You want me to remove your name? You got it.
Take care.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
This is what it feels like to be second rate.
It kinda hurt when you said, "Either change your URL or remove my name from your posts." I don't know how she found the link to my blog, and honestly, I didn't notice until you threw that fit, but I respected our relationship and I respected you. Don't get me wrong, I still do, but what you said hurt.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Adults
I guess this is what adults do. They disappoint.
They bring you in to their world and make you their best friends and they disappoint you. Mercilessly so.
I swore to myself I would never let myself become one of them. Turns out, I've become too much like them. Maybe worse.
My phone's been ringing all morning. Clients, friends, her and... her. They demand to know what's going on.
Clients wanting to know when glamorous stories of their company will be published, friends wanting to know if I'll be free today. All of them dismissed very easily.
But these two names that pop up on my phone are harder to dismiss. One my girlfriend who I owe an explanation to and the other not so much. Although it pains me to think what must be going through each of their heads right now regarding my current situation. My girlfriend worried to death not knowing if I'm alive or dead and Janice, well Janice is just overcome by guilt at what happened last night. I can't blame her. I specifically told her that I wanted none of anything.
But I shouldn't be so selfish in blaming her. It takes two to tango and two to, well, everything else.
I should deal with my girlfriend first. She deserves an explanation. A really long one followed by a talk. Come what may. Turns out living the sheltered life of a recluse doesn't sound so bad after all.
Didn't get much sleep after I got back. Counted the blemishes on my bedroom ceiling. Anything to keep my mind off this fuck up.
I'll probably end up single after this. Worse case scenarios, Haziq. Worse case scenarios. I kept telling myself that this morning when the sun blared through the curtains of my window. My eyes burning from keeping them open for far too long. Maybe I wanted to burn off my irises. The searing pain and dry eyes a small consolation to what I'll be getting later.
How the fuck did it get to that point? I'm still kicking myself stupid for it.
Jeez.
Talked to my cat about it. She was no help at all. Absentmindedly licking herself while I paced up and down my room unloading my guilt on her. And yet she did nothing. Merely purred and expected a stroke.
I could talk to Fi, but that would be a stretch.
Guess we'll just have to see how things go. Never mind the fact that you feel like shit (as you should) and scared as fuck (as you should!).
Go fuck yourself, Haziq.
Cheers.
They bring you in to their world and make you their best friends and they disappoint you. Mercilessly so.
I swore to myself I would never let myself become one of them. Turns out, I've become too much like them. Maybe worse.
My phone's been ringing all morning. Clients, friends, her and... her. They demand to know what's going on.
Clients wanting to know when glamorous stories of their company will be published, friends wanting to know if I'll be free today. All of them dismissed very easily.
But these two names that pop up on my phone are harder to dismiss. One my girlfriend who I owe an explanation to and the other not so much. Although it pains me to think what must be going through each of their heads right now regarding my current situation. My girlfriend worried to death not knowing if I'm alive or dead and Janice, well Janice is just overcome by guilt at what happened last night. I can't blame her. I specifically told her that I wanted none of anything.
But I shouldn't be so selfish in blaming her. It takes two to tango and two to, well, everything else.
I should deal with my girlfriend first. She deserves an explanation. A really long one followed by a talk. Come what may. Turns out living the sheltered life of a recluse doesn't sound so bad after all.
Didn't get much sleep after I got back. Counted the blemishes on my bedroom ceiling. Anything to keep my mind off this fuck up.
I'll probably end up single after this. Worse case scenarios, Haziq. Worse case scenarios. I kept telling myself that this morning when the sun blared through the curtains of my window. My eyes burning from keeping them open for far too long. Maybe I wanted to burn off my irises. The searing pain and dry eyes a small consolation to what I'll be getting later.
How the fuck did it get to that point? I'm still kicking myself stupid for it.
Jeez.
Talked to my cat about it. She was no help at all. Absentmindedly licking herself while I paced up and down my room unloading my guilt on her. And yet she did nothing. Merely purred and expected a stroke.
I could talk to Fi, but that would be a stretch.
Guess we'll just have to see how things go. Never mind the fact that you feel like shit (as you should) and scared as fuck (as you should!).
Go fuck yourself, Haziq.
Cheers.
Guilt ridden
He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the darkness. As they adjusted, he slid his left arm from under the pillow and groped for his phone on the nightstand beside the bed.
Grabbing it, he slid the bar to unlock his phone as his eyes read the notifications glowing crystal bright against the darkness. 24 missed calls and five messages from his girlfriend as well as a text message from Sara. He ignored them for the moment and continued scanning the screen for the time. The analog digits flicker and change. "3:13 am" it flashed menacingly at the boy's drooping eyes.
"Still early," he whispers.
Suddenly, he feels the bed. The texture was different. Smoother and softer somehow, not like the usual bed he always slept on which was rough and hard.
He groans, an overwhelming sense of dread enveloping him.
He rolls over to his left just as an arm reaches over and wraps him in its embrace. The guilt he felt was overwhelming.
He pushes his body against this new restraint and looks at the woman lying next to him. Her eyes were closed as her shoulder-length hair, dyed red, covered the left half of her face.
Janice was sleeping soundly next to him. Blanket wrapped around her torso defending herself from the cold emanating from the vibrating air-con unit above them, her left arm resting on his neck.
Very slowly, he lifts her arm and places it beside her while he pushes his body up off the bed and walks to the dressing table across the room. He averts his eyes from the reflection staring back at him from the mirror. The guilt riding on top his shoulders was bearing him down.
'How did the night end up like this?' he asked himself. How could the boy have known that when she texted him that evening after arriving home from Germany for work, the word "present" didn't mean a souvenir she'd brought back from Munich or Berlin? How could he have known that while he was talking to her about boundaries and restrictions and the prospect of keeping their relationship strictly platonic, she had other things on her mind? The boy could never have known.
