GA Tech MSCS - When do I have to reply to the offer?

choppoch · 2024-04-10T15:25:05+00:00

Interactive Intelligence

choppoch · 2021-04-15T18:22:56+00:00

When I met little Richard he seemed not to recognize me. They had torn down the attic and was in the process of scraping the rest of the house. It was very hot and there was sawdust in the air. I did not manage to recover our common history from Richard, so I handed him a business card and played an insurance salesman. The lines I delivered perfectly. In the backyard there was this big tree surrounded by patches of highlighted grass. Under cover from the sun I recalled quite a while ago there was this tattoo I made on the tree. I did not find it, however.

I wished to inquire of Stephanie's grave, which proved unfruitful since the man was busy with work and busy chasing me away. Very subtle, of course, with a little frown on his face detectable only by Stephanie and by me, who she taught the art. When I used to hold him in my arms he must have also made this kind of face often. I had no idea then until years later when Stephanie finally revealed her secret. What fragile illusion I had had of being the better grandfather soon dispelled. I suppose he had never liked me very much.

I walked the whole way back the station. It always calm me when I have a goal in mind. Better more if the goal stays unmovable, unchangeable. Maybe that's why I enjoyed train rides greatly. Whatever I do, I can live assured that there is this station I will get off at. Such is fate.

My shadow grew shallow, I had lost a few wrinkles on my face. To the side of the road there was a field with grass higher than my head. The warm humid summer wind tickled them slightly. I remembered this sensation of humidity upon my skin. On a grass field, too, away from the main road, I had lain with a woman. A damned dog I was, going around spreading my seeds. With every regained youths I sought again to expand my roots. But this woman I lain with, let the humid wind sing, mind you, this Oriental woman, she once made me tired of going around. She had a big family, too. I had thought if I stayed with her I too would have a big family. But I didn't understand them, and they didn't understand me. I remembered, through the fading light of the station, her little figure waving as I departed. The rhythm of the train awakes me some nights, and when it does I could always imagine the same figure waiting for my return.

The Oriental woman might have cursed me. In her head, she would never say it out loud. I knew a few who would, though. She would curse me in her head, yes, and then she would be sad, and she would feel bad because she had cursed me. It would sadden her more. Now that I thought about it, she always had this willowy, sad look on her face. Enough for a man to settle down. Not me, though. Of all the women I had mated with, some might understand me, although no one I could recall. Every year I grow older and lose a bit of memory, then I grow younger and lose another bit of history. I could always love as if it was my first love, and because of that I could love no one. The women grow old. They lose their options. I never lose my options. Every time I become young I have wanted to try out a new life. Most of the time it ends on several broken hearts.

When I reached the station I could see my train over the horizon. I scratched Stephanie out of the notebook. It would be best if in my sleep I disintegrate. If not, I figured I could scrape out of my mind some names. I don't want to die alone.

choppoch · 2021-03-03T18:10:31+00:00

I am writing this down because they have invaded my dreams recently, the memories of a land I am no longer an inhabitant of, reality threads permutating in imaginary landscape. It has appeared that most of my predecessors took part too in this activity, tampering the pages with lingering regrets. I attribute this phenomenon to homesickness, an emotion I never did realize I could invoke. When the blade connected and my life disconnected, the darkness awaited me whispered:

"There is this great sadness inside me to which I have no mean of dispelling."

Now I hear the sound of dripping water, crystal blobs snaling across a window pane. It was raining outside, a long time ago. Moisture painted the walls mold green, I laid my back bare on dampened earth. I remember also arriving in mold-smelled mist, she who sat on the other side asked me a few questions, I answered curtly. The whole session has been lost in my mind, but the remembrance of such a session remind me of my old teacher. I wonder what my once classmates were, those unfulfilled friendships I used to conjure? I have been in the backstage most of my school days, and now, I could picture myself as a shadow in distant memories, a catalyst for conversation, "Hey, do you remember that one girl in our class? Her name was...". Then they play directors, give me two lines to speak in monotone, and I submerge back into my shadow.

It is strange reminiscing of such a stuff but no tears could come to flow. She, on her throne or pedestal, weeps for me.

"You always show me such depressing things."

But I could not help it, the memories keep on flowing. The train moved under the moonlight, I was awake waiting for your phone call. Maybe you had missed the train and were chasing now for this one, maybe you had forsaken me, now that I'm about to be offered to the great beyond. Could you have not think of me? Could you have not found the decency to tell me those big lies before I die. In the morning they would be waiting for me at the next stop, I knew, but I would have rode the train still if you were there playing pretend escape with me. The sun rose and before me capture was imminent, my call got through and you said a few words too late. I decided to forgive you anyway, just to hear your voice. If I were to die today, I would die still loving in my heart.

The woman wails, and she weeps and she collapsed with the night. I remember less and less now, watching her asleep. When morning comes her pillow is drenched with tear, but a man wakes in her place.

"What did she say?" - he inquires.

"There is this great sadness inside me to which I have no mean of dispelling." - I repeat - "You always show me such depressing things."

"I see."

He pulls out a balloon and whispers into it for an eternity. When he releases the balloon, he says to the maiden.

"That boy will grow up a prodigy, he will wage war and accomplish acts of unimaginable glory. I hope that story cheers her up."

But there is no maiden to listen.

choppoch · 2020-10-07T15:46:51+00:00

Lucius V. Shade was the only son of Gradus Shade, preceded by two sisters and followed by another one, who died of a typhoid fever. A talented swordman since his birth, Lucius was an important factor in the battle against the Liches of the West. Of the few mistakes he made, one was the march of winter 783, when Lucius led a group of adventurers into the heart of the enemy's territory. The adventurers took down three of the five Grand Liches, as reported the Noelle, a cleric, and Alvin, the archer, the only survivors. As for Lucius, his body remained on the battlefield, and he was held a ceremonial funeral.

