preliminary explanation

before i really begin the project i have a few scatterings
of thought that made me do this, without real planning,
a different sort of impromptu that poetry's good at,
less Dionysian spur-of-the-moment with an already
completed poem entwined to a perfect ensō,
as quick as the decapitation of Mary Boleyn with the
executioner fooling her which side the swing would
be cast by taking of his hard-soled-shoes -
i mean this in an Apollonian sense - i know, sharp contrasts
at first, but the need to fuse them - i said these are
preliminary explanations, the rest will not be as haphazardly
composed, after all, i see the triangle i'm interested it
but drawing a triangle without Pythagorean explanation
i'm just writing Δ - i'll unravel what my project is
about, just give me this opportunity to blah blah for a
while like someone from an existential novel;
what beckoned me was the dichotomy of styles,
i mean, **** me, you can read poetry while in an awkward
yoga position, you can read it standing up, sitting down,
eating or whatever you want - obviously on the throne
of thrones taking a **** is preferred - the point being
what's called serious literature is so condensed for
economic reasons, font small, never-ending paragraphs,
you need an easy-chair and a bottle of cognac to get
through a chapter sometimes - or at least freshly mowed
grass in a park in summer - it's really uncomfortable because
of that, and the fact that poets hardly wish upon you
to be myopic - just look at the spacing on the page,
constantly refreshing, open-plan condos, eye-to-eye -
but it's not about that... the different styles of writing,
prose and the novel, the historical essay / encyclopedia
or a work of philosophy - what style of writing can
be best evolutionary and undermine each? only poetry.
poetry is a ballerina mandible entity, plastic skeletons,
but that's beside the point, when journalism writes history
so vehemently... the study of history writes it nonchalantly,
it's the truth, journalism is bombastic, sensationalist
every but what courting history involves -
a journalist will write about the death of a 100 people
more vehemently than a historian writing about the Holocaust...
or am i missing something? i never understood this dichotomy
of prose - it's most apparent between journalism and history...
as far as i am concerned, the most pleasurable style of
prose is involved in the history of philosophy, or learning per se,
but i'll now reveal to you the project at hand -
it's a collage... the parameters?

the subject of the collage

it weighs 1614 grams, or 3 lb. and 8 7/8ths oz.,
it's a single volume edition, published by Pimlico,
it's slightly larger than an A5 format,
3/4 inches more in length, and ~1 centimetre in
width more, it has a depth of 1 and 3/4 inches in depth,
a bicep iron-pumping session with it in bed -
i was lying with this behemoth of a book
in bed soothing out a semi-delirium state
listening to Ola Gjeilo's *northern lights
and flicking through the appendix, and i started thinking,
no would read this giant fully, would they?
the reason it's a one volume edition is because
the only place you'd read such an edition would
be in a library, at a desk, and you'd be taking snippets
out from it, quotes, authentic references points
for an essay, esp. if you were a history student,
such books aren't exactly built for leisure, as my arms
could testify... after the appendix i started flicking
through as to what point of interest would spur me
onto this audacious (and perhaps auspicious)
act of renegading against writing a novel (in the moment,
in the moment, i can't imagine myself rereading plot-lines
after a day or two, adding to it - that's a collage too,
but of a different kind - and no, i won't be plagiarising
as such, after all i'll be citing parallel, but utilising
poetry as the driving revision dynamic compared
to the chronologically stale prose of history) - i'll be
extracting key points that are already referenced and not
using the style of the author - the book in question?
Europe: a history by Norman Davies prof. emeritus
at U.C.L. - the point of entry that made me mad enough
to condense this 1335 page book (excluding the index)?

point of incision

Voltaire (or the man suspected of Guy Fawkes-likes spreading
of volatility in others) -
un polonais - c'est un charmeur; deux polonais - une
bagarre; trois polonais, eh bien, c'est la question polonaise
(one pole - a charmer, two poles - a brawl, three poles -
the polish question) - mind you, the subtler and gentler
precursor of the Jewish question, because the Frenchman
mused, and not a German, or a Russian brute...
and i can testify, two Polish immigrants in a pub,
one senior, the other minor, one with 22 years under
his belt of the integration purpose, one with 12 years,
the minor says to the senior about how Poles bring
the village life to cities, brutish drunkards and what not,
it was almost a brawl, prior to the senior was charming
a Lithuanian girl, before the minor's emphasis on
such a choice of conversation turned into idiotic Lithuanian
nostalgia about the disintegration of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth, primarily due to the Polish nobility.

