Laughter

[I rewrote this composition from my student's 'O' Level EL Section 1 practice composition, keeping roughly the same plot]

The falling water droplets drummed a monotonous, reverberating rhythm in his mind. He absent-mindedly stared at the plates, endlessly scrubbing every inch of each plate and bowl, cleaning the spot over and over again. There was a curtain of somnolence veiling the muffled chuckle in the next room and his own wandering mind in the labyrinth of memories. Inevitably, his mind returned to her, as it had been, again, and again, and again.

He first met her in high school, when she transferred to his class. He didn’t talk much to her, since he was unnerved by her beauty and especially those lips that can launch a thousand ships: when she laughed, it came as a deep rumble in her throat, smoothly rolling out her tongue, quivering her lips a little, like deep-red blossoms in morning dew rattled by the gentle breeze. Her laughter; the pitch, the timbre, the accompanying dimples, the joy, the happiness of being that defined her so much, all these were etched in his heart. Still, his own laughter and happiness were absent. Oh, how he longed to imbue his own laughter on top of hers, making a resonant melody that would echo deep to the very fibre of existence; interweaving laughters, interlocking lips, interbraiding passions!

That was why when he coincidentally met her again in the university, taking the same class even, he was elated beyond measure. He was determined be close to her this time. He mustered the courage to utter her name after class, and she turned, her long hair making gentle waves, spiralling in the gentle springtime gust of wind. Her lips moved and out came his name, tenderly clear and resonant. He said he was surprised she still remembered him—instead of replying with words, she let out that laughter of childlike innocence and amusement and joy, that same dew-soaked field of blossoms as he knew before.

His quest of love afterwards was punctuated with ups and downs but gradually he was able to reach that harmonious chord—her happiness was his happiness and his was hers; her laughters that bewitched him so now was his, too. And to the duet choral of laughters was soon added a more harmonious depth, the ringing of the wedding bells, and thereafter, the healthy cry of a baby daughter.

Unfortunately, the sound of dissonance came. A malignant tissue was found in her breast and it already spread to her trachea. No one said the C-word but it thumped in everyone’s mind, unceasingly, ruthlessly. Her battery of chemotherapy left her weak; it robbed her of her luxuriant hair and cheerful voice and laughters, it drained her lips of colour, it sapped her will of living. It ultimately snatched her away from him. Now those etched impressions in his heart were raw wounds instead, gushing blood, seething immeasurable pain.

The rain suddenly stopped and the sunshine penetrated through the lethargic veil that clouded his mind. His young daughter just laughed upon seeing her favourite cartoon character. He saw his wife’s face mirrorred in this young life; her laughter echoes in her daughter’s — her eyes turned towards him, saying wordless “Daddy!” He hugged her young daughter as tightly as his arms would reach, and let out a wailing cry. 

Or perhaps it was laughter; it was indistinguishable.   

How Zeus Unites All There Is

[Ms. Freedman / Sophomore English / Period 5 / Journaling prompt: Write a one-page story in which your favourite mystical creature resolves the greatest sociopolitical problem of our time.]

I can't exactly say what the greatest sociopolitical problem of our time is. And that's befitting of the title 'the greatest', it refuses to be captured in a few words. But I will try to explain it as I understand it. It probably can be summed up in one word: fragmentation, but give me the luxury to elaborate, if you please.

I would start with countries. Countries are strange -- people need to be segregated, given different identities, possessing different cultures. Ms. Freedman, I came from a third-world country. My great-grandmother travelled the rough seas to settle down there. Wars had been fought, blood had been spilled, our land had been occupied, our people had been slaves, because -- because of our exotic spices? Mr. Duma, our economic teacher, said that countries specialise and trade is beneficial. Tell that to our plundered land, to our raped women, to our children forced into labour. Tell them! Just because you happen to be born on one side and we on the other; no, it doesn't give right to you or I to treat the other side like trash. Countries need not be separated like this.

