Sparkring: Chapter 6

"I had no idea," He puffed as he cycled up a particularly steep incline, "That you have grown so heavy."

I twacked him on the head with my free arm before quickly latching back onto his bike lest I fell off. After searching throughhalf of the flat, we were dismayed to find only one bicycle that was still in working condition, or at least, Mich was. Nevertheless, we still set out upon the old and creaking bike, with me sitting sideways on the small platform behind.

"Keep your eyes to the road mister and your mouth shut mister,"I growled, "Or you may find yourself with more than a bruise on the head."

"Seriously..." He said, but continued no more as I made a threatening noise in my troat.

The streets were small and snaking in this area, along with various ups and downs. There were small roads leading off into even smaller roads and narrow alleyways no bigger than for a child to pass through. Sometimes, in those narrower areas, wet clothing were hung out to dry, crisscrossing the above with so many bamboo poles that it almost seemed that they formed a continuous, wet, dripping roof overhead; it was too sometimes I wondered if those clothes ever dried. 

However, now we were on one of the 'main roads' or so they called it here, it being no wider than a two way line for cars to pass by each other. It was precarious riding on those roads; with cars zooming past no further out than an extended finger on one side, and a deep drain that could swallow a bicycle whole on the other. It was also too, why we often rode on the roads.

Beyond the deep drains, sometimes with a board lain across parallel to serve as a bridge, were various sleepy storefront houses. These flaking two story houses usually served both as a shop and a house, the first story for being the latter and the second former. Mostly, there was a five foot way leaping from storefront to storefront, mainly for people to traverse. And being set back further into the building, these storefronts were usually  shrouded in a veil of shadows, giving it an atmosphere of a secret time long past. Family run coffee shops selling nothing more than a hot breakfast were commonplace here; indeed it was such so that people would flock to certain famous shops for that very special yet simple breakfast of eggs, bread, butter and coffee. Of course, there were also many other shops seeking to ply their trade: from saloons to art centres, whether the glass fronts or an open wall, each had its own special service to offer to each traveller that walked past if they would only glance in the right direction.

"Where to?"

He didn't reply, keeping focused on trying to catch his breath. He gave a final push and we were over the incline. Then, accelerating, we swerved right and down one of those one-way lanes. Cycling for no more than several minutes, he turned left at an intersection and down an incline. A sharp jam right again with me clutching on the bicycle for dear life, he braked suddenly. I crashed into him with a yell and scream and into a confused tangle.

"Can't you ride properly?" I said, rubbing my head after it had cracked against Mich's. 

He grinned apologetically, "Can't help it."

I shook my head, then turned towards the building we had stopped at. "So this is the place?"

"Um hmm." Mich replied, righting his bicycle and wheeling it past me. "Come on."

It was and open front shop, except that from the faint smell, I suspected and was proved correct that it was a fish store. Row upon row of blue illuminated tanks, with fishes of assorted shapes and sizes swimming about their turquoise environment. From bulbous goldfishes looking out with their equally big eyes, to tiny tetras in small swarms that went this way and that in perfect corordination, and even a few fresh water lobsters twitching their antenne, there was, what I felt, every single type of fish each in their glorified wonder.

"Well kids?" Someone addressed us as we turned around from watching the fishes.

He was in his fourties, late forties I suspected. Dressed in simple bermudas and a singlet, he came towards us with an easy smile reflecting in his eyes. Not exactly well-built, but good enough to do some heavy lifting when the circumstances needed it; he gave an impression of a laid-back store keeper, more interested in his art than selling it.

"Uncle," Mich addressed anybody who was older than himself as such and this man was probably his father's friend, "My father sends his regards."

"Thank him for me then." He replied, his voice a light merry tone, accepting the tin container. He gave it a wiff, "Congee? Thoughtful."

"Erm, we might have mixed up the other incredients slightly, so..."

He gave a laugh, a pleasant sound it was. "They were going to be mixed up anyway so no worries. I'm not particular about my food." Coming back, he continued, "Well I'm going to have it now, no better time then the present as they say; and if I'm not wrong you might be raring to go off somewhere yes?" He quirked an eyebrow, "Teenagers these days..."

"Not really."

"Then you may wish to browse the shop if you wish", he indicated it with a wave of his hand as he turned his back. Probably off to eat in breakfast in peace.

"Who was he?" I asked Mich quietly as soon as he was out of earshot.

I reckoned wrong however, as he whirled around, eyes glinting with humour.

