............................

To be truthful, I’m supposed to be studying here, now. This Saturday’s my MMS, and I’m still clueless of what it’s about. And for the past few days I’m not making much of a progress. Here’s a way to illustrate it:

Study Progress.


(Dead pan) (Still passable) (Definite A)
l------------------------------l---------------------------------l
A fish ME Joe Chimpanzee The whole class


I’m so dead.

I’m being immature, but what the heck, I’m just gonna blame my lecturer for this (miss TMJ, which I have been very, erm, elaborative on one particular post). But what’s her fault? For starters, she made me hate her, which made me very less interested in this subject. Man, I still hate her, that bitch.

Nah, I can’t blame her, no. I mean, even if she is a crappy teacher I’m still supposed to go and pursue stuff myself, which I very well didn’t. Nope, blame it on stupid and lazy self (which sadly never learns. Sadly).

All I do now is read the notes I photo-copied from the guys and hope that one year wouldn’t change a subject too much (the notes were from a senior, complete with footnotes. Sad the language isn’t perfect. But who am I to complain?).

I must apologies for this post. It’s a diversion, for a moment, which I deduce is definitely better than me settling down to o2 jam. Sorry for the useless read.

Alright, time for me to return to my notes, which I’ll probably understand 0 tonight. *sigh*

Goodnight peeps.

P.S: Isaac, if you’re reading this, get a blog back. I only have a small gist of what happened, but I still think it’s waste that it had to go down like that. Pardon my intrusion.

Once more, a useless post

I ought to be studying, I really do. Yeah, well, I can’t concentrate and focus, so I’ve taken myself to type a little something here, just to divert myself for a moment.

Ok, I mean, I really OUGHT to study NOW. I’ve barely touched my Translation notes (literally, BARELY, touched) until a few minutes ago, then pushed it aside after a quick browse because I just found out that for I’ve jumbled out the notes into a confounded order. Yep, I’ve been reading stuff from the 1st and 3rd chapter (are there chapters? I don’t even know) back to back and got myself confused (and feeling stupid). I’ve got a little sorting out to do later, but this first. It’s been a while since I just wanted to type (funny how it always comes when I’m trying to refrain from it).

The past week had been relaxing. Too relaxing, in fact. I skipped 2 college days, and for those days all I did was play Kingdom Hearts 2 and watched DVDs. And I even managed to get myself addicted to O2 Jam (the online rhythm music game, think Dance Dance Revolution on keyboards MMO style). I suck in it, hands down, never been good with rhythm games anyways. But I LIKE rhythm games, sadly, so I’ll be stuck playing it for a while (perhaps longer than Maple story, which I deleted to make space for o2). That is, if I can download more of the song files (I have 10 currently, and Fly Magpie is getting very, very stale).

A little note here to all: Toy Story 1 & 2 (the Pixar movies, the pioneers of CG animated features, don’t tell me you don’t know) is freaking GREAT. I couldn’t appreciate it better when I was younger, and God is it hilarious. I’ll probably post something about it in the future, if I run out of topics to post. In the meantime, if you haven’t watched them, go check them out. I can guarantee that you’ll enjoy it in whatever way.

I’ll most possibly go to college tomorrow, to study with the guys. Last hope to make sure I can get it right.

-When the heart falls into Darkness, the body becomes nothingness. A Heartless forms a Nobody-

The logic behind the crazy banter of Kingdom Hearts 2.

Goodnight people.

Losing my will.

Months back, sitting here in front of my beloved laptop and typing away, was the greatest bliss one day could procure. Now, it seemed like that will has been locked behind the chains of woes and lament that bound this pathetic heart of mine. You might ask the reason of this post here, which obviously contradicted with my above-said reasons, so let me tell you this; for the first time I’m typing something for the sake of maintaining the welfare of this blog, which is under threat of once more dropping itself into an empty and meaningless site.

Funny, though. I’ve always constantly told myself that pain is the greatest drive to write; under the suffocating torment of depression the greatest way to breathe freely is to express oneself, and in my case, with words. But now I’m losing my will to write/type, and the main cause of it is due to my constant barrage of misery from these few days. The ideas are not coming, and the older ideas were cast under a shadow of obscurity so that no light can be shed to it. Even stringing words together is losing its flow, the beauty of it somehow marred by the muck that draws it back. Losing this will is adding on my depression as well. What is happening to me?

