Having not written a self reflection for over two weeks, I feel like I’m slacking off and becoming a little unproductive in my writing. I can’t even think up of a new piece to write and I need to scream! But thankfully, this piece had got me back on track.
So, first thing I want to say is the progress of my new blog. It’s not as lengthy and as interesting as my other blog, especially since I’ve only put in one entry at the start – which talks about the kind of people that I believe writers truly are.
While I haven’t spread the word about it in my new blog, it already has become an inspiration to others on my Facebook page, and I have received a handful of nice comments regarding that piece.
Maybe I’ll want to focus my blog on topics with writing and book reviews in them; kind of like in Section Two in the Star newspapers where they put up articles about books and the reading habit (along with the occasional tips for writers) every Tuesdays and Fridays.
Everyone has their own writing style. You have yours. I have mine. That’s what makes us so unique amongst the rest.
Today, I’ve just put in another entry, along with the rest of my fellow classmates. It’s an instant news article regarding the controversial issue about the international Burn a Quran Day on 9/11. Everybody is getting caught up in this competition over trying to produce the best piece, so I guess it won’t be surprising when everyone tries to take a grab out of the event happening on the actual day itself!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Craving the Horror...and the Upcoming
To some extent I'm feeling bored; almost to the brink of restlessness.
And while I always find remedies for idleness through the comforting world of pages and words, I am in need of a movie with horror written all over it.
Last month's Carrie on Cinemax was a nice back-to-earth moment to remind me of how old school films (pun intended) still show great potential.
Now I'm almost sick to my guts of having to bear with movies on Astro which are either re-runs or don't seem to have much to give a huzzah about.
Fortunately, September sees spectacular shows ahead. Now's a good time as any to compose a movie list:
1. Piranha
2. The King of Fighters
3. Resident Evil: Afterlife
4. Legend of the Guardians
And while I always find remedies for idleness through the comforting world of pages and words, I am in need of a movie with horror written all over it.
Last month's Carrie on Cinemax was a nice back-to-earth moment to remind me of how old school films (pun intended) still show great potential.
Now I'm almost sick to my guts of having to bear with movies on Astro which are either re-runs or don't seem to have much to give a huzzah about.
Fortunately, September sees spectacular shows ahead. Now's a good time as any to compose a movie list:
1. Piranha
2. The King of Fighters
3. Resident Evil: Afterlife
4. Legend of the Guardians
Sunday, August 22, 2010
What Makes A Writer?
This is dedicated to those who have laid a pen on paper; to those who share a passion for the written word.
Should you ever find yourself lost at a crossroads with your worst enemy, the block, lingering at the corner of your shoulder, always remember the kind of person you choose to be as a writer, and how you relate with it to the world:
1. Writers are trendsetters. While they may not be the pioneers for establishing brand new literary genres, they are the first to set its boundaries in terms of style and substance. They play by their rules. Sometimes they transcend out of the box, and it is their uniqueness which sets them apart from others of the same kind.
2. Writers are free-thinkers. In that sense, they have their own set of beliefs – that good will triumph over evil, a solution must be made for every conflict set, and that not everyone is as good as they seem. But mostly, a writer believes that he has a story to tell, and that the world is an audience just waiting for him to spread their words.
3. Writers are manipulators. They not only play with their words, but they play with your emotions. And it doesn’t matter what kind of genre they choose to write under – they are known to break spirits, pull at heartstrings, and even stir up feelings of old. But by the end of the day, they turn out to be charmers, because they’ll assure you there is such a thing as a happily ever after.
4. The writer is a dreamer. There is never a moment when you don’t catch him living in a world of his own. He may be listening to your conversations and even participate in social interactions, but his mind is wandering elsewhere, probably thinking up new stories, plots, characters and what should he name his next creation.
5. Writers are inspirationists. You pick up a book by your favourite author, find it to be the best read ever, and go “Damn, I wish I’d written this instead!” How often have you felt that way, and then decide you’ll write the next best thing, while inspired to find your own writing style and voice?
6. Writers are perfectionists. Every word, every sentence must be lined up piece by piece like an exact puzzle. But they know that they will never be satisfied with the final result. So they cut out, extend, shorten and add in words; hacking at every detail like an ice sculpture until it resembles perfection in all of its grandeur.
7. Writers are collectors. The average person knows of about 20,000 words, but only uses 2,000 of them in his vocabulary. A writer knows more, and collects words for his lexicon. Writers are also bibliophiles. They worship and treasure each book they have collected even better than the last, like a priceless gem.
8. The writer is the human equivalent of the sphinx. What you see on the outside is just a reflection; an exterior of the shell that only shows you what you see. He is mysterious, exclusive and keeps to himself. Secrets are a plenty within him, but don’t expect to read him like an open book – for he won’t tell you anything.
9. A writer is an artist. With his hand in grip of the pen or his fingers at the keyboard, that blank piece of paper or that empty screen starts off as his canvas. Ink flows in a writer’s blood, and it is conveyed as a string of words, lines, or sentences to create a masterpiece. His hands prance about gracefully, from which bears the fruit of music or artwork – in black and white.
