The telephone rang while he was in the shower. He was surprised almost shocked at its ringing. A sound so unfamiliar to his ears. Its shrill repetitive vibration sent little shock waves down his spine. He turned off the water, just to make sure that he wasn't dreaming and it was indeed the telephone in his apartment living room that was sending sound waves into his ears and causing signals to be shot through to his brain. He shivered. Both from the cold and from the strangeness of the event. He had never in the 7 years of residing in this apartment ever received a phone call. He knew no one in this town. And no one knew that he was here. He had long took it for granted that the telephone was a mere decorative part of a living room. It gave the place a certain normality. The fact that it never rang never bothered him. He took it for granted.

Now that it was ringing, he went into a litle shock and stood numb and naked in the shower. He was merely listening to it. To the almost shouting, nagging tone of a ring. To its urgency. To its echo in the quiet house. Its every ring sounded like a lunatic screaming. He hesitantly wrapped a towel around himself, creeped cautiously into the dark living room. He was about the lift up the receiver, when the ringing stopped abruptly.

He was still disturbed the next day at work. He kept asking himself how could anyone know his phone number since he gave it to no one. Nor did he know his own number. He wondered if it could have been a mistake. Someone who had dialled a wrong number. Mistaken an 8 for a 9. Or perhaps pressed a wrong number. These things happened, he assured himself and tried to concentrate on his work. As the day passed, he became calmer. And by the time he knocked off, he was back to his usual self. the calm, composed, orderly him which he had grown so fond off.

As it was his routine everyday for the past 7 years. He dined alone in his empty apartment every night at 7.30 pm sharp. He then read a bit of the evening paper and listened to a bit of radio. Oldies. Nothing loud and stimulating for him, he always preferred the familar and soothing. At 9 he goes to the shower and is in bed by 10. And as usual, he is in shower again at 9. The evening had gotten on fine, nothing unusual. But just when he was about to turn off the shower. He heard it again. The unmistakable scream of the telephone. It once again made the hairs on the back of his hair stand. Shock and disbelieve. The call had to be for him, the chances of the caller making the mistake a second time just seemed improbable. And the fact that the caller called again at exactly the same time was simply too great a coincidence. The nagging discomfort that followed him during the day now turned to a fear that immobilized him. He waited for the ringing to stop and his headache to subside before he left the bathroom shaking. He locked every window and checked that his door was bolted before he went to bed. He spent the night listening to all the little night sounds a house makes. Creaks and thuds when the world was quiet, as if the house had a life on its own during these abandoned hours of the night.

His life had been calm so far. He preferred the tried. The new and the different scared him. He remembered how his father had tried to teach him to cycle when he was very young, but he had fallen and broken his legs and were in bed for 6 months. And the time when he was forced to take up swimming lessons and nearly drowned. Every attempt at anything new had always turned into disasters. He believed in this rule in his life. It made him a timid man. But as he aged, his insecurities turned into fears. Often irrational ones. His once timidness now became a kind of fear which gripped him and made him a very frightened man.

When he heard the telephone the next night, he once again froze in fear. He had thought of a million possible theories on who the caller might be. Or how a rather bizarre twist of fate could have caused the string of calls always at approximately the same time to occur. He had thought that this could in fact be an explainable phenomenon. But his fears always got the better of him, he imagined a crazed stalker or a psychopath marking him as the next target. Or even a supernatural being which is looking for a soul to steal. He even wondered if he was going crazy. He tried rationalizing but his mind kept pushing him towards strange improbable fears.

For nights, the calls kept coming. Always at approximately 9pm. He now expected these strange calls, but he could never summon up the courage to just pick up the call. For fear that his worries might come true. If he picked it up maybe the killer would strike there and then. Maybe if he ignored these calls they would eventually go away. Several times, he sat by the phone until the ringing stopped. But even as his fears kept mounting, his curiousity grew. But always, his fears triumphed.

But as the weeks passed, he grew more and more curious. Even his fear could not suppress this new sensation of wanting just to find out. He felt that he would die if he did not eventually find out the explanation for this strange event every evening at 9. He still shook when the phone ring, but with every call, he was drawn closer to picking up the phone.