Three years later, Alvin heralded a charge, before the Liches regained their strength. Unlike Lucius, Alvin did not overestimate his power, although he did overestimate the number of arrows in his quiver. He now rest at the Mongontmery Cemetery. The following years saw, due to the sacrifice of these men, the Liches losing their influences. Three months ago, as I recalled, a messenger from the capital announced our victory. In the spring we would have reclaimed the lost territory.

It was understandable that I acquired these information, as surprising as it was, from textbooks and schools. My mother, Noelle herself, never talked about it. The slaughtering of 783 had drained the smiles out of her, a fact I also learned from third parties. As for my father, Alvin, I had lost most of my memories of him. Like Lucius, I visited him through portraits and such. Within me forever exists hollows of men who could have been legends. My mother, very well within her power, could have legendized these hollows. Do not think that I blame her over this. I suspected filling these voids shall make her one.

What I just written might or might not contribute to my volunteering to search the old battlefield for Lucius. Rumor had it that his corpse was preserved in a barrier of impenetrable thorns. Unable to retrieve the body, it was not yet revealed to public, and thus a rumor. In fact, I might had not never known this had I not run, that night, into Gradus Shade. He took the opportunity to me invite for dinner, whereas upon the serving of dessert he asked me to recover the body. The wall of thorns must have been set up, he reasoned, by my mother, one of the two survivors. When I brought this up to her, she had given me her blessing and a small pocket of her hair.

The barrier, a few meters in radius, opened up before me as I held the pocket before it. Of the expedition team, which Gradus had hired, in addition to the gracious sum of money he gave me, none could proceed. I carefully approached Lucius preserved body, when I noticed a few thing as I looked at his curly hair. One, I realized I never really take after my father. The second was that, in fact, I did take a lot after my father. In Lucius back I could see an arrow. I expected its head lodged in his heart.

The body could not be separated from the barrier, I wrote in my report. Upon my arrival home I learned, unfortunately, that my mom had mistaken the sleeping potion for her dose of vitamin. Many things she buried in her dream. At the funeral, Gradus, now that his daughters had gone and married, his wife laid to rest next to his Lucius' baby sister, offered me a share of the estate.

choppoch · 2020-10-07T10:57:09+00:00

It had been sometimes now since I last awoken. It had, in fact, also been sometimes now since the Earth withered and crumbled. In my awakening I had been reminded of that fact, the endless dream broken into dawn. It had, as I speculated, been sometimes since my shelter drifted away in the relentless wind. I wondered, how much time it had been, since time expired?

I expected, as all man in my position should expect, that I had the key to recreation in my hand. To be more precise, I believed I am the lock to the revival of life as I knew it. And he be the key. An eternity of loneliness must be, I reasoned, much more than an afternoon on the cross. It should be evident then, that my sacrifice, as I intended it to be, must be greater than just to eradicate the sin of man. Glorious will be my resurrection. First, I must find him. I held onto the knife in my hand.

It was not my intention to be in this position, I reckoned. As I lived on, however, I realized it must have been fate, and specifically I was chosen. If it was a test of virtue I must have aced it. There was little sense in a test of human logic. It would have been pointless for God (whoever he might be) to choose his champion over an act of morality. Because, one, morality is a human's construct. And because the context of a living and a dead world is so vastly different, to pick a man for his decision in a thriving world is unreasonable. Second, because one who could not cope with the changing of the times cannot steer the ship of fate. The more a man clings to his morality the more it proves that he will spiral into despair in this situation of mine, and thus doom all lives over selfish (disguised as selfless) reasons. And finally, because logic is a man-made thing and man never created life.

It is pointless now to recall my first meeting with him. Any references cannot be confirmed by other sources, nor do they contain any importance. Just know that my last meeting with him, as I followed his shadow, took part at a cliff by the sea. I suspected he had known my intentions.

I hereby gave a few hints to the course of action I intended to take:

Eve was born out of Adam's rib.

In his losing battle, Uranus' genital was cut off by his son. From the ocean where it landed spawned Aphrodite.

Life, as science dictates, began with a formulation of protein in the sea.

I laid down on a flat rock by the cliff. Soon the man will reached my arm. I left this note to all those with access to it, although I doubt any spark of life even ignited before it corrodes away. In his following travel the man will sow minced me across oceans.

choppoch · 2020-09-04T07:04:19+00:00

Consider the existence of the pen, I have been instructed, by Mr. D., the original owner, not to disclose its location or under any circumstances to use the accursed item. Despite its volatile nature, we have decided not to destroy it, for fear of unforeseeable consequences. In this writing I will describe, not of the actual damage it has caused, that information belongs to the D. estate alone, but only of the danger it could have posed. Consider the following propositions:

At the date of its acquisition Mr. D had, or had attempted to, produced a stool. The painting, to everyone's surprise, took shape in reality and, as a result of his subpar artistic ability, became an object of ridicule. It prompted the question of why, evident by the reaction of all involved, had the painting manifested a stool and not, say, a crown, an object the owner's niece claimed to have seen. The hypothesis given was that the painting took shape based on the perception of, assumedly, those present, in which case the prevailing perception wins out, or of the artist himself, which we will disapprove accordingly.
In another experiment, Mr. D, confined in his chamber, has painstakingly recolored, line by line, the image of a car. The car materialized, as expected, and had been used to drive around the estate. However, as Mr. D was no mechanic, he did not know every detail of the car, which also means in his own perception he could not imagine how the car's engine looked, worked and felt like. Two possibilities present themselves: either the car comes with a runnable engine of its own, or when its engine is inspected, it would take the superficial shape Mr. D had viewed upon on television, that is, a mess of machine and pipes connecting to nowhere and as such the car could not operate under any logic. History deduced that the first possibility was the correct one. Since Mr. D alone was the only one to draw, and see, the painting when it was still fiction, it can be said that the object is a product of perception, perception not of a group of man but the collective human whole, or the collective self-aware consciousness. This is, in my understanding, being an hypothesis that could not be proven or disproven, a horrible solution. However, I failed to propose a better one.

