = Rock 'n' Roll... of course it does! Come on, Marvin, that is politically incorrect of you to believe in such silliness. (Even though he had on a black t-shirt, long and pony tailed hair and with facial features in gothic credulity.)

Marvin smiled. He deserved to smile. Why? – he had not smiled for approximately three point two years. This occasion; his half sister, Jasmine, told their shared father that her ambitions of becoming a primary school teacher were coming true; and therefore that course in biological sciences at the university of [cannot remember] had to be a discounted subject i.e. – a waste of money and a waste of the other thing – time. Instead she now wished to pursue new: childhood studies. The target reference... She thus needed more time and more, the other thing... money.

Her shaped paternal care giver (Ref: J. Bowlby, if alive, 2006) slapped the delicate flower. Twice. One for each cheek. There was a re-balance of earrings which dangled and rattled left, then right and so on. Her eyes were widened to light and her also light, yet mocha skin went bright red, exactly the few milliseconds after impact. She looked like... what's the word Marvin would use..? Oh yes, she looked like shit.

And he smiled. Upper cheek bones raised, top lipped straightened, bottom – elongated, eye bags and skin lines accentuated under growth (not to mention the hairs that formed beard of a week long stubble). Nobody saw this smile as it was brief. It felt good. And so too the present day grin. Maybe he should smile more often. Supposedly, a person looks better when s/he smiles.

Marvin turned right almost bumping into the corner shop owner. He could have said 'hello' yet chose not to. One to many, many to one. This one-to-many had the distinction of dry and coarse hair with side parting leaving the man's head square as can be. He was going grey and so was his thickly bristled moustache. Even his shirt was grey! A very standard fit, his black trousers swayed slim by his ankles leading to the view of thin cotton socks under clumsy, soft leather and laced black shoes.

The pharmacy was opposite. 'Steadfirst' pharmacy. If Stead was first then who second? Ha! So funny! Now the shutters are up; business booms. Marvin could remember another time when it was not quite so. Steel shutters down; vandalised with the words of angry citizens; "Squatters out." Or "Fuck off back home Niggers and Pakis". Should I make an apology for the past?

A Black girl exited the launderette. Marvin eyed her and recognised her as the woman of a girl he once knew. He spoke.

'And what of you? Since we last interacted we both had retracted to a moment under the illusion of a mathematical solution... as the wonder of tri – go – no – me - try; and if by chance our geography had encountered the two of us in co-existence again.'

[What? Is the colloquial what you want? How about the ers and ums? I'll give you the mannerisms that I wish to describe but no more, reader! – It's my story!]

She situated her basket onto her right hip, pushed it out to Marvin's left and held it balanced with her right hand. The almost last of the two's encounter was a detention after conversing across one paper page from a pad in class where numeric wonder was the object (and then some!). The page contained silly questions and equally silly answers written for the other by the two; contrary to Mr Knight, who had a lesson to run and this was too the distraction he did not want for his pupils. Indeed, none of the gibberish written on the page was taken as math. Marvin could hardly remember any of it; except, he writing 'Xena Warrior Princess' diagonally against the lined rule. (A product learnt from a dark skinned Sri Lankan boy who, at the time, he played amateur football with. This child would hum aloud the theme to 'Live and Let Die' then immediately boo other dark skinned players as they received the ball. A key phrase of his, attributed to weaker players who displayed freak moments of strength: 'You are power... you are... zee-naa... warrior prin-sess.')

The current conversation, unlike the paper page, flowed tropically. I have been here... you been there? When was the last... and good to see... he visualised the area where her bra strap may have been, tight underneath the blue track-top and puffy 'Michelin' like yet figure hugging overcoat (which was not zipped). Marvin did not usually think about breasts, though he did not despise them. With regard to sexuality, he thought mainly about the moment of penetration seen from a view not of his own; a camera showing detailed pornographic viewing of his penis piercing the lips of the vagina of the woman who is lying on her back. That's how he would vision it. The lens picking up a calf (the right leg) and the shape of her right buttock along with Marvin's left and also lower torso. He has that dark mocha skin tone.

And back. To the Black girl's breasts. Each (and in unison) are looking nicely shaped but in the bra world – how knowledge? None – guess. Dark brown nipples for dark brown skin (no – very dark brown nipples with dark brown skin). Gently round, firm yet soft (along too; the falsifiable nature of such oxymoronic? The skin, the squeeze... No. Human nature – accept it. Each is soft and firm).

"What is the assortment of your digits?" She queried with a facial contort (meant?). OH YES! The converse. It still existed in reticence. A fob here and there. A thought (or two) also. Etc. etc.

***

Out of the event was the grasp and onto the next he roamed. Flight for feet to the opposite side of the road. And he passed? A network of print manager queries, finance controllers controlling, fruits in shacks in stalls (and also on hooks) altogether thrown into an inverted open prison 'two for a pand, larve.' Convenience; chapter two-three and now the status.

Of yester-year, one would tear a piece of fabric. So tragic with wicker. If I could be any quicker, it would be told that in years gone rather stale; and old and frail... This fortified interest followed the gasp swallowed fellows. What's the name you bellow? Wicker (as stated earlier) and Gear (happy in your smile? Could teeth be any pearlier?).

Snapshot 1

"But if you by two shades, it's £10... innit?" said the young Black man in the interesting colloquial. "Nah..." started the old White lady with added reverb in her puffed cheeks. "Gerald!" she screams!

[ENTER GERALD] a swirly little fellow, boring grey/brown hair; the type he'd have had since fifteen years old; swotting for GCSE related statistics exams to avail triumphant with 'concentration and focus'. An explanation et voile!

"No, boys." He was referring to the young Black man and his equally young and Black friend. A trip ensues that drags the three men to the point of origin in sale of sunglasses. A real three seconds of land. "There, you see that? Good quality stuff and bargain prices. It's fourt'een though. Twent'ee for tha two of 'em. You won't get this for less than twent'ee a pair on the 'I street." Slow nodding. The second of the two information recipients inspects the sign that reads 'two for £10". Oh why silly him; this symbol is the finance involvement for the petticoat basket. Situated right next to the designer lampshade container. In the premise of ill design – too many wicker baskets and not enough time (or space), too many decisions to play at sporadic pace. Well the two now spotted these 'designer' lampshades; a redesign of number one's mother's front hallway (if this is indeed the correct form), he negotiated the duly noted cans of fruit cocktails adjacent to the foaming bath; the sets of boxed orange colour-fazed plates, next to the bed sheets and bedspreads; salt 'n' pepper shakers by tissued cup cake makers, baked beans to children's books: join the dot scenes. From a small ball and a petit cricket bat; which had surround to a mirror wicket, bead ornament bails and toilet brush (with holder) stumps... howzaaaat!

A look of I know you and self-punishment told the number one young Black fellow 'this bait I'm wiv is such a div, yeah. 'ow can you not see dat... you need glasses, you twat.' To which the solitary word of a response came back. 'Move.' Number two went on his way.

An extra £10 to be spent. Mother One will be pleased, though he is not.

Marvin Approximated

Marvin exiled. Nothing of interest really. Though cheap the theme of such a climate there was none for the almost penniless hybrid. Cash in hand was not in hand, currently...

...The bank! No, a store for else. Unconcerned was Marvin's demeanour – swagger. So, passed on to the building for which trees (in variant and shortened form) fly by night to destinations known only by ink stains. Flattened, you know, reader, to this one side from that other. Away each goes; veils of trust through the system (of sort)...

...What is this worth to Marvin? He just looks at a bona-fide way to annoy the world. (Well maybe just New Cross.) Mother and son stood many years waiting for the lines to grow smaller (grow small?) and get moving closer to the lady that argues, miss-files, stutters but is ultimately the Chief of Un-Interest.

Onwards! And a wait upon the people carriage; two 'lines' of the able and not so. Buses have changed a great deal during Marvin's life time but what had not was his ability to travel short distances for free. Marvin enjoyed the benefit of aide, however, he still had to endure some of the negative; the wait. The 'is it?' 'It looks big and red but it's not ours.' Little old ladies discuss creeping centimetres forward... then back again! 'First in line, love. The others don't care why should I?' (As a writer, I maybe being harsh!)

Snapshot 2

*Yo b!luv da feelin of bein on da bus.ther sum dude singin sumfin.'Da english gyal cant cook.u no she wan2but she no sha cant cook..whoa whoa!':-D*

Yes I say the grammar is appalling! However, it is the want of the shorthand. SMS, 'they' call it. A young man (younger than Marvin but by only the coupled years) with a false fisherman's hat stood up after pressing the green button directly under the word 'send' on his mobile telephone. He then pressed the red button with the word 'stop' written on it as he got up and alighted, passing the Black man in the vest and West Indian accent singing the referenced piece.

Off the 'Big Red' onto the light grey pavement; the masses moving in multi-colour; White-pink boys/suede Mixed Race girls/starch White old ladies/almost pastille Vietnamese women/rich earth brown Black middle age men/slash/slash/slash. Like bees to the hive of honey transport.

Around the bus shelter this texter skipped feeling his right hand's bones and skin tingle. One of the five senses he possessed spoke to him, informing his mind that an object was vibrating within his grasp.

*Yeh I luv londn.so many crazy peeps blessin us wiv ther voices on da bus&stuff:-).my sis says that it's a Jaheim trak,ryt?Duno.Wot is it?Da guy sounds like a joka!;-) xx*

Ha! The fisherman thought. 'Jaheim? What deluded world does her sister live in?' Still, he walked home thoroughly background in a wide grin upon his land loving features.

Marvin (approx.)

The built up brick housing to slick whitewashed Jehovah. And moments over: a girl school, built opposite a tidy summed supermarket of capitalist rule. Adjacent; stations, hailing two presentations with one national rail carriage (though not the right term now; how crude!) the other, what's commonly known as the 'Tube'. And over to mini cabs, aki and salt fish slabs; accommodation to the students of New Cross populous. Goldsmith – designed by education to un-ghetto; i.e. 'stop-you-less'.

Marvin alighted the bus, bathed cold air and released thought. What if the gas was on? Mother would pass away in her sleep. She should have years... months... weeks... days ago. Too many. She heroically has stayed beyond her natural life. A heroin – the mother is a heroin. To Marvin, however, heroin was mother.

A vision of her trashed (for want of a more pompous word) face superimposed upon a blonde student's face as she passed our Marvin. He envisioned her selling her soul for a packet of Golden Virginia and some Rizla. Though he had been taller than her for some time, he was only ever looking up at her face when he thought of her – as if from the perspective of a small boy.

"Hey." Said the blonde student. "How are you?"

Marvin staggered a reproach. She may have been a punter or perhaps a one night stand. Worst still, she may have been a girl he fucked for the sake of weed sale. 'I'll have a quarter, ciggies, rizz and you role it whilst you can have my breasts, thighs, bottom and vagina. Oh and while you're deep inside my coouch, why not search for the fragments of my life force which are, in sum and not parts, still owed to the devil. He lives across in the opposite dormitory, you know?'

Judgement was the girl; luckily, she was the very former.

"Coffee?" To which the witch replied no. Her excuse included the search for clothes as compensation for bruises that occurred upon her petit frame several years previous; when winds blew down Clifton Rise rather than how it does now (up).

Alone it is then, dear Marvin. The Rising Sun coffee bar known formerly as Moonbow Jakes (or that place with the CD shop in the basement).

Snapshot 3

"...But I love him." Told the White woman hugging latte with her fists.

"No. No. No. Jesus is love; love for the supreme. Those we cannot see." Told a Black woman, lovely body.

-"I can't see him now."

"Be serious. I will only love two men; my father and Jesus Christ."

"You don't know what it feels like to be away for so long from somebody who you need in necessity. No contact with at all. Your family does not count; if is love. Neither does religion. One is brainwashed into loving either." I paraphrase the White lady.

"I find that offensive. You White people; you brandish us Black and you take our pure... 'white' religion too."

"Fuck off! You can't blame Whites for being critical and questioning a change – it is in all our human natures."

"Don't swear at me." On being offended: a hand brought to the Black lady's bosom, above the white writing over brown background: 'Make Poverty History'. "My point being; if you are White then what am I? If you are light then who am I? If you die pure that how do I?

Second: My religion did not brainwash me. I was chosen to follow His path. You know, like the Waves of Virginia Wolf. You read that yet? The Whitest book you could ever read; yet the dirtiest. Make sense of that... come on. Time for lecture."

They left the Rising Sun.

Marvin (an approximation)

And Marvin used his size ten feet to then speed a hasty stop away from coffee menu; past student and nurse nightspot: the Venue. To ride a large 'U'; a cute and unnecessary manoeuvre, staring office window servers. Past student day spot attended; university campus and halls of residence (previously shunned incapable but grown better since). Marvin eyed all manner of boutiques to again pass the town hall (not New Cross, a further a field 'Deptford' – rather clowned call!). Brushing shoulder wind with recycling cows, then an old public house... bus stand still; surpass and turn for a detour, walking up a hill. Squeeze thighs, squint eyes, breathe hard, pout chest - realise, Marvin; you need a rest. As light faded, changing cold air to colder and dark, our lead male settles aching heels at a local park.

Gosh Marvin, who now sits on one of the seven benches at Telegraph Hill. A short catch of almost fresh air and here he was in a near empty (and he had hoped for business) greenery, hands in pockets searching, equally feeling for the chill.

"You having a light?" A pride from/of Bangladesh asked (addition: this which was written upon her two sizes too small t-shirt; 'Indian Twins'... and I kid you very little). Yes Marvin had a lighter; a blue transparent piece with a solid black switch... click! She was away. Marvin could not resist the temptation to ask her is she needed else, that is, something to light (well business is business). She replied no, and in the business is business mould reciprocally offered her service: "You want a fucking?"

A what? How dare she?! However, she was dressed appropriately for such a statement; though not the colloquial accent. Common it was though far from origin; oh, and why all the sex stuff? "£20."she said. Irony over for Marvin sees the correct angle we do; he addressed the degree some more and looked around. No man tag.

"Where's your pimp?" Marvin questioned in control of a voice, though not of the breeze. He shook.

"I don't having." She smiled and replied. "I going it alone, see?"

He did see. A Bangladeshi prostitute at a park in New Cross, South-East London, alone. What was the matter? Did Marvin not have twenty pounds? (He did. Blonde student had addressed this.) Was he the squeamish type? (He was not. Many other women, the junkie kind, had addressed this.)

He looked her head to toe: black jeans, red heels, fake gold and fake diamond garishly large belt, aforementioned tee, long and purple and frill/thrill embellished coat, looped earrings, pretty yet overly made up face and curly black and shoulder length hair.

"So what, mister? Fucking or what?" Marvin thought hard about how to break the simple news to her. 'No. No. No fucking tonight... why? Well, because you remind me, my dear, of my smack head mother. Though you my sweet, and judging by your eyes, I guess are partial to the other 'ack' drug – cocaine. However, you will be where she was/is soon.' "Well fine, mister, I will taking my biz-ze-ness elsewhere."

It was at this point, where Bangla pride turned and almost last words echoed, that Marvin was struck. The closeness of where he was (no, reader, not New Cross; where he was in life), for so far he had lived a life of close but not exact. Approximations of his life, if you will. He had flashes in reminisce of his mother; a South Indian while this woman; some kind of Asian at least. Coincidence? She looked cleaner than what dirt the years had brought his elder. Could he cleanHer?

Marvin Kita, at the age of idiocy and impression, was never warned of his impending drug related future. A woman had grown up and made the mistake of the approximation known as Marvin and she was now beyond the reach of a saviour. This purple wearing whore, however, was never that. Literally, she was well within his reach.

"Oi. I have a proposition for you, India." If that was her name, how could Marvin know? Ms Bangla Pride turned and raise an eyebrow to listen (it helps some people). "You need protection... you need help... you need me... I'll be your pimp."

Bangla Pride laughed; squarely and inappropriately. Marvin gave her his eyes yet kept each firmly where each did lay. He bargained; he negotiated and set a situation to which B. P. slowly came around to his serious nature. "Why so generoussing, stranger?" She shone a set of teeth missing one pearl.

"Because you remind me of someone." Marvin beamed back to the girl...

***

At close, Marvin rose to aid poor PB out. Stout as she would only think, PB, tentative, accepted Marvin as her pimp. Believing the cursed world she walked so swiftly, had come quickly, now to gift. And Marvin? Having left an estate gate, realised one thing for sure; to kill demons, one must find tasks that settle old score.

{back to story contents}
I cannot cope. I do the same things everyday. People tell me what to do. I do it because I do not believe in my own freedom... enough. Faith is hard for me and my willingness to learn it is overcome by determination to fail. Yet with reason/excuse. It is not enough to say that those who love you want to kill you in order to be with you. That is an excuse for death. A terminal illness. Depression is not a terminal illness. When do I stop thinking of the past, present and future? Of polticians, psychobabble and anger?

My eloquence is not gifted. Nor is my articulation. I have no point. This is why I must die – yet cannot thanks to the shackles of living forever.

I hope one day I forget my words. I will.

***

When in the company of other minds it is necessary to review what each wants. Even serve each. Listening to each is the only release from catatonia there could be... to be honest.

2. Apart (2 of 2)

### The Man God, Theenu, and the Sun

"Listen Theenu, for all your despondency and despair is it not within your darkened heart to help those who are not fortunate? It is a sacrifice. Life in itself is the sacrifice. Sorry, my son, but this is a duty – to all men."

Of four men (all over fifty years of age, one pressing eighty) sat behind a wooden table. Lightening struck in the background; the first lightening in three and a half years. However, with all here the only patterns to discuss are really, the table, lightening, old men, a twenty-five year old man named Theenu (hand-cuffed to a chair), all in a field, New Delhi-Kansas, America.

"I owe nothing to nobody; no human body nor animal. What of our want to continue the lives when the Gods or the devils will create something new. Our time is up. In especially, my time is up, I have spent to many blasted lifetimes, on this farcical planet." Theenu spoke with rage.

"Think about the next generation, Theenu... you have a gift..." In interruption, Theenu responded shouting; "I have a fucking curse, old man. If you had seen all that I have seen you would realise that the faith I have for humanity is as mortal as your frailing, ageing spine."

One of the four offered contempt via a kissing teeth gesture. "You expect us to sit here and die? Are you not a man? Fight God damn it!" he spoke in Tamil, "Your... our people having been fighting for thousands of years in the light of oppression and now the world has her back to the wall and you will not lend a hand."

Theenu smiled thinking the world contained Tamil people still, therefore by right of the curse, he could not help even if the soul wanted13. "There is not much by way of plan. Exactly how am I to help your cause? What have you heard about me? It must be in the region of false, since you have successfully captured a man capable of saving this earth.".

It was at this point wind cascaded violently. The four heads behind the table peered in the eerie nature some could. "We are told you have answers and ability like that of no other. There is not a single soul upon this wretched and cursed planet that has the reputation for abnormality as you dear soldier. We need you." These were further from the aggression shown thus far, yet the Tamil constricted showed retaliation in fury.

"Do not mock me by informing me that you have brought me out in nowhere to tell me I am to concoct a wild fancy for re-igniting the sun. You honestly believe I would want to recite with you in verses that would aide the species incapable of taking care of a God forsaken dwelling?" Behind his back, the cursed Theenu yanked unrelenting at his handcuffs and with force, he broke his right wrist. In doing so, the stainless steel capture bent sufficiently to allow freedom for his arm. Through the pain, Theenu stood, lifted the wooden chair with his left hand and continually smashed the seat up and to the ground finally shattering the construct upon about the tenth trial.

"You see, young brother, we knew you could not be held at non-will. You do have powers..." It was at this point Theenu approached the bench and wrapped the back of his broken right wrist square onto the cheek of the one Tamil amongst the four heads.

"Get up old man, that was not my full force." He spoke in Tamil. "You have no real knowledge of who I am and the exactitude of my power. I will not stand here to receive this idiocy."

Theenu turned his back upon the proceeding and walked away. One of the four behind him helped the fallen old Tamil to his original position. "Sorry, man. We did not expect him to be so forthright with the physical."

"Never mind," another unsympathetic voice whispered, "we have him. He's walking right where we want him to be14."

***

Since daylight hour were limited, the walker amid all the power that he had learnt over the years of his exist (many, many, many) still had to queue for a ticket aboard the Kansas-Texas express BrownHound coach service. When it is talked of daylight, it's generally refereed to as the grey areas of time. Day is rather a useless word in this time.

"Excuse me," a bright face brought Theenu's attention, "are you in the queue?" A dazzling smile with natural charm. Ultra slim body larger in the correct places. Theenu was still frustrated at his previous encounter and merely gestured she take the place ahead of him. Given the right mood, he may have been more hospitable. Near a thousand years upon a planet can make one rather egocentric.

"Oh, having a bad day, huh? If you want, you can use my ears 'cos I aint going nowhere for the next... well five minutes to queue, right?"

Theenu, heart only slightly slowed, now smiled back. The calming affect of a woman, that is all he needed.

"I have had a bad... shall we say, conversation, with a few people that I know. I am now looking to get away and be far from here."

"I totally understand you. When the shit hits, I'm outta here too." She winked, "In fact, I'm still running. Haven't been in one place since they announced this sun business. Can't stick around places without getting depressed and just wanting to split. Having made a relationship with a soul in... well, look at that, I can't remember!"

Theenu noted her bubbly and friendly nature. This he found attractive; in all his years upon this planet he had realised one thing: falling in love was an impossibility. Love needed, like all other concepts and existences, an end. Without death, there was no end and this made the emotion an evil in the eyes of a weathered, jaded Theenu. He has stayed twenty-five for the past millennium but his soul has been dragged across the many floors he had crossed by the properties of gravity. Metaphorically, or course. Tired and frustrated are just two words to describe this psyche. Egocentric was another: for when you have been alive for as long as he has, you tend to be self-absorbed, revolved. If some pretty thing caught the Tamil man-God's fancy, he was never to say no, despite his obvious restraints.

"Well, my dear, you and I are forming what will be a relationship you will never forget. Say, what is your name?"

"Lohané"

"Ah. Do you know from whence your nomination derives?"

"I don't actually... you talk funny."

"From the lady who roamed streets and then camera. Once a legend and pearl of the previous era of cinema. She captivated her prime audience with majestic red hair and eyes the poked out and cried to you. Many moons ago, dear Lohané."

Lohané giggled and shyly hit his sleeve. "You really do have charm, but I hardly understand what you say... it's like you're from somewhere else... you are not American?"

To which the man-God told her of a past that did not involve precise when's or where's. The two bought tickets to Texas and sat near the front of an almost full coach. They spoke of tales growing up and what not, what was for sure is that the two did not have a pause or gap between exalt. That was until, Theenu, in usual egocentric ways assessed that a man sitting one row behind and to the couple's right was spying and listening into the conversation.

"What is your problem, old man?" he rather impolitely queried.

"No... me? No, I am just noticing your skin... it is rather dark." The old man answered.

"It has been darker. You are in my business, you want something? You have not been away from our stare for the best part of forty-five minutes... I have the knowledge and experience to know you are attracting me. What is it?"

The old man grimaced; he had been found out and facing the fear of rumours he cowered quietly for forgiveness. Theenu breathed in and clenched a mighty back fist that might have knocked the man in row three back to the rear window exit... if it was not for Lohané. She caught Theenu's eye and warned him not to. She looked over to the old man who had retreated as far as he could without rousing suspicion. He looked back.

"I see, you are the cahoots," Theenu started, raged, "I could just as easily maim the two of you, not to mention the entire force of this transport vehicle."

It was explained that the two were merely acting for the greater good of the world. How the saviour, was in fact the man who sat between the two of them, in an almost packed coach travelling to a former oil-glutton state.

Give me an excuse not to kill you both, Theenu shouted rather aggressively making other members of the coach take note of a situation in progress. Again the two used calming techniques in explaining their end and how they need the powers of a God built in a man to save the planet from the extinction it faced as soon as the sun diminished.

Of course Theenu, in his now customary selfish way, explained he had no idea as to how he could save the world and was also not interested in doing so. The point is that he needn't know, he just needed to accompany the two to Eriverdi, Texas.

Just in sudden, Theenu calmed. He had the swings on emotions, quite violent between two extremes, ever since the encounter he had with the entity/God/angel that caused he to be he15. Most days, Theenu tried not to think of that day; a day where the curse disguised as a gift was brought upon him and, more importantly as a marker, his friend and almost brother, Maan, passed under the most excruciating circumstance. R.I.P. Theenu whispered under breath whilst cursing Hindu Gods Muraghan and Shiva.
Variations On Metamorphism

1. Spells

How Do You Spell S-T-E-R-E-O-T-Y-P-E?

2. Yoga

A Winner's Tall Tale to the Virtual World of the very Commercial Female Orgasm
Spells

### *How do you spell s-t-e-r-e-o-t-y-p-e?

How it began (1)

Picture the fiery scene of a volcano. And various stuff. Like a Black guy with a shaved head who says some words, does some stuff and - poof! Something happens.

What happens? Even he didn't know.

It was a mystery that I'm hoping this story will shed light onto it. Some might call it - a revolution within a revolution of tale telling... (And if not then you may have to discard me; an awful teller of tales... with a ponytail.)

Examples of it

"...What tongueless ghost of sin crept through my curtains? Sailing on a sea of sweat on a stormy night. I think he don't got a name but I can't be certain And in me he starts to confide... that my family don't seem so familiar and my enemies all know my name. If you hear me tap on your window. You better get on your knees and pray. Panic is on the way..." I heard these lyrics clearly enough through the very big headphones of a White man sitting behind me with a small, shaved head. It is Liam singing and he is sounding awesome even though he's being transmitted muffled. The bus I was on moves and his voice was lost to background.

(1) I was sitting behind a fat Black man and a thin-enough White lady. He was wearing a big coat, so he may not have been as fat as I could tell. He had round cheeks though. The woman, around 19-20 had frizzy brown hair tied, plaited.

It was the 36 bus on a day in 2003, I think. Being where I am now I struggle to remember the year! Yet other aspects will be crystal. I definitely remember the people carrier I was on packed almost full yet I was space fortunate so had no other sitting beside me. Having boarded after myself, why the lady in front chose to sit next to the big fellow rather than slim me I do not know, but she did and to consequence. Out of his pocket, as I witnessed, a cassette tape slowly fell thanks to vibration.

So, White lady notices the tape and with very lack of warmth picks the tape up and taps Black man on the arm aggressively with it. There was no 'Here, this fell out your pocket.' Just a tape slap. It was aggressive but I would not say painful.

The Black man noticed and accepted the cassette. He looked nonplussed. Yet he must have said something, something I did not hear. I only caught what White lady replied 'No, I didn't steal it thank you very much.' Very stern, very uptight.

Black man (I should say boy, he was around 17 but I could not be completely sure) countered: 'Did I say you stole it though? Don't get leery with me.' But he said it with an a - don't get lary with me. Relaxed, South East London accent.

Anyway, she gets miffed, kisses her teeth, looks at him stating categorically; 'I'm not getting lary, I'm not a thief, why would I want to steal your tape...'

Stop! So far this is just another day in London. A bus, people with headphones, people from different origins, accents and all mixed with confrontation. Reader; this is where the example of 'it' comes into play. You would not believe what she said next. '... I hate rap music...'

Well, yes it's not incredibly offensive to some. Just a little stereotype. Comedians get away with it all the time. But I thought that it was quite bad. Bad enough, without the whole sentence. And sit tightly; let me give the retorted in full:

'I'm not getting lary, I'm not a thief, why would I want to steal your tape, I hate rap music, nigger.'

After a fairly slow start: now you're interested (yet probably also sceptical.)

Why would a White woman say such a word on a bus that was not full of Whites...? I myself am not White. This occurrence was in between ethnic New Cross and ethnic Lewisham, ethnic South-East ethnic London.

So how did that work? Well, I'll say I do not know... (no, I did not know) but what I do know, a charged situation broke. The small White lady was violently pushed at around the shoulder. She fell off the seat giving a shrilled shriek. The fat Black man called her a racist bitch and the skinny White woman referred to the fat Black man as a 'Wanker.' She sat next to me on getting up.

Yes it is surprising that she said a rather inciting (put mildly) word on this bus in this way and so unreasonably, but what else was so puzzling is that... well, nobody heard her. No immediate reaction to the word except from my ears and the fat man's hands. It wasn't loud-loud; the guy with the headphones would not have heard, granted. But loud enough – I heard it.

Forgetting the words for the moment, onlookers all saw her buckle to the ground; like the fall of tyranny. That could have been justice? Well, what do I know about racial justice... I could be just as potty-mouthed or minded.

(...You will have to forgive me in slight; the beginning of this tale will always be more jolly sounding than nearer than end, I'll have to admit. Entertainment and social responsibility is something that I have only just learnt on, being where I am now. If I had kept abreast of a situation across the Atlantic at the time of story I would have understood a great deal more about the power to spread uninformed word through entertaining. A social wonder was creeping the United States back then and at the forefront a man very focal to the efforts of my plot. As I entertain you with literature now, he did the same through another medium then.

I realise I may offend. I realise too: do I have the right to offend for the sake of simply getting my point across?

That aside, you'll also find out why that it gets me emotional just by the little process of getting ahead of myself. Simple decisions I made on a day of totally bizarre but socially befitting events....

Anyway, I'll stick to telling the tale in an order...)

(2) I reach Lewisham and am waiting for my bus to Lee - 261. A couple of buses pass by and some youths alight from one and have a similar idea to what I'm doing; i.e. waiting to catch another bus. This group catches my eye; five boys in total; three Black, two White. A Black one speaks 'Yo, did you see dat video for [insert rap artist] on channel U, blood? Shit was hench, blart.' Three were philosophical whilst the final, a White one, replied. 'Oh my days, blart. I saw it too, blart. Dat waz some heavy shit, blart. So hench.' He waved his forearm with open palm whilst covering his mouth with the other hand.

Now behind them, stood a man with a rainbow striped hooded jacket. He sported glasses and had a serious look demeanour. He was glaring at the boy who spoke. (I say boy for he could not have been more than sixteen/seventeen; nor the rest of the posse.) This White boy clocked the gaze and asked the rainbow man if he had a problem in a manner that suggests a problem could be a physical possession.

So on the ordinary day, in the ordinary world, this issue would have petered with a 'Nothing' and possibly a 'Sorry' in there also. But what have I learnt in the previous example (and with hindsight also)? This was no ordinary day. The response was as follows:

'Nothing, whigger.'

I kid you not. Where did this bravery come from? I know, maybe I should query the prejudice or the evil nature of the phrase but instead I mention the courage it takes to call an able bodied fellow amongst group a virtual White slave to a Black man. (And see my previous admission of folly with regard to social irresponsibility!)

Needless to say, the rainbow man was put on the spot for a validation of his statement. He stuttered, started to ignore the pressure, it intensified with the edging of footsteps, he pigeoned backwards and finally he was set upon. The five boys kicked the shit out of the standing rainbow, followed by the fallen, wet-pavement rainbow. There were even shouts of Paki this and Al-Quieda that (You didn't think the Rainbow man was White, did you?). Totally brutal.

Luckily my bus pulled in and I hopped on negotiating teen spirit, angry old ladies and general fight-sight-seers. It was interesting how that man was Asian given that it started as a White supremacy/Black freedom day. At least for my experience of it. And even though in the muddle of the two conflicts, I contemplated the two unrelated events. Was there a link? Well, one, not everybody was privy to conversations that I was and, two, the more dumbfounding revelation: I'm pretty sure all hate words used were delivered with minimal mouth movement. In fact, I don't think mousey-frizzy-haired-White-lady nor equally-as-frizzy-rainbow-Brown-man actual spoke the words Nigger nor Whigger. But each was aloud, since the reactions were evident.

I was going to dismiss my finding as nothing more than freakish when, and after only two stops, the bus pulled up and our driver left the vehicle...

(3) People kissed teeth (old Black ladies near the front) and people bit lips (old White ladies near the centre). Some expressed concern out loud with words and expressions such as 'Char' and 'Allow dis, I'm gettin' off' (a more younger set of folk).

I just waited in my puzzle, trying to reject the crazy world of South-East London as well as the fact that it seemed like perfect timing to pick out from bag and listen to my MP3 player.

Whilst most of this waiting occurred 'Lazy' by Suede floated into my ears. The Verve's 'On Your Own' (acoustic version) followed and three minutes into this track, finally, our Black driver returned with a plain white plastic bag in his hand. He entered vehicle, then almost cockpit and as he did so, an old Chinese lady got on poking his arm furiously. I removed the right headphone. "Fifty pence short, dark man." She retorted. I was aghast, but kept cool and looked around. Yes, everyone had heard it. I was sure. "Hey fuck you, Chink." Whoa, whoa! I thought, pulling the left headphone out of my ear to leave me with absolute no hearing impediment. "You no call me Chink, you black Nigger. Gi' me money."

There were groans all over the bus. Mixed race teenage girls of around fifteen who had come down the stairs to peer at the commotion exclaimed 'oh my life' amongst other comments. The driver decided to increase aggression and shout various phrases commonly tangled in the idea of the lady getting off the bus. Eventually he reached into a side tray in his cockpit and threw a fifty pence piece (assumption) out of the door. "Take it. You Sars bitch... and I... I... I don't want no fake ass DVDs." He said ass and not arse.

It had no effect on my friend

I arrived at the Green Estate tower block on the edge of Lee and Eltham. I walked into the tower gardens and to the lift to take me up to level ten. I passed a White woman of around thirty-two, weathered by kids and lack of opportunity and a Black man on his way to a manual job that required overall wear use (scoured similarly). Then two White English youths in their twenties. They were talking to each other as they approached me, looking at me and speaking, quieting down as I approached. The word "Paki" came from one of their lips and no sooner said, the other repeated the same followed by "Bin Laden." They looked at each other with total surprise; then they laughed and hurried off. I did not look them in the face, became angered and wondered if they knew the correct term for a person of my ethnicity as Bengali. However, and very technically, owing to history, Paki was not far off even though it was in geography. I cursed them under breath, whilst away, with a typical slur I had concocted long ago; Greasy Hybrid-Romans. It is enough to make me chuckle (even if, reader, you're not interested!)

My friend, Taj, lives with his mother and sister on level ten of this tower. Dirty and very urine smelly on the outside yet extremely nice on the inside of their particular flat, owing to the efficiency and maybe even anal-retention of the lead woman of the house. Taj, hanging out with two busy body females at all hours, developed a very short and curt way of handling conversation. Which is why I was only really interested in staying the short while. I owed him and his family dwelling a visit so here I was. Mother being out, slaving a minimum wage vocation, his sister, stayed in her room (shared with mother) as she would most days. Studying was the excuse, though I never asked. It was a fair assumption seeing as they were living in virtual squalor and spending on Rahima's education; she was reading Business Management at Roehampton University.