"What? What poor manners you have boy! Not to introduce me to this young lady." He turned to me, face suddenly serious, "I am the student of four honour rolls, degree holder of Organic Studies, friend of many and a trekker of continents. Which do you want to know me by?"

I paused, at a lost of what to say.

"Or" He continued, a smile playing on his lips, "You can call me Dong, One Hand Dong as they call me around here parts."

Facebook

Facebook. How that name sullies my tongue. I do not believe what is the hub-dub all about it. It is just another networking site. And what do networking sites hold for me? Networking site = Random useless infomation + time wastage.

Currently, with the new revamp of facebook, they have introduced all sorts of lil thingies that feed you, well, feeds, every other second, every other minute, every other hour, every other hour; if you get my point. I do not want to know what have you scored in blah game, in blah quiz.

Quiz.

Another one of the site's devious creations. Useless tests set to 'test' you on your intelligence on certain specific things. Like DOTA? What character are you? Why the bloody heck do I want to find out? So what if I do? I just don't get the point! I've got better things to do if you ask me.

Again, games.

Granted, the games there are great, so great until some of my friends treat the site as a gaming site rather. Digressing...

I don't see the point of Facebook. Or any other social website. Social is to interact, to interact with fellow human beings. I don't see how comparing results from a certain game or tagging each other's boards help in any interaction. It is just a computer, a stoic screen. I'd prefer the good ole method of verbally, verbally guys, talking if you still remember how is it done. They say it builds it good social network without stepping out of the house. I say seeing is believing.

Friends.

So what if you've got 13024 friends on facebook? Do you know them? Do you know their lives? Can you share your innermost feelings with them? No? Then they are not friends. I've got a small circle of whom I consider friends, less than twenty if you were wondering, but I can share things, little facets of life that you'll never hear or find out on any social website or other.

There. I've said my piece, if you'll excuse me, I'll say Facebook ain't worth your time.

A mark of a successful social being is having a small but true circle of friends. Not having a large army of apes that do nothing to help you when you're in need.

So leave that computer! And venture into the world beyond!

Probability Theory

In the probability theory,  every possible event has a non-negative number between 1 and 0.

For two random events to happen, like for 0.3 for stock market to go down and 0.6 for it to rain, it is 0.3 x 0.6 = 0.18

Therefore, if you want to know two exclusive events happening for the stock market to go up, like a clown striding into the room(0.0004102) and the lights going out for 1 second(0.000032).

Add them up to find out. 0.0004102 + 0.000032 = 0.0004422

Why these murmured sentences and when I ask, you say nothing?

Why?

Why you you look away when I talk to you? Is it me? Is there something wrong? Why do you just shake your head?

Why?

Is answering me that difficult? Am I a hindrance? Am I annoying? Do you need me to go away?

Please. Just.

Just tell me
-Alson

Sparkring : Chapter 5

One thing that my uncle and father were similar in was their love for cooking. I had heard vague stories about this coming about as a result from my grandmother being something just short of a legendary cook. While my father tended towards western cooking, my uncle preferred eastern style dishes. 

Thus so, when I first stepped out of the room, a wild mix of distinctly Chinese cooking assailed my nose. Making my hair and turning the corner of the corridor, I glimpsed the dining table crammed to the teetering edge with small plates filled with various types of food; half of which I couldn't even start to identify, and the midst of it all, sat a black pot of congee.

My uncle, a stout balding man in his late forties, dressed in a simple garb of a t-shirt and trousers was already halfway out of the door, fitting his left shoe on as he half-hopped, half walked out of the house. "You kids enjoy yourself ok? Just don't let me find firefighters at my gate when I come back."

As casually as he had said that, Mich replied calmly, without missing a beat, "No dad."

"Hmm." And he was out, the door closing gently behind him.

"No homework?" I said as I sild into the chair before Mich. He shrugged, giving a grunt as a reply. "What about the food?" I eyed the massive display before me; I had no doubt that this was some propaganda-ish challenge. I would mention this meal to my father, and he would in turn prepare a meal that would raise a few eyebrows. I was a messenger of sorts I suppose, in this unique style of sibling rivary.

"Pack it up, donate." He paused long enough to reply, then slurped another spoonful into his mouth.

"Ok." I replied, finding no other sources of conversation and ladled myself a bowl of congee.

With about fifteen dishes to choose from and someone used to three or everything piled on a single plate, the myriad was intimidating at best. But seeing Mich randomly picking from a different dish each time with no bias, I tried following his example and soon found out why.