10,000 b.c.

looking that far back i don't know why you even
bother to celebrate the weekend -
i mean, 10,000 years back Denmark was
still attached to Sweden,
England was attached to France,
and there was a weird looking Aquatic landmass
that would become a myth of Atlantis
in the Chronicles of Norwich,
speedy ******* Gonzales with the equivalent
of south america detaching itself from Africa...
mind you, i'm sure the Carpathian ranges are
mountains. they're noted here are hills or uplands,
by categorising them as such i'm surprised
the majority of Carpathian elevations as scolded
bald rocky faced, a hill i imagine to have some
vegetation on it, not mountain goats with rock and roof
for a blacksmith in a population of one hundred...
at this point Darwinism really becomes a disorientating
pinpoint of whatever history takes your fancy,
Europe - mother of Minos, lord of Crete,
progenitrix / ******* and the leather curtains
of Zeus's harem (jealous? no, just the sarcasm
dominates the immortal museum of attachable
****** to suit the perfect elephant **** of depth
the gods sided with, by choice, excusing the Suez
duct tightening of a prostate gland... to ease the pain
upon ******* rather than *******); mentioned by Homer
the Blind tooth-fairy, the Europe and the bull,
Europoeus and the swan, same father of wisdom to mind,
on the shores of Loch Lomond -
attributes a lover to the bull, Moschus of Syracuse,
who said earring Plato cured him of where the ****
should not enter even if it shines a welcome
in the disguise of Dionysius... revisionists bound to Pompeii
named Titian, Rembrandt, Rubens Veronese
and Claude Lorrain revived the bulging bull's *******
and her mm hmm mm, too gracious my kind, hehee...
Phonecians from Tyre and Io - so too the Sibyl of ****** -
and unlike the great river civilisations of the Nile,
the Ganges, soon to be the Danubian civilisations
and gorged-out-eyes-that-once-sore-colour-but-lost-sight-of-
colours-­after-seeing-the-murk-of-the-Thames...
soon the seas overcame civilisations of the rivers,
as Cadmus, brother of the thus stated harlot said:
i bring you orbe pererrato - hieroglyphics of the cage,
but not an owl or a hawk inside it -
so let's perfect speaking to an encoding by first
rummaging into learning how to procure the perfect
forms of counting - i say left, you say I, i say right
you say II, left right left right, what do you say?
VI. bravo! the Hellenic world just crossed the Aegean
and civilisation bore twins within the cult of a lunar-mother,
Islam of Romulus and Remus, a she-wolf
a canine of the night - according to another -
tremulae sinuantur flamine vestes - or so the myth goes -
a cherished phantom of what became the fabled story
of sole Odysseus with his ears open and the remnant
sailor's ears waxed shut - as if the bankers of this world,
revelling in culprit universal fancy than nonetheless
bred the particular oddities - lest we forget,
the once bountiful call of the sirens to the oceanic
is but a fraction of what today's sirens claim to be song,
a fraction of it remains in this world, the onomatopoeia
of the once maddening song, the crude *******
arrangement of vowels bound to the jealous god's
déjà vu of the compounding second H.