The very fabric of our economy is in shambles. I don't know about stocks and forex, probably you do, Ms. Freedman, because it seems like nowadays everybody's uncle is dabbling in stocks and forex. I am always bewildered at how people can make money based on changes in stock price and currency exchange rate. Where does it come from? Someone's gotta pay for it all: a man's fortune is another's misery. The feeling is somewhat like when how I sweat at the thought of air-conditioning -- where would the heat go? The law of equivalent exchange -- we will pay for our cool air somehow, maybe we are. Is this thing called economic structure a big Ponzi's scheme like the one cooked up by that Madoff guy? Would our children or theirs pay for the price eventually? Seriously, Ms. Freedman, how does one sleep with these thoughts? 

My mystical creature would be able solve this. I choose Zeus. Alright, Ms. Freedman I know it's cheating -- 'mythical' is not exactly 'mystical' but fussing over minor differences may be someone else's greatest sociopolitical problem ever, you know. Anyway, Zeus. As in Zeus the ruler of the gods. The one in the presence of whom all heads, mortals and gods alike, must bow. The one who wield the thunder bolts. The one causing static tingling in the electronics section... OK, that must be a different god, but I digress.

Having reigned over naughty immortals (who acted suspiciously similar to adolescents, mortal ones), he should know how to reign over us mortals. He would establish good governance, unified every country into a federation, set up a sensible economic system, etc., etc. No, he won't be a communist leader, nor will he be a fully democratic one. Before Aristotle was, he is; so I would presume he knows something about moderation.

Having said that, I would advise not to rely on him completely. After all, we are mortals and he isn't. The word devil may have its root in the Greek word diábolos, slanderer, but I am more persuaded to believe that it goes back to the Sanskrit word deva, god. It reminds us that the angels can fall, the Morning Star banished to the depths of Hades. Which fits wonderfully to Milton's Paradise Lost, where the Greek gods are cast as the fallen angels. See? I did my summer reading, Ms. Freedman.
Alright, Ms. Freedman, can we drop this farce already? I've told you how my favourite mystical creature resolves the problem. Well, the problem is still there, and it's not going to mystically resolve itself. So we've got you and me and a bunch of other people. Not mystical in any way, but that's the point.

Freedom

[2011 'O' Level English Language Paper 1 Section 1 prompt.]

She was running away. What from, that, she would have to get back to you later -- there was too much adrenaline coursing through her veins, confounding her thoughts, like an overcast black cloud with few flashes of lightnings of recollections. She sensed the cool wetness of grass under her feet, the twinges of pain from the cuts and bruises on her limbs, metallic smell from slight lacerations near her thighs, chilly breeze coming from gaps through her torn skirt and blouse; all dampened from adrenalinic numbness. The undergrowth was thinning and she came upon a clearing; she picked up her pace even more, until the sky is covered again with lush green foliage. The open sky somehow instilled a deep fear inside her, as if she were a furry little rodent keeping out of the sight of the flying talons who rule the sky. Her body felt mechanical: her bare feet trod the muddy ground hard, her arms flailed with reckless rhythm, her breathing heavy and puffed; she was not in control of any of these -- her body had executed the self-preservation programme that seated her conscious mind in the backseat.

The Tale of a Fallen Angel

[Six-word story challenge.]
Overeaten, she fell with mighty-loud thud.

