Worth It

In two days, the year ends and school begins again.

On the downside: strict teachers, homework mountains, surprise tests, Internal Assessments, Extended Essays, hour-long speeches, exams, counted exams, IB exams, projects, control, deadlines, oppression, inflexibility and the discouragement of creativity and individuality.

On the plus side: friends!

Yeah, I know. Totally worth it.
The Edna Man

You Are Not Designed For This World

You Are Not Designed For This World

"Thomas Leonardo Tan Chuang Xiang?"

The school counsellor eyed the tall boy over her horn-rimmed glasses. He was standing in front of her desk, arms behind his back, staring at the ground as though deep in thought. At the sound of his name his head jerked upwards.

"Sit down, please," said the school counsellor, indicating the chair in front of her desk.

As he took the seat, the years of counsellor experience kicked in. She noticed the grin on his face which made him look slightly aloof, as well as the relaxed seating posture, with a slight slouch off the back of the chair. He had clasped his hands together and spread his legs slightly apart, and instead of looking ashamedly at the floor or at the walls, he was looking at her with apprehension. Immediately, she knew that this one was going to give her some problems.

"You do know why you're here, don't you?" she asked. The first question was always the rhetorical guilt-checking one; standard protocol. Obviously, she expected him not to reply.

"I haven't submitted fourteen worksheets, five assignments, two projects and an essay over the past three weeks," he said, almost matter-of-factly.

"I... er... yes, well," she said as she struggled to regain her poise, "Your teachers are worried that you are falling behind in your studies, Thomas."

"Please," he smiled, leaning forwards in his chair and placing his clasped hands on the desk, "call me Tom."

This small movement disarmed her; he almost looked like a bank manager or corporate director, sitting like that. A small part of her brain chipped in and warned her that she might be dealing with someone who was far older than he appeared to be. Then her years of experience interrupted and she realized that this was just a little punk with a superiority complex and no respect for any authority.

"Well, Tom," she said, "I hope you realize that you need to do your work and hand it in on time. Don't you know how much trouble you're putting your teachers through, never having a full set of papers to mark and-"

"It's just a couple of assignments," he said, as his gaze shifted to the window. "It's not like I killed anyone."

She thought she caught the edge of sarcasm in his voice. "Of course it's not like killing someone, but it's a serious misbehaviour nonetheless. Now, if you don't start doing all your-"

"Funny how everything is relative, isn't it?" he said, never looking away from the window, "Imagine if I had murdered one of my classmates as well. We wouldn't be here discussing a few tardy worksheets, would we?"

Alarm bells were going off in the back of the school counsellor's mind, but she was the captain and she knew how to steer this misguided soul back into sane waters. "Well, if you had murdered one of your classmates, you'd be at a police interrogation centre, being interviewed by a couple of police officers."

His gaze shifted back to her face. "I know. Pales in comparison, doesn't it?"

"Look, Tom," she said, grabbing a sheaf of papers and squaring them on her desktop, a quick respite from looking at that face, "murder is not the reason you are here, and thank God it's not. You're here because you haven't been handing up your homework, and-"

"I have murdered someone," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

"I've killed someone," he said, looking down at the desktop. The school counsellor could see that his face was flushed with remorse. Either he had really committed homicide, or he was a brilliant actor. She was utterly at a loss at what to do with this confessional manic; years of experience hadn't prepared her for this. Eventually, she decided to play along and see where it went.

"Who?" she asked, keeping her voice steely.

"Her name was Loretta. She was on a journey to find her father, along with this boy named Roland. They were just passing through but I made the Dark Lord's henchman to incite the butcher into an angry rage, and he killed her-"

"I'm sorry, what?" The tension was building up in her like a coiled spring, but it was dampened by a new layer of confusion. "You made the Duck Lord's henchman- what...?"

"The Dark Lord Naxxarim's evil henchman Gilgore," he corrected her, "in the story I've been writing."

"Story...?" then the spring melted back into wire, and she couldn't help making a small, relieved chuckle. "It's just a story?"

"It's not just a story," he said, a hard edge in his voice now. "It's a whole new world."

