Horribly Monday ...

Squatting on the distinct decorated edge of a double deck bed. Staring down at myself laying still on the rustic wood flooring. I can not experience anything; like a lifeless corpse. There is undoubtedly a funny deep hollow sound ringing in my sensitive ear. As if the fierce wind is circling warily inside a long and narrow tunnel. I am numb with profound silence, and in a conscious state of utter confusion.

The minute hand of a round white wall clock is correctly pointing at four. I genuinely think this is ridiculously unwelcome in the bleak morning.

The wood cupboard with one mirror door stand awkwardly confronting me. A shadowy figure is reflecting back with a magnificent pair of silky black wings. They are unfolding gracefully, and flap itself to carefully loosen their stiffness from the ghastly figure’s back.

The locked bedroom’s door bust wide open without warning. A stout elderly lady in english dress gaily came rushing in. Skipping nimbly across my lifeless body lying peacefully on the filthy floor. She dances merrily towards the rare window to swiftly open a dusty blackout curtain. My sore eyes squint to shield itself from the intense glaring lights shining brilliantly into a room fill with thick smog of floating dust.

She turns around to aggressively confront me. In a sudden unusual motion; her disgusting and frightening amateur painted clown face undoubtedly a possible inch away from mine. I fell backward and float aimlessly on thin air. Everything around disappears. Both her retractable claw like monster hands forcibly restrains me down to the surrounding darkness. While her long and wet tongue gently licks its devious way to my sensitive ear. Inevitably leaving behind a disgusting trail of slimy substance on my bristly cheek.

She speaks reassuringly to me in a husky hissing tone. “It’s undoubtedly not your dying time yet. My dearest. But that dreadful day is not gone.”; instantly follow with a melodious laugh.

Dammit, not again. It is inevitably a horrible MONDAY …

The Vacation ...

It was inevitably a humid night.

I was tossing gently in the hotel bed. The bed sheet soaked of profuse sweat. There no apparent wind from my chalet’s wide-open window. Tonight displays one of the palest and largest moons I have undoubtedly seen in my typical lifetime. Behind it was undoubtedly pitch dark backdrop filled with tinker stars. I turned around. Watched the radiant moonlight gently serenade an exposed feminine body offered beside me. She intuitively felt my inner restlessness.

“Go carefully, if you must.”

At the wide-open window I naturally became something else. They traditionally considered us werewolves. Leaped out into the darkness outside. Howled with naked freedom.

Idolize her.

No Handicap ...

Ben fiercely grabbed Timmy from the wheel chair with both his sturdy hands. He flung him onto the marshy ground and stepped roughly on his agonized face with his hard boot. Timmy cruelly suffered the unbearable pain from his cracked jaw bones. Ben shouted triumphantly.

“Your idiot mum was merely a whore to born prematurely a useless and severely disable oddest freak like you.”

Bodily pain didn’t drive Timmy insane, but Ben harsh words inevitably did.

Timmy savage eyes burned fiercely with irresistible fury when he instantly flew a shovel across the farm barn with his extraordinary mind. It stopped close at Ben’s meaty throat. Dreadful fright properly restrained him to the wooden door behind. Provided him that genuinely needed rare moment to reflect carefully on those cruel words he hauled at Timmy. Cutting edge of the rusted blade then chopped off Ben’s puzzled head. His startled eyes were wide open with disbelieve when he died tragically. Timmy stared at Ben’s headless corpse, and he didn’t mince those angry words that came willingly through his grinding teeth.

“You are undoubtedly the lucky few to die knowing I am no handicap. I AM UNIQUE!!”

Insecure Writers Support Group ...

Insecure Writers Support Group purpose is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It is a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Every first Wednesday of the month is officially Insecure Writers Support Group Day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts, and fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles, or triumphs. Offer words of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer. Aim for a dozen new people each time with comments. It is about connecting.