Come to think of it, it’s pathetic. The problems I’m facing are merely kindergarten compared to the crisis one faces in the age of adults & maturing teens. It’s no heartbreak. It’s no money-crisis. It’s no I-want-to-down-a-bottle-of-Dettol problems. And yet I’m depressed over it. Wuss.

Her smiles don’t seem to have the same effect anymore. That is, because she doesn’t seem to smile at me that much anymore (and why should she? I’m disgusting). Perhaps her seemingly eager to ignore me has drowned her smile, making it distorted. I’m annoying her, perhaps. Or maybe I disgust her. Maybe I just piss her off by standing around trying to make conversation. Feels like I’m faltering below regular friends. Feels like I’m merely just a friendly classmate, whom she can have a couple of jokes about and walk away, whom she can ask if she borrow something or do a small favour and then say a thanks. I can’t blame her. I blame myself. Me and my chicken-ass guts. Me and my idiocy. Me and my inability to just have a conversation.

Cousin Ivan said I should just go on and confess, ignoring the answers and just let the consequences come what may. I’m still under an illusion that I can still make her see, and somehow notice me. But then, suddenly, both seem so irrelevant. In fact, I don’t really care anymore. Yes, I still have her in my heart, and once in a while my mistakes stung. It’s just that her face doesn’t appear within so often as before, and I can tell myself, “So what if I don’t have her?” Perhaps I should just let her slide away from my feelings. Still, I’m tempted (or disillusioned, perhaps) to just walk up to her and tell her, then without caring for an answer, let things come what may. My friendship with her is faltering badly enough already. A little more won’t change a thing.

So tell me, my dear readers. Confess or let it be?

Dad’s been comparing me to Jasmine, my cousin, super-study person with excellent exam results and highest academic future in the history of my family and relatives. She recently won some poetry recitation at UTAR, and appeared on the paper. Dad said “Look, people achieved something. What have you done?” as usual. Normally it’s OK (he’ll compare me to teenage geniuses that managed to invent the first prototype solar toilet-paper refilling canteen, or something of the sort), but it’s my cousin now, 2 years or so younger, perfect student, perfect academic achievements, perfect family nerd (sorry, I dun mean that). If he was trying to fuel me to achieve something better, he failed miserably. I doubt my abilities to do better. But I’ll show him one day, something that’ll make him see that what I’ve set out for, no matter how improperly irrelevant to him.

I can’t seem to study as well, not unless I bandage my hands as a reminder that I have things to mend (which is starting a debate within my family that I’m going mental, or becoming increasingly weird). I don’t care what they think; it works, that bandage thing. Who said anime never teach you good stuff? What the heck. I’m going crazy.

I just realised that I have yet to complete my April’s Fool story, and I have 5 unfinished ideas. My writing is not improving. It’ll be a long, long time before I start on novels…

Have a nice day, people.

Mistakes were made.

Damage is done.

Hopes were shattered.

Dreams were forgotten.

Vendetta is born.

Love was lost.

Life is death.

What’s left is to restore what was lost, regained what was gained and repair what was broken.

What’s left is a path to endure.

What’s left is life itself. A life to be lead.

And everything lost and gained as we go.

If you’d stop and look…

I didn’t know what came over me today. With a Tom Holt novel freshly borrowed off the shelf of the college library, I was set to read myself home. Instead, I cast it into the bowels of my bag, stacking in under my bilingual dictionary and Dan Brown’s Deception Point after reading only one paragraph. It’s not to say that the novel sucks (or I wouldn’t have borrowed it), but somehow I thought I’d just stop -for once- and look.

Who knows the reason for my sudden change of endeavor to entertain myself in the long, lonely trip home in three separates commutes. Somehow the man with the newspaper looked interesting, and the college student leafing through his notes between disgruntled ladies fascinating. Perhaps I was influenced, inspired probably, by Amanda’s liking of looking out of the bus windows and observe as the world of humans and buildings unravels itself into a portrait of subtle magnificence. I found myself staring, staring at the people, their behavior, their looks and appearance, their attitudes, their gaze; every gaze is so different, so diverse that it borders beyond the comprehensible, beyond imagination or dreams. If you’d just stop, look and observe, the world is a gorge of depth and beauty.

And as you stare at every individual within my range of sight, it reflects upon yourself; how different are they from you? Beyond the faces (and masks, for certain people) lies a complexity so interwoven and varied that it gives an air of life and living, and I found myself inevitably learning, absorbing the light they reflect and asking the questions you asked. Every person here has a different tale, a different thread of fate.