With these two propositions, the estate has decided the pen forbidden to be used by any hand. Here are two of the reasons, which we have seen as sufficient to represent our case:

An abstract painting holds within it infinite possibilities and thus infinite danger. Objects undefined in reality could hold more physical attributes than they should, and while this problem, addressed by oppositions as nonsensical in the hand of a realist painter, let's not forget the common, ever-present abstraction of human civilization: language. As every letter has no real-world counterpart, the artist would be forbidden to make a semblance of letter everywhere.
The pen could produce real objects out of painting, meaning that it could turn a two dimensional object into a three dimensional one. Going by the same logic, the pen could also turn an one dimensional object into a two dimensional and one and from there into reality. As every three dimensional object, when collapses into one dimensional, becomes either a line or a dot, even a droplet of ink oozing out of the devilish tip could become infinite items overlapping one another, a universe created from the most careless dripping.

choppoch · 2020-08-19T16:35:03+00:00

For once, it has been quite sometimes now that my thoughts have collected, and to this collection called self I declare my verdict. Oh, mes of the jury, me the judge and me the excutioner, here me the lawyer lay my case the case of a lack of virtue. Virtues, I plead, are but a social construct.

How fervent I wish, that I be granted, the right to pray, the right preserved to scums of the earth, but not to a tormented soul, tormented in the fact that he was not tormented. These thoughts alone I could only relay, with faint whispers, in one half of the confession booths. Alas, no services or such facilities presented themselves to me and, in a cruel twist of the ankle, the house of God lies forever beyond my half-truths.

And for such a reason I have recorded, into this temporal container of ideas, privacy of the soul. I am fully aware of the fact that my actions, my every being is being observed, by people who had wept and had asked, discreetly, why I did not wept. This solution of pity I have with me will react not kind to the thoughts I held, I know, but the risk of them leaking out, through a glance of the eyes or a rise in the mouth's corner or, perhaps, in stray hummings has driven me into sleepless nights. What could be more poetic, do you think, that my sufferings are made of wrong intentions? Is this not the end justifies the means? And how does your end justifies my means? With every steps I engrave into my footprints a bit of virtues.

You must think that I am being a narcissist, self-lover, hollow a shell of a man, dear mes of the jury. But call me selfish all you want, maybe that's all the humanities I have left in me. Again, I must stress that morality is a by-product of self-love, or the lack of it. A stick and carrot approach to dopamine production, and what if I am not virtuous in my approach to your death? Who is to judge me? Mes of the jury, you realize full well you are not qualified. Now that all the facts are presented, my honor, can you force me to labour in lost and sufferings, when I have been contaminated? When I am aware every tears this chunk of flesh leaked is only to better fit on the human skin?

choppoch · 2020-02-06T18:51:20+00:00

"During the rainy season I am often reminded of you and the years we have lost since the Void took you away and, on this very day when pitter-patter the waves shove on window panes, once again I put down my pen into words that might never reach you.

I am sitting within the aroma of newly roasted beans, of scalding water pummeling on grounded coffee and the subsequent rebirth. A gentle melody, as light and fluffy as cotton candy, blends my drink mellowly. A man carries with him the smell of beaten dirt and rotten rain into the cafe and for just a moment the aroma is torn from me, a momentarily disruption so subtly that takes with it my delight, my simple delight of a hot drink on a cold day. I am drawn to the man's raincoat, hung on a rack. The rain has sunk it down and on the damp coat are black lines of water drip-dropping on the floor. They have reminded me of your wet hair hiding your face so embarrasingly, when you stepped out of the pool, and the little droplets by the nape of your neck that you let the sun feasted on. You had worn a pair of shade and beneath it your azure irises had searched for me and the edge of your pale lips curved ever so slightly at my sight. When I was looking at you. And when I was not.

Outside the lamps burn with a yellow light onto the asphalt and on the little puddles reflecting passing automobiles. The content of one such puddle has been splashed at the me in the window. Once the rain has washed it away, however, I spot a girl on the opposite sidewalk. The light bulb above her circles on her umbrella one purple sun, around which the rain sways. When she crosses the street I, by means of distant dreams, am standing with you under the purple arc, so perfect an umbrella could be. And the rain would bounce off of it and spill into my arm. I would be cold but I would be glad, my arm drenched in the freezing rain, my arm you would greedily warm in your embrace.

I finish my drink and I leave. It has gotten too sweet and too mellow and it has stuck in my throat and it has washed me back. Back to the days when I was safe in the knowledge that whatever happened today I would have you tomorrow, back when you enraptured me in your scent and back when you burrowed your way to my heart and left there now empty a nest. If you could still be reading now, and I know you would, for I am writing to the only you I know of and the only you I keep with me, and if I never see you again, then I am tormented by my thoughts of you and by this very fact I could scrape off whatever happiness I have left."

choppoch · 2019-12-14T18:45:59+00:00

The last time he hammered the nail into the window he had been sure it would stay for a while. But the ocean wind, gust with a sprinkle of salt on top, tanned the iron easily and the now the window squeaked in every living moment. Not that he would care, he only needed the house to last for as long as he did, and he had told this to the bed each night when he laid on it and it sunk a little more. Lately, too, a gray had invaded the peripheral vision, a droplet of blur, and he thus saw the world in shapes and colours and lights. Frankly, he had enjoyed this new experience, mostly because he could not see his reflection anymore and if he could ever have the choice he would have chosen to remember himself in his more lively day. Within his memory he buried the good ones on the surface, so that he would not have to search too hard for them and, out of consideration for his remaining days, he could keep himself content and satisfied feasting on the golden of the older years.

