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Delerium
“Fragile, did you break a bone again? Maybe you should just cut that hand off if it’s so weak!”
The taunt rang across the training yard. A boy stooped, snatched a twig from the dirt, and snapped it in half with a sharp crack.
“Look at this! Stronger than Fragile’s bones!” he jeered.
The trainees erupted with laughter, their voices echoing against the stone walls.
The noise carried far enough to summon the trainer, dragging him away from his favorite distraction—flirting with the maids in the mess hall. With the warriors of the clan away on campaign, it was the only time women bothered with him, and he knew it. Still, the attention fed his vanity.
Now he strode into the yard, his expression a mix of annoyance and weariness.
“Oh, not again, Amalus,” he groaned. “You’ve got talent, boy, but bones as brittle as eggshells. I fear you’ll lose an arm before you ever finish your training.”
“Amalus? More like Armless!” someone shouted, and laughter rippled through the group once more.
“Enough,” the trainer barked. Then, softer: “Go to the healer’s quarters, Amalus. That hand needs tending.”
Amalus ground his teeth, his face burning as he turned away. He walked slowly toward the gates, cradling his injured arm. But it wasn’t the pain of broken bone that weighed on him—it was the sting of broken pride.
And more than any healer’s bandage, he longed for the cure only vengeance could bring.
Amalus reached the healer’s chamber, his arm cradled close. The old man, Avandhi, worked in silence for a moment, carefully laying out cloth and herbs. At last, as he began wrapping the splint, his voice came gentle and low.
“You know, those who push themselves hardest often carry wounds not only on the body, but on the mind as well.”
Amalus winced as the bandage tightened. “They’re vile, all of them. But this—” his eyes burned—“this isn’t something I can’t heal myself. I’ll prove it, Healer Avandhi.”
The old man shook his head faintly. “Listen well, Amalus. A wound of the flesh is simple. Time, herbs, and a careful hand will see it mended. But a wound of the mind… that is a trickier thing. Hard to find, harder still to heal. And even when hidden, the pain of it lingers.”
Amalus muttered, “General Yaksha once wrote that such wounds are like pressure—turning what is brittle into diamond. To those who laugh, it’s nothing but a passing jest. But for the one mocked, the insult burns like an ember, fueling the will to grow strong.”
Avandhi finished the bandage, tearing the fabric with his teeth before tying it securely. His eyes clouded with memory.
“Once,” he began, “there was a boy in a village not far from here. His father had abandoned the family, and his mother raised him and his brother alone. She worked herself ragged as a maid—faithful, hardworking, but foolish . She mistook the villagers’ pity for respect, and so their laughter at her son went unchecked.
“The elder brother found his fortune in trade and left. But the younger… he drifted, mocked daily, the fool of every gathering. Yet beneath the ridicule, he carried talent. He trained with the sword, even as sleepless nights drove him to seek medicine. Nothing cured him. So he drowned it with mead, and through drink and pain alike, he honed his skill.
“One day, he vanished. Years later, he returned, no longer a mocked boy but a hardened chief. He led his warriors not with treaties, as was his habit, but with fire and slaughter. An entire clan—his own kin—was wiped away. His men could not understand it. They thought it madness. Later, he sent me a letter filled with reasons and justifications. But I knew the truth. He killed them because he had never felt warmth from them. And a child who is denied warmth will burn the village to feel it.”
Avandhi’s voice faded into silence as he studied Amalus’s face.
Before the boy could answer, a soldier burst into the chamber. “A message has arrived. The conquest is over without bloodshed. Our general won a duel against the enemy’s champion, and they’ve agreed to a treaty. Eleven of our men fell ill, though—they’ll need tending once they arrive.”
The soldier smirked at Amalus. “If the general keeps winning battles like this, Fragile, you may never need to fight at all.” With a chuckle, he left.
