Buried Treasure

This story is the second of a trio. Read the first here.

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With heavy panting, we dragged the chest out of the shoveled pit. Eagerly, we opened the chest. Yes! The treasure of Gold Rogers was ours to keep!

It was by a fluke of luck that we had chanced upon the map leading to this secret location- we had overheard a bunch of drunk and loose-lipped fools blabbering out the site where this remarkable horde was buried. Still, only our sheer tenacity had enabled us to evade our pursuers, who were all equally intent on the treasure which now lay in front of us.

Though we had the treasure, we knew that there was no reasonable way to carry it to safe shores now. News had gotten out that Gold Rogers' treasure was being unearthed, and the authorities were on the lookout for anyone with a sudden and unexplained horde of gold. Pirate gold was a seizable asset, and none of us had any intention on enriching the government and being left empty-handed.

There was only one alternative, which was to wait for the news to die down. Of course, in the meantime, the treasure had to be hidden somewhere. Fearing that the original location would be easily compromised, seeing as to how easily we had unearthed it, we decided on a new location to rest Gold Rogers' gold.

And thus, we buried his treasure and left the island. On making landfall, we decided to drink in anticipation of the day when we would finally retrieve our well-deserved gold.

Wound

The following story is the first of a trio that I wish to write.

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It was then that I noticed a healing scab on my arm. It was a long, thin scab, perhaps from a paper cut. But I really had no idea when I had gotten the superficial wound.

It seemed to be healed, with the edges of the scab being flaky and dry. Unwittingly, I began rubbing at the scab, slowly peeling it away.

A thin sliver of blood oozed out. The wound had not completely healed after all.

Thunderboil Fingers

The old man pointed at the wall, and streams of energy streaked out, puncturing and piercing the plastered surface. Seemingly amazed at his ability, he continued to repeat his actions, leaving the wall pockmarked.

Flabbergasted by this reality-defying act, I genuflected before him and asked how he acquired the divine skill. He did not seem to notice me, and started mumbling to himself.

"Finally, after 80 years, I have mastered the mysteries of the Thunderboil Fingers !! They had thought me to be mad, locking me up in this sanatorium, but now I can finally prove my sanity !"

The old man then turned to me, and continued.

"When I was a young boy, I saw an old man practicing the skill. Amazed, I implored him to teach me his art. He gave me a manual for the Thunderboil Fingers, which I have been practicing ever since. He warned me that the skill should be studied slowly, and the effects would only be apparent after a very long period of study."

"And so, I practiced daily, though I never saw any results. People thought me to be mad, but I knew in my heart that one day, I would prove everyone wrong. Now, finally, after over 80 years, I have mastered the skill !"

As the old man was speaking, tears came out from his eyes. The moment which he had been anticipating for his whole life was apparently too emotional for him to bear.

Then, he died. It was quite possible that the exertion had exhausted what feeble strength that he had. I searched the old man's body, and found the manual for the Thunderboil Fingers. It was a complex and arcane work, clearly requiring much study to understand.

The sanatorium management came and asked me to explain the events that had transpired, and I gave a clear account of what happened. When I pointed to the hole-ridden wall as evidence for my account, they were unconvinced, and claimed that I had drilled holes into the wall.

They claimed me to be insane, and locked me up, possibly for life. In this clearly unfair situation, what else could I have done? I started practicing the Thunderboil Fingers.

Just you wait, I'll be out in no time at all.

Writing and Perfection

It was something that I gradually came to realize, and then grudgingly accept- that I am indeed a writer of limited skill and variety.

Upon reviewing the past few pieces of fiction that I had written, my limitations were obvious. Everything I wrote was of a length shorter than that of a short story, and none of the stories were happy in setting or ending. To express this in another manner, I am only capable of writing short, gloomy tales.

After a brief conversation with a friend, I arrived at the conclusion that my writing was somewhat characteristic of my personality. I have no patience for the bells and whistles, for characterization or description. When I read, my eyes filter the most useless pieces of information and retain only the most concise of statements. One consequence of this is that I have utterly terrible spelling, as I simply do not vocalize the words that I read.

It dismays me that ultimately, I am unable to externalize the tremendously perfect ideas that do exist in my brain. In my head, everything is perfectly visualized, and perfect in character. Viewing the stories is akin to watching a movie or living a scene in life. Yet, translating that vague perfection is difficult, even impossible.

Perhaps one reason why I only write short gloomy tales is that it is much easier than to externalize perfection. The entire point of gloomy tales is to invoke thought, and to encourage philosophy. The mechanism therefore serves the purpose. However, the stories that exist in my head are to invoke perfection, to convey ideals. As such, I avoid writing.

Perhaps when I have acquired sufficient skill and courage will I then attempt to put to paper what I consider to be my most promising ideas. Otherwise, I fear that I will only mar and taint, and hence not do justice to, what would originally be complete and beautiful.

On Talent

Each of us has an internal ranking list of talent, where we, whether consciously or unconsciously, judge others and rank them on basis of their talent. This list determines much of our attitudes to others, of whether we are deferring or condescending, or of whether we are to admire or to hold in contempt.

Sometimes, we will encounter individuals who are of vastly inferior talent, and yet hold stations or possess achievements far beyond their innate capabilities. Such individuals draw out our negativities, especially if their innate talents are lesser than that of ours, and yet their accomplishments are greater than that which we have achieved. We would deny, of course, that such negativities are merely green envy, and that which is "mistaken" as envy is merely a natural distaste for the unfairness of the world.

It is indeed true that unfairness is ever present in this world. Those born into families of great wealth and power have a paved path to success. Some have the fair hand of lady fate to thank, being blessed with a series of fortunate events that were in no part a result of their own actions. We all know of such individuals, who we might rightly judge to be sorely unworthy.

Then, there are a select few that have little talent to speak of, nor do they possess any inherent or unfair advantage. And yet, through sheer perseverance and hard work, they achieve what is thought to be impossible. These individuals, far more than those examples stated earlier, incite our hate and envy, for they possess what we lack the most.

If we ask anyone to choose between being talented or hardworking, most would choose the former. This seems odd. We decry of familial wealth as being an unfair advantage, and deem those with supreme luck as being undeserving. And yet, would talent, which comes from the womb and is not a result of our actions, possess any higher moral ground to stand upon? None, I would think.

It is only perseverance and hard work that is worth anything. The actions that we take in pursuit of our goals, the overcoming of the limitations that we are all born into, the blind and dogged determination to do what is thought to be beyond us - all these are, far more than any innate and unfair advantage which we often use to justify our superiority over others, the true hallmarks of the worth of any human being.

Time Traveler Verification Experiment Unveiled

Now, I shall unveil the experiment!

All time travelers, please post a comment stating that you are a time traveler under the post titled "Time Traveler Verification Experiment". You should post the comment anytime before this post (the one that you are now reading) comes up. Yes, you need to use a time machine to return a few days back to post the comment.

For the rest of the ordinary non-time traveling folks, here's what I did - I wrote this post 1 week ago, but I set the post to auto-appear only now. Only time travelers can comply with my set of instructions (by virtue of their time travel devices), since ordinary folk would read the instructions too late.

Of course, this is a pretty lousy way of verifying the status of a time traveler. The more evident way is to ask for a set of lottery numbers. Still, it makes some use of the feature of future-posting.

Time Traveler Verification Experiment

All time travelers take note! I have devised and begun an experiment that can verify that you are indeed a time traveler.

In one week's time, we shall see how many true time travelers have come forward. Til then, the details of the experiment will be kept hidden, although if you are a time traveler you can ostensibly jump forward and sneak a peek.