10. Writers are the gods. They are idolized for being the creators of worlds and for producing believable characters with life of their own. Writers alone determine the fate of their universe and those who choose to call it home. A writer also lives free of his guilt as an executioner. For with a snap of the wrist and a sentence put down, they can end the lives they created if they choose to.
We are all of these. And yet, we are not.
Because what we choose to convey through our words, we choose to be ourselves.
Should you ever find yourself lost at a crossroads with your worst enemy, the block, lingering at the corner of your shoulder, always remember the kind of person you choose to be as a writer, and how you relate with it to the world:
1. Writers are trendsetters. While they may not be the pioneers for establishing brand new literary genres, they are the first to set its boundaries in terms of style and substance. They play by their rules. Sometimes they transcend out of the box, and it is their uniqueness which sets them apart from others of the same kind.
2. Writers are free-thinkers. In that sense, they have their own set of beliefs – that good will triumph over evil, a solution must be made for every conflict set, and that not everyone is as good as they seem. But mostly, a writer believes that he has a story to tell, and that the world is an audience just waiting for him to spread their words.
3. Writers are manipulators. They not only play with their words, but they play with your emotions. And it doesn’t matter what kind of genre they choose to write under – they are known to break spirits, pull at heartstrings, and even stir up feelings of old. But by the end of the day, they turn out to be charmers, because they’ll assure you there is such a thing as a happily ever after.
4. The writer is a dreamer. There is never a moment when you don’t catch him living in a world of his own. He may be listening to your conversations and even participate in social interactions, but his mind is wandering elsewhere, probably thinking up new stories, plots, characters and what should he name his next creation.
5. Writers are inspirationists. You pick up a book by your favourite author, find it to be the best read ever, and go “Damn, I wish I’d written this instead!” How often have you felt that way, and then decide you’ll write the next best thing, while inspired to find your own writing style and voice?
6. Writers are perfectionists. Every word, every sentence must be lined up piece by piece like an exact puzzle. But they know that they will never be satisfied with the final result. So they cut out, extend, shorten and add in words; hacking at every detail like an ice sculpture until it resembles perfection in all of its grandeur.
7. Writers are collectors. The average person knows of about 20,000 words, but only uses 2,000 of them in his vocabulary. A writer knows more, and collects words for his lexicon. Writers are also bibliophiles. They worship and treasure each book they have collected even better than the last, like a priceless gem.
8. The writer is the human equivalent of the sphinx. What you see on the outside is just a reflection; an exterior of the shell that only shows you what you see. He is mysterious, exclusive and keeps to himself. Secrets are a plenty within him, but don’t expect to read him like an open book – for he won’t tell you anything.
9. A writer is an artist. With his hand in grip of the pen or his fingers at the keyboard, that blank piece of paper or that empty screen starts off as his canvas. Ink flows in a writer’s blood, and it is conveyed as a string of words, lines, or sentences to create a masterpiece. His hands prance about gracefully, from which bears the fruit of music or artwork – in black and white.
10. Writers are the gods. They are idolized for being the creators of worlds and for producing believable characters with life of their own. Writers alone determine the fate of their universe and those who choose to call it home. A writer also lives free of his guilt as an executioner. For with a snap of the wrist and a sentence put down, they can end the lives they created if they choose to.
We are all of these. And yet, we are not.
Because what we choose to convey through our words, we choose to be ourselves.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
If Life Was A Quentin Tarantino Movie...
The universe of the malicious master of the macacbre is well-known for being bold, loud and in-your-face. So, whether you choose or not to live your life as a gun-toting hitman, a wandering swordsman, or even a Basterd, here are 10 cool reasons to live for if life was a Quentin Tarantino movie:
1. No one is ever going to reprimand you for carrying a weapon (katana, morning star, baseball bat etc.) wherever you go.
2. You must have seriously bad-ass potential if the world pauses for a moment to reveal your name on screen. (Even better if it's accompanied by blaring music; think Hugo Stiglitz!)
3. Applies to girls only, but you can get away with plotting your revenge on that unfortunate bastard who's screwed up your life.
4. The best confrontations are the ones that take place in F&B outlets.
5. Unless you're prepared to face some serious bad shit, don't go into the toilet. (pun intended)
6. If you've been given a nickname (Apache, Bear Jew, Black Mamba, The Wolf etc.), be very proud of it and live up to that name.
7. A Mexican standoff has many different meanings and variations (guns vs guns, little gun vs big shotgun, katana vs katana, machinegun in the basement vs grenades above ready to blow).
8. You get your final say as you quote Biblical phrases or information off the Internet before you send your enemy to his/her death.
