Stinking world

The trembling rings of despair.
Where colours fade into red,
The water turns corroding sour.

The decadence rots in civilisations.
Where joints of decays flipped
Into swamps of maggots.

Why the chase,
When helplessness is the chasers?

What to sustain,
When it’s only husks the soulless live?

The one who claimed to be humanity,
But mechanical clogs in the grand society,
The fairest Babylon.

Toiling in the grand scheme.
Submitting to the grand princes,
With a contemporary ingenious yet distasteful name.

And the cities ring again,
In the glasses of blood and oppression,
Where no one cares
Of the struggling little ones.

Blood are sucked to feed
Ourselves from ourselves,
Until no little ones can be exploited anymore.

Oh do you identity yourselves as human?
Then why do you kill your own kind
For the lust of power and overpowering.
‘Tis no difference than cannibalism.

The grand harvest of soul shall begin soon.
When the earth sinks,
Boils and simmers,
And shatters
By the hammer of the creator,
Which is the fool bearing the name humanity.

Oh the world stinks
Of the blood we have shed from ourselves.

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The ember of the Firebird

 

the bonfire of the firebird

 

They say…

The feather of Ziz the Firebird is the source of warmth and happiness.

It turns into cinder and burns forever.

Each feather will grant you the wish that have been skittering in your mind for years,

As long as you have the craft to sketch with the ash…

To be continued in the upcoming book

A Conversational Verse

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He:   Because we suffer, we need blessings.
Yet will there be an end?
When the cycle twines, the blessing infuses into the fabrics of disappointments.
And all is unraveled…

Him: Blood draining blight of spirit
Hyper vigilance not required.
Just be numb
Drugs work
Or TV
Or chocolate
Anything to pass the hours
Without feeling the total endless agony of living for some.
I am one of those
Nothing came easy

He:   Everything was a struggle and continues to be a struggle.
Yet through the struggle you consolidate you. The wool of your “self” is woven, within the hands of destiny.
And the quest of your subjectivity continues.
Why not let the flow carries you? To dusty the realm of wandering, to the snowy region of the deep darkness. Finally you may               realize the quest itself is a void, and so is you too.
Yet the seeking demands to be sought, the suffering yearns to suffer and the blessed will realize his own final home, where he             truly belongs.

Him: God and Goddess willing, we arrive home.

He:   We are the firebirds. our home is so distant, so vague, and till the world scorches anew, can the smoke be lifted;
Can our sights be restored.
Hopefully the day will come.
Sincerely hopefully, it sneaks by fast.

My new thriller fantasy novella

The new thriller novella will be out within two weeks. And it will be free for the first month! (After that it will ONLY be $0.99. Pay up you freeloaders… LOL)

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He wakes up to find all his memories lost. He scans the room. Every detail seeps into his mind, recalling  distant strands of event embedded within the deepest consciousness of his.  He can remember he is the Archmage of the mage academy.  Then within a blink, he finds himself in the hall of the academy talking to his colleagues.
For the next few days, he starts to have various blackouts. And he begins to have nightmares every night. What has happened to him? He tries to find out, but the truth can be deadly, in the sense it does not only take his life, but also his subjectivity….

The first night in the Archmage’s Quaters (A short dark fantasy story)

The first night

“Daria!”

I woke up to find myself soaked in sweat.

Daria? Who?

I searched in my mind, my consciousness, for any trace of who Daria was. Yet it was void, nothing. I lifted up my hands: they were trembling, and so was my heart. Must be a dream, just a nightmare…

Nightmare, nightmare… I tried to calm myself down, but my heart kept pounding. My linen shirt was glued on to my skin and I could smell the sweat transpiring from my body, the smell of ammonia. I realized I could not remember a single detail of the nightmare, not a sound, not an image.

I stretched out my palm. A spark of flame came out of thin air. It was floating just above my hand, nearly touching my skin. I could feel the warmth burning in the bluish hue, but it did not scorch. There was no pain at all.

How did I do that?

I turned to my right and saw a white slab of stone. It was a white marble desk, on which I saw a small candle on a holder. I lit it up and noticed a robe by the chair. There was a symbol of two eagles on the hood.

No! It was a twin-headed griffon. Dizziness hammered my head. I tried to get up, but I felt so disoriented that I nearly collapsed on to the desk.

Twin-headed griffon… Where have I seen that?

I kept searching for images in my head. Many traces of memories were mingled together. The imagery faded in and out quickly. All of that sudden I recalled a faint image of the emblem carved into a bronze plate. No… Not carved into… Was it a seal?

I turned my head to the wall facing the bed. I seemed to have remembered something. I walked towards the wall with the candle holder in my right hand. My thumb pressed hard on the handle of the holder. A bronze plaque on the wall gradually revealed itself in the dim light. It was a relief.

My fingers touched the crest lightly. The claw of the griffon reflected a sense of fierceness by the orange candle flame. A splitting pain shot through my head. I rubbed my hand on my forehead. I nearly fell out of balance. Then I saw the words beneath the emblem:

“For the Arch-mage of the Oblast Magi Academy, Jon Whitman.”

Yes! I am Jon Whitman, the Arch-mage of the academy. I am the head of the most prestigious academy in the Alfr Imperium. How could I forget that! I am the headmaster of this school. I placed the candle holder back on the desk and noticed a few pieces of paper lying on the desk. The words were faint in the dangling candle flame:

10th Moonshine, 1990

The first day after the assimilation. I feel disoriented at first, but soon my body adapts to the changes. My mana has increased significantly and I am able to summon shades too. It seems some of the abilities have been transferred to me. This is so exciting. Perhaps there are even more to discover.