Now my friend I called Taj. Not his real name. He acquired it from his mother whilst he and two friends sat watching Top of the Pops and in particular a performance by the group: the 3Ts. This band was so called after each of the member's first names; which all began with the obvious letter. Taj's mother astutely realised that the three boys in the room at the time were also linked by the same idiosyncrasy. So, for the evening, they all picked one of the 3Ts to be, Taj picked... Taj, after he witnessed the child singer throw a rucksack off from shoulder to the stage floor, which was greeted by woos from the mainly female crowd. My friend's real name is actually Tanay.

This friend, Taj (the only of the three to have kept his moniker), continually informed me of the family's plan to vacate tower to move to a house as soon as sister was up and earning. Lot's of pressure on her; he only worked two nights a week plus public holidays at a local greyhound stadium and I've already mentioned their mother's limitations. (One not being her cooking. She did cook a mean curry. Any type, she did it. She'd give each to my friend who'd always manage to drive them down to my house in his banged out Fiat. Hence I owed him a visit.)

"If you ask me, Allah is in a testing mood. Blacks, Whites... Jews... and all are being shown for who they are. Worshiping the wrong." I squeezed my eyelids together hearing the rant in my mind before he even spoke it. Taj did not notice. I maybe should not have told him about the examples I had witnessed. "Everyone is fucking up. Everyone. At the racecourse I saw this pretty Indian girl. Who was she with? A Black man. What the fuck is that? Pisses me off, man. A beautiful girl of our culture with a Negro. Too many temptations... bloody TV has it all the time. 'Stick to your own kind, lady.' I wanted to shout at her..."

I sat patiently listening to the Islamic man who worked counter at a betting domain. Yes, I know, I'm no ethnic angel and he is the safest man, taken away from this view. Genuine, caring and really passionate to please, but in this zone he is so flippant. There is no argument against him; he is right you are wrong.

"...At least it is not as bad as the Whites. Oh no, when they take our women they make a mockery of us. They are down the pub telling White friends that they fucked this Indian chick. 'Did she smell of curry?' Their friends will be like 'Eww! Paki!' Fucking Whites; so racist...

And what is them sell out Asian bredas walking with White bitchs on their arms? Yes you can fuck a White girl but don't fucking marry her!"

I was not prepared to point out the disjointed hypocrisies, instead I incessantly rubbed an area of his table top with the wrong end of a yellow and black lead pencil. It did dawn on me, in the examples from my journey to his home; I had actually witnessed the realisation of what this man was saying... but the passionate 'Bengali-Muslim background' voice inside me told me that I was right to be calmed in approach and he was just talking hyped rubbish.

We're not too different him and I.

***

The afternoon was not spent talking of race relations. We got off that topic to debate football and our sad lack of relationships with the opposite sex. We agreed that we both needed a girlfriend to stop our over conversations. It had been two years since Taj had been out with a woman and eight months more for me. We figured that out whilst simultaneously creating trashy dance music on his PC using the program Reason. "You need to get into the Hip Hop scene, my friend, then we can create beats proper. Now you are just wasting my time. I'm a producer waiting for my big shot and it aint coming from this dance shit." I replied. "Maybe so, but I'm an indie boy... I don't need computers all I need is a fucking gee-taar!"

We laughed at that. Stupidly. Taking discs from my bag and handing each to him, I told him I had to leave. "That's porn and those are some films... ok chief, I'm out of here, gotta catch that bus."

How it Worked

"Bus? Go up the road there and get the train into New Cross. Barriers are always down, brother. Takes only ten minutes max. There is always a train at ten to, going to Charing Cross." And I bid him a second farewell and thought 'Fuck it, buses are full of drivers stopping midway to pick up lunch. Trains could be reliable.' So I waltzed up Lee High Road with a wary nature.

And with good substantiation; I passed a pub, drinkers in the window, all White 'n' skinned, laughing and talking. With the sounds of the busy main road, ordinarily I would not hear what these people were saying. In whole, I could not, but their hateful words and sentences I did. 'Oh, there goes a Paki.' Or 'Bud. Bud. Where's her dot?' A reference to not only my skin colour but also my long, pony-tailed hair. Not, however, a reference to my religion.

I did not respond nor correct them, being so stunned. I changed waltz to quickstep to almost run to the station. Once there I donned headphones at platform. I figured, if I could get away from issues and avoid eye contact I could stay out of the affairs of race for at least the journey home. Mistaken, I tell you. Fights were breaking out amongst the youth of the day. With one visible context. Whites versus Chinese (or should I say Oriental?), Blacks versus Whites, even Whites amongst each other, European heritage being the separator. I witnessed a small, frail Black boy being pushed towards the train track by White males twice his size. He was nimble, however.

My heart started racing; this was no place for the ethnic. Some property was afoot whereby the mere thoughts of prejudices were somehow escaping minds. In a world of stereotypes mixed with paranoia, the truth was suddenly willing out. Lips didn't even have to move. That is, if what I had witnessed was not a swelling of my imagination... I questioned my sanity at Lee train station.

Still, whether it was in my head or not, I decided to get out of here as fast as I could and with limited interaction. Homeward bound. As the train to Charing Cross pulled in, I looked at my toes whilst Embrace played 'Come Back To What You Know' in my ears. I pressed an 'open' button, I got on and looked at no body; the door window was my only friend. I passed Hither Green, Lewisham and St Johns stations without dealing with a soul. More Verve tracks and also one from Kula Shaker kept me deaf to the outside, until New Cross, where I alighted, walked three feet and heard a lengthy beep. The battery in my player had run down.

I felt that extra nakedness, even though I knew I had a spare triple AAA somewhere in my bag. This was no time for hanging around with a Brown face. I walked through opened ticket barriers noticing the top ends of my footwear were wet; kicking up rain puddles. I turned onto the high street walking at an almost Olympic pace. I caught up to a couple, who looked like students at nearby Goldsmith's University. They themselves were more deft than I and avoided a large pool of water to enter a fish and chip shop. Two Black youths almost crossed their path to get to Dixy's fried chicken shop next door. I was annoyed I noted this, I even slowed down. I heard one of the young men as he noticed the student couple; "Why these White people want fish and chips all the time." As an instant retort I thought 'Why do you Blacks love fried chicken?' I ran out of view as one of the boys turned his head. Thinking is dangerous.

And I continued running, not looking back. I'm not the fittest so only managed to get to Iceland supermarket before I had to stop. I walked evenly enough with reticence in the gathering of my breath especially for another break for home. As I approached the inappropriately distanced second tube station within ten minutes walk: New Cross Gate, yet more angst was demonstrating. A White police officer in a lime green British Transport Police issue visibility vest argued with a mid-twenties Black man about the validity of his ticket. A Rastafarian Black man, late thirties perhaps, stood close to proceedings continually protesting his right to sell what he wanted. "...Sir, this is property of Network Rail. You cannot re-sell any ticket already purchased by another member of the public." Said the voice of the BTP. "I can seel what I wan'. You c'yanno' take me away for earnin' a livin', mun." The Rastafarian.

"Officer, can I go. I didn't know you couldn't buy a ticket like this. I'll get one from the machine." Mid-twenties Black.

I braced myself for fireworks. I had to see the conclusion. I had stopped my journey home. A masochist, some would call me. A sadist, others. However, and perhaps with hindsight, though I do remember thinking at the time, it dawned on me for the briefest of moments: was I wrong to think ill of the situation? Why should I 'brace myself' for the 'fireworks' of prejudice just simply because there was a White and Black confrontation? Not even race related. Because:

This was no ordinary day.

It happened.

After deliberation and the constant swing from man to man, taking parts of innocent protestation from two parties, the White officer broke. To the Rastafarian he shouted "Look you Jamaican cunt, you can't sell it. End of story, nigger." Both Black men in the conversation paused and looked flabbergasted. The dreadlocked man added, "You c'yanno' call me a nigger, mun. Nor justice, mun." He said this loud enough for an adjacent officer, who was dealing with another, a train hopper no less, to leave what he was doing and interfere in the mix. "Sir, calm down. I was standing right there and he did not say anything like that. Don't make things up." The mid-twenties illegal ticket purchaser, completely flummoxed, placed his hand on the intervening officer's upper arm aggressively. "Don't sell your race out, man. He fucking said it. I heard it. He shouted it, how could you not here that? Nah, that is liberties."

It got even more belligerent as some pushing and shoving occurred and more station staff and transport police started to separate victims of this social anomaly. All onlookers, which included myself, were frozen in the sheer rawness; the blatancy of events. That is, all except one woman. Not a police officer, yet she was in amongst the men, trying to stop the fighting but, and here was my draw: also trying to explain it. This was novel. "Look... don't... ignore what he saying. I can't explain it but he never said it... but he did.... Ugh! Just stop bloody fightin', please." Her more-than-Australian accent, along with the words she spoke were ignored by all. Except, yes, me.

***

In a police van the two and more went. I watched the Separator collect her ticket (legally and from a machine). She was going to travel but not before I received answers. "Excuse me... er... what's going on?" Like Marvin Gaye but without the sweetness in my chords. We had an initial query; a debate on the relevance of our meeting. I tried to explain what I had witnessed and its absurdity and she did agree. After persuasion, I was free to accompany her down flights of steps to the beginning of the East London Tube line. The train was not at platform.

"You're better orf goin' home, you know. This is where it all ends... well, in a few bloody minutes when I get off the bloody tube." Her accent was pissing me off, a kind of Chinesey-Australian affair. "Fuck you. You're face pisses me off, buster."

What kind of a term was buster? Only old people used it...

And yes, she did just answer me back, even though I did not speak to her – I thought to her.

So I asked her how she did that and surprisingly she let out easily, forgiving my complete rudeness. "It's a bloody spell... a witch doctor did it. In Africa." I pretended to be surprised holding the farce strong. But then it did make so much sense. I asked her... how? "Some bloody fuck'ead made it so that everyone hears what other people are thinking... but only when it's ta do with bloody race or ethnicity. Hence I heard what you said about my accent and I hope it keeps pissing you off." More sense in a completely erratic fashion. I replied: "But that would mean that we'd all be in some serious shit. London is like a minefield of total prejudice... and half the fucking time nobody says anything, they just think it and you know they're thinking it but you don't say anything and neither do they." I paused making sure I had made sense (erratically). "Wait. How do you know all this?" I quickly looked around thinking the very worst: candid camera game show, a frame was in progress and I was the sucker. "Yeh, struth. That's the problem with this city but I'm going to stop it from spreading."

She was back to her initial point of being able to stop this problem just as the train pulled in; it would wait there for five minutes before leaving back up where it came. I faced a decision; slink off home and hope she would be successful. With this option I could face the city in the morning believing this lady had done her job, safe in the knowledge that my stereotypes of Blacks, Whites, fellow Asians and other would stay where each was meant to belong, deeply embedded in grey matter. Or if she did not succeed, perhaps London's stress would be relieved by the venting of frustrations from that which could be seen. The differences between humans. We all never get along anyway, so why not verbally bash each other without the need for abstracts. 'You cunt.' Becomes 'You White cunt.' There would be no need to wonder who is a 'cunt' any more, or how to tell the difference between a 'non-cunt' and a 'cunt,' because skin colour now told us and without all the hidden mind your Ps and Qs.

As it happened, I took option two: go with the girl.

Whose name was Oki. It sounded Japanese, to which she responded (and I did not ask, per se) that the name was mainland Chinese in origin. Peking (where else?). Where she had grown up for seven years until moving on to Melbourne. She had been travelling for the past six months solid before getting embroiled in this here circus. From South Africa to London.

She was in my versions of pretty, all clothes worn prim, slim and proper. No creases. Mainly safe, dark shades but with hints of brightness; pinks and light blues. She was also wearing black and thin rimmed spectacles where in the left corner existed a silver bow. Out of place and a bit stupid, for glasses. No doubt she thought it was 'cute.' I grimaced, waiting for a response. But I did not get one. Sexist stereotypical comments did not seem to transcend minds.

"It's also about the conversation." She spoke carefully, maybe acknowledging my previous, silent faux-pas. "You have to be involved in the conversation to hear what's being said; either being spoken to or eavesdropping or something like that. It's why the dark officer never heard the White one." I wondered whether 'dark' was racist. "I don't think it is. His skin was darker than the White man's skin." Now this could get annoying... and scary, I thought. So I tabled the challenge. "I think I'm going to end up insulting you... again, so how do we stop that?" She looked at my chest, at what was dangling and noted the information she needed. "Let's listen to our Walkmans. Sort of ignore each other. We're getting orf at Colindale, where we are supposed to meet a guy who knows what to do. Next stop we getting orff at is bloody Canada Water, got it?"

She reached for headphones which were dangling like mine and placed them in each ear. She searched her person for the device that played her music and I found myself in awkward area. I wanted a little more information on what we were doing but this curt woman was being rather one sentence like. I searched my bag for spare battery and found it. "What you listening to?" I managed. She replied. "Hip Hop. Rap." For some reason I laughed a little; she was a bit to cute and cuddly for big Black men. Or was that the point? "It's not just a Black thing... Have you not heard of Jin... 'the Emcee?'" in sarcastic tone. To which I smirked and said no. She queried and I replied that I just did not see her as a rap kind of person. "Who is a rap person?" Really not the conversation on a day of improper stereotypes whatever my visualisation; which was: she was a petite clean cut girl, with a bow in her specs, who was half Aussie, half Chink. "Half what?" I tried to stop myself from the thought but I said... no, thought it again. Chink. "Fuck you." I thought of other terms; Gook, Slope, Slit. "Put your farking earphones on you farkin' Brown Indian, then look away from me." 'Brown Indian?' Wasn't very creative.

To the sound of 'Fade Away' by Oasis we made it to Canada Water. She led the way down escalators to northbound Jubilee line. Waiting two minutes we boarded a train to Stanmore, getting off two stops further at London Bridge. Still we did not speak and I did wonder exactly why I was traipsing around London town with a woman I had just met. Why else but the male attribution error?

As we walked corridors, stairs and more escalators, I saw another why. A group of Black youths (hoodies, baggy clothes and all) harassed a middle-aged White man in a grey suit (ironed, unstylish, briefcase and all). He was flustered and tried walking, at pace, away from the absconders. "...can a monkey talk even, rude boy? Eh, 'ow am I a monkey? Go on then? Tell me then?" I heard one say from my right ear, having removed a headphone.

"It's not wise to do that." Oki spoke, doing as I did with her headphone. "Where are we going?" I responded. "Northern line, northbound... but to Edgware, not the others."

"So who are we meeting?" I felt that I sounded like an annoying child with 'are we there yet mother' type questions. "Some guy who is gonna stop all this commotion." There were more questions I wanted to fire but to change the format I grabbed her dangling 'phone. "...you can French kiss this clenched fist, Diabolic, a one-man brigade spreading cancer plague. Fist-fucking a pussy's face, holding a hand grenade. So if I catch you bluffing, faggot, you less than nothing. I just had to get this stress off my chest like breast reductions.

[New Voice] You motherfuckers are nothing, you cannot harm me. I'll resurrect every aborted baby and start an army. Storm the planet, hunting you down, 'cause I'm on a mission. To split your body into a billion one-celled organisms. Immortal Technique will destroy your religion, you stupid bitch. You faker than blue eyed crackers nailed to a crucifix. I'm 'bout to blow up like NASA Challenger computer chips. Arsenic language transmitted revolutionarily. I'm like time itself, I'm gonna kill you, inevitably. Chemically bomb you, fuck using a chrome piece. I'm Illmatic, you won't make it home like Gerome's niece. I'll sever your head diagonally for thinking of dissing me. And then use your dead body to write my name in calligraphy. This puppet democracy, just brainwashed your psychology; so you're nothing like diversity without equality and your crew is full of more faggots than Greek mythology. Using numerology to count the people I sent to Heaven, produces more digits than 22 divided by 7. You're like Kevin Spacey, your style is usually suspect. You never killed a cop, you're not a motherfucking thug yet. Your mind is empty and spacious. Like the part of the brain that appreciates culture in racist. Face it, you're too basic, you not going to make it. Like children walking through Antarctica; butt naked..."

"Wow. That's pretty strong stuff." I told her, looking at her rather smooth, baby like skin. She did not resemble the hardcore talk the two men from New York (accents told me) were rapping on the record. "Hip Hop is the only music that's got that edge. You know? What do you listen to?" I ignored the question. "What edge? Grown men shouting... wearing furry jackets...?" (Having seen Busta Rhymes do such.) "...And talking about violence... er... shooting people and... cars?" I had not only ignored her comment but so too the guys on the audio (though there was violence).

"You aren't listening to the right stuff. Half that shit on radio is paid orff by record music execs who want you to hear what you hear because they want to continue the bloody stereotype... they are going on what they know makes money. Fairdinkum, the idiots that rap total stupidity about guns, drugs and cars just fuel the... well for the best phrase from one of the rappers you just heard; a ghetto-bred-capitalistic-mentality." Big phrase to which I just took in without contemplating it; what do I know about the music industry currently? I still bought CDs and didn't download. "Rap has to be the best medium to get the words of the... well, the street. The people who live in the real world... anybody can rap. Not always good, but you can rhyme about anything. You don't need to be able to sing or play an instrument." I thought of Taj and, or course, my guitar. "Struth, yeah. There are a lot of idiots out there and they are the ones with the deals from the majors but you have to listen to the right rap...um... people like you heard; Diabolic, Technique... er... Jean Grae, C-Rayz, Wordsworth, Tonedeff... um, Canibus... and even, even you Brits have some; Klashnekoff, Skinnyman and the bloody Poisonous Poets... and Roots Manuva." Now I was being bombarded. "Rap is a phenomenon and these guys are spittin' somethin' else. More than any other genre... What do you listen to?"

A question which I was not ready for, so I mumbled Rock 'n' Roll. "Oh... well, not so bad. But it depends. Is it stick-it-to-the-man rock or that sorft pop shit?" I honestly was not sure, I was a man stuck in a mid to late nineties Britpop gyration that was so Northern England influenced I even spoke like a Northerner at times. It seemed 'stick it to the man' but then I remembered reading that Noel Gallagher had used extracts from a speech by Tony Blair for a song. I did not answer but instead thought of Jack Black.

"What's your problem? You never seen Crimewatch Bombay?" Was followed by laughter. An Asian (best guess Pakistani) called out to a couple. He was with three other Asian friends, all male; the couple were young and White and were sitting opposite. "Allow it, man. Aint worth t'umb-pin' breda in front of his girl, you know."

It was at this point that my concentration let slip. I thought typical thoughts that were for another day. It was the use of language. This guy was Pakistani, not Black. Just like many before him he was living the dominant culture of Blackism. He himself did not 'hear' me, but (and it was a shame) that his observant friend 'did.'

Suddenly, I was the rainbow hoodie man all over.

"What did you say? Hey, this fucker said something... Fuck you, he aint Black. Why you gotta say that?" And then another added, whilst information spread amongst the four. "Some sell out punk. You like White men, innit faggot?" And more. "Yeah, my man is going out with some Chinese bitch. Confused Asian. Stick to Brown skin, mate."

They laughed amongst each other but did not continue the assault. I was extremely anxious whilst the train pulled into Bank station. Oki had seen the potential trouble, grabbed my forearm and we stepped off to wait for the next one.

I felt the low from the adrenalin high grip me. I said nothing for the final forty minutes of my journey. I contemplated going home, not wishing for any more of this agonising torture. The Black and White of this world. For years it was these two behemoths of race that fought with each other; just the two. No room for Brown, Yellow...

Not White or Black? Then pick a side and fight. For all my Rock 'n' Roll; had I picked White? For all Rap and R 'n' B listening/jive talking Asian fans; had they chose Black? Was there more to fight from a third perspective or was the obsessions of the world ready to hide all other races under a huge carpet labelled 'Neither'?

Overwhelmed I sank deeply; I had previously figured the harmlessness of following around an attractive girl. I had forgotten how close to danger I was: at any point outside of one's shell in London. Four youths against one was not good odds for me and all this after being five minutes from my home.

On the new train, I tried to keep focused. Anything like Tube adverts for travel insurance, protein powders and universities. I caught nobody's eyes until a while in when I fixed on Oki's. To the tune of Pulp's 'Sorted For E's and Whizz' she mouthed asking me if I was ok. I nodded, smiled and looked away. The stop was soon enough. Maybe I had made the right decision.

How it began (2)

(...I would note my change in tone. We are reaching the close and I am most saddened by what I will write. This is, in affect, my life story. A day in the life of a 'without Bengali' man (owing to the fact that this culture has regretfully passed me by). Still, I have the responsibility, having dragged you this far, to entertain. Onward...)

Apart from the two of us, no other person (that I saw) alighted at Colindale. Some panic took me away from the issues of the day and to how I would talk my way out of the fact I did not have a ticket. Oki had bought one but I had not. Still, the situation was resolved by the fact there were no barrier guards, nor gates in closed position. We walked through and out of the exit turning right, as per her instructions. "We're gonna meet the guy at McDonalds down the road. Outside, on the benches outside." I visualised wet wooden benches whilst wrapping headphone wire around my MP3 player. There were hardly anybody on the streets and it did make me wonder about the severity of the problem. Were people in their houses to avoid disasters? Or was it simply a quiet day in suburbia?

There must have been ten minutes of road that led us to the fast food restaurant on which Oki told me about her chance meeting with a witch doctor's son in Johannesburg. He detailed a curse that had been placed upon several cities around the world and that there was one man who had responsibility for the placement of the act along with (in true reactive fashion) the ability to lift it. The more she talked, the more I was lost in a sceptical look on her life. I believed her susceptible and naïve. I told and convinced myself that I followed her in pursuit of her attractive features. Even if this was the case; with her commitment to cause, what exactly had me convinced she felt the same attraction back?

Susceptible and naïve. We're not too different her and I.

We stepped into concrete paved dining area through some surrounding planted bushes, getting feet a little muddy. Evening now yet still the water remained from afternoon rain and so not surprising all but one of the wooden benches were free, most wishing to dine inside the well lit (and marketed) hell hole. "We don't need to buy anything, do we?" I enquired to a very distracted Oki. She walked to the only man seated. "Are ya David?" She spoke to a skinny but tall Black man in a beanie hat, zipped top with jeans who was smoking. He dragged and replied in a Southern American state accent. "Yerp. An' a hot Asian? If my wife could see this she wouldn't be happy." He smirked, coughed and extinguish the fire offering us seats..

"Stop the curse." Oki fervently told him. "Dayam. To the point. That's feisty. I like it." He paused with a disgruntled look on his face. It changed to a humorous position, then he straightened it. "I gotta ask, say... don't you... do you guys recognise me?" I looked to Oki to confirm but she did not, she just shook her head. I did too. "Aint that a good'un. It's all me fever in the States... you sure you don't know me?" The ego of an American. "And yes, I heard that. Dayam, the world hates us. Oh shit." At which point he giggled.

"Stop the curse... or spell. You started it, you gotta finish it." Oki stressed once more. She was getting very irate. Me? I was still in a little shock that I was here listening to this. There were two mad people to deal with now, not one. "If I could, I would. But what the fuck do I know?" He shrugged both shoulders and smiled playing the cheeky innocent. "Besides, it's healthy right? All that pent up... oh, angst in people. Let it owt." I noted his red eyes and haze look, he was possibly high.

"Look, David."

"It's Dave, my mom calls me David."

"Dave, this is fucked. There are people getting in trouble. Minds were meant to be like... private. Private worlds, mate. Don't you know?"

"Wait. You Auz-stralian? You aint South African?" Dave was not too quick with the accent.

"Does it matter? Stop skirtin' the issue – your being totally irresponsible with this. Now stop it at once." I'm sure she must have reminded Dave of his 'mom' with that sentence. "Ha! All 'em folk call me irresponsible and on a social level for the stuff I do. Now, it's actually true. Is that irony? Oh snap, you don't know why that's funny! You sure you don't know me? Either of you... ok, forget that. Listen, I am socially irresponsible. I know that and I am trying to make ay-mends for some of the stupidity and blatant ima-tu-rity, that I guess, I've shown to alotta folk. I've shown them alotta reason... well, alotta reason to make insinuations about certain... shits. I mean try putting yourself in my shoe. I was getting paid for the comedy and folks was diggin' it, you know. A little too much, apparently. You got White folk laughing at what Black folks been laughing at. Aint no privacy no mo'... Did I have a responsibility? Well yes I deed. But that aint mo' than most folk. Yes I'm raw, raunchy and all that. Iss-saul taking pee out of cultures... cultural phenomenon... ray-cial stereotypes. I done all that... but I swear, to my son and my fuckin' new born; I did more than just play a fool of comedy. I moved shits on, bitch. I'm quoted as a phenomenon my fucking self. Man, fuck dat nigger that wants to say that I taken down Black folk. Yeah, I know some White folk be walking around mouthing off that they Rick James or frontin' like... like they know Black folk just 'cause they watch my show... man, fuck dat. Everybody gotta eat, right?"

A rant out of nowhere, I thought. He had such passion but in a docile manner. He was concerned and lost – dispirited, yet collected by a summation of thoughts that he may have gathered over time.

Was he famous? What did he mean by 'his show?' I was not a huge movie fan; nor television, but I had never seen this gentleman in my life... and there are not that many famous Black American men to confuse me – so that was not an excuse. Oki retorted something that I did not see coming. I immediately was zoned out of the following:

Oki: ...slow motion better than no motion.

[pause] Dave: ...I walked in the creeeb, got two keeds and ma baby mama late.

Oki: ...Uh-oh, uh-oh, oh-oh

Dave: ...So I had to did, what I had to did cos I had to get

Oki: ...dough-oh, dough-oh, dough-oh

[pause] Dave: ...I. I know I could make it right. If I could just swallow my pride. But I can't run away. I put my gun away – you can't fron' on me...

Oki/Dave: ... And I. I know I could make it right. If I could just swallow my pride. But I can't run away. I put my gun away – you can't fron' on me

Dave nodded, Oki smiled and with that the two looked the best of friends. Dave even added. "And you don't know me? I was on that track, son... Dayam, you needed to check the credits on that shits..." More nodding and laughter.

I broke up the happy party. "Wait. Why are we here. Isn't there something we're here for... like a curse?" I didn't believe it myself and I'm not sure why I said it but I was gradually separating from the pack; dragging myself back into the situation for having travelled London to be here was just. "Yeah, that's... that's an apology right there. I didn't mean for all this shit. I just came up with the idea... I thought it could be a sketch or som'in. But this dude had me smokin' the wil'est shit and it was over. Done. Don't mess wit dat African... voodoo shit."

There was no real pause before the following:

"It's not voodoo." A voice from behind us all; from the surrounding bush a Black man had emerged and traversed concrete to get to our bench. "This is a religion that is beyond Western words... well, maybe not Charles Johnson." I did not know what to make of this, I was anxious; in his right hand was a chrome gun.

"Nigger, put that shit away. Where you think dis is? Harlem? Dis is London, nigger." Dave told him and then added "Man, you gonna fuck up my high."

"You? What are you doing here?" Oki started. It seemed, again, I was the odd one out by a country mile. And it wasn't even a Black thing. "What the fuck is bloody goin' on?"

"Tell me, what do you know about revolution?" The newest stranger posed, who I assumed was the son of a witch (pun intended) from Johannesburg. We all remained silent for five seconds until Dave broke it. "Sheit, don't be cryptic, nigger, tell us then."

"Revolution is the birth of difference." He continued in South African accent. "What we have on this planet is 'umanity as we will never know it. no purity, no 'onesty, no truth... nothing. What is there in 'onour? Everything that we need to further the future. These White men purged lands for what? Their own greed, what is left? A stinking life for'rall... especially mother Africa. I'm here to change that." Queue more silence. The eerie kind. I really wondered aggressively as to why I was there. "You," Oki, "you started the curse, not 'im, didn't you...? Wait, how can this spell do anythin' for revolution? This is fucked but there aint no bloody revolution stuff from it. Fuckin' stop it. Stop it now." This was a very seriously hostile stance for an unarmed woman protesting to an armed male. "This is the tip of the ice berg, bru. Dave, I used you. I gave you your wish to test the idol... the source. Now I know the power, now I know what my people can do."

Wait - revolution. What was this man trying to change?

Out of all the thoughts of terror, bizarre coincidence and implausibility, my mind rang none of each. What I did think: of all the people with such grandeur, I could not envisage the man any other colour than White. "What - you think a Black man can't rule this planet? Man, fuck you." Dave told me. "Wait. What the fuck, Onyaye? Fuck no, man. This some power trip you messin' wit. Fuck this... dayam. That's some powerful African shit you gonna fuck wit."

"Revolution, as I said is the beginning. There needs to be anew." Onyaye boomed. "And with birth, there is a necessity for death."

How it ended

"For the world to circle onto the new dimension we must rid her of the previous. To spread new stereotypes... quite apt, I must say."

"You riddle speaking motherfucker. This aint no time for jokes, what da fuck you gonna do? I'm getting nervous, man. And I know it aint this weed." No it wasn't. Both Oki and I were feeling the same anxiety.

"This test is not complete. All power is limited by the knowledge of it. if we do not know of it, we will not fall for it. Of this spell, curse, if you will, those who know of it will command it. You, Dave and Oki. You, I do not know your name but I assume you know too. Do you?" At this point I should have said no. It may have saved me. But I nodded... I fucking nodded. "We all share the power. With our knowledge, we let the power grow between us. We are the reason curses, spells exist. We are also the reason revolution can exist."

Through the riddles he made an obvious sense. We all know of stereotypes; all having the power to use and abuse prejudice. But whether we do or not is controlled by our own selves. Our appropriate of situations. This curse/spell/thing has just messed with the semblance.

Still, the revolution bit was definitely a blur.

"So, you are saying, without the people of the world, this power cannot exist. That is, like, the stupidest... obvious stuff I've heard. So fucking obvious."

"Oh shit. Don't fuck wit a nigger with a gun, son." Dave spoke. "But the ponytail gotta point. Why say shit we all know? How we gonna stop readin' people's minds and shit. Iss getting' on ma motherfuckin' nerves."

To which the reply was cold, calculated yet also illogical. "By your deaths. You have all spread the knowledge, you'rall die and the knowledge dies along with the power, bru."

I got up, I could not sit on a bench at a fast food restaurant debating my death. Staring a certain ill-fated future is not something you do seated. As I got up, so did Onyaye. He pointed the pistol at me. Nothing flashed by me. Not my life, not anybody else's. "Werwait," I spoke. "I have nothing to do with this... w-what the fuck?" Oki joined in the defence. "Yeah, he isn't even supposed to be here. I just met him. You haven't even been to Sarf-faf-rica, right?" This time I answered no; five minutes too late. "So how can he spread the knowledge if he had... no bloody knowledge of it... in the first bloody place?" Onyaye was calmed in pulling the gun head; ready-to-fire. "We can learn to spread knowledge. Stereotypes are learnt and passed on. It's a dangerous game but that is the power."

Panicked, I responded. "What fucking power? Fuck, if I can spread it, what about everyone else? I can't be the only one. You going to kill them too? The whole world?" Too late.

The trigger was pulled, but not before Dave had pushed Onyaye's arms. I scrambled across the bench table to assist him, feeling but not hearing the piece blast out once more. I was harmed but it did not affect my motion in the struggle to turn fire upon my shooter. A bullet rung off into Onyaye. I'll spare you the note as to where I got him but he did fall, dead.

I fell, breathing erratically. I saw Oki slump. She tried to crawl to me. Dave, who was clear of it all was in a state of total fluster. Curse words sailed from his mouth. He knelt down and told me something that I could not make out. All I could do was hope. I hoped Onyaye was correct; with the source of the spell dead; would too the spell?

Stereotypes and revolution: yes to the cycle: births and... death. People do seem to die in revolution and in this case; three.
2. Yoga

**

Yoga, an ancient but perfect science, deals with the evolution of humanity. This evolution includes all aspects of one's being, from bodily health to self-realization. Yoga means union - the union of body with consciousness and consciousness with the soul. Yoga cultivates the ways of maintaining a balanced attitude in day-to-day life and endows skill in the performance of one's actions

B.K.S. Iyengar

*A Winner's Tall Tale to the Virtual World of the very Commercial Female Orgasm

Boom! Boom! Went the bass sound from a flat below. Yes great location but thin as paper shell. Timothy Fenwick and his luck – the cancelling luck. Good luck butchered by bad. Great location; bad neighbours. Tim ached to have the plain sail of good luck but was hampered as is human. Though he never wanted to be; at which stage did he ask The Creator 'Can I be human please?' If so; his memory has been wiped clear of that event... so could he be held accountable for it? It being human that is.

There were moments in his human life, like other humans – he had forgotten episodes. These could have been criminal or not. Surely he should be accountable for these? But then; the before life is a different case altogether – you are not actually the human yet; so accountability and error is not You; since You are not human. This all being on the assumption that whilst we all face our creator and say 'Yes God, I'd like to be human – put me down there with the rest of those fuckers.'

Tim has a girlfriend called Heather. She is surprisingly lenient with him. The marriage thing that is. She wants to, as the author of this piece I'll tell you that and not leave you confused like Tim. She just has work commitments and a thing on the side that seems to be rising above and beyond what Tim gives her. They had been dating for the past 18 months and the sex was diminishing – but this did at the time of a typical relationship slide; so Tim did not notice. He was faithful.

(Now I'm not sure why I ventured there; maybe a tale of luck again (with a title like this story has – one has to mention a female early on, perhaps?))

Anyway, I move on to tell you that Tim has woken and is on his way to the Subway where he works. No not New York, Subway sandwiches Shaftsbury Avenue. Eat Fresh™ and all that. He's a floor manager, so has a good deal of responsibility yet not the gall to push it. People walk over him. The students that work there do – all the time. Even the Asian guy with the hairy moustache. But at least he has a little respect for the man. Why? Tim was married once and has a child – he tries to pay child support payments even though his former spouse has a new husband who is a millionaire. She has told him he need not pay, he hardly visits; she says to use the money to save up more for visits. He does that; savings account and all. Tim argues the need for constant belief in himself as a father. He speaks to his son, practically everyday – sends him text messages and emails. The modern day business. The backroom at the Subway has everyone's need for communication and since Tim works there everyday (pretty much) he has the virtual world of a son in the palm of his hand.

