Fiction - Live from Baghdad

Live from Baghdad

By Le Chupacabra

The watery Sun slunk slowly over the vast dunes and crumbling ruins, bringing with it a pale twilight and a sharp drop in temperature.

Hamid let his rifle sling loose as he cupped his hands and lit a cigarette, the flame from the match illuminating alert yet blood-shot eyes; he hadn't slept in three days. Just as he began savouring the coarse graininess of the smoke from the burning tobacco, a gnarled hand deftly snatched the treat from his lips.

“You do not want to give away our position to the Americans… and especially not after what happened a week back!” barked a low voice. The speaker then took a quick puff and then flicked it downwards. The second the cigarette hit the ground, it was covered in a shower of sand kicked by the old man. Khaleef glared lividly at Hamid, his eyes looking as dangerous as the AK-47 he cradled in his wiry arms.

A scathing, nasal voice came out of the crumbling mud hut the two guards stood in front of: “Yeah, kid. Saddam Hussein will be incarcerated, held in trial and then… who knows what. However, even those Capitalist dogs need testimonies despite what he's done. Information about the subversive militant groups is also a bonus for them. I'm a man with both. So feel free to light a beacon for the Americans.” The man finished with a nasty laugh.

It was soon after Saddam Hussein's shocking capture that Hamid and his fellow militants were mobilised. They had to abscond with and protect a man who possessed much sensitive information. Hamid didn't quite understand why the man deserved to be kept at bay from the Americans; after all, whatever happened to their once-omnipotent dictator wouldn't be anything he didn't deserve. When Khaleef quietly pointed out how the man's information could reveal essential facts regarding the resistance groups to the invading forces, Hamid slowly began to appreciate the true weight of the onus upon him. Most of his friends were part of such groups, and having them captured or killed without a fair fight was a thought that greatly angered the proud young man.

With the knowledge that their risky mission would be ended the next day and the tempting coolness of the desert night beckoning him, Hamid found himself slumping lazily against the wall of the hut.

“Hamid get up you fool, we have company!” Khaleef's vice-like grip on his shoulder jerked Hamid awake.

With a sudden gasp and a violent surge of anger at himself, Hamid's eyelids flew open. He quickly bore the rifle to a firing position and made to surge forward, his heart hammering and head pounding. Khaleef had not let go and he forcibly shoved the lad back onto the ground.

“We're not supposed to have any contact with anyone yet. It's the American hounds sniffing for Yasser!” spat Khaleef into Hamid's ear.

Hamid focused his eyes towards the expanse of desert in front of him. Sure enough, there were five hazy figures cautiously making their way towards the hut. Battle lust slowly creeping into every fibre of his body, Hamid fought the urge to burst forward. He looked at Khaleef for orders. The old gaffer had puffed his cheeks and started rocking his body back and forth, his eyes glassy and distracted. He suddenly blew out the air, nodded at Hamid and quickly whispered: “Stay low and hold until I open fire. I informed Yasser and the other two of the situation while you were sleeping.” Hamid bit his lower lip at the words.

Hamid slowly crawled towards the heaped pile of sandbags in front of him and followed the stealthy progress of the soldiers with immense distaste. The tension was slowly mounting to maddening heights; Hamid's hands grew numb with his increasingly tight grip on the rifle. Despite the chill of the desert night, he was sweating profusely in anticipation.

Mere thoughts turned into reality.

The advancing soldiers stalled briefly and then without warning, shot forward spreading themselves as they did. The men on the extreme ends dispersed further and further; they were going to flank the defenders. However, seeing no opposition greet them, the oncoming Americans held their fire. Hamid found his head snapping back and forth as he glanced at Khaleef and then towards the soldiers and then towards Khaleef again. Just as the three attackers reached the sandbags, Khaleef sprang up and fired his AK-47 in a sweeping arc. The Americans quickly dropped, rolled and began retaliating with their automatic weapons. One of them remained on the ground. From the backside of the building, there came shouts and more gunfire. With the sounds of battle echoing all around him, Hamid quickly peered over the sandbags and took careful aim. The attackers had little cover and yet another fell where he stood. Just as he began to draw a bead on the second - Khaleef was reloading - Hamid heard a bloodcurdling yell behind him. It was quickly followed by more shouts and a sickening gurgling noise. He stood up, ignoring Khaleef's yell and whipped around to run towards the back. He only remembered how warm his left shoulder felt before he passed out.

Hamid awoke to find a pale light growing in the eastern sky. He made to rub his bleary eyes but found out that he couldn't move his left arm. He pushed himself to a sitting position and saw that his arm had been clumsily bandaged in a blood-sodden old rag. The events of the night came flooding back to him and as the nausea overtook him, Hamid found himself staring at a pool of his own vomit.

A dull scratching noise came from behind the hut and Hamid slowly stood up and made his way towards the source of the sound. Old Khaleef and a whipcord thin man in black were digging the ground behind the hut. Hamid trudged drunkenly towards the duo and as he reached them, they quickly whipped around. The thin man had a serrated knife in his hands which he hastily stowed away as Hamid approached; however, the young man still caught a glimpse of the dry blood on the blade.