His relationship with his girlfriend was rocky, but for this to happen was unacceptable.
The weight of the guilt began to cut into his shoulders. The drove him to the ground. He knew he needed to get out of there.
Putting on his pants, he looked around for his shirt. He glanced towards the bed and decided it was best to go home shirtless - it was snugly being worn by Janice.
He crept quietly out of the room and out of the apartment. Riding the elevator down to the lobby, the boy stared at his reflection in the glass. His eyes, once bright were now dark and emotionless. He averted them from that pitiful view.
As he crossed the threshold of the lobby to the steps outside its front doors, he stops and sits down on a step.
Pulling out his phone, he reads the five texts. The usual, 'where are you?', 'why aren't you picking up my phone calls?'. Each text was more persistent and demanding than the one before.
He dismissed them and dreaded having to face her later that afternoon. Instead, he opened Sara's. 'Accomplishment (y)' it merely read. Well at least someone had fun. He reminded himself to congratulate her later. He knew he would have to talk to her about what happened and would feel the brunt of her disappointment. He'd like it if she would scream at him and tell him how disgusting he was and how ever find it in himself to do this to someone. But that's up to her. He wouldn't mind it the boy told himself. Sara had earned that right and several times over. He needed his best friend. But she's probably dreaming of her recent escapade involving a bloke and lots of tongue.
'Let her have that dream tonight,' he told himself. 'She's deserved it.'
He picks himself up off the ground and walks to his car. Just as he reaches it, his pocket buzzes and cell phone rings. 'Janice' it glows. She's finally woken up and was wondering where he was. He'll call her another time. He has more pressing problems to sought out. The straps of guilt were still digging into his shoulders wearing him down.
'Oh, god. Why?' the emotional bombardment ruthlessly hacking away at his insides, throat expanding as the sudden wave of nausea overcomes him. He suppresses the urge to purge.
The drive back should be hell with him left alone with his own thoughts. He knew they would be just as merciless.
Grabbing it, he slid the bar to unlock his phone as his eyes read the notifications glowing crystal bright against the darkness. 24 missed calls and five messages from his girlfriend as well as a text message from Sara. He ignored them for the moment and continued scanning the screen for the time. The analog digits flicker and change. "3:13 am" it flashed menacingly at the boy's drooping eyes.
"Still early," he whispers.
Suddenly, he feels the bed. The texture was different. Smoother and softer somehow, not like the usual bed he always slept on which was rough and hard.
He groans, an overwhelming sense of dread enveloping him.
He rolls over to his left just as an arm reaches over and wraps him in its embrace. The guilt he felt was overwhelming.
He pushes his body against this new restraint and looks at the woman lying next to him. Her eyes were closed as her shoulder-length hair, dyed red, covered the left half of her face.
Janice was sleeping soundly next to him. Blanket wrapped around her torso defending herself from the cold emanating from the vibrating air-con unit above them, her left arm resting on his neck.
Very slowly, he lifts her arm and places it beside her while he pushes his body up off the bed and walks to the dressing table across the room. He averts his eyes from the reflection staring back at him from the mirror. The guilt riding on top his shoulders was bearing him down.
'How did the night end up like this?' he asked himself. How could the boy have known that when she texted him that evening after arriving home from Germany for work, the word "present" didn't mean a souvenir she'd brought back from Munich or Berlin? How could he have known that while he was talking to her about boundaries and restrictions and the prospect of keeping their relationship strictly platonic, she had other things on her mind? The boy could never have known.
His relationship with his girlfriend was rocky, but for this to happen was unacceptable.
The weight of the guilt began to cut into his shoulders. The drove him to the ground. He knew he needed to get out of there.
Putting on his pants, he looked around for his shirt. He glanced towards the bed and decided it was best to go home shirtless - it was snugly being worn by Janice.
He crept quietly out of the room and out of the apartment. Riding the elevator down to the lobby, the boy stared at his reflection in the glass. His eyes, once bright were now dark and emotionless. He averted them from that pitiful view.
As he crossed the threshold of the lobby to the steps outside its front doors, he stops and sits down on a step.
Pulling out his phone, he reads the five texts. The usual, 'where are you?', 'why aren't you picking up my phone calls?'. Each text was more persistent and demanding than the one before.
He dismissed them and dreaded having to face her later that afternoon. Instead, he opened Sara's. 'Accomplishment (y)' it merely read. Well at least someone had fun. He reminded himself to congratulate her later. He knew he would have to talk to her about what happened and would feel the brunt of her disappointment. He'd like it if she would scream at him and tell him how disgusting he was and how ever find it in himself to do this to someone. But that's up to her. He wouldn't mind it the boy told himself. Sara had earned that right and several times over. He needed his best friend. But she's probably dreaming of her recent escapade involving a bloke and lots of tongue.
'Let her have that dream tonight,' he told himself. 'She's deserved it.'
He picks himself up off the ground and walks to his car. Just as he reaches it, his pocket buzzes and cell phone rings. 'Janice' it glows. She's finally woken up and was wondering where he was. He'll call her another time. He has more pressing problems to sought out. The straps of guilt were still digging into his shoulders wearing him down.
'Oh, god. Why?' the emotional bombardment ruthlessly hacking away at his insides, throat expanding as the sudden wave of nausea overcomes him. He suppresses the urge to purge.
The drive back should be hell with him left alone with his own thoughts. He knew they would be just as merciless.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Dreamscape. chapter 1 pt 1 - Power addled minds are the Devil's playground.
Marcus evades the incoming fist aimed at his head, he side steps left around his attacker and places a well aimed jab to the man's temple disorienting him. He then launches a hook and a succession of blows to the back of the man's head, abdomen and ribs ploughing through skin and muscle to target the nerves and organs inside. His attacker stumbles from each hit.