'Hi dad – how's work?' Dylan would say (named after the rock star). 'I went to the Science museum today, it was cool – Richard and I were playing on the buzzer thing. You had to move the small metal bit across the wiggly metal bits and every time you messed it up it made a bad noise – like your car used to make. Do you remember your fucking car...' pause for the reminder that the boy should not swear. 'Sorry dad. Do you remember your car? It was so rubbish.' Before Tim could even fathom annoyance the MSN Live video conversation cut out and the two had to reconnect. 'Anyway dad, I gotta go – Richard is getting ready to fight me on fucking Warcraft but I'm gonna beat the shit outta that bitch...' He was cut off again promptly.

In the back of Tim's mind came the solace 'Send him a post on Facebook, that'll teach the naughty one.'

**

The yoga mat is a good place to turn when talk therapy and antidepressants aren't enough

Amy Weintraub

Subway is quiet at times of the day in most branches but Shaftsbury Ave is hectic pretty much all the time. So many foreigners wanting American food. Tim as usual barked his commands and got nothing but pure attitude barked back at him. The work got done because it was a Tuesday; Mon-Sat, managers are in – not just floor managers. Proper ones. As Tim saw Adele, one of two general managers, scold Ben the student Tim once more looked at the sky (the ceiling) and silently wondered why he was on this earth.

Out back on break, Dineshan offered Tim a cigarette. He declined. 'Go on, they're duty free.' As if that would sway him. It did. He smoked away on the break and relieved thoughts of the bemoaned soul. 'What's the matter fuck head?' And Tim grimaced – what's with the word fuck? Two days of it – Tim was even saying it; wishing for the light of being a fantastic father to play God with him. 'Nothing. Have you heard back from Jimmy about the current post.' Tim talked about the post of floor manager number six which Dineshan had been earmarked for. For a guy that insulted him so much, he really didn't need him on his level of duty... or did he? Then he could get away with it more and leave a better equilibrium. Maybe.

'You know Tim. You look like you haven 't had a fuck in a long time. A real fuck is what you need. Your last sex came with your ex-wife huh? Then that bastard child came from nowhere and spoilt it.' Before Tim could reply that he had a woman, Dineshan continued. 'Me? I don't have that problem. I am a masturbator – I have a perfect relationship with myself.'

It was at that point where Tim realised his fifteen minute break was over in under ten.

**

Yoga is the perfect opportunity to be curious about who you are

Jason Crandell

So he got home at 7pm; walking the corridors and halls to the sounds of heavy bass. It rattled the air. Tim's heart rate grew but not as a result of inspired influence of rhythmic music. Passing flat two of four, he decided to pay a visit. Before he could even knock at the door he smelled the aroma of illegal potting plants yet, almost involuntarily, his hand knocked against the door. No answer for twenty seconds. One more knock told Tim's mind, since the music was always going to drown out his effort. Except – this time on knocking; the music stopped; a millisecond before the announcement of floor manager Tim.

"Sup." Said the Black man.

"Er... Can you turn the music down?"

[Contemplation...] "Yeh, alright."

And that was the end of the heavy music for half an hour. A half hour of bliss, a half hour to lay upon bed and believe in himself again. A good father – they say you have to be there for a child but in this modern age of webcams, mobile phones and shit like that; being there is easy. Tim thought about a son – he was a father. Wow. Big thing that; not much thought went into it at the time mind you; he was just a student and decided to fuck it and get married. Student loans were dragged away from their rightful place; in the hands of an institution and remained in the guise of an overdrawn bank account with Tim's full name on it. Tim and Fiona forever as they took the tube from Westminster to Baker Street. Kissing and canoodling all the way; rubbing Miss Fiona Belding's ever-so-slightly swollen tummy. They got off at the Baker Street exit/entrance, passed Pizza Hut and the Pizza Express opposite and made their way to Marylebone magistrate court house to register their interest in getting married. No this isn't Vegas, reader – so after 14 days they'd make it official. No on the spot drunkenness.

The phone rang. Adele. 'Dave has been flirting with the idea of taking up area manager for central, zone A. He's been down Leicester Square, and other spots. You know, when Dave leaves the general manager spot is open – you fancy it Timothy?' Tim's answer was no, but he needed the money – how else could he prize away his son from his already again pregnant ex-wife. So he answered yes. 'But you do realise you are lacking in certain areas. The staff fucking walk all over you – why do you let them do that?' She was right. She continued to rub it in and all Tim could do was lay on his bed and take it. Dineshan's name even cropped up. 'But he isn't even floor manager yet!' Yet he will be as a matter of time. Dave's post wasn't assured for a while and Dineshan had this to his advantage. Tim was desperate. 'But... have you assessed Dinesh's cleanliness. I question that you know, Ad?' She didn't know. 'Why? He's clean? What you mean his hairy 'tache? Whatever, it's not a problem... all I'm saying is...' she was interrupted. 'No he was talking to me about wanking today. God knows what he does.' And Adele heard the frustration. 'Listen Tim, don't make up stories. The most likely candidate is you, but in the time it takes for Dave to move up you have to step up to the plate. Go for it. Don't take the shit, stay in the kitchen and take the heat... literally.' The constructive criticism was ignored. 'He was – he said he was a masturbator!'

Yes I know – imagine how that sounded. Adele could only consul the man by ending the conversation. 'Tim. You're desperate it's disgusting. Everybody wanks. Now get some rest or something... or maybe you need to jack off as well or something. Goodnight, Tim.' Dead phone line.

It was around about 1am in the morning when Tim's girlfriend called him and broke up with him. The exchange lasted around 10-15 minutes. She was drunk and there was a jingling noise in the background – like she was shaking change in a money purse next to the receiver whilst the two discussed matters. Not much discussion could come about with a drunk woman. So Tim left it. He figured he could call her another time and see what the situation was. She mentioned another man. That was not to her or Tim's advantage.

**

By embracing your mother wound as your yoga, you transform what has been a hindrance in your life into a teacher of the heart

Phillip Moffitt

In the alley that resembled New York, even steam smelling of heated sub roll sandwiches poured through, Tim read the back of the box he held for his new PC video game; World of Warcraft. He read the blurb about a virtual world and missions and... things. He'd have a tough time of it to beat his whiz kid Dylan, but he could get some hints and tips and work it out.

As he read the words he considered what Shakespeare would have thought of the language? It was dramatic and bold in parts – rousing the reader. But seriously, this was no literary ingenuity. Written to sell computer games. Tim thought of the author. Did that guy want to sit down and write a novel instead of some piece of crap that everybody has access to just to get something on a paper one calls a CV? Or did the world of advertising have him sucked in and accounted for? Hands off.

'What's that you got there, buddy?' Ah, the masturbator, Dineshan. So Tim said it was nothing and put it back in the Zaavi plastic bag it was placed in after purchase. 'A DVD? Looks like a boxset, I like boxsets – tell me; is it the sci-fi. I like sci-fi; Alien boxset – not Aliens, I got that for a present once. Nine discs. I love those films. What have you got?' and Tim was forced to divulge. 'My friend why? I would expect porn from you – you are single right?' There was enough room to say, yes but only up until recently. He didn't. 'Look – I go to a Iyengar yoga place in Deptford, close to New Cross, where I live and really, it teaches you to be at one with yourself. You know what I use to centre myself Tom?' Tim waited. 'Masturbation. I can tell you are one for your own gun buddy but I doubt you have the real grasp on it.' Tim did not want to be there. This was really creepy and all the floor manager could do was stare at Dineshan's right hand. 'Come down sometime. You'll learn something about an art, my friend.'

Saving up and spending go hand in hand. Said Tim's inner voice as he stood outside a computer retail shop on the Tottenham Court Road. He entered and stood staring at a laptop. Tim's flat, adjoining the Charing Cross Rd and Shaftsbury Avenue; opposite the HSBC and Shaftsbury theatre; was so coveted he often wondered if it was for these reasons he was successful in the female department. Mind you, he wasn't incredibly successful – he was very well timed. He hadn't spent more than a month as a single man since he was sixteen and was left the flat as heritage since he was eighteen. There was a positive correlation.

Uncle Chester La Rue owned the leaseheld property for the ninety-nine year tenure. Now it was Tim's. Why? Because his favourite nephew always came to visit him? Why wouldn't he – he'd play the young man's central London game and then pop in to see dear old relative without wife nor children. In exchange for young company, the old man gave up his abode when he passed. Fair trade.

'Can I help you sir?' Indeed he could. Tim enquired of the laptop he faced and with simple bartering techniques hacked £100 off the tagged price. True value? Who knows? He enquired also to an advert he had seen about a truly wireless broadband system from T-Mobile. 'Ah, we don't sell it – only T-Mobile... oh and other network providers do. But I know what you are talking about and I can confirm sir that it is, except for a USB connection; completely wireless. Plug it in to the computer and away you are onto the internet; no phone line, no router... nothing.' Tim smiled. Good purchase day today, he thought thinking about his son who should be at school. Next stop, the T-Mobile store on Oxford Road.

Before he got into his flat, in the hall way Tim passed the Black man who plays loud music, he nodded to Tim holding a stern face. Tim nodded back. Tim's first girlfriend was mixed race – Black father and White mother. He went out with her for two years and regularly took her to meet Chester. When she wasn't around Chester always asked whether Tim preferred Black girls to White girls. Tim assured his uncle that he liked all girls the same – but he loved Michelle like no other.

Once in his flat, Tim began to set up his new system according to quick start up guides given with his new purchases. In his room, under the monkey carved out of a coconut bought in Sri Lanka by an ex girlfriend many years ago were two gentleman's magazines and the still polythene wrapped box containing the video game he bought the other day. He stared at the front cover and saw his son's face on it. Tim's heart warmed to the beat of a knock at the door.

Through the peep hole he spied his ex. The current ex Heather. Tim let her in. 'Hey you. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to end it on the phone and I told myself I wouldn't but I fucking well did and whilst I was fucking well pissed. I'm so sorry and I hope that we can be friends? Can we? Wow your apartment is like so amazing.' Was this really the London equivalent to the Manhattan Upper Westside. 'I see you have done some impulse buying to get over me.' She smirked, it was sarcasm at least. 'Just kidding. Listen, I'm here to pick up some things and I'll be on my way.'

Tim let her go and do her business. He sat behind newly cleared desk with newly bought laptop like that proverbial child and newly got toy. Half an hour later, Tim was connected to the World Wide Web – yet before he could even type World of Warc... 'I've got everything... so are you not even going to ask me?' Ask you what? 'Why we broke up?' No. 'You're stuck. You're stuck in the life you had – you have nothing for the future Tim. You work at fucking Subway for Christ's sake; that's something a kid does when they leave school. The other man I told you about is a fucking lawyer, Tim. That's somewhere. Yeah, you have a fancy flat and new computer saved up by not paying rent but what about saving up for marriage and kids... new kids... with me.'

It was satisfying to close the lid of his computer and swivel upon chair to face his former partner. 'I love you... I wanted it to work. I had money saved. You just did not put me under any pressure – so I kept thinking, I could save some more and then just really go out on a limb to start a family with you – I'd sell this place and use the money to buy with you at a more friendly location. I got a general manager opportunity coming up and I'm going places. I know I'm still a bit of a loser but fuc... but eff-me, I'm starting to mature and get a good head on my shoulders. You were a good eighteen months of my life and I had it all. In my hands; I know but in my head too...' he was cut off. 'That was the trouble Tim – you had everything in your head. Nothing came out. You think all day and talk only in your fucking sleep. You don't actually talk. I don't think I know how you speak! I know that's an exaggeration but you understand that I couldn't go through my fucking life not knowing things... that you now confess you know?'

The debate continued. The sympathy of both parties was quite profound and almost ignited a re-connection. This was the most both of them had spoke to each other in months. Tim would confess his passion for getting to know his son and long working hours for his absence and his partner... sorry, ex-partner, her confession was of new found love. 'I'm so sorry Tim. I really did love you and this...' was she going to say apartment/flat/place? '...life we could have had but your silence... your silence deafened me.' With that cliché she walked to the door. 'Is there anyway I can get you back? I want you back... I really need you. I love you... Please. Is there anyway I can?' The desperation reddened Tim's eyes.

'I... I... I don't kn...' She hastily opened the door and left taking her belongings with her.

"Yo dad what's happening? You never guess what?"

"What's that?"

"I'm the fucking best at WoW!"

"DYLAN. I told you to watch your mouth – don't say the eff-word."

"Sorry dad, but I beat Richard, Tom, John, Imran and Baxter in the library today. Isn't that cool dad?"

"Very cool... wait in the library? Why don't you guys ever do any work?"

"Dad, it was recess – come on. I had like all the weapons and it was like way cool – I had all the potions and I traded my minor ones with this elf and I had like such a high score that they could only wound me with hits and I was like killing 'em in two."

The two discussed the intricacies further...

"...How's mum son?"

"She's ok, I think. Her belly is getting a bit bigger! She was crying though. I don't know why. She didn't tell me why."

"Oh... well I'll talk to her later, using the real phone. How's dad part 2?"

"Dad Two is ok I think. He's doing something somewhere far. I think that's why mum is crying. Maybe she misses him. I miss you sometimes."

Now that was a shot in the arm.

The virtual world for all it's instance was, as Tim thought it – enough. He was wrong. His seven year old child missed him even though he spoke to him, saw his face and was in his life, for want of better words, virtually every fucking day. Tim's heart sank so...

"Dad will be over as soon as he can, ok Dil?"

"Ok dad..."

"Hi Fiona how are you?"

"I'm fine Tim. How are you? How is life? How is...?"

"Oh... we broke up."

"Eek! Sorry I didn't... well of course I didn't know but... well, I'm sorry to hear that anyway."

"How is Dil doing at school – he tells me he's doing good but you know kids."

"He's doing ok – mostly average results. We're getting in a private tutor soon to boost those up, though we interestingly haven't received his report card for maths yet."

"He's a smart kid – you want to private tutor him? He's only seven. Isn't that a little to early – I mean he's learning, even with technology and that game he's always playing. And he's on emails and things... I mean when we were his age – did we even have all this to play with and learn at the same time? I think Fischer-Price is extinct now!"

"Yes, but Giles and I were really thinking how it would do him good. You know; after his poor start and all – I mean, he's in a good school now..."

"By poor start do you mean me?"

"No..."

"I can take it – I take crap everyday."

"No Tim. He just needs a boost in the core curriculum elements and subjects. When he's punching weight with the other boys he'll be fine. Nothing to do with you."

"Listen, Fiona. I wanted to ask – can I come and see Dylan? I haven't in awhile and... it would be great to see him."

"Yes. He'd like that."

"I have some time in lieu, maybe this weekend?"

"No."

"No?"

"Giles. Giles is in the Far East and... well, he doesn't... wouldn't like it if you were around whilst he wasn't... you get what I mean?"

Indeed he did. It would be the waiting game for Tim to see his son. One week before Giles returned.

**

Yoga teaches us to cure what need not be endured and endure what cannot be cured

B.K.S. Iyengar

Tim picked up the editions of the free papers distributed along the Tube and by free-vendors in the street. Morning customers and their news reading habits. Dineshan, who was doing the same, decided to sit and catch an article. Tim cleared the rest.

Busy was the name of the day – extra busy; a tremendous amount of people. Tim hardly stopped to realise the significance of the day (i.e. why it was so extra busy). He wanted to ask someone desperately but just did not find the time. Customer after customer to serve, staff to train, breaks to take, texts to his son to reply to, food to stock, staff to train to stock food. It all happened on this very busy day.

At home, Tim switched on his laptop to not find his son logged into MSN nor Skype. Where was he? Studying no doubt. Talk about missing – Tim actually realised he did, and it took his son to say it. Normally a father would bless his child's ears with such information; I miss you. But Tim's seven year old boy taught him the lesson of love; if you are not within the company of the one you... then where are you?

"Hi Fiona. Where is Dil?"

"Oh. He lied, Tim. He deliberately left his maths report card in his bag and he failed it. We received a letter."

"Is he ok?"

"Of course he's fine – he's in his room. He's got to finish off all his homework and I've grounded him."

"Oh. For how long?"

"A month."

A month! "Isn't that a little excessive?"

"No. he has to learn, Giles and I discussed it."

"Giles is back early?"

"Yes and we grounded him and he can't play on the computer or anything for that duration – we have a tutor coming in – he'll get his grades up and then he can go back to it and realise how and what he can learn."

"He hasn't texted me. I'm assuming that he has no credit."

"No I have the phone and Dylan wont get it back until a week or so – until we know he's behaving."

"So how do I communicate with my son?"

"How do you communicate with me?"

***

At 2am, Tim awoke from a nightmare. I will not bore you with all the details but let's just say that he was involved unto the feeling of being trapped, drowning even. Being dictated. This nightmare changed him, when I say change – therein you believe the psychological, but more so – the physiological. Maybe... I'm not actually sure...

***

**

Yoga is 99% practice and 1% knowledge

Sri Krishna Pattabhi Jois

At the Subway, Tim saw Dineshan sitting on a customer seat with some customers. He was laughing. Now, he could have been on a break – Tim had not checked the schedule. The new Tim, i.e. the changed Tim – (you know, reader – after the nightmare) decided to advance and query the matter. 'Oh here – meet Tim. Imran Patel. Not the name of a guru but a guru he is no doubt. The rest of these guys... I don't know who they are but hey, they will introduce themselves.' Queue laughter. Before the new Tim could respond after a firm handshake. 'This is the yoga master I have talked about – would you believe it; he is here to see a play and popped in. Didn't even know I worked here. I just told him Subway once, but Shaftsbury Ave he did not know. Now he does. Imran-Ji, this is Tim, my boss.' Wow! Thought the new Tim – Dineshan actually showing him some respect. 'Take a seat Tim.' There was one available but could he? There was a rush going on. 'Go on, just five minutes... five minutes with this guy will change your life.' Why not? Thought the new Tim, five minute power yoga can only be healthy! 'Imran-Ji, tell Tim about masturbation.' Oh no! What had he let himself in for? A group of Indians telling him about blasted wanking. It's bad enough with one Kama Sutra endorsing, moustache touting... 'Do you know that we are all born women?' Imran started. 'And then a hormone kicks in during pregnancy and we either become male or stay developing as female.' Whilst all sat in awe, the new Tim's mind used one mental image of a leg to kick the other image. 'The male and female systems are so remarkably similar; including the genitalia. Men and women, throughout the world and with the gift of knowledge can produce orgasms the same type, the same length and the same amount.' The new Tim looked around – did anybody in locality find this conversation odd? Only he. 'We can all do it, use our breathing and self-stimulation exercises to produce what many thought only the female of the species can deliver. Multiple or longer length and variant powers in the degree of the orgasm can be achieved, my son.' Imran looked at the new Tim. 'Come down sometime? And don't be so worried; we'll start with yoga my yogi Sri Pune would say it's good for you... and why would I argue?!' The new Tim, straightened out his physically perplexed nature. 'Ok. I have to go... and you too Mr Dinesh.' As the two parted from the group Dineshan left one more seed to the already saturated dialogue. 'Don't worry, he says yoga to start and it takes a while to advance, but let me let you into a secret – go home, get it out and go nuts! Particularly around the bottom, in-between your legs and... yes this is a little funky monkey, in the other exit. Oh and at the top of your soldier too.' The new Tim looked truly shocked; as if why; why be given such information. 'Don't mention it man. Now to put some meat on other buns... six inch or twelve?'

The in control nature of the old Tim was steadily beginning to leave. Not that he was ever in control; it was just everything he could control; was. Example of the new: this evening he went to the cashpoint that stood outside the bank opposite his flat; it was out of money to give. Typical of an old machine attached to a decrepit building – I'd bet even the safes are like those in the old Western movies....

Didn't matter; the new Tim still went on to the little known Chinese take away in the alley to buy dinner; with a swipe. Never use your pin and cards huh? Said the new Tim to the old one.

Food, a movie... well no movie. TV. A wildlife documentary about monkeys. Everybody loves wildlife programs except... to his disgust, the segment he had interrupted and stumbled upon was about monkeys and masturbation. Topic of Subway, Shaftsbury Avenue! Apparently, this type of monkey goes all day jerking themselves off! Anyone and everyone of them, just grab a dick and work it! Ha! Brother, sister, father, daughter, stranger – it meant nothing. Spank the monkey indeed! In fact, the only taboo, according to the commentary, was mother and son. Fair enough.

When you cannot speak to your son (in varying formats); if you have no girlfriend after you pined for her love to come back; when you're in a job that you love to hate one starts the process of not sleeping. It was due to start that night (and lets not forget the nightmare), I can tell you; why it didn't... well. That topic again.

'Go nuts!' said the inner voice in the form of Dineshan's. So the new Tim did. Then stopped, after a while. What was he doing?

To the internet; a thing that knew what it was doing. What to type in? Masturbation? Wanking? The new Tim felt he was above and beyond this... advanced!

"Advanecd male masterbation" was spell corrected by Google using a click. The new Tim read. He read about male G-Spots. He read about tubes and muscles and locations. He learnt there was more to stroke play than pornography and a gripped hand. There were indeed places to please on a male body that previous, in the old Tim, only ever existed upon the female one. For example – the term 'G-Spot.' A female thing surely? There are many on a female, or in different places but on a male there's only one place and it's fairly obvious how to stimulate it. The new Tim knows different. To think, Dineshan was right!

Documents not printed out but kept in new Tim's brain, he went to work. Not in the typical manor but two hands and fingers. Flexible movements and breathing and this way and that and... whoa! – what was that? Felt so good there, I'll just keep at that for a while... good job... oh! Good job I haven't... oh my! Good job I have no... work. Breath Tim, breath. Tomorrow, day off – yes. If this... oh fu... don't swear Tim; don't you fucking swear. I can't believe this feeling and... FUCK! I'm coming... shit!

The new Tim laid back and panted furiously – how good was that? Quick! But GOOD... Very: let me tell you reader. He had not felt that before; a very varied type of orgasm; the release was... rather inward. Explosive, but inwards. The male is a very outward creature and he just came; inwards. After a little rest, the new Tim noted something odd. He turned on a light and calmed himself, he pulled back the remnants of the duvet, sat up and looked down. Yes, confirmed:

a) there was no semen and

b) he was still rock hard.

'Guys what are you doing in the back. Get up and go. No breaks are scheduled, clear some litter, prepare some food... wait, there's even customers.' Said the new Tim to Denise and Rod who were in the back room. The was something about the snap that led them to do as told. There was bite to the floor manager.

Outside on break, this floor manager breathed in the London air. Two familiar faces were on their way in. 'Hi Tim' said Adele... and then Dineshan: 'Ooh it's the mother fucking big dog Tim. What up and how is your bastard child?' Tim smiled, nodded and extinguished his cigarette, walking in with the two to make three. 'Did you get some or something, you got a limp, man?'

'I have to say, Tim – this place is running like lightening! How are you doing this?' Adele exclaimed on seeing people actually work without a manager present. She looked at the new Tim, who looked at her and nodded like he had done to the Black man. 'Damn boy, you have been getting some! And not from that skinny bitch either. What's her name?'

"Sweet Onion Teriyaki, please."

"You missed out the chicken. You want chicken with that right?"

"Well of course and I can tell by that wink that you're only joking. Oh and make it a six inch."

"Can't do that I'm afraid. I only come in one size and I'm a bit bigger."

"Oh ok. Fresh like the Sub, huh? Another wink; it must be my lucky day."

"It certainly is. Can I be so bold as to introduce myself. I'm Tim."

"Well I'm Regina and you make me smile. I wouldn't have picked you for someone to make me smile, but I've had a lousy morning and yes. You have done that. Thank you."

"That is no problem. Let me heat that up for you."

"No. please, I like it fresh."

"Oh you do?"

"Yes, fresh like my men..."

"Well you eating in or taking me away?"

"Ha! I'm taking away, but not you – I have work to go to. Maybe another time?"

"Well just maybe..."

"See ya."

"Wait... your receipt."

"Oh no it's ok..."

"But it has my number on it. I'm assuming you want it now... you know, for another time?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Uh-huh indeed."

"Well I'll take my receipt then. It's always good policy. Bye."

"Always is. Bye."

The new Tim arrived back at his flat eagerly. He almost barged past the Black man, on the stairs to get there. He opened up and went straight to bed. At 6.45pm.

'Your management skills are off the chart man! You even got Dineshan to work... that guy never works! Well unless he's bored. Tell me. Who is the new girl in your life that's inspired this?' To which the new Tim responded 'what make's you think there is a new girl in my life?' 'Come on. Behind every successful man there is a good woman. Now tell me, is she that Black girl who comes in here. I see you chatting to her at the door. Damn, Whitey like you pull a Black chick so fine like that, before I would not have looked twice at you but now you got my sisters hollering at you, well you must have something going on.' She looked down and blushed. Yes, Ghanaian rooted Adele just about blushed. The new Tim smiled at her and walked off to log into MSN. Still no Dylan, he figured he'd call him tonight, his phone had not received a message in a while either; yet, the spirit of this man could not be wavered! He thought back to events of the last few days... well, nights and one long day of perpetual, continuous, incessant... coming. No other word describes it better. The new Tim had stumbled upon a technique where by he could make himself come in the very female way. Many times, fingers rubbing only and not a drop of semen anywhere. Another smile blasted the man's face as he moved his head to look down like Adele did before him. He paused. Stood up and pulled his slacks a little tighter to confirm. Yes indeed. His penis hard grown; yet he wasn't erect.

"Hi son. I hear you have been grounded. What happened?"

"The same old. Maths. I don't get it but I got this old guy for teacher who comes to the house. He's like so old I don't understand a word he says and since this is maths, I think that's pretty important don't you think dad?"

"Ha ha! Of course Dil. So how are you coping without WoW in your life – all the other kids getting better aren't they?"

"They still can't beat me. I'm the best and I know all the secrets and they are just not smart enough to catch up. I'm on a break like the footballers. I'm being rested by Sir Alex Ferguson like he rests Cristiano and Wayne Rooney for the easy games. I'm gonna only play hard games from now on."

The moments went by, smiles and laughter. It was nice to hear the child speak and to, in reciprocation, give the boy a little something different in his life whilst he studied, slept and ate only (perhaps the odd gaming during school break times).

It had been noted by the new man that Adele was avoiding him. Except today should be easier, since the source (as he thought it) was his ever increasing penis size. Why easier today? The new little Tim was strapped onto the side of his thigh with masking tape.

Away from the management crush; it had been noted that two employees were on annual holiday entitlement; another three called in sick and then the two called in out of desperation were around two hours away. Dineshan and Tim were on their own.

Dineshan was hardly needed.

Every sandwich was being sliced and diced and prepared by Tim; who was oblivious to Dineshan's attempt to get in and help him. After boredom had set in, he decided to man the till and the pair became a prolific partnership. During respite, Dineshan asked 'Are you aware that you could get carpal tunnel syndrome like that. Repetitive stress. Take it easy. And man; you play the memory game, no? How do you remember peoples orders perfectly after they tell you once only?

Not that I'm complaining – I get the easy job. But seriously bro, you have some fast hands there...' And then it clicked. He looked at the new Tim; this Tim back at he. A queried expression upon face and then the hand gesture and point. The new Tim found it hard not to nod and say 'yes, I'm a wanker too.' He managed not to and instead looked to the door; inside popped the head of a familiar face. 'Hi Regina.' And the new Tim made a casing point to leave the counter and approach then kiss his new girlfriend. 'We're still ok for tonight, right?'

"Next time, I pick the band. That shit was way to weird."

"Really? I thought it was rather Mod to the world!"

"Yes. That's why it was weird."

"Ok, well what now... you know, my apartment is right down there... swing by for a coffee?"

"I don't know."

"Come on. It's right opposite where you work. The bank."

"Yes thanks, Tim. I know where I work!"

"Kiss me there. Right there... oh God, you drive me wild. I want you to fuck me. Let's take this to your room. Fuck this couch shit. Oh! Wow! You really are strong... but please, put me down. At least for now."

"You have condoms?"

"I'm having a little trouble with those, I bought some the other day but... there's problems."

"What problems?"

"Erm..."

"Erm what? Tim, take those trousers off. We're not around anybody now... and I can damn well sure see you want it... or is that a Subway in your pocket."

"Please Reggie, I don't take my work home with me."

"...Woah! That's fucking..."

"-Huge? Yes, I know. Hence the condom problem."

"Fuck me. I need that in me. Forget the condom, just stick it in and fucking make sure you don't come inside, ok?"

"Deal. But just to warn you, you might not want the whole load in your mouth!"

"Eww! Just put it in before I lose the mood for that big thing... ouch, ouch ouch! Pull it out..."

"Ok. Yes... your tongue hit the right spot, I'm ready. Put the lube on... wait what lube is it?"

"I don't know, standard packet sh... stuff you get. To sell the condoms. It's tingling, apparently."

"Eww. Erm you got anything else, I mean – I'm wet, but... your BIG."

"Oil. Hold on... ta da! Baby oil... That feel good for you?"

"Oh yes. Your hands are sexy, but that thing is waiting for this pussy. Bring it over and push it in... oh... ouch."

"You ok?"

"I think... Keep going."

"Ok I'm going in."

"Oh my God that is so big... oh God I can't believe I... oh work it from there."

"I'm only a little in."

"Honey... oh... oh God, you're all the way to the back."

"Ok, so small strokes..."

"Yes... oh shit that's fucking amazing... yes, small but keep it fast... that's it keep going. Oh fuck me with your big fucking cock."

"Yes. You want this. Oh yes, this is it."

"Yes, this is so sexy, Tim. Fuck me Tim, this is sexy."

"I know... Regina... sexy and... oh that feels so..."

"-Hot."

"Yes, so fuc... oh so hot."

"It's hot Tim."

"I know Reggie, I can feel your sexy..."

"Pull it out Tim that's fucking hot... get off me... [scream]."

"What's wrong? Fuck Reggie, why?"

"...oh... my... my pussy is fucking burning, Jesus Tim?"

"I don't get it, I thor... I thought you were liking it."

"I was till the temperature shot up... Tim fuck!"

"What?"

"There's steam coming off your dick. Look."

The new Tim sat in the back room of the Subway contemplating the peculiar instance he had had most recently in the sexual fashion. Apparently his penis had... literally... almost set new girlfriend Regina's vagina on fire. Adele walked in. 'Tim...' She was cut off. 'Hey Adele. You ever have any bad sexual episodes?' 'Tim get outta here, we're understaffed and you're taking a break that I'm sure isn't scheduled. It's busy out there... what did you just say?' 'Bad sex. You have it?' Adele looked around as if bartering the room for a hidden camera. She saw the non-secret security cam. 'Of course...' Cut off once more. 'I mean really bad, bad so it's weird bad? I mean, I'm like... changing. I've had sex before... obviously, I have a boy, but it's like, always been the same til... well like I said, I'm changing.'

Adele was perplexed except she regained her composure and summoned Tim to the front. 'Listen Adele,' Tim assured her, 'it's no worries. All I need is someone to man the till. I'll do the rest.'

"Dylan my main man, what's happening?"

"Hi dad. I'm so bored. I'm still grounded and I don't even know why. I can't even text nobody."

"Anyone. I can't text anyone."

"Whatever. You don't know how rubbish and shit this is. I'm in my room and I haven't got anything to do."

"Watch your mouth young man and there must be something to do? Haven't you got toys? When I was a kid I used to play with toys all the time."

"Please dad I'm too old. And when you was a kid was like a million years ago!"

"Oh thanks son."

"You're welcome, pops!"

"Ok well... play the window game."

"What's that?"

"Look out the window and describe stuff. I'm right at mine and can see the people going in the theatre, cars jam packed on the street. Big lady in the office opposite Hoovering the floor. There is so much going on out there."

"Ok dad. Can I have my turn?"

"Of course, Dil – go for it!"

"Well... Barney is taking a dump."

"Dylan! Why?"

"Sorry dad, there is nothing to see out in the back garden except for the shed and Barney. Oh wait, he's sniffing his pooh!"

"Stop laughing boy... well ok, suppose that is a little funny. You've earned it."

'I haven't seen you smoke so much, Tim. Everything ok?' Adele again. The two looked up at the redbrick of the back building. Fire escapes and all – it was very downtown New York than uptown London. 'What was that you were talking about... you know, the other day.' Adele would have blushed again bar her skin tone. 'I broke up with Reggie.' Adele looked on with sympathy. 'You poor thing... what happened?' She went over to hug him. 'The sex was incompatible...' 'What do you mean?' She still hugged him. 'I'm too... she's much too... no, it's me – I'm too...' 'You've lost me... oh.' She stopped hugging him and backed off looking down. 'Yes, that's pretty much what she said.' 'Ok. Well from the perspective of another woman... I can confirm that... that is fucking huge... I mean damn! Your penis is gigantic. Do you know how big that thing is – it's poking out there... that is like down your leg!'

The two talked a little more and wondered conversation away from the topic of length. The address of Dylan came up and the fact his father missed him. 'I'm waiting on next month. I've got savings but it's all locked away in ISAs and plus I can't take the time off... as you know.' Adele was sympathetic but indeed could not give the man time off when there were staff shortages as it was. She thought for a while. 'Listen Tim, this weekend. How about that? We'll have Freddie and James in on Friday to Sunday night anyway. I'll trade a day of your weekend so you can make it out there, maybe stay the night I don't know if you can... whatever. Just go see your kid. He's a million miles away from the man he loves and an MSN E-Con hug doesn't cut it.' They both smiled, thought about a hug and left it. 'You really don't know Dylan; if I e-hugged him, he'd called me gay.'

'Adele wait. Look at this. This has got to be a record. How many subs have you made, Tim. Tim?' The new Tim was too busy wrapping up the last in a line of customers gone by. 'Who cares about figures.' Dineshan continued. 'What I'm saying is Adele, while you go back on the tube have a think about a mass sacking of all the staff here – except me and Tim. Together, we are all you need for every customer here. His hands are like lightening.' 'Yes Tim, I noticed that the other day – have you been working out. You're fast and we don't get complaints.' 'Fuck that Add, he's faster than fast. I don't see his wrists move even! He dances around here and if it weren't for the bloody slow microwave...' 'Right, well I have to go but, Tim – take it easy and remember what we talked about. Go see your son... and change your gloves. Please stop scratching your back in public!' 'Leave the machine alone Add... now go woman!'

The new Tim noted his silence yet he was preoccupied by the almost painfully itchiness he was experiencing. Then, all of a sudden; it stopped.