He looked at the freshly dug ground and saw a body in military fatigues being buried in the sand. He couldn't help noticing how the pants did not match with the jacket, but the sudden question put that observation out of his head.

“You're making graves for the American dogs?” spat Hamid.

“Them and for Ali and Omar as well. In death, we are nothing but flesh and bone.” said Khaleef sombrely. “Here, Ali would appreciate it if you could return this to his family.” With that, Khaleef chucked a shiny object at the shock-stricken Hamid. Hamid bent down to pick up a blood-covered tasbih from the ground.

There was congealed blood on the chain which looked like it had snapped; there was also a deep gash on the tasbih itself. Squinting back tears, Hamid slowly stood up. As he did so, a glitter caught his eyes. There was a shiny metallic object protruding from the balaclava-clad American's neck.

“Is… is that a tasbih?” Hamid exclaimed, his brows furrowed and his face contorted.

The thin man, Yasser, turned around and as he did so, blocked Hamid's view of the corpse. He bent down and seemed to be examining the object. His head gave the briefest of flicks towards Khaleef's face.

“The bastard was probably keeping it as a battle token after killing an Iraqi brother.” he said slowly, looking at Khaleef as he did. Hamid thought his face looked quite strained, even from the side. Yasser's eyes briefly glanced at Hamid and for that fraction of time, there seemed to be an impalpably oppressive feeling of uneasiness in the air.

Khaleef turned towards Hamid and gave him a wan smile.

“They should be coming to move Yasser to a safer location soon. Our mission is a success. You go rest inside the hut, you're injured after all.”

Hamid did not return the smile and headed back.

Hamid's dreams were increasingly punctuated by a dull, rhythmic noise that slowly melded into the events of last night. In his sleep, Hamid watched as Khaleef unloaded his AK-47 on the enemies; the repetitive report of gunfire growing ever louder. In the midst of this deafening din, he heard someone shout behind the hut. It wasn't Ali, it wasn't Omar and it wasn't Yasser - it was one of the Americans. Except he wasn't yelling in English, he was yelling in Arabic. Hamid had caught one word before he passed out: traitor.

With a violent jerk, he sat awake. A dull beating noise reverberated around him, interspersed with intense whirring; the ground seemed to be rumbling slightly. A sudden fear of the unknown gripping him, Hamid looked for his rifle. Not finding it near him, he quickly crawled to the door and peered out a crack near the bottom. It was a sight beyond his wildest nightmares.

It was Yasser and Khaleef shaking hands in turn with what looked like an American soldier. Behind them was a large black helicopter with formidable looking machine gun on the left side of the cockpit. Hamid barely managed to catch the American's heavily accented English of which he understood a little.

“The President of the United States and I'm sure, the people of your country, are grateful for your hard work in order to help us bring about peace. I personally extend the hands of the White House by thanking you and your men for protecting Mr Yasser for us. He will be invaluable in leading the coalition to help secure the country for you, the people.”

Already stunned, Hamid craned his ears to hear Khaleef's lilting English: “Yaas. It was pleasure to help. Unfortunately, men from our village accidentally found out. They attack us in American army uniform. Two of my men realised it. Sadly, we had to sacrifice - sadly, brothers' blood was spilt. And…”

But he was cut off by the American who raised his hand sharply.

“Of course. You will be compensated provided you hold onto the agreement. We were never here and this never happened. Your fellow men died valiantly in a skirmish with some of our soldiers. They killed five before they died.” It was an order, not a suggestion. The man quickly called over two soldiers and whispered something urgently to them. The soldiers grasped inside their shirts and took out shiny pieces of metal and handed it over to their commander. The commander handed these dogtags to Khaleef. “There's some proof of their jee-haad!” The commander sharply saluted and barked an order to everyone. Yasser followed two of the soldiers and boarded the helicopter, a sly smile playing around his lips. The commander saluted to Khaleef once more and climbed into the cockpit. The pilot nodded and the vehicle lifted off, showering everything with a small sandstorm.

Slowly, the swirling sands settled and then there was silence.

Fiction - The Sign

The Sign

(Based on an actual event)

All the walls around him suddenly collapsed and crumbled into ashes. He choked as the dust clouds swirled and fine particles clotted his throat, his nostrils. As the dust settled, only darkness surrounded him. A mournful wailing sound reverberated all around him and stopped as suddenly as it began. Then, out of the darkness emerged a creature robed in black. Its dark eyes glinted malevolently. It pointed at him. On command, hundreds of black beings materialised and formed a circle around him. They raised their terrible shining weapons at him. The man uttered a name and begged for forgiveness, first on reflex and then in desperation. He was surprised to realise that he meant it. Fires flashed all around him and shards of white-hot pain lanced throughout his body. Then he began to fall…

The man woke up, his head jerking violently upwards. He impulsively ran his hand all across his chest area - there were no bullet holes. His ragged breathing slowed down, although his heart pumped like it had never done before. He looked around him. The room seemed unnaturally bright with almost an ethereal aura. Time, it felt, had slowed down.