9. It doesn't matter if you're speaking in a completely foreign language; others will understand you directly.
10. Every baddy gets to deliver a monologue of great importance (Bill's superhero/alter-ego theory, Hans Landa's perception of the beastly rat, etc.), which means something serious is about to go down.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Airbending? More Like Nerve-Wrecking
It's official: M Night Shaymalan is destroying children's and fans' dreams of watching their favourite TV series become a reality on the movie screen. Thank goodness that James Cameron stole the title rights to Avatar, or else that name would stick as a permanent flop. Effective CGIs and graphics sometimes aren't enough to cover a storyline so full of holes; you'd think the whole plot was cheese(y).
3. Katara dear, it's nice that you're giving us the introduction to the movie just like you do at the beginning of every episode. But you don't have to tell us what's happened or going on every 20 minutes. That's the main point of any form of entertainment: show, don't tell.
4. There's a reason why Fire Lord Ozai's face is kept hidden until Season 3. Just like Darth Vader, we want to get that impending presence of a partially-known villain who reigns havoc on the screen. (Ironic, since the voice of Ozai is Mark Hamill a.k.a Luke Skywalker) Plus, the film version of Ozai is far less from looking authorative and demonic.
5. Why are all the Firebenders freaking out when Iroh is able to manifest his own fire? That's supposed to happen in the series! And why is Firebending reduced so degradingly to the fact that you need an external source of flames? It's called harnessing the power of the sun, morons.
6. To heat things up a bit, there should have been a duel between two masters of the same element. And there were two important duels of the sort in Season 1. Zuko fought against Zhao in an Agni Kai because the latter insulted the former about being a disgrace to his father. Katara duelled Master Pakku to prove she could fight as equally as the men in the North Pole (you see, there is a point of degrading feminism). Besides, such scenes could have added an extra 10 minutes or more.
7. Shortage of time also means lack of expansion for the characters. Iroh was more fun to watch in the series (he was always the Mr. Miyagi type!). And Zuko isn't as hot-tempered and arrogant as I remembered him in the series. At least his portrayal of a tortured soul looking for redemption is something you can see in Dev Patel (who did the same with Jamal in Slumdog Millionaire).
Having said that, I need to re-watch the entire first season to clear my mind of what was tarnished in an epic masterpiece. Damn you, Shaymalan.
So what exactly makes The Last Airbender so nerve wrecking?
1. It is almost impossible to cram 20 episodes of Season 1 to make a 90 minute movie. So much of the essence and quality that made the original TV series so enjoyable to watch is suddenly lost.
2. The most obvious failure of The Last Airbender is the lack of humour found not just in the movie, but what define the characters. As a child, Aang is lively, a bit childish and just wants to have fun, which doesn't happen. Not even one smile from movie Aang. And we all know Sokka with his sense of dry wits. Ok, so we see a little of that in film, but Sokka is supposed to be over-the-top with his 'The earth is doomed!' attitude.3. Katara dear, it's nice that you're giving us the introduction to the movie just like you do at the beginning of every episode. But you don't have to tell us what's happened or going on every 20 minutes. That's the main point of any form of entertainment: show, don't tell.
4. There's a reason why Fire Lord Ozai's face is kept hidden until Season 3. Just like Darth Vader, we want to get that impending presence of a partially-known villain who reigns havoc on the screen. (Ironic, since the voice of Ozai is Mark Hamill a.k.a Luke Skywalker) Plus, the film version of Ozai is far less from looking authorative and demonic.
5. Why are all the Firebenders freaking out when Iroh is able to manifest his own fire? That's supposed to happen in the series! And why is Firebending reduced so degradingly to the fact that you need an external source of flames? It's called harnessing the power of the sun, morons.
6. To heat things up a bit, there should have been a duel between two masters of the same element. And there were two important duels of the sort in Season 1. Zuko fought against Zhao in an Agni Kai because the latter insulted the former about being a disgrace to his father. Katara duelled Master Pakku to prove she could fight as equally as the men in the North Pole (you see, there is a point of degrading feminism). Besides, such scenes could have added an extra 10 minutes or more.
7. Shortage of time also means lack of expansion for the characters. Iroh was more fun to watch in the series (he was always the Mr. Miyagi type!). And Zuko isn't as hot-tempered and arrogant as I remembered him in the series. At least his portrayal of a tortured soul looking for redemption is something you can see in Dev Patel (who did the same with Jamal in Slumdog Millionaire).
Having said that, I need to re-watch the entire first season to clear my mind of what was tarnished in an epic masterpiece. Damn you, Shaymalan.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Quick Pinch of Salt
Q: What does a housewife, an archeologist, a fox, a tigress and a pinch of salt have in common?
A: Apart from being Angelina Jolie, they all get to kick some butt.
I was fortunate enough to catch an early screening of Salt, but didn't realise that it only lasted for about 90 minutes or so. The trailer was certainly enought to fool me, but there's a sly plot twisted within its storyline. And the ending was screaming: Got to have a sequel!
Sometimes, you have endings that complete the full circle, but it's out of fandom and wanting more that the movie industry tries to please us by making sequels. And then, there those endings which leave you suspended in the air, and you're wondering what's just happened? Surely there's got to be answers.