from myth to perpetuating a modern sentiment

you can jump from 10,000 b.c. to the Munich Crisis
of 1938 - 9 with a snap of the fingers,
imitating quantum phenomenons like gesticulating
a game of mime with Chinese whispers necessary,
if Europe is a nymph, Naples her azure eyes,
Warsaw her heart, Sebastopol and Azoff,
Petersburg, Mitau, Odessa - these the thorns
in her feet - Paris the head, London the starched collar,
and Rome - the sepulchre.
or... die handbuch der europaischen geschichte
notably from Charlemagne (the Illiterate)
to the Greek colonels (as apart from Constantine to
Thomas More in eight volumes, via Cambridge mid
1930s)... these and some other books of urgency
e.g. Eugene Weber's H. A. L. Fisher's, Sr. Walter Ralegh,
Jacob Bronowski... elsewhere excavated noun-obscurities
like gattopardo and konarmya had their
circas extended like shelved vegetables in modern
supermarket isles, for one reason or another...
prado, sonata sovkino also... some also mention
Thomas Carlyle (i'd make it sound like carried-away isle,
but never mind); so in this intro much theory,
how to sound politically correct, verifiable to suit
a coercion for a status quo... Europe as a modern idea,
replacing Imperum Romanun came Christendom,
ugly Venetian Pirates at Constantinople,
Barbarossa making it in pickled herring juice
in a barrel to Jerusalem... once called the pinkish-***-fluff
of Saxony, now called the pickled cucumber,
drowning in his armour in some river or Brosphorus...
alchemists, Luther and Copernicus were invited on
the same occasion as the bow-tie was invented,
apparently it was a marriage made for the Noir cinema,
beats me - hence the new concept of Europe,
reviving the idea of Imperium Romanun
meant, somehow including Judea in the Euro
championship of footie gladiator ***** whipped
narcissists, rejecting the already banished Carthage
(Libya / Tunisia by Cato's standards) and encouraging
the Huns, the Goths and the even more distant Slavs and
Vikings to accept not so much the crucifix as
the revised spine of the serpent but as the geometry of
human limbs, well, not so much that, but forgetting
Norse myths of the one-eyed and the runic alphabet
and settling for ah be'h c'eh d'ah.
dissident frenche stink abbe, charles castel de st pierre
(1658 - 1743) aand this work projet d'une paix perpetuelle
(1713) versus Питер Великий who just said:
never mind the city, the Winter Palace... i have aborted
fetus pickles in my bedroom, lava lamps i call them.
the last remaining reference to Christianity?
Nietzsche was late, the public was certain,
it was the Treaty of Utrecht, 1713, with public reference
to the republica christiana / commonwealth was last made.
to Edmund Burke: well, i too wish no exile
upon any European on his continent of birth,
but invigorate a Muslim to give birth on it
and you invigorate an exile nonetheless:
Ezra expatriate Pound / sorry, if born in eastern
europe a ***** Romanian immigrant, pristine
expatriate in western Europe, fascist radio has
my tongue and *****, so let's play a game:
Russian roulette for the Chinese cos there's
a billion of them, and no one would really mind
a missing Chow Mein... chu shoo'ah shaolin moo'n'kah!
or a cappuccino whenever you'd like to watch
classic Italian pornographic cinema with dubbing
with nuns involved... Willaim Blake and his
stark naked prophesy, pope pius II (treatise 1458)
even though Transylvania, Tharce and Hungary
shared the same phonetic encoding with diacritical
distinctions like any Frenchman, German,
or Pole at the Siege of Vienna (1683)
to counter the antagonising Ottoman - i swear historians
do this one purpose, juggle dates and head-of-state figures
prior to entering a chronology - they must first try out
a ******* carousel before playing with the toy-train...
broadcasting to a defeated Germany public, T. S. Eliot
(1945) ****** import to into Western Germany
and talk of the failing moral fabric, China laughing
after the ***** intricacies of warfare of trade,
what was once wool we wished to be silk...
instead of silk we received vegetarian wool, namely
hemp, and Amsterdam is to blame... nuke 'em!
that's how it sounds, how a historian approaches
writing a history from the annals, from circa and
circumstance and actual history, foremost the abbreviations,
the fishing hook standards, the parameters,
the limits, and then the mathematics of history,
one thing culminating into another... contra Lenin
N. S. Trubetskoy, P. N. Savitsky, G. Vernadsky
Russian at the perks of the Urals - steppe Tartar shamans
or salon pranced pretty **** boys? where to put
the intoxicant and where to put the mascara... hmm,
god knows, or by 21st calculations, a meteor;
they say the history of nations is a history of women,
then at least the history of individuation
and of men who succumb to its proliferation
is astoundingly misogynistic.
Seton-Watson, among the the tombstones too reminded
of remarkable esteem and accomplishment
with only one gravedigger to claim as father...
as many death ears as on two giraffe skeletons
stood Guizot, men of many letter and few fortunes,
or v. v., incubators of cousin ***** and none the kippah
before the arrogant saintly diminished to
a justly cause of recession, ha ha,
by nature's grace, and with true advent of her progression
as guard-worthy pre- to each pro-
and suggested courteous of the ****** fibre,
oh hey, the advent of masqueraded woofing,
a Venetian high-brow, and jealousy out of a forgotten
spirit of adventure that once was bound
to hunting and foraging... forever lost to write  history of
a king dubbed Louis the XIV...
crucibles and distastes for the state to be pleased,
once removed from Paris, forever to Angevin womb
accustomed once more, at Versailles released -
as cake be sown so too the aristocratic swan necks
for worth of mock and scorn - and the dampening rain
rattle the blood-thirst of the St. Bartholomew's Day
slaughter, to date, the rebirth of Burgundy,
of Anjou, and with the dead king presiding, to be
of no worth in judging himself a king before god or pauper...
saluer Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville!
that i might too in stead rattle a few bones prior to burial
with the jaw that will laugh and chatter least
had it been to my kingly-stead a birth so lowly.
then at least in satisfactory temperament i procure a
judgement of the noble like of a *****
for an hour's worth of pistons and jarring tongues...
as if from a nobleman then indeed as if from a *****,
for who sold Europe and said: Arabia, if not the
Frenchman, the Englishman, the Spaniard?
the former colonial conquests served you not enough?
i imagine the reinstatement of Israel like
the Frankish states under Philippe-August...
precursors to a cathedral dubbed Urban the 2nd's..
there were only Norwegian motives in the Ukraine
and the black sea... Israel to me is like plagiarism
of the Frankish states of the middle-east, with Europe
slightly... oom'pah loom'pah mongolian harmonica.
some said Rudyard Kipling poems,
some said Mr. Kipling's afternoon tea cakes -
whichever made it first on Coronation St.
some also say the Teutonic barbecues -
it was a matter of example to feed them hog
and cannibalise the peasants for ourselves,
a Prussian standard worth an army standard of
rigour - Ave Maria - letztre abendessen nahrung -
mein besitzen, wenn in die Aden, i'd be the last
talking carcass...
gottes ist der orient!
gottes ist der okzident!
nord - und sudliches gelande
ruht im frieden seiner hande.
germany's lebensraum, inferiority and classification,
inferior slavs and jews, genetics and why my
hatred of Darwinism is persistent, you need
an explanatory noting to make it auto-suggestive
for Queen & Country? diseased elements,
Jewish Bolshevism, Polish patriotism,
Soviets, Teutons, the grand alliances of 1918
or 1945? Wilsonian testimony of national self-determi