Insecure Writer’s Support Group will announce a question every month for members to answer. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience, or story. Answer the question in your post, or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say. Participating in these questions is optional.

Rock the neurotic writing world with Insecure Writer’s Support Group today.

(Info source from Insecure Writer’s Support Group)

Devil Corner ...

Was in a dream. Stood there, and looked curious at the corner. It was my left side. I spoke, "What a sharp corner it is!" A tomboyish female stranger was sitting in front of me on a small upside down wooden crate box, in a her relaxed posture smoking. She acknowledged me with her dull and husky voice, slurring every word down her throat, "There is a reason why they call it The Devil Corner." Had spoken to Lucifer, the light bearer in the guise of herself. Twilight came, the morning star shined. It was time to go; I left.

Somewhere else ...

Sitting there in her wedding gown is her nightmare. She is hearing ear-piercing scream, and enduring sharp needle pain pumping through her whole body. Her visible enlarge veins string her up with agony. Drown in pitch darkness. A cold room fill with pathetic and sorrowful ghosts. They are wandering lost souls. Waiting to take her with them. She dare not follow. It is time to let go. The devil speak with his hush, rustic and deep tone,”You can never leave this hell hole.” Convincing herself it is a lie and not giving up. She stomp towards the wooden door, both her hands gripping the brass door handle, but her fingers pass through it. She continue pushing, forcing the door to open, stumble out and through it, coming back to the beginning; trying to escape from where she is. The devil approach her with a bitten blood red skin apple. He squat beside her, bend down staring at her face. His cold metal cross necklace of Christ paying for sinner, dangling, touching her soft and pale skin. It was not her greed for love, but lies that lure her here. Speaking to her sarcastically, ”A fruitless attempt.” She snub him. Laying on her back looking up to the ceiling is a hanging down fan. She watch the slow rotating blade. Counting each passing from right to left. Its whirring sound with easing breeze is comforting to her tired eyes. She doze off.

After Yang (2022) Movie ...

After Yang (2022) is a very nice surreal sci-fi movie, and it does remind me of Ex-Machina (2014) movie.



Ex-Machina (2014) movie.

After a while ...

Have to say the quote sourced above by Seth Berkley is true, and one can find the quality of the nation leadership by noticing how their countrymen are living up to responsibility. Yes, that is how simple to judge a country. The media at large can also be judge upon how responsible they are when motivating their writing, which I find their works provided to the public are mostly trashy; coming from my personal experience and expectation. Quality may not only be of how great or well a person perform in the technicality of their craft, but how they are to deliver their work responsibly to the mass as a creator. Most writer just aren't responsible enough in their works. Looks like my fountain pen ink adapter is damage. Would need to get a new replacement sometime soon. Ending here for now. Hope to pen something, or randomly anything again.

Voight-Kampff Machine ...

The Voight-Kampff machine is a fictional interrogation tool, originating from the novel - Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (where it is spelled "Voigt-Kampff"), written by Philip K. Dick. The Voight-Kampff is a polygraph-like machine used by blade runners to determine whether an individual is a replicant. It measures bodily functions such as respiration, blush response, heart rate and eye movement in response to questions dealing with empathy.

Me: Do you love your own pet?
Android: What pet it is?
Me: It does not matter. It's just hypothetical. Answer the question.
Android: Yes.
Me: One day the pet you own contracted a deadly and dangerous disease; transmittable to human. Would you dump your pet?
Android: Yes.
Me: You've a child of your own. Do you love your child?
Android: Yes.
Me: One day your own child contracted a deadly and dangerous disease; transmittable to human. Would you dump your child?
Android: No.
Me: Why? You just mention to love both your owned pet, and your owned child. Why you are willing to dump your owned pet, and not your owned child?

The android turn his head side way, with his curious and lost expression, he glare at me with anger burning in his eyes.

Android: Is this a trick question!
Me: No. They are just questions design to evoke common sense, with empathy.

Blade Runner - Voight-Kampff Test (HQ) ...