Salt does that.
And what it shares with favourite movies of mine such as Kill Bill and Inglourious Basterds is the general idea that:
A) Feminism has a new rise in the film industry. No longer the damsels in distress in action movies, there's a new take to the term 'women warriors'.
B) When women are oppressed, scorned and betrayed, they want their revenge. And they're not afraid to get down and dirty, or even break a nail just to see some blood shed.
The question you should be asking, or rather, the tagline for this movie, isn't "Who is Salt?" but "Who the hell is really in the CIA?"
A: Apart from being Angelina Jolie, they all get to kick some butt.
I was fortunate enough to catch an early screening of Salt, but didn't realise that it only lasted for about 90 minutes or so. The trailer was certainly enought to fool me, but there's a sly plot twisted within its storyline. And the ending was screaming: Got to have a sequel!
Sometimes, you have endings that complete the full circle, but it's out of fandom and wanting more that the movie industry tries to please us by making sequels. And then, there those endings which leave you suspended in the air, and you're wondering what's just happened? Surely there's got to be answers.
Salt does that.
And what it shares with favourite movies of mine such as Kill Bill and Inglourious Basterds is the general idea that:
A) Feminism has a new rise in the film industry. No longer the damsels in distress in action movies, there's a new take to the term 'women warriors'.
B) When women are oppressed, scorned and betrayed, they want their revenge. And they're not afraid to get down and dirty, or even break a nail just to see some blood shed.
The question you should be asking, or rather, the tagline for this movie, isn't "Who is Salt?" but "Who the hell is really in the CIA?"
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Red
It is the colour of roses and blood.
It screams of fury and unyielding passion.
But to her, it is the bringer of change.
Perhaps you should know that she was once human, like you and I.
Her story may have changed from time to time, like the many phases of the moon. Nevertheless, it has always preserved something that is pure and true.
For her story is as dark as the night itself.
If only you could see through her masquerade, then you would know that her life is not all fairy tales and happily ever after as it seems.
To begin with, she is the slave of her own life. Her only living relative is her grandmother, who takes the simplest of pleasures in ordering her around. You would think that any wicked stepmother would look smaller compared to this, but every chore has become a burden.
Leave a parasite to be for far too long, and it becomes almost impossible to remove it from its place. Sometimes, it is wishful thinking that one does not have a family.
She has lost count of the number of times that she has wished the senile hag would just give in to her old age. At best, her dear grandmother could simply burst a blood vessel and die on the spot.
But that is not the reason why she is afraid.
The truth is this. She cannot bear to look the old woman in the face; for fear that her own reflection will stare back through those dense and cloudy eyes.
She wonders; will she lose her beauty someday?
Eventually, she knows that she will age with time; become as hideous and decrepit as the crone who waits for Death to come and wrest her eternal soul.
There comes that time of the year when she bleeds; a sign of her maturity. Only, it has become a painful reminder to her that she still exists. The other option was in fact decent, if not insane. Her wrists bear many scars from her many attempts to take her own life. Crazy as it seems, she has collected so much evidence that she has used it to dye her winter’s cloak, until it appears to be fashioned from her own drops of blood.
Death himself has been too oblivious to her, she believes. But she will stop at nothing to rid herself of this miserable existence.
The warnings of the townspeople heed her call, but it is enough to fall on deaf ears.
Beware, beware! Tread not into the woods!
For the hounds of hell descend upon us!
And of course, she has heard the old tales of those who went into the woods. They were never heard of again, but the wolves that lived there seemed to have increased in numbers.
Even a man who is pure in heart
And says his prayers by night
May become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright!
But her mind is made up, and she dons her blood-stained cloak. Perhaps Death lurks somewhere in the dark, mysterious forest, and she is certain that he will come to claim his prize tonight.
She was sixteen, still a virgin and conspicuously naive.
All around her, she hears the lamenting cries of the wolves. For years the forest has bred its own assassins, and now their voices echo in low, mournful tones as they sing to the moon above, forever longing to touch its celestial beauty.
Just when she thinks that she will not be able to find a creature feral enough to tear out a child’s heart, from out of nowhere, one emerges from the clearing to greet her.
That was her first meeting with a wolf.
They say that first impressions are like the craters of the moon. The deeper the impact, the longer it lasts for all to see.
She knows that this wolf is not like the others of his kind.
His snout was raised high as sniffed the air. The sharp tang of blood on her cloak was strong and luring, but he did not seem in the least interested to that. The moonbeams shined upon his luscious fur, turning it from grey to silver, as though the beauty of the night had materialised into an animal form.
Thought after thought ran endlessly through her mind. Is he alpha, beta, or omega? Is he a lone hunter, or does he runs with the pack?
In the night, his eyes searched deeply into her soul. They were golden, like the sunlight’s promise of a brand new day. She does not know whether to run from this creature, or continue to be mesmerised by the strangeness reflected in its gaze.