Halfway down that trail to hell
He did stop to rest a spell
Barking dogs and darkened cells
Turning thoughts from black to pale

Cold as cold as cold as ice
Empty hearts no alibis
Mothers tears and soldiers lies
Predators and babies cries

The sun shined a cloudless rain
Broke the spell unlocked the chain
Washed away the fear and pain
From Red Sea port to home again

r  6 Jan 14

After all, we're not savages. We're English.
And the English are the best at everything.
                                                     ­       (Piggy)
The hovelled huts
Near  school house ditches
Hardly sheltered starving children.
Emaciated, pale and ghastly,
Three million lost.
Exports defined them,
Imports denied them,
The world was told their hunger
Was the wrath of God.
For seven hundred years
Untolled Rachels wept;
Twice as long
As Jews were kept
Enslaved in pagan Egypt.
This was Ireland,
Not Auschwitz.

Beneath the banners of
Labour and Freedom,
Toiled the innocents.
Eyes burning from hot peppers,
Bodies weak and wrecked
From boarding;
Skin separated by flogging
Thousands of Cypriots.

Over soup and sandwiches
A demarcation's drawn,
So Hindus now face Muslims
Seeking their new homes.
Three million displaced
During lunch,
Brain salad served up on a hunch
By a line
Drawn by one man.
This wasn't Treblinka,
But Pakistan.

Millions fenced in labour camps
In what they called  
The Dark Continent.
The torture was horrendous,
With random executions.
Think the worse, you're still not there,
Think ravenous dogs and mutilation,
**** and human degradation.
Eyes gouged out, ears cut off,
This was Kenya,
Not Warsaw.

Sir Winston wore
His crocodile shoes,
Feigning the blues,
While blocking friendly supplies;
Letting three million hungry die.
His callousness was cruelly matched
When delivering Mahatma's epithet:
“Has Gandhi not starved yet?”
This was Bengal,
Not Dachau.

Their ****** count adds up.
Their new policy was errant:
Imprison all the peasants.
It was racist to the Nth degree,
A million desperate detainees
To exile when they're freed.
But half died on their knees
In Malay,
Not Buchenwald.


The Boer War and Apartheid
Were blessed with Royal Assent.
In Amritsar Brits opened fire,
To cut down Innocents.

This isn't just in history,
It's happened all too recently.

Argentina's watery graves
Gurgle from The Belgrano,
Sunk by Royal torpedoes
For a rock of sheep.
Such was the work
Of a band of brothers,
To fly their flag
Over Falkland waters?

There's no denying
The atrocities
Of her maternal
Ferocities.
The Spinners
Wrapped their glories
Furled in Jack's war stories.
The winners
Have detoured their crimes,
Enjoin us denouncing
**** times;
But the sun hasn't set
On Empire fires:
China, India, Kenya, Aden,
Ireland, Africa,
All invaded.
All degraded.
Imperialism is not benign,
The legacy lives on
In Palestine.

Under pretence
Of flag and king,
The English are
Best at everything.

[After Flanders Fields, by Major John McCrae, 1915]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields,
the beaches of France,
Palestine groves,
Malaya's tropics,
Korean mountains,
Egypt's deserts,
Cyprus' beaches,
Borneo's forests,
Aden's marshes,
Falkland's heaths,
Balkan's tundra,
Afganistan bush,
Iraqi highlands,
[Keep list open....]