"Is this what you've been doing instead of your homework? Writing stories?"

"Yes." She was too intoxicated by her relief and returning confidence that she didn't notice that the boy had none of the earlier relaxed air about him. His mouth was now lined and unsmiling, and the grip in his hands had tightened.

"I'm sure you know that schoolwork is more important that these fantasies of yours," she said.

"Really," he said. "In this past week alone I've formulated a whole compendium on the rules of magic in my world. I've done dozens of drawings of the type of creatures which might survive in such an environ-"

"Thomas," she said loudly, cutting across his explanations, "I'm sure your world is amazing and all that, but you must realize that you are wasting too much of your time and energy on all these things which aren't real."

The was a pause. Then, "They're real to me," he said quietly.

She fell back into her chair with a sigh. Another idealistic dreamer without a realistic view of the world he lived in. Maybe she should try another tact.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Thomas?" she asked, expecting the obvious answers: writer, artist, movie director, game designer.

"I'd like to personally go and help less-fortunate children in remote rural areas around the world."

Once again she was surprised at his reply, and frustrated that she couldn't read this kid at all. "I see. And how are you going to do that?"

"I'll travel to all these places with stuff they might need and-"

"Yes, but where will you get this 'stuff'? And the transportation?"

He was quiet for a while. "From friends," he said.

She barely heard his reply. "You'll need money for these things, Thomas," she said, "and how are you going to get money unless you get a good job? And how are you going to get a good job unless you get a good education? So you see, it all comes back to you not submitting your homework on time."

He was silent for a moment. "Thomas?" she asked. "Are you listening?"

"You think that all your problems can be solved with money, with a job, with an education," he said. "We spend so much of our lives chasing degrees and the perfect high-paying job so we have lots of money - and then what do we do with it? And all the while our creativity is restrained, imagination is discouraged, dreams are squashed into the harsh ground of reality."

"Think pragmatically, Thomas," said the school counsellor, slightly irritated now. "The world might not be what you want it to be, but you can't change it. People need money to survive in this world, Thomas. You need to work hard if you want to achieve anything."

"I have worked hard, ma'am. I spent so much time and effort in creating the world my story takes place in, and-"

"You need to work hard in the things that matter," she interrupted him, "like your mathematics and your sciences and your history and your economics. These things have a real use in life, not like your stories. You need to learn the skills of the world to survive in it."

"Skills? What skills? Knowing when and where and who to lie to? Fighting for yourself before considering the needs of others? Controlling people from your seat of power? Killing the stories one by one?"

She looked at him. There was a fire in his eyes, a passion which burnt with the fury of a thousand ideals. And the sad thing was, she thought, he actually believed them.

"You are impossible," she said. "Thomas, you will finish your assignments by the end of the week and you will hand them in to your teachers promptly." She grabbed the sheaf of papers again and opened her drawer. "The world needs realistic, practical people, Thomas, and it would benefit you, and the people around you, if you started to grow up and realize that. Good day to you."

She bent down to file the papers, and when she looked up again, he was standing there, behind the chair. His body was rigid; his fists were clenched in his jaw was set.

"You're wrong," he said. "You're completely wrong."

"You were not designed for this world, Thomas," she said, exasperated, "so it might do you good if you would redesign yourself to fit in."

For a moment, his eyes locked on hers, and in that fraction of a second she though he would storm out through the door, or burst into tears, or lunge toward her and hit her. Anything but what happened next.

His hands started to glow orange, and so did his eyes. A streak of energy arced across his stomach, from fist to fist, crackling like lightning. His feet lifted slowly off the floor, such that he was levitating in the middle of the room.

"Wha-what's going on?" she screamed.

"I'm rewriting reality," he said calmly. "I wasn't going to do this for a while yet, but you forced my hand."

"Wh-what?"

"It's going to be a new world, ma'am!" he shouted excitedly. "A world with caring, compassionate people, without greed or deception. People would need stories to survive, so let's see where all your education and jobs and money gets you now!"

"Stop! Stop it right now! You're insane!" she cried, as he room exploded with orange light.