Barely able to find satisfaction with the victory, Marcus ducks as another punch comes from behind. He catches the outstretched arm and plants an elbow digging it into his second attackers solar plexus. Hand still clutching the man's wrist, he turns and twists it behind the man's back. Standing behind him, Marcus slams his foot to the back of the man's right knee dropping him to the ground. He takes a step back and places a well aimed roundhouse straight into his second attacker's right temple, dropping him.
Even before the man thuds to the ground, his first attacker launches himself towards Marcus, all 350 pounds of him. For a big guy, he is agile and fast. Mere seconds he closes the gap between the both of them. Marcus sidesteps, catches the man's right arm and neck and drives him to the ground. He then mounts the man's shoulders from the front and pins him down with his knees. With all his ferocity, Marcus drives his knee continuously into the mans shoulder - once, twice five times. He picks the man up to face him, jumps up with all purpose and determination and drives his elbow into the man's sternum breaking his collar bone. The first attacker convulses, his body going into shock.
That'll buy me time, he thinks.
Marcus stands his ground. Confusion addling his brain and fatigue at keeping pace with the flurry of blows launched by these two men is making it difficult to maintain an air of hostility needed to intimidate his attackers and dispel any chance of an opening he might present.
He takes slow deep breaths, exhaling them in ragged proportions, his head pounding as he turns towards to the other man. Confused, tired and in need of answers, he keeps his hands up, fists clenched tight and paces his breathing.
"Who sent you?" he demands."And what are you doing in my Dreamscape?"
His attacker, 7 feet maybe 7 and a half looks down at Marcus' 170 cm lithe frame and smiles. The waistcoat and vest the two of them wore tucked into fly front trousers with breeches suggested that they weren't from this era. It didn't matter. A man was a man no matter what century he came from and a man challenging Marcus in a fight would be met with much resistance. With 10 years of experience in Kickboxing under his belt, Marcus wasn't an easy target to put down. Like a Pitbull cornered, Marcus was ready to lunge.
"Answer me!" Marcus screams. His anger levels were at an all time high. Spurred by the confusion and surprise of being ambushed in his own mind, Marcus needed answers and he needed them quick before either of them had any time to devise a plan in this hole of a box. However, before another course of action could be contemplated, a sound much like one made by a vacuum could be heard over the din in that small space that hosted the three men.
Marcus panics as he knows what would enfold following the sound.
He launches himself forwards in a last bid to plant a wave tracker on one of his attackers that the next time they enter his dream, he'll be able to know. Yet, before he could reach them in time, the men disappear with a 'pop' leaving Marcus to stand in the stark white room devoid of any features or details, a prisoner within his own mind.
He relaxes his body and scans his surroundings. Mere moments before he was walking down an unfamiliar street lined with stores and stalls in the city created within his own mind. He didn't remember creating the street and knew that the bricks and tar used to create the buildings and road he walked on were not his own. The dream signatures were too distant, far too alien for them to be his.
Just as his mind made way for a thousand and one questions, his entire surrounding was plunged in a blindingly white light. Someone had dropped limbo on him, a room that blocks the artist to his dream world. That's when the two men came into the picture. Decked in outfits fit for the Victorian era, they just lunged. Their waistcoats and notched collars drawing Marcus into a whirling of fists. Both the attackers fought like boxers. Weaving in and out of his jabs and crosses, shoulders bobbing with their fists balled up in front of their faces. It wasn't a style Marcus was familiar with and he thought that it seemed archaic, comical even. But their attacks were forceful, controlled and looking for a break in his defenses.
Marcus sits on the floor and looks around his plain, blindingly white surroundings. The small wave tracker, meant to monitor the specific brain waves of the people he plants them on blinks red against whiteness of the room.
With a thought, he dismisses the small item and sits. He can't go anywhere. They must have used a device of some kind to trap me in this place, he thinks. That, or they must be really good Dreamscape artists.
Marcus is talented, he gives himself that. At only six months, he had managed to hone his Dreamscaping abilities and create his own domain. People who can create their own space usually take years to perfect and some still aren't able to bridge others into their dreams. Building your own world, using your dreams and linking other people through their own and bringing them into his is truly an impressive feat.
So far, Marcus has created a utopia for a few hundred people. Some of them he knows while others are friends of friends of friends - linkers they're called. Brought into his own world by catching the same dream wave and plunging themselves into the tiny 'city' Marcus had created. Usually, people looking for a cheap thrill or a unreal high, they prowl forums and websites that host Dreamscapers and ask to be included into their world.
Marcus always thought they were the lowest of the low. Too lazy to develop their own Dreamscape abilities and latching on to hosts in order to get what they want, material wealth lacking from their own real lives. Marcus is their god, their king and every title you can throw at them and these linkers will gladly buff his shoes, or pay their requests with real dollars for a chance to live the life they wish. They called him the almighty. But in this small white room, he is powerless.
Marcus stands and surveys his surroundings. He doesn't see a small gap or crack in the walls and to be able to cover such details, plaster the surface smooth and paint it insanely white takes talent.
Whatever or whoever it is amid the fact that they're targeting Marcus and sending goons to attack him has him a little worried if not on the edge.
Just then, the room darkens. Great. What's going on now? he thinks. He flexes his jowls and braces himself for another brawl should one come. Muscles tensed and feet planted firmly on the ground, Marcus readies himself.
The walls mere seconds ago blindingly white, are now turning a darker shade of blue. That comfortable and familiar connection he maintains with his Dreamscape is slowly getting stronger. Marcus relaxes his muscles and walks over to the walls to inspect them. He runs his hands down the surface and senses a few cracks forming. Just as he peered curiously at this new occurrence, the walls fall away bathing him in the darkness that was his city.