Through a petite shimmer
that unravels large
as a blackened rainbow
in this whitened mirage
I glimpsed the thespians
of nature, afar
the romances of whom
always fell apart

Through a petite shimmer
that unravels large
I glimpsed the kiss
of twilight and dawn
the betrothed pair
betrayed at last
by the shadows born
from the womb of fall

Through a petite shimmer
that unravels large
I glimpsed the awaiting
mote of sand
for the single kiss
of a drop of sea
the wetness of which
an embrace to be

The drop was alas!
wrenched away
by the vicious ocean
oarsmen as waves
As the mote of sand
looked on and on
strangled was the drop
by the murderers around
leaving the mote
awaiting in vain
for the single kiss
that will never remain

Through a petite shimmer
that unravels large
I glimpsed the kiss
of the soaring breeze
to the greenish cheeks
of a branch's leaf

The breeze was alas!
brutally deceived
as the odes of peace
from its whispering breath
beheaded the leaf  
chanting words of death
Betrayal O!Breeze
Order of the storm
Your love,a dream
in the years to come.

As birds with feathers
of seconds of the past
lay dead and cold
on my memory's path
as a drop of rain
from the clouds above
paint myriad wrinkles
in the whitened mirage
the petite shimmer
that unraveled large
grows brutally dimmer
and enlightens my last

As the hideous shadow
of the glowing monarch
arose from the seas
with scroungers as drops
the birth of a dawn
as dark as dusk
bloomed the flower
in the aden of death

Blinded was I
to the eternal kiss
of the lips of the shell
that closes in bliss
Blinded was I
to the eternal love
not ever senile,
but remains a bud

A futile beholder
of otiose memories
Iam indeed a rainbow
eclipsed and maligned
by the merciless touch
of the curse of sight
of loves betrayed
and shattered to bits
of flowers that lost
its aroma within.

M y love is like a red, red rose
Y oung with the dew-kissed promises of spring.

L aden with unique perfume,
O n a slender stalk it blooms
V ery near the edge of a sunlit garden,
E ndlessly transforming but always the same.

I  offer you this rose in hopes that
S someday fields of them will shine.

L oving you turns ugly weeds
I nto rare exotic blossoms that
K iss the summer breezes with their scent
E ven as they wither and turn brown.

A bsolute perfection is my love and this red flower.

R each out and touch this rose I offer-
E very thorn is gentle and not sharp-
D o  not fear of hurt from it.

R ather fill your senses with the joy of it,
E ndlessly fresh within your hand, and never
D ying, only changing to become more sweet.

R eceive this gift I bring to you and
O nly let me be that rose
S o  that my soul lies in your hand and heart for all
E ternity.
<< >>

Best things in life is being with you
Rather than being alone
In the midst of the dark
Across the deep blue sea
Nothing compares when I’m with you

Precious smile I’ll never get tired to see
Always hoping it’ll never leave
Uncommon yet it shows veracity
Laden heavily by your own difficulty

Videos and music we’ve shared together
Inseparable moments that will last forever
Racing hearts but never exposed
Anxious of the possibilities ahead of our road
Youth, hindered us from the unspoken words of our own sentiments

Considering my thoughts
Raging for every reasons I have
In leaving you behind the walls we unconsciously built or
Staying beside you with the lump on my throat
Observing how you suddenly adapt to our new world
Shredding me into utmost invisible piece
Together-forever remained just a thought in the void
Over-thinking of the road ahead, no more
Messed-up mind glued to the shore
O**n my way to the paradise and mend a heart once broke

One More Chance
BRYCE PEREZ
SKYE HAYES
MAX TRAVIS
PROLOGUE
He looked at her from afar, his fingers fidgeting almost every second. It’s been a while since he saw her. Her beautiful dark brown locks still framing her face nicely, her dark brown chocolate orbs still as attractive as always. As the snow falls, he watched her from across the street, her eyes meeting his as well. He could not help but think back to 7 years ago, how madly in love he was with her. She shifted her sight away from him before turning towards another man that was browsing the displays of wedding rings on the window. The other man placed his arm around her waist, hoisting her to take a look at the displays with him, the intimacy between them so high it could melt the snow. He continued watching her, until they walked away. She stole one more glance at him and their eyes met once again, but only pain remained between the gaze.

CHAPTER 1

7 years ago.