Sorry, reader – paused. For when he reached the main door to his flat building he slinked in, found a non sharp edged protruding corner (a fixed cabinet used for mail handling) and rubbed a well earned itch. Trying desperately to make it up the stairs the new Tim caught sight of a familiar face. 'You alright mate?' Said the Black man. The new Tim was, half itchy but half in pain. He felt urges creep up his spine; something was happening to his body frame... the obvious statement, but in review: his fast hands, his big... big... large... penis. Now a back disorder? Let's not forget the temperature – he felt a little hot and was. 'I'm fine.' He spoke breathing heavy. 'You don't look it? Anyway, if you say you're fine you are. See you.' An urge in the form of a thought shot Tim. Instead of leaving it buried he asked; 'Do Black girls like big dicks?' The Black man stopped. Slowly he turned. 'My girlfriend... my old girlfriend was... is Black and she didn't like my dick... but it's huge.' The man approached the new Tim with a clenched fist.

In his apartment, a jaded version of Tim nursed his wounds in front of a mirror. His head was expanding and looked several punched-bruised. His back was aching from the slam into the wall but what rang through the most was the threat at the end this aint finished. I'm bringing some boys around. We going to fuck you up worst than you are, cracker. He checked his back using twisting movements and the aforementioned silver nitrate. Huge, red vertical and curved marks ran either side of his spine. The new Tim suddenly felt so encompassed with tiredness. He wondered when he had known; and put it down to the quick exacerbation of days in catch up. On his bed he fell back... sleep tight, new Tim...

...The new Tim awoke to the sound of somebody breaking in to his apartment. At least, that's what he thought and armed with little he waltzed into his hallway and then living room to find four Black men standing around. Three had baseball bats. 'Jesus Ron, I thought he fucked you up. This man is mashed up. You done a number on him, why you need us for? He is tall though...'

(Ah the old who hit who trick! Reader, did I forget to mention that it was the new Tim who had won round one of the fight? Pretty much his first fight outside of secondary school.)

'Fellas, I don't want any hassle.' Was the reply from the only White man in the room. This wasn't heed as the four including Ron paced towards the new man. As a bat swung, fast fists guided wooden objects away. Rough rugby style tackling was brushed aside as Black men were falling and flying across a once tidy flat. The sofa was overturned. The television and laptop were pushed out of position. Ornaments given to the old Tim flailed... and so too Black limbs. Even a fifth man, who heard the cries of his fellows entered the apartment from lookout point to lend a hand, a hand that would be dislocated. The new Tim was violent. 'Guys, I didn't want this to happen. I'm not even racist. I was asking a question. Why did you take it the wrong way. I'm a little lost these days, if I was wrong... I'm sorry.' He pointed a stern finger at an intruder who was sliding/creeping behind the standing man who had all weapons of combat at his feet. 'All honkys are racist.' 'See now that – 'honkys.' Isn't that racist? All I asked was if Black women love big dicks... I had a Black girlfriend guys... you know what, just leave.'

"...And it took a few hour to clean up the mess, I have to get the lock fixed."

"My God that is terrible. I hope you're ok... I mean, I know you... well are you lying?"

"No Fiona, I beat them up... erm, I've been taking karate lessons."

"Oh really?"

"Hey come on... you know what? Believe what you want to believe! Anyway, how's my boy and any particular reason to you ringing? I'm always the one ringing you."

"Yes there is. Erm... you won't like it."

"Well..."

[Pause]

"Dylan is going away."

"Huh? Where to? When is he coming back?"

"Holiday times mainly. Look, what I'm trying to say is... we've got... links to... a boarding school..."

"Boarding school! No way! I'm not having Dil traipsing up and down the country every couple of months; that's ludicrous!"

"Actually, it's more like different countries."

"What?"

"Try Switzerland."

After a heated conversation with his ex-wife, the new and dynamic Tim wrecked his apartment again. Then he tidied it up in record time. His wrists were faster than even the day before and he was really in a wondrous point about his new abilities, yet could not mentally debate each well enough having been told the news about the possibility of his boy being dragged away to another country. Did he have a leg to stand on? Why was he changing? It must have something to do with the nightly orgasms... right? That was the only thing that had changed in his life. The ability to have... well, female orgasms. Multiple, powerful, longitude... everything was very; feminine. Not male; singular, less powerful, short. He was male, however. Could the contradiction place such a burden on his system that it manifested itself... otherwise? At a boarding school in another country, Dylan would not get the access to the virtual world he so freely takes for granted in his present home. There was no helping the lost (and virtual) relationship of father and son. Lost of the old onto the new – somewhere between the virtual world and the female orgasm, Tim had lost himself.

...And that lost Tim walked to his window and looked across to his bank. HSBC. A bank that contained his savings. Tied up for a month. He didn't have the money to do what he thought of in his head. Hire a car, go down to Fiona's estate, snatch Dylan and live a life on the road. If only. Even his savings couldn't last for the length of time he needed. As with the population of the Western world, more money went through lost Tim's mind. How? And quickly! Impossible. Especially whilst looking and feeling like a freak. Perhaps his new found gifts could help him... Robbing the bank? A laughed off suggestion, except ideas did pop into his head as he watched the Black cleaning lady vacuum the office upper floors of 'his' bank. If he got in there he'd have to break into a vault or safe. Hopefully it would be as projected; old style safe, combination 20-65-98-34 etc. then the lost Tim's super fast wrists could solve that problem, if he had a stethoscope. Then placing money and gold bullion into a grey sack with a dollar sign on it, out of the entrance he came from. If all that were possible, just how the hell would he get in and out of a four storey building? One idea had crossed his mind but he was perplexed, even at the thought of it. Even at the amount of bizarre things that had happened to his body he couldn't fathom the last... thought. The lost Tim went back to the body length mirror in his room as donated by his ex girlfriend. He took off his t-shirt, admired a now stunning body that was aside from the usual skinny, runty old Tim and then twisted and looked as best he could at his back. Yes. As he thought...

...Earlier in the day, whilst the then New Tim was cleaning up after the battle, he noted white feathers at dotted intervals. He had just confirmed the source of those feathers. The lost Tim wondered when his full wings would grow.

'...How to know of your inside balance? Impossible! The potential of the human is incredible and I implore all to explore themselves. You are quite remarkable... Tim, was it?' The lost Tim nodded. 'There is a harmony between man and woman and you are part way to achieving it.' The lost Tim paused. He was confused. 'But I'm changing... but not, into a woman.' The yoga master laughed. 'You are quite correct. That forehead of yours looks very sore.'

Rewinding back, dear reader – The lost Tim awoke with pains, looked in the mirror and called into work sick. 'I was attacked in my flat. I'm ok, just shaken up.' He knew James was back in and Freddie would be in later. He could afford to take the day off whatever the excuse. What he didn't know was that Adele would call in to check on the man with worry. She had approached the unhinged door with great fright. Knocked on it with heightened alarm. Though was relieved by the lost Tim's presence, she immediately held out sympathy for the shape of his forehead. Think Hermann Munster. 'Gosh they really did a number on you...' 'Oh the head. Yeh it's ok now. It's really hard though, knock on it – totally tough!' In reality, or this version of it, the lost Tim's forehead was a by-product of his change. No fresh injury. 'What did they take?' The lost Tim lied by talking of stolen money and not to mention letting the ill-informed Adele believe what she wanted to believe about the results of a certain bloody battle.

Just before she was set to leave, Adele gave the lost Tim a hug, having to tip toe in order to do so. Whilst in embrace she queried this. 'I don't know. I seem to be changing. Maybe I'm having the male growth spurt a little later than normal.' Adele pushed him back stood giggling with hand over mouth. She looked down at the man's trousers. 'Oh... sorry Adele, purely mechanical.' 'I'd say. Wow.' In what could only be a moment of weakness and/or confusion, the lost Tim asked 'would you like to touch it?' And the normal Adele would not have done so in a million Subway management years; but seeing as how she had hugged the body of man that she had thought must work out she contemplated it. She wouldn't say yes; but that didn't mean she said no. The lost Tim was about to takeoff the polo t-shirt he was wearing to face Adele and help her in her proposition. He had half done so until he remembered. Those things; on his back. Adele saw the sign of a man in two minds; she couldn't help much of her hormones as she skipped forward kissed Tim passionately, one hand held the back of his head, the other; a little lower... yes indeed – there.

On passion and outing the two laid horizontal on a bed, removing garments; mainly Adele's who was fully naked to the lost Tim's almost fully clothed; an irony in the sense she had more to be removed. Her smooth brown skin almost purred over. 'Your turn.' And he did not fail to disappoint her for half the fantasy; the bigger half, of course. His slacks were removed. 'Fuck me that's fucking huge.' The past few days' absence of the word had perturbed the lost Tim.

Perching up on both knees, he used a left hand to feel the position of his... ok, his wings, and currently – each was not quite there... perhaps not span. He took off his top.

Wary of the sexy lady underneath him wanting to hold his back, the lost Tim held his lover's hands and used the momentum to pin her down. She liked that.

More kissing and it got to the point where both adults were wanting more. The lost Tim released a hand to handle The Insertion. 'Wait. Condom.' 'I've got plenty, but they don't fit.' 'Oh fucking hell you are big. Put it in.' The lost Tim felt the heat of his... the heat! Damn! He had forgotten about the heat; why did he not feel the heat whilst pleasuring himself for the last few weeks? The female orgasm – bingo! With only part of a perturbing organ penetrating an intruding organ, Tim used his right hand to stimulate the area of his body he had rubbed so sensually, so many times on his own. The pleasure melted through him. 'Wow you are so hot. Are you burning up?' 'No... is it too hot?' 'Ner... no. I can take it. But what are you doing? Get your hand back here.' He panicked silently, yet realised the solution. 'You get on top.'

On switching sides, the two found a comfortable zone of love making. Though comfort was in compromise; the lost Tim and his giant... ego? Not quite, but it was too big. There were complaints about hitting a certain wall. No, reader – you're thinking that a little too crude? Well there is reason, for it was not walls that were to be minded; it was another aspect of architecture. As the two got excited, the lost Tim lost control of parts of his new lost body that stuck out from him. Not the obvious, but the second obvious in the list: his wings. Each expanded. And with it did his notion of what his lost body could do. For both he and Adele were rising to the occasion. Literally. Off the bed they came (well she came) and towards that bit of definitive architecture: the ceiling. Adele, in the moment had lost all sorts of control of herself and with eyes tight shut (and other organs tight, and ever still contracting) she, perplexingly did not notice her heavenly moment (and again with the double entendre, she was too busy noticing her other heavenly moment). And whilst she moaned and cried out the lost Tim's previous single name... 'Tim. Oh Tim.' The lost Tim could only keep his fingers crossed as to a safe landing. Seeing Adele's eyes in the state each was, he grasped her close to his chest, putting a hand over her eyes and calling into her ear. 'I'm coming I'm... fucking... coming.' Though he was not. He and her, were very much going...

In the thirty seconds to one minute period of Adele's climax, her counterpart's grasp of her head served two main purposes – a) to stop her from seeing two huge feathered wings and b) to stop her head from hitting a plastered ceiling. The light bulb was not too far away either. Of course, as her excitement eased; she wanted her head back. 'Tim let go.' And the lost Tim had to; though he let go of his new grasp on gravity also. The two plummeted to the bed and bounced off it vehemently; with after shock. He suspected she had found out about the lost Tim; except he had underestimated observation whilst in ecstasy. 'I never used to see the attraction, Tim, but damn. That was incredible. Your dick is hot... and literally, I feel a little burned actually.' She inspected. 'I'll live... oh shit I have to get back.' Adele sneezed. 'You have feathered pillows? Old school; I'd like, but I am allergic.' She sneezed again and got up to get dressed. The lost Tim followed suit. 'I have to go... erm, the crime scene. I have to report it to the station on Duke's Road. I'll follow you out.'

The two replaced an unhinged door as best they could and made a way down the stairs seeing a certain Black man in the corridor who froze. The lost Tim patted the man on the back 'You better keep your weight off that.' He referred to Ron's foot; he had crutches for support.

When the two lovers parted separate ways, the lost Tim walked a good distance at a fast pace and hopped aboard a bus destined for Deptford. He sat on the right and after passing New Cross, looked out for the pillared building labelled Iyengar Yoga Institute, as detailed by both Dineshan and the internet. He found it. Went in. Waited. And spoke to the foremost authority on duty that day; an old Indian gentleman by the name of Sri Wilfred Pune Snr. And he spoke about Yoga. The lost Tim spoke about head trauma...

'You honestly believe that yoga brought you to this state?' So Sri Wilfred had to be corrected. 'No. I don't know anything about yoga. I just explored myself and it happened. My friend Dineshan. From Subway?' After a moment, a realisation; '...Disciple of Hindu brother Imran with the Muslim name.' 'Yes that's him and he mentioned all this. He even gave me the idea and said it was yoga that set him on the idea... you know?' After a little thought and extra query; the old Indian asked an interesting question. 'How far in do you go?' a very confused lost Tim needed expansion. 'Your anus. Your arsehole. How far up do you go?' 'Oh... whoa... I don't go up.' The lost Tim sudden linked anal obsession with Indian men. 'I just play... erm, I do other things. 'But how do you come like a she then? When I do, I have to play with my brown hole.' Leaving what he thought was the vulgar to one side; 'you can come... multiple too?' 'Well yes and no. It's multiple; but not completely like a woman. Its is an extension of breathing and the male orgasm. What you describe sounds very female but of course, I have heard it before and it can be very false; since us men, know not what the female orgasm encompasses.' The lost Tim extended his description of how he produced his self rituals. 'Interesting. And you say that it is only the perineum you stimulate. Please, take off your trousers and show me where.' A point blank refusal later. 'Well, due to your shyness young man, what can I say. Your forehead is big, your wrists are indeed fast. Yes yoga can produce such outstanding results but what has the connection since you have not practiced yoga? And why would there be any need to worry? It's most likely an allergic reaction to a product, or food. You eat fish?' The lost Tim decided to take a gamble. He removed his t-shirt and turned his back on Winfred.

'Ok well... may I say... well... may... I... can only say... why me? Why come to me?' The lost Tim seemed to regurgitate the whole story of Dineshan and his insane ideas, lack of sex and the need for exploration into the real life rather than the virtual world. 'Wings man! Those are wings! Maybe you need to see a religious... guy. Do you believe in any faith?' The old Indian waited as if which ever faith the lost Tim practiced must be the 'right' faith. 'I'm just Catholic by birth. I don't really follow it but I'm guessing I should.' How correct this man was just buzzed through his mind. What implications on God, the devil and all that stuff did growing wings and fast reactions, height, girth, fitness... overall supremacy not to mention a hint of racism have? Chemical reaction or heavenly charge? Was the reason for him being such a way or was he the reason for such a way already happening? Too many question for his own mind; old Indian men tend to help. 'You know, there must be a reason for this.... Change.' Yes! Thought the lost Tim. Now what was it? 'I'm sure it is big... but it could be small I suppose. I don't know. Best thing is to use it for your faith. Do what you must do. My God, you are an angel.'

And there he said it. Angel.

**

Inhale, and God approaches you. Hold the inhalation, and God remains with you. Exhale, and you approach God. Hold the exhalation, and surrender to God

Krishnamacharya

On the bus back to his home or thereabouts, the lost Tim tried to look around for signs. He saw a university opposite a nightclub. A big Chinese restaurant named after a city. Notably, the bus stopped in traffic outside the commercial stationery store; Staples. Advertised amongst other things: a sale for safes. Digital, traditional dial and key. A very office thing a safe. Banks use them. HSBC; across the road...

The lost Tim wondered.

How does one open a safe. How does one get into a building across a street. How does one take money from a safe to another location. How can one set up a life for a child so he is still connected to life and the new virtual lost world?

Questions.

The lost Tim noted a large house for sale. It looked worn and not in a sales shape. And through his mind wondered a thought... off the bus; we traversed the road (the Old Kent Road is hard to traverse easy). To the house. Tall enough. He scoped it and... a window. Open. In he went, up the stairs and... yes. As expected from the view he collected from the bus seat he had access to the roof. On it; he took off his t-shirt and attempt to expand his wings. In practice he eyed the adjacent building; semi-detached, with a gap for a realistic jump. The lost Tim did not want to fall too far; in case he couldn't... fly.

He thought of birds, of planes of the famous film reel from the Wright Brother's attempt at flight. He even flapped his arms. How? The lost Tim evoked the memory of flying; having sex with Adele. Having sex? He looked around and believed himself out of sight. Inside jeans went a right had, slipping past a member to the area that had got him into all this dilemma in the first place. He rubbed. He stroked. He vibrated with spasm. He flicked. Nothing.

Adele was on his penis when he flew last. He was erect then.

The lost Tim removed his jeans. He started thinking and using the imagination to grab fake bosoms. To insert fingers into fake vaginas. Putting his imagined hard penis into an imagined wet, aching... he couldn't do it. There was no rise... both senses, reader. In guilt, the lost Tim looked around to see nobody watching. He was well covered from sight. And so the voyeur escaped his hidden...

After edging to the rooftop side, overlooking the Old Kent Road, he looked for... something... somebody, to stimulate him. Adele's Black skin turned him on and there were plenty of Black woman walking the hot day. Summer saw women wearing less. He had front row as a bus stopped and let passengers alight. An older Black woman, a White woman with a pram and two children. Not get off material. The next bus. An old Black man with a walking stick followed by three Black school children. And the third bus, similar; two school children, an older man (no walking stick) and... a Black woman. Victoria Beckham shades, short skirt showing high heeled legs – three quarters of each. White strappy top that clung to heaving breast; nipples at attention. Too much to the lost/new and old Tim's liking. He felt a stir. As she left the vehicle; her mobile phone fell to the ground. She bent over to pick it up.

I repeat, dear reader: she bent over to pick it up.

Now, I do not like to repeat myself more than twice but... her shades fell off amidst the effort. So once again. She bent over to pick it up.

What luck! The lost Tim was in total lust. If ever the perfectly formed woman ahead of him. The size of a her breasts proportion the size of a wondrous backside. He could imagine running hands up the thick calves and thighs to push that skirt up revealing what must be a thong to scantily cover a slappable, firm and juicy behind along with a trimmed and primed...

He was up.

Lying on his back he played with his risen member doing as best he could to strain neck muscles to vision the sex on heels that turned the corner to leave at distance. Nothing drove. With Adele, he both had a hard penis as well as being moved along with areas stimulated. The lost Tim got into the exact position and claimed the exact movements even closing eyes to remember in perfect detail the act of 'making fuck' with Adele, General Manager, Subway, Shaftsbury Avenue. It did not work.

...I lie.

The lost Tim opened his eyes to realise he was about five feet off the roof.

Now his cover was blown... that is to those who were looking however, there wasn't anybody. With pressure in time, he had to make it across the two buildings. How? He knew how to hover. Simple masturbation; that's hovering. With a twitch of a thought that was two insane to be correct, the lost Tim tried to move his erect penis forward. He moved forward. He shunted it back. He moved back. The right/left? He moved; to the right or left. He pushed forward and was now hovering above the roof of the opposite building. How to land? He discontinued near anus (or perineum) stimulation. Slowly, he lowered down until he felt coldness on his naked bottom.

The lost Tim realised he was an aircraft and his penis was a joystick and his perineum contained gravity defying buttons/switches.

After 'flying' back; the lost Tim donned his clothes in order to ready a trip home.

First; back down to Staples. Then around central London to chase medical supplies... to no avail. However; on reaching home, he browsed the internet for the relevant item... a stethoscope. To be delivered in 1-3 days. Brand name Littman.

More internet activity; how to open a safe; listening for the beats and clicks. Turning dials. Very interesting stuff...

The lost Tim's phone vibrated. Dylan. A text message: Dad I h8 it here. I wish I cud live wiv u :-( D. The desperate cries of the lonely son; and here lay the chance to put it all right... right? Rob a bank and run away with a virtual son. Reality sucked. The lost Tim paused in depth and searched areas of his mind for details into what he was to commit. Money first then a kidnapping. Theft and kidnapping; the literal kid-napp. All very punishable and what survival rate to the non-visual hermaphrodite? There were many grievances to all in the world and really, was a boarding school such bad news? Dylan would learn and grow up a man; all in legal fashion with the wealth of a man who had earned his money through working (or other) and not by petty low life crime (assumption).

This was what his mind told him.

Otherwise the lost Tim could take the money, take his child and move onto Scotland... no, somewhere warmer before he was noticed thus skipping passport stops and immigration issues. What a life that both he and a recent text message to his phone told him that his son wanted too. Culture. What could a child... another child of London/South of England learn about life in this bastard country? Brand names, the internet, smog, cramped living/moving/breathing and stress. History had taught his ancestors to sail seas and capture land abroad... the lost Tim did not need to capture whole masses, nor even a small island. Just a house next to a school. A beach would be nice.

This was what his newfound heart told him.

On the morning the Littman stethoscope had arrived; the newfound Tim realised that the night was his. For the first time in weeks, he was not going to masturbate into the night. Good hobby, to take a rest. Another hobby to start. Bank robbery. Future planning. And, of course, the hobby he had been shirking for years previous and on to commit to full time: fatherhood. The parcel arrived before his first shift after a special circumstance break had ended. This was one of the days that the newfound Tim had noted late night cleaners. No alarms.

Jerry was behind the service customer alone as he entered. He nodded at the newfound man. Dineshan appeared from nowhere as the only customer in the shop left the building. 'Hey Mr Man! Yo Jerry – where's Ben? Take a fucking break man me and the big dog have words to chat. What are you waiting for? I'm your superior bitch!' Exeunt Jerry. 'Hey boss, you have really touched my heart you know? I don't want to seem gay or anything but your courage has touched my heart truly. And when I say my heart, it is located and beating right at the tip of my hairy ass crack right?' Dineshan laughed. 'Last night, I was watching the Paramount channel – all these classic comedies with such classic jokes. Great stuff man. You should be hooked if you see it. You have Sky, no?'

The shift came to a close and the newfound Tim raced to his apartment. Ron hobbled out of the main door. There was a silence, the newfound Tim could have said something; anything. There was plenty of mark-my-territory manly things to push; but a distracted wannabe bank robber was readying himself. 'Listen bruv. How? Do you do kung fu or something?' A very commercial one hit wonder floated through the head of a newfound man. He smiled. 'Something like that. If its worth anything, no hard feelings?' Ron nodded and even smiled himself. An impressive day geared...

Added to by the sight of his ex girlfriend's slouched body, curved into the almost ball, sat, propped against his newly erected door. She had been crying. 'You changed the locks. Why?' Heather sobbed. The newfound Tim had forgotten that a service call applied in the mid morning fixing of his door. New lock and all. Even he did not have a key. He explained this. 'Oh and what are you doing here?' he asked as the two walked floors to the superintendent's office. 'I have given it a lot of thought. You do deserve another chance and I think I was too hasty to leave you and I want to get back with... have you got heels on? Why are you so tall?'

The newfound Tim found it difficult not to laugh. She really did not know this existential portion of himself. He was a far cry from the old him. Pushed around, float in the wind, neglecting father. No way back now. He knew who he was. He wasn't old or new; more importantly – he wasn't lost. 'Sorry Heather but what have you got to offer me? I'm a different guy now. I'm not who you went out with... literally.' 'What do you mean by... there is a note there, read it before you knock his door down.' Family Emergency. Please ring [mobile number] if urgent. Was this urgent? How long would it take the super to get here? From previous conversation; the handyman's family lived in Leatherhead. That's far.

The newfound Tim took the number down and went back to his apartment listening to the pleas of an ex girlfriend. It was a different life back then; of course, I say back then but it was merely the space of weeks in which an older component Tim had lost his inhibition, his body and was almost set to lose his son. If ever doubts as to the plan of fools; rob a bank, were evident... of course, it was; now however, it was expelled! The newfound Tim was ready to take course til end. It was merely a matter of ridding his ex from area... harder than stealing money from a capitalist.

The two walked up and down the hall with Heather telling her former boyfriend about the times they shared and the connection that could be lost. She informed him that it had only been a matter of weeks since he had told her that he loved her. The newfound Tim, on the other hand continued to use the redial function as equipped standard on mobile technology. The super was not picking up. 'When we get in; can you make love to me? Like we used to. I miss you. I love you.' It was enough to send sparks of rage through the newfound Tim who, out of perturb for his previous life banged a solid fist against his door. His newfound strength broke the lock immediately.

Though telling his ex partner to leave, and several times at that, she persisted. The newfound Tim, tried to concentrate on getting items ready. He could have done with more practice especially in the art of flying. His ex was really limiting such effort. She, falling short of anything remotely close to getting her jilted lover back, decided to revert to an age old tactic. 'Are you coming to the bed room or what?' She said, completely naked.

With his ex girlfriend Heather lying in a star shaped position, purposefully exposing herself, the newfound Tim found it hard to stop what he was about to do. The old Tim would have stopped. He was a loser. Winning was the new, lost and newfound Tim's attitude to life these days. Relentless as the society he hailed; viability is fraught with the danger of losing to the lesser – even if the less is the self; or part of the self which, commercially, should not exist. The sale is the win. The newfound Tim knew this. He went in with the one thing on his mind. And with shrieks of 'have you been working out?' 'Is your forehead ok? It looks sore.' Or even the now infamous. 'Whoa! Did I get so used to that I didn't notice it... now way? That's fucking... hold on, have you been using a pump or something?' The newfound Tim inserted his penis into the recipient organ of his ex girlfriend. Slowly he continued to pump motion as she struggled with comfort. She was, getting used to it... that is until and something that he had counted on, the temperature rose. 'Ouch... ouch... Tim, get it out... that's fucking hot.' To which the newfound Tim played dumb for long enough until the screams really got to him. Heather leapt from the bed and ran to the bathroom. The newfound Tim breathed a gulp of relief and pottered off to a kitchen for a freezer with ice. It was the least he could do.

'I see you have company... or rather I hear her.' A naked newfound Tim walked into his living room to spy a fully clothed Adele. 'I'm not a fuck me and leave me kind of girl Tim. I'm not a one night girl either.' 'Adele... listen, this isn't how it looks... that's my ex, she's insane.' A despondent manager shook her head. 'You are a dog Tim.'

"Whose she?"

"I'm right here. You can ask me."

"No thanks. Tim have you got any ice?"

"Listen bitch, I don't know where you come from but do not talk as if I'm not in the room, ho. You are butt naked and still your man aint looking you."

"I aint her man."

"Listen bitch, do not call me any names in your fucking street language."

"Street? Why you think I'm from the street? I'm Black right? Is that it? Go get yourself a bigger arse and then come and talk to me."

"Well I'll just grab some of yours then, you got plenty enough for me bitch."

"You skanky fucking ho. Cover your shame. You are naked and ugly in this man's apartment and you have a nerve to diss me? And while you're out getting an butt, get some titties too."

Ice fell to the ground as Adele and Heather started to fight. Hair pulling, face pushing. The newfound Tim decided to separate the two and found himself in the middle somewhat, not using too much of the strength he did not know too much about anyway. A token effort whilst one naked woman pushed, scratched and slapped out at another who did the same. But when Heather grasped a very big bunch of afro hair there was very little manoeuvre in reciprocal for Adele. She had to think fast, think on her feet and think... hard. Yes, dearest reader, whilst Heather, the ex, was slightly crouched, Adele used a free hand to grab something big, weighty and semi-hard. She then proceeded to beat the face of her victim who spluttered and released the Black woman. Heather staggered back, dazed. The newfound Tim decided that separation was now paramount.

After some more argument. After some vagina icing. After some clothing was found and put on, the two women left. One after the other at good spaced interval. A bizarre set of events that led the newfound Tim checking his phone... with a smile on his face. Dad, mum says i hav 2 go 2 switzaland.do i hav 2 go dad? I don wana leav here. D. A tear. A single tear released it self from duct captivity. The newfound Tim had not felt the emotions that welled up in him for awhile now. He had been more favourable the past few weeks. Right now, however, he felt like a... a... a loser. He felt like the old Tim. A somebody he never wanted to return to. The winning mentality. He had to be strong now. He was. He had a body of steel. Wings that could fly. He was above everybody else on the planet... at least for the time being... at least for as long as it lasted. The idea of using his new abilities to another, better use had flown the man's mind but... just how long would he have these superhuman aspects? In the commercial world of the winner; the self comes first. Make sure one is rich, then take care of others. The world has waited for a superhero all this time so she can wait a little longer.

I hav a plan son. Hang in there Dil, daddy will come thru  x

The window at complete expansion. The newfound Tim's penis has heightened erection. Right hand steering, left hand 'buttons' and... away!

A short distance from flat to HSBC felt like an eternity. Control of his vessel was honed in with flat practice; even previously purchased pornography was displayed via laptop to maintain boner; Ghetto Booty volumes #1 and #2 back to back. At one point; he was close to... you know, coming before going. He had realised the closer he got; the easier his steering was to control. So with control – he needed a sure fire way of entering the office window on the second floor of the bank. His hands were indisposed; it was time for an extremely strong forehead... smash! He was in.

Though there was no alarm activated, he knew he couldn't be long; the cleaner should have heard the fiasco and would investigate, find out and trigger another. So pulling up his army green combat trousers he set off to find as fast as he could to find a safe... Upstairs was a no. Every room locked – but with shoulder and forehead... unlocked; no joy. Downstairs. Tricky doors; heavier, harder. More difficult to breakdown. But he got there – pain in shoulder, but none of the forehead/head/ it was cast iron. Designed for serious damage. Purpose built for this? Maybe...

Where was the cleaner?

No place to be found. Desks used for new business, cashier stations and queue lines all darkened by night and no light. Except the odd red flashing dot signifying something, some alarm was on. The newfound Tim heard an ominous beep. Motion detection? The cleaner had left. Act fast. Fly away faster...

He tried a door (with his forehead of course). Two head butts later and a crash! He had to run down stairs et voile! A safe... behind grid iron jail/vault door. Not only the crash previous; now the newfound Tim's world crashed. Fingerprints and night-vision CCTV. He was a fugitive. Worse – he was a fugitive with no money. With token effort he head butted two bars close to the lock and handle. No reply. He, again token, tried the handle. Locked, of course...

...It was so obvious. Get money from robbing a bank and take son and live like king and prince... perhaps even fight crime. All the signs had pointed to it... hard head for breaking into doors/windows. Fast wrists for the safe that was merely several feet away. A stronger body – a stronger, winning mentality also; very necessary for the effort. Wings; to fly in and fly away. Of course, the penis and the 'buttons' to help with the flying but also to help with the confidence to do such a thing... and get away with it. Everything was there as the newfound Tim slumped to the floor. Had he got it wrong? Winners don't think like that. What would they... he think?

That something was missing? He had figured out the whole plot except something was not quite right. A missing link? If he put his now faster mind to it... how can he get from outside of the bars, to in and then out again? Was it hopeless? No! The newfound Tim was a winner and winners never quit! He grabbed his head with both hands, squeezed in the effort to think harder... how did he get to this place? Why was he changing/changed? Where did it all begin?

Exactly! Remember – it began with that nightmare?! The newfound Tim, stumbled upon the memory of that bad dream...

...Tim (the old one) was on a bridge. He could not see over the edges because he was tiny. Half the length of himself (back then). Giles, the husband of his ex-wife, appears in the form of a devil (tail, pitchfork and hooves) and teases the tiny Tim. Tim gets mad and tries to fight back but the devil holds him off – simply and effectively; grasping the forehead of Tim with one hand and laughing at him. It was at this point that Tim grew; strong and fierce – like a character out of his son's beloved World of Warcraft. They had a fight on the bridge, close combat skills a necessity – since space was limited. Type of style one sees in a kung fu movie. Fast and hard shots; fast feet, fast wrists, forearms. Inevitably, however, they both fell over side to uncertainty – a white river ocean. This liquid must have been some type of lava or acid as it started to burn... it was necessary to grow wings and fly out of it...

Think! What could he have missed out? Forehead, wings, fast wrists... ok. More of the nightmare... the bridge; could the bridge figure? Having said that, imagine a bridge from his flat to the bank... that aspect was done and dusted... the ocean...? White river ocean...

It couldn't be...

The newfound Tim thought long and hard about the only white liquid he could summon up in the next minute or so. It was a complete loony risk and absolute waste of precious get-out-whilst-you-are-not-caught time but one circle of thought; for want of a better word; aroused him; when he did not use his special 'buttons' to operate the very female component of his orgasm; his penis grew very... VERY hot.

And thus the light bulb; the missing link was acid/lava hot semen that when squirted out of his penis would erode the lock of the vault granting him access to the safe.

And so the newfound Tim thought about women. In particular; his race fetish for Black women. He thought of the woman on the Old Kent Road; of his first girlfriend who he had lost his virginity to and now Adele; one with the supreme body and so sharp mind. Another situation and she would be the type of woman he'd have gone for. Slowly he got a little harder but nerves and stress had a problematic owing. The newfound Tim had to use his secret source of good thinking; the pre-planned tool, folded and placed in one of his many pockets... several pages of an old edition of the magazine 'Big, Black and Beautiful', kept with, in case leaving was proving difficult; hold the cosmic ironic cheer, reader: entering was proving more so.

And so with the images laid out and nervous excitement at a high, the newfound Tim grew harder, faster. He swapped the chic, modern and newly commercial finger rub to an old, tried, tested and boring grip and stroke. Up and down, tight and faster... and faster and faster. Pretty soon his eyes wondered from the pages where sizeable Black women spread there intimate parts up and out to positions where imagination played its hand. He imagined Adele moving up and down upon his manhood. He imagined groping flailing breast and bouncing bottom. He felt the surge to climax... he rose to his feet... he panted hard... he breathed heavy... he bite his lip... he aimed his penis... and then...

With all his new then lost and then newfound man; he came the white river ocean; blasting the lock and handle with vociferous degree! He screamed; top of the lungs; manly still; not high pitch, gravelling – aggressive; focus. The several week stored DNA poured towards its fate wholeheartedly until, several seconds later I might add; he had unloaded full and comprehensively. He stumbled back and fell into a seated position. He opened his eyes to see and hear the visual and sound of melting metal. Sizzle sizzle clank! I forgot smell! For it did not half pong! Smoke everywhere... then cleared!

And as if by magic, the door of the barred vault opened, slowly, due to an offset spring. Tim tried to get up and walk through but the orgasm had taken it out of him. So he crawled to the safe, just managing to push the vault door wide enough. He unpacked his stethoscope and went to work on the very old looking safe. Tim felt the strength of a new self yet, felt rather different too. Maybe a slight side effect? He figured himself halfway through the safe procedure when he felt his stomach knot... sickness was setting. He looked down at his naked upper body. He decide the time appropriate to pull trousers up and on and notice something disturbing; his penis size had decreased. To the size of – an average male. Along with the stomach churn he felt his head almost explode with pain. What was happening? No! Winners don't feel pain – they fight through it! Tim sat back up and struggled to continue with the safe breaking operation and managed to collect and dial to the second to last combination number before the pain was unbearable... No! Winners never quit! He edged further to the unit and decided to use brute force for the finale; one hand on handle, one hand on dial – trial and error each number for he knew which direction to go in at least.