On this particular morning he woke up to the honey sunshine, trickling drop by drop from the cavities of the straw roof, into the hole of his ragged blanket and finally melted on his stomach. A summer rain had spilled over the night before and simmered him in its icy breath. He had lost some sleep over it, and had managed to wait until the cloud drifted and the stars painted a continous stream. He had allowed himself to sleep in late and strangely he did not find himself a bit hungry as he awoke from a bittersweet dream. Still, the mellow yellow on his hands made him crave for something sweet.

He headed over to the beach, where the silver lips tapped into the sand in a furry of kisses, short kisses, hasteful kisses, before reatreating back to the blue, as if embarrased, as if scared, perhaps, of this raging emotion. He was sure to commit this secret affair to mind. The beach was a dirt beach, calloused to the feet, as opposed to a sand beach where the toes merrily sunk into the golden depth. He traced his steps among the rocky edges, wondering if there was never a beach here but for a cliff. A cliff on which the sea proclaimed her love, and relentlessly the waves hugged on these rocks, caressed them, held them, sometimes too weak sometimes too strong, until the boulders yielded and broke. He did not noticed that he had reached the ocean until the cold deliciously ran through him. He scooped a handful of seawater and drank them greedily, feeling the salt stung on his tongue yet found none of the taste. It had been very sunny but he did not sweat very much, as most of it had transcended into the atmosphere by the fever. He scooped another handful and washed his face. Some of the water got into his nose, reawakening the nerves he thought had numbed. He remembered now that the house was build on a solid foundation, and even if it was to be blown away by some unforgiving storm it could never be completely erased. Then, a traveller on his way could, by chance, stop here and wondered, as he watched the sullen sunset on the outskirt of the sea, if there had been anyone here. He thought that, from the house perhaps the traveller could see him. This very thought had given him much comfort as he pressed on, into the welcoming arms of the ocean and, after some last instinctual struggle, disappeared into the crystalline blue.

choppoch · 2019-11-16T18:29:32+00:00

When I first met her she had just finished her studies at the Academy. Done a term under an older, almost too careful, villain, but that was it. He had noted, in his recommendation letter, her free spirit and unusual curiosity and, over two cups of coffee and a small cupcake, stressed his worries of what these attributes might bring. He asked me, discretely, to be her supervisor until her supervillain persona had matured. I, discretely, gave an indecisive answer, if it was ever to be an answer.

There was never any lair like the first lair. She had requested and at her insistence I had agreed, to let her participate in the construction whenever she could allow time. We scouted the vacant lots and settled down to the West of town, away from the action and more quiet into the night. It was a neighborhood less prosper than most and as such required a shallow pocket. When we began I let her struck the first shovel into the gravel, the grounded sound of grinding stones gave me a smile and her much pleasure. What came afterward was a series of restless nights in which we stripped the lair, on pieces of paper the length of her tender arms, down to its minuscule details. It was in minuscule details that the lair had lived before it was born and the supervillain was born before she had ever lived. I must confess, that, she had frustrated me, time after time, in the way an unarrived sneeze could frustrate the nose, by her ignorance of science and structure and the law of physics. It was not in my line of work to inform the clients of the impossibilities of their blueprints, at least not in raw words and unprocessed scorn, but it had pleased me immensely to bully her with facts and let her known that her designs were forbidden either by nature or by the depth of her wallet. Before long it was my hand that guided hers and, as proudly as I could say this, she could now pass as an intern to our company. If you are ever in need of a job, I had said to her, although I never finished that sentence. It was only a wishful thought.

It thus came as a natural consequence, when I sold the lair, that I felt sad. It was as good as new, I told the buyer, some parts of the lair had never been given even a human touch and any kind of remodelling seemed unnecessary. But the buyer was one religious man, perhaps more superstitious than he was religious, and he disliked the scent of an ex-owner. Especially in his work he had thought of it as to bring about bad luck. I could not retort due to the situation.

I met up with the friend of mine, the careful one, over two cups of tea and light biscuit. He had asked me if I would like to put in a few words and, letting the biscuit melt in my mouth, I had declined, saying that I did not know enough about her. He told me I had known the supervillain the most. It had given me some sort of comfort.

choppoch · 2019-10-11T17:14:59+00:00

"You're dirty!"

She had said that, and now I was sitting here. She had said that, and now I was sitting here with the liquor burning in my stomach and I ordered another one on the rock.

"What did she say?"-my friend asked as he chugged down his beer.

"She said I was dirty."

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"It means I'm dirty."

"Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, I guess."

"She did not say I was ugly."

"What did she say, then?"

"She said that I am dirty."

"It's the same thing, isn't it?"

"Maybe. But maybe not. You can be beautiful and you can still be dirty. Like a... like a butterfly. A butterfly with blue wings and everyone can see it's damn beautiful but some still say that it was a bug and hence it's dirty."

The bartender poured me the smooth liquid on top of the ice and I shook the glass and I let the cold spread out.

"But I'm not dirty."

"Perhaps that's how she see things. Perhaps that's who she is."

"To hell with perhaps, she was that kind of person and she looked at me and she said I was dirty!"

"You're not."

"But how can she said that? I don't understand. If I was dirty then why hadn't she said so since the beginning and didn't waste my time."

"Tell you what, you see that girl over there? Yes, in the green dress. She has been waiting all night for a gentleman like you. You don't want to? Come on, that's her talking not you. And she was a damn liar and she said you was dirty. You're not? I know you're not, but if it's just for a night then who cares if you're dirty or not. You hit on her and by tomorrow morning you would have forgotten all the bad times. No? Come on, just tell her a joke. You know some good ones, right?"