After bumping into each other in Paris, Bryce and Skye hung out together in the streets of the romantic country after Skye helped Bryce to translate some words to a French store owner who couldn’t understand what Bryce was trying to request for. Feeling adventurous, Bryce suggested that they hung out together as since they both knew English, he felt that there was no harm in making a friend. For the fact that they met like this, Bryce called it; Fate.

“You are 21 years old?!” he exclaimed in the middle of their dessert as they were walking down a street market. She mock glared him and chuckled. “I don’t look like one?” she rolled her eyes as she licked off her soft cone. “No, I just never thought a 21 year old would be travelling around Paris on her own. Aren’t you a university student then?” he questioned further and Skye almost choked on her soft cone. “Nope, I’m not in school at the moment.” She shifted her eyes nervously. “And you? Not working?” she threw back the question, trying to keep the conversation topic off her. He shook his head evidently. “I have been unemployed for a while now, so I decided to fly somewhere to clear my head before thinking about what I wanted to do.” He smiled. She smiled alongside with him as they walked the streets of Paris, shopping for all the little things and bargaining for them.

As their day were about to end, they asked for each other’s hotel and realized that they were staying in the same one. “This is getting creepy.” Skye commented with a slight giggle as they went up the elevator, almost pressing the same button to the same floor. The two awkwardly shifted their orbs until they arrived at the same floor. They started walking in the same direction, only to realize their rooms were right next to each other.

“Fate, huh?” Skye made fun of the situation with an unbelievable tone before shooting him another smile. “Goodnight, Bryce.” She said before entering her room. Bryce watched as she entered her room, his heart sinking a little, feeling like he was already missing her.

“Maybe.” He muttered to himself in reply to her question. “Goodnight Skye.” He said as he entered his own hotel room.

The next morning came and the phone beside her rang. Groaning, Skye picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello. Up for more adventures today?” a male’s voice boomed through the line. “Bryce?” she exclaimed in shock. “Come on, I want to sleep in. This is a vacation.” She complained, attempting to hang up when Bryce taunted. “You are 21; you got to be more energetic than that.” Skye rolled her eyes in surrender and started to prepare for their outing. The duo visited several places in Paris and when late afternoon came, they decided to visit the Sainte Chappelle, one the most beautiful chapels in Paris. The interior took both their breaths away and they admired it in awe. Lifting her camera, Skye had already started taking photos of the wonderful place when Bryce spoke.

“Do you believe in love?” his voice echoed slightly in the wide room, which surprised Skye for a moment. Why would he go asking this kind of questions all of a sudden? She continued clicking on her camera as she put some quick thought to it. “I guess I would believe in love.” She replied. Bryce turned towards her, raising an eyebrow. “Why?” he smirked a little.

“Because it’s the closest thing we all have to magic.” Skye replied as she took her focus off the camera for a while and looked Bryce in the eyes, his soft dark brown orbs taking her breath away like the beauty of the chapel. Shifting her eyes, she looked away. “I guess it is. Love changes people.” Bryce bit his lips in deep thought before turning towards Skye again. “When did you say you were leaving?” he asked.

“Five days from now.” Skye replied.

“Cool, let’s make the best out of it for the next five days.” Bryce said excitedly.

“Wait what? You plan to spend the next five days with me? What happened to ‘travelling alone to clear your head’?” Skye chuckled, “And what makes you think I would want to explore with you?” she made a cheeky face, which made Bryce cringe on the inside.

“Come on. Don’t do that to me.” He laughed. Eventually, like magic happened, the two continued to enjoy the sceneries and food of Paris, making memories together with the new experiences they face for the first time.

The night before Skye was to return home, they visited the Eiffel Tower. From the rooftop, the view of the tower was magnificent and grand. Lit up by LED lights in the night sky, the outline of the tower was so much more breathtaking. Skye started snapping photos of the view and Bryce watched her from the side. He had a beautiful scenery right in front of him, but Skye’s beauty shone through the eye-catching Eiffel Tower he came all the way to see. He traced her ****** features with his sharp eyes, her jawline captivating his attention most. Her chocolate brown orbs were shimmering against the reflection of the light from the Eiffel Tower, her lips pulling out his inner demons. Feeling his gaze on her, she paused in her photo taking, turning to see Bryce’s passionate eyes looking straight at her. With no words said, she found herself moving closer to Bryce, and vice versa, until their lips met in a totally unexpected twist of events. He was attracted to her, so was her. It was the right time, right place, and right person. They soon pulled away from each other, shocked at their own actions.

“Sorry, I-“Bryce rushed to apologize to Skye but she stopped him.

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize. It would make it sound like you regretted it.” She grumbled, turning away from him as she spoke. Smirking a little, Bryce knew right then and there that the feeling was mutual. The kiss was fine with her and they both knew they craved for more.