Murakami on the Poolside

That day I woke up a little late. My head still cloudy from excess of sleep, I showered, then made a cup of double-dose coffee (somehow one packet of instant coffee wasn’t enough nowadays). I sat at the lounge, absorbing caffeine and morning news. I sorted out the plan for the day: I would go to the campus sports complex for a swim. I mulled over this a little while. I was having doubts whether since the previous day had been a public holiday, so the pool might not be open. I decided I should still go, carrying some books so I could go to the library to study – that’s the contingency plan, and in any case exams were pretty near.
So I started out. It was an hour before noon but the sun was not out. It looked like it was going to rain, but my mind was already made up. On the hour-long journey, I read the book I was currently reading: a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami. I had just finished one novel by Murakami and decided to read his other works. In no time I reached the sports complex.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the pool was open. My usual routine when I swim alone was to swim 60 lengths for endurance training. For club training, there were more sprints which can quickly exhaust you. With leisurely pace, I could usually do it under one and a half hour. As I stretched, I prepared myself mentally. The length itself was not a problem – usually the first few tens of laps feel draining all right but after that you will not feel anything much – you would even feel time is standing still, a taste of eternity, if you will. The problem was that usually my mind tends to wander and I don’t want to think about depressing things in the middle of a swim. 
At the end of fourteenth lap I heard the lifeguard’s whistle. Oh no, I thought, must be lightning alert. A thunder growled far away to confirm my suspicion. I sat at a bench near the lockers and the water cooler, not sure whether to call off the swim altogether or to wait. I decided I would wait. The droplets of water started to come down. It was not particularly a heavy downpour, but it was steady and the sky was particularly dark with thunder clouds. After a few tens of minutes some of the swimmers gave up and went to shower. I waited until I was more or less dry and then picked up Murakami from the locker to read.
Murakami’s works are quite unusual, though perhaps it is that very novelty that appeals to people. Some of his works have no moral of the story. It was just an episode of someone’s life, with nothing particularly interesting that the reader should learn about or philosophical questions to think about. They rarely have conspicuous conflicts, followed by steep rising climaxes and resolve – most of the time it was flat. As someone trained in literature, I found his works refreshing.
The slices of life Murakami describe themselves may not be very interesting but his style of writing has the no-pretense, honest quality to it, his meanings not buried in complex metaphors, which only adds to its realism, the impression that the happenings may very well happen right then at someplace.
There is also quite often-recurring motif of existentialism, like you feel the you you see in the mirror is not the real you. I suppose everyone feels a little bit like that sometimes, and the way he describes it flows fluently. I do feel like that sometimes. In a swimming event, for example, I would psyche myself that the one swimming is no longer the limited I but someone else. Then the I that observes the other I will feel distant like a faraway echo of ages past. 
After sometime, I arrived at Firefly. After few sentences I realised that that short story must have been the one expanded to the novel Norwegian Wood, which was the one I had read before. I hesitated for a second whether to skip the short story but I read on. As I said, Murakami’s powers lie not in the plot but in his descriptions. I re-tasted being in Watanabe Toru, though somehow this Toru felt a little different. After a while I realised that all the names of the characters were missing, as if they were still rough sketches blurred at the edges. I recalled the particular scene about the firefly, though I felt it had no real significance in the novel. In the short story, though, the firefly scene was in the spotlight and a little carried away by the story, I was swept with a wave of loneliness.
Right before the very last paragraph, I happened to look up and saw a swimmer in the pool. Apparently there was no more lightning. I replaced the bookmark and stored away the book. When I walked away from the lockers, the sky cleared up and the sun came out from its hiding place. I plunged into the water. As I glided, I saw at the bottom of the pool my own shadow tangled with brilliant strands of light. 

And time stood still.       

You Dancing in The Rain

That afternoon, the smell of rain hang in the air. It was like the damp smell of soil, as if already wet from anticipation. Soon enough it rained; drizzle at first, but quickly gaining momentum, racing down to the ground. The splatters were getting louder.
I peered through the narrow window while in front the continuous beads of water trickled down, forming a kind of screen. I was in a daze. The downpour never failed to amaze. Like sheets of some strange fabric being rolled down from the sky. Every droplet is different, but somehow they are connected, united in purpose.
Then you appeared. Running in the middle of the incessant watery air strike, arms flailing, head held up high. You were also in another kind of race. If the droplets' goal is the ground, what was yours? I wanted to ask you that. To capture as many droplets as possible? To savour the sensations of the pricks on and trickles of the droplets on your skin?
You tossed the beads of water up with your hands. In mysterious gestures, the beads danced, shone like pearls, bobbing up and down around you. No, you were the dancer, the beads merely followed along, as if enthralled by the beauty of your movement, defying gravity, coming under your bidding.
You suddenly stopped. Arms stretched out, head facing up the sky. You let the shower come upon you, trickling down your bodily nooks and crannies. Your eyes were closed, as if meditating, tracing the trail of water, the lingering sensation of the vestiges, quickly renewed, the coolness seeped again, soaking you with ever-continuing freshness.
Such performance, such grace. You started running again. Going out of view. The rain still struck with the same ferocity. Suddenly the wind was blowing gentler. The curtains of water were closing off. Curtain call.