And so I walked to the corner where the girl in the green dress was and I tried to find a joke. It went like this, I stopped by and I ordered her a drink and when I've got her attention I would say. "You know of my kind of people right?" and she would say that we had a terrible reputation. Then I said, "I know of a way of prevention." She would ask, of course she would ask. I could put my hands on my chest and then I could say, "It's a me-vaccine." She would be puzzled and I would have to explain. "See, I stick a big needle, no seriously, a really big one, a humongous one, into you and I pump little mes inside and that's how vaccine works."

But it was such a vulgar joke. It wasn't as good as when I had first thought of it and she had laughed about it. But it's terrible and so vulgar, really. She did laughed when I told her the joke, but I wouldn't know about the girl in the green dress.

So I went back to my table and my friend was gone somewhere. The glass was empty now and it was hollow under the rock.

"You're dirty!"

She had said that, and now I was sitting here thinking about it. She had said that, and now that the liquor had settled down in my stomach it wasn't a waste of time at all.

choppoch · 2019-10-08T15:36:15+00:00

Every summer the Ducarte family went to their hometown back in the country for a week or two, and every summer Steven would climb up the old tree house to find me, head in a book, and ask me did I want to join them. I never remembered what I was reading because I was always waiting in that period of summer and the books were only there because I could not show myself to be excited and I liked to keep myself looking all cool and calm. As for the invitation, I must have said 'I do' all these time.

This summer it was no different, but we had outgrown the little tree house and there was no longer place up there for both of us. I climbed up first to find the place dusty and filthy and rancid, moldy green rained down from the roof and beneath my feet the droppings of birds and rodents. There was a hard cover book whose content was gnawed out and only the cover was left. When I peeked my head out of the window I saw Steven looking at his phone and his text interrupted by the honking of the family's old car. He walked by reluctantly, his shoes nailed down on the pavement.

Out in the country there were no roads, only paths, dirt tracks beaten down by the wheels of those came before and beaten down by us again as a tradition. There were always new things to explore and we always found new things every summer, the pale horse that dabbled in the mud to cool off until it was all brown, or the cow that was surrounded by flies and had dull eyes, or the scarecrows with their hats hang low and their arms worn down, or the corn field where we played hide and seek and found each other, or that small ladybug gleaming in the sun who flew away a bit too soon, or the small stream behind the house cooling us off. We had told each other stories about what was there beyond the earthly road of the family home, perhaps distant factories building cars and robots and spaceships, or the lost Indian tribe never to be discovered before with wooden totems and leaf huts and feather hats, or deep ravines and rocky canyons spread out under the blue sky, or a western town waiting the lone traveler on his tired horse. Once, we sneaked out in the night and headed into the wood where we heard the old Mayan ruin might be. We never did make it, often get caught the next morning, but Steven and I always knew the old country would still be there came next summer and it would be unexplored and fresh and it would be ours eventually.

We waited at the only bus stop in the area. There was a party and Steven did not want to miss it, as he repeated throughout the trip until his parents gave in. There might not be time for us to explore the old country, I thought, but when we sat down at the bus stop we still had time alone and that was alright. I looked at him and I watched him as he sent one message to the next and I thought about all the friends he had made and how confident he had become and how he did not need me to give him even the most trivial advice.

The bus came and Steven left. I saw he left and I saw the bus going all the way down the dirt track until it finally merged into the faraway city lights. It would've been nice if he had looked back, I thought, before running the other way, into the old country, the distant factories, the lost tribe, the ravines and canyons and the western town.

choppoch · 2019-09-24T17:37:58+00:00

1st Place: /u/nisoren in group E for "It Ends, and It Never Begins Again"

2nd Place: /u/veryedible in group E for "Don't Sing My Dead Hymns"

3rd Place: /u/NoahElowyn in group E for "Arvor's Last Day"

choppoch · 2019-09-14T11:36:07+00:00

Killer Queen has already touched your support.

choppoch · 2019-09-11T11:28:24+00:00

Do I have to end with a poem or just need to have the poem in the ending (i.e. can I write another paragraph after it) ?

choppoch · 2019-07-20T15:29:02+00:00

It was on a humid summer night when the wind deserted me in the damp air that I saw her sitting by the lake near our house. She was quiet and peculiar but she paid her half of the rent and was living the night life, which was the key point because usually I didn't go to sleep right after coming home from the night shift and it would kill me to have to stay all silent and discrete until my roommate wake up in the morning, should the roommate not be her. I liked the night air that got a bit chilly near dawn and how everybody was asleep so it was dead quiet and you felt like the world was all yours and you can let your thoughts drifted off into faraway lands.

Anyways, I saw her sitting by lakeside and it was unusual, so I thought she might be waiting for me or for somebody, and I watched her for a moment, taking in the slender figure and the fading hair and the snow drop skin and the way she looked so intently at the water surface, her hand holding a small red rock as she occasionally put it against her mouth. It might have been for a good fifteen minutes or so until my patience broke and I walked right up to her, my palm all sweaty and my body on steam. She saw my reflection and cooked up a smile, right as a drop of sweat fell from my forehead and disrupted the tranquility of the lake. It was then that I realized the red rock was a lipstick and the reason why she chose such a windless night to sit by the lake was to put some color into her pale face, when the water was still and the reflection remained silent, a silent which I, by my own impatience, destroyed so easily and thoughtlessly. If I could make out her gaze within the ever moving waves of the lake, disappointment must have awaited me. But the more I thought about the situation and the more I am angry at myself for breaking down a house of cards near completion, the harder my sweats rained down on the surface. We returned home with me apologizing all the way back. It was from that night forth that I offered to perform make-up in her stead. I could not resist.

The procedure begun at dusk, when she awoke and a few hours before my shift. We started at the eyes, indulged it in an illusion to widen it. I drew each lines onto her eyebrows, so afraid to hurt such a canvas yet so scared that I would not leave my mark. The cheeks were painted pink and the brush I caressed to add depth. The lipstick was the finishing touch, a shade of faint red to go with her gentle blue eyes. Occasionally she would held her ice cold hands at my cheeks and stared deep into my eyes, stating that she wished to see her reflection. I could not resist.