Are these my words? Yet I could not remember myself writing them… It had to be the fatigue. A headmaster’s job was not easy.

Job… Something in my mind troubled me again.

I recalled there would be an expedition team returning tomorrow. I would have to read and write reports, and manage all the artifacts that had been recovered.

I need sleep to deal with these administrative bullshits.

I blew off the candle and went to bed.

“Jon? Jon!”

A woman’s voice woke me up. I found myself standing in the grand hall. People were unloading crates of artifacts from carts and wagons. Beside me was Yulia Dmitrieva, the head of the Archaeology Department.

What? I remember I was still in bed…

“Jon! Are you here?”

Her voice rang me back to the reality. Maybe I am too tired. “I am sorry.” I replied, Scratching my head, “So where were we?”

“We were talking about the rune stones recovered in the Kievan Crypt. They are ancient, perhaps older than the 2nd millennium,” she paused, looking at me. Her eyes were full of excitements. “I need more people to decode these artifacts.”

I smiled and replied in my jesting tone, “Sure, we have the money! Just hire more research associates.” I looked at her wrinkled face. Her grey long hair was also wrinkled, dry as hay. Life had not been nice to her.

“I take that as a ‘yes’.” Yulia smiled. She knew I never joked about work. “By the way, Jon, I know being a human here isn’t easy.” She was referring to my race. I am a human among them — the elves; though to me, the difference is simply “look at the ears”.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her, “I can handle myself.”

“Ok.. It just seems that you are very stressed. It seems that you were not focused enough when we were talking. Well anyway, “She smiled and turned away from me, “Daria!”

That name swept down my spine. I saw a young lady in white robe approaching. She was holding a box of rune stones. “Daria, do you have the rune stone for Prof Whitman?” Yulia asked.

“You mean the rune stone about the soul vessels?” She tried to hold the box on one hand, while slipping her other hand into her pocket, to search for something. The box started to tilt forward. I rushed to catch it. Her dark long hair brushed on my face. Our hands touched. She withdrew her hand under the box immediately. The heavy box dragged me down. I nearly fell.

“Oh I am so sorry!” she covered her mouth with her hands. I could hear fear in her voice.

“No problem!” I smiled and put the boxes on the ground.

“Careful! Ever do that again and you will never see this academy, AGAIN!” Yulia stared at the girl. She looked like as if she wanted to kill her. Daria looked down quietly.

“Easy!” I said with a smile. “I am sure she will be more careful next time.”

“Just give Prof Whitman the rune stone and be off with your work.”

Daria walked towards me and handed me a piece of polished pebble. There were very peculiar characters carved on the surface. The characters were like symbols, not alphabets. I had not seen this kind of language before.

“Have you seen Samuel today, Prof Whitman?” Daria asked in a low voice.

“No… Who is Samuel?”

“Samuel Watson, your research assistant.” she seemed shocked. I shook my head and she pressed on, “The only other human in this academy?”

“Yeah that young boy,” Yulia barged in, “I saw you with him before the expedition and you two were quite close. You told me he was probably the best student you have ever had.”

“I am sorry I have no idea, but I will look into it. I have been forgetting things lately,” I apologized.

Daria gave me this suspicious look and walked away. When she bent and tried to lift up the box, I heard Yulia yelled again, “Leave it there! I don’t want to risk it. JUST go!” And Daria hurried away.

Yulia sighed and said, “If she wasn’t THIS good with the rune translation,” she raised her hand and gently connected her thumb and her forefinger, “I would simply fire her, immediately!” Then she grabbed the box and turned away from me.

“Wait! What’s this stone for?”

“You asked for that before I left for the expedition—“ she frowned, “Are you sure you are alright?”

“Yes! Yes!” My attention was fully on the runic inscriptions. What’s its use?

As if she could read my mind, she said, “It’s a rune stone that can trap souls. But of course without the proper ritual and the right spell, the stone cannot be activated.”

“I see…” I felt a blow to my head. My ears were inflated with echoes. My mind was overwhelmed with dizziness and disorientation; and there was this fear, a kind of fear bubbled from within, which I could not put words to it.

Yulia patted on my shoulder. “Hey! You should go to the doctor. Go to see Dr Rossolimo.”

I realized I was kneeling on the ground. “I will. I will…” I was aware that I was panting heavily. I felt I needed medical attention.

“Anyway I need to go,” she put the box on her shoulder. “I need to take care of these babies,” she breathed in gently and then pointed her finger at me, “Remember! Go to see Dr Rossolimo.”

I nodded and watched her walk away. Then I turned my gaze at the stone. My heart trembled as the runes shone under the sunlight.

Then suddenly a whisper hissed in my mind:

The eye!

未命名

The lonesome innocent

Screams echo into drops of blood
That scorches my heart.

And the eagle is again on its hunt
For the innocent ones.

Humbled ones are condemned in this world.
Precious ones are the ones with treacheries.
They whisper lies into your eyes.
And they weep of vice
That drips on to the ground,
Corroding holes that sieve out the good.

Then they feast on you.
They drain your brain,
Chew on your flesh
And spit out your bones.

You will realize nothing of yours left,
But your outcries sublime,
Joining your innocent companions,
Into the torrents of lamentations
That drive the world crazy.

© Paul Po Lo Chan September 2013

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Hope and Trust

The dark water flows,

Out from the hideous nightmares.

Could you hear the widow cry?

It echoes into the broken sky,

Where the dreams of whales are suspended.

We killed for their oil,

We feasted on their flesh.

Yet in prayers we murmured

Of the salvation we pictured.

The sin of men is to trust.

They trust so easily!

Soon they will realize,

The divine is out of promises.

© Paul Po Lo Chan August 2013

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