As a renowned noble lady, it is of course an indisputable obligation that I must grant my people an audience with me. After all, were it not for my benevolent presence, who else could bring hope to their humble and mundane lives with a simple smile and a wave?
I had been preparing for months for this. To be in my peak physical condition, I had to cease all prior social engagements, as such events might cause noticeable damage to my skin. During this period, several meetings had been held to confirm the details. I attended only when the topics interested me, but most of the time, I would refuse their kind invitations.
On the day of the ceremony, they trimmed my hair and suggested that I take off my hat, for I exhibited a kind of wild beauty, slovenly in appearance. I was then complemented with a necklace and bracelet woven by a peasant woman. With the help of a servant, I passed through the Champ de Mars. The specially-made carriage stopped at the foot of the steps. Through the carefully polished wooden handrails, everyone could bear witness to my beauty. I can't tell you how many
flowers, prayers, and tears I saw along the way. When the carriage finally stopped in the square, everyone was still fixated on this fleeting excursion.
I elegantly walked to the assigned position. The sun shone overhead, with the music and my posture having been rehearsed thousands of times in my mind, everything was simply perfect.
My people came to me with enthusiasm, like a tide rushing to the shore. I was deeply touched and slowly knelt down. For the first time in my life, I was so close to my people that I could see the filth hiding under their fingernails.
No, this was not the time to express disgust. With all eyes on me, I leaped into the crowd and they rushed to me, arms outstretched in an attempt to touch the sublime. Finally, I was lifted up by my servants. It was just past noon and the bright sunshine gilded my face. The angel's melodic voice announced the end of the ceremony.
My people will always remember this day. My last smile will remain in their dreams each night, forevermore.
It's my turn?
Before I came to Laz Cemetery, I took a short trip. This incident took place during that trip. It was a spring night. I could no longer suppress my fatigue, so I stayed at a farmer's house by the roadside.
It was in a remote village far away from the city, but the master of the house was very hospitable. He cooked me dinner and told me that I had come at a bad time.
As you know, few people are willing to let someone like me lodge with them, and compared to my perpetual "misfortune," a situation is hardly worth mentioning.
However, on the following day, as I prepared to leave, I was informed that I needed to stay in the village for a few more days. The man told me that the village was founded and managed by a group of well-respected elders. As the situation had become more serious on the day I arrived, the elders decided not to let anyone leave.
And so, I went on living in this plague-stricken village, listening to the constant cries and wails from outside the house. However, a few days later, I heard the sound of nails being hammered into boards nearby, in the middle of the night.
"Is someone building a house out there?" I asked.
The master of the house did not answer me, but instead, made desperate prayers. Candles burned in the room. Their yellow light leaped and danced across the darkness. I could vaguely hear him asking God for forgiveness.
The sound of hammering lasted for two days. On the third day, everything went quiet. I peeped through the window and found that a simple wooden house had been built in the open space near us. Strangely enough, the hut was quiet at first, then became rowdy every few days, and then blared with howling and desperate cursing a few days later. After a while, the hut became quiet again... This cycle continued. At night, the awful sound resembled a dark incantation, cursing life itself.
I don't know why, but I always felt as though venomous eyes glared forth from within that hut.
"Your head is playing tricks on you. Just close the curtains."
When I mentioned this to my host, he uttered these words and shook his head. But I knew that he had been praying for longer and longer each day. That was until one night, a strong burning smell filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes and found that the man had disappeared, and a fire was consuming the nearby hut! It had almost reached the house I was staying at.
Finally, the epidemic subsided and I was allowed to leave the village. Before I left, I was invited to attend a sermon at the village church. I saw the walls of my former lodgings blackened by the fire. And the poor little hut nearby... All that remained of it was a charred frame.
"This was the wrath of God."
That day, the village elders stood in the middle of the church. The eldest looked coldly at me.
"God's forgiveness comes only when the sinners are punished. All our misfortunes, or their misfortunes, are due to His providence."
I didn't know what that meant until I went back to my host's house. After I packed up my things and was ready to leave... I found that beside the ruins of the hut stood a wooden sign with something written on it.
One barely-legible word could be seen—"Ward."
When I was a medical student, I undertook an internship at the municipal hospital during the holidays. Several of my peers I went there with were held in high regard for their talents and were soon assigned to assist in seeing the patients. I was the only one doing the work similar to that of a nurse on the ward. However, I had nothing to complain about. You see, I had become accustomed to such treatment.
One day after work, while I was getting dressed and thinking about what to have for dinner, I saw a little girl in a hospital gown squatting in the courtyard, unattended.
Concerned that she was perhaps lost, I hurried to her while pretending that I was just casually passing by. I didn't want to frighten her, you see.
"What are you doing out here so late?" I asked kindly.
"I'm picking flowers for my mother and father," she said in an innocent voice, "I want to bring them some flowers."
"Where are they?"
"Home," she answered, "I live here alone."
"How brave of you!" I sincerely complimented her, "Let me help you. After picking some flowers for them, I'll take you back to your room, okay?"