Each dish was a different experience. Out of the four tastes; sour, sweet, bitter and salty, each taste was mixed in a different order to provide each dish with a exceptional taste that was its own, told its own story, whether it was from the cold mountain tops, or the placid fields; each story was like its taste, unique. I tried each one to the other, resetting my taste buds with the plain white congee from time to time. So for the entire breakfast, it was the simple click-clacking of porcelain spoons on similar bowls. Gradually, by the side of which light from the sun streamed into the living room from the balcony, the soft morning light gave way to the harsh mid-morning beams, serving to wake up those who were still lazing in bed.

I finished my meal with a sigh, it being a wonderful trip to the finish. Mich wordlessly took away my bowl to the slushing of water in the kitchen. When he had lost his mother at a young age, Mich quickly learnt the ropes of cleaning and generally keeping the house clean. When other boys were running about with their soccer balls, Mich, as I've heard, would be stuck figuring how to best unblock the toilet's drainage system without causing a devastating flood. To date, the largest event I had participated in cleaning was the sweeping out my room. 

But still, I offered my help; and yet on time like a ritual, Mich declined staunchly, stating that I would be of a better help watching the news. To that, I playfully stuck out my tongue at him while he just rolled his eyes.

"Just tell me what happened yesterday will you?" He said, precariously balancing a array of bowls and plates into the kitchen.

"Earthquake, blah blah blah. Turmoil, blah blah blah. Threat of war, blah blah blah." Now it was my turn to roll my eyes, "Honestly, why do you care?"

"Why?" He repeated my question from the kitchen as I moved to the grid-patterned couch, "Knowledge is power."

"This doesn't seem much like knowledge to me." I said, flipping through the newspapers that lay, scattered all over the coffee table. Probably the work of my uncle. "Besides, reading the news will turn your head to mush."

"A quote from your literature text?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued "Actually, it goes by reading about local news, not world news. To know the - "

"Hey yeah. Here's an interesting article." I cut across loudly. While Mich's advice was usually for the better, they were long winded in a way. 

I began to recite the article, cutting to the main points and leaving out the statistics, to me, they really weren't relevant. For example, out of a full page article, the statistics could fill up to half to three-quarters of the page. And they were only there for show, I mean who would check up on your numbers? I could just place an extra zero or put in a nine and no one would notice. The main meat was the content.

"Oh, Andrea." He poked his head out through the kitchen doorway as I turned up from the article I was reading, "We will need to do a little walking. Or cycling. Chose." His head disappeared from the doorway and I heard the tapwater being gradually turned off before he emerged again, carrying a tin carrier of sorts. It was devided into various segments, each, I suppose, for storing different kinds of foods to avoid getting them mixed up.

"What do you think?"

He looked at me for a moment, puzzled; then mock-slapped his head "Oh, I forgot who I was talking to. Going against traffic or walking?" He shook his head, "Cycling it is then."

Hmm... Seems like history is repeating itself in Thailand.

Let us remember last year where the pro-government yellow shirts sat out in Bangkok's international airport, causing distruption in the country's tourism as well as tarnishing its image.

The yellow shirts now seems to have completed that and further.

During the ASEAN summit. Premier Wen Jia Bao had to turn back due to the yellow shirts storming the hotel. Various other leaders also had to be evacuated via helicopter. All this happened while the world's eyes were trained on the summit. For weeks before, the Thailand's prime minister had assured that everything would go well.

Apparently, it didn't.

Now, as I see it, history is going to either repeat itself once over.

Ah well.

(edit: And the yellow shirts have captured an army tank)

-Alson

Sparkring : Chapter 4

Day 4
Time : 12.42am

We make our way along the side of Black Forest, a plateau with steep sides. As I look out of the window, the mountain falls away from the winding crude path that we are traveling on. The jeep holds up, thankfully, as the wheels beneath me skid slightly as they try to find purchase on the crumbly gravel. Hopefully, as our driver says, we will reach the guesthouse by nightfall.

.

I blinked. The words were blurry and somehow at a strange angle. Then, upon realising it was me who was at a strange angle, I straightened up, pushing my blanket off. I felt around for my torch, a hard round cylinder, found it, and switched it off. It must have burnt through the entire night.

A knock attracted my attention and I looked up, Mich was standing by the door, hand posed for another rap on the open door if need be. "Morning."