The Piano

There was a grand piano at an abandoned old building near the place where he lived. An old Steinway -- slightly out of tune but playable nonetheless. He would go there sometimes -- the doors were all locked but there are other openings. He would play songs. Simple songs, or tunes that he made up, or melodies that he figured out after repeated listening.
He liked how the sound echoed throughout the empty building; how it bounced off the walls and amplified the original sound in slightly out-of-phase manner. Because it indicated the emptiness. He liked the emptiness, the absence of people -- just the piano and he, together. It didn't matter that the dance of the melodies in the air, the beauty of it was never seen by others. If a tree falls in the woods with nobody around, does it make a sound? No. To others the piano and he didn't exist. He liked it. The idea of isolation, the separation, the privacy of his very own world.
The piano was a faithful companion. Every musician knows that an instrument can reflect the musician. He felt that way, too. He was naked when he played; his soul, his emotions, his thoughts are laid bare -- they are dancing in the air, out from his fingertips to the keys to the hammer to the vibrating strings then choreographed in the air, performing complicated dance, bobbing up and down, bouncing off the walls, filling the empty space. Narcissus saw his reflection on the lake, the lake saw its reflection in Narcissus' eyes. The piano was as vast as the lake, it is large enough to accommodate the most detailed of reflections. The piano, too, feeds on its pianist. The lake can see its own beauty from Narcissus' eyes, the hollow piano consumed the overwhelming being of the pianist, filling up its hollowness and transformed it into choreographed movements of melodies gliding in the air.
The piano knows him well. When he was sad, when he was overjoyed, when he was aggravated. The numerous and complex ingredients of emotion were there in the air. The room was a vat, a cauldron and inside the cacophonic potion is bubbling, frothing. Troubles of the heart sometimes surfaced, or were they bubbles of happiness? Stirring up, stirring up, the ingredients reshuffled like a pack of cards. One could pick up the subtlest emotion here, although with all the cards flying you need the luck of a poker player.
When he was running out of songs and energy, the noise died down. The dance ended without encore, the potion is ready. Then the mirror of the soul was closed, ready to be reopened.