Slowly the horrific dream faded away into something far worse: reality. The surreal melded into the secular and thousands of thoughts rushed in. The man carefully stood up, only to sit back down as his head spun with nausea. His entire body ached and he closed his eyes to momentarily dull the pain. It worked, but the effects were short-lived. As soon as he opened his eyelids, the throbbing pain returned afresh.

He raised his left arm to check the time - it had only been a mere three minutes since he had dozed off. Despite such an ominous nightmare, it was the most peaceful three minutes he had that whole day - and given his state of mind, it was probably the most peaceful time he had ever experienced in his life.

His beard was dank and unkempt, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. His clothes, drenched with bodily fluid, stuck to his body and felt unnaturally heavy. Or was it something else that created such an overpowering feeling of carrying an impossible burden? His bones creaked with arthritic pain, and his muscles, far past their prime, sagged and felt more like dead weights than support. This was a defeated man. Yet that fact could only be gleaned from physical appearance alone; his eyes still shone with a strange feral light - like an animal fighting fervently against the inevitable.

Time seemed to be caught in a limbo of speed - at moments it felt that it was moving along at an astonishing pace, while at others it felt like it dragged on, enunciating each painful second. During those lulls almost every fibre in his body wanted to sag and give in. However, that feeling was immediately replaced by a furious desire to do something rash, something memorable - something that would not undermine his existence and more importantly, his reputation.

The past few years of meticulous planning and procedure had culminated into a thirty-something hour siege by the notoriously demonic RAB forces. The man's emotions flared up - he knew the truth behind all the 'cross-fire' incidents. He knew how they used an iron fist to lay out justice. What angered him the most was that they had no greater purpose. No, they were not like him. What did they know about true greatness?

The only thing he had in common - and that was a feeling that was mingled with immense disgust - with the infidels was that he was not afraid to take lives whilst on the path to his goal. If one did not cull the herd, then what quality remained would deteriorate. Fear was a potent weapon and a supreme equaliser in his opinion - it allowed men to know where they belonged and what they truly were.

Visions of the future flitted in front of the man. After all, was he not like those who declared Independence those thirty-five years ago? The images of power and acceptance were suddenly and brutally replaced with him begging for forgiveness - not from the Lord to whom he prayed - but from those outside. The apparition was so sudden that it startled the man. He clenched his fists and roared obscenities at the invading forces. His voice was already hoarse from all the yelling he had done before.

As soon as he stopped, there was a silence, a deathly silence that chilled the bone. All the fighting, the explosions, the shouting - “What was their worth?” the man almost cried out to himself. He then looked up at the browning ceiling and viciously directed his thoughts at the heavens above. So what if he had killed. So what if he had gone through the path of violence. Weren't jihads a part of his religion? He had conformed to all aspects of religion, so where was his reward? The ironclad faith which he had unflinchingly believed in and which he had strongly imparted to his followers - it was beginning to fade. Or did it even exist in the first place?

He knew what was in store, he knew the consequences - yet 'knowing' accounted for nothing. He was facing a sudden stretch of darkness in front of him. All his idealistic plans for his religion were suddenly snatched away from him - a definite future shattered. He realised, only too late, that there was nothing to look forward to. Left in uncertainty, the man could feel his mind slowly unravel. If the process took any longer, he would cease to be himself. He would die and in his place would be a deranged madman. Or, would it be the other way around? Would the man that came after him be the sane one?

Random thoughts rushed through in a dizzying manner. When he had sent his family away within the early hours, was it merely for their safety or was it that their involvement might have diminished his role as the central figure. He wondered what his followers would think - that he was weak? That he could not hold onto what he believed in? That his visions were not worth it? That his activities could no longer be justified - all because of a bold move on the part of a group of infidels?

The man roared again. How could this have happened? Why could this have happened? What was happening? Questions that had just momentarily surfaced throughout the events of the day rose up in unison and threatened to overwhelm him. Unable to take the pressure of all his thoughts, his mind suddenly reverted back to the base, animal-like instincts that are ingrained in the psyche of all humans. He jumped to his feet and with seemingly clawed hands grasped the first thing he could see. He was about to rip to shreds a weathered tome that once lay on the broken table next to him. Even that seizure of pure rage could not blind him to what was written on the cover of the book. His knees buckled and he fell back into the chair. The culmination of his years to power was not in the raid but in his actions a few seconds ago - he had attempted to destroy the very book that he followed to the last letter. He found the sign unlooked for.

Whatever vestiges of morality and true religious belief that remained in this shell of a human vanished at that instance. The light from his eyes were extinguished and he was finally defeated in every way. His mind was surprisingly devoid of any thoughts - a vast emptiness only spurred on by a single course of action left for him to take. He threw up his hands in absolute rejection and thereby manifest something he had hidden in a veil of murmuring religious incantations and honeyed speeches - he never believed with his heart.