Click! It opened!

But the pain in the man's wrist... why had he not felt this before? He had done more taxing wrist exercises; Subway for example... was he?

Yes reader, he was.

Losing the powers. Tim had enjoyed several days and weeks of a new energy, a new Tim; granted he lost himself for awhile, but he was re-found until the moment... where he sat on the floor of a bank vault, unable to move, physically sick; bad headache, debilitated hands and on top of that a ripping sensation at the top of his back. Jaded – he reached behind him to knock at a wing. Each had expanded but not a pretty sight. Soaked in blood and ready to fall off; hanging halfway torn.

In the corner of his eye, Tim spotted what looked to be men with firearms. His next thought just before losing consciousness was of his son Dylan. He might just enjoy himself at Boarding school; Switzerland is a nice country.

***

Remember reader, it was a nightmare – not a dream. You do not grow wings and fly out from fiery-hot stuff, like a phoenix, in a nightmare.

Instead, something wrong happens. Always and no exceptions.

**

Yoga is possible for anybody who really wants it. Yoga is universal.... But don't approach yoga with a business mind looking for worldly gain

Sri Krishna Pattabhi Jois

{back to story contents}

### A Town Called Eriverdi

In amongst a high school, a grand lake and several trees lay a cottage. This cottage hosted the meeting between Theenu and his new friends Lohané, Eric-Dahl Heusen and a chap in a hooded gown not wishing to be revealed. He spoke first.

"You see Theenu, the premise and nature is this: the sun is not responding to standard physics so you must rise to it in order to use your powers of in-destruction to reignite it."

Theenu laughed.

"What is funny? Is the loss of your fellow man humorous to you?"

"No. It seems like you think I have wings... oh and the ability to travel light years. Sorry, guy, but being indestructible is my limit." Theenu chuckled some more.

"You stupid thug. Do you not know anything? You have been on this planet for a millennium and you do not know shit. No wonder your people are extinct... 16did you kill them? Blind rage was it?"

Theenu moved with aggression to the cloaked individual who dodged him gracefully by physically rising off the floor. A forward roll then somersaulting above the man God's head. "You are not the only one with different abilities" He said.

"Reveal yourself. Act a man."

"No. I will tell you this: 17the God of the sun, Surya, is angry. Angry after breeding a contempt for man some thought he would never have. He/it opened up the fabric of continuum when the peace process finally set in and all the nuclear weapons of the generation of killers sailed into space to take the detour they did not know to the sun. Implosion I believe you people call it. The sun was never to set permanently for many millions of years to come. Perhaps billions, I'm not a scientist.

The will of man is so easy to manipulate once one is aware of a desire within oneself to do so."

"You filthy liar, tell me, how could a mere man know your knowledge?" Theenu's comments were responded with the dramatically ironic obvious: "I am not merely a man."

### *Original Sin

The story of patient Mr Gabriel Aghon at Hunter-Coombe Manor (A psychiatric institution). Told as accurately as possible following a mix up of notes and file papers (the hospital was in the process of removing all metallic paperclips, replacing these with plastic ones, hence the disorientation).
Section 3 – notes

...Post-mortem reveals that Mr Aghon died of cardiac trauma induced by high levels of heroin in the blood stream along with electric shock trauma. Pronounced dead – 9.17pm.

He had flat-lined sometime before this 8.38pm; cause – overdose, again heroin. He had attempted to have been resuscitated, to avail since he regained heartbeat at 8.42pm speaking final words (muffled, approximately deciphered through recordings) 'I fucking did it.' etc.

He died with third degree burns all over chest and parts of lower abdomen.

It is believed that the heroin found on Mr Aghon was smuggled through by his friend and former partner, Theresa Said, who would visit him at the institution regularly. As yet, it is unclear how almost two grams of heroin along with syringe had been transferred to the patient, but what is believed is that it was smuggled in tiny quantities on a continuing basis...
Section 1 – extract transposed

"You are definitely in a better mood today, I can tell by your smile. You never smile. Tell me, what has changed?" Dr Kowalczyk explained and queried.

Well, doctor. The sun is shining, isn't it? Beautiful woman in front of me, lovely weather. Is that not normal reasons to smile?

"Ha! That's very nice of you to say, Gabriel." Dr Kowalczyk blushed at the complement. "I have only been your doctor for the short while but I know it takes more than that. Tell me, what's up?"

Maybe the drugs are working? Maybe I am being cured? Who knows? Today I smile, maybe tonight I won't.

"Oh. Why will you not smile tonight?" She spoke looking disinterested; her papers held upon her lap were messy. She adjusted.

I said I might. I hope Theresa is coming tonight. She makes me happy. There, that is why I am happy. How's that?

"I guess it will have to do. You are being very defensive. I haven't seen you like this. But in your notes, somewhere, I have... something... here, the last time you were so defensive, you tried to break out. Are you up to something?"

Your notes are so messed up, why do you not organise yourself. I thought doctors were clever. Is that a misnomer?

"I would consider myself intelligent. Intelligent enough to know that you are switching the subject." She smirked, though playfully. "Ok. So I will too. How is Theresa?"

Oh. Well she is fine. She believes in me. It is why she comes here.

Dr Kowalczyk paused realising an admission. She decided to follow it. "Why... what does she believe? Anything that I don't?"

You are attractive even in your patronising. You obviously do not believe the words I tell you, or have read in the file. Another druggie whose killed people. Or another patient who is ill.

"Now who is patronising?"

Well maybe I deserve that. Anyway, to get to my point, I have found the solution to my life long problem. Yes, yes, you refer to me as delusional. Psychotic tendencies and all that. Schizophrenic blah, blah. But through all the drugs and the meetings and all that I have been through before I met you and before you the other doctor, Chandrasekhar I believe, I have finally achieved what, I reckon, is a stroke of originality. I'll admit it now - this is why I am happy.

"Well, wow. That was very quick. You were fighting not to let me know why and now you are making frank statements." She paused to look through her notes. "Tell me, you have a very... obsession with originality. I read it somewhere... ugh! Bloody file, where are all the paperclips? Admin are not doing their job!"

Yes. Maybe. Who knows about what they do? Overpaid maybe.

"Originality obsession?"

You have the notes. You know why.

"Would you like to explain it? In light of what you have just told me."

In relation to originality and heaven?

"Yes that is what I have read. Explain this to me. It's in the notes but the paperclips and well, well it's impossible. Please tell me, besides, it was Dr Chandrasekhar who first saw you. Do me the pleasure of treating me like him."

Is there a point? Would you believe me? This is ghosts and ghouls, madam, you are more interested in neurotransmitters, I would think

"Maybe." Dr Kowalczyk pondered the words giving her patient a disbelieving look. "If you do not think you can convince to me, Gabriel. Well then?" She goaded him

It is really simple. That is, my 'delusion.' This is what you call it. I know it is real... there are excuses. I have fewer chemicals moving or too many chemicals. Whatever. I have been through what I have been through I know full well how I have been touched. I could fake this. Tell you it is all lies, try to get bail/remission... but I'm gone. I know I have done bad things but it is all within the prime of originality. Newness. You will never understand what it is to be blessed like I am. I have been told all my life how to go one way. You know? Everybody must know the feeling. Your parents tell you to do this and then that and eventually you buckle. You fight back and rebel. All teenagers have a 'fuck the parents' phase of their life.

"That... that does not wash, Gabriel. You cannot blame your parents for the behaviour you have produced."

Ha! 'Behaviour.' I like it, you sound very much like a quack to me. Is behaviour stabbing a woman thirty times? I have murdered. I did this. I have kicked, bitten and screamed at people. Are these behaviours? What you do not know is the other things I have done... all the 'behaviours' on my wrap sheet are the tip of the iceberg. This was before I discovered what I had to do... what I have to do, still.

"And what is that?"

Doctor, have you heard of original sin? The theory that we are all born with sin that only confessions and baptisms can fix? Of course you know this, a Polish girl like yourself. Well, I have another meaning to the phrase.

Doctor, I was not talking about my parents before. That was merely an example. For, if you read my file you will see they died, both, when I was only three years of age.

Dr Kowalczyk blushed once more and grew ever angrier at the lack of organisation to her inherited file case.

But that is a simple mistake. You blame paperclips, so I will too. What I will tell you directly are about, well, what you would call 'the voices.' I call them the dead or the experienced, who talk to me. They tell me how to get to heaven. They have told me all my life. Heaven this, how great it is. You have to come here if you lead your life in so and so fashion.

Fuck them.

Do you know how it feels to be spoken to, demeaned for twenty-three years? I was a successful student. I had ambition and was top of my class until what, fourteen years old. Then it became too much. They kept going. On and on. 'Make it to heaven; you are named perfect for such. Do you know how, Gabriel? Originality, Gabriel. That's how'

"Originality?" The doctor was happy that her patient, though agitated, was speaking freely.

Originality in good. If you do something good, you do not go to heaven. If it is the first time it has ever been done before, then you go. Original do gooding, you see? If you help old ladies across the street, it's nothing. Been done before. Do something like this but completely new and original and you book your place sky high.

"Ok. Any examples. How would you go to heaven?" Dr Kowalczyk believed this was a good question.

You have not been listening to me have you? I said, at fourteen – I HAD HAD ENOUGH. And when usual teenagers rebel against their parents they do what? That's right, the opposite. So I have been sinning ever since. Ultimate sins, of course. No hell for simply being a little evil. Murder, rape. That sort of thing. The boys in blue have caught me and now I am here because the stories I am telling you do not wash as excuses for the sane.

"That's a very vivid picture you have there. You are a very intelligent and articulate young man. If you put yourself in my shoes can you not see yourself as a little... for want of a better word, different?"

Doctor, the more appropriate word is original.

"Maybe... but like you said, murdering... stabbing and fighting is hardly original."

No it is not. But I did not figure my true path until the more recent times. I was hell bent in a literal but ultimately wrong sense. The apparitions of the experienced told me how to get to heaven; I assumed hell was easier to get to. Then one day, I felt correct in believing that hell is equally as difficult. I have to be creative, that is, create an original sin to get there. I cannot just murder someone like I have done...

"You say it so blasé, do you not feel remorse? After all, you stabbed another human being with a screwdriver... and several times." She knew full well she was to be ignored. In a sense, the doctor wanted it ignored so she could move on quicker.

Whatever I have done in the past will not affect me in the after life as it is all unoriginal. I have lived a life that contains, for want of a better word, behaviours that have been done preceding. But apart from these, do you want to know some of the sick things I have done, that I thought was original sin?

She did but she did not say so although her apathetic silence was golden.

I've tortured animals in ways you could not imagine. Drugged them, stabbed them... even killed them using a fucking microwave oven. I've filmed Theresa almost dying. She bled for me on camera, and before she almost went, all I could do was rape her. The regret I have? She survived.

I know you think me psychotic. Destructive. Ha! I am. Fucking... for kicks, I fucked a blind girl whilst watching pornography to get me off. She couldn't see it and she thought I loved her. Like I cared... All the feelings going through my mind was the belief in my own originality... until I hunted the internet. Doctor, there are equally sick men out there.

"These admissions, quiet frankly make me uncomfortable." Dr Kowalczyk glanced Gabriel's restraints. He did not move throughout the speech, it was simply the powerful words and concepts that frightened her.

Yes I am quite capable of killing again. Or doing more. Yet still I smile. For this I can only apologise. However, take note that you needn't be so afraid, since killing my own shrink is highly unoriginal...
Section 2 – video/microphone recordings transposed

...The door to room G34 was opened hastily since the patient had shown through the glass panel viewer that he was injecting himself with a liquid. How he had acquired the apparatus and substance is debatable. He screamed 'It's an overdose. What are you going to do?'

Upon opening of the door, patient Aghon was seizing, foaming from the mouth. On call paramedics were called whilst orderly Jones acted to stop the accidental swallowing of the patient's own tongue. Dr Kowalczyk arrived with paramedics who proceeded to resuscitate patient Aghon after his life signs had diminished and stopped. This was performed manually whilst a portable defibrillator was readied and charged. Once applied by paramedic Hussel an unordinary action occurred. Hussel seemed to collect a shock also. He knelt clutching the device shaking uncontrollably on the spot. Smoke poured from patient Aghon's upper torso and Hussel too were propelled two feet into the air landing face first to the ground still grasping now inactive nodes.

Patient Aghon regained some consciousness appearing hysterical mouthing words 'I fucking did it. He's dead' along with shrieks. He vomited and passed out. Attention was switched to forlorn Hussel who was failed to be manually resuscitated dying along with patient Aghon.

Dr Kowalczyk too screamed and pointed at patient Aghon, whose chest and body parts were still smoking. She inspected searing flesh, pulling out thin, long metallic objects. Wires of a kind. She added the words 'Paperclips. Under his fucking skin... why? Wait... This is it! He has murdered! He has murdered someone and he knew it. But... But he was dead. He said it. He did it - he knew what he was doing. Fuck! He killed someone while he was dead... oh my God. That's fucking... original... right?'

### *The Set-Up

T-Minus 2.5 Years

I stroke the hair of the woman laying next to me. She is fast asleep – I look at my alarm clock. 2.37am. My girlfriend and I have come through some struggles; mainly because she is a depressive. Suicidal at times – so angry when provoked. She looks so peaceful sleeping next to me. I wonder if I should kiss her. I wonder if I should tell her all my secrets – while she sleeps and cannot hear a thing. Instead I place my hands behind my head and think about stuff whilst listening to mp3s. Music, it doesn't help me sleep but I guess it's something to do.

T-Minus 2 years

She rang, we spoke on the phone about my best friend Thivian. He was having women problems. Typical stuff – hated them; blah blah. He had had a couple of relationships that didn't meet Asian criteria; something about caste systems. Then his last one had cancer. She shut him off even though the guy was really willing to help her out. You can't and can blame her but that doesn't matter because what does is the mental scarring Thivs faced.

'Look let's set him up with my friend Janany. She's Asian as well.' This is my girlfriend Aarti who I referred to earlier as she who rang. 'She also lives in the same place he does. Your place... er... Lewisham.' I was thinking hard at this point and came up with the plan. Right on the spot. I was wondering about castes and stuff when I thought of it. I wondered whether Thivian would even be interested in Janany just simply because of the rough plays he's had over the years. It hit me that I couldn't just ring and ask him. Maybe Aarti and I needed to set him up. 'Set him up? But that is long. Look just go with a double date. Trust me honey, they match. You don't know shit about our castes and they match. They're both Tamil and it'll be fine.'

The conversation and my brain cooked over and it was time to put the phone down and sleep; her at her parents house in Croxley, me at my flat in Harrow. Amongst a million things I laid awake thinking of the plan in setting Thivs up, thinking of Aarti and life in general. I must have checked my alarm clock several times and it was about three in the morning when I started to really perfect the set up. I know, it's pathetic; a man setting up another bloke and getting so involved in the process! But I have a problem sleeping so I guess I'm always up. Most of the time it is comfortable and ok, but I do get bored; especially when there is something that I can do whilst up... and this felt so right at the time.

T-Minus 1.5 years

I met Aarti at the Costa café in Harrow town centre as we do every so often. She orders a hot chocolate that looked real fancy and I; a latte. Things are going fine and dandy until she mentions Thivs and Janany. We set them up you see. Thanks to my plan, yet that is dismissed as incidental seeing as it was her idea to set the two up in the first place. She even rings Thivs up now and more than just once to ensure they stay together... given him advice and all sorts. She then claims this is what keeps them together and healthy.

Well, Aarti and I were planning a trip to London Zoo; we did this – her idea. I have no consideration for a zoo. I call Thivs up – tell him to meet me. Ordinarily, he'd not go for that but just a trip for the two of us would be great. So I told him it was just the two of us. Gay – a zoo; but it's close to Regents Park and I told him some bullshit about me needing to talk... so we do and low and behold who do we bump into? Yes Aarti and Janany. The rest is history.

While she sat there eating her chocolate spoon I said the words I thought I'd never mention – I had debated these words in many sleepless nights of staring and counting seconds whilst my radio alarm clocked notched 3.07, then 3.08 etc. listening to idiots who think they can sing, others who can and general wish wash that is thought. You know – I don't think I've slept this past week. Sometimes that happens with me; I simply do not shutdown for days. My record had been 6 days, but I'm pretty sure that around one and a half years ago it was 8. Anyway, that's my excuse for what I mentioned:

'You know Aay, he'll cheat on her.'

One of those decisions you live to regret – but, as you'll find out; I actually didn't.

So I get the third degree about what type of person he really is and I explain that maybe it's different this time; I've seen them when we're out – they're good together etc. etc. I continue to back it for my friend after I had placed the seed of doubt. I could tell by the way she stopped short on her drink earlier than usual that she was perturbed. Too cocoay was the normal exercise of voice on why she never finishes a cup... or glass of hot chocolate from Costa. But there was more in the glass that usual – even the stick had not been eaten. 'Don't worry boo, just call him up more and have words – don't mention what I said; just be caring and stuff he's cool. That's how men are – we're dogs. But once you meet the right girl, we settle.'

Had I said that correct? How can I remember!?

T-Minus 1 year

When I lay awake at night I think of many things and the one constant is a typical, male (or maybe female too) verse of regret. How I could have done things differently in my life. Idiot decisions that in real life have no rewind button. I saw this Austrian film once, late night on channel 4. Can't remember what it was called but this gagged woman grabs this shotgun off this bad guy and she shoots dead his accomplice. Then, like something out of a Cronenberg movie, he picks up a VCR remote and presses rewind. The film then goes back to the point before his mate gets shot and he then stops the gagged lady from getting at the shot gun in the first place. Insane right? But I don't know what that film was about but I actually felt good when she shot the cunt but was gutted when he comes back. The dude is even alive at the end of the film and they start getting ready to kill other people.

Well it is the only example I can think of for the way that I felt a little more than a year ago; wanting to push that rewind button and iron out mistakes. Films teach us so much about how mistakes by the hero are rectified by other things he does by the end of it. But damn I am... no, was in a hole.

***

A lovely restaurant in the centre of London; Bow Street. Pasta Brown. Probably a chain but this one is mighty fine. Best food I've ever tasted and get this – the cheapest wine on the menu is the best! Merlot from Cesari; an Italian winery. Beautiful. Aarti and I are having problems. "You are not showing any enthusiasm like it used to be. There's little romance in you. You don't seem to want me and you just are so lazy in this relationship." She started off so well – so strong, independent. I really thought she had turned a corner and the therapy plus the drugs were getting her on top of things. "Is it me? It's me isn't it? I'm a curse. Every guy I've been with just gets bored of me. I'm boring and useless. I'm ugly, I'm fat and well; you just don't love me any more..."

They say therapy takes years to work itself out.

T-Minus 8 Months

We just finish this double date. The girls are heading back to their respective houses and Thivs is staying at mine so on the drive back I ask him "Are you sure about Janany?" to which Thivs replies that he is ok and wonders why I asked that. I wait a while, dilly-dally on my response. He has been speaking a lot to Aarti these days. The phone calls have increased – they've even met up for lunch, the two working so close together in central London. "Are you two having problems or...?" And he explained about the situation; he was growing less trust for her and just generally not seeing eye to eye on issues. Typical male-female issues on late night partying and what the woman wears etc. blah blah. Bliss really. He even told me to talk to Janany – maybe that's a little compensation on the whole I meet up with your girl all the time, please meet up with mine to make it easier.

T-Minus 7 Months

So I meet up with her about a month later, same Costa, same Harrow. She hadn't been up North London for a while and few friends she wanted to see also. "Do you ever sleep? Your eyes are so dark and wrinkled!" Gee thanks. We small talk and get on to the subject of Thivian. "...it's like chalk and cheese. I mean – I dress like Aarti and you don't complain. I act just like her... we're girls for Christ sake! You're so different." I folly her suggestion by referring to the fact that things aren't going so well between us; my unromantic, typical guy rubbish. "Yeah, I heard... but that's all guys. You are like all guys but with one outstanding factor – you do not get jealous. Thivs gets jealous when I dress up for a night with the girls. He gets jealous when I go out to lunch with a co-worker, man, even he goes out for lunch with Aarti and you don't bat an eyelid. Even I'm a little jealous of that myself." There was my window of opportunity; if I was that type of guy who'd steal a girlfriend. Janany was pretty.

T-Minus 5 Months

I stroke the hair of the woman laying next to me. She is fast asleep – I look at my alarm clock. 4.15am. I haven't slept for a personal best seven and a half days. She looked even more peaceful than Aarti did; two or so years ago. I am talking about Janany – who I am sleeping with... well; we fuck, she sleeps I don't. Setting her up with Thivian was a masterstroke – if and only if I could go through with the final piece of the set up. Technically it's not a finale – there is afters. I'm guessing however, as I write this, along with another letter addressed to Thivian and also Aarti; it should all work out.

T-Minus 0 Months

I do not really remember much about this day. A lot of alcohol; some pills. I did it though. Finally. And you know what? I actually slept! A real sleep – more than the one or two hours I get here and there.

Sending the letters was the hard part. But I did it.

The present

It is a little hazy, things are different now. Thivian knows, Aarti knows. Janany has been cast aside big time. She was really the loser in all this but then to sleep with her best friend's man was the idiot's choice.

Me; I'm doing ok. Seeing parts and parcels. I note that Thivian has formed a bond with Aarti – they look so good together and Aarti is even toning down her dressing and all that. Guess she's getting older and mutton and lamb and all that. Thivs is being way more relaxed about things.

I saw them kiss for the first time... I think I smiled. My tired, sleepless self had being planning this for two odd years now and finally... finally: the set up is completing itself.

Gives one a good sense of satisfaction in life; even though I am not in life any longer.

{back to story contents}

### Ultraviolet Bending

After a skirmish (or even a mini-battle) the stranger held Theenu firmly to the ground forcing peace (at least non-permanent).

"So you have not heard of life moving? Nor life bending? An idiot with power... have you not learnt something all these years? You can't just use your ability to destroy... Shiva is the one and only, do you think you could battle him? You are indestructible, no? No. You have not encountered issue that would destroy you; no bullet to fatally wound nor poison to fatally infect. This does not mean it does not exist." The cloaked man not once let the image of his face be seen, "you want to know how I am able to hold you down? Your mind is too tired; you have the brute barbarian strength to push me away... say, memories getting in the way?"

The two separated and poised uneasily looking each other up and down. Theenu's mind was spinning and realised it was effecting his overall grasp on reality. Over the last three months he had been ignoring what people were saying and generally being too within himself. These were all the symptoms displayed when Theenu's memory had filled to a point of confusion. The brain distributes extra memory in zones not confident of taking on such; matter fuses and the result is behaviour not in the usual. Very much like phantom limb syndromes in brain lesion patients - caused primarily by parts of the brain meshing together over removed parts; a person may feel his toe moving even though he is scratching his shoulder. An extreme example.

In 2267, and for the subsequent eighty-seven years Theenu stood/sat in a catatonic coma18. Why? Because the matter in his brain had filled with the memories of around three hundred years (three hundred and thirty-four to be precise). Over that catatonic period of time (the eighty-seven years) pathologists of India were puzzled by the fact that he had no prior symptoms of mental disorder and that occasionally it would seem he got a little better, some stirring, and then back into catatonian 'bliss'. It was not until 2350 that a new, young doctor went over the records of a certain Dr H. Earl and slowly and sure used hypnotherapy to little by little reduce the strength of the coma of the remarkably youthful looking Tamil. It took four years, but before either Theenu or the new-y(J)oung doctor could explain all, they vanished.

From the incident, Theenu realised that he would have to repeat hypnotherapy every three hundred years unless he wanted to continue with nothingness. Two hundred and fifty years later, he went to see a prominent therapist in Bangkok, who not only repeated the procedure but removed conditioning set in Theenu's mind by someone other than Theenu. He suspected the young doctor, but how to find one man in a full planet was something beyond even those with extra power.

A worthy foe was ahead of him and like all warriors, Theenu loved an opponent with matching ability. "I need your help to save this planet, let me know when you want to do this. Until then, please feel free to quiz some of my team." The cloaked manner, turned and walked away. Theenu relaxed fighting stance, since he knew that he needed to be at full fitness in order to do battle. He thought for a second; their were two people Theenu needed to see and neither were of the two standing quietly in the room corner. One was a hypnotherapist, the other, Johnny Torino-Gupta; the closest Theenu had got to a challenge, during his actual and almost X-Games phases.

### *The Window

"You know, it is hard for me to tell you how I feel. I'm just not that type of guy. You're more opposite than me." Said Degen

"Just approach that window. Pretend I am not here and let it out. Talk to the tree outside." Said Lucy

"I see fields. Daffodils and funny looking yellow plants. It is quite easy for the wind to blow each away. I find it a shame that I drift away like this sometimes." Said Boomyie

"No doubt without daydreaming there would be no fiction. Inspiration, the scientists would have you believe that imagination is a cultivation of chemicals. How do they account for that which is around us – the not man made? Nature." Said George.

"They cannot. Children run through urban streets all day. Cars do not look for them; the people who drive them do. But only by accident – in the double use of the word." Said Lavanya

"Do you sometimes stare at flowers and see children's eyes?" Said Boomyie

"Only when I really get into my memories. When I search hard, right back to where I began. This is when I remember." Said Degen

"Remember what? Memories are just visions. Look at these visions and describe each; there is no need to delve or try. Undoubtedly it will come natural." Said George

"I'm not quite sure. If you haven't guessed by now (and brother, this is sarcasm), I do get quite nervous. Especially when I look and do not see the clear images that we all see. Mine are distorted. This worries me." Said Lucy

"I get scared of the future myself. Things that may or may not happen. I play the image like video feed... and then BOOM! I'm back to the present." Said Lavanya

"Neither the past nor the future is retrievable by staring through glass. Yet, when I do, the earth appears to me. I cherish it and begin to wonder; would you like me to tell you just what it is that I wonder?" Said Boomyie

{back to story contents}
If one believes one is important then you can kiss goodbye grace... everybody is pitifully equal. We're all nothing special – in this life and the next.

***

How ever much the feeling of originality, greater is the punishment of the mundane.

***

Hypocrisy is the key to the shambled life span. Principles need only apply if backed.

***

The feelings of loneliness are far supreme when one does not power the self with aggression. To get out of it; requires more than the will of the man – for divine spirit (or luck, if you will) is necessary.

3. Together

### Johnny Torino-Guptta

"Yo man, I'm like, totally not seeing what your seeing, man. The guy was a legend, he never broke any bones or shit. The dude was like an unbreakable mother-fucker, you know what I'm saying? Totally rad. He hit three defcon allies on his board, landed face down, falling like, what must be twenty feet. He didn't even break any teeth. Hard nut. I seen the films, man. Stunts like you aint seen, bra. Now that's vert isht! There aint no way you can sit there and tell me that Toucan got shit on Theenu."

Yes, he said Theenu. During a century of unrest, The man God with the inflicted curse/gift decided to heed less for sore subject matter of self-loathing and more onto something he rather fell into upon travels to the Western society. He learnt to ski/snowboard/skate... you name it, all types of what was considered the 'X-Games' (when competitive in organisation, those who enjoyed such. Notoriety has to the true purist placed such ESPN and Arnaa-Avanaar-Eenaar network classics under the capitalist eye). With records set in both the summer and winter version of events, the indestructible Tamil was likened to the warlord who conquered the Americas in 258419 but no one thought that the two could actually be one and the same person... since achievements were 324 years apart.

Back to Torino. Born in the South Americas descending from the second wave of Sikh warriors, the young man first craved the excitement seeing an America Guju race his BMXtra against a Brahmin-Argenteen youth across the bank of lake Esio. The speed at which the two ran the Ventrino course (dirt, grass, U/L-turns at trees etc.). It was time for young Johnny to show his intestinal fortitude.

So he did; competing in events that strained his growing body and the anxious minds of parents. No matter what they did to discourage the youth; it did not work. Some things do not change. With instinct, Torino took a skateboard and began his played trade down hills and ravines. The mountains of Prabaharan, east of the Americas of South paved abuse. Many rubble caved under the pressure of small plastic/rubber wheels. Up and down the ramps of a naturally made vert; through rain and earth caused natural disasters of the years. Nights of solo efforts with early starts. Days of practiced group methods and routines. At twelve years old, young Torino accepted no other company than that of his mountain compares. In a freak weather storm, much of the angular sides of Prabaharan (the range named by a Southern Indian zaminder) fell and left standing was the north face, minus vert, rallies and allsorts of slaloms. This sparked a mini explosion of anxiety in Torino's parents; genetically prone to the problematic logicality that is worry. In August that year, whilst Johnny slept, he was drugged and abducted, taken to Los Angeles by his parents. Enrolled in school near Vishnu Heights, Johnny was awaken from induced rest five days after lay down upon a new life.

With little to go on, Torino started his existence (part II) attending DeVedas High School; but keeping to his X roots by enrolling via an extra credit scheme. He met Annie at a séance in grade 11. A party at Andy Letterman's house had drinking and smoking and dancing for the downstairs entertainment. Upstairs, rooms locked off except two: one, spin the bottle, two a conduction of witchcraft. Fed up with the fake play of his second life, Torino sat in; the rest is the quartet's history.

After which Johnny produced performance for the northern Americas in each X-game between 3123-3135. He was the best athlete of his kind for seven of those annum. Getting close to records set over six hundred years before his events; new skateboard manoeuvres, BMX speed second records. It was almost un-human to break what was set by Theenu. Indestructibility goes a long way in realising what you can and cannot do.

### *Freedom of Spoke

Based on a true story

Kooky she called me; to send the popular written word to bed. Just like that. But in comparison – exactly what way did I invoke this reminisce? Because it's all different. Two differences are not the normal, therefore, each is the same (the differences that is). The world of the exacts. All or nothing. Built stereotypes to rhythm life.

If I press a button a sound is released (stereotype). A light too (stereotype). It says 'Stopping'. These lights should be farther but for the mud patches of the seat behind.

On the road I walked several paces with a mind of a matter of fact. Slavery was the subject of the last book I read. At least, those pages I had read. No longer I wished to continue the monotony. Too much melodrama mixed with facts. Not enough fiction. The creativity of the mind. If I wanted periods of history as bland fish sticks; I'd eat and read a tome (or two) published by McMillan and sold to me by Blackwells.

Though, I last read the words of Edward P. Jones a few hours prior I engaged my mind of the work of the feminine named Suhaayl Saadi. Most probably because 'Saadi' was a girl I once knew – a female friend, shall we say. Psychoraag it's called and a dam sight more unhinged than Jones' first 50 – where I stopped. If I am not gripped then my pighead will raise dust – through a combination of gravity and release... BANG!

In a library, the slamming of a book would cause a fuss. So, I have taken the opportunity to approach a bookstore; in order to purchase my very own copy of Saadi's work. The piece that resides in my green sack (now at my home) was a hired goon. This bothers me since the volume is quite god and so I must OWN a text. As a writer myself it would do my conscience great deed to purchase the work of a fellow.

When I say I am a writer I could be broad in my spectrum – so I will define my statement. I write. Non published... thus far... but soon! The words of faith! Still aside, if all to plan; then if I expect the other to buy me then I will buy the other.

Point 2. Far from me to walk into any bookstore. No Madam, but the one to settle my fidget. The independence of my nature should be reflected to the independence of my procure. I have walked away from slavery written by a Pulitzer prize winning author BUT NOT as I lay eye witness to such, in the first hand. The slavery cast to the written prose. Chained by chains. That should speak for itself.

And back to my several steps taking the route up the Charing Cross Road passing litters of shops all claiming books as their main point of. A whole landing dedicated to crime is one. Smaller, a cornered placate while along with a few others. (Inclusive of the art book capture. Books or gallery? Logic has me on this one.)

Here we (I) are (is), passed the sets to the one I adore. My local independent bookstore. (A mere 45 minutes from my abode!)

Enter, stranger! I am but a man so let me not dilly dally, here or there and get straight to the... Well, maybe a little browse then. Wont hurt.

The newly released. You see, what pains me is the knock effect/test (and I recommend that you visualise this). When next at a bookstore's 'new' section roll your arm forward, clench your fist and use some knuckles to wrap a text, gently... does it make a sound? Yes? Well that is because the cover is solid, tough, tightly packed partified... it's hard.

Do we still live in times of rats and moisture attacks?

So then exactly why do we entertain the hard backs?

A useful tool against the broken and entered?

A raised table mat for the consumption of placenta?

Wobble no more dear table; you are on a new level...

Door opening practice, for the agoraphobic dishevelled?

There is no need for such item and only on for the want of monetary gain. In the world of the want why would such be different for that of the strung words? To read 'Shalimar the Clown' you must purchase the new Rushdie. How? – via the hardback. Paperback work work just as well and being more portable, I tell you, they work just as better!

In front of me, here at Foyles, is the mixture – hard and soft. Knock knock... muffle muffle! Ah! What a delight! Authors (at least some) with sense to save his reader pence! But not today as my mission is set. Browsing is for the shortened while now I bid my leave to desk of information. The Do You Have quota.

Confronted I was by a sight of attraction... play it cool... play it cool? What of my words, those of romance? My tale (kooky or not) will not engage in romancing... she was asked and she searched and she found... nothing. The book 'Psychoraag' by Sahaayl Saadi did not exist at this address. A smile. A return. A parting of ways.

How bothersome. To leave my comfort to return (later) empty handed. I thought this while edging passed the shop of crime. Hmm. That's an idea... so wondrous it cannot be true... I'll try another bookstore! Sarcasm applauds. THANK YOU, so, so kind.

On the corner of a turning I noted the little number called Quinto. That maybe pronounced Quin-toes or Quin-toss. I have not the memory to tell you for certain. I do know the owners have collected the two premises (this by 'miracle' of the poster). So they were a chain! No matter, judging by the lack of warmth (which served to add to the warmth) and the un-ordering of matter – this was no commercial venture. The smell too told me of comfort. Mmm, must.

'To the basement. More fiction down there' another 'miracle' displayed. I went down all the while assessing my counterparts; two older gentlemen and a sizeable younger, youthful, sporty type. How dare he steal thunder about my image? Tis none exclusive? 'Now, now' I told myself, he has the right to the settings as the almost youthful I do.

Miracle: "SALE 50% OFF"

Well, Saadi maybe positioned and if not what would be the harm? Fiction all around and at silly prices! For books, I can barely afford NOT to buy! Again, the order needed reference but at a sacrifice to the unordered female (and lets face it, she is the reader; not I or the sporty handsome fellow. We are the outliers curiously breached deviation simultaneously on a Saturday morning.)