Broken

It was another rainy day. Sluggishly I climbed the stairs. I could hear the couple in the second storey fighting again. Lately it had not been only verbal but with a layering cacophony – dull thud, the sound of glass crashing to the floor -- like a song with a bad arrangement, like an orchestra missing all its cues. The landlady had left a note again in front of my door. You haven't paid for this month's rent.
I shed my drenched clothes and took a hot shower. A tune was playing in the next room. What A Wonderful World. At that moment the world did seem wonderful. The spray of hot water against the skin was wonderful. In that cramped shower cubicle I often crouched – the feeling of curling up, of making oneself smaller is relieving. I'm so small against the world -- Sometimes we need to accept that to move on, to make changes, to become big. Paradoxical as it may be, there I was, feeling every droplet splash against my skin, rivulets down the ridges, trying to find its way down. I stayed still. How I wished for the time to stay still as well – Does time even exist?
By the time I awoke from the philosophical discourse, the rain had stopped, the tune had died down, the night is still. I walked back to my room in a daze. The room was in similar confused state with my mind – a mess: unmade bed, clothes and books strewn all over and a broken PC on the desk, sitting there like an usurped king refused to give up his throne. There’s a literary term for it I remember. Macrocosm and microcosm? Big world and small world. Like when King Lear was out in the storm, a storm was raging in his heart, too – But in this case while my room was like a shipwreck, my mind was more like the aftermath of a tsunami.
Earlier that morning I was on my way to college. The train was very cramped, as usual; an old lady was catching her breath, coming in just in time before the doors closed – no one was giving her a seat. Probably someone did offer her but she declined it. Probably the young man sitting in front of her has knee injury. Probably her stop is near, so she does not need to sit. Probably, probably. Even though I was not sitting myself, I felt embarrassed and conjuring up those excuses in my mind offered distraction.
Sitting on my bed, I pondered about why I felt embarrassed earlier. After all, it was not me. After all, I could not do anything. Whom I felt embarrassed for? The word ‘humanity’ passed through my mind but I quickly dismissed it. Embarrassed for humanity? Probably. But blaming humanity on the whole doesn’t help much. Sounds very noble, lamenting for humanity, but then what? Probably felt guilty as part of the younger generation? That’s still too abstract. Then I realized that I was feeling for myself. For not being able to lash out at the people sitting to give their seats to the poor breathless lady. For being ignorant. For not even offering kind words to her.
Embarrassing. It was kind of that also when I considered calling my parents for help. I was in financial pit. I had barely enough to pay rent and college fee. I imagined the faces of my parents. The blank and cold space between them on bed was more than that. Emotionally, the chasm was already impossible to shut. I couldn’t stand the sight – my father drowning in beers and my mother in her tears. I was relieved I had to go to college, a perfect excuse to get away from it all. I didn’t really want to chime in again, creating more problems for my parents as if there aren’t already any.
Earlier that day after the morning classes, I went to search for work but to no avail. It was sweltering hot – no wonder it rained in the evening, the heat was the precursor. I tried to get a friend to take a look at my PC. “Your baby is dead. Give it up, buy a new one,” he said, after just a peek inside the CPU. He didn’t even switch it on. Well, I knew it wouldn’t switch on anyway but how he knew I just couldn’t figure.
In the afternoon, the rain started to pour. I was waiting for a bus. There in the bus stop I saw a girl around my age. She was leaning to the advertisement board at the bus stop. I didn’t pay much attention, except for her slightly awkward standing position. The bus came. The seats were all occupied. At the front was a young woman in business suit. Behind her was an elderly lady. Then I noticed the girl from earlier. She boarded the same bus. She was walking very slowly, knees bent, grabbing support along the way. The old lady quickly stood up and gestured her to sit. It all seemed to happen in a flash. I was still stunned even when the girl uttered a weak thank-you to the old lady. I felt different feelings from that morning. Maybe I no longer felt embarrassed for humanity? Sure I still felt funny about the businesswoman who was nearer to the girl but failed to stand up, but I felt that there was kindness, there was warmth left in humanity. Perhaps somehow my parents would go back together, stitching up their broken relationship. Perhaps somehow I would go back to my room finding a new PC sent from a stranger. But that’s not very likely, I guess.

Free

I sluggishly got out of the bed and went to the kitchen. My head was still hurting. The alcohol from the previous night was a little over the top, but then, it had always been that way. After quenching my parched throat, my body failed to move again. No it was more like the sense of balance is turned off and there was I, in constant vertigo. I was addicted to this intoxication, the feeling of being liberated from having to be conscious about moving – about doing, about being. Only during this moment I don't care about who I am, who I was, who I will be. Time didn't exist, neither did space; do I myself exist? Around this point of philosophical discourse, usually, the body would send the signals – the signals that re-establish the boundaries of reality, the freedom was just an illusion. The unbearable migraine, the pangs of hunger, the extreme thirst.
Of course, I also enjoyed the release of the alter-ego when the alcohol kicked in. When self-restraints are sent flying out of the window; when the inner, truer self breaks free. People always tell me how astonished they are when they witness what a drastic turn my personality takes when flooded by alcohol. I'm sure the sight of the timid man who always keeps to his own cubicle spouting vulgarities to strangers is really shocking. When asked which is my true personality, I honestly don't know. On one hand, abiding to the common code of civil conducts is fine, but sometimes there are things or people that try your patience. In a sense, it is indeed freedom, since the things are manifestation of what cannot be said or conducted within boundaries of self-control.
But I didn't think of these things when I was slithering on the cold marble floor, clutching my head as the throbs of pains struck like a thousand needles – the price to pay for transient liberation. My hand reached out to the kitchen top. The glass fell and made a crashing sound; individual droplets scattering in all directions in slow motion. The sight of my wife at the door, shaking her head, already desensitised by the sight, thinking that there was I again, wallowing in self-created, illusionary freedom. But to me the freedom was real, as real as all these things. Why would you need to break free from being free?