A low, growling noise erupts from the clearing, but she does not have the time to react as another wolf bursts forth and begins clawing and tearing at the first one. In the end, the hunter has its jaws clamped over its opponent in a chokehold, while the wolf looks pitifully at her, begging and pleading with his eyes.
In that split second, she has decided.
She will not allow him to die, like some wretched animal.
The liquid courage of adrenaline flowed through her as she picked up a stick and strikes out at the attacker. Dazed, the renegade hunter pauses to turn on her, but the wolf has regained his strength as he rips a huge chunk out of his attacker’s hind leg. She watches as the beast yelps in fury before running off, possibly to crawl up somewhere secluded and then die of its wounds.
The wolf extended his paw; an offering of its gratitude of thanks. She shakes it gently, all the while keeping a close watch of any strange behaviour that might be concealed. When she knows that he means her no harm, she leans in to stroke his furry chest.
How she wished that all her problems could be solved that easily.
As though he was able to understand her grief, the wolf whimpered as he nuzzled her hand. There was something about the way he looked at his saviour once more, as though he was trying to tell her something.
I can give you a new life. But I will have to take another.
A new life. Now that’s really something to look forward to. But to take another? In her heart, she already knows the perfect victim to sacrifice. If he is serious to his commitment, then she should give him time to prepare for what may change her life.
Therefore, she decides to give the wolf a head’s start. He acknowledges her with a mere nod, before he is swallowed by the dark forest, a trail of moonbeams left behind in his wake.
There were two paths now diverged in the midst of the woods. And being one traveller alone, she looked as far as the path could take her, all the while thinking of the consequences that might await her on either end. Her mind made up, she takes the road less travelled; the path carpeted with flowers of iridescent colours beaming in the moonlight. Perhaps a handful of nature’s gifts can tame the savage beast.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. And pansies are for thoughts.
I will bring you roses, she whispered, as a token of my love.
There is a patch of strange purple flowers that blossoms like twilight waning in the grass. Upon closer inspection, she frowns in disgust. It is aconite, otherwise known as wolfsbane to the superstitious folk. They use it to keep the wolves at bay. How trivial it seems, if humans as the dominant species are unable to defend themselves from the demons of hell; they have to resort to old wives’ tales and ancient remedies so they will feel safe in their beds at night.
But while the offer may have been gracious and sincere to her, yet wolves are well-known for being nature’s cunning politicians and ruthless murderers.
So she grabbed some. And prayed that she wouldn’t need to use it at all.
Meanwhile, the wolf runs swiftly through the forest, the wind lifting his paws off the ground with every stride.
He does not pause to catch his breath – there will be plenty of time to rest once he has brought down his prey. The thrill of the hunt excites him, courses through his veins.
At last, he stumbles across it – the old crone’s cottage at the other end of the woods. A pair of nut trees stands proudly like sentinels guarding the place, just like she told him. He breaks down the door with just a swipe of his claw, rendering the firm and solid oak into a thousand splinters.
By the way, it is really pointless to keep huffing and puffing until the house comes falling down. Especially if that house is not made of stone and bricks.
At the first sight of the old crone, the wolf bares his teeth, snarling as he raises his hackles. Then the call of the hunt resonates loud and clear from his throat, and he pounces.
The last thing the old woman remembers is a glance at the abyss of death – an endless black hole of snarling jaws and demon-sharp teeth.
She screams, but not long enough for her to feel the pain.
It is finished within seconds.
Crone flesh may be tough and chewy, but it is human nonetheless. At least its flavour increases with age, just like wine and cheese.
Sometime after he has satisfied his appetite, the wolf licks his paws meticulously and swipes his tongue over his blood-stained muzzle.
He always remembers to clean himself after every meal.
In walks the girl with the red cloak, her eyes widening in horror as she surveys the carnage of a gladiator’s sport.
Once the wolf saw her, his tongue lolled out, his rear end held high. Adoration and sympathy were etched onto her face – for a stranger, he certainly was charming to the eye.
After all, she had never seen a creature with such humane emotions.
He even wagged his bushy tail.
For a moment, he looked like an overgrown puppy, incredibly proud of the terrible deed he’d committed.
When she approached him, the savagery took over instinctively, and the wolf bared his teeth once more, now showing his aggressive side. But she was not afraid anymore, for she knew she had already gone this far not to give up.
“I am ready,” she whispers gently.
There was something so surreal about those tufted ears. They twitched eagerly at the slightest noise, all the better to hear the beating of her heart.
Then both human and animal stared longingly into each other. They were beautiful, those eyes, and they were all the better to see her with.
She shuddered at the sight of those ferocious teeth, but if he wasn’t going to eat her, then they were all the better to give the gift of life to her.
Her decision firm and absolute, she casts the wolfsbane aside and sprinkles the flowers like the first drops of rain. She leaves the clasp of her cape undone and lets it fall, revealing her body as pure as the driven snow. The girl lies in her grandmother’s bed, ready to abandon the remnants of her innocence behind in the cold eternity of sleep. When she awakens, she rises not as a child anymore, but as a fully grown woman.