-----

Wow finally. The original idea for this story was supposed to be an exploration if the people who were not designed for this world switched things around so that the would would be designed to fit them; over the course of writing it kinda got overshadowed and squeezed into the end there. Well, the story's kinda moot now, but it was a fun exercise in body language and expressions.

By the way, Leonardo is named after Da Vinci, the only creative dreamer whose name I could think of at such short notice.

Not created for this world,
The Edna Man

Christmas Decay

Once, on a Christmas day a long time ago, our presents didn't come to us. They were delivered to, opened by, re-given to us by higher-ups in the genealogy tree. They were colourful and made of plastic, with flashing lights and wonderful sounds.

A little later, our presents were retrieved at the cost of a simple "thank you!" They were filled with toys, wonderful instruments of storytelling and intrigue. Imagination ran rampant, as we played with the same toys again and again, reinventing its use each time and spinning a new tale from the debris of past ideas. We eagerly looked forward to Christmases, filled with curiosity and anticipation of the potential new universe concealed within a layer of paper and cardboard.

As time passed, the stories slowed to a trickle. Toys were scarce, as though age stoppered the flow of imagination; the stories came pre-packaged, in tomes and books and volumes. Uncles and aunties were less eager to buy something which we might not like, and so resorted to ang paos and chocolates, the universal gifts which can be given to anyone.

Later on, chocolates, food, clothes are all normal presents. Who needs giving the gift of stories when you can get something practical, something realistic, something you can use. Anticipation turned to dread as people realized that, oh man, Christmas is coming again and I'm gonna get another pile of shirts; meanwhile I don't know what to get them.

At the end, Christmas becomes just another day in the calendar. As the young folk go around giving their gifts to even younger folk, the old people don't even remember that it's Christmas.

And the stories fade away.
Merry Christmas from The Edna Man

This Post is a Distraction

Hmm. I just realized something. When you're doing something so immensely monotonous and repetitive, you tend to get distracted a lot more, because everything else just seems so much more interesting by comparison.

Sigh.

Oh well, back to my data collection.

Hmm but first I think I'll have a bath.
The Edna Man

Look Up

At precisely 11pm the image on the screen flickered, and dissolved into static for a few seconds. Instead of returning to its regularly scheduled programming, a figure dressed in black was sitting in front of a red curtain, his gloved hands lightly clasped together. His hair was long and manicured, and a wide brimmed hat cast a shadow over his pale, masked face.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," said the figure. "I apologise for the mild inconvenience but I really do wish to say something."

Meanwhile, the National Security department was in an uproar. Harried agents rushed between the cramped desks, transferring documents and slamming down phones.

"Who the hell is that guy?!" shouted the chief in exasperation. "What the hell is he doing on national TV?"

"Looks like that guy from that movie," said his assistant, calmly. "What was it called again? Victory or Venison or something like that." They stared at the screen in their office, watching the figure make his announcement.

"Since the dawn of the twenty-first century, there have been so many major advancements in modern technology. Electricity has lit up even the darkest corners of the farthest ends of the Earth, bringing light to the uncertainty and darkness. Yet in all this time we must have forgotten the light that we always had, always there in the sky."

People were staring at their television sets across the island. The masked figure had hijacked every broadcasting system, every network station. And he was definitely being heard.

"So this is what I'm going to do. Tonight, at exactly midnight, I will be detonating a device I have planted in the city's central power grid. It would be wise to make preparations for the temporary island-wide blackout. And for the hundreds and thousands of citizens who will be plunged into darkness, I merely ask you to appreciate the rare spectacle that you will be treated to. Tonight, midnight."

The image flickered, and dissolved into the blue standby screen. "Dammit, sir," one agent called from his computer terminal, "he was too fast for us to get a trace on the signal."

Frowning, the Chief of National Security folded his arms. "Get a bomb defusal squad to the central power grid. Bring along as many S.W.A.T. as you can. I don't want that power supply to even flicker for a second, you got me?"