Slowly walking back to the hotel, both of them came to their rooms again like every night. However, this time round, they both paused.

‘Should I? Should I not? But this is wrong. I can’t be doing this with a 21 year old.’ Bryce thought to himself and struggled to make a move.

‘I can’t make the first move. He would think that I’m a loose woman, right?’ Skye fought with herself mentally as the two stood in front of their doors for a good 5 minutes. “Erm… I’ll go to bed now, good night.” She greeted before scampering into her room, shutting her hotel room door behind her as she leaned against it. ‘Calm down, Skye.’ She spoke to herself some more as she listened to her own heart beat a thousand miles per hour. ‘Just go to sleep and stop thinking too much. You are leaving tomorrow. Keep yourself together.’ She told herself as she went ahead to take a shower.

Bryce fidgeted outside her hotel room door for a while before heading back into his own room. ‘Bryce, Bryce. Think straight. She is 21. Don’t be such a pervert.’ He struggled and slapped himself mentally, moving himself to go a shower to wash off all his complicated thoughts.

Both of them took their shower and threw themselves straight into their beds. But their heads were filled with each other and the kiss from the rooftop. Skye found herself feeling uncontrollable for the first time in 20 years. She was a beauty, she knew. She had multiple suitors before, fell in love a bit and dated. But it never felt like this. The feeling was unbearable. It was passionate and it just felt like she had to do it, if not she was going to regret it. “I need a drink.” She told herself as she dressed herself a little to head down to the convenience store at the hotel lobby. Just as she opened her door, she saw the elder male from next door standing right there, his hand in posture like he was going to knock on the door.

“Bryce…?” she murmured his name. His eyes widened as she opened the door before he could knock on the door. Although her make-up was removed, he could only think about how beautiful she looked with her wet hair down. They exchanged passionate gazes for a while before Skye felt herself being pushed back into her room by force. Everything happened so quickly she could only hear the sound of the door slamming shut and next thing she knew, she was up against the wall, her lips being devoured by Bryce. His masculine fingers gripping onto her wrist as he kissed her. She did not even know if this was right. But she knew it would be okay. Nothing was going to go wrong. Just go with the flow. The night was filled with passion as they made love to one another in the city of romance.

Morning came and the sun shone through the curtains, sunlight hitting on their faces. Wincing at the light, Skye cringed a little as she slowly opened her eyes, only to see a shirtless Bryce lying right next to her. It happened, it really did. But she did not regret. She sighed. She was leaving later in the afternoon. Fate may have been very kind to let her leave good memories of her and Bryce in Paris, but fate is still cruel to their future. They will be going back to their own lives in a few hours’ time. This love that developed was going to end. A kiss on the forehead made Skye snap back into reality as she saw Bryce’s dark brown eyes opened up close. “Good morning.” His morning husky voice greeted.

“Good morning.” She replied as Bryce held her closer towards him. Unknowingly, they treasured every second with one another. They shared another kiss before they both went into the bathroom to brush their teeth, behaving like a pair of newlyweds as they teased each other.

The time together was sweet, but it soon flew pass just like that and Skye was already at the airport with her luggage, preparing to board the plane back to Singapore.

“Will you be fine without me?” Skye jokingly teased as she smirked. Bryce honestly knew he would not be fine without her but he kept it to himself. “I’ll be fine. It might hurt a little but I have your email and social network connections. You can’t run away.” He said, holding her by the waist and pulling her close.

“I’m going to miss you.” He whispered into her ear as he hugged her.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.” She hit him lightly on his back and commented, making him chuckle.

“I just have one question.” He paused, “Don’t you mind my age?” he bit his lips nervously, which only made him look her age.

“If I did, I would have pushed you away right from the start. Everything’s perfect Bryce, we were just with the right person, and the right time but wrong place.” She sighed a little. They both knew love existed between them but to keep a long distance relationship would be really tough for them. Would they even have time for each other once they get busy with reality? They were not even sure when was the next time they are going to see each other. They hear the announcement made for Skye to board her plane and Bryce held her hand tighter.

“Before you leave, I want you to know, I’m really crazy about you. I’m really going to miss you.” He confessed.

“Me too.” Skye said as she walked forward to give him a peck on the lips. “Till next time.” She lowered her head a little before lifting it to give him a smile. “I’ll call you.” She promised before departing.

As soon as Skye left, Bryce instantly left a message in her email.

I’m missing you already. Call me soon. – Bryce

But good news was far from reaching Skye as the first news she got as she arrived in Singapore was that her parents were getting a divorce. Her parents had always been having disputes but she never knew how terrible it has gotten.