Or perhaps, something more.
But tonight, he was the dominant male. He would make sure of that.
First, his soft, leathery snout caressed her skin as he sniffed curiously, slowly breathing in her scent. He allows himself to be completely immersed by her human aroma; the greatest aphrodisiac for predators.
Then he licked her all over, until the temptation to consummate finally caved in. She put her lips against his snout, wrapping her legs around the wolf’s silver-gray fur.
And to seal the deal, he nipped the base of her neck. Gently at first, his fangs tingled against the skin like music notes; sharp but rhythmically pleasant. It rouses her, and it makes him want to unleash his inner animal. With each passing second it grows deeper, more passionate.
Then he bit down, as hard as nails.
Despite the claim that wolves are indeed savage and brutal, she could tell that this one was gentler than a spring lamb. He was careful not to sever the slightest thread of life as it flowed warm and thick from her body.
After all, how many women could say that they had the chance to lie with wolves?
That was when she realised that she was truly, madly, and deeply in love.
That was when she knew she had already stepped into a brand new life.
That was when that vengeful hunter stormed into the room and tore the wolf away from her.
If you ask her what she knew on that fateful night, all she remembers is seeing a tangle of brown and grey fur with claws raking at each other, and howls that rendered the night’s silence.
By now, her life is a huge puddle awash on the floor; she can hardly keep herself awake.
It is almost impossible to predict the state of the outcome in this dreary state...
She has never fully recovered from the state of fear she had found herself in when she came to her senses a few days later. The townspeople who had managed to save her from the brink of death whispered amongst themselves in fearful hushes. You see, something had died inside of her, yet they cannot make out what it was.
By day, she is human, like you and I; a mere plaything to the naked eye.
But by nightfall, when the beast has taken over her completely, she runs wild; more freely than any bird in the sky.
A change in a woman’s heart is often quite noticeable, and it doesn’t take long for either man or wolf to want her as a companion. But she will not have them. She has decided on her mate, and she will prowl the ends of the earth until she has proof that he still exists...
She stumbled across his body a few days later. But the hunters had already made quick work of her mate-to-be. He’d been gutted like a fish, and then turned inside out. His skin hung like some grotesque trophy in the sun – waiting to be turned into a mat, where his final resting spot would be that beside the fireplace.
She has never cried nor howled at the moon so forlornly in her life. But it wasn’t long before an epiphany had risen in the midst of her grief:
In all of creation, there results destruction. And with every destruction, creation rises like a phoenix from the ashes.
Unlike most of her newfound kind, the fate of the moon does not affect her metamorphosis. And while she may not have found her killer, but that despicable mongrel has left behind a trail which reeks of death and decay. It won’t be long before she will finally catch up to her prey.
But this she is sure of: when the moon has reached its highest peak, that renegade hunter shall cease to exist, and she will have earned the respect and leadership of a pack of her own.
After all, it is written in the lupine law – you kill not only for pride and glory, but mostly for position. But there is no decree which states that you cannot kill for revenge. Or for a wolf’s love.
Somewhere in the heavens above, her mate has become one with the moon at last.
And that is what she commemorates her first kill to.
She will think of him always when she slays.
But most of all, she will remember a life she once had, a life now left behind.
A life that flowed in blood, as red as her riding hood...
It screams of fury and unyielding passion.
But to her, it is the bringer of change.
Perhaps you should know that she was once human, like you and I.
Her story may have changed from time to time, like the many phases of the moon. Nevertheless, it has always preserved something that is pure and true.
For her story is as dark as the night itself.
If only you could see through her masquerade, then you would know that her life is not all fairy tales and happily ever after as it seems.
To begin with, she is the slave of her own life. Her only living relative is her grandmother, who takes the simplest of pleasures in ordering her around. You would think that any wicked stepmother would look smaller compared to this, but every chore has become a burden.
Leave a parasite to be for far too long, and it becomes almost impossible to remove it from its place. Sometimes, it is wishful thinking that one does not have a family.
She has lost count of the number of times that she has wished the senile hag would just give in to her old age. At best, her dear grandmother could simply burst a blood vessel and die on the spot.
But that is not the reason why she is afraid.
The truth is this. She cannot bear to look the old woman in the face; for fear that her own reflection will stare back through those dense and cloudy eyes.
She wonders; will she lose her beauty someday?
Eventually, she knows that she will age with time; become as hideous and decrepit as the crone who waits for Death to come and wrest her eternal soul.
There comes that time of the year when she bleeds; a sign of her maturity. Only, it has become a painful reminder to her that she still exists. The other option was in fact decent, if not insane. Her wrists bear many scars from her many attempts to take her own life. Crazy as it seems, she has collected so much evidence that she has used it to dye her winter’s cloak, until it appears to be fashioned from her own drops of blood.
Death himself has been too oblivious to her, she believes. But she will stop at nothing to rid herself of this miserable existence.
The warnings of the townspeople heed her call, but it is enough to fall on deaf ears.