* * *

Three minutes to midnight. The bomb defusal squad had raked the entire building, but had found no trace of any explosive device. Everyone within a five kilometre radius had been evacuated, and hordes of people were standing around in the streets, shunted behind the lines formed by the riot police. No sign of the masked man on the television was seen anywhere.

"I don't know how he's doing it," muttered the Chief of National Security, "but he's not going to win his little game. There's no explosives anywhere in the building, but if he somehow cuts the power, I want the backup generators to kick in as soon as possible, you hear me?"

"Already on it, sir," replied his assistant, unclipping his phone and pressing a number on speed-dial. "Done half an hour ago. If the power really does cut, the reserves will come online in under five minutes."

"Five minutes is too long!"said the Chief, angrily. "Who knows what will happen in a five-minute island-wide blackout? Half the island is out on the roads now, and if there's looting and rioting, I'll personally have your head for-"

The Chief of National Security stopped in mid-sentence. The lights in the building that housed the central power core just extinguished.

"Damn," he swore.

Lights winked out across the island. Lampposts flickered off. Bulbs, both incandescent and florescent, closed their eyes and gave way to darkness. The blackout was total and instantaneous. The island was plunged into darkness.

The crowds began to get nervous. Murmurings broke out; they washed over the sea of heads like rustling waves. People started shifting restlessly, uneasy in the gloom.

And suddenly there he was, standing in the middle of the herd of police cars, masked face upturned at the night sky. He spoke, and his voice was clear, and filled with wonder. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Instantly, a dozen guns were swivelling in his direction, laser sights dotting his black cloak and hat. But the figure didn't flinch; he continued staring upwards. An order was yelled, "Get him!" Policemen closed in on the figure, grabbing his hands and cuffing them behind his back. And still he continued to gaze towards the heavens.

The Chief of National Security stood in front of the figure, with his arms folded, a smug look on his face. "Your blackout failed, whoever you are," he said triumphantly. "If you were trying to throw this country into chaos and disorder, it didn't work. Our backup generators will be restarting power across the island. You've lost."

"On the contrary," he said in his clear, ringing voice. It carried across the shouted orders, the police sirens, the murmuring crowds. "It all went according to plan."

"How did you shut down the power?" the Chief of National Security asked roughly, while the figure's cloak was being frisked. "We found no bomb in the building, nor any structure within five kilometres."

"I used a virus to crash the power grid's computer systems," the figure said. "It's not permanent; once the power cut it should have unwritten its own programming."

"You said you would use a bomb?"

"I lied." The figure turned his masked face towards the Chief. "I am no comic-book villain, my good man. I don't reveal my plans to the authorities and purposely get caught for no good reason."

"And yet here you are," said the Chief of National Security, grinning again.

"That's because I had a good reason."

The Chief of National Security was getting slightly irritated. He grabbed the figure by his collar and lifted him bodily into the side of a police van. "And what, pray tell, might this reason be?" he asked coldly.

The figure's expression was unreadable; the mask just grinned its unreal grin. Then, he said, "Look up."

As the Chief of National Security looked skywards, so did the rest of the population, who had now realized that the night was not as dark as it should have been. And the night sky greeted them with a million pinpricks of light, twinkling for light years across the galaxies. The moon hung high in the sky, a brilliant silvery orb shining down upon them all. The constellations danced their eternal song across the sky, and the pale white band of the Milky Way could be seen, splashed across the starfield. The crowd gasped in collective amazement as a shooting star streaked across the sky, flaring brilliantly for a second before burning out into the darkness.

For a minute the wonders of the night blazed down upon them all. Then the backup generators kicked in and the lights began snapping, blinding out even the brightest starlight. As the Chief of National Security turned back to face his captive, he noticed that his masked face was cast half in shadow once again, and the painted smile seemed strangely real.

"Even if people stop noticing the stars," the masked figure said, breathless, as if assuring himself, "they won't fade away."

The Graveyard

An idea I've had for quite some time now. This might infuriate a whole bunch of people, who've never thought of it that way, but oh well.

-----

I shiver as I stand outside the Graveyard. Its very existence is contrary to my two greatest fundamentals: futurism and environmental protection. Yet before me stands one of the largest cemeteries for some of the Earth's most important life-forms.