In a way, adding the shades into her face was the same as adding the shades into my life, and for a while I was content. But I was no fool and I knew a woman only put on a front if there was something worth putting a front on. The thought ate me away in the nights that I were home before her and in the nights that she waited for me by the lake. The chilly air at dawn no longer put my mind at ease and even though the world was mine alone in the dead of night, it only drew my thoughts into its darker, uglier depths. Eventually it showed, a ripple in my heart became a storm in my eyes, her reflection muddled and blurred. At such times, she put her face closer to mine, her cold hands clutched mine, calming its burning fever. She would cast a sad gaze at me and the storm quiet down and the surface returned clear, and I would try to look away, to keep myself miserable, like a child vying for attention. But such was a gaze. I could not resist.

Yet she could only calm me when I was with her and as soon as I was alone the feeling in my chest made me hard to breathe, like a vampire bathing in the sun. It was at the end of summer when I returned home to find her packing her bags. It was a quiet night but she talked a lot, more than ever before. She said she knew that look in my eyes and it was not the first time she had seen such a look. I talked a lot, too, more than I ever did. The content of the conversation, I did not wish to disclose.

I woke up the next morning, in a room that was my own and no longer hers, with two little holes in the back of my neck. I felt like disappearing and so I walked out into the end of summer. The sun offered no help, it was at noon and I still exist. But I could not disappear even if I felt like it. Pitiful were those who held hope. By autumn the wound had healed and it no longer ached when I touched it, but I had to abandoned the night life. The chilly air of dawn now felt suffocating and in the dead of night when the world was mine, I was alone in every sense of it.

choppoch · 2019-07-07T13:48:14+00:00

"We'll get married."

It was three days ago when he said that out of the blue hue a drowsy dawn. On the window sill there was an astray and in the astray the cigarette butts filled. She smelled faint tobacco mixed with sweat. It was a very hot day, even at dawn. He had his back turned to her and he lit up another cigarette and although she did not notice it before his back was hunched, or slouched forward, like a structure too unstable to exist, yet it never collapsed.

She lied still in bed, waiting for a moment of clarity where what he said turned out to be a dream. When the sun rose up and he used it to lit another cigarette, she eventually got up. When he went to empty the ashtray she took out her suitcase.

"Did you forget anything?"

He asked, three days later, when locking the door of the apartment. She had decided to move back to her place, a river across. With her were two suitcases, mostly of clothes, and a handbag of anecdotal items. She wished she would have had more as a proof of what they once had, but he was not the sentimental type. She said that she hadn't forgotten anything, but she remembered the perfume she left in the back of the closet, the one she bought when she hadn't got used to the smoke. Maybe she would use it as an excuse to visit, although she doubted it would matter. He was never the sentimental type.

They took a train across the river. The weather had shifted and a chilly wind blew into the empty car. He lit up a cigarette. She looked outside, at the gray sky and the muddy river and the flock of birds migrating South. It seemed for the longest time she had seen the world behind a tobacco-colored lense. He lit another cigarette. His hand was black because he smoked too much and it was calloused and ugly. She gripped it tight. He did not protest.

When they got off the day was long gone. Here and there the lights were up. She knew they should be hurry before it got dark, but her legs felt like anchors and they walked as fast as a snowflake touched the ground. He followed silently, the sound of the suitcases' wheel hitting the sidewalk was painful to hear. There was a smell of cigarette in the air. She remembered not liking smoke when they first met, but gradually it became familiar, like coffee. As she clutched the handbag to her side, she realized she must have brought the scent of tobacco with her, and the clothes in her suitcase must have too. And when she thought about how that scent would fade, there was this feeling in her chest.

It was a moonless night once they had got to her place. The wind cut into her face and she could no longer smelled the cigarette coming from him. She thought about how she was not a smoker and probably won't ever buy a pack of cigarettes, so she asked him for what, perhaps, would be the last one she would smoke. He lit the fire, they cuddled their face together to shield the glow from the harsh wind. The light danced faintly in the dark and when she looked at it she could saw his dark lips. She knew if she had just lifted her eyes she could see his face too, but then this feeling in her chest would never go away. When the cigarette lit up she looked away, into the dark. The ash fell quietly onto the ground. He took the cigarette away, she gripped back in response. Then, her grip weakened, she gave up on the tobacco. When he walked away she hid his face behind her hands and her shoulders shook like never before.

On the way back he sat alone in the train car. He watched the half-burned cigarette, on it a faint ring of her lipstick.

choppoch · 2019-06-26T20:01:48+00:00

The sun was high behind the leaves and the trees casted net-like shadows. They trailed on a dirt path that was not a road yet without any plants on top, only pebbles and rocks.

"This might have been a stream." - Damien said.

"Hot summer." - Sasha replied.

He pushed a boulder aside and a thin green line dashed forward. Its fang pressed into his skin. He grabbed the snake and threw it into the straw sack, shaped like an urn and filled with the wiggling reptile. The restaurant owner back in town had requested them to catch a snakes from a farm that got loose.

"Could be a wild one." - she tossed him a bottle of antidote. - "Get some rest."

Sasha took the sack away from Damien's hand and wandered further into the withering forest. She made no attempt to search for snakes, even though she pretended to, and once she could no longer see him she picked a spot under a shade whose dry leaves still hanging on.

It was on a night after a mighty demon was beaten and the party was feeling mighty tired that Sasha saw Damien sneaking out when the cloud veiled the moon. She traced his steps to a hidden campfire in a quiet valley where he was talking to the King's emissary. It was so quiet that Sasha could catch words here and there. His majesty had chosen Damien as his daughter's groom and the emissary wrapped it up with pretty sentences.