"Morn' Mich." I yawned and stretched my cramped muscles luxuriously. The book fell away somewhere beneath the folds of the blanket. For some reason or other, I was slightly surprised to find myself feeling protective over the book as soon as I saw Mich by the door. By most counts, I was generous with my items, a favor returned by Mich. But this time however, I didn't want to share my find with him; not yet anyway.

"Dad," He said, referring to his father and my uncle, "Made breakfast."

I waited expectantly for him to continue, sitting in my current position with my hands folded over each other. Mich made to open his mouth, paused, thought for a moment, then jerked his thumb helplessly towards the kitchen in an indication that I should get going before disappearing from the doorway.

I shook my head. He had been like this for the past few times, getting tongue-tied the first day or two. While I didn't exactly know why, I had a mild suspicion that he had been getting those adrenaline rushes and sweaty palms, translation: He had fallen for some girl.

And without telling me too. I shook my head.

Ah well, there is plenty of time to wheedle it out of him later. Scratching my head, I pulled my grumbling body from the bed and dragged my feet towards the toilet.

A day in time of an endless river.

After looking through the few other blogs that I linked to, I realised that my blogging is a little under the water. Ah well, my english proficiency isn't that high anyway, all lil' Ben can do is just managing a little primary writing.

Nods to MK: Love the expression, sets your blog away from the rest. Good eye for detail too. I'm sure Ms Foo had told you or will tell you that you'll go far. Yes I'm green. :]

Lan : Watching you. So far so good.

Javier: Noted. Trying to pick on my lil' errors will ya? As a outright defiance to you and the rest of the English literate world, I'll leave it as it is.

Went for CIP today. Fun would be an understatement, since I had two hours of outright insanity of delicious fun. I'm never going to go for another Flag Day again. Never again false smiles and thrusting of metal cups under a pedestrian's nose and utter humiliation!

Nothing much to report. As I'm sitting here with an ancient computer and a scratchy internet connection. While the fan stirs, not lazily, but steadily above me.
-Alson

Sparkring: Chapter 3

A coin flip.

Heads.

We had spent many a moment in this house, devising various plans and ideas, testing out theories. But it wasn't like that, it wasn't always like that.

When I had first came here, sent by my going-overseas parents, I wasn't pleased. I was old enough to stay in the house by myself, old enough to make my own meals, old enough to clean up after myself; and old enough to hold my own parties it seemed. They made arrangements the night before and before I knew it, I was pushed out of the door and unceremoniously dumped at the front of the door with only my luggage and a threat that if I ran away, I would be grounded for an indefinite amount of days. 

The threat worked.

But they didn't leave me without anything though. Armed with the technological marvels of the twentieth century, I had planned to surf my way through the holidays. 

However, my laptop crashed on startup, leaving me largely unconnected to the rest of the online world. I had my phone however, but it couldn't compensate for a working laptop. I didn't sleep well that night, listening through four albums of Nine Inch Nails twice and listening to the night sounds of the estate around me. A cat yowing and the cymbal crash of the dustbins echoed the yelling of voices somewhere out in the night as a stale smell of refuse seeped into the room; I huddled tighter, wishing I was someplace else.

I awoke to daylight and the dancing dust. Blinked a little, then registered the strangely familiar shape at the doorway. It said, "Good morning. Up for a bike hike?" before I had fully recognized it for what it was. That was the most significant memory of the first night of I had ever stayed here, the rest blurring into a mixed concoction of various activities, both insane or dangerous and sometimes a mixture of both.

A coin flip.

Tails.

I, under the blanket and in the soft light of my LED torch, opened the tattered cover of the book. 

I had found it two days back, jam-hidden in the midst of some other annual reports of companies long gone and forgotten. It had my father's name on it on the bottom left corner, nearly faded, nearly invisible, but I caught sight of it as I jerked the book up from its dusty hiding spot in the attic. The handwriting too, a scrawling of wavy lines, affirmed this. With some pre-flipping, I apparently had discovered my father's journal of his travels; him in his younger days being an avid adventurer.

Paying only the slightest of attention to the soft murmurings of the late-night television outside, I began to read.

Sparkring : Chapter 2

His room was swept clean; it always was. Sometimes, it just made me wonder if he was human for all the neatness that occupied, dominated, reigned over the room I peeped in. Desks devoid of any loose sheets of paper, books stacked neatly to one side and no trace of any visible stationary. The bed, made to as though no one had slept there the night before. Nothing on the ground except his bag and some other typical stuff that a teenager might own, yet still, were placed in that infinitely neat order that somehow seemed to irritate me mildly.

"What?"

Thump, thump, thump.