Amalus’s fists clenched. “One day,” he growled, half to himself, half to Avandhi, “I’ll march into the yard and crush the faces of every fool who mocks me. Then we’ll see how strong their skulls truly are.” With that, he stormed out.
Avandhi gazed at the empty doorway, his thoughts heavy. He had seen that same ember before—the one that had burned down his village to ash. And now he saw it again, flickering in the eyes of the boy they called Fragile.
And again he thought: when one with such an ember strays from his path, he becomes a terror—reaping lives, burning villages, and finally caught, displayed as the embodiment of evil for all to condemn. Yet there are others, more dangerous still: the mocked and the ridiculed who rise to power. Like that boy who became a chief and butchered his kin, such men will trade countless lives for vengeance or for dominion. To them, the world itself is fuel. If they win, they may even be called heroes, spinning their tale into glory while the ashes of the fallen are forgotten.
Did the crowd ever wonder, he asked himself, how the mocked truly feel when laughter cuts into them like a blade? Over the ages, how many lives have been lost, how many villages burned, how many worlds drowned in fire—because a lonely soul once stood humiliated before a jeering crowd?
Avandhi exhaled slowly and pushed the thoughts away. Such burdens were not his to carry. He was a healer, nothing more. Others might mock, others might laugh, others might march to war. His duty was to mend the broken and tend the sick. That was the way a man lived long enough to see his hair turn grey.
With that, the old healer rose and went to make preparations for the soldiers who would soon arrive, carrying the weight of a truth he could never speak aloud.
Time Speaks
From the age when men clad themselves in hides and lived beneath the open sky, to the age when they forged jungles of iron and glass and dressed themselves in silk, suits and uniforms, I have watched the same story unfold again and again.
I have seen the small one — the unheard, the mocked, the humiliated before a crowd — rise, carrying within him an ember born of ridicule. And I have seen that ember spread into wildfire.
Some, once crowned with power, burn homes.
Some burn villages.
Some burn nations.
And some burn the very idea of peace, convinced they live in eternal war with a world that wronged them first.
Yet, I have also seen another truth — quieter, older, and far more ordinary.
Those who laugh at another’s stumble, another’s pain, another’s shame…
do they laugh solely out of cruelty?
Often, no.
They laugh because in that moment, the humiliated is below them — and the laughter, brief as it is, lifts them higher.
Not by strength.
Not by victory.
Only by contrast.
Look anywhere — in hearths, in circles of friends, in courts of power, in the foundations of empires.
Where there are those who laugh, there are those who are laughed at.
Where there are those who feel tall, there must be one made to feel small.
It is not war that teaches men cruelty.
It is the quiet, everyday battlefield of pride.
And pride, unlike swords, leaves no visible wound —
yet it carves deeper than steel.
I have heard the laughter of crowds.
I have felt the lives that laughter reshaped.
I have watched the kindling of an ember in a boy’s eyes —
small, trembling, ignored.
Until one day… it becomes a torch.
And then a blaze.
And then a funeral pyre for all who never thought twice before laughing.
I do not judge them.
I do not save them.
I simply remember.
For men die.
Worlds change.
But the sound of laughter — and the cost it demands —
is timeless.
Semper Fi
It was a cold December morning. The world had buried Christmas under heaps of wrapping paper and staggered toward the new year like a drunk looking for one last drink. The streets were alive with banners and blinking lights—festive camouflage for the real wildfire: sales, discounts, consumption.
Even in the freezing air, anyone who stopped to think could see the wildfire of sales blazing across every storefront.
A man in his late thirties—maybe early forties—walked through the frost with those very thoughts. His eyes skimmed the glowing advertisements, a contemptuous smile tugging at his lips.
Time speaks:
Humans are curious creatures. For one month every year, they become bipolar—spending with abandon, then swearing resolutions to stop. Quit smoking. Get healthy. Find God. They call it renewal. I call it retail. Because the only resolution merchants make is to sell . And emotions, I assure you, is something that always sell well..Every age has its rituals and I’ve watched it repeat for centuries.