As I walk through the gates, the gravekeeper shuffles up to me. "Can I help you with anything?" she asks, in that sweet voice that you know is never sincere.

"Uhh... no thanks," I reply, "I'm just... getting something for my mother."

"Alright then," she says, retreating back to her counter, eyeing me with a steely stare. I try not to look at her.

I walk slowly through the crypt, trying not to bump into the other people jostling around. The bright colours of the headstones hurts my eyes. I can't help feeling for the dead surrounding me on all sides, piled together and stacked up on hundreds of shelves, crammed into niches all over the place. With all the computers and digital information and everything, why all these useless deaths? All these murders?

A couple of the tombstones are accidentally knocked over, and they spill over the ground with loud thudding sounds. As the customer hurriedly picks them up, I notice that some of the bodies are all bent, the eulogies on the backs dented. We humans show so much respect to our dead, even out own dogs and cats; why not show that same respect to the trees?

I find the right section and lift a fragment of dead forest gently off the shelf. I shudder to think of what it would feel like, if someone sawed me off at my ankles, chopped me into little pieces, mixed the bits in with chemicals and then printed words all over the product. And my mom wanted me to get one of these things! Doesn't she understand at all?

I brought the mangled corpse over to the gravekeeper. A graveyard of trees, that was what it was. "$19.70," said the lady, roughly stuffing the body into a plastic bag and sealing it with tape. I handed over the money, feeling dirty and sacrilegious as she passed the bag over the counter. "Thank you, come again," she said brightly.

"Not on your life," I muttered, as I left the bookstore.

-----

Well yeah, not the most epic of ideas, but I thought it would be vaguely interesting. A bookstore or library is still just a vast graveyard of trees, after all.

I still love reading though,
The Edna Man

Memorycraft

Our minds are constantly being bombarded by information. Thousands of megabytes of audio, video, text, and smells, feelings, emotions that programmers haven't been able to digitally replicate yet. But like a computer, the information that we need or want, we store in the large hard drives of our minds. As memories.

As far as human memory goes, it isn't perfect. We haven't managed to develop an efficient search engine, for one. Also, there are some memories that can't be deleted, but like some buttons, can only be repressed. Finally, there are those memories that you need to keep around forever, but are lost because of corrupted disk space (or because the search engine can't find them - because they aren't there). The problem is that only the biggest, most impacting, or most frequently used memory tracts retain their youthful vigor and keeps the connection between the synapses fresh and on-the-go. Which brings us back to this.

I am a Memorycrafter. My job is to create memories from the raw material of the present. To surprise, delight, or amaze you such that your mind just has to keep that experience, to store it safely for retrieval at a later date. I have many skills which are suitable for my task. I am a performer, with the knowledge of the importance of grand effect and crucial timing. I am a comedian, who knows what you find hilarious, and is able to make you laugh. I am a master of stealth and subtlety, at least if other people didn't spoil the surprise. I am a dreamer, creating something out of nothing but the pure power of imagination. I am a perfectionist, which keeps me gunning for the grandest effect, the show-stopper, bringing the house down. Finally, I like making people happy. It's what I do.

On the rare occasion, I also help you recollect your memories. By dredging through the past, finding the links you had with other people, I can find the triggers to jumpstart your memory, for all the big events, the special occasions, the fun times. Each a fragment of time, locked forever in a glossy silver nitrate frame.

In the grand library of human existence, the memories I forge are probably just footnotes at the bottom of a page. But at least they are there. And when the universe ends and the shelves are full, and when whatever entity succeeds us enters our library and goes through the archives, they might find my name there. And hopefully, it won't just be in my book. It'll be in a chapter here, a paragraph there; works of art captured like a snapshot made of words. There'll be whole books about people who changed the world, or pushed the frontiers of science, or spent their entire life helping the poor and the homeless. But I think I'm content with having my name appearing occasionally, a faint murmur attached to each fragment of memory. Because we can't all be someone in the world.