Curious stares greeted him from onlookers standing around the dissolving limbo cube.
"Excuse me, excuse me, coming through,"
Marcus sees Angel coming in from between the many faces and constant murmuring that had formed around him. He needs answers and Angel is the person who can help figure it out. Marcus stands and fiddles with trouser pockets, the white long-sleeved t-shirt drenched with sweat from the fight earlier. Somehow, he's not too comfortable being stared at by all these curious faces.
"Move aside people" he directs. "Nothing to see here. Well, actually, there's a lot to see here, but now's not the time or place so I suggest you go about doing whatever it is you were doing and give... the man... some room!"
Angel finally squeezes past the crowd and stumbles in front of Marcus.
"Well, that wasn't hard at all," he grins.
Angel is short for a Caucasian. Standing a mere 160 cm, what he lacks in height, he more than makes up for brains and charisma. With a nice form and classic southern good looks paired together with an Aww-shucks type of smile, it's no wonder Angel can get away with almost anything.
"Nice limbo cube. Where'd you get it?" he asks with a sly grin on his face.
Marcus surveys the ground beneath his feet at what's left of the cube. The remainder of the walls that held him prisoner folded itself inwards on itself and disappeared from existence leaving a charred tar road that felt once again feels much more familiar to him.
"Someone dropped a limbo cube on my head and sent two big brawlers from the 19th century on me," Marcus explained. "But before that, they created a street within my city. I want to know who's doing this and I want to know why?"
Angel pondered the questions that were presented to him. His tongue licking his upper teeth, face peering upwards as if the answers were readily available from on high, he stares back at Marcus with somber expression.
"Fair enough. But before that, there's something you ought to know."
Marcus looked at Angel inquisitively. He knew that Angel wouldn't just turn off his Southern charm for anything light. Something had happened while he was in the cube and this something is worrying Angel, someone who doesn't get worried too often.
"While you were in the cube, one of your linkers was murdered. Whether or not the murder had anything to do with you being in there remains to be seen, but what is for certain is that your world has had a death occur and this is getting way too serious for you or for me," Angel stresses prodding a finger into Marcus' chest.
Marcus' eyes snap open. He knew death was possible in the Dreamscape, but it was a rare occurrence and not many people reported it considering that whatever happened in the real world is no concern to those in the Dreamscape. He always regarded it as 'if it doesn't happen to me, I shouldn't have to worry about it' kind of circumstance. There's never really a guideline for having your own world, no order save for the kind you reserve for your own purpose to protect your own expense.
However, this time he has to be held responsible. His main income is derived from the activities within his own Dreamscape. His linkers come up to him with requests and he supplies them with what they want accordingly. The only catch is that he doesn't charge them the same amount in the real world. Waking up to $10,000 a night for providing his 'customers' with Ferrari's, private jets and girls isn't such a bad way to earn a living. Thus, should this fall out of hand, he might have to go out into the real world and get a legit occupation. For a former professional fighter with a torn knee ligament and no previous working experience whatsoever, it's going to be hard to survive.
Marcus stands in silent contemplation weighing the various decisions that flash through his mind. As each decision is dismissed, equal amounts of questions form heavily on their stead.
"What do you suggest?" He asks Angel.
"Tomorrow morning when we wake up, you meet me by the cafe on the corner of 22nd and 3rd street. I may know a guy that can help us out," he suggests.With the attention you're pulling, it's high time you had someone teach you to control your Dreamscape better."
"I can control it just fine," Marcus snaps, insulted that anyone would suggest he couldn't control his own mind.
Sensing the defense, Angel reassures him that that wasn't what he meant.
"Calm down. No one ever said anything about you not being able to control your Dreamscape. I'm only suggesting that we get you someone who can help. You've been in the game for a few months. Don't you wanna know what else you can do with this little talent of yours?"
That's certainly piqued Marcus' interest. He relaxes his shoulders and grins at his friend.
Marcus met Angel on a lucid dreaming forum on the net. He had been looking for answers for the dreams he'd been having. At first he thought he was having nightmares. Marcus would find himself in places that resembled familiar spots around the city, coffee shops and bookstores that he'd frequent. But they all felt so real, so vivid. And when he woke up, he'd be more tired than ever, like he had just run a marathon.
Surfing the net one day, he found out about lucid dreaming and how you can create your own dreams and control them. Chatting with the people on the forum and telling them of his experience, he always found his dreams and theirs never really fit. Their dreams were still just that, dreams, while his was like going through a door and coming out in a different world, another life. That was until the day he received an IM on his email server asking him if he really wanted to know what he was going through.
'Sandman' he called himself. Marcus always said he liked Angel's real name better. He and Angel would spend countless hours chatting and discussing the talent that Marcus had. Marcus with a million questions and Angel exhausting his effort to keep up with the answers.
"Dreamscaping it's called. A way to build a world from the moment you close your eyes to the moment you opened them," Angel explained. "You can create anything in your Dreamscape. Always wished you had a Ferrari? Always wanted that swanky little penthouse in the upper east side? Anything and everything my friend."
"Like Inception?" Marcus asked.
"It's nothing like Inception. And don't say that, we might get sued." Angel tutted.
'The sky's the limit,' Angel would always say. As Marcus' questions became more technical, Angel knew he needed something more concrete to back up his answers.
So one day, Angel invited Marcus to meet up with him. Prior to this, all Marcus was getting were tutorials and explanations so Angel suggested Marcus train. As much as Angel knew about Dreamscaping, his abilities were limited. He could only catch the dream waves and not create his own world.
Angel always said that he'd seen far too many drug addled brains and perverted minds to last him a lifetime, often jumping from one Dreamscaper to another.