If the Almighty would not protect him, then he could salvage the same means by using His holy book. After all, to the man, it was nothing but a shield that preyed upon the religious tenets that bound the men outside - a restriction that surely did not apply to 'holy' men such as himself. Ironically, he did not forget to place a prayer hat on his head.

His final preparations complete, the man gingerly got off the damaged chair and walked towards the door into the bright sunshine outside.

On the 2nd of March, 2006, the JMB man known as Shaikh Abdur Rahman surrendered to RAB forces after a 32-hour siege.

By Le Chupacabra

Fiction - Acceptance

Acceptance

By Azfarul Islam

Rokon awoke bright and early, as was his habit. He immediately squinted and began to rub his eyes furiously; they had caught a ray of sunlight directly. His eyes still half-closed, Rokon grunted as he brought himself up to a sitting position. He rubbed his rumbling belly and started licking his lips as his first thoughts turned to food. After all, he had had nothing to eat the night before. Infact, as far as he could remember, dinner was a few sips of stale water from their pitcher. If you lived in the slums, that was ritual. However, that didn't stop Rokon from remembering the mouth-watering chotpoti he had once had countless days back; such food being an exorbitant luxury, Rokon could only afford to savour the memory of the taste. He looked around and sighed. His mother was still sleeping on the muddy floor of the place they called 'home'.

It was a small cul-de-sac they lived in. Even small would be an understatement. The floor was just cold dirt, some part covered by an old, musty tarp that was so patched that it looked more like those fancy quilts you saw on TV the sardarji had. A round chunk of a tree trunk served as a table; during Qurbani Eid, his mother would lend this to the local butcher for cutting the meat on. In return they often got a tiny portion of whatever the butcher managed to sneak into his bag. Sometimes it was money. Although it was pitiable amount - it was something and Rokon couldn't really complain. The walls weren't actually theirs. He and his mother had moved in to the space between two slightly larger slum huts. The 'roof' was merely a few crooked bamboo poles laid across their neighbours' roofs. A broken, rusty sheet of corrugated iron just barely helped in keeping a small area dry when it rained. The front 'door' was nothing more than the rest of the old tarp that was on the floor. It was the most meagre of existences, but it was one Rokon could still call 'home'. There was nothing more important than that.

He nudged his mother on the small of her back and called out to her. It was getting late; they would have to start their daily routine of begging to bring in whatever money they could. Her eyes were still closed. Rokon kept poking her and raised his voice ever so slightly. It had no effect. Now annoyed, Rokon impatiently clicked his tongue and began to nudge her shoulders. She didn't even flicker her eyelids. Rokon brought his mouth close to her left ear and yelled into it. She didn't flinch. This continued for quite some time without effect. Now Rokon's annoyance was replaced with another emotion: fear. He put the back of hand against her cheek and was rather shocked to feel how cold and hard it was. Maybe she was just ill, he thought. He suddenly noticed that the tattered urna his mother normally used as a blanket was tangled around his legs; she had probably covered him with it at night, but why? He looked around and seeing the muddiness of the floor realised that it must have rained at night. Something else caught his attention as well. He usually slept on the floor where his mother was lying. She must have moved him during the night because right above that place, the iron sheet had a large hole, letting in quite a bit of rainwater. He finally surmised that while he was dead asleep, his mother had dragged him to the part of the floor which received the best shelter and she had even draped him with her own blanket. She had probably shivered throughout the whole night as the rain poured in - his guilty conscience made him visualise the scene rather vividly. Now, because of him, she was cold and ill and wouldn’t move at all. He gulped and his breathing starting to become heavy. Rokon immediately plucked off the blanket and laid it across his mother. It was too late to make amends, but maybe if she was warmed up all would be better eventually. Rokon hugged his knees and waited.

********************************************************

Two hours have passed and the late October sky grows dark, although it is almost noon.