But we can be the world to someone. Happy birthday, Jarrel and Charmaine.
The Edna Man

Kingdom Come

Meanwhile… in an office in the Pentagon…

General Alexander looked up from his paperwork to see his secretary standing there, in front of his desk. She was clutching the strap of a duffel bag in one hand, and what appeared to be an official-looking envelope in the other.

“Miss Brant,” the General said, in that low voice of his that would be what a dog would sound like if it started to talk, like a cross between a bark and a growl, “can I help you with anything?”

She had barely registered the sound of her own name, staring at her feet the whole time as though deep in thought. But at the General’s question, she seemed to regain her senses, and stepped forward.

“Yes,” she replied, placing the envelope on the desk. “You can approve my resignation.”

General Alexander was surprised, but he didn’t show it, save for his left eyebrow ascending several millimetres. “Sit down, Miss Brant,” he said. An order, not a request. He picked up the envelope, slit it open, and began to read.

Hesitantly, Miss Brant sat down in the char facing his desk, letting her duffel drop to the floor with a thump. She didn’t cross her legs as she normally did, but kept them both on the ground, hands clasped in her lap. She started staring at her feet again, trying to look anywhere but the man in front of her and the office he sat in.

The General’s eyes reached the end of the page. “It doesn’t explain why you want to leave, Miss Brant.”

“Isn’t that better for you military types?” she replied scornfully, barely raising her head. “Commands and directives and orders and no explanations? Isn’t that how you were trained, General?”

He smiled slightly, a smile devoid of any mirth, and leaned back in his leather office chair. “Let’s just say, this time, I’m curious.”

There was an uneasy silence in the office, with the only sound coming from the low hum of the ventilation units. “I’m leaving, Alexander,” Miss Brant said, “because I’m sick of being a murderer.”

A frown appeared on General Alexander’s face. “I’m afraid I don’t get you, Miss Brant.”

“You seem to think I’m not speaking English, General,” she said, looking up at the man’s weathered face and his thin white moustache. Her hands had unconsciously moved to the armrests of her chair and were now gripping them tightly. “I’m sick of being a murderer.”

Suddenly, her face is in her hands. “Oh, God, I’m… I’m a killer. I… I actually let so many people… I let so many people die.” Her shoulders shake uncontrollably.

“What are you babbling about, Miss Brant?” The General leaned forward in his chair again, but it was a gesture of curiosity, not compassion. “You’ve never killed anyone, not that I know of, and you’ve never picked up even a pistol your entire career here.”

“I may not have killed anyone directly,” she said, voice still quavering, “but I as good as did.” Her fingers ran through her hair, nails scratching her scalp. “I typed out those extermination orders… all those war clearance papers… and yesterday I handed you the slip of paper which gave you the ‘authority’,” here her fingers sketched quotation marks around the word, “to launch three massive ordinance, multi-megaton nuclear missiles right into the heart of the United States of America.” She laughed derisively. “It may not sound like murder to you, General, but it is.”

“I thought you had been properly briefed on this,” said the General, picking up his mug of coffee and taking a sip. It was cold and bitter. Just like him. “These metahumans - these so-called ‘superheroes’,” it was his turn to sketch the quotation marks, “masked vigilantes and whatnot, are the biggest threat to national security today, not just in America, but in the world.” His mug came back down. “You shudder at the thought of nuking Kansas? As I recall, that’s already been done. And they didn’t do it with three massive-ordinance missiles. Kansas was nuked by one single man. Captain Atom’s explosion killed over a million people and disintegrated thousands of acres of farmland.”

“And now you’re going to wipe it out again, incinerating thousands of superheroes,” her voice had risen, and she had stopped shaking. “Thousands of men and women whose sole purpose of existence is to protect humanity.”

“I told you already!” shouted the General, slamming his fist down onto his mahogany desktop, “Metahumans are dangerous! Look at their power! How do we fight that kind of power if it goes rogue? We have to eliminate the threat before it turns around and bites us in the rear!”

“General, your military has been keeping three massive nuclear bombs in a secret bunker well underground.” Miss Brant pointed an accusing finger at him. “‘Look at that power!’” she said. “‘How do we fight that kind of power if it goes rogue? We have to eliminate the threat before-’”

“The United States will never do that,” the General interrupted her quickly.

