Sunday, August 22, 2010

Summer school '02

I remember a girl who used to sit next to me in summer school biology class. She was medium-tallish, with dark skin and brown hair perpetually in a ponytail. I think she was Iranian, or a persuasion resembling such. She was pretty, the "popular" kind of pretty: the kind where, if you just saw her at first glance, you'd just assume she was with the in crowd. She was my friend in OAC biology. Because of my shyness, I didn't have many friends in that class to begin with.

She usually relied on me to explain some of the concepts being taught by the teacher. It was a rather tenuous proposition, as sometimes I myself would barely have a grasp on advanced concepts pertaining to chemical bonds or the ATP cycle. But I helped her the best I could. It wasn't as though she was extorting me, like the jock or the prom princess conniving to extract class notes and test scores from the school nerd. She was nice, genuinely nice; I remember that much. She was my friend.

I remember one story she told me during class, about how she and her father were horsing around (as far I as I can remember, her parents were separated) and she managed to gash her leg on a nearby door. I remember her pointing out the scar on the smooth skin of her bare thigh. She had quite long legs.

I remember getting one of her e-mails in my Hotmail account, her words truncated into "4s" and "Us", absolutely littered with textspeak. I tutored her as best as I could, armed with my less-than-absolute mastery of OAC biology and a natural inclination to help someone in need.

I don't remember her name. Part of me wants to call her Nadia. But I just don't remember.

She was my friend.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Kaelan Hyde

He was just six years old when his parents had died. He was there. He remembered a night of fire, blood and screams. He remembered crying, panting, his lungs searing as he ran for dear life.

Sanda Ariel came to him that night. Being close to her was like feeling a cool breeze in a moment of sweat and horror. She had wrapped her arms around him, the folds of her billowing jacket like vast wings shielding him from the heat and the hurt.

She made him strong, made him fast. No one could move like Kaelan Hyde moved. She made him who he was.

Seven years after that night, that same woman drew a scar on his face and left him for dead. What drove this woman, mysterious but kind, silent but caring, to spill the blood of the child she had taken under her wing? For four years, Kaelan Hyde struggled to answer this question.

He blinks; the scar stretches down the right side of his face. He's seventeen now: taller, leaner, almost handsome - but his eyes still look like the tear-stained eyes of a six-year-old orphan, or perhaps the hollow, lifeless eyes of a traumatized thirteen-year-old boy.

His sword is sharp. His will is unfathomable. He has become so strong.

But is he strong enough to face Sanda Ariel?

There was only one way to find out.

Read Waywalker.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010


My first shout-out! From none other than Sister Flo. Preach it, Flo! :)