What’s Your Favourite Feeling?

What’s one of the best feelings you’ve ever had? For me, it’s the exhilaration at having finished a new series of books, the sense of completion at having ended what has taken hours, or days. It’s the feeling of longing for the story to have gone on for a bit longer, it’s feeling my eyes hungrily devour the words on a page. It’s tapping into the emotions of the characters on the pages, feeling happy when they’re happy, and sympathising with their pain. It’s the awe of seeing in the mind’s eye the spectacular performances of one’s heroes, the crushing sense of despair at the loss of another life in those black-and-white pages that contain so much more than the words that entertain us. They contain the heart of the author.

I just finished Pittacus Lore’s Lorien Legacies series, and boy-oh-boy was it an awesome ending. The story wasn’t any less either. Each twist in the plot, each new development had me aching for more. Alas, all good things come to an end. Christopher Paolini’s Inheritance cycle was –and still is- the best series I’ve read so far. But Lorien Legacies has come as close as no other. At least, none other that I can remember.

To be truthful, I’m writing this because for once, I’m inspired to write something and have no homework bogging me down. Also, once my VMC classes start, I don’t think I’ll have time for much else other than, “Eat, read, sleep”. Don’t worry, though. I’ll do my best to keep this blog up to date.

This was mainly an outpouring of whatever was going on in my head after finishing United as One. I would’ve ranted on longer but was called to do a two-minute job. It broke my stream of thought. No matter, this miniature rant is getting long enough. I hope you enjoyed. I certainly did.


Another Cool Poem!

Hi! Remember that post of my favourite poems? Well, I found another one. Here it is:

The Rime of The Ancient Mariner (Parts I & II of VII)

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.’
He holds him with his skinny hand,
‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.
‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
‘The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—’
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God’s name.
It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner’s hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.’
‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look’st thou so?’—With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.
The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariner’s hollo!
And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!
Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
‘Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.
And some in dreams assurèd were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.
And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

An Endnote

You might (should, probably would’ve) noticed that I’ve only put the first two parts. That’s because I’ve only really read those two, and will gradually update this post if I find others are worth mention. So, keep up!

Help me write!

I got a new idea, guys! I’ve been getting a lot of activity on my stories, and people seem to appreciate them a lot, so I thought I’d put up more of them. Problem is, I don’t have many ideas. Help me out and put a starting phrase or sentence down in the comments below. I’ll write on the one’s I like best.


My Short Stories

Hey! Nice to see you again. Good to know that you’re on my site! Anyhow, Here are a couple of my own stories that I wrote. I hope you like them. Feel free to write your reviews.

The Retirement Home Smuggler

A man of ninety-two years, short, very well preserved, who takes great care of his appearance is moving into an old people’s home today. His seventy year old wife has recently died and he is obliged to leave his home. After waiting several hours in the retirement home lobby, he gently smiles as he is told that his room is ready. As he slowly walks to the elevator he puts his hand in his pocket, confirming that an object the shape and size of a wallet is still with him. It is. He walks leisurely to the door of the elevator and the doors close, suspending him in a metal box in a one hundred metre high shaft.

At that moment, the man on the opposite roof knows that he has found his target. Whatever was going on here was far less innocent than it seemed. The old man went by the name of Jacob Whight. He was involved in an illegal smuggling operation, and the whole reason he was here was a well-made cover story. In reality he didn’t have a wife and wasn’t ninety two, but closer to forty. What he had in his pocket was in fact a wallet, but modified so as to shoot one tranquiliser dart and store more than its weight in gold.

He had purposefully chosen this home as it as it allowed for a neat system of piping and ledges that would facilitate a climb down but not up he would frame the scene to look like a murder and escape. He would change his disguise and cover story thereafter, as he would be instantly recognised by any respectable policeman or customs official. This was because his photo had been taken by a hidden camera on a man whom he had had an encounter with. It had involved a lot of big bangs and a lot of blood. Mainly his opponent’s.

The man on the roof, going by the code name of Wolf in the Special Operations division of the CIA, had been tracking Whight for a month and was determined to end one of the largest smuggling networks in the world.

Then pain, two seconds of blinding, obliterating pain as Wolf was shot. One of his ribs was shattered, a lung punctured and his left ventricle cut. As sure a death as any.

Behind him, a man rose, holding a sniper. Elongated barrel and loaded with one twenty calibre bullet, now shot. The man smiled with pleasure, a smile that had scared the most hardened of men.

The smile of Jacob Whight.

The Hiest

He had always been a favourite, an example to all those who knew him. Now, after what he had done, would they still feel the same? This was one of the thoughts buzzing through Jeremy Archer’s mind. And the most important one, he thought. Of course, this went without saying. To him, all that mattered was his money and his fame. Selfish, one may say, but it hardly mattered to him after owning one of the largest companies on the planet. His parents had died young; he had no wife or son, so the only person he cared for was himself. You may ask, what had he done? Simple answer really. He was running low on funds, and his investors were backing out, so he had decided to steal the Kohinoor, in London. And failed. Miserably. The police had been tipped off. One of his men had been bribed. All his men were arrested, and they dragged him along. He would get out soon enough. He could pretend that he had been framed. His lawyers would do the rest. He wasn’t scared, really. He had been in such situations umpteen times. And yet the London court couldn’t manage to hold anything against him. Being the head of the second largest consumer electronics manufacturer in the world did involve sacrifices.

He was jerked back to the present, as the policeman escorting hum gave him a particularly painful jab in the back. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his back, “is that how you treat your V.I.Ps? Very Important Prisoners.” He added, noticing the guard’s befuddled expression. “You’re all the same for us, VIP or not. Now you get in your cell and stop wisecracking.” Jeremy walked in with a sigh. He would really have to get out of here soon.

It was all on the headlines the next day. “Multi-millionaire humiliated,” “Businessman put to shame,” Businessman? Jeremy thought I’m the second wealthiest man in the world, for gods’ sake! The newspaper really does never run out of rubbish words to use. “Fans protest against arrest.” There you go. At least some people still liked him.

The day after that he was out. His lawyers did a marvellous job. He roamed freely around the streets of London, surrounded by seven personal bodyguards and more that fifteen times as many fans. At least my reputation hasn’t defamed, no matter what the newspapers may say.

He walked over to his limousine, a top model Cadillac and painted jet black. It had cost him a fortune. But fortunes couldn’t measure his wealth. As he got into his private section, his body guards climbed into their own seats. His last thought as he closed his tinted glass windows was:

What heist should I pull off next?