Rokon’s mother shows no sign of motion and then suddenly, Rokon gasps. Horrible thoughts cloud his mind and he shakes his head violently as if trying to force them out. Then it comes. Intoxicating every cell of his body, an overwhelming emotion paralyses him. A sharp pain in his chest tells Rokon that he has been holding his breath for quite some time. But why? There is no reason for him to feel all this, he shouts inside his head. The rain starts again – the incessant drumming sound punctuating the deathly silence. He watches dumbstruck, as long, silver streaks of water come through the hole in the ceiling and begin to pelt down on his mother’s face. On a sudden impulse, Rokon throws himself over his mother’s body and drags it away from the spot. His arms are wrapped around her shoulders as if he was trying to protect her from the cold, merciless raindrops that dare touch his mother. Rokon’s eyes stare aimlessly ahead - perpetually wide open - and his breathing feels more constricted than ever. He feels his mind lose sense of everything around him, yet he is somehow starkly aware of all. He feels each of his fingers slowly curling around to grip his mother’s shoulders more tightly. Each breath he takes is labourious. The heaving of his chest makes him fear that it might suddenly explode. He coughs out; his mouth had become utterly dry. Rokon closes his eyes and brings his mother closer to his chest. It can’t be, can it? He shakes his head as if trying to knock out a thought, a single thought that refuses to leave him. His senses suddenly feel dulled as he does all that is possible to feign ignorance. He can almost hear her scold him harshly for being so stupid. He can almost see her smile again. His eyes begin burning and he immediately opens them. He turns his mother’s face towards him and his head drops towards his own chest. He shuts his eyes so tightly that they hurt. But it’s useless – that image refuses to disappear. He sniffs in loudly and stops. Something else is wrong. Something is missing. He knows what. Her very own scent, the very smell that always brought his mother’s smiling face into his thoughts was not there anymore. Suddenly, the very thought he was trying to quell hits him with tremendous force. He grips her even more tightly, but falters. She slowly slides out of his arms. Her rigid, cold face… the fact that she refuses to even open her eyes… and that he can’t even recall what she smelt like… all of that hits him with utmost brutality.

Rokon’s eyes burst with salty tears and they sting like never before. His stomach soars as if flying and it twists ever so painfully. His head begins spinning and his throat becomes choked up. His sees bright spots before him and only one other thing: her face. A pain beyond sorrow, beyond loneliness, beyond anything engulfs him – the pain of acceptance.

Fiction - The Heavens

My second fiction! I really hope to retain the momentum with this fiction thingy because, yeah, I myself think that I've written one review too many! But that doesn't mean I won't write any game reviews! Most of the ideals behind this fiction came from my father yet again. His staunch belief in never giving up and doing what you believe in - it's but one of the many things I admire about him. He is the best dad ever! Also, some part of the inspiration for this one probably came from what I think is the greatest anime ever: Fullmetal Alchemist. The name 'Alphonse' was taken from there; it's the name of the younger Elric brother who happens to be trapped in a suit of armour. Confused? Check out FMA and you won't be! Unlike Birds which bore some similarities to it's inspiration, this one doesn't really do that too much. I can't really explain the reasons as to which I got the inspiration in the first place and now that I think about it, the only logical one was FMA, so yeah. Both brothers, Ed and Al, show an immense will to keep going forward to achieve their goals, regardless of what happens. This is probably the inspiring facet for this fiction. Erm, I think that's about it! Anyhow, enjoy this one!

The Heavens

By Le Chupacabra

The timing was so perfect one would assume it was intentional. The second I walked into Alphonse's workshop, I heard something like an engine backfiring and suddenly everything (me included) was engulfed in black smoke. Failure #138, I assumed.

As the smoke dissipated I found myself face-to-face with the grinning, soot-covered face of Alphonse Steinbach, 45 - a genius and certifiable nutcase: the typical combination. I shifted aside some documents, placed my briefcase on his table and drew myself a chair. Alphonse nodded and turned back to what I guessed was the cause of the explosion. It was a small, shiny (although it was pretty sooty now) engine chassis connected with a number of black, flexible pipes that vibrated slightly. The pipes were connected to a clear pump through which a dark, brown viscous liquid churned and flowed.

"Hey, that's the new model isn't it?" I asked him excitedly.

"Yup! The RP-SF18... the latest in primary thrust dynamics money can buy! And trust me, it cost me quite a bit, this thing!" Both his eyes were sparkling with absolute delight.

Ever since I could remember, Alphonse had been tinkering with machinery and you know what? He had a real talent for being able to take apart even the most complicated of mechanisms and put it back instantly, as good as new. He probably saved his family thousands of dollars in mechanical repairs since he could fix just about anything with wheels and screws. Although, for the Steinbachs, saving money was a matter of shame; they were one of the richest in the 12th Prefecture. When his father, a shipping magnate, passed away he had left his only son Alphonse about 4/5ths of the family fortune (which added up to a rather enormous amount). While his mother (also deceased) had constantly nagged him to run the family business, Alphonse decided to listen to his father's advice to follow his own dreams. Years later here was the heir to the Steinbach legacy, whiling away the hours (and the cash) by doing what he always loved: messing around with machines.

"So, do you think you got it this time?" I asked without being able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

He wheeled around and began:
"You still think I'm crazy, eh? Can't blame ya, either. To be honest, I have no idea. Everything's been done so far, I mean. The body work, the modified fuel tank and I've readjusted the cockpit for those kinds of atmospheric conditions so many times; I could take this baby to outer space. But... the thrust engine can only do so much with the limited fuel supply. You know all this... I mean, it's what the... uh... hundredth time I told ya right? Anyhow, the thing is, this new gizmo: the RP-SF18 is designed to truly boost the performance of conventional thrust engines. This is the first consumer machine of its kind. I could have tried to wing some favours from the Air Force, but I guess for a normal guy buying an old F22, it was already overkill, eh? So this'll have to do. No more fusing stuff to make my own enhancer... this little thing does exactly what I want!" His eye had a glazed, faraway look to them but I knew what he was thinking.