"But with your talent, we can build a perfect world. Why stop experiencing life when we close our eyes? A perfect utopia for you and me... and other bums you care to invite," Angel said.
From then on, Marcus and Angel would meet at the 'Sleep Cafe' every weekend- a boutique cafe that catered to Dreamscapers and those looking to sit and sulk in the darkness away from the blinding light outdoors, immersed in their own unique style of brooding.
Six months on, Marcus was able to conjure exotic cars, private jets and hand out personal invites to non-scapers, latching on to their dream waves and pulling them into his. A frightening advancement for such a greenhorn.
Brought back from his reverie, Marcus stares at his feet then scans the walls of the small buildings enclosed around them.
Even with his potential and mastery of his talents, Marcus created a modest city, mirroring the one he currently lived in. No tall skyscrapers or Italian made cars on the streets. Just cosy two-storey terraced homes and small shops lining the stretch of road. 'It keeps people humble and grounded' he would always say. Even his and Angel's attires were simple. Angel was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. "Who am I going to impress in here?"
"Do we know who the victim is?" Marcus asked, his mind still euphoric and lethargic from the fight.
"Unfortunately not. Once you die in real life, your body in the Dreamscape disappears. The only way we knew that the person was being murdered is because she..."
"She?" Angel interrupted, shocked further by the fact that the victim was a woman.
"Yes, she... started altering the dream waves around her, mangled books, exploding chairs, that sort of thing. But Marcia was able to plant a wave tracker on her just before she disappeared," Angel continued. "Once your dream state is ripped from your body prematurely, it tends to addle your host's dream waves. The shock of that is powerful enough to rip through connecting waves and into yours."
"Is death the only way to do that?" Marcus asks inquisitively.
"Fortunately, it is." Angel's tone grew hushed. His mind was still contemplating if there were in fact another way to create an impact on the Dreamscape similar to that of death. When he couldn't think of any, he looked up at Marcus. Their expressions portrayed equal amounts of concern.
"Show me the last place she was seen and we'll see if we can't find out who she is." Marcus kindly instructs Angel as he turns to leave.
"With luck, Marcia's machine will have a track on the victim in the real world." Angel says giving a small amount of assurance that whoever or whatever did this will be dealt with accordingly.
Barely able to find satisfaction with the victory, Marcus ducks as another punch comes from behind. He catches the outstretched arm and plants an elbow digging it into his second attackers solar plexus. Hand still clutching the man's wrist, he turns and twists it behind the man's back. Standing behind him, Marcus slams his foot to the back of the man's right knee dropping him to the ground. He takes a step back and places a well aimed roundhouse straight into his second attacker's right temple, dropping him.
Even before the man thuds to the ground, his first attacker launches himself towards Marcus, all 350 pounds of him. For a big guy, he is agile and fast. Mere seconds he closes the gap between the both of them. Marcus sidesteps, catches the man's right arm and neck and drives him to the ground. He then mounts the man's shoulders from the front and pins him down with his knees. With all his ferocity, Marcus drives his knee continuously into the mans shoulder - once, twice five times. He picks the man up to face him, jumps up with all purpose and determination and drives his elbow into the man's sternum breaking his collar bone. The first attacker convulses, his body going into shock.
That'll buy me time, he thinks.
Marcus stands his ground. Confusion addling his brain and fatigue at keeping pace with the flurry of blows launched by these two men is making it difficult to maintain an air of hostility needed to intimidate his attackers and dispel any chance of an opening he might present.
He takes slow deep breaths, exhaling them in ragged proportions, his head pounding as he turns towards to the other man. Confused, tired and in need of answers, he keeps his hands up, fists clenched tight and paces his breathing.
"Who sent you?" he demands."And what are you doing in my Dreamscape?"
His attacker, 7 feet maybe 7 and a half looks down at Marcus' 170 cm lithe frame and smiles. The waistcoat and vest the two of them wore tucked into fly front trousers with breeches suggested that they weren't from this era. It didn't matter. A man was a man no matter what century he came from and a man challenging Marcus in a fight would be met with much resistance. With 10 years of experience in Kickboxing under his belt, Marcus wasn't an easy target to put down. Like a Pitbull cornered, Marcus was ready to lunge.
"Answer me!" Marcus screams. His anger levels were at an all time high. Spurred by the confusion and surprise of being ambushed in his own mind, Marcus needed answers and he needed them quick before either of them had any time to devise a plan in this hole of a box. However, before another course of action could be contemplated, a sound much like one made by a vacuum could be heard over the din in that small space that hosted the three men.
Marcus panics as he knows what would enfold following the sound.
He launches himself forwards in a last bid to plant a wave tracker on one of his attackers that the next time they enter his dream, he'll be able to know. Yet, before he could reach them in time, the men disappear with a 'pop' leaving Marcus to stand in the stark white room devoid of any features or details, a prisoner within his own mind.
He relaxes his body and scans his surroundings. Mere moments before he was walking down an unfamiliar street lined with stores and stalls in the city created within his own mind. He didn't remember creating the street and knew that the bricks and tar used to create the buildings and road he walked on were not his own. The dream signatures were too distant, far too alien for them to be his.
Just as his mind made way for a thousand and one questions, his entire surrounding was plunged in a blindingly white light. Someone had dropped limbo on him, a room that blocks the artist to his dream world. That's when the two men came into the picture. Decked in outfits fit for the Victorian era, they just lunged. Their waistcoats and notched collars drawing Marcus into a whirling of fists. Both the attackers fought like boxers. Weaving in and out of his jabs and crosses, shoulders bobbing with their fists balled up in front of their faces. It wasn't a style Marcus was familiar with and he thought that it seemed archaic, comical even. But their attacks were forceful, controlled and looking for a break in his defenses.