There was that couple nearby, and they’re unusual; delightfully unique and beautiful. One is good looking; handsome and tall, a typical-looking entity among the likes of the la-la community. His partner, his lover, is short, plump and though offensive I am to say this, but truthful nonetheless, she’s what most people would classify as unattractive. Yet, this unusual coupling brims and exerts the warmth and affection, portraying love more than most that I had come to observe. The mutuality, the closeness, the affection, an understanding that between this two people their eyes between each other are staring at the heart and soul but not the misleading likeness of the face and appearance. The matching green t-shirts, the similar trousers design, the mutual act of brushing and tidying each other’s clothes, the comforting hold and contact of their hands, the pure sincerity of their smiles and the soft traces of their eyes among each other; within a society of superficiality and shallow sights, they’re the sun among the a sea of clouds.

Looking at them I questioned myself; could I be that lucky? My thoughts diverted to her, my affection, my love unannounced and unreturned, and I saw her face and smile and stare, and wondered how they would seem if I’m ever so lucky. To see them close, to feel her touch… it’s not fantasy, not longing. It’s passion, perhaps. Or simply put, a love. But could I ever attain such a treasure, a person such as me, someone with nothing to provide, someone who never was handsome outside or inside, someone bizarre. Perhaps time will tell, or luck, or fate and destiny. But I shall remember this couple, these lovers, and give the affection they give each other to her, if I ever will.

There was soon a pattern in my observation, a method of workings. I would study, and then ask questions that can never be answered, and as I studied longer I would look and see if they themselves can provide me with answers. In front of me was another couple, both beautiful people, but between them the compassion of the earlier couple of lacking. Somehow, it seemed, their gaze upon each other never bore deeper to the deepest depth of the heart. Beside them was a college girl, sitting with her head resting on the plastic barrier separating her and the people standing by the door as she stares intently somewhere on the floor in front of her, apparently lost within her forest of thoughts. Within her eyes bore a certain sadness, or remorse, perhaps, and a sense of wanting something (or someone) without having lingered among her looks. What is her sadness? Or is the look just a typical look of intense boredom and routine?

Beside me sat a married couple, the husband carrying a child of 1 or 2 years in his hands. A working man with a rough complexion but genial friendliness within his eyes sat beside him, and the man muttered something that the screeching sounds of the commuter tearing across the tracks drowned before my listening. The father replied, in an air of pride and happiness as he smiled at his baby while the mother stroked the infant’s hair. The working man started making faces at the baby, obviously a father himself, and his antics simple yet alive with animation. At one point the infant looked at me, wide eyed and curious (at the fat monstrosity staring at him). I gave him a smile. He turned to his mother bearing the exact same look, and she smiled. I wondered when I started hating kids. Oh, yeah. When they become obnoxious as they grow. Pity.

And everyone else is just as subtly fascinating themselves. The girl standing far down the carriage, casting a look around as though waiting for someone. The man with a weird haircut, and with clothing that make him look feminine despite its formality. A girl offered her seat to an elderly lady with a child, and then returned to her Mp3 player with a soft smile on her face. The lady I gave mine to said a soft thanks, and looked around the commuter with a gentle stare. Everyone else is brimming with life, and I have never noticed it before.

Obscured under my headphones, barricading myself behind a book, and dreaming past oblivion, I have missed out these little pleasures.

I guess moving at the speed of life, the surroundings becomes a blur of ignorance as people strive by without colliding, or facing a dead end, and yet these doings are what that exerts the detail and subtlety one can observe if they’ll stop and look.

I believe life is beautiful. If we’d only stop and look.

Warning: Teenage ranting.

Yeah, well, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get any comments for the story I posted previously (though I did get myself 3 reviews at the Great writing site). This comes to show that either no one reads this (even she who said that I should regulate on blogging). Or maybe my story suck so much it’s sympathy that I didn’t get comments. But what am I pouting and complaining here for? I know very well the reasons for my lackluster blogspot, so what I can do now is make it a better place. But every writer wants a little feedback anyhow, so yeah; I’m lamenting my arse off like a pussy boy who lost in
Boggle.

Sorry for being irritating. Blame it on short fuse, or pent up frustration, whatever. It’s been a while since I angst myself up in this darned thing, so I’m going rodeo with guns
a-blazing.

