they called it the grey desert. there was nothing in it because people never came to this cursed land. nothing across the barren shifting shades of grey, except the soul of someone once desolate enough to plant it here. the chrysalis dangled precariously on the slender dried twig. it was a miracle that the strong winds of the sandstorms had not snapped the twigs nor broke the thin thread that attached the chrysalis to the dried bush. a miracle indeed, that the chrysalis remained undamaged...

it was, at first, just a small fine line on the crystalline grey surface of the pod. the fine line seemed to darken, as more fine lines branching out from the darkening streak... till the first spectrum poured out of the cracks, spilling colour into the monochrome landscape. the sands were filled a clayey red at once. the greyness of the sky was melted to a cerrulean blue, dabbed with white cotton wisps of clouds.

the chrysalis started to disintegrate into fragments. the black marble like exterior fell. each fragment hitting the ground with a resounding thud. each landing creating larger ring clouds of red dust all round, marking the expanding parameters of the sacred ground.

where the first shard of the shattered chrysalis fell to the ground, a spring bubbled cheerfully from the sands. where the second shard touched the ground, a cluster of frangrant desert roses and moonflowers, assorted cacti and desert greenery sprouted from the ground and flourished . where the third shard landed, a hill of quartz, in various clarity and hue, erupted from the ground and sparkled resplendently. where the fourth shard hit the ground, large felinous creatures prowled the sand. where the fifth shard fell, brightly coloured snakes burrowed out of the ground. where the sixth shard fell, jewel-toned birds flapped into existence. the seventh shard - a cherub gurgled mirthfully. the eighth shard fell into the spring. it dissolved and efferverscence filled the clear drink so that all who may drink from the spring may sing of beauty and truth. and that all who may wash from the spring may radiate with wisdom and true beauty.

the ninth, last and largest shard, dangled from the bush, with the once-desolate soul peering warily down. the soul gleaned with a shimmering sheen all over her naked body. she perched on the edge of the last shard, crouching over the ledge hesitantly. the soft warm interior of the chrysalis still radiated against her skin. she wavered then, resolutely, stretched the lacquered citrine wings against the cavern of the shard, and took the plunge...

the ninth shard did not fall to the ground. it remained on the bush. as soon as the citrine-winged lithe figure took to the air, the last shard shook and shivered behind her before it burst into a bright ball of fire. since then, it has hung its immortal greenish flame on the remnant bush...

the wind rushed past and lapped up the initial wetness of her body. it was awkward at first, the expanse of cool air rushing up against her skin. the space for movement made her giddy too. nevertheless, she soon got used to it. she spun around aerially, surveying the world that had been newly created.. she felt an odd sense of pride over the creatures and the land that laid in front of her eyes.

the baby still wriggled contentedly on the sand, palms opened and hands outstretched towards the figure hovering in midair. without warning, the citrine-winged being swooped down on the baby and took off to the skies again. she lifted him against her left breast and he gurgled contentedly into it, drooling as he made cooing noises. he was warm and wet against her bossom. she cradled him higher, so that she could nuzzle his face. the baby kicked happily, one small hand curling round the being's neck.

euphoria rushed through her veins, having felt the touch of skin. she held the baby even closer...

they called it the grey desert. there was nothing in it because people never came to this cursed land. nothing across the barren shifting shades of grey, except the soul of someone once desolate enough to plant it here. the chrysalis dangled precariously on the slender dried twig. it was a miracle that the strong winds of the sandstorms had not snapped the twigs nor broke the thin thread that attached the chrysalis to the dried bush. a miracle indeed, that the chrysalis remained undamaged...

it was, at first, just a small fine line on the crystalline grey surface of the pod. the fine line seemed to darken, more fine lines branching out from the darkening streak... till the first spectrum poured out of the cracks, spilling colour into the monochrome landscape. the sands were filled a clayey red at once. the greyness of the sky was melted to a cerrulean blue, dabbed with white cotton wisps of clouds.