Finally, one Wednesday night. He gathered enough curiousity to pick up the bizarre phone call. With a deep, resolute sigh, he took up the receiver in one swipe. Spoke a rather nervous "Hello?" into the phone. He held his breath, and from the other side came the mechanical voice of a programmed advertisement designed such that unless the caller picks it up, it would automatically call the same number until it is eventually answered. He heard the whole of the advertisement. Something about credit cards. He trembled and let the phone slip out of his hand. When it was all over, he felt a weird tingle followed by a slight rumble in his belly. He then felt a new sensation rising in him. One that he had not felt in a long time. He laughed. All those fears from the years came breaking out, like monstrous chains that were being lifted far into the air by brightly coloured balloons. Before he fell asleep that night, he thought of how he would learn to cycle again tomorrow night. And in his dreams he rode on a star bicycle into the night sky.

Do the blind dream? What are their dreams made of? Sounds and textures? Smells and dampness that weaves together into a landscape of the soul? Can they see colours and look into sunlight in their dreams? Or do they soar above the confinements of a visioned world in their dreams. And hear the voices of angels and feel the hand of God? Can they feel a smile, even when they cannot see one? What kind of self-identity do they have of themselves that is without the surface appearance most others identify themselves with. Is their lack of a vision a gift to a greater sight? When they fall in love, do they escape the tricks of the eyes.. Our attraction to beautiful things. Can they judge the value in things better than the rest? What is the world like without light, shadow, height and depth? Or do they have even more complex definition of space? Is space dependent on our ability to see or is the ability to move merely a sufficient criteria? For what does space mean to a man who cannot move even if he can see?

Do sounds become infinitely richer for the blind? Even the gentle rush of wind that blows through the leaves? What is the world that is full of sounds and textures like? Can they feel the irritation of an angry frown if someone glares in silence? Is it really like what everyone thinks? IS it a blackness or a darkness? Or do they even understand the concept of darkness? If they have never seen the light? Would they confuse silence with darkness? What does sadness mean to them if they can never seen tears? IS it a pain that wrenches the heart and a dampness on the face? Is it a better intuition and faith in the world than all other common folks? Does seeing more necessarily mean knowing more?

Our criterias for differentiating things depends so much on the sight , that we take for granted the red of a 10 dollar bill and the blue of a 50. But for the blind? Do they two bills feel different? Do they want what we want? Things we see on advertisements and think we need. Do they hear advertisements and think they want the description?


Do the blind dream?

The first time she saw him in her dream. He was just another of those blurred images which forms part of a confused dreamscape. The second time, she saw him, she dreamt that she was dining at a fancy restaurant with her sister. He was sitting at a table behind her. He kept starring. Takes a sip from his glass. Lights a cigarette. And continues starring. Sometimes, she wakes up feeling excited but not knowing why. She tried to conjure up the image of the man in her dreams who had made her blood rush up to her brain at an intoxicating speed followed by a chill. She shivered but his image refuse to come together into a whole. Just pieces floating randomly past in her consciousness.

It started off an innocent enough infatuation. Like the kind that young girls develop for celebrities. Or teachers. People they can never quite grasp in reality, but are readily theirs in dreams and fantasies. But it quickly became an obsession. She could not stop thinking of this mysterious man who keeps appearing in her dreams. His image would sometimes spring up like a surprised jack-in-abox when she is in the midst of her work. She took to smiling to herself and looking distracted. friends started suspecting that she is secretely seeing someone. They grilled her for some information. Any information at all. But she revealed nothing. How could she? Without sounding like a complete idiot?

She started to become excited once the sky darkened. She would rush through her dinner. Watch a bit of television distractedly. She was eager to fall asleep. And when he doesn't appear in her dreams, she is disappointed. Even a tad angry, as if he had stood her up for a date. He always come when her sleep was the deepest and sweetest. As if he chose to make his appearance only at that deepest, darkest part of her mind. Letting her fumble around and try to catch him while he flits around in the dark corners of her mind.

He was always charming. He sweeps her off her feet. Always. Without a word. She wonders at his silence, and her ability to understand his meanings even though he has no voice. In the day, she tried to imagine him with a voice. she would imagine something smooth and silky, a tad hoarse perhaps. But it will be a soothing voice that will flow over her like liquid. She was secretive and happy about her romance in her sleep. She convinced herself that she has found him; her soul mate. She started to look for him in reality. For the face, the voice, in the people of the city rushing around like her. She does not meet him.