Let’s see, who do I verbally abuse first? Ah, yes, that Dog-garn stupid lecturer of mine, TMJ. Yes, I still don’t know her/his/it’s gender, and despite somehow accepting that she’s female I’m still having my doubts. Wait, it’s not fair, is it? I’m raging over her confusing gender, which is not her fault I daresay (not unless she wants to pull a Mulan to preserve her family honor). Yes, what I ought to be flaming about is the fact that she sucks in teaching. To all you possible fans of TMJ out there, go suck lollipop. She’s not that good. No proper notes, no course lay-out, freaking annoying attitude and LAME, I repeat to Houston, LAME jokes! Close to par with the lamest joker I know, ever, in my sorry life, and God help that I don’t get exasperated enough already having to hear nonsensical and FREEZING jokes EVERY CLASS SINCE COLLEGE STARTED. Ah, right, I remembered a certain lecture this year when TMJ mentioned that ranting in a blog or journal is –what was it?- oh right, MENTAL. Yeah well, maybe it’s psychologically unnerving to the simple minded such as yours, but excuse me you gender-confusing tart-turd of a stinking lecturer if I may have your obviously shallow attention, if I don’t fucking do this I’ll fucking EXPLODE in your face. Yes, call 99999999 people around the world who write to release their tension mental and mock the very basic of the course I’m setting down; JOURNALISM. Fuck you. Keep your impertinent and shallow remarks to yourself. If you can’t say anything NICE, don’t say anything at all. Even a thumping cartoon rabbit from Bambi knows that. Stop making me hate your already abhorring classes.

And to the lamest joker I know, shut up. You’re lame, face it and keep your hypothermia-inducing jokes to yourself. And yeah, for a little extra information, take notice if people laugh with you or not, because it never was. That’s perceiving things, and if you can’t do that I seriously doubt your future career. And don’t confuse between people who laugh at you. AT YOU.

To the friend most people call Soft Drink, I know you won’t be freaking reading this shit, but seriously for goodness sake THINK of your fucking future. You’re 20 years old and you can’t even attend classes for your own sake, not to mention that you’re facing multiple examination failures and a horrible attendance record. Think, dude. You’re here for education. You’re here, on your own will, to learn about the things you intend to be your future. So fucking attend class and study. Skipping classes with pathetic excuses such as having lack of sleep or lethargy is dung-pot. Stop whatever crap you do up all night; playing mahjong or toxicating yourself with cheap beer or whatever, and study for a change. And you have a girlfriend in the same course you attend, and if you have any pride in yourself COME for her sake, not humiliate her by being the most pathetic student of the class. Yes, I know I’m not in position to talk all this shit to you; I’m a lazy-ass moron and hardcore gamer idiot, but if I can finally see doing something to yourself and your loved one’s worth and changing for the better, it doesn’t mean you can’t. Wake up and smell reality. You’re 20. Act like one.

To Teh Derwoei my good friend and course mate, I have nothing to say to you except to ask if you’ll be kind enough to stop your excessive gaming at night and study seriously for a change. I wonder how you could face another Re-sit, because I seriously can’t.

Diane, call your friend. Just do it.

Ju Ee, UPDATE BLOG!!!

Isaac, a computer CAN’T DIE. Not unless you affectionately want it so.

Oh, and Isaac, sorry for saying this, but you basically gave me 57% for my translation exam. Confetti!!! Champagne and sushi on ice!!! Where are my bloody fireworks?

My brother! YOU’RE TOO HEALTHY! You’re scaring the crap out of everybody. But good for you. At least you’re happy.

Dad! Please be more considerate.

Mom, stop digging my dandruff.

Max my lovable pet dog, for the sake of your male-hood over your need to chew on the football, STOP BUSTING YOUR TESTICLES. I have had enough of spraying your balls with red medicine.

Amanda, I’d appreciate it if you could, you know, tell me when you’re upset and stuff. I get worried...

Michelle, we need to watch V for Vendetta, pronto.

And finally to myself, Tan J-E, FUCK YOU.

You’re a sorry loser. You’re an idiot. You’re slow and not sharp. You’re lazy and fucking playful. You’re packful of Sins. You need to CHILL. You need to learn to talk, to socialize, to crack open the shell and be outgoing. You need to be brave and shit and stuff. You need to know how to fucking express your fucking thoughts properly and just fucking say I LOVE YOU and have fucking confidence!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHHH!

FUCK.

Huh.

At last. All my rage expressed and released. Up yours, TMJ.