where the first shard of the shattered chrysalis fell to the ground, a spring bubbled cheerfully from the sands. where the second shard touched the ground, a cluster of frangrant desert roses and moonflowers, assorted cacti and desert greenery sprouted from the ground and flourished . where the third shard landed, a hill of quartz, in various clarity and hue, erupted from the ground and sparkled resplendently. where the fourth shard hit the ground, large felinous creatures prowled the sand. where the fifth shard fell, brightly coloured snakes burrowed out of the ground. where the sixth shard fell, jewel-toned birds flapped into existence. the seventh shard - a cherub gurgled mirthfully. the eighth shard fell into the spring. it dissolved and efferverscence filled the clear drink so that all who may drink from the spring may sing of beauty and truth. and that all who may wash from the spring may radiate with wisdom and true beauty.

the ninth, last and largest shard, dangled from the bush, with the once-desolate soul peering warily down. the soul gleaned with a shimmering sheen all over her naked body. she perched on the edge of the last shard, crouching over the ledge hesitantly. the soft warmth of the inside of the chrysalis still radiated against her skin. she wavered then, resolutely, stretched the lacquered citrine wings against the cavern of the shard, and took the plunge...

the ninth shard did not fall to the ground. it remained on the bush. as soon as the citrine-winged lithe figure took to the air, the last shard shook and shivered behind her before it burst into a bright ball of fire. since then, it has hung its immortal greenish flame on the remnant bush.

you see a house atop a slope. even from this far, it looks pretty impressive. the house is surrounded a pale blue highwall and flanked by a majestic gate. the estate is not very young and is already starting to collect mildew. oddly, the greenish mildew seems to add a grandeur of age to the place.

you walk on the path to the house...

the house itself barely rises above the highwall, like a being beginning to ascend from watery depths. the house is two-storey-ed and has an attic. of what type it is, it is hard to say. the architecture is reminiscent of colonial times. with white-washed and pale blue shutter windows to match the wall. and yet it is not entirely colonial. pale blue seems a little off from the colonial era.

on the left of the house, a huge sycamore tree stands rooted to the ground.

as you walk uphill, you come closer to the estate and you realise that the highwall has depressed panels of carvings every ten to twelve metres in perimeter. you veer off the road leading to the gates to inspect the detail. each panel seems to depict a different scene. in one panel, you see three men paying tribute to a baby in a manger. the next, you see a woman of asian origin in flowing robes holding a vase containing a stalk in her hands. in another, you see a large serpent falling into the sea and steam hisses all around its flailing body while a half naked man stands triumhant. one very intrigueing panel that catches your eye is one showing nothing at all. you know not what to make of this. perhaps it is not yet finished? nevertheless, the blank panel unnerves you and you decide forgo the rest of the panels and hurry back to the main gates.

you stand before the main gates and you ring the doorbell. in your time waiting for a response, you study the gates. the gates are made of sturdy steel, painted black and mottled with silvery blue. the outline of an oriental dragon forms the gate's left. it is painted dark green. the dragon is folded and coiled many times into itself and its head is arched back ready to strike to its right. the right of the gates presents you a tiger in mid-movement, jumping down from on top to meet the dragon.

just as you draw near to touch the gates, it swings open from you and you are lead in by a stone path.

you walk right up the path of mosaic stones in concrete. it is a short path. you notice that the garage is open on the right and in it sits a black mustang, sleek as hell, waiting patiently to be brought out on a night of wild fun. you also notice that the big sycamore tree provides an outlet for a swing and shade for the porch on the right.

you hop onto the veranda and find yourself sinking a little and your feet caressed by smooth sand. you look down and to your amazement, the sand is black! the sand pit forms a slight meandering path across the porch. as you twiddle your toes in the shallow sand path you see five clay-red columns which remind you of athens. the columns they are chipped, cracked and somewhat eroded. the dimensions are right, a foot in diameter. four of the columns rise through the wooden platform of the veranda at the corners of the porch. they do not hold the roof of the veranda. instead, they end, perhaps, a few heads above you, looking like they were demolished by some otherwordly giant. the lone one stands next to the wooden park bench made of teak and wrought iron, ending off just before your waist. the lone pillar, similarly, shoots through the wooden veranda. it, however, ends with a proper flat squarish top of a greek pillar. on top of it, is a glass bowl. the glass bowl big and precisely semi-spherical. it is painted dark blue and has stars painted of medieval fashion on it. the bowl is filled with water and a lighted saffron candle in the stape of a star floats in it, emitting a warm glow with its flame.