A Far Cry.

What was – ours – is it?

Why – does it exist.

What – is what wills.

Where – is here.

When – is this moment.

But, in all un-certainty,

It never was a “how”.

The last gong chimed,

Black flags triumphed,

“IT” withered away,

But, with a smil-e-e-e-e ?


We live in a fictional world where he who shoots faster is the king. In lays of the ancient times, kings have come and gone. But, one remained – he who called himself a No-body – the world called him “Kurtin”. As the times before and the times after, will his time come up as well.

“That time has come again.”, Welsh told Drew who was playing around with the sand grains.

“Yes, Kurtin is a goner this time sai!! Just wait and watch him get dethroned by the Great Ronsin – the Magical Archer. HA! HA! HA!”, said Drew with a happy snobby face.

“I wonder.”, said Welsh hiding his sadness against a visual façade.

Kurtin, the reigning champ of the Archer wars, was Welsh’s favourite icon throughout the years of adolescences. Enter Ronsin the rookie who stepped through the ladder and had taken the second place already within the web of space of time. He knew Kurtin didn’t have a chance, but his heart still believed within his despair.

That day in the year has come again, where one can challenge the Champion to Archer wars. Whoever shoots the target first, wins. As simple as that.

No-one but Ronsin took up the mantle this time. The Ronsin effect was too alluring for the others to kick an inch of the wave.

There they stood watching the magical archer in his red robes with his bow – rumoured to be made from the same tree of life as that of the King. He stood there with his head so mighty high, we – the crowd – could do nothing but envy him in his spectre.

“I know myself as my bow. I trust my arrow as my soul. Why then do my feelings tremble?”, Ronsin thought as Kurtin walked towards him in his black over-coat attire, “Here, he comes.”

As he walked towards Ronsin, he made loose of his over-coat – unlike other times before – the coat fell down revealing Kurtin as a simple man in bluish-black clothing, but with a smile on his face – as a purple bliss in the middle of a snowstorm.

The Quarter-Master lined up the targets for each of them. They were lined up – side by side – some clicks apart.

The Quarter-Master yelled, “SAII-GOOOOO!!!!!



A White Silence.

Ronsin’s arrow struck first. He won.

Kurtin’s arrow was nowhere to found on his target, for it never landed.

But, for Ronsin’s after-all. It bore a white cloth with a scribbling over it.

Kurtin smiled and then nodded at him, as he walked away into the crowd.

Ronsin ran to the cloth of the arrowhead on the target.

“Here, begins thy time.”


As the Boogeyman passed the Strawberry Springs far from the Maple Street.

I wondered about the rainbow. A facade that pretends to add more as it goes, when all it lacks is black.

And, all the blatant lies of the world showing that it’s right when it’s wrong got into grey matter of the being.

Then they say, no-body is a “saint” soon after, when they claimed to be one themselves.

“For whom you may ask? For Ascensia, the fallacy of fame.”

Thus, the tale goes:

“Stay out of the fog, or the Springheel Jack will snatch you away.”

White Crow

Apart from the infinite past lives,
It all comes down to this point,
the Green River of Death.

If it only were a reflection,
I would see a failed Slayer,
With broken armour all-round,
And bleeding to the Blank.

Even if I were to return to the abyss,
To be reborn, a chance for survival,
I would still take the same path.

For he who is the cause,
Reigning as King from above,
Someday, must pay for his sins.

That which awaits being,
a Rain of Darkness.