My deepest apologies to anyone unfortunate enough to read this mindless and resentful ranting of a 19 year old, and sorry to everyone I managed to tick off. You can flame me or beat me up at college or whatever. Just let me return the favour. It helps with my anger management.

Goodnight, people.

April's Fool.


This is a short story i submitted to www.greatwriting.co.uk as part of their new "Lazy Writers" program, which provides a new topic per month as 'homework'. The topic this month is April's Fool. I only found out about this program today (having been deprived of my internet for 2 weeks), so i came up with a shoddy, cheesy and typical short story. Due to limited time i could only manage to finish half of it, so here's part 1 (part 2 will come shortly if the story gets an ok reception). Do comment, alright?


April’s Fool. -by Hafutota_no_JE


Matt, as many may put, was truly April’s Fool.

Born on the 1st of April, the amount of practical jokes he received surpasses his birthday wishes by 100 to 1. He wasn’t all too surprised, really. In the eyes of the teenage entities that revolves around him; his friends, classmates, enemies and cousins, an April’s Fool laughter is definitely more fun than greeting Happy Birthday. And in the teenage society that Matt revolves in, greeting Happy Birthday among guys is deemed “gay and pathetic.” In Matt’s society birthday greetings come in the form of free back-slaps, a cake to the face and stuffed in the pants, a bagful of flour on your body after being hailed by chicken eggs and toothpaste spread across your crotch.
Thus in Matt’s case, since he was born on the 1st of April, those greetings became relentless and cruel practical jokes. An ambushed onslaught of water balloons filled with drain water. A maniac bulldog belonging to the local junkyard set after him. An excellent workmanship of taking his bike apart and rearranging them so that it looks like junk-art. A widely published scandal that was posted on every notice board in school stating that Matt is recruiting members for a cult named The Brotherhood of the Toilet Bowl (in which 65 students turn up in order to worship the fictional Satan-Tahi). Good old times.

So now, sitting in a hole half-filled with a thick, brownish muck with a horrendous stench, Matt knew that he was once more a victim of mindless and insensitive youths that sought only to humiliate and shame others, so that they may be announced as cool and unruffled. The usual anger and resentment erupted within him, amplified and fueled by the typical roaring laughter that filled the air after a well executed joke. Tears of rage and humiliation fought to escape his tightly shut eyes as the laughter burn into his skull and mind, embedding a scorching a mark which Matt will one day refer back as a terrible memory. He was angry, loathing, fuming beyond his widest abhorrence while fighting back the hundred of questions floods into him whenever this occurred. Why? Why? Why? Why?

But Matt knew the rules of the game. He remembered the law of the day, the crossing line that one should tolerate just for today and today only. It was the 1st of April, his 15th birthday. And it was April’s Fool; he was the fool, as usual, and there’s no fool like an April’s Fool. There shouldn’t be an utter of anger sparked by an overdone joke; no outburst, no cursing, no physically impairing form of revenge. Just smile and accept the fact that you were fooled. Just grit your teeth and bear the pain of humiliation. Just pretend to laugh and act as though you deserve it. Abide the rules. Stand the pain. Survive the day, and tomorrow it’ll end. Just for a day. One day.

Matt blew away the muck accumulating on his lips, trying to brush it away from his eyes. The stench was intense, nausea building within him as his lips threatened to break apart in order to gulp the air without having to smell them. He didn’t dare think of the stuff his jokers mixed into the substance. The laughter went on, and through the curtain of muck he saw that the group gathered to observe his embarrassing demise was growing slowly. The hole was about 5 feet deep, halfway full with the damned muck and littered with broken twigs and leaves. Matt was covered from head to toe in it. The Yellow Man, he heard someone shouting. He must’ve looked pathetic. The intense and unforgiving feeling of pure shame settles in his stomach, and he felt like vomiting.

“APRIL’S FOOL!”

Laughter. Cynical, cruel, relentless, inhumane, evil, malicious. It pierced Matt’s heart like a stake of rusted nails. Cold and brutal.

Matt planted his hands into the muck and pushed himself up. His body felt heavy; heavy from the thick muck, heavy from the growing laughter, heavy from sadness dropped down his lungs. He was standing in the hole, trying to dislodge the stubborn muck. He felt worst than a fool. He felt like a corpse, left to rot in a barrage of hungry bacteria in a cold tomb where laugher echoes for eternity.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of there,” someone said. Above of Matt crouched Steve, the class bastard. “My God, Matt. You look like my grandfather’s crap!”

