Which watch will take you where?


Two weeks in the desert is over-estimating myself, thought Jackie.

Never again, she swore, draining her glass of salted water with a pinch of lime juice.

She plunked herself on the carpet, ready to examine the fruit of her arid labours. A pocket watch partly obscured by its cover rested on the two pencils she had used to pick them up.

Jackie knew the dangers of fiddling with objects found in deep crevices or buried under sand. Objects that were meant to be hidden. She knew them well. They had taken her to places in her strangest dreams and coldest memories, but she had always found a way to return.

It fed her curiosity with all things paranormal, to dabble in the Bewitched Watches, and she had barely an opposing thought. The price she paid was the uncertainty of where and in which when she might wake up next, close to which terror-striking creature. Part of her thrived on the same danger, and she called to that part now, to shed her doubts, raising her hand over the watch.

Her last watch had been of a silver-ish hue, guarded by the tangled mass of a snake. She thought she knew which creature guarded this one.

“Take me where you will” she whispered, lightly resting her fingers on the ribbed cage of its cover for a brief second.

The ribs turned darker and began to move.

Click. The black scorpion raised its stinger, opening the watch. Jackie jumped back, holding the chain. The scorpion hopped onto the floor and scurried away. Three blinks later, Jackie found herself staring at a very different world.

From the edge of a high cave she saw hordes of giant creatures with human faces, large scorpion-like pincers and stingers, strutting between boulders that littered the gray landscape.

This watch may have taken things a bit too literally, thought Jackie, overcome with a feeling of dread.



The Omniscient Watcher


Digital Discoveries #4

Food for Thought

Part of my college course involves analysing ads and magazine covers. These are some of the more creative food advertisements that made my job difficult, and more interesting.


Craving denim? Maybe this is where your hunt ends.


This neat profile app gives witty descriptions of different stereotypes relating to taste in music. I got Anonymous first, but I wouldn’t rest until I had discovered the rest. What’s your stereotype?


Craig:   “Do you like music?”

Noelle:   “Do you like breathing?”

– It’s Kind Of A Funny Story



A web-explorer







[This ought to be read with an occasional Dr. Seuss-y lilt]




Guilty confessions can be such fun. Consider this mine, though it’s partly about yours:

I may not agree with your sense of guilt, real or put-on, but I definitely approve you telling me. I listen a lot more closely when you say “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” Don’t worry, I won’t. At least, it won’t be followed by your name.

What is it that draws me to tales of conflict? Betrayal, jealousy….it all seems fair game.

Why do I enjoy you telling me why you wouldn’t go to your friend’s wedding? I don’t object when her history follows. I don’t know her, have never met her, but about her, have now gathered snippets of information.

How do I still consider myself a compassionate human being with such convoluted investments in conversation?

Can I justifiably explain a heart that jumps a little for joy when you want to share woeful stories of your complicated relationship?

Wait, when did you have a tattoo?

Drama excites me, more than I care to admit. If I could, I’d reserve a spot in the sidelines, with a tantalising view. That way, it’s a comfortable distance- I don’t feel alone in my guilt, yet not too much like the central audience. I find it hard to believe I’m the only one with squirrel-like attention. But, that’s only because I know I’m not. Things take a gratifying turn when we discover the nuts.

Strangely enough, I prefer reality or television, never together(what an unholy mixture). But, who’s to state the difference between the two? Especially when I say TV is my life.

I know, you don’t think it’s fair. I’m terribly guarded with secrets of mine, and if you know me at all, nearly everything’s a secret. It’s only out of a deep-rooted fear that you’ll judge me as harshly as I judge you and possibly worse. You have no way of knowing, but I’m privately paranoid and have it all worked out- who should know what and just how much. Let me show you why you don’t necessarily have the harder job.

(Me worrying about you wondering about me)= (You wondering about me) times infinity


I think the scale balances out in the end.



A Good Listener 😉

The Visionary of a Post-Apocalyptic Era (#38 picture it and write)


It was barely a week after the Apocalypse had destroyed most life on Earth. The ground was scorching in scattered places that had come to be called Hotspots. The survivors did not know where they could safely walk. So, they didn’t.

The weeks that passed drained their food and water, and nothing new would grow. Smoke rose from the land, adding to the people who felt lost. Everyone stayed sequestered in their cities and villages. The thirst drove a few to wander, and burn, when they stepped on a Hotspot.

One day, the people glimpsed a man who had ventured far beyond the city limits. Their warning cries were either unheard, or ignored. By now he had stepped on the unstable bridge that bordered the next city. In the middle of particularly thick smoke, he disappeared.

The people who had witnessed this soberly gathered the rest of their group to see who was missing. The realisation hit them sorely even though they barely knew him. At this point, any person lost was another step towards extinction. They sadly pondered how far he would make it.


A handful of days dragged on, before the bridge felt more footsteps. This time there were dozens of sets and the familiar one felt heavier. The sun hit its peak, as the man returned, weighed down with food and water, followed by what resembled a marching line of people.

As they got closer they looked like they were doing a slow, synchronised dance, each one just a little later than the person in front of them. Their path zigzagged across the bridge, but stayed connected. They eventually arrived at the debilitated doors of the building where the city’s people were huddled, most of them at the edge of dehydration. The man dropped the produce and refreshments before their feet, and though he couldn’t see their half-deranged smiles of gratitude, he felt their relief in every other sense. For the first time in a long time, he did not feel like he was missing something, being blind.

He had not felt more lost when the smoke had risen. After knowing darkness and loneliness all his life, he could finally “see” something the others couldn’t. The nearly imperceptible whistling of a Hotspot at close range.



A Survivor

When a castle converses with a cloud


Castle: Haven’t seen you in a while. It’s been a windy few days, hasn’t it?

Cloud: Yeah. How would you know, though? I don’t think you’ve moved an inch.

Castle: What can I say? Man made me strong. I don’t have to take nights off, either.

Cloud: (bristling) Hey! Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.

Castle: That’s true.


As night falls…


Castle: Cloudy? Are you still there?

Cloud: Yep.

Castle: I thought you might have blown off by now.

Cloud: I don’t think the winds are favouring the east coast at the moment.

Castle: Right.

Cloud: What’s on your mind?

Castle: I was just wondering…..how do you do it?

Cloud: Do what?

Castle: How do you manage to exist as a metaphor for so many things? I mean, I know you have a silver lining, there are at least nine of you, and you’ve amassed an astonishingly large collection of heads.

Cloud: Ha! You forgot about me being a bad influence when I brood darkly and hover near the horizon.

Castle: I like when that happens, don’t understand why others don’t.

Cloud: (shrugs) Eh. Some people’d prefer if I didn’t exist, so they can savour the sun more. Others, or the same people at a different time, really look forward to the times I bring rain. I’m sure farmers do. And there’s probably a perfume in honour of my heavy hours- with the sweet scent of Petrichor.

Castle: I bet there is. I’m jealous.

Cloud: You do a fair amount of metamorphosis yourself. What’s the matter of the day? Sand? Glass?

Castle: It’s stone, actually. But, thanks for asking. We do a good job as metaphors, don’t we?

Cloud: Of course. You ever wonder how we’d work together?

Castle: We can always find out.

castle in the sky



And so, with a wobbly foundation, amidst azurean mist, the first castle atop a cloud was built.




A Witness