Possibilities

Josef Neumann smiled at the customs officer who was handing him his passport. He just crossed the Germany-Austria border. He hailed a carriage.
The year was 1900. He felt stressed, chased after by his publisher who demanded the draft of his new book. He needed a vacation, a refreshment. The new century would be a good time to start afresh, he had thought. He would visit an old friend, a doctor, in Austria.
While travelling to his destination, Braunau-am-Inn, a small town near the border, his mind wandered. He was always like that – liked to dive deep in his own imagination. After all, he was a novel writer: Was it not his job to imagine and make stories?
He particularly loved working out the lives of other people, foreseeing their destiny. He always pictured one’s destiny as a branched path: a path with so many junctions so intricate that his mind cannot comprehend. Every branch is a possibility, a choice one has to make to go on in life. Funny how people often make bad choices, he always said, but that is exactly what make lives so interesting, isn’t it? Life is not always rosy. There will always be tragedies as well as joyous moments in one’s life.
He liked to explore those possibilities, picking out and stringing them together to make a good story. He enjoyed his role as an author, the freedom and power he had over others’ lives. It was like fitting pieces of jigsaw puzzle in their place. Yet it was not: the pieces did not have exact positions like in a jigsaw puzzle. An author’s job is simply to arrange them – not necessarily fitting them – making them look good together. There is no right or wrong; everything is possible.
After finding his inn and checking in, he decided to go for a walk before meeting his old friend in the afternoon. It was a bright morning. The dews formed on the lush green leaves and grasses were beginning to disappear under the sun’s generous shines. A group of young boys were playing at the field. They were playing a war game.
A boy who gave the others orders intrigued him. Neumann sat under a tree, having found a new target for his imagination. He imagined the boy as a great leader in the future. No, he thought, Braunau is too small and rural. Okay, so the boy will go to Vienna, Germany – considerably a more reasonable place for would-be leaders – for secondary education after doing extremely well in primary school.
How about the background? Neumann began to work out his puzzle pieces. The father is an authoritarian, always ambitious about his son’s studies: he wants his son to become a civil servant like him, loyal to the Austrian Hapsburg Monarchy. The mother, as if trying to balance the situation, pampers her son, giving him whatever he wants.
The son, being rebellious, dislikes Austria – as if unconsciously contradicting his father – and will do badly in his secondary school then dropped out, deciding to become an artist instead.
Maybe a little tragedy here, he thought. His a-little-too-caring mother will die of cancer when he is only nineteen. This will be a great mental blow for him, making him temperamental for the rest of his life. The boy will blame the Jewish doctor who treats his mother for coming a little too late to save his beloved mother. Neumann gave this role to Edward Bolch, his doctor friend. So Bolch does his best, but still, the boy won’t hear of it. The hatred will be carried on for the rest of his life.
It was already noon. Neumann had to conclude his story soon otherwise he would be late.
The boy will soon discover that he has the gift of the glib. His fine oratory skill will bring him to power, but not before he has learnt about the bitterness of World War I and suffered temporary blindness caused by enemy’s poisonous gas.
A woman walked towards the field. She was probably the boy’s mother because he turned his head when she called.
“Adolf!” Maybe Adolf will be a great leader of Germany. There is no right or wrong; everything is possible. A dictator perhaps? Like his father? Possible.
“Adolf Hitler, come now!” The woman called for a second time.
Satisfied by his completed jigsaw puzzle, Neumann got up. He was looking forward to meet Edward.
PS: Here, Neumann’s predictions came true. Indeed this was the path Hitler treaded on. Yet not all of them are true. After all, aren’t they just possibilities?