Beware, beware! Tread not into the woods!
For the hounds of hell descend upon us!
And of course, she has heard the old tales of those who went into the woods. They were never heard of again, but the wolves that lived there seemed to have increased in numbers.
Even a man who is pure in heart
And says his prayers by night
May become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright!
But her mind is made up, and she dons her blood-stained cloak. Perhaps Death lurks somewhere in the dark, mysterious forest, and she is certain that he will come to claim his prize tonight.
She was sixteen, still a virgin and conspicuously naive.
All around her, she hears the lamenting cries of the wolves. For years the forest has bred its own assassins, and now their voices echo in low, mournful tones as they sing to the moon above, forever longing to touch its celestial beauty.
Just when she thinks that she will not be able to find a creature feral enough to tear out a child’s heart, from out of nowhere, one emerges from the clearing to greet her.
That was her first meeting with a wolf.
They say that first impressions are like the craters of the moon. The deeper the impact, the longer it lasts for all to see.
She knows that this wolf is not like the others of his kind.
His snout was raised high as sniffed the air. The sharp tang of blood on her cloak was strong and luring, but he did not seem in the least interested to that. The moonbeams shined upon his luscious fur, turning it from grey to silver, as though the beauty of the night had materialised into an animal form.
Thought after thought ran endlessly through her mind. Is he alpha, beta, or omega? Is he a lone hunter, or does he runs with the pack?
In the night, his eyes searched deeply into her soul. They were golden, like the sunlight’s promise of a brand new day. She does not know whether to run from this creature, or continue to be mesmerised by the strangeness reflected in its gaze.
A low, growling noise erupts from the clearing, but she does not have the time to react as another wolf bursts forth and begins clawing and tearing at the first one. In the end, the hunter has its jaws clamped over its opponent in a chokehold, while the wolf looks pitifully at her, begging and pleading with his eyes.
In that split second, she has decided.
She will not allow him to die, like some wretched animal.
The liquid courage of adrenaline flowed through her as she picked up a stick and strikes out at the attacker. Dazed, the renegade hunter pauses to turn on her, but the wolf has regained his strength as he rips a huge chunk out of his attacker’s hind leg. She watches as the beast yelps in fury before running off, possibly to crawl up somewhere secluded and then die of its wounds.
The wolf extended his paw; an offering of its gratitude of thanks. She shakes it gently, all the while keeping a close watch of any strange behaviour that might be concealed. When she knows that he means her no harm, she leans in to stroke his furry chest.
How she wished that all her problems could be solved that easily.
As though he was able to understand her grief, the wolf whimpered as he nuzzled her hand. There was something about the way he looked at his saviour once more, as though he was trying to tell her something.
I can give you a new life. But I will have to take another.
A new life. Now that’s really something to look forward to. But to take another? In her heart, she already knows the perfect victim to sacrifice. If he is serious to his commitment, then she should give him time to prepare for what may change her life.
Therefore, she decides to give the wolf a head’s start. He acknowledges her with a mere nod, before he is swallowed by the dark forest, a trail of moonbeams left behind in his wake.
There were two paths now diverged in the midst of the woods. And being one traveller alone, she looked as far as the path could take her, all the while thinking of the consequences that might await her on either end. Her mind made up, she takes the road less travelled; the path carpeted with flowers of iridescent colours beaming in the moonlight. Perhaps a handful of nature’s gifts can tame the savage beast.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. And pansies are for thoughts.
I will bring you roses, she whispered, as a token of my love.
There is a patch of strange purple flowers that blossoms like twilight waning in the grass. Upon closer inspection, she frowns in disgust. It is aconite, otherwise known as wolfsbane to the superstitious folk. They use it to keep the wolves at bay. How trivial it seems, if humans as the dominant species are unable to defend themselves from the demons of hell; they have to resort to old wives’ tales and ancient remedies so they will feel safe in their beds at night.
But while the offer may have been gracious and sincere to her, yet wolves are well-known for being nature’s cunning politicians and ruthless murderers.
So she grabbed some. And prayed that she wouldn’t need to use it at all.
Meanwhile, the wolf runs swiftly through the forest, the wind lifting his paws off the ground with every stride.
He does not pause to catch his breath – there will be plenty of time to rest once he has brought down his prey. The thrill of the hunt excites him, courses through his veins.
At last, he stumbles across it – the old crone’s cottage at the other end of the woods. A pair of nut trees stands proudly like sentinels guarding the place, just like she told him. He breaks down the door with just a swipe of his claw, rendering the firm and solid oak into a thousand splinters.
By the way, it is really pointless to keep huffing and puffing until the house comes falling down. Especially if that house is not made of stone and bricks.
At the first sight of the old crone, the wolf bares his teeth, snarling as he raises his hackles. Then the call of the hunt resonates loud and clear from his throat, and he pounces.
The last thing the old woman remembers is a glance at the abyss of death – an endless black hole of snarling jaws and demon-sharp teeth.