Michael struggled with my suitcase behind me. From the doorway to his corridor was about ten, eleven steps; yet he seemed like he had travelled ten metres. To tell the truth, he wasn't any physically gifted hulking teenager. A lanky and awkward one perhaps. A little weird too, considering that his favourite hobby; when he thought no one was looking, was watching the little potted cactus in the balcony grow. But he was fun to be around, with all his quirky ideas and... schemes, never a boring moment.

"Your room, how do you keep it so clean Mich?"

"Erm... well I basically pack up stuff after I finish, you know... the standard. And how many times have I told you not to call me Mich, Andrea? You know how I hate that name... Sounds like midget..." He trailed off as he gave a last despairing shove at the luggage that sat immobile.

"You really are a sorry excuse for a teenager."

"Hey!"

"Oh well, guess I have to move this myself." I grabbed the handle and pulled, the thing moved easily, leaving me to wonder how had Mich managed to struggle with this thing. "Oh yeah, where's uncle?"

"Out. Busy with his work." He replied, following me to the room specially set aside for me during the holidays. It was, as the house had three rooms and two occupants, leaving a guest room, which I claimed after the third visit. So this was offically, my room.

Measuring slightly over five by six, it had a spratan look and feel. A wardrobe, a single plain wooden desk and a bed were all placed in a neat symetrical manner, no doubt the work of Mich, a lover of neatness. Well that was one thing on my list of things-to-do: One, mess up the arrangement of my room. 

The walls were whitewashed, making the room seem brighter and bigger than it was, along with a bedside table and my alarm sitting neatly on where I had last left it since I came here, it was kind of cozy I suppose. Over time, I had left things here; a book, a pencil, making it all the more, well, me-like.

I was home.

A math

A math

M^3=343

47days

8=5^(log58)

none of the above

log497=1/2

x=4 y=36

x=24 y =2

1

x-5

1989

Chemistry

As I could not find the rest, here is question one and two workings

1)Mass/Mr = 9.7/(65+32)

            =0.1mol

 

0.1 x 2 = 0.2mol

0.2mol x 24dm^3 = 4.8dm^3

 

ANS: D

2)Looking at reaction, we would need the mole ratio of 2 to 1

 

1.0/100=0.01mol

0.01mol x 2 = 0.002mol

0.02mol/1.0mol/dm^3 = 0.02dm^3

                                    = 20cm^3

 

ANS : B

-Alson

OK, as of 7.30

Phy - completed, posting of answers -pending

Chem - completed, can't see the chem MCQ

Now - 8.10

Geog completed, answers coming up.

Now - 10

A math -completed

Emath - completed

-Alson

Sparkring : Chapter 1

My cousin

 

I rang the doorbell, three long, three short. 

It was my special code, mine only. Of course, the internal occupants would certainly know it was me out here. I fidgeted nervously as no sounds of awakening came from within. Behind, a happy scream of a small child carried out through the grills and across the short corridor; five steps away from where I stood. To my left, as I glanced out, beyond the railing, was a view of the swimming pool of the condominium and a couple walking along its still waters. The soft overhead sky cast a deep orange hue over the place; the walls, people, water leaving none in its wake of changing. 

Soon, it would be night. 

With my boredom, I glanced at a spider spinning its intricate webbing of structures consisting a delicate blend of physics and chemistry. The lines radiated out in... I counted, in six different directions, holding up its own net of lines. I briefly contemplated the possibility of it branching out like a huge silvery tree. 

I think it was said that a spider's thread is stronger than a steel wire of the same diameter.

The door unlatched with a creaky click and swung back all the way to reveal Mich in his slight tan and accompanying smile. Unlike the house behind me, his didn’t have grills, probably because of my uncle’s family philosophy of what goes around comes around. There was no need to fear anything if you’ve done nothing wrong, was his favorite phrase to instill into anyone who unfortunately happened to be close by.

Mich pushed the door back further, latching it and turning towards me, that small smile still plastered on his face.

“Hello again, come to stay for the holidays?”

"Believe it as you will. The Cresendo awaits those who can walk the path."

~The forth line of the Charter.

New prologue coming up. As well as answers on most topics on thursday, just give me some time on the day itself to do the work. Check in at about 9am, the first answers will be here.

-Alson

Codename: Alpha-Tango-Charile

"Hold."

Ok, wish I could sent a covert operations team with Kang, but hey, apparently, no. I don't have the standard one million to support the team for at least five days. Too bad I suppose.

-Alson