And there it was. A dark skinned portrait of an African American. Bordered in a rectangle above the author's name and his book title. A quote also. This hit me and I had the enthusiasm of a boy and his new toy – though I had actually not. The novel I faced was not the same of the game that preoccupied my hunt. This was new meat. Middle Passage was it's title and Charles Johnson was construct's creator. I picked it and examined it. There was a photo on the back representing the author looking oh so Spike Lee. Same hair, same glasses, same puffy cheeks... oh and he was African American.

From which part of the continent (that's the first A and the second) I knew not knowledge. Is it even wise to call the darker skinned humans who reside over the Atlantic as the 'African' American? Would this not be the case of their lightest pigmented 'non afro-ed' hair cohabitors to be labelled the European American? Why would they simply be the American? It's not as if they, like the darker skinned 'Afro' haired souls, are native to the land.

£2.99 and at 50% that make's it £1.49 give or take a decimal placing. Pleased I was to the filling of the hole whilst the weight not duly on my pocket. Not only for the supply of my empty hand and wallet but because of the word I caught sticking out on the blurb. Not one for reading the idiocy of a summary I had tried my best not to do so. I did, however, take in the one section and it oxymoronically pleased me, the word I must tell you. The word: slavery.

I had required a replacement. I rode travel to supply my conscience with the acquisition of a contemporary. A novel I held.

Now, I must wait on another comment for that score but what I do have is the return of shunt for Mr Jones and his take on slavery. An alternative. Will it have the same drab, melodramatic tosh that pushed me from my library copy of the Pulitzer prize winning piece? Well, dear reader, that's another 'kooky' tale.

{back to story contents}

### The Fusion of Patterns

21Lohané stuck close to the off the boil Theenu and followed him wherever he went. He grew tired of this, but confusion was getting the better of him; so he let her do such, until he could find a suitable therapist. He consulted a café station and discovered via satellite network internet (the only way on the net in this bleak future) a hypno-therapist within the state/country line. He could not approach just any but needed the advice of one in order to find the appropriate level of reception. Obviously, a hypnotist was not going to live for three hundred years, so Theenu took it upon himself to learn the piece-piece art of self-hypnosis. For this to be successful, the self part is entirely redundant: another is needed. A professional. Someone to get him back out of the trance that he would put himself in via a mirror and as comfortable a setting as you possibly can. In days of these, hypnotists were a firm member of the black arts. It was rare to have an over-ground doctor of trance since the entertainment business' collapse. Theatre, film, books, arts had diminished under the effects of less sun. It was not a matter not seeing the sun, the less ultra-violet rays that hit this planet, the less people responded to positive examples. Paranoia and closed shells were the norm; however, not in the normal sense of hitting out. The world was at peace, but at sacrifice; the drive of the human to cast. To want to live. To want to respect what one has. Even money was reducing in importance. So places of interest shut down; the Boulevard, Broadway, Bhollywood all ceased to be and in their place were the offer of ultra-violet medication. It was not even the real thing. It was not even what people wanted; drives and natural order were twisting into pointlessness to the masses.

There remained some committed to a cause, brought in and out of a drifting hope. And some of these kept skills either open or in secret. It seemed that hypnotism was one of a secret.

Theenu needed the help of another to recite words that his tranced, meditated mind would interpret and subsequently excavate biologically imprinted memory via tiny electrical shot impulses that ran away from paths in his mind down his spinal chord rendering him paralysed. (The process of his indestructibility reverses the damage almost immediately and the permanent injury is not quite so.)

So why does he need a professional hypnotist? Surely he needs only someone to say certain things? Approximately, eight hundred years ago, that estranged young doctor who stabilised the condition of Theenu's catatonia placed a deep subconscious trinket: only whom Theenu believes is a hypnotherapist can perform the act of righting his problem, the reason the young doctor gave was to preserve the art of hypnosis. Besides, Theenu did not really want anybody tinkering up in there; there are, obviously, memories he did not wish to erase. Anyone he could truly trust, just did not live as long as he could hope for. Things 'worked out' (as best they can).

Whilst under care of a therapist – Theenu was told where to discover how to; as the cloaked man put it; life move.

### Ironing

"What's up, Eric?" Johnny asked of his butler. A bit unperceptive since the doorbell had rung not more than two minutes previous.

Theenu had made his way from the hypnotist he found (not quite the Yellow Pages – but he knew where to look) to Johnny Guptta's place (on advise), south-side Malibur. He levelled that he had come straight from therapy to enquire about life moving and it's art. Johnny was quite star struck (although he could not figure out why). He was a big shot in extreme sports; the current months were filled with the lesser known 'sports' such as extreme ironing. Thanks to brain damage acquired whilst out snowboarding – a freak accident in the West-Western Himalaya Rockies. The details of this moment were well guarded, since losses reflected motor-neuro timing. The world was simply informed that Johnny had retired.

Whilst hit – he imagined the sequence of engineering that moved motion; life. Life moving., the art of.

"What do I know about that shit? Well, man, since I fucked my head up, it's like all I can do. I learnt the shit off my buddies back in high school, but it didn't click until... then."

Theenu asked the man to elaborate, but Johnny got confused. He was not able to explain occurrences and jumbled up words as he spoke. He made sense in patches, most often than least often. It was decided that in order to get the full scope on the skill of moving, Theenu would have to go elsewhere. Johnny, was very interested in following this man (who reminded him of the great Theenu, this visitor had called himself Shiva).

### *Half

"What do you mean?" A lovely question, enriched with detail that blossoms and let's view a circle of undisputed clarity.

"Let me get this straight; you are going to commit suicide in five to seven years? Am I hearing you correctly?" [you wanted clarity? So did she!]

"Yes." A place to start a response. Yes/no – good words those. "Right, what I'm saying is I do need you. Do not get that twisted. I need you in my life and more than the capacity of 'just friends' or somebody that I chat to every-so-often. I love you." Ha ha! She tutted on that note. "No... I really do. Which is why I'm telling you this. I could just allow all the truth stuff and just string you along for a few years and then I die. How would that feel? This way you have loads of time to prepare for it."

Preparation is a very interesting word. It can be the crucial vice that saves one from losing/failure/outness. OR it's something that you spread on yourself on certain areas.

"You are serious aren't you?" More question. "I don't understand?" A question? "We only just got back together. Why did you call me up after all this time if you plan on leaving me... again? I fucking hate you now. You are bizarre. Harris, look, do you honestly want to keep me this time because you are not convincing me. I'm a fool! Why did I get back with you... you haven't changed... you're still so... so... don't-know-what-you-are-doing. That's what you are."

"Those occasions were different. I thought we were passed this?" When? When did he think they were passed this? But I can't put words into the lady's mouth now can I? "What happened before is irrelevant" Of course it is not "this time it is different." You said that before. "What I mean is that you and I can be like... like what we are usually. Together and feeling great. You know that this thing we have makes you and I happy... maybe not right now, but that's just the pain. Every relationship has pains and ups and downs. What makes us different? I need you and I really think that you need me too – the way we broke up before and you are back with me. It's been three years and you never found anybody else. What does that say? We have to be with each other."

"Well yes." Obviously. "I know that... but now you are telling me you are going to leave me in five years." Max. seven. "Do you know how angry I am feeling right now? Not to mentions embarrassing? I fucking got back with you for fuck sake after the three fucking times that you dumped me and now you're telling me that you want to break up with me." Is he?

"No I'm not telling you I want to break up with you." Good job that. "If I die then we have not broken up. I'm not dumping you. I'm dumping life."

"-And am I not apart of that life?" Now there's a question.

"Well... yes you are but... but... you know what I mean. You do not know what it's like to be me." Oh my God those are ridiculous words. Does he know how ridiculous he sounds? She has so many counters to that I cannot describe! "Look before you say something" Phew – in quickly "I have this thing where I need to... well... it's like all I want to do is write and if I do other things it's just too much and crowds me and haunts me."

"What? I haunt you." Easy, he really is trying.

"Yes. No." Easy, she really is trying. "In my head it's a... combustion. It all comes out on papers and that's how I deal with things."

"Yes but why... what's that got to do with you having to kill yourself? Try to help me hear I'm not understanding you." Few do.

"But I cant just write anything down. It has to be planned out. I can only write extensive work on specific subjects. It has to be organised and don't forget the preceding drafts until the final. It's a complex process."

"That's not funny and I'm not laughing."

"Look, I know, I know..."

"-NO YOU DON'T KNOW. How can you know? You're all planned out and such and then there's me – surplus to your requirement. Did you not want to consult me before you decided all this nonsense?" Another well made point. "Don't touch me. You obviously cannot see what you mean to me. Can you? You're just the same as before. I really thought you had matured... you think a nice flat like this is you growing up? Fucking stupid. That's me. You, you're full of shit and I'm leaving. Fuck you."

"No, look... let me explain... stop."

"I said: don't touch me." Yes, she did say that.

"Ok. There, I've stopped. Now you stop too. Ok. Look, you will never understand me and that's something you have to live with. Everybody will never understand anybody and what goes on in people's minds. It's all unexplainable but what I can do is give you as clear as I can exactly what I'm talking about." As he can... try harder. "You do give me something but I cannot replace the thing that's inside me that just fails me... it eats me and I cannot survive longer than my ability to write. I'm a writer and that's what I do... you know this the third time you have got back with me."

"It's the fourth time actually, but then whose counting. You're not, you don't count me at all." Ouch.

"Virginia, please. Are you going to try to listen to me? Are you. I'll take that as a... well I don't know. This... thing inside me is like a drive. It's motivation for the beautiful things I can write about that I have stored up in here and once it is gone then that's me. I'm done also. That's all the commitment I can give to life after that I'm done for." That's probably not what she wants to hear.

"You can't commit to anything and now it's life's turn." Oh she's good. "Do you realise that I put my life on hold for you? Three times!" Thought it was four? "What am I thinking? I'll tell you – nothing. That's what I'm thinking because I am too busy feeling. Do you understand that? FEELING. That's what you should do instead of make up some bizarre rubbish about a stupid thing inside you. There's nothing there and you should take responsibility for your own stupidity you fucking creep."

There's the door. And below is the... floor \- no, actually that's the human err to want the need for explanation and even the want to explain. There may be a misspelling somewhere.

"I know it's me. It's just metaphors... the thing is me. It's my battle"

"But why can it not be our battle. It's always your stuff. If you just let me in for a little while maybe you can..."

"-What am I trying right now?" Yes, he is, she slipped there. "I am going right down into the depth of me here. In the past I never talked to you. You told me that and I appreciated that and believed to have you back I would have to change. But you have to meet me half way. If I'm not good at talking fully about my issues then surely you can come to some sort of mid ground or something." Appreciated, maybe. "Use your ears and brain to get this across. You share me – with my writing. No other woman. My writing. When that is gone, and it will go, then I am only half a world away from extinction. You. If you heard me correctly the first time, I said I want to die in five years." Max. seven "The need for me not to do so is growing; with every moment I spend with you. Every time I touch your face and our lips meet. This growth will change me, but I'm telling you what you are up against. I wasn't born and then I met your love straight after. I lived an almost thirty-five year life that contributed to the almost death of me. Now you are contributing to my life. If you allow this... contribution to continue, then maybe you can overtake the half of my life written for death. Maybe you can acknowledge me for the person away from writing that I am... somewhere in me he is. It will take some unlearning, and new change. Hey, I'm willing – if you walk out of that door; I know you are not. This challenge is too much for you and I can understand that. I will fully understand that. I am simply, if my complexity sort of way letting you know what you are up against so this time you can make the decision for yourself. We broke up" he broke up "those three times because I didn't let you in. Now here is why. You tell me I'm not mature but right now I wonder if your maturity can understand that proposition – myself opening up to tell you exactly what goes through my mind then there you go. There is more; more to me in my previous years that I will divulge, just like I have never done so. You are aware of the time frame so please be aware of me. Be patient and try to get me to talk, or whatever it takes to stay on the planet with you. I have missed you and I will miss you if you go or I go. Trust me, telling you what I have told you is letting you in. I'm not hiding now – I have you and I'm showing the fight I have to hold on to you; to want you and need you. Please, don't walk out on me and we can talk some more."

Inside her mind her coat was already off and placed back on the wall mounted hook. There was no way she could leave. Tale in love and adoration and wantonness... He also had such a way with words.

### *Interview With Bogdahn

As a reporter, incidence and timing are essential. On this occasion, however, the timing is only my own personal sense of haste. I have couped the story of this bizarre millennium. Of all the magic and refugee; I have, owing to the fated luck bestowed upon me, collected the appointment to interview none other than Bogdahn Davis; entrepreneur, some say saviour, others: demon. Above all; he certainly is a visionist.

How I Was So Lucky

As with most in this day and age, I received my piece of luck whilst writing a deadline on particular travel incidents that day in Birmingham, West Midlands; UK. I received an email from the address noreply@theabove.com. My fate, as with most other people, I expected to be a comical affair. A lowly reporter for a local rag. I have dreams and we all need luck but this much I did not expect. I am not known and I have been criticised for my immature style of journalism... though individual I am!

The email stated that I had been chosen to interview a man surrounded by almost myth. Synonymous to controversy... one Bogdahn Davis

"...I was, as all others, told to do what I do by The All Mighty. He blessed me with the knowledge of the building. He set me free, to set men free..."

Bogdahn Davis, the owner of the first euthanasia bar. Most probably the only; legitimate one that is. Though this one isn't so – surviving due to its ability not to be damaged. Situated in East Krakow, Poland, the 'bar' has been around for more than a decade, the magical properties associated with it have often been described as God like. However, with its nature sometimes God is rejected in favour for His opposite. The devils' work despite association with recognised official channels from Above.

The Journey

After being chosen, I printed my ticket and official documents. I did think about telling those I know and trust – something told me to continue with the story in secrecy. I told my editor I was off with this big story... and he smirked. An inexperienced, shunned writer like myself. Big story? I'm not the best, I know – but being chosen sets one apart. I can be the best now that I have somewhere to start.

I crossed the war torn areas of Milton Keynes and the old North London. Central, being rebuilt and focused. With the world being so vast in volume, those who fight for peace had not yet arrived.

To cut most of this down, I reached the tight border of Dover where I was enquisitioned about my reason to journey to Poland. I had to tell them about my interview and before I could produce my printed email I was laughed at. I was told about the many journalist who had crossed over derelict Krakow for their so called interview. The world has never seen the printed words of Bogdahn; they thought this Brummie soul would be no different to the hoards of others. I was tempted, I must admit, to waving my email in their faces... but what price for something so trivial? Especially as they let me through in pity.

I continued by ferry then train and days later I found myself at another border; my final border on the trip out. I was let through with relative ease... I even asked why. "Look at this place; there is no more damage to be done. You are not a danger... we carry a machine gun but for that I have no idea. People who come here are no danger to the Polish people; the very few who remain here. The only two buildings left in the city reflect this... and even protect the foreigners here. There aren't hardly any of my Polish people to protect."

I passed him and found my way to the Wissel hotel using the signs put up about the city; apparently made from material taken from the two buildings themselves.

"...In the world where those above are the controllers and we are the communist state, it is very rightful that people believe my capitalist endeavour is brought to fruition by the Devil."

The Hotel

The exterior of this building reminded me of pictures I had seen of Potdam, Brandenburg. Real picturesque – except dirtier. There are no people in sight, rubble, broken stone, uneven pathway. Two signs – the hotel and 'the bar'.

Inside was fabulously different. All sorts of whims catered for. Capitalism still existed; food stalls, tourism trinket sales; models of hanging men, drunk men with guns to their heads. All types of suicide really, in model carved form.

I found the receptionists most pleasant, smiles – friendliness. It was a reaction to the faces from all those who had graced their presences previous. The glum faces matched by the smiling, happy ones of the reception. My research on suicide suggests a contrary to popular notion. I found that on often occasions the victim is at peace with himself. To die with a rest in one's heart is priority for most. Loose ends are never easy to stomach when wanting to die. Never mind wanting; in the face of death, the doubts of one's mind and what one has achieved can be astounding – the heart-aching by-product of a 'good death.'

I went to my room (a single, there were no doubles or more than sleeping for one in the entire hotel). I adjusted to its effort to be happy. Bright pictures, furniture – cheap but very homely. However, the walls... each spoke with perhaps a distain for life. I honestly wondered at that point whether it was these components of non-existence, non-life that wanted those who walked, talked and importantly breathed to die and never exist once more.

Man versus His architecture.

Interview With Bogdahn

I met the man at 11am in the hotel restaurant; just the two of us with coffee and croissant. We had an hour before lunch and this was my allotted time. Thinking back, there was an inkling in my mind that he would not show but as he walked in with sharp grey suit, receding yet endearing hairline; a bestow of honour fell upon me. The usual greets followed and as I sat in awe I decided to start questioning immediately. "Well, like you young man, I received the email sent from those who protect us, encourage us... limit us even, but in the name of God.

"As a boy I'd throw rocks at old building that were rumoured to be housing the possessed. I could remember being very angry as I hurled. Not entirely knowing. Just being there and being part of the gang was my interest.

"As I grew up, things changed – I became withdrawn from the mob mentality. Whilst a crisis existed every week for my brethren, I seemed to question it all. Why shout at these neighbours? Why argue with those factory managers? Every time I found myself outside of a building projecting empty gestures. Towards this 'possessed' neighbour... or that factory manager. But not really seeing as how I never, without photo, saw who I was alleged to be aggressive to. I always saw buildings. I may even have transferred my anger to the people outside the walls to the walls... yet I continued my love for them... love and hate of architecture... this subject, would have been my choice of study but you know I am from a poorer background. Lack of money meant that in the best interest of my family; I should study business."

I noticed the man extremely humble. He talked with great pride in what he had achieved and where he had come from – his foundation. He realised – just like I do in receiving the blessing of this interview – he had not created all his fame/infamy all himself.

"When I received my email it detailed all about these two buildings here in Krakow. I was never disbelieving – this is important to note; I am a man of God. We all are these days considering the world ruled by communism. Yet, who better over communist rule than being who are not human. We had captured the planet for all these years, yet it is when certain people decide that they are in a higher class than another, and then decide to rule the 'lower' class; it is not on. The Angels of God are clearly better equipped."

I posed the following: 'the fact that you own a suicide bar – do you not think this leading men... being a fascist of sort?'

"...Of course not. Suicide is the act of want from the self. Our bar merely supplies the tools to do an act of free will as suppressed by humans who believe themselves in charge."

'Free will? It could be argued onto the diminished responsibility of you clients.'

"Well, sir, everybody is in need of free will. Those you may suggest whom are of normal mind, or those incapacitated somehow. Anyone who has been given life has the right to chose to relieve them self of it.

This campaign held so hard and true with those who spoke to the Powers and this, through only fate in the suicide bar of Krakow, is the option/compromise."

He had a point. Since the invasion, life has been considered optional. Humans have fought with the Powers whom most believe Gods, others the Devils and of course, scientists – who believe the Entities alien. Whatever 'They' are, they have a distinct grasp on our fate. Free will, as is possible, but is, according to these Bogdahn named communists, there is the unstoppable move of fate over free will. They have not stated free will diminished or gone. The argument is there is a predetermined life for us but it is up to the individual to deal with this and take it up with this Knowledge, it is so hard for the bit part, smaller 'extras' in the movie of life for the human mind to take. It is up to us to accept the fate or decline it i.e. suicide, and now euthanasia. A clarity in making suicide more acceptable is that although fate exists, we are still to some extent in charge of it. Why be the little boy who kicked another child and then watched this hurt little man stand up, appreciate the knock and then heed the motivation of a new found strength to work hard, get to the necessary level and become the next prime minister of a country?

"I set to work on this building and we provide many ways, all quick and easy, to end one's life.

"The sorrow of working here takes its toll. The realisation that life will be no more does implement. Though, on the more than odd occasion we can smile when an individual walks in and then decides he has cause to get to... thus he walks out. This can be beautiful."

The Finer Points

The suicide bar itself contains a lobby area. Enter it to a mass of leaflets, video – discouragement mainly, a smaller section also exists for method of actual harm. Gunshot, pills... When one decides with what they want to go through they are queued to wait for a room to become available. When inside, the choices are presented again – there are always exit doors.

A priest of sorts (trained in religions and psychology) is the last person they will see before they execute themselves via their chosen medium.

Ever since, the depressed have not looked back.

Enforcing Such A Way of Life

Of course, with the countless discussions on this subject, this euthanasia clinic has brought about the controversy...

All those years ago, when clients started to turn up and word spread; journalists and police (also the special forces, army) marched into Poland like Hitler before them. And just like those days; there was nobody to stop the invasion. Now a suicide station is not quite a good enough reason to call in a strike... but there was the issue of the two buildings and their supposed mystical properties. The military of richer countries wanted in on the technology.

After asking Bogdahn to step down and evacuate, I remember a newsreel of a tank opening fire without much warning on the site. Captain shouts of 'cease fire' and 'stand down' could be made out through the degrading microphone after a round of tank blast.

Whatever the reasons for the unprovoked attacks, miscommunication, conspiracy... after all the smoke had faded the building remained intact. Special ops were sent in, persons extracted – but not building. Everything they tried to remove that was not human was impossible. Bogdahn and workers were released, little evidence and clear proving of the magical stance of this now special happening in Krakow.

And it was not long after this assault that Those in charge caught wind of it. A version of NATO also flew in and situations were dissolved. Invaders were arrested or fled. Krakow bore the brunt, but the two building; the euthanasia centre and the sister building of the hotel remained as solid as Oak (well, for that matter – more solid).

***

"...God has given these building indestructibility. Never will these walls be crushed. Each is to serve purpose – that of true free will..."

When I queried Bogdahn to the capitalistic benefit of his scheme he was extremely quick to revoke this. "I have not had my say. We do not get paid – just enough to run the hotel – which is where we all live. I mean look at this city; where could we live? We eat, we entertain ourselves. Self contained.

Everybody here is a worker though much like a nun and if you twist my words then you'll note that I will refer to myself as the chief priest if you like. God's work. God asked; now I mange the answer." With the invasion and rescue of regimes many years ago, I had to ask. I know my own answer. I knew Bogdahn's general response. But I asked anyway. 'How do you know that these things are Gods... or work for God?' After a pause...

"Without the need for anything, these invaders have come and stopped or are in the process of stopping war, invasions, poverty, famine... devastation that us humans have inflicted upon ourselves no less. They have the magic... some call technology, to stop us in our tracks if we go too far.

"What have They taken from us?

"I see nor hear of earthly minerals missing! This earth is about as habitable as any place in the galaxy/universe. They are here for our benefit. To help us. And who, may I ask you my interviewer – who would help us and ask us for nothing in return? That's right; your family. Your children. Your parents.

"The existence of these beings is still question in God-like; either way, I can only see this 'invasion' as a blessing for humanity... humans who need the help for we are not helping each other.

"The power necessary for ruling this planet is far greater than the sums of the parts of a human being's mind."

***

We ended the interview after a few pleasantries. I was left with Bogdahn; the man so ratified with human rights' violations, being a very simple and such a holy man. Perhaps another journalist with a far more savage opinion would have annihilated him on these pages. Perhaps I'm not good enough to do so.

I know for certain that I could not. Clearly, with the destruction of Krakow and the two super buildings remaining, Those who invaded us in the early part of the century clearly wanted a holistic existence for humanity... this including the greater degree of what Bogdahn believes is free will.

Whether their control over our us is; no new international crimes, wars, human invasions of territory. Whether the fact that this control and limit on what damage humans can do to each other, the planet herself and its creatures, is a true free will..?

That is another article altogether.

{back to story contents}

### West Side Americas

Kieran wrapped up paperwork and was ready to head to the Surya agency, leaving his office life behind him for the day... perhaps even months to come. This man was considering the option, having stared out of his window for the long straight at a rather dim shine from the sun. What was the point of solving West Coast Americas' problems and crimes if humanity was to perish? Yes, maybe there was chance of a darkened human soul in survival but with the changes of humanity these days; was there a point to existence? Was there ever...

Kieran stopped before his car noticing an old high school friend with a rather solid, serious looking darker than usual skinned man walking beside him. The long, black hair and moustache without beard looked an old fashion. The long red leather jacket was a bit much, still it added to his stern. He was darker than the average skin tone.

"John, right?"

"It's Johnny actually and it's fucking great to see you Key! How long has it been? Fifteen or so years, right? Oh man, this is something. I heard you were working a beat downtown and here you are. Detective right? Shit that's crazy. You always had that instinct to find the fucking things out. Solve shit. Say you find out the answer to the fucked up riddle shit with the five hundred bucks?" Johnny spoke whilst shaking hands and placing hands at interval on Kieran's shoulders. "This is Shiva."

The trio continued at great pace in conversation and spoke of life moving as the art. Kieran mentioned his run in with the Surya agency... As soon as he said the words, Theenu suspected folly. The Tamil language had been extinct for nearly a thousand years after the race of people, who had come through adversity in the early twenty-first century/late twentieth to live mainly in homeland labelled The Central Eelams; two separate lands, the lower portion of the old India and the upper portion from the island below it. Only a handful of people spoke it and he had already met one in the last few days and Theenu contemplated the notion that Tamils still subsided on the planet. He could have been jumping the gun, 'surya' is also Sanskrit.

"Let's go meet some people."

The three went from car park by road to the destination as written with stylus on Kieran's police brand PDA slate. They passed God's End on the way and had it not been for the new and interesting one's arrivals he would have stopped off. For his efforts he caught a jibe. "You are weak." The new friend and all. "Hey buddy, you can tell that to the next guy." An argument ensued in which Johnny barely held grip; he had no idea exactly how this intrusion had started in the first place. Still, most were calm by the end of the journey.

A high rise block of flats amongst seven in a formation. The desert reflected away in the point of background. Absolutely nothing for miles yet seven high rise flats. Transport of the future was a given. What was not was the influence the sun had on the moods of people. Hardly a soul wished to travel though it was the merest touch of a button in whim.

And inside a room in the tower block geographically closer to Incansas than any other stood three gentlemen to add to the three that newly arrived. A masked man (who kidnapped and spoke to Kieran), a cloaked man (yes, Theenu's tormentor), Patrick, Kieran, Johnny and Theenu. From an adjoined chamber popped Lohané and Salim (the old man confederate on the coach). For reason's unbeknown to himself, Theenu was not in the mood for combat with Mr Cloak. Maybe the empty of memory had pulled emotional structure from their previous encounter.

"Wow. Now this is a crew. What exactly is the plan?" Kieran spoke.

23To walk to the canyon that over the years has divot in such a size that a great fire can be built. We build this fire and send one man through the relative ease of life onto another Plane where he will use Hinduism to call upon the disgraced God Surya, who is the answer to the sun and it's problems.

Surprisingly, nobody laughed. Kieran did, however, add; "What?"

"We need a tenth person. We have eight and with the female, Jarni to follow, that is nine. Good things work in tens." The cloaked man said.

"Indeed and I know who. A unification of a quartet. Works better right? Oh and Johnny, you remember Patrick, right?" Kieran suggested. "Annie Mofat is our next port of hearing. I got stats in my on board connections, I'm gonna run down to my car... heck beats jibbing around here, lets all go. We'll convince her, pick her up and get this task down. So, whose going to heaven? The other 'plane', right?" He almost laughed.

"Foolish man. I tell from your aura that you have gifts beyond that of almost all in this room and you doubt and question." Cloak, "Theenu it is."

Silence in the room. Those who knew Theenu and those who had felt his anger for the shortest moment realised the stupidity in the questioning. Each braced him/herself for an explosive counter.

There was none.

"Yes" He spoke, as if a man nonplussed.

"This Annie. Take me to her." So they made him leader then?

***

Three motored vehicles, nine souls with the religion of Hinduism at their mercy. To save an earth who may believe, but cowered in the paranoia of Surya's depression. On the mission to find Mofat. Hideaway, recluse of an author/philosopher/witch. It is hard to be all three in most cohorts. With coincidence, the crew past new Salem. Then through unto the mountainous region they would revisit for the 'ceremony' of sorts. Into the West most of the Kiyalaai Forest. They stopped. It was foot travel for the few. Kieran, Patrick and Theenu. The cloaked mysterious man seemed, out of the other six the more interested to venture though he prevented himself from doing so. No reason was given.

### *Introversion

Penetration is an ugly word. Not in a sexual sense, its quite a horny word in that way. How about 'skin penetration' – ha! Got you there.

Simon Hather was staring into the eye of the needle. Quite literally. The administrative nurse pushed the plunger slightly to create 'that' effect; the one where serum squirts out of the top of the syringe leaving the potential recipient fairly queasy. It's a scary presentation of the unknown; well, it's almost unknown because it's something that would have been explained about before hand, but still. All that's left is to think away from the process; naked, big breasted, fat arsed, bending over woman. Or options.

Mr Hather had exactly 30 seconds to weigh up his options. He decided on the escape option. With swift grace Simon brought his arm up to create a 90 degree angle with his upper torso, swung his forearm and hand (right) followed by the rest of his arm beautifully towards his left. This process knocked the admin. nurses' hand causing the syringe to be released at a velocity sharp... no, fast enough to pierce the left breast of an overweight man in a pink rabbit costume smoking a cigar.

Simon made for the exit, realising to his delight, the security guard was not there. He surpassed the door to notice the man intended for this job talking to an attractive lady just outside the door and to it's left. The attractive girl looked uncanny like the naked, big breasted, fat arsed completely oiled, bending over woman spoke of earlier, though she was fully clothed and in an upright position (Er... oiled?).

The slipstream of a large running man created awareness in the not-so secure guard who subsequently rotated his direction towards the event. The admin. nurse (now very annoyed) walked calmly towards the anti-smoking poster and pulled the needle out and rather un-calmly ran towards the door. On exiting it, she collided with the 'insecure' guard pumping him full of the Simon dedicated serum before he (that's the guard) hit the floor ahead of the nurse. The not naked, big breasted, fat arsed, completely unidentifiable to whether she is oiled, now bending over women commented:

"Do you know this woman?"

***

He made it to the exit of the government building. Simon had decreased his pace and haste in order not to alert people to his emancipation. He strolled out into the daytime air, turned the corner and re-increased his pace.

2

Knock knock.

Whose there?

Hather

Hather who?

Hather first name, it's Simon, let me in.

Simon knocked on the door and checked his watch. The detention and escape process had extracted 4 hours and 20 minutes of his day. The door latch clicked and opened to the restrain of a chain (gold). A pair of eyes peered around it at an angle that could never see Simon or anybody willing to stand in Simon's position. He adjusted himself and called out:

"It's me".

Once inside and seated, he explained to his host the predicament he was in. His host was not impressed;

"I can't believe you would do something like that what I mean is the fundamental thing is that you should have taken the needle as what is inside it is like what you need for your treatment I mean I took it and I'm fine see look at me I am fine right?" She breathed in and continued, "look what you have done it is highly illegally they will find you and this time sedate you and then make you take it forcefully so now you have to deal with that as well as all this running and hiding speaking of which where are you going to hide because you can't hide here because... well you simply cannot hide here have I mentioned it's illegal?"

Simon saw a space for a response but thought best to think about it carefully for a while rather than just blurting out some 'thing' to stop Ranee from blurting out more 'things'. So he had to let her.

Half an hour later Simon was ready to respond (if truth be told he was ready after five minutes but the fast talking Ranee had only left two opportunities for Simon to speak; once in the last paragraph and this one).

'Look at you. You're ranting way too fast. Come on – this is what the Juice has done to you and does to everyone. I'm not going for it and I need you to help me. But by doing so you need to shut up for a while... while I think. I'm going upstairs.' So he went upstairs.

Inside Ranee's room spread on wide on the bed was a two piece lingerie set. Simon quickly averted his eyes but in doing so caught images playing in his mind of how Ranee looked wearing it. 'She's married now I need to get this image out' he told himself. The pot bellied man switched on the TV to do so. An advert played out:

'..worried about what you look like? Ever heard people talk about you behind your back? Well never fear – the answer is here!"

Oh no, the injection advert – arghh! Simon switched the set off and paced awhile. Getting back to his flat he could grab his passport, some things; toothbrush... no not unimportant things, but what of money in the new land. A toothbrush would save some cash of which he'd need to save a lot of if he jumps country. Which clothes to take? How to make such a journey count in life of maniacs. Being chased? Could he cope on the run – (a switch of question marks)... it's rant and rave like Ranee and her non-present husband. You would think if she talks a lot, her husband doesn't. Wrong. Big time talkers and they talk over each other all the time. One cannot get a word in edgeways. Incredible thought Simon as he rubbed the burgundy t-shirt over his belly. Burgundy... wine!

And back downstairs. The cabinet, while Ranee played her vocal music that neither softened nor stirred a soul. This and that were the main topics. Cabinet opened, cork screw obtained... pour pour pour! And now Simon relaxed (whilst rubbing his belly).

The plan: to get out of the state and lay rogue. One can do that in London. Easy. 24hr buses. Once in a while head to a hotel for a shower... better still, Waterloo – only a bit over a quid. Wash and fresh and shave and the rest. Roam the streets, the parks – so many parks; Regent's, Hyde, Green... or is that just St James'? who knows but it is possible to do that – grow a beard; fuck shaving! Simon would kiss goodbye to the fancy life but where did that get him? Nowhere but a hospital to be pumped full of a high octane inducing substance that made you free... they say. Ever wondered what it would be like to live on the outside – no thoughts; just talk all the time. That is freedom isn't it? Maybe the drugs were the answer? Drink more Simon; forget the plane – passports are already handed out and mugshots too. It's run time – take some bottles... take the corkscrew! It's time for hard living; rather that than be one of the ranters. Yes on the street; where all the bums live and undoubtedly, he'd meet a fellow rebel-ler and form allegiance and together they'd find more dissenters – an army would grow. A resistance to totalitarianism... black markets would be sought for weapons to combat the majority; yet this minority would win – casting aside any influx of doubt of hatred towards one's own kind – fuck them. It's about us. The win is our own. Depressed need not be the way of the fallen; for when we are down we rise and defeat those above us – for they are higher; what goes up must come down. The plateau will be created by born again introverts who have nothing to say; and everything to keep to themselves in the their tiny minds and putrid self-doubting bodies. A toast – to those who have fought in the war where ceasefire was a word ripped from a dictionary never invented. Fuck the masses. Fuck the bourgeois. Fuck the government and what they wish to put upon us, the ordinary man/woman/child and the individual who seeks Real Meaning Freedom – RMF. This my friend, is the true meaning of our existences...

...Two men broke down the door, a third came in through a window. They aimed fire arms and executed first Simon and then Ranee.