The man knew that. He’d spent years across deserts and jungles, learning that nothing sells better than ideas and ideologies. And of all ideas, the most dangerous were the ones wrapped in loyalty, honor, and belonging. Buy into them, stop questioning, and soon you become the product of the product you purchased.
Once, he bought into an idea himself an idea called honor. It had sold him courage, sacrifice, heroism. It had sold him war.
Ideas. The most dangerous products of all. Love, loyalty, honor, politics—each packaged with belonging and validation. If bought blindly, they turned people into slaves of the very ideals they thought they owned.
He reached the bar, the bar door groaned as he entered. Without even looking up, he muttered:
“Mike. Whiskey.”
Behind the counter, Mike already had the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.
“Roger that, Cap. Neat, large, no rocks, no ice—no mercy.”
“Affirmative.”
The man downed the whiskey in one gulp. “Mike, if I ever say I don’t feel the burn anymore, put me down. That means I’m an undead.”
Mike gave a nervous laugh. “Jeez, Cap. Can’t you be cheerful? It’s the holidays.”
The Captain glanced at the shelves. In the center, carved in bold, the words: In war, fathers bury sons. Joe’s memorial. Mike’s brother. One of the Captain’s last friends.
His lips curled into a smile—contempt first, then scorn. He raised his hand for a refill, but another voice beat him to it.
“Mike—reload for him. One for me. Neat. And make sure no ears enter the perimeter.”
Mike stiffened. That voice needed no introduction.
Colonel Daniels entered, brushing frost off his coat. Authority clung to him like armor.
“I’ll get your drinks in a minute, sir. No ears, roger that,” Mike said quickly.
The Colonel chuckled. “We’re not in the barracks, son. This is your father’s bar. Now bring me my whiskey—I feel like a frozen steak.”
Mike obeyed, setting two glasses down along with a full bottle before disappearing toward the back.
The Colonel lifted his glass and sighed. “I miss your father, Mike. Holidays here were never the same without Joe. Tell me—how’s your mother, Ronda? Still makes that roast beef?”
Mike smiled faintly. “Better than ever, sir. She’s got help now. My wife. And my boy keeps her busy.”
The Colonel’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “Close early tonight. Let me meet that boy of yours. And Ronda can remind me of all the stupid things you did as a kid.”
“Dinner it is, sir. Just no empty bullet casings as toys, alright? Joe and I hated those.”
“Roger that, Mikey.”
Mike left, flipping the sign to Closed.
The Colonel turned to the Captain, who poured drinks for them both lifted his glass, studying the amber liquid as if it were a battlefield map
“Son,” Daniels began, “I could offer condolences, but I know they mean nothing to you. Your brother was a good man. One of us. And we semper fi to our own—even in death.”
The Captain slammed back his drink. His face was stone.
“You know why I’m here. Two reasons,” Daniels continued. “First, rank. There’s no bad soldier under a good general. I’ll be wearing those stars soon, and I don’t want my best soldier wasting away, acting he is nameless, drinking himself to dust. Rise in rank, if not for yourself, then to keep unworthy men from commanding the worthy.”
The Captain dragged his glass across the counter, tracing patterns in the spilled drops. He finally muttered:
“Sir, do you know I envy you?”
The Colonel blinked. “Envy me? For what?”
“Not your rank. Not your speeches. Not your lies that inspire boys to march into hell. I envy you because you still feel.”
The Captain leaned forward, his voice like gravel.
“You talked to Mike about his family. Roast beef. Childhood stories. Warmth. I envy that. Because when my brother died, I didn’t even know what to feel. You want me to lead men? I can’t even grieve like one.”
The Colonel held his silence, though the whiskey trembled in his glass.
The Captain continued, his tone sharper. “Second reason you’re here: the reporter. Nancy Pollock. You know her father died in service. She’s here for the truth about the raid. The civilians. The drone strike that killed the journalist. She’ll get the official report my report. Nothing more.”