“From where I’m sitting, General,” said Miss Brant, “it looks like you’re the one who is the biggest threat to the world today.”

They were both staring into each other’s eyes for a moment.

“The way I see it,” said Miss Brant, breaking the silence, “is that you’re acting on a potential threat. Killing the cub before it grows into the tiger, just because it has the potential to come back and eat you.”

There was a pause, then: “And so what if we are? Prevention is better than cure, Miss Brant, and if these metahumans cause another global catastrophe, we might not be able to cure it anymore!”

“Which is another thing I cannot understand about this country. We have the right to bear arms, for God’s sake. We have legislation in place to put ballistic weaponry into the hands of hundreds and thousands of killers, rapists, drunks, and muggers. People are dying every day from gunshot wounds and-”

“It was never on the scale of a metahuman crisis! Millions of people dead-”

“And yet thousands more die each year, not by intercontinental missiles, but small firearms in our own backyard! If you think a million human lives have more worth than a thousand, you’re wrong, General.”

She leaned forward until she was inches away from his face. “Life is priceless, and one death is just as bad as a million deaths.”

There was another lengthy silence. The General had got up to stare out his window at the orange sunset, arms behind his back.

“You’re not a killer, Natasha,” he said, back still facing her. “You never pushed the button that dropped the bomb; you never pulled the trigger which killed all those people. You never killed anyone before.”

“I may not have killed anyone in cold blood, General,” Natasha Brant said, standing up and slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder once more. “And neither have you. But guns don’t kill people, General.”

She had reached the door. Her hand resting on the handle, she turned to look back. General Alexander was still by the window, half his face blossoming with orange sunset, the other half thrown into deep shadows. His face was a blank slate; no emotion could be gleaned from it, since it had reverted to his characteristic frown. Natasha Brant pushed down; the door swung open, and she stepped through it, and said:

“People kill people.”

-----
This was kinda inspired by Kingdom Come, the limited comic series by Mark Waid and Alex Ross. It refers to events from that story, but this should be taken as Fan Fiction and not a breach of copyright agreements. Oh yes, no offence to the US of A too. But I really don't understand the legalized arms. Really.

Does the world need a Superman?
The Edna Man

I'll be Bach

So I was playing around with a bunch of chords the other day and I came up with a song. Like, with actual music to actually go along with the lyrics. This is like, the very first song I composed! Just think: I'm like the Terminator pretending to be a musician!

Anyway here's the lyrics. It sounded like a love song so I wrote love song lyrics. And if you think writing lyrics is easy when you've done so many parodies, I can tell you, it sure isn't, 'cos you have no other inspiration to work from. I think I'll stick to parodies after this one.

Tonight, a not-parody-song by The Edna Man
[Verse 1]
Sunlight is fading
And the darkness invading
It's getting late; we have to go
And the sound of stars soaring
Right for tomorrow's morning
One more goodbye, one less hello

[Chorus]
I wish I could reach out and hold you
And I wish I could just do this right
I wish I could tell you I love you
If only for
Tonight
Tonight

[Verse 2]
I can't figure these feelings
I don't know I'm concealing
Could be I just don't understand
And time just keeps on flying
And I just keep on trying
Why must good things come to an end?
(If they don't start again)

[Chorus]
And I wish I could reach out and hold you
And I wish I could just do this right
I wish I could tell you I love you
Just one more time
Tonight
Tonight

[Bridge]
When we're apart
You know it's breaking my heart, now
If I had the courage to say what I feel
And under the moonlight
Everything might seem alright
Yet I don't know whether it's real

[Chorus]
I wish I could reach out and hold you
And I wish I could just do this right
I wish I could tell you I love you
Just one more time
Tonight

[Second Chorus + Ending]
I wish that you were right here beside me
And I wish I could see you again
I wish that we could last forever
When you are here
Don't disappear
Just hold me near
Tonight
Tonight
Tonight

Jarrel says it sounds like Disney; he obviously hasn't heard enough Disney.
The Edna Man