Marcus sits on the floor and looks around his plain, blindingly white surroundings. The small wave tracker, meant to monitor the specific brain waves of the people he plants them on blinks red against whiteness of the room.
With a thought, he dismisses the small item and sits. He can't go anywhere. They must have used a device of some kind to trap me in this place, he thinks. That, or they must be really good Dreamscape artists.
Marcus is talented, he gives himself that. At only six months, he had managed to hone his Dreamscaping abilities and create his own domain. People who can create their own space usually take years to perfect and some still aren't able to bridge others into their dreams. Building your own world, using your dreams and linking other people through their own and bringing them into his is truly an impressive feat.
So far, Marcus has created a utopia for a few hundred people. Some of them he knows while others are friends of friends of friends - linkers they're called. Brought into his own world by catching the same dream wave and plunging themselves into the tiny 'city' Marcus had created. Usually, people looking for a cheap thrill or a unreal high, they prowl forums and websites that host Dreamscapers and ask to be included into their world.
Marcus always thought they were the lowest of the low. Too lazy to develop their own Dreamscape abilities and latching on to hosts in order to get what they want, material wealth lacking from their own real lives. Marcus is their god, their king and every title you can throw at them and these linkers will gladly buff his shoes, or pay their requests with real dollars for a chance to live the life they wish. They called him the almighty. But in this small white room, he is powerless.
Marcus stands and surveys his surroundings. He doesn't see a small gap or crack in the walls and to be able to cover such details, plaster the surface smooth and paint it insanely white takes talent.
Whatever or whoever it is amid the fact that they're targeting Marcus and sending goons to attack him has him a little worried if not on the edge.
Just then, the room darkens. Great. What's going on now? he thinks. He flexes his jowls and braces himself for another brawl should one come. Muscles tensed and feet planted firmly on the ground, Marcus readies himself.
The walls mere seconds ago blindingly white, are now turning a darker shade of blue. That comfortable and familiar connection he maintains with his Dreamscape is slowly getting stronger. Marcus relaxes his muscles and walks over to the walls to inspect them. He runs his hands down the surface and senses a few cracks forming. Just as he peered curiously at this new occurrence, the walls fall away bathing him in the darkness that was his city.
Curious stares greeted him from onlookers standing around the dissolving limbo cube.
"Excuse me, excuse me, coming through,"
Marcus sees Angel coming in from between the many faces and constant murmuring that had formed around him. He needs answers and Angel is the person who can help figure it out. Marcus stands and fiddles with trouser pockets, the white long-sleeved t-shirt drenched with sweat from the fight earlier. Somehow, he's not too comfortable being stared at by all these curious faces.
"Move aside people" he directs. "Nothing to see here. Well, actually, there's a lot to see here, but now's not the time or place so I suggest you go about doing whatever it is you were doing and give... the man... some room!"
Angel finally squeezes past the crowd and stumbles in front of Marcus.
"Well, that wasn't hard at all," he grins.
Angel is short for a Caucasian. Standing a mere 160 cm, what he lacks in height, he more than makes up for brains and charisma. With a nice form and classic southern good looks paired together with an Aww-shucks type of smile, it's no wonder Angel can get away with almost anything.
"Nice limbo cube. Where'd you get it?" he asks with a sly grin on his face.
Marcus surveys the ground beneath his feet at what's left of the cube. The remainder of the walls that held him prisoner folded itself inwards on itself and disappeared from existence leaving a charred tar road that felt once again feels much more familiar to him.
"Someone dropped a limbo cube on my head and sent two big brawlers from the 19th century on me," Marcus explained. "But before that, they created a street within my city. I want to know who's doing this and I want to know why?"
Angel pondered the questions that were presented to him. His tongue licking his upper teeth, face peering upwards as if the answers were readily available from on high, he stares back at Marcus with somber expression.
"Fair enough. But before that, there's something you ought to know."
Marcus looked at Angel inquisitively. He knew that Angel wouldn't just turn off his Southern charm for anything light. Something had happened while he was in the cube and this something is worrying Angel, someone who doesn't get worried too often.
"While you were in the cube, one of your linkers was murdered. Whether or not the murder had anything to do with you being in there remains to be seen, but what is for certain is that your world has had a death occur and this is getting way too serious for you or for me," Angel stresses prodding a finger into Marcus' chest.
Marcus' eyes snap open. He knew death was possible in the Dreamscape, but it was a rare occurrence and not many people reported it considering that whatever happened in the real world is no concern to those in the Dreamscape. He always regarded it as 'if it doesn't happen to me, I shouldn't have to worry about it' kind of circumstance. There's never really a guideline for having your own world, no order save for the kind you reserve for your own purpose to protect your own expense.
However, this time he has to be held responsible. His main income is derived from the activities within his own Dreamscape. His linkers come up to him with requests and he supplies them with what they want accordingly. The only catch is that he doesn't charge them the same amount in the real world. Waking up to $10,000 a night for providing his 'customers' with Ferrari's, private jets and girls isn't such a bad way to earn a living. Thus, should this fall out of hand, he might have to go out into the real world and get a legit occupation. For a former professional fighter with a torn knee ligament and no previous working experience whatsoever, it's going to be hard to survive.
Marcus stands in silent contemplation weighing the various decisions that flash through his mind. As each decision is dismissed, equal amounts of questions form heavily on their stead.
"What do you suggest?" He asks Angel.
"Tomorrow morning when we wake up, you meet me by the cafe on the corner of 22nd and 3rd street. I may know a guy that can help us out," he suggests.With the attention you're pulling, it's high time you had someone teach you to control your Dreamscape better."
"I can control it just fine," Marcus snaps, insulted that anyone would suggest he couldn't control his own mind.
Sensing the defense, Angel reassures him that that wasn't what he meant.