The Colonel rose, walked close. “I know you. I know you were saved in the jungle by Major Pollock and his men. That man was a hero, son. Do me one favor: tell his daughter that. Not for politics. Because even hardened bastards like us believed it.”
He turned toward the door. “Mikey, I’ll see you at seven!”
From the back came: “Roger that!”
The Colonel left.
Twenty minutes later, the bar door opened again. A woman in her thirties walked in—eyes sharp, recorder ready.
“Captain __”
Before she could finish the captain cut her off
“Yes. Call me Captain. That’s what I prefer.”
She set the recorder on the bar. “Then let’s begin.”
The questions began, sharp as knives. Civilian deaths. Journalists killed. Responsibility. The Captain answered like a machine, every word pulled from the cold ink of the official report.
Eventually, she exhaled in frustration, switching the recorder off.
“Miss Pollock,” Edwards said quietly. “Off the record.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Your father, Major Pollock… he would have wanted to tell you something. I think I have an idea of what he wanted to say.”
Captain poured another drink, his mask cracking just enough for pain to bleed through.
“The jungle was hell disguised in green. Men burned alive from faulty flamethrowers. Sokdier blown apart by granades from own troops in panic. Valor and duty vanished into mud. That’s when I met your father. We were seven men left, half of them bleeding. He got us out.”
Captain swallowed the whiskey and continued.
“That night he told me: Son, I have a daughter back home. She says she’ll be a journalist. Wants to tell truth. But truth is a tricky thing isn’t it? Out here, the truth is, more than flags, more than duty, we fight for survival. For each other. We have sixty-three men. Can they count on you to fight for them the way they’ll fight for you?”
Nancy’s voice quivered, hardening into anger. “And yet he didn’t survive.”
Edwards met her eyes. “No. He didn’t. But because of him, about seventy others did. He died a hero, Nancy. That’s not propaganda. That’s survival’s ugly arithmetic.”
She pressed on. “And what do you think he wanted me to know?”
Captain stared at his glass. “That at war soldiers aren’t symbols of courage or sacrifice. They’re men trying not to die—and trying to keep their brothers alive. When the war is over, we may no longer be loyal to who we once were. But we semper fi to the ones who fought beside us.”
Her voice rose. “Does that explain all the lives lost?”
captains’ voice was flat. “No. But truth rarely explains anything. Leaders and masses prefer lies. Honor, valor, good versus evil. Easy stories to die for. Truth is worse than a bullet. It leaves you alive, staring at the ruin. staring at what you’ve done, knowing no resolution fits the ledger.”
Silence thickened. Captain rose, dropping money on the bar.
“Put it on my tab, Mikey. Left some whiskey—pretend I shared it with you.”
From the back: “Didn’t know you joked, Cap. Thought humor died with your feelings years ago.”
For the first time in years, the Captain almost smiled. Then he was gone.
Nancy remained, staring at the empty glass before her. Thoughts swirled.
She remembered her father, the soldiers, the raid, the lies, the ledger of dead,her own profession, and the world outside. The weight of truth pressed down but so did its absence.
Mike reappeared, wiping his hands. “Miss, would you like anything else?”
Nancy shook her head. “No.”
And inside, her answer was same. To the silent question clawing at her—Should I stop fighting for truth? her answer was also:
No
Time whispers:
Humans chase truth, hoping it will free them. Yet when truth appears, they kill the messenger. They choose comfort over clarity. Darkness over sight. Ignorance, after all, is a softer bed.
Truth is a dangerous currency. Leaders counterfeit it. Then people kill for it. And those who speak it walk alone.
Million Dollar Mayonnaise
It was a calm night, just past 2 a.m. The city slept, rain-washed and silent. Through the empty streets rode a young man on his motorbike, a plastic delivery bag tied behind him. Inside: half a greasy Arabic barbecue chicken, plus two small cups of mayonnaise.