[End]

{back to story contents}

### Katpakum

"So. Let me get this straight." Kieran, once into a thick area of the forest which required a searchlight. "You are going to dharmic heaven. I mean, don't get me wrong. You don't look like the kinda guy who'd be interested in such a... well, a one way mission."

"There are more important issues than my life." Theenu started. "I have been here long enough. I see no need for me to stay longer. The relief will reign."

"Yes. But. You don't take orders. Look, I have a gift for reading folk and you are you own man. You'll be saving humanity. You look like a man who don't wanna save humanity." Theenu looked at Kieran and squinted. He had a point. What was he thinking? Kieran had him down to a tee and now he suddenly became a different person... Whatever it was, he kept on the same purpose. Stranger things have happened? "You have no hold on me. I will as I please. If I want to enter heaven then I shall."

"Wait. Do you believe?" Foolish question. "I was made to believe." Obvious answer. Though in another context, not quite so.

They walked on. For nearly forty-five minutes until they reached a fork in the path. Two ways to go; both were equally as tempting as the other. Just trees of tall ended nature. These reminded Theenu through un-erased memories of his beginning; fighting a battle he could not win. Desperate in his bid to save a friend who's wife he could not let go from his fragile mind – though well within the power to do so. The moments with her so precious there was no other. The painful death of Arthavan, long time boyhood companion, suffered was excruciating to watch. But the love he had to abandon was on equal par. The curse of an angel. A gift, he called it. on lands called Eelam, now in millennium gone, it to gone by the hand of a man who could not be destroyed. What chance did a million Tamils have against one of their own? The forest brought faint reminder; since this was a time that Theenu forced himself to forget. He had no control – he felt, strangely, like he felt now. Could he commit genocide once more? Is this feeling a pre-cursor to violence. The trio had stopped but Theenu sat.

"You ok?" Patrick enquired. He was not; this man had a feeling. This feeling of lost-less-ness. On two separate occasions armies have fallen at his feet. First, his own people, his flesh and blood. Then, when sin dirty and decrepit, the fall of the empire that had raged economic and terrorised wars of century past. He knew not why he was to commit to a heaven cause but he had to. He could not take another blood bath. He would murder those who attempted to kill him. Theenu threw up.

In body-absent minded thinking, Theenu dreamed the angel. 24Singhalese angel. The descendent of Gods caused pain amongst Tamils for the large part of two hundred years, having lived for much longer, this creature realised disastrous powers were a simple throw of mental will. Wants and desires as a manifestation of power. With humans this is the metaphor, with angels this is not. Their wills are not free, but what each can do with a slaved will is amazing.

So between 1700-1900 Tamils began to lose momentum in a war that house refereeing from first the Portuguese, then the Dutch and finally the British. This angel could not remove history; he was learning his powers. Manipulation was his strength. Talking and convincing souls that Ceylon was an island exclusive to one race. He started with the working class; 'Tamils are the scourge of this great nation, get them out.' Each whisper carried far end. However, the pure power of the overseas visitors forced the angel to traverse tactic. He needed to convince the new found masters of the island for Singhalese rule. Practice he did on the Portuguese and Dutch and finally, this persuasion was perfected with the British. A colonialist who grant separation to the likes of Pakistani's, yet not to Eelam. Why? The Hindu angel of Sinhala. Hinduism and Singhalese origin is, in myth, separated, but two co-existed to the creation of the bastard last angel of earth. Before he left, the creature convinced that also leaving British to part Ceylon into the hands of his fellow countrymen. And then? In the same year, the same day, 4th February 1948, the twenty-five year old Theenu witnesses the death of his best friend, the death of his nation and in simultaneous fashion, the birth of his cursed gift of indestructibility. 25A foot in heaven for an angel that had displayed the ultimate sacrifice: helping an enemy. (Not without stipulation; The warrior Theenu could not use his power to help his fellow Tamils. The eternal Tamilan, Theenu had to witness the deaths of his fellows with the power to stop it, but the inability to use it. The ultimate decree.)

"Can you get up... hey snap out of it. We've got some walking to do." Kieran grew impatient

Theenu did not ignore Kieran but he could not respond to him. Nightmares of killings inkled him. Memories were erased, however, can you really fill empty holes? What if each is not cleared fully? These questions have plagued a mind for hundreds of years enabling this half breed of a man to lose positioned faith and even gained abilities to speak with powers higher than himself. The issue of whether Theenu should live on earth had cropped up: his dissemblance of power causes shifts in patterns of human behaviour. Stations exist whereby they would never do so if equality had a home. But no God/higher power could evoke such ruling since humanity has forever been unequal. It just so happens that the sun was diminishing... could this be the fault of being Theenu?

Being shaken now, Theenu was slowly recovering reality control with one final jolt of knowledge: his fault or not (and conscience was in limited supply to him), the earth would be saved by Theenu. If this cloaked assailant could be trusted, he would jump planes and discover his next fate. If he could not be trusted (with the many enemies Theenu had encountered over the years) then whatever dissociation with life Theenu could find would be at his own advantage. Over a thousand years of life is long time.

"Get up. We have a decision to make. I think we should vote." Patrick told the other two. "There are three of us, sounds fair."

"What is the problem?" Theenu was now back into zone normal. He wiped vomit from his white, long sleeve t-shirt.

"Ok. Now you've made a miracle in recovery, let me hit you with the program: this forest has two paths, we have to select one. Which one... you have eyes, right?" Kieran was perhaps annoyed at losing the ten or so minutes they could not get back. "I vote that one."

"Fools." Theenu spoke while shaking his head. "If a choice is to be made, then know all your options. We have followed this path that has led our trilogy to a split... but is it inconceivable to follow the continued path? We are in a forest, let us now get our footwear a little dirty."

It dawned on the other two like they had just realised checkmate was immanent. They followed Theenu, not walking upon one of the two paths, but actually into muddy track that trees grew from. The actual third 'path'.

### *Journey Through My Son

Sheldon took on Mike in the growing need for a sense of self. Importance in the land of the unimportant. So many aisles the true walk and then misbelieve; complain all taken amongst others.

Mike was a young boy adopted by Sheldon at thirty-nine years age. He was adopted at one and a half years and at the time of this note he had reached 6.5. A few years of primary school had been toted up by the young'un. He was well versed, as much as his age could muster, in the language of English. Yet his own language of origin was not so. He looked Indian and to Sheldon an inner voice attached responsibilities. This Indian child shall make it home. Just to see the land of his mother and birth father for the once.

Sheldon asked his own mother for her opinion.

'The boy is the Devil's child. You stole the child from the Devil Himself. You'll be killed and worse. You too will be stolen; out of spite. Mark my words Sheldon for I am a real mother – you are only a fake father. Amen.'

On the plane, Mike was sick. The craft moved too quickly ascending to several thousand feet in the sky. Holding the boy as Mike's little stomach failed him made a mini-man out of Sheldon. Throughout a life of grabbing moment after moment his one and a half year old son was grabbed. Sheldon had been straight as an arrow since. He had worked tirelessly; fooled around with promotions, secured some. Worked harder; earned well, provided best. There was nothing more in life which satisfied the man except the 5 years past. Fun; life had been for Sheldon but fulfilling? No; not until Mike.

At the hotel, Mike was cleaned and bathed. A knock wrapped the door. Sheldon used the peep hole to glance bell boy and so opened. 'Yes?' 'Girl, sir? You want?' Sheldon thought about his sordid past. With the well earned life came fringed benefits... not any more; a father he was now. 'No.' said Sheldon, using eyes to point to Mike.

It was no sooner than half an hour that the bell boy's error was shown. Another knock and at the door; an Indian prostitute of twenty-one years. She offered herself but on seeing the boy grew a disgust. Sheldon could not make out the facially expressive accusation of child abuser. The prostitute started to cry at which point she forced entry to engulf the child in her arms.

Sheldon locked eyes on the embrace and as if by magic he saw Mother and Child. He had stolen into a bond and tailed irreversible damage on sunk dyad. He looked on to a mother stroking child's hair. He gazed the symmetry of lives; of life itself. Taught by creator to creation; imbedded into biological wiring components messed around with by a wanton Sheldon.

He dropped to his knees.

'Take him.' He cried and on hearing this but not understanding the language, the prostitute wailed eccentrically, clutching Mike closer. He stirred, coughed, yet was comfortable. Sheldon saw this and the images of his illegitimate child run through mind's eye. When heart bleeds; his did not – it failed, for that moment he fell to ground, not breathing.

The prostitute wailed out with his son.

'My boy...' Sheldon whispered.

{back to story contents}

### Hut Politics

The two paths veered further and further until each could no longer be seen from the central point the trio walked at pace but then not. Leaves, mud, the occasional divots and avoiding tree collisions. At mid point in the time it takes to walk from the intersection to the point of giving up, they spotted two log cabins adjoining.

"This one looks empty..." Patrick told of the wooden structure with no glass nor door. "Let's knock on that light tree." The phrase may have incorporated 'Christmas', if it still existed.

Theenu knocked and a woman, in her mid forties answers; she was not Annie. Theenu vaguely recognised her26.

"Wow. In the flesh. Finally it is all very worth my while." She spoke with an accent in upper class Old English. "What's the matter? You do not recognise me? Why, I'm the politician, no?" This time Tamil. Though she was White.

Inside, Annie Mofat was busy washing dishes. She placed her current item and smiled inquisition to her former studious friends Patrick and Kieran.

"My God a bolt from the blue... really good to see you... sort of, why are you here? No forget that, give me a hug." She approached and familiarised. All five inhabitants of the abode sat around a log fire on adjoining sofas. Kieran wanted to talk of Annie's infamy as the almost leader of her own feminist movement. The gentle banter slowed as the politician spoke to Theenu.

"Why would you erase the memory of one of the most important persons you will encounter? Heaven is heaven, and earth? It is only stable due to me. You honestly do not know how hard I have worked..."

Annie grimaced and squinted in the process. "Honey... did we not talk about this..." She was stopped.

"Shut up. I told you what you wanted to hear. Don't hide from your roots. Witchcraft is not founded in the human earth times... it goes back, to when things were truly unbalanced. It was much worse back then, this is nothing compared to the days of Shiva, Vishnu... Brahma. Well, these names as you know them – I am only as limited as my human form. The force of the three was, shall I say, stronger then.

Tell me, Theenu, who created you?"

There was silence. After five seconds and though obvious, Kieran turned to Annie and spoke "Theenu's the dark one." This served as a simple joke of dilution. It escalated.

"What do you mean dark?" Annie believed he meant something to do with the colour of vengeance. Kieran was off put, hoping to merely get away with the one line. "Him. He's dark skinned... just a joke."

"What do you mean he's dark skinned?"

Before the misinterpretations continued the politician interrupted. "She's colour... race-blind. You remember that disease that went round. She has it but doesn't know it either."

And she did not. Annie looked at the politician with tears in her eyes. The relationship was tailing to a halt but Annie, in submission, asked the politician to move in with her. Mofat's chartre read she would be loved by the negotiator; and for the rest of her days. It was a love; in a way.

"Race blind? How does that work? You cannot tell the difference between one race and another? Well we're all pretty much the same colour. Countries of birth differ... but without the sun and the illegality of UV places... well we're almost all just biegey... apart from him." Patrick had a capacity to explain. "There are a few like him, in areas where the sun is out more... these days people do not travel. Gosh, humanity is connected across the universe. Amazing."

"So Theenu. Was it Stitch? Who created you? He is missing from heaven, you know. That man is a crazed, serial abuser of the Nara. No holding him. No matter how much disruption this causes. Do you remember the kalilas?" The politician paused. "Of course not. You were incapacitated. He was there you know. Spent too too long on this plane. My life form then only really managed to trace his tracks but I was much too late to find him... or even you. What was almost one hundred years in the same place you sat, but I still never managed to find you. Without being a God on this planet it is so so huge. Humanity is so frail in this aspect. In most."

The group heard revelations from this soul within the being; whose job, to restore a harmony to earth and in doing so to heaven: all its planes. Her approach, this mission, to find a way in order to destroy the unhumanly aspects of force affected earth. To rid it of Theenu and to banish the (currently) two other non-earthen entities in the atmosphere; herself being one of.

Of course, all realised the importance of the plot as subsequently released by Patrick; all were to reconvene at the other side of the forest to summon a gateway to Dharmic heaven; convince the sun God Surya to submit to the curse that has plagued the sun.

All of this was acceptable to the politician except one part; Patrick stated that 'only a human could address the melancholy of Surya. Without humanity staring him in the face he will not know his consequences.' The politician was less than convinced.

"A human could not survive there," she resisted the temptation to say 'up there'. "Perhaps Theenu could but then a human, an angel a demon would all provoke the same response. Is this a theory or rule? Both are flawed and I have no doubt who had supplied you with this information."

Stitch. Renegade angel. Last of his kind to inhabit earth. His line of family descended both Gods and demons. Polluted. He got lucky with genetics (if one can address an angel to be comprised of genes) collecting dominant strands from the angelic family. But those mutant aspects within him kept his feet firmly onto earth ground, possessing human after human form until settling well within the confines of Singhalese right. This chance was then taken to lay out all recessive aggression and sadism upon Tamils and Tamil nature.

"He is here you know." Now this statement brought about a raised heart rate from Theenu. "There is no way the earth and heavens are so disrupted by just you and I in the wrong place. His mischief knows no bounds – all are banned from making this trip yet he does it every few hundred years... wait." The politician closed her eyes to wonder. All others remained silence obeying her command. "He is near by, does he know about us?"

### Loops

27Cloak. Theenu thought, it's him. Memory erasure has its downside. But he was for sure now; who else could avoid him so deftly and still have the power to retaliate.

Theenu iterated his ideas to the group.

"You have strength and infinite courage but you are no match for his speed. He has the ability, that has grown in the wake of Surya's depression of life moving. The interweaving between all things. Doesn't use up on natural stamina. He will defeat you. But in order for this life force to never bother our realms he has to be killed. If he wins, to get back he will commit suicide to his earth body. This process will allow him into dharma heaven since he always picks six soul lives to interfere with – his is the seventh and with suicide to the seventh life, that is automatic re-entry." There were 'whys'. "A politician always blames admin! Suicide process sends Stitch back to dharma and the soul he inhabited to Mara. A natural death will show two souls rising without desire; then the correct soul will each end up in the correct place... Sorry, but there are always holes in loops."

The group adjusted to the news with Theenu working himself up to the reality that the man who had cursed and destroyed his life path of normality was a bit more that a stone's throw away. In his destitute mind; the final battle would commence after the time it took to reach the others. If the politician has everything correct, Stitch will suffer if he is to die the regular death – non suicide.

"I know what you are thinking. And no, he is too fast for you. You are ageing by mind. Hypnosis messes with the link between mind, soul and body. He can life move and you cannot... you cannot, correct?" Before Theenu could answer, Kieran intervened.

"But I can... and so too Patrick." He thought for the second. "But then, what about the plan? What is going on here? Have we not come here to save our planet?"

"Why would you want to? In my years on this forsaken planet I have not encountered anything worth saving. This is a wretched earth full of misgivings and creatures so one tracked it is worth believing in death so that we can be replaced. Even Muraghan would think so."

"Ha!" The politician cried. "Muraghan is your name for him but you will never know him. Never assume that. You are a God amongst men here but up there you will be nothing." She paused, remembering the point. "I have no doubt you will fight Stitch and if you survive I too know of the power through Agni to be free of this plane and head to dharma. I believe it is worth it. to rid the two planes of existence of Stitch is crucial to the earth's rebalance. Take down Stitch and fly to Surya through the fire of Agni."

Kieran was less than convinced at the plan deviation. "So tell me, why are we here exactly? I thought it was to take a stab at getting the God of the sun to stop being so disillusioned with life and let us live... what does this have to do with killing the only guy except you who can get Theenu there? And if Theenu dies, then what? One of us mere mortals?" he leered at Theenu. "Say why is it that you are not considered one of us again?"

"I cannot be killed."

"No. You have not died, yet." The politician interrupted. "He needs to be got rid of. You." She instructed Kieran, "You can work with Annie. She has trained in the art of hypnotism and together you can create the false memory that would convince Theenu he knows how to life move. In fact, through this he will know how."

Now Kieran was taken aback. This made no sense, why would he go along with this plan when the future of the earth depended on the man they were planning to execute. The politician tried her best to convince the detective that Stitch was no good in the positive steps of humanity. Steps that would be their last if Kieran did not co-operate.

Kieran could not trust a word this wrinkled loon spoke. How Annie had got close to a witch (real and other) like this he could not fathom having conjured images of the girl she was at around mid-teens. Rebellious and so upright to her personal space. Now she was invaded and a submissive. Perhaps the effect of the sun? Though fading far before this one was born; it had strange affects as humanity knew already.

The thoughts crossed his mind to radio in and arrest all concerned but his mind processes were all pointing to a correct dimension. Every crime he had solved just by touching his way through crime scenes was as easy as watching footage of the actual incident. This was not so blatant, but tingling patterns of correctness told him the right track, he was on.

Reluctance or not, Theenu spoke of the improbability of the hypnotist working; if he did not believe Annie was a hypnotist, he could not be hypnotised. Life to Theenu was preoccupied by belief. After the shamed massacre of his own people, he set foot to global conquest. Taking down the revolution of the Americas almost single handed. How? Not only his indestructible nature but the belief that all Tamils had been slaughtered. How could he be using his powers to help his people if they were not alive? Some were and he just did not know it.

Annie got to work with the politician, calming the hyped man for his final hours (whatever the outcome) on this planet. The methods they used were as ancient as Theenu himself and within the hour he was out to everything but the subconscious. With this cue, Patrick and Kieran administered their versions of the abilities and manoeuvres that incorporate life moving and the art. A further hour passed; Patrick with his knowing of the ability and Kieran with his feeling were both in collaboration giving away the priceless form. Whether you can teach this estranged concept is one thing; to do it under these new circumstance is another. Once Theenu was brought out of the trance there was only one thought in his mind. To end Stitch in the callus manor that he exercised when Theenu himself was 'created'.

"Ok. We're all ready to go. I hope you are right." Kieran spoke to the politician. "Let's get this crazy business over with."

"You say it is crazy. But you know deep down inside that this is right." She smiled wryly.

### The Death of... (1 of 2)

Having returned the route by which they came, the edge of the forest was an amass of smoke caused by a bonfire set by the remaining others. Stitch saw his counterpart and looked his eyes – seeing the same intensity he saw 2,187 years ago (give or take days). He knew that Theenu knew who he was and he eyed the fire blazing glory in the night sky (night as is the late afternoon to an earth without the sun) to his right. He could end his life right now and travel safely to heaven. A mixture of pride and realisation stopped him. The realisation that in order to get back down to earth it may take him longer than the life span of Surya. The cloaked man ignored all around him and approached Theenu. There were no words. These two men knew each other from the beginning and now, at the end here they both were. For a final fling?

Theenu threw the first punch. He missed. Stitch was far too quick, countering with an elbow. Then followed a barrage of punches and scratches to Theenu's chest, neck, chin and then nose. He ducked avoiding the twentieth but stumbled to the ground.

Without thinking, Theenu moved to a new position faster than the human eye could detect. He picked Stitch from behind and threw him with rotating momentum into a tree a few yards away.

Stitch's back hit the bark. He realised that Theenu had a knowledge of life moving that he had originally thought non existent in the cursed one. The back foot he was now firmly placed.

Theenu advanced and threw punches, kicks and charges towards Stitch, who now in defence mode successfully avoided all. Ducking weaving, dis- and re-appearing. Yes Theenu was getting tired, but equally, Stitch too. He was not the force of angelic power he once was. Angels needed the energy of continuity to be able to summon powers from other planes. Stitch had been in his human form for several years now; but this power is formed over several lifetimes. This note was crucial, doubly; Stitch knew that a death but occurrence in this body would mean difficulty in returning to the luxury of dharma. He also knew that Mara was waiting for his soul. This head of demons was the reason why Stitch had spent so many years on the plane of earth; a death threat. Demons who send out death threats usually execute plans. And Mara, is the head of demonic procession. If Stitch died from the causal arm of another; he'd almost certainly be sent to the plane ruled by the demon lord. The only beings who can kill Gods are demons. And vice versa28.

### *Lil Fella

John sat nervously waiting for his name to be called out. 'John Restaurant' would invoke fits of laughter so roaring that he would have to go home. The voice in John's head started to speak.

'You're going to fail you know' It said very smugly as if it already knew.

'No I am not, I am confident' thought John. Of course, he could not say that out loud as the other people in the room would think he was mad.

'Bet you think you have a chance? You have none. Your suit is too cheap and your hair is falling out.' The voice said, getting a little more spiteful.

John tried to simply ignore the little fella (as he liked to call it) while slightly feeling the top of his head. He had thought it was falling out but then he did put tremendous amounts of gel in it that made it look fine.

'John Prendergast next, please' said the secretary type person. John felt his heart go crazy as Mr Prendergast stood up and walked to the desk where the secretary was.

'Look at that! She says your name and you're all over the place. You are a sorry excuse for a motherfucker.'

'Shut up' he was a little loud. The 'Shut's initial 'Sh' was quite audible to the other job applicants. He dared not look up fearing interaction.

'Get up and head home. You know I will not let you go in there without putting you off. I am your nemesis and I will bring you down. You will stay at your no good, badly paid, dead end job.'

The Lil Fella was on menacing form - not since the date John had at the start of the month was he this bad. Lil made him stand up and count the amount of strands of spaghetti he was served. The reason? The Lil had thought that there was more spaghetti on the plate than hairs on his head. His date was not pleased having started on the post dinner coffee half way through John's continuous counting/eating. Of course, a doggy bag was ordered. It was not until midnight that night that john had settled the dispute well in favour of his own belief.

'But you believed me in the first place and you should believe me now; you will not get this job. Go home.'

John heard a slam to his left and a few moments later the door towards the interviews swung open. Out popped John Prendergast. Red in the face and angry at something. Words soon followed his emotions:

'Forget it! I hate this. For fuck sake this is it!' He clearly wasn't happy. He clearly did not have the job. 'I hate this company and I think everybody here should fuck off!'

A lady in a very short white uniform (not dissimilar to one a nurse would wear, though more a smutty nurse) approached him in an effort to calm him down and was very successful. She led him through a set of double doors that (our) John had entered on arrival. Through the windows John noticed two other people man handle Mr Prendergast before he disappeared from view.

'Did you see that?' Lil Fella started. 'They took him out clean. Not only will you fail like him but you're going to get raped or something.' John was livid.

'They are obviously going to sedate him or something. This is still experimental you know and not everybody reacts the same' He replied (to himself and not out loud).

The Lil Fella seemed to shut up on that comment. John, feeling a little more assured and confident, scanned the room looking to see which of the applicants were real and who were fake – confederates. On attempting to count, John was surprised to be interrupted by the secretary at her desk calling out: John Restaurant.

John stood up in the direction he was facing out of faulty automaticity. He adjusted himself and walked towards the desk...

...each step brought about a danger: he could feel creeping in his spine, but in frozen liquid form. A frozen liquid danger.

His left foot moved first and as if by a miracle his right sought a precedence of carpet after. His head swayed towards the desk destination, only a little distance for measurement but a travel of many steps when broken down. It must be at least ten steps... maybe 6-7 but no less than five. The third is on it's way and he is facing and positioned in the correct manner but his heart is not keeping the correct rhythm. The pace of his walk is slow but not so his heart. The literary version of his beat would not suffice the velocity – so it will not be attempted. Has his breath caught up? Only we are to find out...

'-at's me' John told the secretary, he swallowed when he should have breathed in. 'That's me.' He managed better; on second attempt.

'Will you sign here, please?' said the secretary pointing to what looked like a letter of consent. John picked up a pen.

'You're not going to sign something you haven't read, are you?' Lil Fella was back. Only a moment break from him; twas a moment cherished.

'Of course I will read it, I'm not a mug' John replied in silence through his mind's voice 'I'll ask her what it's about first though'

'Er...' He started, through his normal voice, 'why do I have to sign this, I thought I already read one and er... ser-ser-signed one at the first interview.' John felt the feeling of disappointment coupled with anger filling him whole; he knew what was to follow:

"We And are now to you continue are with some stuttering extra too. – ha tests you're really It's simple, making well actually a great in your condition impression. it would or may be difficult." John caught both the secretary's reply and Lil Fella's revoke at intersections with each other. On one hand he was glad he did not quite hear what Lil Fella had to say but on the other, scared that he was signing something that he could not be bothered to read (and also could not now due to the potential defamation of trust he would show to the secretary's explanation).

'Oh. Ok. I'll... sign by this 'x' at the bottom.' To which the secretary nodded and John was on his way to the door.

***

Behind John's gel soaked hair was space. A lot of space. Then the door. This was where John had walked into when entering the room.

To the left of the space (and indeed, the door) were three pictures. Beautifully painted, beautifully framed – in a row across the centre of the wall aligned and all sized the same. Opposite (to the right of our space and door) were another three pictures displayed in the same manner as described for the previous three. These were the paintings John admired.

A doctor's couch / bed was positioned ahead of pictures on the left with an IV stand, tray of tools and blood pressure monitor. This was where John had given his blood sample.

Directly adjacent (on the right) to this was John. Sitting opposite three men in suits facing him, backed by a very magnificent window indeed. This was the window to John's view, though he really should be concentrating now...

'Stop looking at the sky you idiot, you're going to miss something and then it's all over the job is gone.' Lil Fella remarked. Or was it? Sometimes it was difficult to tell. Whatever, John felt he needed to heed this as concentration was critical.

'We understand the difficulty but please bear with it for just a little while longer.' Suit number 1 (from John's left) started, though he sounded like he had just finished talking. 'We just want to ask you a few questions and see how you cope with those.' He had finished now, however, suit 2 started.

'Your name is John Restaurant.' (was it a question?) he started while scanning a document in his lap that could only be his CV, 'I'm Cary Baxter; this is Paul Schwartz [pointing to his right] and: this is Stephane Ducat.' John paused for a second but got up and offered each a handshake. Lil Fella was not impressed.

'They noticed the pause you know. They will note it down later as a sign of non-confidence' John wondered whether non-confidence was a correct term.

'Ok. Jane went through all the normal, basic questions and things that are associated with the position so we will not be concerned with that. This is a pure look to see whether we believe you can cope with the pressured environment of the position.' Paul explained. He had a peculiar hand movement that John could not keep his eyes off. For every semi circle Paul engaged, a semi circle in the counter direction was performed – and that's all Paul did with his hands. Wax on, wax off.

'Right so we'll begin. So, John, how do you think you cope with pressure?' Paul asked John finishing on an anti-clockwise movement.

'The moment of truth is here. They have stopped rambling and it is time for you to ramble back. Can you do it? And can you do it while I fuck you off completely...

'-Er... well I believe that pressure is relative...'

'-What? Relative? Einstein shit in an interview? You are not starting well...'

'-and well sometimes you have to deal with it. I can deal with it because I set my goals and try my hardest to achieve those and I don't believe that pressure will get in my way...'

'-Too many 'believes'. Do you honestly believe?'

The thus far silent Stephane interrupted the pseudo three way conversation.

'Right. What type of coping devices do you believe are in your arsenal to deal with pressure?'

'Oh. Well I... think... I have a good ability to deal with things that are thrown at me. I will cope with things and try to do this one at a time rather than all in one go. However, if I need to multi task then I can do that as well. But I think organising and really making the most of my time and whether this needs to be stretched or whatever...' John tailed off with the 'whatever'

'Organised. That speech wasn't.'

'Right. So if you have to make a sale and work a deadline along with any other work for a given day, would you be able to cope with that? How?'

'...Well,' John started but not without accidentally creating a bubble with excess saliva on his lips... 'As I said, organising my work. Putting certain daily activities, perhaps on hold and then concentrating on pleasing the clients. At the end of the day the deadlines need to be met and only time organisation can do this.' John liked the way he ended his statement; with authority. However, a seed of doubt grew within him as to whether he actually answered the question.

'I do not think you did. He was looking for more. I suggest you get up shake hands and leave' Lil fella said seizing opportunity through John's self doubt.

'Ok.' Stephane again. 'Well. How would you say you have coped with the pressure you have been feeling over the last few weeks?'

'This one is difficult. They will ask you about the voices and then what will you tell them? There are none? No, you cannot tell them that, what if they know there are voices?'

'Well I have two voices... er.. I mean choices, sorry. One is to let myself get bogged down by this induced pressure and the other is to fight.'

'Here we go, Braveheart, surely this is the way out'

'I choose to fight and fight for my ability. I have what it takes to work for this company because I have proved to myself that I can overcome this pressure. I'm not saying it was easy, right now, even, it is not. But that is what careers are like; taking the rough parts and making a go of it. University helped me obtain the degree I need for this vacancy and I am going to work hard at not only obtaining this vacancy but succeeding in it too.'

To be honest, John would not have known where that came from. The words bypassed his conscious awareness emanating truly from depth – far, far depth. It was not: poetic defiance; but defiance, resistance and plain dirty balls: it was. When in trouble the human response varies from one soul to another but when it is time to fight, most of the species know how to go about it.

For the rest of the interview Lil Fella was very much side lined. He did try despairingly to enter at times; during a short quiz into capitals of countries of the world, repeating the city 'Paris' to answer every query was not helpful to John. Neither was the voice's mathematical idiocy and nursery rhyme singing. John kept his head and composure with the assuredness of a true professional. In terms of an employee it would have been hard to say no to such a gutsy performance. As the demonstration of adversity / or attempted debauchery (depending on which view) drew to a close, so too the wider event: the interview.

'Well thank you very much for your patience and attendance.' Cary told John standing up in the process. He offered a hand as John stood up. Oddly, or not, Stephane Ducat and Paul Schwartz stayed seated. John shook Cary Baxter's hand and also the others.

'It has been a pleasure.' John triumphantly responded.

'A pleasure for who, you? Not unless you like losing, loser.' Lil Fella remarked. John secretly responded by telling the internal cumbersome that he would be speaking his last 'bullshit' thoughts.

'If you make your way back to the secretary out front she will take you to room 765 where we will, happily, give you the antidote.' On these words, Baxter led John to the door he had previously entered.

***

'...Psycho-tropic... no... Look just hear me out' The phone was hissing slightly. 'Have you heard of the new technique?... It's where you go to an interview and then they inject you a month before... Yeah... that's the one...Fuck it, it's a good job and I will get paid well, though... Look what I wanted to ask...' John pulled the phone away from his head, relaxed and then tensed his shoulders 'What I wanted to ask you was if you were free... you know to go out... again?' He grimaced and held his breath 'I know... sorry, but you said it...I was under pressure, come on... I'm a fun guy...No... Well it's like, oh ok... I guess spaghetti is hard to count when... come on I was under pressure... what?... Yes of course... I really impressed them... no you see...They already knew I could count... No, I didn't need to count my hair – ha! Ha!... Will you... Look. Will you give me another chance or what?'

{back to story contents}

### Mantra

The politician left the goings on of the two alone and set up the others in order to open pathway. She sat the eight individuals, dragging them away from either viewing or thinking of interfering with the fight. Johnny, Kieran, Annie, Patrick, Lohané, Salim, Jarni and the unnamed masked man sat in a large circle looking at the fire and chanting ohm, Narayan, ohm. The sound started to reverberate holistically. The energy of the clearing and its atmosphere built up notches. The politician sat in her place and began to fill in gaps between repetition with adlibs. High notes and low, traditional karnatic flows and notes. Annie opened her eyes and felt her heart flutter. Though all the commotion of the last few hours, here was one of the reasons why she had lost her footing on sense and fallen madly in love with this being.

### *When I'm A Little Braver

Tuesday

Well I was told I should keep this diary. I really have thought much about doing this before but I guess now that it's been recommended I may as well actually start. They are really thinking of keeping me at Mansun overnight for a while.

I'm not sure why. Sometimes I wonder why I actually go there. The guy who is supposed to check up on me doesn't. That's the first thing that they said would happen. Martin would check up on me every Wednesday. Does he fuck? Well I think I should introduce myself. My name is Helen and I am 23 years old or young, whichever way you look at it.

The reason why I'm writing this is because the people at Mansun said it might help me. I don't think I need help, but I have never wrote a diary and when I was young I used to. I was about 6 and wrote it for about 5 months, I think. But we moved house when my dad changed jobs and I think I left it behind or something because I never found it. It had a flower on it that I drew because Tim (my brother) picked it from Mrs Dalgleish's garden when he shouldn't of.

We lived in Catford from then on but I can't remember much of it. Anyway, I'm sure I'll right about all of that later, I'm a bit tired for now so I'll have to continue all the history stuff later.

Wednesday

I saw him today. I know he is always there on Wednesday mornings. Sorry I am writing this at 7.30am after being out at 6. I have to tell you about this man who runs some mornings. I see him usually on Wednesdays, Mondays and Fridays. He is my dream man, even though I haven't met him! I know that sounds silly but you see it in films all the time. Especially that film 'While you were sleeping'. Sandra doesn't even know the guy at the train station. She knows it's love though and that's how this is. Stupid ending to that film. Sandra never stayed faithful, not like me. I know he is for me. Ever since he first looked at me. I was at the bus stop where I am every time he passes. I can't remember what I was doing there. I think I might be going to a job interview but I can't remember that far back really, I was taken aback by his eyes. I think he smiled at me as he passed. Yes, he did I remember he did. The sweetest smile I have ever seen.

I haven't quite plucked up the courage to talk to him but I think its love so I wont have to. The bit of luck that I need has not happened yet but when it does I will take it and we will be together. All I need is that moment. When it comes I will tell you. This is what writing a diary is about the moments when special things happen to you. I'll write it straight away. I'll come home and write it!

Had a busy morning today. Saw Martin and we went to the centre picked my cheques and put them into the bank. They keep telling me about putting money into my bank for me but I don't trust them. What if I need the money and they didn't put it in there? I would be stranded. No way will I want them to do it for me, I'll do it with or without Martin.

After I came home I wrote loads of letters. I love writing letters as I had to do it when I was younger to help me stay clever. All my friends went to secondary school but I had to stay home and help my mum with housework and things. I begged her to go but they wouldn't listen. So I wrote to all my friends and told them all to help me out. Sarah is nice because she checks all my spellings and grammar problems. I haven't had much education after primary school so what she does is really good. She still writes to me now all the way from primary school. She was probably the best, but so does Leticia and Diane write to me. I love all three of them. They keep saying to meet up by I don't know. It was long time ago that I saw them. I've changed and I don't think I would have the courage. Martin thinks it's a good idea so I might think about it later. But now I don't think I have the courage.