She screams, but not long enough for her to feel the pain.
It is finished within seconds.
Crone flesh may be tough and chewy, but it is human nonetheless. At least its flavour increases with age, just like wine and cheese.
Sometime after he has satisfied his appetite, the wolf licks his paws meticulously and swipes his tongue over his blood-stained muzzle.
He always remembers to clean himself after every meal.
In walks the girl with the red cloak, her eyes widening in horror as she surveys the carnage of a gladiator’s sport.
Once the wolf saw her, his tongue lolled out, his rear end held high. Adoration and sympathy were etched onto her face – for a stranger, he certainly was charming to the eye.
After all, she had never seen a creature with such humane emotions.
He even wagged his bushy tail.
For a moment, he looked like an overgrown puppy, incredibly proud of the terrible deed he’d committed.
When she approached him, the savagery took over instinctively, and the wolf bared his teeth once more, now showing his aggressive side. But she was not afraid anymore, for she knew she had already gone this far not to give up.
“I am ready,” she whispers gently.
There was something so surreal about those tufted ears. They twitched eagerly at the slightest noise, all the better to hear the beating of her heart.
Then both human and animal stared longingly into each other. They were beautiful, those eyes, and they were all the better to see her with.
She shuddered at the sight of those ferocious teeth, but if he wasn’t going to eat her, then they were all the better to give the gift of life to her.
Her decision firm and absolute, she casts the wolfsbane aside and sprinkles the flowers like the first drops of rain. She leaves the clasp of her cape undone and lets it fall, revealing her body as pure as the driven snow. The girl lies in her grandmother’s bed, ready to abandon the remnants of her innocence behind in the cold eternity of sleep. When she awakens, she rises not as a child anymore, but as a fully grown woman.
Or perhaps, something more.
But tonight, he was the dominant male. He would make sure of that.
First, his soft, leathery snout caressed her skin as he sniffed curiously, slowly breathing in her scent. He allows himself to be completely immersed by her human aroma; the greatest aphrodisiac for predators.
Then he licked her all over, until the temptation to consummate finally caved in. She put her lips against his snout, wrapping her legs around the wolf’s silver-gray fur.
And to seal the deal, he nipped the base of her neck. Gently at first, his fangs tingled against the skin like music notes; sharp but rhythmically pleasant. It rouses her, and it makes him want to unleash his inner animal. With each passing second it grows deeper, more passionate.
Then he bit down, as hard as nails.
Despite the claim that wolves are indeed savage and brutal, she could tell that this one was gentler than a spring lamb. He was careful not to sever the slightest thread of life as it flowed warm and thick from her body.
After all, how many women could say that they had the chance to lie with wolves?
That was when she realised that she was truly, madly, and deeply in love.
That was when she knew she had already stepped into a brand new life.
That was when that vengeful hunter stormed into the room and tore the wolf away from her.
If you ask her what she knew on that fateful night, all she remembers is seeing a tangle of brown and grey fur with claws raking at each other, and howls that rendered the night’s silence.
By now, her life is a huge puddle awash on the floor; she can hardly keep herself awake.
It is almost impossible to predict the state of the outcome in this dreary state...
She has never fully recovered from the state of fear she had found herself in when she came to her senses a few days later. The townspeople who had managed to save her from the brink of death whispered amongst themselves in fearful hushes. You see, something had died inside of her, yet they cannot make out what it was.
By day, she is human, like you and I; a mere plaything to the naked eye.
But by nightfall, when the beast has taken over her completely, she runs wild; more freely than any bird in the sky.
A change in a woman’s heart is often quite noticeable, and it doesn’t take long for either man or wolf to want her as a companion. But she will not have them. She has decided on her mate, and she will prowl the ends of the earth until she has proof that he still exists...
She stumbled across his body a few days later. But the hunters had already made quick work of her mate-to-be. He’d been gutted like a fish, and then turned inside out. His skin hung like some grotesque trophy in the sun – waiting to be turned into a mat, where his final resting spot would be that beside the fireplace.
She has never cried nor howled at the moon so forlornly in her life. But it wasn’t long before an epiphany had risen in the midst of her grief:
In all of creation, there results destruction. And with every destruction, creation rises like a phoenix from the ashes.
Unlike most of her newfound kind, the fate of the moon does not affect her metamorphosis. And while she may not have found her killer, but that despicable mongrel has left behind a trail which reeks of death and decay. It won’t be long before she will finally catch up to her prey.
But this she is sure of: when the moon has reached its highest peak, that renegade hunter shall cease to exist, and she will have earned the respect and leadership of a pack of her own.
After all, it is written in the lupine law – you kill not only for pride and glory, but mostly for position. But there is no decree which states that you cannot kill for revenge. Or for a wolf’s love.
Somewhere in the heavens above, her mate has become one with the moon at last.
And that is what she commemorates her first kill to.
She will think of him always when she slays.
But most of all, she will remember a life she once had, a life now left behind.
A life that flowed in blood, as red as her riding hood...
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