"Calm down. No one ever said anything about you not being able to control your Dreamscape. I'm only suggesting that we get you someone who can help. You've been in the game for a few months. Don't you wanna know what else you can do with this little talent of yours?"
That's certainly piqued Marcus' interest. He relaxes his shoulders and grins at his friend.
Marcus met Angel on a lucid dreaming forum on the net. He had been looking for answers for the dreams he'd been having. At first he thought he was having nightmares. Marcus would find himself in places that resembled familiar spots around the city, coffee shops and bookstores that he'd frequent. But they all felt so real, so vivid. And when he woke up, he'd be more tired than ever, like he had just run a marathon.
Surfing the net one day, he found out about lucid dreaming and how you can create your own dreams and control them. Chatting with the people on the forum and telling them of his experience, he always found his dreams and theirs never really fit. Their dreams were still just that, dreams, while his was like going through a door and coming out in a different world, another life. That was until the day he received an IM on his email server asking him if he really wanted to know what he was going through.
'Sandman' he called himself. Marcus always said he liked Angel's real name better. He and Angel would spend countless hours chatting and discussing the talent that Marcus had. Marcus with a million questions and Angel exhausting his effort to keep up with the answers.
"Dreamscaping it's called. A way to build a world from the moment you close your eyes to the moment you opened them," Angel explained. "You can create anything in your Dreamscape. Always wished you had a Ferrari? Always wanted that swanky little penthouse in the upper east side? Anything and everything my friend."
"Like Inception?" Marcus asked.
"It's nothing like Inception. And don't say that, we might get sued." Angel tutted.
'The sky's the limit,' Angel would always say. As Marcus' questions became more technical, Angel knew he needed something more concrete to back up his answers.
So one day, Angel invited Marcus to meet up with him. Prior to this, all Marcus was getting were tutorials and explanations so Angel suggested Marcus train. As much as Angel knew about Dreamscaping, his abilities were limited. He could only catch the dream waves and not create his own world.
Angel always said that he'd seen far too many drug addled brains and perverted minds to last him a lifetime, often jumping from one Dreamscaper to another.
"But with your talent, we can build a perfect world. Why stop experiencing life when we close our eyes? A perfect utopia for you and me... and other bums you care to invite," Angel said.
From then on, Marcus and Angel would meet at the 'Sleep Cafe' every weekend- a boutique cafe that catered to Dreamscapers and those looking to sit and sulk in the darkness away from the blinding light outdoors, immersed in their own unique style of brooding.
Six months on, Marcus was able to conjure exotic cars, private jets and hand out personal invites to non-scapers, latching on to their dream waves and pulling them into his. A frightening advancement for such a greenhorn.
Brought back from his reverie, Marcus stares at his feet then scans the walls of the small buildings enclosed around them.
Even with his potential and mastery of his talents, Marcus created a modest city, mirroring the one he currently lived in. No tall skyscrapers or Italian made cars on the streets. Just cosy two-storey terraced homes and small shops lining the stretch of road. 'It keeps people humble and grounded' he would always say. Even his and Angel's attires were simple. Angel was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. "Who am I going to impress in here?"
"Do we know who the victim is?" Marcus asked, his mind still euphoric and lethargic from the fight.
"Unfortunately not. Once you die in real life, your body in the Dreamscape disappears. The only way we knew that the person was being murdered is because she..."
"She?" Angel interrupted, shocked further by the fact that the victim was a woman.
"Yes, she... started altering the dream waves around her, mangled books, exploding chairs, that sort of thing. But Marcia was able to plant a wave tracker on her just before she disappeared," Angel continued. "Once your dream state is ripped from your body prematurely, it tends to addle your host's dream waves. The shock of that is powerful enough to rip through connecting waves and into yours."
"Is death the only way to do that?" Marcus asks inquisitively.
"Fortunately, it is." Angel's tone grew hushed. His mind was still contemplating if there were in fact another way to create an impact on the Dreamscape similar to that of death. When he couldn't think of any, he looked up at Marcus. Their expressions portrayed equal amounts of concern.
"Show me the last place she was seen and we'll see if we can't find out who she is." Marcus kindly instructs Angel as he turns to leave.
"With luck, Marcia's machine will have a track on the victim in the real world." Angel says giving a small amount of assurance that whoever or whatever did this will be dealt with accordingly.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Citte Silencia
As his dark equivocal demeanor stood atop the rugged rooftops splattered by rain, he looks down at the dirt enveloped cobbled streets far below.
The moaning of men and wails of women can be heard over the din and bedlam of the silent streets that criss-crossed between the rough and weathered alleys that the beggars and bums called home.
With a swish of his long black duster coat, he slid down the mismatched walls of the old and forsaken building, bruising and battering the already blemished stones below.
As he landed, he looked up towards the street sign that sparkled and shimmered under the shining streak of scintillation emanating from the moon above.
"Adelaide Street," he whispered whipping his worn and tattered tail coat around him.
It had always been his favorite street. Housing the many stores that sold books and spells that charmed the mind and captivated the soul. This street was where poets pondered over parchments of prose to give birth to works of wonder that wiled the wits of mice and men.
He traipsed across the street to an old store with its whitewashed walls and worse for wear signboard. Peering inside, he saw the books lined up on the shelves, their spines facing outwards to display the many titles offered.
He remembers reading each and every title sold by the store. But tonight wasn't about this store. Tonight was about the city.
She had been good to him. Saving his solitary and sequestered soul from his own sad and sorrowful spirit that housed his many demons, and acting as a crucial compass on his journey for salvation.
Citte Silencia had been home and tonight he would bid it goodbye.
Long has he taken refuge within its warm and hospitable walls and sat atop its soaring, statuesque spires with the birds and gargoyles that would often help him find his answers.
