holidays are here
no more maths or history.
are u really sure?

that is what I thought when the holidays started. However, I couldn't be more wrong. Before the holidays, the teachers gave plenty to do based on the reason that we would be "bored". So,  the holidays became a very unpleasant time. Homework from dawn to dusk, oh my!

the beach is a strange place,

right next to land,

yet stretches out to the vast emptiness.

yet it is the home of millions of different creatures,

from the largest blue whale,

to the tiniest crab hidden in its little shell.

it holds many mysteries under its blue veil,

like the famous Atlantis.

sailor tells of strange creatures under its shell,

from mermaids to giant squids.

it doesn't complain of man's cruel work.

"beautifying" it with green or tin.

it gulped down tons of garbage,

like a kid who is sick;

without complain.

oh, how could man forget,

although it is a gentle little maiden,

it could be a fierce raging mom,

screaming at the kids who had been bad with a wave of terror.

If I were the last man on earth

      

I was just sitting on the couch daydreaming with national geographic on the TV when it suddenly dawned to me. What if the world suddenly ends right now, like a meteorite suddenly crashed into the earth, or every volcano suddenly erupts in the world or tsunamis are created everywhere? What if, I was the last man on the face of the earth? What would I do? Would I scavenge the ruins, looking for shelter; or would I seize the opportunity to explore the world?

            Finally, I've decided. I would reshape the world as it is before the humans had tampered with it. Before plastic was ever invented; before oil was ever found; before the world had a fever. I would make paradise for the future intellectual creatures that will live in this world we used to call earth.

            Now comes to the problem on how. How in the world can I, as a person, do that? I asked myself as I stare into open space. Closing-the-lights-after-you-leave-a-room kind of things will not do nor would the recycling-everyday kind. I would need to do something drastic, something big enough that would affect the whole world. Maybe I can plant trees. But wait, how would I plant the entire world with trees? And if I plant just one kind of tree, would it be enough? But wait, my scientific part of my mind said. My mind then recalled the bio lesson I had on Friday, something about cloning and mutation. Yes; that's what I would do. I would plant seeds which would be cloned to produce many seeds to speed up the process right here, in my backyard but before that, I would mutate it so that it will produce seeds that would be carried away with the wind, (um, there would still be wind right?)

            But wait, how will the next time future intellectual beings will ever know about us, as the pre-inhabitants of this beautiful mother earth? Surely there would be archaeologist with maybe 4 hands and 3 eyes but how would they know how to treat this beautiful planet? Will they repeat the mistakes that we humans have made before? So, I think that before my dying breath, I would write a diary, no, a journal, about the mistakes we humans have already made in the past. I would include everything I know about our physics, bio, chemistry, history (then again maybe not) so that they would have a head start.

             Next, I would......... After that I would.......... as I was thinking about it,  without realising , I feel asleep, dreaming about the wonderful things I would do if I were the last man on earth.

A very good “actor”

It was a cold and stormy night. I was walking in a back alley when I saw a man in tatted clothes holding a gun pointed at me.*someone threw me a ball of crumpled paper and shouted, “CUT THE DRAMA!!!!”* O.K. O.K. fine. I’ll start the real story.  

It wasn’t a cold and stormy night-fine now Mr. he-who-thru-the-paper-at-me? -but a warm and sunny morning. I was walking down India Street, which is infamous for its number of beggars, when I saw a guy in tatted clothes.  He gave me the impression that he is old and helpless. He was skinny and his hair was messy and sticking together like he hadn’t eaten or washed his hair for days. He looked so innocent. He came to me and said,

          “Please, could I have a dollar for a sandwich? I’m very hungry and I haven’t eaten for days.”

           Feeling sympathetic, I gave him the dollar. Come to think of it, I feel like a donkey. He smiled and thanked me repeatedly before leaving, his face still hanging a sinister smile which I didn’t noticed. I was feeling good for myself as I helped someone.

          Felling for the need to celebrate, I went to a nearby café to have a drink and that’s when I saw him. The man I gave a dollar to. He looked different as he doesn’t have a beard but I could recognize the voice anywhere.

          “Boss, a pack of cigarettes.” He said in his broken English.

Then I came to realisation that that man was a con. I just sat there staring, full of rage! How dare him! He used MY MONEY to buy useless cigarettes! If it wasn’t for the fact I controlled my anger, the consequence would have been… you know.