The crowd laughed harder. Someone was wheezing like an insane hyena. Matt felt his anger intensified, and for all his life he wanted to punch that entity crouched at his face, that entity that no doubt had set this joke up. And it was well executed, Matt thought, though he was abhorred the fact they had used Michelle to set him up. She had agreed to help, Matt lamented. My crush agreed to aid in humiliating my arse out of me. He remembered her asking to meet him beyond the field, and him walking towards her with a feeling of confusion and budding hope. Then the initial drop happened. The hole was well hidden under a perfectly constructed camouflage of twigs and leaves.

“C’mon. Take my hand,” Steve said, offering a hand. Matt wasted no moment to grab it. He wanted to get out quick and fast, then leave this torturous state. He couldn’t bear the laughter any more. But Matt should’ve known better. He really should.

The other hand let go. Matt was half-way from vaulting out of the hole when it happened. Oh dang.

The drop, the stumble, the splash. And then the laughter. Matt wanted to die.

“I’m sorry Matt,” Steve said smugly, wiping the muck on his hands with a tissue. “Muddy fingers, Matt. You can’t blame it on me, though.”
Everyone laughed again. Matt stood up, bracing the stabbing shards of the laughter. No one noticed the tears forming in his eyes.

Steve gingerly smelled his palms and made a disgusted look. “Matt! You smell like dung!”

Matt wanted to shout. To scream. To slaughter everyone there with a chainsaw. But there were rules to abide to. Rules of the day. So Matt, against all odds, forced a smile and looked at Steve. “You sure you smelling the right hand?”

The following laughter lifted Matt a bit, and he gingerly planted his hands to the edge of the hole and hauled himself out. The crowd backed away warily, avoiding the splattering muck. He brushed he muck off calmly, making it seem as though it was as normal as drying oneself after a bath. His entire body was brown, even his hair, and his denim blue jeans was barely recognizable. He heaved a sigh, and said cheerfully, “And if you all would excuse me after this excellently well executed joke, I intend to go home and change myself into a better attire so that you may all soil it with filth once again.”

And with that, he left the crowd and the hole, striding across the field towards his home. Tears mingled with the muck, rolling into miniscule brown streams down his cheeks. He stalked past his gate, but instead of heading off to the showers, he paced towards his backyard and threw himself under his mango tree. Nobody that walked past that old terrace house noticed the newly-turned 15 year old weeping silently under the shadows of the tree.

Matt couldn’t help it. The tears wouldn’t stop, the sharp breathing wouldn’t cease. Sorrow had completely deluged him, drowning him a never-ending swirl of bitter torment and suffocation. The questions came pelting into him, and he fought them off. They hurt terribly as he answers, because the answers brought him to realize the painful cause of his pitiful state. He found that he couldn’t blame. He couldn’t accuse. He was hopelessly lost in his own inflicted cause.

“The boy weeping under a tree,
In a day and time of glee!
Shameful, shameful oh he is,
Like a little girl he cries, tsk tsk!”

Matt started. He cast a nervous glance around. The backyard was deserted, save for him. Except for the tree, the backyard was empty, and hiding was impossible. Matt stood warily, and with a careful approach, took a peek at the other side of the trunk. No one was there. Odd, he thought. Was I dreaming?

“Oh, looking for me he is,
Not with that stupid head of his
Find me he shall not,
Not even if he calls for Tom Tim Tot!”

A rush of fear fell on Matt. The voice was high-pitched, inhuman, and it was coming from nowhere (apparently, to Matt’s eyes). He backed himself to the tree trunk, staring about in panic. What was that? “Who are you? Show yourself!” he shouted. And then he heard it again.

“Ah, brave this little boy may be,
Cowardice and stupor is what I see
Asking me to show myself, did he?
Wishes come wrong, though you get three.”

The voice let out a malicious cackle, sending every hair on Matt’s neck standing. He felt his feet weakening suddenly; the fear of facing an entity of enigma and unknown possibilities was too much for him to bear. Humans fear what they don’t know. Hold together, Matt. Hold yourself together. “Show yourself!”

“I sense persistence in his thoughts,
But see me still he shall naught,
But wait, I’m bored, so why not?
Beware what you ask for, boy, you may rot!”

Matt couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe his own mind either.

And he wouldn’t believe in a million years he will be looking at the one, true April’s Fool.

Part 1 (end)