However, he knows now he must find his own path.
He walks solemnly through the silent streets that mere hours ago was bustling with activity. Now, not a soul in sight. He prefers it this way. No one to see him strut about between the shadows and the dreams of those wanting something more out of their morose and mournful motion they call life.
"Be good to her," he says to all the ones that would come thereafter. To the poets and the writers and the men and women who find her intriguing and interesting, who fall for her mystery and mannerisms he bids them luck. She is a difficult one, but worth it nonetheless. "As she has been good to me."
At the end of Adelaide Street he glances back. He gives a final salute for the service and salvation the city has given him and trots off, coat tail whipping about around him towards the waning moon.
The night is still young and many more adventures await.
The moaning of men and wails of women can be heard over the din and bedlam of the silent streets that criss-crossed between the rough and weathered alleys that the beggars and bums called home.
With a swish of his long black duster coat, he slid down the mismatched walls of the old and forsaken building, bruising and battering the already blemished stones below.
As he landed, he looked up towards the street sign that sparkled and shimmered under the shining streak of scintillation emanating from the moon above.
"Adelaide Street," he whispered whipping his worn and tattered tail coat around him.
It had always been his favorite street. Housing the many stores that sold books and spells that charmed the mind and captivated the soul. This street was where poets pondered over parchments of prose to give birth to works of wonder that wiled the wits of mice and men.
He traipsed across the street to an old store with its whitewashed walls and worse for wear signboard. Peering inside, he saw the books lined up on the shelves, their spines facing outwards to display the many titles offered.
He remembers reading each and every title sold by the store. But tonight wasn't about this store. Tonight was about the city.
She had been good to him. Saving his solitary and sequestered soul from his own sad and sorrowful spirit that housed his many demons, and acting as a crucial compass on his journey for salvation.
Citte Silencia had been home and tonight he would bid it goodbye.
Long has he taken refuge within its warm and hospitable walls and sat atop its soaring, statuesque spires with the birds and gargoyles that would often help him find his answers.
However, he knows now he must find his own path.
He walks solemnly through the silent streets that mere hours ago was bustling with activity. Now, not a soul in sight. He prefers it this way. No one to see him strut about between the shadows and the dreams of those wanting something more out of their morose and mournful motion they call life.
"Be good to her," he says to all the ones that would come thereafter. To the poets and the writers and the men and women who find her intriguing and interesting, who fall for her mystery and mannerisms he bids them luck. She is a difficult one, but worth it nonetheless. "As she has been good to me."
At the end of Adelaide Street he glances back. He gives a final salute for the service and salvation the city has given him and trots off, coat tail whipping about around him towards the waning moon.
The night is still young and many more adventures await.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
Sooner rather than later
This, I guess, deserves to be here. It took effort ok!
Twas the morning of Wednesday and all through the streets, not a creature was stirring save my gas pedal pushing feet.
I zoomed and I raced to get there before four, to get there fast enough and see her face once more.
As I reached her house under a blanket of stars, my heart skipped a beat as she yelled from afar.
"Are you sure you have the right house?" she asked me amused, I laughed awkwardly as my ego was bruised.
She walked towards me not wearing her shoes, I hugged her warmly, my inspiration, my muse.
We walked and we talked and we kissed and we smiled, we spooned and we hugged our passion went wild.
As we ended up on her couch I did something I regret, something disrepectful that I'd wish she'd forget.
She stared at me blankly, irritated at best, my mind went full retard as it became such a mess.
"I'm so sorry," I said, apologising profusely, she smiled and she said to me ever so cooly.
"You have to promise me two things," they ended up as four, most importantly "I cant break your heart anymore."
I agreed to her wish and told her my own, "dont fall in love with me," it isnt something I'd condone.
As we said our goodbyes and sealed the rules with a kiss, I knew it'd be rare for another night such as this.
But a guy can hope and wish for another, it was a few hours of bliss spending time with each other.
I do hope my actions didn't cause you to hate me, my fears are more stronger than the need of you to date me.
I wish I could rewind time and take it all back, my guilt and my fears screaming, "Boy, have some tact."
It was a good night although the time spent was hardly enough, the walk back to my car was for me "Damn, really tough".
So I leave this message with a hope and a prayer, that we might spend time again sooner rather than later.
Twas the morning of Wednesday and all through the streets, not a creature was stirring save my gas pedal pushing feet.
I zoomed and I raced to get there before four, to get there fast enough and see her face once more.
As I reached her house under a blanket of stars, my heart skipped a beat as she yelled from afar.
"Are you sure you have the right house?" she asked me amused, I laughed awkwardly as my ego was bruised.
She walked towards me not wearing her shoes, I hugged her warmly, my inspiration, my muse.
We walked and we talked and we kissed and we smiled, we spooned and we hugged our passion went wild.
As we ended up on her couch I did something I regret, something disrepectful that I'd wish she'd forget.
She stared at me blankly, irritated at best, my mind went full retard as it became such a mess.
"I'm so sorry," I said, apologising profusely, she smiled and she said to me ever so cooly.
"You have to promise me two things," they ended up as four, most importantly "I cant break your heart anymore."
I agreed to her wish and told her my own, "dont fall in love with me," it isnt something I'd condone.
As we said our goodbyes and sealed the rules with a kiss, I knew it'd be rare for another night such as this.
But a guy can hope and wish for another, it was a few hours of bliss spending time with each other.
I do hope my actions didn't cause you to hate me, my fears are more stronger than the need of you to date me.
I wish I could rewind time and take it all back, my guilt and my fears screaming, "Boy, have some tact."
It was a good night although the time spent was hardly enough, the walk back to my car was for me "Damn, really tough".
So I leave this message with a hope and a prayer, that we might spend time again sooner rather than later.
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