I'm getting ready for bed soon. Today was a good writing day. I wrote you, diary and I wrote to all my friends. I like this diary business. It's good and not just for the doc at Mansun but I like it. This will help with my writing and maybe with a job in the future. Don't know if I'm brave enough though. Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow.

Thursday

Got up at 7am today, nice and early, apart from Wednesday, Fridays and Monday's though! Had to do my shopping for the week and I like to do it with not that many people around. I can't believe the amount of people that go to Sainsburys. It's incredible after 6 o'clock because you feel like everybody knows what you have to eat. I hate that. I know that the cashier has to know but all the other people who just shop. I'd rather not. In the mornings there's people that are getting their sandwiches but hardly anybody.

I always finish my ham by Sundays. I should buy more but I like to budget myself and save some money. Ever since I was little I like saving. I got a proper piggy bank when I was 3 or 4. Not sure which. It was the one were you can't take money out of it unless you break it. I saved all my pennies and things in there. My parents probably still got it. Don't know much about all my stuff at home. After I went to Mansun I didn't see my family much. I remember once when I was lying on a bed I saw my mother there, and she was crying. I don't remember seeing her after then. I don't remember any of my brothers and my dad either. I don't really want to write much about them though because it will make me cry. I like living on my own now. It's nice and I have everything organised and it's all really helpful. I still love them but I just haven't seen them for a long time.

Couldn't watch Eastenders properly because my ariel wasn't working. I hate when that happens it annoys me so much I wish you can just put it in one place and its good all the time. Martin says that his one is like that but I don't know why my one isn't. It makes a big noise every few minutes like somebody is electrocuted! It's not funny though, I know that sounds funny but it's not.

Friday

He was out and looking so good today. He had these black shorts on with two strips crossing past his left leg part. It was like Addidas but that's got three strips. They were short shorts because they never went down to his knees, half way down his thigh. It's sexy! He had a white vest on and that was Admiral I think, something like that. His a bit going bald so that makes him look older than he is but I think that he's not that old. He looks about thirty years young. Because I'm 23 that's wicked and he can easily like me. Guys like younger girls and I think the age gap is just perfect.

The morning has gone quickly – it's funny because all I have been doing is drawing pictures of my man. I'm ok with a pencil and I like doing it anyway. Maybe I'll be a famous artist! Well maybe. I started doing it at Mansun.

I suppose I better tell you about Mansun. It is an adolescent house for when you have problems. I went in when I was 19 but I wasn't young but they still made me go in. It's because I don't know much about what adolescents do anyway. It's supposed to be when you're in secondary school but I didn't go so maybe that's why they sent me.

I stayed at home and helped my family and my mum for until I was 18. That's when I got married to Stelios. He had just come into the country and he didn't even speak proper English. It was horrible. I didn't understand a word he said and he just wanted me to do everything for him.

I reckon that if you are in love then you can get married. I wasn't in love and I don't know why I have to marry him. He was a dirty fucking idiot and he wasn't for me. He forced me to do everything and even things like sex. It was so disgusting and I don't know why anybody would want to have sex when the other person finds him so nasty. Why would I want to when all he did was hit me when I didn't do something he wanted? Sometimes I forget to do something and he would hit me so hard.

He wanted me to get pregnant but fucking did not want it. I don't know I did not have a baby but the first time that I was pregnant I was so unhappy I cried for a week. I had to go to a clinic and everything. The thing is, I cried harder when I lost it. He beat me for that as well but I was crying for my baby.

After some more miscarriages he left me and I had to move back home. It was never the same and my family just hated me. I was so happy on the first day but mum turned away from me. She was so angry. Why? It wasn't my fault. I couldn't stand it no more and I had to get Stel back. It was the only way to help my family. They kept telling me how much they thought I failed and didn't try but I didn't want him. Why would I want him?

I tried so hard. But he kept fucking other women. I'd see them come in and then leave. They were prostitutes and whores. I hated him I hated it all. But I hate myself. So I saw the pills. My mum got them on prescription. Paracetamol. They got lots in a box. When you wake up, you are either dead or in an hospital. I got unlucky

So I got sent to Mansun and did all these things and got given a 24 hour carer when I first showed up. She was around me all the time so I wouldn't do anything again. The people reduced as I got better, so did the people visiting me. Mum came only twice to the hospital – she never came to Mansun. Dad tried to come in I heard from a sixteen year old who had her wrists really badly cut and were healing. He made a scene and had to go home.

That's enough of this. It hurts me inside when I think about my life before. I don't know if I'll recover but I know that for now, I have one thing to look forward to. Monday, Wednesday and friday.

### *The ENDS of the World

I die in the end. Shot by a guard in a cage.

***

When the world has a super-villain all that could be hoped for is a superhero. Right?

Rewind – fuck that. This world is going to pot. Countries being invaded for power and money. Governments paying off or closing blind eyes to out of direct group splinter fractions – who cause devastation in order to fuel the reaction of these governments and their fucking armies into action. But it's never about revenge – just more money, power and control.

At this point – we need revolution. Soldiers who do not know any better rape women and kids in continents far away from home – what stays 'on slaughter holiday' stays there, huh?

It's bullshit. Mass marketing gimmicks that play on the very thing that divides us humans from animals – emotions and so called intelligence. Buy this and that and you'll be happy. Then when you grow unhappy buy something else. And while you're doing that – pay taxes so that your government can fuck around, pimping resources from other countries whose armies are not equipped to fight off invasions.

But you know what's worse than a fight? A ceasefire. One party, the 'legitimate' governed state gets to bargain freely with cunt countries of wealth and buy a big arsenal, scoping technologies and solid soldier training. Whilst the other side gets to go to a Black Market where hustlers sell war crafts without a receipt. The longer the ceasefire, the more corrupt promises become and eventually it is cleansing time for the revolution.

Makes me sick.

***

I quit paying taxes after that idiot Velais Arle started to prove his powers. Freak show on legs. The guy has telepathic capabilities and seduces people like he's a cult leader. He assembled an army here in cunt Birmingham and is in the middle of a plan to end the world or something. He's nuts – but with all that power why not take out just bad people. The world wants a superhero. No Batman, Superman; if only. Except, of course, we need a hero with bite – someone who aint afraid to fuck a guy up for disobeying human rights; you know, like going to Afghanistan to build pipelines or sending troops to train Israeli soldiers... But no; this wanker wants to do some psycho shit to end the whole world.

It's about time somebody flew a plane packed with explosives into his front porch.

The press have continued on with their quest to find his opposite like an M. Night Shyamalan movie. I doubt they have been to Philadelphia yet. There'd be a better effort spent finding Velais. He's elusive but he has a fucking army – torture one of the fuckers and find him.

But then I guess that is the beauty of revolution – you can't be found. Tamil 'Tigers' in Northern Sri Lanka are said to be micro managed – you infiltrate one of their armies, torture the fuck out of a high up cadre or colonel and he wont reveal a thing... why? Because he doesn't know where another base is – he isn't told. Jungles, island, peninsulas... underground. There are lots of places on this planet that we haven't mapped yet.

Hide and seek is a difficult game when you're an adult.

So anyway – I've quit paying taxes. I was self employed doing bullshit surveying for a year and realised that it was for fucking nothing. So just before my taxes were due I withdrew all the money and now I bar tend in sunny Birmingham. Cash in hand.

Trendy little place run by Indians – so I get to watch cricket all day. I'm Indian by background; not much by culture. Not a big cricket fan but I was getting there.

I always overhear conversations – Indian men seem to want to sit at the bar and talk – American movie influence perhaps? There are so many nice sofas to relax on. Bar stools are ok... There is this accountant talking to a lawyer; innocent/guilty enough but they mention the evil Velais and I cant help but to wipe up dishwashered glasses with an ear open. Apparently the accountant was doing some cash moving for the big man himself. He was being paid but at a tuppence of what he should get paid; apparently his brother lives with the Arle, treated ok, but if the accountant fucks around the bro gets it. Smash! Just like that.

(See – this is my dilemma; say fuck the world, work my life and end up the same and deluded like the rest of this piss miserable planet. Or shall I follow the guy. Tail him like those American movies.

Fuck me. Of course I did.)

A couple of days go by and I find out his address and get a cab to do the work (I don't want to get busted and go down for tax fraud just for a broken headlight). I see the guy at a place that must be the hideaway.

So I stake it out, look for a window and all that shit. I find one, get inside and get caught like a bitch. No Osama-Bush-Blair gay orgy... no nothing. Just me and the evil posse of dickless new Nazis...

..and having spent five months locked in a cage I have two pieces of paper and a pen to write with. I have rehearsed my words daily and nightly. I want to write the best reminiscence of my part of this current existence. I'm accepting I'm going to die – they told me when and how. Simple execution. There is also more reason why than just knowing the guy's whereabouts – I'm also so inane to the typical telepathic shit this guy throws out there. I have such a disdain for the world (my thinking) that I do not get hold within this telepathic link. So two excuses for getting rid of me – no resistance rising from any students/offspring I produce (fat fucking chance anyway) and the fact that I know where he is.

So I sit here in a dingy steel cage underground basement of the mansion place. Typical supervillain stuff. Writing my memoirs – not that its not going to be ripped up as soon as its read or written.

Apparently I was given the two sheets to assess me. They give psychometric tests, even in these daft times. I suppose I should write a poem; but that's too gay and useless. I'm out like a light tomorrow; no need to memorise anything. I have always wanted to die after knowing what I know about this shitty capitalised world run by the corrupt. It wouldn't surprise me if Velais was in that aforementioned orgy. When I ran away I wanted to do it then. Suicide. But too chicken. Now I get someone to do it for me. In an ordinary life, this would break an ordinary man – knowing their death is imminent; that is, the very date. The guards try to break a spirit of me that's been broken before I even stepped foot in here.

Fuck the world.

***

Execution day and I have handed Velais my paper... now. If you're reading, well I have underestimated my foe. The twisted man who is personally at my death sentence. I asked him what his big plan to ruin the world was. Like a Bond movie – maybe I'd escape to tell Agent Q, X, Y and Z.

And like a bitch he told me – he planned to telepathically link the world telling people the future... except not their own future; or that of anyone else around them. Fictions future. He would launch his new satellite weapon to transmit the ending of every film, book, story and all that to everyone before they have had a chance to see it. Apparently, if you think about a movie after he switches the shit on – you will know what happens.

Imagine that. All the telepathic power in the world and you can't even do good evil. I mean, the endings of films and books? I don't give a God damn fuck if in the tenth instalment; Harry Potter smokes crack, fucks a stripper and dies of Hepatitis B. I couldn't give two shits if the Joker is raped in prison by that dude who threw the detonator out on the ferry in the will be over-hyped sequel to the Batman.

I laughed when he told me his pansy plan.

He suggests that entertainment is the last medium by which we have no realisation to our needs rather than wants. We don't want to see the next Batman film – we need it like we need food and water.

I sat there as the guard came in with the gun and scribbled on my thigh facing him. I know this fuck is in cahoots with the government of this country and every world leader – a plan like that? Can only lead to nothing. After a while of this literally 'no-ending' bullshit they manhunt him, find him in a hole and blow him up on the spot. Assassinate him to show the people who they are and whose in control. Give a little self esteem back to those who have never seen Bambi yet know that the deer's old dear snuffs it or that Romeo and Juliet both bite the bullet in that play written a million years ago...

Well all that's left for me to do is flip Velais the bird and say 'Well whoever reads this... you know how this one ends, don't you?'

{back to story contents}

### The Death of... (2 of 2)

The fight continued with Stitch moving at ridiculously fast speeds to avoid the hits of his equally fast but somewhat clumsy opponent. The defensive Singhalese angel backed up into trees, around trees, rolled onto land then to another patch. Hit, miss, miss, miss, hit etc. Both fighters were unaware of their own heart's capacities. Yes, Theenu was indestructible but he was essentially human. He had been out of fist-to-fist combat for the best part of... well, a very long time. There are things one does not forget; even with wanton memory erasure.

The pendulum swung in a small part to Stitch, who seeing Theenu tire wrestled him to the ground. Some rolling and ordinary scuffling continued; the two were pausing as best as they could to regain energy for more non-human movement.

Then, as the two seemed they could bare hit any longer, heavy arms and bodies in general, Stitch made the mistake. He let his guard down for the first time. The only time but he was punished. Stitch assumed his opponent as tired as he.

Never assume a Tamil down.

In the blink of an eye an elbow landed. Then a left hand, then on top of his prey, Theenu continuously pummelled the fallen angel into an involuntary submission. Still, one more hard right to the jaw – it broke on impact, not allowing the jaded Stitch to close it.

The Tamil paused, took breath and saw the state of his foe. The enemy. The creator. Down by the man he created. Was this mutiny/blasphemy? In Theenu's heart it was justice and with his anger he grasped the angel's hair and dragged him towards the others by the fire. To the tune of their mantra, Theenu withdrew a flamed log and forcefully drove the steak, fire first into Stitch's mouth29.

As the pain embraced him, Stitch thought about the moment he contacted the soul of the inhabitant he 'possessed'. He knew he was on his final tour of life and knew clearly of the suicide ruling. He took the chance (before fighting; he could simply have offed himself)... but he failed. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the flames burned further; this wasn't even close to the pain Mara would put him through in a matter of cosmic moments.

### *The Gift of Time

As a child I was given a box by my grandfather. A wooden box under gift wrap. He told me I could not open it until he died. In his room, in our three bedroom house in Hounslow he kept it by his bed.

I prayed he'd crock it. Sadistic yes. Really rude of me but I was young and he was taking up far too much space (my parents had discussed, I had two siblings also). When I'd go to school and come back I'd will the man dead.

(...I grew up. And what does the man do? Gloat. Gloat he was still alive and gloat that he had held onto the unopened gift box; all wrapped up and waiting.

As most young boys do, I grew up some more. I found other interests and just learnt to ignore the old man. I had aspirations, dreams – wants. Desires... I lived on the field of football, playing for the school team. Scoring goals; thinking of when I'd make it to Chelsea FC.

I dated Claire, my true love. I was lost to the imagination of one day marrying her. I put my allowance, as I received it, into a bank account. I never spent a penny. Not even on my darling Claire. Not on my self. I believed it would grow and wield from the high interest rate promises from the singing Black man in glasses on the TV. In a way, I was buying the stocks of my time, in my mind via a neural broker...)

All this, until age fifteen when my grandfather died.

We sat up almost all night that twenty four hour period. Pneumonia related. DOA. Very little time to realise that the man was even dying let alone dead. He had a cough... maybe a cold but that was it. A lot of crying was carried out by my mother – he was her father. We all stayed awake to help her; to make her feel better in the old phrases of the more the merrier; the more the better. Perhaps my adolescent mind had even the rebellion of sleep attached to it – plenty of time to read about my rock idols who had less desire for the pattern in the latest copy of NME.

Many people came and went and we ate so much I remember. I was spoken to by so many men who were supposed uncles yet they were neither brothers to my parents nor sons to my grandfathers. The sea of people who came and went was exactly that. A sea – relentless in waves.

Until...

The house was suitably clear and I had the moments to myself to reflect. Except, selfish young me – the first thought I encountered was of the box. I re-found what I had wanted to discover. The box, wrapped; more tatty than I recalled as a younger child. I sat there starring at the piece. Light it was – not in colour; weight/volume. My fingers danced across the bow. My eyeballs grew ever so wide. I felt the twinge of guilt for being so excited so near to the wake of death... but there was nobody to stop me.

I opened the box.

This point was where I felt the intrusion of else within my bloodstream. A power. A force. There was, to you and my curiosity – not a physical, material within the cardboard cube. I did, however – feel it. It engulfed me and took me. I saw no note yet I read a description; in the voice of my grandfather's.

"This gift I present to you. There in the present. A time for you my son; but not the time. The effect of the illusion of time. The present I present to you is a gift of the present. For every time, my child, you lose that starry head of yours. Every time that mind of yours drifts away into the past... passed concentration points at now. Every time that starry head of yours drifts to moments you wish – that is dream... that is – the future. For all those starry, dreamlike times; you my boy will be instantly brought back/forward to the present...

...My present to you is the present..."

***

When I confessed to seeing unborn children in my girlfriend's eyes; I did not realise how severe I had been shot by the anti-present. Though after the present, I could see each child no longer.

My school work diminished; I could see no future in it; just working day by day and reading no sense into what I had to do for the future; nor any form the work I had done previous.

My footballing prodigy had eluded me off the field. I could not train, seeing no ambition. I was a gift on the pitch, seeing only the timeline of the now and distributing my stance on football just the way I'd play it in the now. Except, without ambition – where do I see the game ending me up?

A few short months and I ran away from home. I went towards the Midlands and stopped by a grand park in Leamington Spa. I write here, most of my days and give my works to the socialist bookstore on the corner of park and the main street.

This is my first effort at writing about the past. My Buddha like ways have transcended such past – in the future my arsenal will expand, so they tell me.

{back to story contents}

Fuel30

A circle of humans around the fire. Four to the left and the right. Headed by the politician. Theenu was instructed to enter the fire at the end, bottom of the fire. Stitch's body was already placed inside and left to burn. The politician had instructed Theenu to enter the fire when he saw the change in it. Asking what this change was, her only reply was that he would know.

So the circle of humanity ringed the circle of fire; Theenu stood, staring at flames. Smelling searing flesh. The others were, as told, in a most concentrative state. Those on the near side saw the death of the cloaked man, two of his confidents no less. In panic they continued prayer. Kieran was shielded from the gruesome event but could sense it all anyway. Again, within him, the truth was a confabulation. He had made up his mind to give the sun situation the final chance; brightness or arrests. Could he really have it in him?

This question is void. A gateway opened and Theenu stared into it. he was drawn towards it in fact. He still managed to rotate a final glance at his home for the past one thousand one hundred and eighty-seven years. He had been born, re-created. He had killed and bared massacre - none more foul than his own kin/people. He had laid catatonic for almost one hundred years. He had waged war across nations and given up the right to rule lands he had conquered. He had witness the fall of the sun and lastly. He murdered the being that had caused his (and subsequently all others) destruction. Now it was time for another life. An accomplishment of tasks thoroughly less human. Ideal for him.

Theenu ran into the fire and vanished.

### The Sun

Within a few short moments a brightness emerged never seen before in this part of the planet at this time. From clouds emerged a yellow star. From it, warm rays. The nine people sat around a burned piece of field felt the heat and looked up, shield eyes from glare. Adulation. Even the straight faced politician smiled and nodded. Annie approached her.

"I can't believe you did it. you managed it. I love you." The politician pushed away her effort of a kiss.

"My love, you do realise that I must leave now... back there." She looked to the sky, which was now blue. Annie stopped a mood of celebration. Tears welled. "I have to, balance has not been on this planet since 1948. Now there is no Stitch, No Theenu... there must be no I." A solitary tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek. She appreciated the attention of her lover for the past decade (or so). They had to part; despite the tears and the refusal of Ms Mofat. Her happiness had been taken away from her. Pains thrust through her being, some so harsh she fell. Eyes closed, she wailed as the politician let loose her grip on her palm, then fingers. She turned and walked to the forest in the direction of a river.

### Humanity

As for those who were to remain upon the plane of earth, there would be changes. The tight grip of unreality would be released. The drug of imperceptions would wear off with the passing of years. The paranoia of Surya's depression would be the first to leave; the world would once more trust in fellow man. Civilization would recreate itself as it once had been. The egocentric race for dominance would be re-ignited.

It hardly seems worth it.

### Energy of Paradox

Before the politician drowned herself she had a vision of how Theenu had saved the world. Surya had been incarcerated within realm; he no longer commanded control of the sun. He also stayed with melancholia; except he was not a God. The imbalance was not effective to any plane.

So how did Theenu manage it? The hole within the fire was a one way ticket; one route. Not to dharma; but straight to the sun. Theenu was burnt alive by the star. The one paradox was; he was indestructible. How could he die? The simple: he did not. Theenu dies and is restored, every few seconds. The energy this causes acts as a fuel of sorts. The sun can never extinguish with this food. Bare in mind, it does not burn as brightly as it once had done but to the mass, this new White Dwarf of a star is still capable of filling earth with growth and crucially: plateaux.

The other paradox: Theenu cannot use his powers to aide Tamils. In a previous chapter, he, under hypnotic suggestion, murdered all the Tamils of the world. A slaying of his own people flawed; he could never murder every member of this race. Tamil will never die. The few remnants of the death of Eelam, multiplied. Granted, these children died. All except one. Who grew into wedlock to give birth to another generation and on until now remained the last Tamil. A detective from West Coast (Post Asian) America. As long as his bloodline continues, the world will continue...

### Verses To The Depression of Surya

1

Those who walked the darkened shore

Told tales in exchange with penny for

History, the present, humanity summed

Gaped eyes; redeemed, innocence stunned

2

Fables in the making – what did the world know?

Guess after guess; as yet nothing would show!

The nearest thinking involved weapons of evil away

How far does the non-Hindu mind stray?

3

All familiar is boiled down to the last

Fixed from the chequered fate of past

Zion in Tamil nature, though not a being knew

To the law of humans, life and the sun he grew

4

It takes the efforts of one, but with him more

Teamed together so young, together they were four

Witches and magic and Hinduism and such

Except for ungrown minds this was all too much

5

Would a world without a sun behave as the world with?

Do emotions and logic reduce humanity to ill give?

The answers are yes and yes and more to

The soul exists; all and one, in spirit through

6

So if the sun goes down. Then the moon rises

The separation of men is how lay compromises

Split like peas. All are only the sum of parts

Few embraced the smaller dominion as new starts

7

She is back! From death to re-born

The politician is a gap filled between heaven and earth

She is back! To repair streams torn

The politician is a being to establish plane and worth

8

Buying the bait, the last Tamil absorbed it onto himself

Was he really to have predicted the steal?

Making a valiant effort at escape, disregarding health

Only a loss; as his mind was not concealed

9

In captivity, the Tamil has only choice

To join or be accounted for

Feelings and memories run blind voice

To fight and be counted no more

10

Is there really up and above?

Looking down with engineering...

Is His social formed through love?

Humanity in their right: demeaning?

11

An offer to conjoin foes

Under tentative glare

The knowledge far greater prose

...than not for this Tamil to share

12

The feminine would

In fury at past selection

She could

In Coven projection...

13

Are yes! The cure to never help the other

He, Theenu can help you...

...so long as you are not his brother

His fight is with inner demons untrue

14

Into the plan Theenu walked

The plan by enemies other motive

A woman they set upon stalked

Soon she'd persuade him toted

15

Reminders of the past roll

How a man becomes half and yet more

The best friend he had – who died cold

The wife of he; Theenu adored

16

Reminders of the past gain

How many men were killed...

...slain, maimed?

Theenu, though raged sat unskilled

17

The depression of Surya

Who could not stand the way man treated earth

His almighty brow grew fury

Punishment being: the sun to purse

18

For how long could he not move?

For how long could a body stay so fresh?

He had to be helped; the mind aroused grove

Though he would not approve – the freedom's flesh

19

When the Americas were conquered

Grace was spared; not a moment lost under sea

Asian soldiers invaded with herd

The continent was gone; the south, centre and land of free

20

A fanatic; a lover a man of great zest

He produced his talent with self-disregard

-He was; of generation, simply the best!

Across time and cohort, however: barred

21

The man God needed more than ever

To help those around him; starved of the ability...

...to commune. To be part of a together

A group reconvened would overcome fragility

22

The death of the Tamil race

And what could Theenu do?

Cursed never to help his brother's case

Though the power he had in true

23

The idea to reach heaven through fire

And Theenu had to be the one

Only he alone could aspire

But why would this being consider hum?

24

The Singhalese-Buddhist... Hindu! – transition

God's heaven form

Dropped to earth; superstition?

Theenu to sentiment would not mourn

25

Why was Theenu formed?

His enemy made him, what would he gain?

Heaven's door had dawned

A selfless act is gift; not a pain...

26

The politician – her lies but ultimate work

Makes heaven, earth and hell a process

Under her wing she takes a young irk

Recognition is not one to our hostess

27

The realisation of the mysterious figure as the being who made being

Theenu must learn an art to forsake the curse of a depressed sun

Surya will relinquish his act after Theenu shows the God his eyes

When one's creation is in front of one; all is found and won?

28

The fight to the death; creator versus son

Singhalese versus Tamil men...

The fight to the death; to remain but one

Equal in power; death to stem

29

And so... the death of the angel who never was

The demon who became. Dead now but life has past

A Singhalese death after the end of the Tamil cause

Was it worth it? The soul of other races will only last

30

And so it ends; the verses too. Through and through the story of the Tamil man God; accomplices and Singhalese angels. The politician and her human form to disappear from norm. Three non-human beings to exist seeing – this earth, created by the Gods. An earth stagnated; waited. For if run in due course; no paradoxical remorse could be shown nor grown from the wrath of Gods... They will; through Nara extract a new species to govern the upset planet. Out of habit – they will. To err is to human to which we nod; but to error first; is through our very own God...
Krishod Anand

### *An Imaginary Number List

What does it mean if you want to get on a plane to die? Krishod Anand did so. Not for a crash or some sort of zeitgeist terrorist thing. Just death. Plain death. Not dramatic pieces in a complex business death.

"Death is merely the stop/cease of a life within a network." He had said.

***

Krishod lived in England and from a certain age he knew that he wanted to commit suicide. This age was around nineteen; when he realised he could not figure everything out. A part of the problem was that he had tremendous ability at mathematics. Adding, subtraction, multiplication, division and all those easy bits. Then the even purer dimensions; like differentiation, trigonometry, physics, imaginary numbers and such. He blitzed GCSE maths (along with physics) four years early, then obtained A-Levels in pure mathematic, maths and mechanics and further mathematics three years later. He went on to do the degree, and was indeed flying until a lecture mid way through the second year tenure. The subject being on the history of mathematics. Philosophies and such. Not actual math, if understood. It was part one of a two part series to give students an idea towards the background into the learning process of humanity in the field of numbers. Krishod assumed there would be tales of Pythagoras and his Egyptian thievery and other myths and legends he had read about at primary school. So he skipped the initial lecture (he could get away with skipping five lectures a year, this was his first and only skipped lecture in the almost two years he spent at Kings College University). Feeling guilty, he showed up at the final instalment to hear of something he had never thought possible. A philosophy not even to register within his very own brain scale, up until that point.

"Mathematics is fundamentally flawed." The lecturer said.

Flawed is a very heavy word and ill associated with pure math. It cannot be wrong otherwise the world we live in would be wrong, or at the very least parts of it. Now, illogically, humanity can create incorrectness, no problem. But if maths is wrong then so is the formation of the universe. Then, of course, nothing is correct.

Before Krishod fell asleep on the night proceeding the lecture, he thought about imaginary numbers. He thought about the title 'imaginary'. It was not entirely true, since mechanical mathematics has uses for the reality of a complex number like an imaginary one. But still he thought of the word 'imaginary'.

Krishod Anand failed his second year finals and did not show up to re-sits as organised by lecturers who were extremely puzzled by his behaviours. That summer, he phoned the Apollo Video store on the Edgware Road speaking to a manager he worked under for a previous summer vacation and enquired into working full time. He was given the luxury. After securing the job, Krishod gave notice to his landlord and moved back in with his parents at there three bedroom house in New Malden. The mortgage was paid for; he merely slipped a few pounds in a pot for bills. This was the start of a two year period where Krishod put in process a plan he had figured out on the morning after the lecture he attended in that December, two years ago. Money was collated.

"I could save at least six grand a year if I lived at home." He had said.

The following winter after Krishod's discontent, he suffered from a very sore fist and wrist having stayed up for twenty four hours typing into a chat engine. There were people in his boat – this threatened him, yet he continued to speak to them for information. The information he received was rich.

When obtaining sleep, he awoke with repetitive stress induced hands and a stealing pain and throbbing in his right eye (eye strain). He took the day off work to recover and later that night he watched a movie as broadcast on BBC2 – 'High Fidelity', an American film based on the novel of the same name by Nick Hornby.

When Krishod's hands were slightly better, he found a notebook he had been saving and wrote a top five list. Only one. It was important, however.

***

Which leads us to now; the second December after the December Krishod attended the lecture. Krishod boarded at his gate within Heathrow airport. In his hand a small back pack. His only luggage, he did not even place any at the bag drop. Within it; the most important artefact he presently cherished. A note pad with merely two remaining pages. One page had a list, the other was blank.

Aboard the plane, Krishod sat on seat 32F next to a man who was seated and ready for takeoff before he had even approached. Out of his pack, Krishod placed the notepad on his seat and then the bag above him. He sat down.

"I maybe wearing headphones but I am not listening to anything." The man said.

Krishod Anand did not count for a conversation within his calculations. It had been two years since he was so meticulous but then mathematics is easier to control. This statement was purely the random variable that is indefinable before hand. A truly imaginary number. Krishod looked at his counterpart who smiled and nodded.

As the flight to New York took off and calmed, Krishod worked – a re-write upon the blank page of what had been previously printed on the first.

5 – Slitting One's Wrists

Very messy. Very psychologically difficult; the thought of taking a blade to one's self. Works for those who have the ability to direct problems within their lives at themselves. For self harmers, this has to be number one. For me, I think I could do it except, I am not completely sure – once you have slit one wrist (vertically and diagonally) you need to be quick in doing the other before weakness both physically and psychologically. Also, there is the factor of those who see you post death. All the blood etc. this could lead to a vision of another believing I have hated myself with a vehement desire. Suicide is just a business

Krishod and his seat partner, Alvin, engaged in conversation for the most of beginning of the journey. Simple things like occupation, education and dwelling. Alvin was a first year degree student at a Nottingham institution. He wanted nothing more than to be one type of Hip Hop artist - a lyricist rapper, but had the good sense to acknowledge a plan B. Krishod re-wrote article five whilst Alvin took a trip to the toilet. He came back, of course.

"What are you writing? Stories? Poetry?" Alvin said.

In order to buy himself sometime on a difficult explanation, Krishod told Alvin it was a personal piece of work. To his surprise, Alvin responded with full sympathy. He even apologised. Krishod decided to use the followed awkward silence to write up article four.

4 – Heroin Overdose

Apparently, the best way to die. The feeling is typical to the high, obviously. But your heart does seize and organs stop functioning. If you are unlucky enough, you can be resuscitated, within time. The use of plenty of grams of the product is a must which will be expensive. Not to mention the difficulty in obtaining the drug. Another negative note is again the post death syndrome: Do you really want family and friends believing that you are a junkie?

Krishod put down his pen and asked Alvin what songs he would be listening to if his headphones would play any. Alvin named rap artists from New York to which Krishod nodded having heard of few but not being interested in the genre, he did not have a grip on the conversation. Alvin knew this, so he dominated it. He told Krishod, enthusiastically about the state of rap in England and how it is subjugated by the popularity of the double time beat. Alvin, or 'Vin-1', believed he could revert the United Kingdom to a more American orientated sound though keeping lyrical content British based.

"Wait. I just had an idea. I need some paper... and a pen." Vin-1 said.

To which Krishod told him of his predicament – only two sheets within his pad. He had more than the one pen, however. Vin-1 became quite desperate, asking others. He explained to Krishod that he had just had an idea and lyrics for a rhyme and had to write it down before he forgot. Eighty-Eight Eights, Vin-1 called it: a whole song using the rhyming scheme of eighty-eight words that end with -eight, –ate or –ait. Krishod looked at his pad realising the back, holder page was blank of printing. He offered the appeasement and Alvin took it and while this man wrote, so did Krishod.

3 – A Long Fall/Drop/Jump

We enter the techniques that I will most probably use. One through three. This one is a very risky business but if executed at the highest altitude should produce the correct probabilities with which to take the gamble. Many buildings in America are tall... tall enough to die from, no problem. Apart from the risk, this is a less problematic technique (of course, one being not knowing what or who you will fall onto; a passer-by perhaps?). Advantages include the lack of expense and post death mystery: accident or purpose?

2 – Potassium Cyanide Ingestion

The easy death and a really good reason why I wish to die within the United States. The product is easier to obtain here. Organise a fake company; state purpose of business as jewellery sales or cleaning. A very successful cleaning product of gold is potassium cyanide, so you can purchase this at a chemicals factory. If you have the ability to talk your way to success, you may only have to turn up at a sales office with only a smile and a lie. The ingestion of the drug will render you unconscious within seconds; death will follow within minutes/hours. It's almost impossible to resuscitate the body due to bodily chemistry and reactions. All that is needed is one gram (to be taken with water, preferably). Disadvantages include the elaboration in obtaining it and the obviousness of suicide following exit.

Both Krishod and Vin-1 were rudely interrupted by a vibrant shaking. This lasted for around seven seconds and was enough of a distraction to stop the men from writing. Alvin confessed to a queasy feeling. Krishod did not, but he was a little anxious. Internally, he enjoyed the differentiation in wanting to die and actually dying. He convinced himself it was a control thing – if suicide is committed; the death is within the control of the man committing so. However, here was another complex imaginary number to deal with – 'death before attempted suicide.' Krishod envisioned a search and rescue team discovering the pieces of paper in front of him. He wrote "Krishod Anand" on the top left of the write up page and underlined it; it was not as if the paper would land, attached to his chest if the craft crashed into the Atlantic. Feeling pressured into finishing, Krishod continued.

1 – A Bullet to the Head

My current favourite way to commit suicide. It is close with two but I feel this method has the advantage in its quickness and finality of execution. Efficient if implemented correctly; shooting through one's ears – aim at one in order to blast the other. It is brutal to the post death audience, like five, but the direct purpose of it out weighs five. Slitting wrists is typical behaviour of self harm and fake suicide or attention seeking. If you survive a gunshot to the head, I believe you would be most likely considered unlucky due to the repercussions. Three is close but the chances of not actually dying (albeit, a gambler's fallacy) pushes that method back some. The only disadvantage is obtaining a weapon within London. Not as easy as offering thousands of pounds you do not need to an American citizen to do so. (Guess that leaves only one place to finish oneself off. No need for a list there.)

Krishod had just finished closing the bracket as the plane shook even more violently than previously. The continuation of the shaking past ten seconds, masks dropped from the cabin above and a few people even screamed.

Krishod closed his eyes purposefully and thought; if the plane went down, the last two years would have been as pointless as an imaginary number.

### About The Author

G. Haritharan was born on a Friday to Sri Lankan Tamil parents in a hospital on Denmark Hill which is in London, England. A few years later (around twenty or so) he decided he wanted to write. He started with poetry. Nobody liked it; he got a day job. More years later (around four) and he quit the day job to write a novel... In the proceeding years... He wrote two: _Followers of the Dead Man_ and _Kingdoms in Newness_. Both were published under the Tamil idea of s4mT

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