Alphonse had one dream: to be able to fly as high as possible without going beyond into territory where you needed a space suit; he wished to touch the stars without actually entering the eerie void of space. He had spent his years in the Zentra Tech Institute accumulating as much knowledge as he could on flying beyond the conventional altitudes of consumer aircraft. He made many a contact while in the Air Force and everyone he met was infected by his manic energy and desire to carry out his dreams. When he left, they allowed him to purchase an old modified F22 so he could actually make his flights of fancy a reality. It had been a long, difficult road since he refused to take let anyone help with the finer points of his design and despite all his money, it wasn’t exactly making development any faster. However, the guy refused to give up. His designs had failed miserably each time till now, but every time he had laughed it off and just begun from scratch. His desire to never give up was rather inspirational, but this habit of his had its gruesome sides as well.

I gulped and asked him about it finally, “Al… about your legs... I didn’t ever consider asking you but… why don’t you get cybernetic extensions? I mean that way… you could… you know… work more easily rather than rolling around in that wheelchair all day?”

Alphonse turned around again, his face covered with what looked like pity. “You don’t get it do you? See, I’ve lived my entire life for all things made of metal and plastic. But, despite all that, I don’t want to become a part of one, become a real machine that is. Whatever I do, however I do it, will be with these two hands made of flesh and blood. The same goes for these little guys… I’d rather use whatever god gave me.” He ended by wriggling the two stumps which had once been his legs; they had been burnt and damaged beyond medical help during an explosion six years back. He turned his wheelchair around again.

I watched him go back to his work and as he turned his torch on I caught the light flash off the stencilled letters on my briefcase: ‘Pathway to Heaven’ Corp. My construction company’s aim had been to build as high as possible so we could try to reach the home of the gods in the skies above. However for Alphonse, the goal was different: he was a maniac who desired to become a god and fly through the heavens themselves. I realised that one day our skyscrapers, no matter how well they were built, would crumble and fall - diminishing the motto the company tried so hard to maintain. Alphonse, on the other hand might never reach the skies, but his desire to keep toiling away for his passion: that was something that would never falter and that in itself had a worth far beyond heavens themselves.

Fiction - Birds

This is my first proper bit of fiction! In my mind, it sort of works somewhat like a play - gleaned from how operatic and deliberate the settings are and also given that I decided to include the times of the day and locations. Most of the inspiration for this ridiculously romanticised (to the point that I plead guilty to the fact that no sort of thing probably ever took place... probably) piece came from Rurouni Kenshin - one of the most beautiful Samurai anime I've ever watched. Names are also based on various things I've encountered. 'Sagara' is homage to the character 'Sagara Sanosuke' from the Rurouni Kenshin anime while 'Chouji' was based on the rather gluttonous ninja from Naruto. 'Keiji' and 'Inafune' come from 'Keiji Inafune' - the guy who created Street Fighter II - my fave old school fighting game! But above all, the most important inspiration came from my father. It's his belief in justice and his desire to do the right thing - that's what struck me as awe-inspiring. There was a time when we found ourselves in a rather harrowing situation. My dad did something I didn't expect and in fact, later I said a bunch of stuff I shouldn't have. The things I said were something only a coward would say. Now, what did he do? When he was confronted with that situation, instead of backing down... my father stood his ground, stood for his beliefs, for who he was - and he took the situation head on. After everything I said, he wasn't the least bit angry (and he had every right to be) but instead, he calmly explained why he did what he did. That was a conversation I won't forget and everything he said - I hold those words close to my heart. Sagara-san may be named after a fictional character but he's truly based on my dad. I really can't express my thanks in words to my dad for everything he's done, but maybe I can repay part of it through my writing. Dad, you're the best!

BIRDS

It was the turbulent time of the Meiji Revolution period in 19th century feudal Japan. Wars ravaged across the island country and peace was only the stuff of dreams. Change was also taking place: Japan was on her way to becoming a nation-state under a central leadership. As a result, the noble Samurai - each bound usually to one of the thousands of feudal lords - were being wiped out...



Kuzokawa Village, Early morning

Sagara-san pushed aside the sliding paper-maché door and stormed into his room. His son, Inafune followed him in. The docile expression that Inafune usually wore had been replaced with that of anger, annoyance and exasperation. He disrespectfully slammed the door behind. Sagara-san feigned indifference to this emotional outburst, but Inafune knew that inside, his father was enraged at his behaviour. That gave him some satisfaction.

"Father?" questioned Inafune with some bitterness in his voice.

"You know that we are trying as hard as we can to locate him. I know he has been missing for quite some time, but given the circumstances, there is nothing you or I can do right now." Those were carefully measured words, and the calmness of his father's voice only angered Inafune further.

"Nothing? NOTHING? Father, you," Inafune almost spat, "are the head of the police station here! And Keiji was the son of the richest man in the village..."