“So you are telling me that dad has another woman outside, that’s why you are divorcing him?” Skye concluded her mother’s story as they spoke in the living room. “And it’s for real this time, huh?” she questioned. Her mother had just ranted to her about how her father had a mistress outside, and that they were definitely getting a divorce this time round, and that Skye was to follow her once their divorce was filed.

“Yes. And we will be moving to the other side of this city, and you will be transferred to another school.” Skye’s mother, Flannery, finished herself.

“Wait what? Why do I have to transfer to another school?” she pretended to be concerned about her education as it was the only thing left tying her to staying near her father.

“Don’t pretend that you care. I know you have been skipping school. Especially with your extravagant escape to Paris without my permission?” Flannery flared a little at Skye but let it go, afraid that her daughter would walk out on her to her father. “I’m filing the divorce with your father first thing tomorrow morning and then we will be moving and that’s final.” She said.

“Fine.” Skye gave up, “I expected this long ago anyway.” She sighed.

That night, Skye snuck out to look for her father, who was staying at a friend’s place after his morning dispute with his soon-to-be ex-wife. “Dad? I’m right in front of Uncle Tim’s house. Could you come out for a bit?” she made a call to her father and soon she saw him rushing out to meet her. Giving him a big hug, she apologized for not being around to help him when the dispute happened. She knew that her father was the kindest soul on earth and he would never dare to lie to her mom, much less get a mistress. “She is the one with another person, right?” Skye muttered into her father’s chest. She heard her father let out a big sigh. He knew that Flannery had already grew tired of him since the year Skye turned 10 but for the next 11 years, he pretended like everything was okay, and now he was finally going to be free from the pain and struggle he put through for Skye. He still loved Flannery, but what could be done? Nothing. He could only watch his beloved walk away with another man.

“You are not going to fight for my custody?” Skye spoke disappointedly. She knew that her father was too humble to do so; she just had to hear it from his own lips.

“Her boyfriend is much more capable than I am. He will be able to give you the best of the best. I heard that he had already arranged a good university for you to enter once you move there.” Aden spoke sadly. “I’m sorry, Skye. I’ve been a failure.”

Skye’s heart broke into pieces seeing her father in so much pain. She knew that she had no choice but to follow her mother and that she had to leave her father behind. It was heart-breaking to see him beat himself up so much. But she had no choice. Her father was right. He would not be able to support her in any way, even if it was to be in the name of love. For a good future, she could only leave.

“I’m going to miss you so much Dad.” She hugged her Dad tightly, “I’m going to come back for you and take care of you, I promise.” She said, closing her eyes as she tries to engrave her father’s warmth in her memories. She was not going to see him anytime soon, and it was definitely going to hurt.

“Just live well and let me know how you are doing every now and then. That will be good enough.” He said as he hugged her back, giving her tight squeeze. “Run along, you are moving tomorrow. You need to do a lot of packing.” Aden smiled as he spoke to his daughter, trying his best to hold back his pain to encourage her. He would not be able to give her anything, so holding back or fighting for custody would be redundant. He understood why his wife was leaving him for another man. He was incompetent and his priority was his basking career. It was not that he did not love his family, but his passion for music was meant to be pursued.

mefrends men soo mesh tome
widout dem i woodnet bee wer iam todai

i hav hed ah tuff tiem recentlie
lostboy has reelee hepled ne amd he dodent noo
dankoo aden zzz

Gib'raltar Eagle, has just

been branded, the hull

has been Houthi’d, the

cargo’s been stranded.


   Biden and Sunak

  have just been told,

that Yemen's resistance

   will never go cold.


Send a cruise via Suez

a fuse nought to loose.

by FED-EX to Sana’a

with a sign ripe banana




  Anthony’s Blinken,  

does that when he’s

thinkin’ all he can see

is US ships all sinkin’.


Hamas )) to Isreal

   Hal-Al with a tail

Hezbollah's comin’

and they never fail.

Out side the old white house
Where silence squeaks and there runs a big mouse
An old mango tree with sad look stands
A grey gate totally rusted without latches strand
They tell innumerable stories of fate grand
Old woman still sits with needle and wool busy in knitting
Stares at her stray brown dog nearby sitting
The rusted Iron bars of gate keep creaking
Something or other suffer a fall and goes on breaking
Old man is trying to tidy his faded garden
With it he is happy as in aden
Roots are scattered and the seeds battered
Weeds lay flattered, wild mushrooms gathered
Pelmets of old torn curtains clinging to windows
Helmets of thatched  roof witness rainbow