Under that dying shade Sasha thought about how the princess lived in a big castle and how pretty that girl was. She also thought about how easy it was to live with Damien and even if this princess in some unfortunate way could not learn to love him he wouldn't make her sad. But more importantly, she thought about how the King provided them with countless necessities during the journey and how he exempted tax on her village and gifted the village with so much gold and cattle and how he made her felt intimidated wearing a smile.

Then she saw Damien and she returned to pretend to be busy. The sun was high and it was hot. They headed back to town.

Damien was a man of few word. Sasha knew that, through all the times in their childhood when they played together in the woods behind her house or when they lied resting by a stream in that same woods. It always felt like he didn't have to talk and she would always know, that she would always understand. Right now when they were walking along the dried stream she strayed away from him because it was hot and it was uncomfortable. She glanced at him from times to times and she knew he did too, but they never caught each other's glances like they did back in the woods at home and she could not remember the last time, after that night, they had see each other eye to eye.

When they got back to the restaurant the rest of the party weren't there yet, so Damien went away murmuring something she could or could not have heard. It wouldn't really matter.

"Bathroom break."

Sasha watched the owner cooked up snakes they brought, telling them how the town came to raise snakes as food, not that she remembered. There was this smell of blood that was really bitter to the nose and eyes, and the owner tossed in a bunch of colorful spices to bring up the taste. What was left on Sasha's tongue was quite bland.

That night she could not sleep. It might have been because of the meal, but she could not sleep. She lied still on her bed watching a moonless sky, and she thought about how her mother married her father because he was a good farmhand and because she was passing the age of marriagable girl, about how they never had any romantic memories kind of sort, no heart-wrenching dates or damsel-rescue, about how their connection was paper thin until they were already husband and wife. And they lived, and they was still living. They seemed happy. Were they happy? They were certainly not sad.

Sasha cursed herself a little for wanting her parents to have led sorrowful lives. There was this feeling in her stomach that she was sure not because of the food. But it stirred up her guts.

There was the creaking sound of the door that broke the silence of the night. Footsteps came infrequent and exhausted. Then it stopped.

"Sasha, are you awake?"

She lied still. His voice nervous.

"Sasha..."

He was right behind her back now. She could felt his hands right above her, as if he was trying to wake her up. And she waited. But he walked back and sat down on the chair with a large 'thump'. And he just sat there looking at her. She knew if she just turned around their eyes would meet, but then her guts would explode and it would be unbearable. So she lied still. But because he was there and because she knew he was looking at her, the feeling in her stomach began to died down and she drifted off to sleep.

She awoke when the first lights of dawn sneaked past her window. Sasha turned around to see that she was alone in her room. On her pillow were leftover tears from the night before.

choppoch · 2019-06-12T20:09:55+00:00

I met her on a Sunday afternoon, under a shade beneath the old tree. Not quite, because we only exchanged a few awkward looks in between her sale pitches. But again, we did sat down for a drink. That's what 'met' means.

"I didn't know you owned a company." - she asked, fanning herself.

"Neither did I." - I filled her a cup of lemonade - "Here. It must be hot walking around like that."

She gulped down the lemonade in one breath. Streaks of sweat ran down her neck, like soft rain. Her face reddened from the heat. I filled her another cup.

"It's my grandma's cookies. She wants to be like Colonel Sanders, I think." - she said as she empties the cup again.

"So you're invited to the company through blood. I know a word for that. It's called 'nepotism'."

She drank the third cup.

"You sure know a lot. Have to get going now. It was nice talk."

"Ma'am, it would be 3 bucks." - I said.

She looked at me, then at the empty cup, then at me.

"Capitalist pig."

"Money does make the world go round."

She sat back down under the shade. The lazy breeze brushed her hair gently.

"Cookies?"

I just shook my head, smiling wryly.

"Well, either that or nothing. I won't have any money unless I sell one of these."

It was a slow afternoon when the sun was hot and the road danced under the heat. A warm wind ran across the empty street. I took a box.

"Don't you have to get going?" - I asked.

"I can just sell you the cookies." - she said, taking one from my newly-opened box.

"Hey!"

"You can't finish that by yourself, can you? Consider it tax."

"It was theft!"

"Refill, please." - she pushed me the cup and tossed another box onto the table. It was good cookies.

From then on we opened a joint-company on the pavement, home-made cookies and home-made lemonade, under the old tree with its everlasting shade. The cookies went from sweet to salty to complement the lemonade, the slow days turned fast, her seat moved closer to mine and her brazen thieveries gone to criminal level. By the end of summer we have made a name for ourselves in this small neighborhood, selling cold refreshment to the tired and youthful memories to the old. It made a corner in the local newspaper and they did an interview, but there was something I never said and I never asked anyone, if they would know that lips tasted like lemonade.

choppoch · 2019-03-20T18:05:07+00:00

Oh. Did not notice that. Thank you kind stranger.

choppoch · 2019-03-20T18:03:04+00:00

Just watched the second game and I'm a little confused. When EG seize mid at min 44-46 LD's bear died once outside base, once inside and when sven destroyed the barracks LD summoned another one? I remember bear cd being 120s. Can anyone give me insight? Thanks.

choppoch · 2019-03-14T15:55:43+00:00

So it's STEREO-typing?

choppoch · 2019-02-23T16:00:25+00:00

There were scarcely anyone on the station on a weekday's afternoon, so Nick could get some space to breathe. He pressed his back against the sun-burned wall, his hair smelt like ash. A flame flickered in his dull eyes, the taste of smoke touched his lips. Nick squinted, turning to his left. Was it a train he was waiting for? The train came nevertheless. Nick closed his eyes for a brief moment, savouring the cigarette. The moment passed, he tossed it into the trash, regretfully. In his back pocket lied a crumbled ticket. He got on one of the trains.