"What does money have to do with this?" his father interrupted impatiently. "It's true the kidnappers do want ransom, but even if Okuwara-sama paid us to search harder and knowing him, he'd never - we can do no more at this stage. Instead, he should be gathering his money to pay the kidnappers at the allotted time. Let's hope he forgets his miserly attitude when it comes to the safety of his only son." There was something unusually cold about Sagara-san's voice when he said this.

"But Keiji was one of my friends, father! At least consider that! He wasn't just anybody!" Inafune nearly shouted.

Sagara-san turned his head around for the first time. Inafune's eyes widened: was it a trick of the morning light or was his father's face flushed with embarrassment?

Inafune's father turned his back to him again, took a small, barely noticeable breath and then faced his son completely. His face was inscrutable again. Sagara-san gave his son a look that a feudal lord would have balked under. Sternly he said, "Inafune. We are trying the best we can. Rest assured your friend will be returned safely and unharmed. You will wait and do nothing. If you dare disobey me, there will be dire consequences."

"But..." Inafune started.

"Leave my room. That will be all." That was the tone that no one in the whole village could argue with.
Inafune slowly exited.



Kuzokawa Village, Afternoon

"Does your father know anything at all about this?" said Inafune impatiently to a dapper teen with brown hair. Chouji's father was also one of the ten police personnel belonging to the minuscule station. His father was in charge of gathering intelligence. They were walking back from their favourite ramen shop.

"Sorry, even if he does he's not supposed to tell anyone but your father, the Chief, that is. Right?" Chouji replied. He held back a belch. Today's ramen was extra spicy.

"I guess so. Hmmm, I wonder where those kidnappers hide… they'd have to be somewhere near if they knew about Keiji and all." drawled Inafune absent-mindedly.

"Wait! Don't tell me you're thinking of trying something idiotic…" Chouji looked at him sharply.

Inafune put his hands behind his head and laughed. "Heck no! Even if it is my friend, I'm not the dumb, heroic type you read about in those paper novels. We live at the base of a mountain. There are thousands of caves, chasms and hiding places. There's a bigger chance of me falling into one and getting lost than finding Keiji. I guess we have no choice but to leave it to the police." Inafune finished bitterly.

Chouji suddenly pointed ahead and said excitedly, "Hey… isn't that, you know, that sign?"

Inafune looked up. Normally the door of his house was always open. This time it was slid shut and on the face was some Hiragana text painted in red. It said, "Birds". This was the sign that meant an important meeting was going on inside and no one in the whole village, except the officers, was allowed to come near the house.

"Chouji, you go back now, okay. There's something I need to see."

"If you're thinking of going to your h…" began Chouji.
"Just leave." Inafune gave Chouji the very glare he inherited from his father. Chouji shrugged, waved his hand and started going towards the east side of the village.

Inafune considered the situation. Since it was afternoon, there were almost no people on the village streets. Since this was a rather stupid time for spying, his father wouldn't have anyone guarding the house. Even then he'd have to be careful. Inafune therefore decided to go in through the kitchen. His mother would be out at his aunt's house.

Inafune slowly slid open one of the paper doors and softly entered. He closed the door immediately. Inafune walked cautiously around the side of the kitchen he knew only too tell how the central area creaked. The second he heard voices, Inafune stopped, knelt down and strained his ears. It was his father and Chouji's father talking in soft voices. Not exactly whispers but still hard to hear.

"…you're quite sure you don't want some saké?"

Inafune started.

"No, no… I don't think this is the time. We shouldn't be celebrating yet." That was Chouji's father.

"It's not that. You're nervous. I can see it in your mannerisms and your expressions. You need to calm down."

"It's okay, Sagara-sama. Let's just get over with it."

"Right. Okay, as you told me, Okuwara-sama has finally acceded. He will pay the sum of money tomorrow at dawn at the location specified. I want the men to be ready in the proper garb, okay?"

Inafune was excited. This meant that the police were going to try to capture the kidnappers! He'd try his best to tail them so he could see the action.

Chouji's father coughed. "But how is Keiji? You know…"

Sagara-san gave a small laugh and said, "He's perfectly fine. He seems to be enjoying himself. He's been talking to all the people there and he seems to have learned a lot about life. If only my son were as mature and open-minded. Keiji will be a great person when he grows, unlike his father. Infact, it was Keiji who gave us quite a lot of suggestions to make this plan work perfectly. I'm glad we didn't have to kidnap him by force."

Inafune's head spun. What was going on? The police kidnapped Keiji? Keiji was helping them out? Inafune jumped up and ran out, unable to take in what he heard.

Sagara-san heard the noise and smiled. Chouji's father was startled.
"Sir, there was someone inside the house! Sir, I should…"
"Stop worrying. I know. Inafune was listening to the conversation all this time."

"I see your skills from being a samurai have not waned at all. Your katana is always at the ready I assume?" Sagara-san nodded his answer. Chouji's father continued, "If the Shinsen-gumi ever knew that you had betr…"

Sagara-san stood up. "You know, there was no such betrayal. I do not expect such words from you, Shikamichi. You know what we stand for! Never forget the symbol on my door. Now, if you will excuse I must find Inafune. It's time he saw the truth behind the façade. He has to learn that there is no such thing as black or white."