Flight

The plane began to take off. Zulkarnaen Al-Ridah looked outside. A fateful flight, he thought. On his lap was a small black box. He hesitated. He had to open it soon. Fear was still in heart, although it had subsided.
He still remembered when he was about to enter the huge Manhattan airport. Fear really consumed him until he almost decided to turn back. No, he had thought, I cannot afford to; it is too late. So he trod heavily forward toward the check-in gate. His heart began to beat fast. Faster, and faster. Calm down, he said to himself. He took a deep breath and counted until fifteen, as his instructor told him. He did calm down somewhat. But he was still trembling.
His luggage was simple: only a small travelling bag. Still trying to soothe himself, he chuckled, Well, I don’t need much, after all I’m about to….his line of thought was interrupted. An old lady suddenly got in his way and gave him a sports bag, then continued walking as if nothing had happened. He was not surprised at all. They are always ingeniously well-prepared, he thought, an inconspicuous porter, how clever.
He walked through the metal detector. His heart skipped a beat. He was half-hoping for the alarm to go off, so he could turn back. But the alarm did not. He casually took his travelling bag and newly-acquired sports bag and walked to the check-in booth. As he gave his passport and his ticket to the attendant, he was trying to figure out how They were able to fool the detector to distract himself from the fear in his heart that started to grow again.
“Enjoy your flight, Mr. Al-Syaifah,” the attendant smiled.
Al-Syaifah alias Al-Ridah took his ticket and forged passport back without a word. He went to the waiting room., He sat, burying his head in his hands. Soon he was lost in thought. He was really frightened. He was enveloped with Fear and it seemed to seep to every corner of him, becoming a black hole and engulfed his existence. NO. Absolutely no turning back, he said once again to himself. There is no time for wavering.
He had agreed to undertake the mission. That time there was no fear. Neither was hesitation. Why now does he have doubts? Why now is he consumed with Fear? It was Faith that carried him thus far. What faith? He started to question. Is it really right? Or…?
“To all passengers of flight BA-245 to New York City, please…”
The announcement interrupted his thought.
He stood and got in his plane. He saw his comrades. He didn’t really know them, they were just briefed together a week ago; the mission was an absolute secrecy. As soon as he sat, he extracted the black box from the sports bag.
The plane took off.
…
“Attention all passengers, we will arrive in New York City in 20 minutes, please fasten your…”
Al-Ridah hesitated for a while, then he began to unlock the black box. What faith? He asked himself again as he looked at the bright dawning sky.
It was a lovely morning on 11 September 2001.

Time

I look upward. The dark sky is studded with bright moon and stars. I close the door gently so as not to wake my grandparents up. I set off. My night walks are supposed to be secret, but probably they already know. They understand.
I stroll slowly across the grassy field, along the path I know well. Well, too well; I have been having night walks for quite long, you see.
Stars. They are millions of light years away I suppose. I wonder what happened during the period when the starlight was travelling to Earth. Kingdoms rise and fall; history being made and remade; humanity progressed or regressed; creatures evolved; well, I don’t really care. Perhaps if I stare the sky long enough, I will see a speck of starlight just arriving from its long journey across the space.
But I move on; I’ve got a more important Question to ponder.
I slow my pace a little and close my eyes. I can hear soft breeze blows grass and leaves rustling, male crickets’ songs calling for the females, and gentle flow of a stream faraway.
I stop.
Is Time a river? I want to feel the flow of Time like the cold night breeze against my face. I want to hear the gentle sound of the River of time. But I think I won’t be able to. You see, I am carried away downstream by the flow and I am part of that River. To feel a river’s current, you need to go against it; to hear it, well, maybe the gentle sound is subsided by all the noises we the swimmers make in the River of time.
Or is time a big blank canvas, and there is an artist painting on it, applying different colours and tones to depict history? I cannot help but to ask why the Artist is painting miserable pictures. Wars ravaging countries, starvation, poorness, lies and deceit, all the calamities upon humanity; why? Why? Can’t he just paint Paradise instead of Hell? When will the whole painting end? What is the point of painting it in the first place?
I run.
I don’t know. All these conundrums about time; I don’t know.
I already said I have a more important Question that I’m trying to answer.
Breathless, I arrive at the destination of my night walk. The cemetery was not large, so I found my parents’ and brother’s graves immediately; besides, I have been here every night. I put my hands on the graves, closing my eyes, taking a deep breath preparing to shout. Well, here is my little Question: Can I turn back time to 5 years ago when my whole family was happy; when they were not dead yet in a car accident? Can I? I beg of you! It is only a meagre fraction of a starlight journey; only a little move upstream in the River of time; only a dot on the big blank Canvas. I beg of you, stars, River, Artist, Guardian of Time, God, Devil, whoever!! Please... give me Time...