          So every time I see a beggar, I would be in a dilemma;

To give or not to give?

Why did the chicken cross the road?*

I

n a private unpublished study in 1976, scientists placed 20 chickens on one side of the road. Out of the 20 subjects, 15 crossed the road immediately, 3 crossed it with a little hesitation. Only 2 remained on the same side of the road. Out of the 2 chickens 1 of the chickens is crippled and can’t walk. Therefore we can conclude that chickens cross the road every time possible. But why?  Why did the chicken cross the road?

A simple question yet one which had been a mystery for many, many years. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side? To commit suicide?  And why chicken, not duck nor goose? Last but not least, why “the” chicken but not just “chicken” in general? After much savaging and researching- mostly in my mind- I have came out with the most possible solution.

It happened not so long time ago, in a place not so far away (Paris, 1798). There was a piece of land which now positions the Eiffel Tower. This piece of land, called paradis éternel, by the chickens, (don’t ask me how they interview a chicken, I don’t know) means eternal paradise in French. Here used to lay a chicken farm, whose owner was chased by the bank for delayed payment. The chicken farmer, farmer Collins, seeing no other way out, turned over his farm to the bank. But not before releasing his beloved chickens out into the open, not willing them to become chicken soup, not eaten by him.

So the chickens roamed freely around paradis éternel, the eternal paradise for 10 years. But good things never last. In 1805, the peace was disturbed. Chickens, which were resting comfortably in the field, heard a loud chomp and a vicious bark and the chickens flew into the chicken at well – chicken speed. Out of the tangled vines of the, um, farm’s used to be wheat field, sprung a horrendous sight. A man, whom was not their master, with 2 vicious dogs, armed with teeth like razor blades and murderous eyes.

"ALBERT EINSTEIN: Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?"

“Old farmer Collins may have forgotten ’bout his chickens, but I Dillard, farmer Collins’s farm boy, haven’t. Go get them boys. The more you catch the more you get,” the man with the bushy beard said.

The dogs didn’t need any convincing. In a split second, more than 5 chickens lay dead on the ground, and before long a massacre occurred. Only half of the original 70 chickens remain. On the second day, less than half of the remaining chickens were left .The chickens held a conference that night, fearing for their lives.

“At this rate, all of us will be eaten in a few days. We must do something,” said the chicken mayor.

“But what?” exclaimed a chicken.

“That,” continued the mayor, “is what we are here to discuss about.”

The meeting went on. More and more approach were suggested, each more and more hopeful than before. Finally a decision was made. They were going to sue Dillard (chickens are smart enough to talk French).

The news shook the entire town of Paris. Chickens are going to sue a human. That’s insane! The chicken who will be going to represent well- the chickens-is Julian who speaks French most fluently. The trial was bound to be held a week after that. The chickens have high hopes that justice will shine above all.

The trial was never held.

 Nobody knew why. Some say that Dillard negotiate a pact with them, some said that Julian was murdered or accidentally killed in a car accident. The chickens-who believed that that Julian is murdered- held a road-crossing event every day, (chickens have short memory) in memory of Julian and the chickens are relocated to chicken paradise. The villagers and government of Paris have never dared to leak the secret even to their children or grandchildren on rainy days, fearing that chickens can never be treated as “food”.

“Well, at least that is settled,” said the mayor of Paris, while sipping chicken soup generously prepaid by - Dillard.     

 *this article may or may not be correct.

What I like best about myself

I like that I can be in 2 places in one time.  :) I can be in the classroom being boring old me while being in the ocean while being in the ocean, swimming with colourful fishes or in a mysterious jungle with danger lurking at every corner. I am not bluffing; I have magic creativity. With creativity, I can leave my boring old live behind momentarily and visit the endless wonder of my imagination. To fuel my imagination, I read, watch movies and challenge myself by writing long essays. (But that doesn’t mean I don’t have time to do my homework.). Because I read mostly fantasy, I usually dream of elves and fairies instead of futuristic things like lasers or heavy tanks.

          But with great power comes a great price. I usually live in my own world, so I am not very sociable but I can form an amicable friendship as long as that person can get along with me. I am also a bit of a wet blanket, or in other words not the most optimistic person in the world. But it had been my principle to not to care what people say about me so I don’t really care.