Kuzokawa Lake, Evening

Inafune was hidden in the clump of bushes he had claimed as his personal hiding spot five years back. He was repeating the words the words he had just heard. He couldn't believe his father would kidnap anyone for the sake of money. And Keiji was helping them? Had they drugged him or something? He remembered his mother's stories about his father's fights as a samurai. He snorted. He couldn't believe he had actually looked up to someone like that. He was thinking of going back to the village and telling Okuwara-sama everything when someone softly grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

It was his father. Sagara-san was smiling. Inafune wore an expression of pure contempt.


"Well, I see you're quite the angry one." Sagara-san was still smiling.

Inafune exploded inside. How could anyone still be smiling after all that!

"Well Inafune. Come with me. I've got something to show you. Keiji is waiting." With that Sagara-san firmly lead Inafune away.



Asamika Mountain Cave, Twilight

The climb was rather harsh and Inafune was completely out of breath but he had no time to steady himself. His mind was completely numbed as his brain tried to register the sight in front of him. An entire village was inside the hidden mountain cave. There were people walking about as if nothing had happened. It was just like Kuzokawa village! An entire group of people was living in a cave! Inafune felt his knees weakening. A few of the men waved at his father who returned them cheerily.

Someone punched Inafune in the jaw. It was Keiji.

"Baka! What took you?" Keiji was smiling from ear to ear.

Inafune couldn't find his voice. He spluttered out a faint "What…the hell…is going on here?"

Sagara-san smiled and began. "Inafune, you know how the authorities have been trying to root out and destroy any and all remnants of the Samurai. We can't let that happen. Samurai are humans too, not mindless warriors. But the Meiji Govt. doesn't see it that way. They fear that the Samurai are still loyal to the Tokugawa Shogunate and will attempt rebellion. However, the Samurai have no such plans. A few may, but most just want to live on with their lives. All the people here are Samurai and their families. They've gone into hiding in fear of being eradicated. The head of their group was a great friend of mine. He had foreseen this coming and had asked me to help should such a time arrive. That's why I'm here."
Inafune nodded.

His father continued. "I and Keiji's father were the only samurai of this village. For my plans to succeed I had no choice but to agree to the Meiji's protocol. Thus as per instructions, I set up a police station and pledged fealty to the Meiji. Many saw that as an act of dishonour and betrayal. Now you know why I'm not that popular in the village. On the other hand, Okuwara-sama chose to save his own skin. He used his money and influence to erase all his records and took advantage of the chaos. Thus, he is now an oil merchant with his pockets overflowing with money. Not once did he think about his fellow Samurai. By attaining my position, I was able to assure the Meiji that my village was safe and free from samurai. My officers were like-minded. In that way, our place has become a haven for those who have no identity in this period."

"But what about the kidnapping and…" asked Inafune.

Keiji cut in. "Let me explain. See, it's almost impossible for our village to help and sustain this hidden one. We and they can only do so much. We can't ask my father for any funding because he'd betray the village as soon as he found out what was going on. So it was decided that I would be kidnapped and the ransom money a rather huge sum I have to say would be used to help the people here. You know, we could buy them food, clothes, and stuff. Only me, you, your father and his subordinates know about this."

"I see" said Inafune, his voice dry.

"You should be proud of your father. There are people who make him into a villain for what he's doing. And there are people, as in those here, who think of him as a hero. At the same time what he did is both right and wrong. So you see, Inafune, there is no such thing as good or evil. Your father is doing what he firmly believes in, and that's what matters!"

Inafune turned around and looked at his father. His earlier thoughts completely vanished and awe and admiration filled his eyes. "Doing what you believe in…" he half-said to himself. His father smiled again.

"Come on Inafune, let's go visit the village. Let's talk to everyone!"

Keiji and Inafune set off.

Sagara-san stood watching them. "You'll be a fine man like your friend, Inafune. You've learned a lot about life today. I only hope that you too are willing to fight for what you believe in, like Keiji. Now you know what the symbol on my door really stands for: the freedom to do what you, and not others, think is right. As long as there are people like you, no matter what happens to this country, the future will be bright indeed." He smiled again and followed them down.

Footnotes:
1 'san' is used in order to be respectful towards elders or someone that one does not know personally
2 'sama' is used for people who are at a higher position than the speaker or as a term of respect for those who have power; also denotes 'lord'
3 'Hiragana' is a Japanese calligraphic text
4 Birds are symbolic in Japanese culture (and in other cultures) in how they represent 'freedom of the mind and soul', 'freedom to choose one's own path', et al
5 'Saké' is rice wine
6 Katanas are the curved swords used by Samurai
7 'Gumi' loosely translates to 'group'
8 'Baka' means idiot, moron, etc.

By Le Chupacabra