She shook her head but then nodded. She stood up and handed the flowers to me. It was a beautiful bouquet of red flowers that I hadn't seen in the courtyard before. "Can you give them to my parents for me?" She stood, looking up at me timidly with her grey eyes, and I noticed there were bruises on her arms left by injections. I took the flowers, led her to the corridor, and watched her slip back into her room.
The next day, when I went to visit her, the other patients told me that she had fallen into a coma the previous night, never to awaken. I gave the bouquet to her parents. They stared at the red flowers blankly, saying nothing. I don't know what exactly I encountered that night, but that's not important. If there are ghosts in this world, perhaps they are indeed nothing to fear. The only thing I am certain of is that love lives, even after death.
But then again, so does hatred.
Ten days later, the girl's parents were admitted to the hospital with an incurable infectious disease. Their bodies were bruised all over, and they died in agony.
My old school had the best team in the city! Hey, you know, I used to be a member of that team... Oh, I'm not trying to brag about my past glorious days, but today's topic reminds me of someone I met when I was on the team.
The seniors would always give rookies a hard time. They'd just make us... Ahem, I mean, they'd just make the rookies fetch balls and ride the bench. This was no big deal, but there was one new kid who was really odd and out of place. He was pale and as thin as a beanpole, and he never got involved with the others.
I was bored one day and started watching him, trying my best to engage him and work with him. I soon noticed that every time he handed the ball to a senior, he would sniff them discretely, and then mutter something to himself.
After passing the ball to the first senior, he said, "Pork chops."
At first, I thought he was insulting them in his own weird way...
Then there was a short little senior, who he smelled and said, "Milk."
Milk? He wasn't even that pale! Maybe he was trying to insult the fella, saying something about his height?
Then he came face to face with one of the most popular guys, who also happened to be the richest kid on the team. He looked at him and said, "Man."
Huh! This shrimp was too much of a coward to insult someone like that!
Then along came a seriously chubby senior, and he said, "Spinach."
The more I heard, the less I understood. Shouldn't this senior be a pork chop, too?
The next day, a big commotion erupted at our school. We didn't know all the details, just that the police had arrested a psycho serial killer. The news terrified everyone, and a lot of students transferred. But who was the killer anyway? Later, my gossipy buddy told me that, "The only lead the police had was that the killer was mainly active near our school, and because of the gross way he killed them, they hired someone with this peculiar ability to smell what people have eaten before.
So, they sent him to our school to investigate. "
I instantly thought of that skinny kid watching everyone silently from the corner, and all the different "dishes" he uttered that day...
When I was very young, there was a nightingale in the garden of my family home. (She) had a very beautiful voice. I loved it dearly and used to while away my days in her presence.
Later, an unfortunate event befell my family, forcing me to travel afar and seldom return. To tell the truth, I never like the place, but every time I went back, I felt happy as soon as I saw the nightingale./the bird
That was until one day my wife fell ill, and I took her away from the clamor of the city to my hometown. Upon our arrival, my wife pointed out something quite peculiar, which made me suddenly realize that my nightingale had lived longer than naturally possible. You see, the lifespan of a nightingale is about ten years on average, but it had kept me company for at least twenty-three years, from the best days of my childhood to the dark days of my miserable youth.
It was also from that point onward that I noticed that its song was beautiful no longer. It had become bleak and shrill.
How did I know it was the same nightingale, you ask? Because it had a pair of curiously strange and distinctive wings, and it never flew away, always resting on the same branch.
My wife grew scared, so I had to take the nightingale to a place from whence she could never return.
At least that's what I thought at the time.
Not long after that, my wife passed away, and when I returned to my old home after her funeral at night, I saw the nightingale once again resting on that same branch. However, she sang no more.
Of all my family's many ancestral manors, one stands out because of its statues that have a long history attached to each of them. Countless royalty and nobility members come to marvel at them, but there is one statue in particular that holds their curiosity. The common folks hold varying opinions about this statue; they like to believe in stories handed down through the ages without knowing their origins, but I cannot blame them for their simplicity.
The actual events took place long ago. At that time, my ancestors were still the great rulers of this land. However, a monster was running rampant upon their territory. It is actually quite a clichéd story: A hero saved the people from this fire-breathing monster, and this hero was once the King's Hand . I believe all of you are familiar with this esteemed position and title, thus I will not elaborate on it.
Upon his appointment as the bishop, he led a crusade against the fire-breathing dragon threatening the land and finally captured the monster with a holy crucifix.
Initially, it was his intention to seal the monster beneath the sacred church grounds, but the locals insisted on burning it to death.
The fire lasted for three days and three nights, and none could gain any sleep for its heartrending wail cut through the air, tearing the sky asunder and calling forth boundless dark clouds and lasting darkness. Instead of succumbing to the flames, the dragon raised its head high, so it was suggested to cut off its head and hang it on the church wall.
Peace then seemed to be restored to the land, until one night, a priest heard a sound coming from the church walls—a voice that was terrifying yet all too familiar.
Slowly, it said, "You should not have trusted him so..."
Ahem... If you ever get the chance, perhaps you can go and touch its charming head.