Soon, her excitement reaches such a pitch that she no longer can drift off to sleep. She longs to see him but fears it. She would close her eyes in concentration waiting for sleep to take over. But the moment she thinks that she will be seeing him, she becomes alert, anxious. Her insomnia stretches her, dehydrates her, breaks her. Pills give her a blank sleep, with only disjointed images that she can't really piece together. Too blank. Like a white canvas torn into pieces and thrown in her face. She often wonders if she is going mad. She thought of seeing a psychiatrist. But that will only mean that he will try to remove this man from her dreams. Help her see that he isn't real. She couldn't bear the thought of it. The only way, she decided, is for her to find him in reality. He had to exist.


Countless sleepless nights, left her drained. She felt like she lived in a world of the surreal, she could no longer disentagle the real from the unreal. She decided that she had to get some help, or die. She boarded the bus as she does everyday. The same 8.15 bus. The bus was punctual. She climbed the steps tired,heavily. Dropping something insignificant as she did so. Not wanting to bother to pick it up, she left it.

A shrill voice rang out, obviously uncomfortable in English with a mandarin/hokkien/catonese-whatever hint of an accent. 'Miss, you drop something."
For the first time, she takes a true look at the bus-driver who calls to her now. And there he was. The man she had dreamt of for countless nights. Sitting in the driver seat in his uniform, giving her a puzzled look and a forced smile.

NUmbers in a perons's life tells a story.

Like how a man takes bus 31 everyday. Goes to work on the 16th storey. Sits at the 6th computer from the boss's office. Drinks a total of 9 to 12 cups of coffee a day depending on his stress level. How he is dating 2 women at the same time. When, he is in fact infatuated with 6. (3 of which are celebrities) He plans to get a promotion in 6 month's time. He goes for lunch at 1 o'clock. And goes to BLK 857 for his chicken rice and kopi. Afer work he watches 4 hours ot TV. Sometimes more if there are soccer matches. He usually sleeps 6 hours. In this pattern 4-1.5-0.5. wakign up in between to sometimes take a wee. (approx 200ml)

But the above are just small numbers. We'll try something a bit larger.

He was born in 1975. Which makes him 30 this year. He has an annual income of 36,000. SGD. His account number is 03911671. His pin 453525. His phone number 64532832. His Passport number is 7521468H. He doesn't have a car, but if he should have one,he will want the license plate to be 3030 or 8888.

In such a methodological way, we can create a person's life number profile. Every set of these are unique and even more accurate than DNA processing. One of the technicians in heaven created this way of classification, thus, ending eons of chaos in the 'everyhuman'room in heaven's record room. This heavenly techician was promoted to head angel of the record department. thus, he could devote more time to practising singing to qualify for a spot in Tenor section in the heavenly choir. But that is besides the point. The point is that a person's number profile is so crucial that mixing up even just a single digit can change the event of a person's life so drastically. that a 9 which is misread as a 6 makes a difference between a pauper and a millionaire.A saint or a sinner. A living and a dead man.


For centuries now, Satan and his employees have been trying to get at the secret of this number profile system to clear up the record rooms of Hell.(which is in a worse state than the heaven's record room). Satan had always bore a grudge against God for stealing away all the talents who should rightfully belong in Hell.co. All the great scientists and atheists job-hopped to heaven. (Better benefits)Much to the dismay of Mr.Devil-Director. That is why, a group of gifted idea-engineers from hell came up with an aggressive advertisement campaign to draw more people to work in Hell.co. They call it "Television, mass commuication, entertainment". One pretty package. With their latest instalments : Hollywood.

Due to such successful advertising, Hell.co. had attracted many more employees. And now boasts of their 20 zillion glamourous employeees. Most of them got help from plastic surgeons (who happens to be subsidary of the hell advertisement campaign). But it doesn't matter where your looks come from, as long as you have them in hell. They call it "Looks to kill for."

God is greatly troubled by the drop in Heaven's image in the public mind. While Angels use to be the hippest and coolest beings in the Renaissance period. All great artists wanted Angels as their models. And the public adored the Angels. Their fan base use to be so huge,that Angels had to adopt invisiblity to escape being attacked by mobs of fans. But now, people are obessessed with Hollywood stars and He had nothing to counter the power of Hollywood in the 21st century.

Right now, even as the war wage on. The Heavenly hosts are thinking of sending another messiah or messengre to gather their flocks back... The only question is who should they send that will appeal to people and who can effectively counter the effects of Hollywood...