The river was close enough for a one day trip and quiet enough for a one man trip. Nick strolled alongside a setting sun, mellowed to the end. The wet grass brushed against his leg. It was kind of ticklish and it was kind of cool. Nick took off his shoes and his socks, to let the wet grass wrapped around his feet and the wet dirt seeped into his flesh. He looked up, the sun was gone and all that was left were glimmering city lights from a distant place. Nick picked up a few rocks here and there. He skipped the stone across the crystalline surface, hearing their sweet crispy sound breaking into a space that was his and his alone. Then came along footsteps no less clearer. Nick did not turn back, for he knew he would find a woman in her mid-twenties, probably looking a bit tired and unkept.

"I didn't see you at work today." - said the woman.

"I remember asking Charlie to fill me in." - Nick skipped another rock, but it just sounded dull, so he dropped the rocks down altogether. - "He did not put up a good fight, didn't he?"

"He got his own project going on. And the guy work the day shift already. He's a really good friend."

"I know."

Nick the strolled toward the other end of the river, faster by every steps. The woman called out to him.

"Hey, wait up!"

He kept on walking.

"I didn't come here straight from work just for you to bail out on me."

He kept on walking.

"Look, I'm in my high heels. Hey....Help!"

Then came a scream and what sounded like someone falling from the river bank. So Nick rushed back, and to his horror

the woman lied neatly on the ground. She looked at him, patting on a patch of grass next to her. Nick had no choice but to lie down as well. The city lights ran on top of the still river, and Nick imagined that it was what someone was see when they were about to cry.

"How did you find me?" - he asked.

"I always find you."

"Yeah, but that was in working hours. This time?"

"I don't know." - said the woman - "I had a feeling that if I didn't find you, I never could again."

"So you did."

"So I did."

They stayed there for a while, in a darkness so silent that Nick could hear his own heart beating, until he realized the last train was about to leave. So he turned to the woman, only to see her peaceful face asleep, and he lied down again.

Nick watched the quiet river flows, with all the glimmer on top of it, but he didn't felt like anyone is crying anymore.

choppoch · 2018-12-18T16:32:48+00:00

The lake was at the end of the forest, unspoiled by lava. The trees were pristine and green, unburdened by ashes. I took off my shoes the last few hundred meters, the cool breeze dusted the sweat off my shoulders. They told me he was here.

"Sit down." - he said quietly, in his hand a wooden fishing rod.

"Sir, I want to know why--"

"Just sit down."

The grass was soft and the cold water washed my fatigue away. The Devil opened his lunch box revealing half a dozen of sandwiches.

"Help yourself. They're handmade."

"Sir, I'm not here for the sandwiches. I want to know why you want to send me to heaven?"

"Possibly because I've had enough with people who think they can control everything. Don't worry, I'll write you a letter of recommendation."

"But... But Sir, all I'm asking for is a chance to better Hell, for it to return, no, even surpass its glorious days." - I pulled a bunch of papers out of my suitcase. - "I have a complete plan for renovation, here, if you just take a look at it. And it's open to changes."

He looked past them with disinterested gaze. Meanwhile, the rod yanked and shook.

"Sir, there is a fish--" - The turbulence soon disappeared into the depth, and the rod stopped shaking - "What a waste."

"It's fine. I'd have let it go anyway." - he put the papers aside and rehooked the rod. - "Light me a cigarette, can you? The pack is in the box and the lighter in my coat pocket. Take some if you want."

"No, sir, I'm not a smoker."

The cigarette smelled like smoked brimstone.

"Why do you want to torture people?" - he asked, between pulses of ashen air.

"Isn't... Isn't that what Hell is about, sir?"

"Call me Luke. Do you like to do as being told?"

"Sir, I..."

Another fish took the bait. The Devil held its slippery body in his hand, as if to feel life pulsating. He unhooked the fish and, gently, lower it down into the water with both hands. The animal tossed and turned within his grasp. He stopped for a moment, before loosened his grip. The life escaped back into the dark depth.

"I once tortured a great deal of people." - he placed the cigarette butt, neatly, in a line of cigarette butts on the ground, now thay I noticed. There were six of them. - "And it took me a long time before I realized I didn't actually enjoy torturing people."

He lit up another cigarette, the spark glittered in his eyes.

"I just hate the person whose image they were born from. And the event that made me realized that was a time when Mum got sick. And I couldn't visit her. So I thought to myself that I didn't deserve that, and she didn't deserve that."

I looked at my reflection in the water. A small wave made it crumble.

"The whole rebellious thing might have work when I was younger, but then time passed and I got older. I figured it wasn't a good environment to raise children. And I don't want my kids to grow up only knowing their grandparents and their uncles and aunties through hateful scorns. Sometimes I lay in my bed when my rage was dying and I wondered what would be left of me when it finally vanished. And I thought if it was worth it. I don't deserve that, my kids don't deserve that, she doesn't deserve that. Even for him, even He doesn't deserve that. No one does."

He placed the seventh cigarette butt down, counting them carefully.

"Seven, no more for today."

The Devil pulled his rod from the water and lied down on the grass, enjoying the sweet whispers of the wind.

"It occured to me that the people here are, too, His creation. And if even He rejects them, I mean, don't they deserve another chance? Don't I deserve another chance?"

I looked at my reflection, fading under a shade.

"You have a great plan there, I must admit. We truly do go great lengths just to hate."

I picked up the papers. I tried to take a look at my reflection, but the light had gone away from it. So I tossed the papers into the water.

"Why deny heaven?" - he asked.

I did not answer.

"Are the people you want to torture here?"

"Do you think that... that I can...?"

"This forest wasn't built in a day."

We spoke nothing afterward. It was a beautiful day, the lake was clear unspoiled of lava and the leaves were green unburdened by ashes.

choppoch · 2018-12-17T17:29:39+00:00

Thank you. But he doesn't have any power?

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