He slowed, checking his phone for the address. Ahead, someone waved a phone flashlight—the customer’s signal. He stopped, handed over the neat package.
The customer immediately frowned.
“I asked for two extra containers of mayonnaise. Where are they?”
The delivery boy showed his phone.
“Sir, the order only shows half a chicken. Nothing about extra mayonnaise.”
But the man wouldn’t let it go. For fifteen minutes, in the dim street, he lectured the boy about mayonnaise—its sweetness, its perfection—before finally paying.
A week later, the boy was at the hospital. His friend had crashed his bike. As he waited in the ER, an ambulance arrived. Nurses rushed a stretcher past. On it lay a man the boy instantly recognized: the mayonnaise man.
Later, after his friend was treated, the boy asked a doctor.
“Myocardial infarction,” the doctor said. “Commonly called a heart attack.”
Days passed. One afternoon, at his uncle’s restaurant, the boy noticed an order slip: half a greasy chicken, extra mayonnaise. Curious, he delivered it himself.
Same man.
This time, the boy asked about the hospital.
The man shrugged. “Chest pain. Thought it was indigestion. Fainted. They said it was a heart attack. But I’m fine now. Started exercising. Eating less. On medication.”
But weeks later, the orders grew more frequent—first every two weeks, then weekly, then every three days.
By now, the boy and the man had grown friendly, chatting about life, work, the man’s desk job. Then came darker conversations: a liver condition. Insurance premiums rising.
On a cold night, delivering once again, the boy noticed sweat dripping down the man’s brow despite the chill. The man waved it off. “Just from walking to the fence.”
Then silence.
No more orders.
One evening, delivering nearby, the boy passed the man’s street. The gates were closed. A little farther on, taped to a lamp post, he saw the obituary. The mayonnaise man was dead.
Back at the restaurant, the boy asked his uncle:
“Could I have done something? Warned him? I knew he had heart and liver problems. I saw what he ate.”
His uncle shook his head.
“Look, son. My job is to run a restaurant. The chef cooks. You deliver. That’s our business. Whether a man eats or dies from it—that’s his business.”
The boy left with another delivery. But his mind was restless.
Isn’t this substance abuse too? he thought. Food can be abused just like drugs or alcohol. Who warns them? Who tells them that some ingredients are as addictive as narcotics?
Lost in thought, he nearly crashed his bike. Stopping, he remembered something the mayonnaise man once told him:
“A good meal can be worth more than a million dollars.”
And the boy thought: Maybe, for him, it was. Maybe for a lot who suffer from lifestyle diseases, food becomes worth more than life itself.
Perhaps he died, but at least he feasted on his million-dollar mayonnaise—sweetened, of course, by all the chemicals within it.
### **Time Speaks**
If I tell the boy the truth about how it all came to this, without seasoning it with exaggeration, it will sound like the rambling rant of a nerd on social media. And I, Time, refuse to be a nerd. I aspire to be adored by the “cool kids.”
And by *cool kids*, I mean the grown adults sprouting silver hair while sprinting behind trends like toddlers chasing pigeons—copying everything, questioning nothing, and when confronted answering only with:
*“I do it because I want to. I like it.”*
Their approval matters greatly to me. Because when they dislike me… I freeze.
And do you know what happens when Time freezes?
Those who never lose an argument—no matter how hollow—begin to believe the world itself was constructed around them. They gain power not only over reason, but over me.
But let me pause my sarcasm and pour you a little history before you roll your eyes and scroll away from existence.
It was a warm summer day—warmer, in fact, than the so-called *Cold War*.
A curious name, don’t you think?
Because there was nothing *cold* about a world holding its breath beside nuclear buttons, digging bunkers, imagining surprise missiles, accidental detonations, mutant apocalypses, or radioactive wasteland stories. (A fire-breathing lizard was dismissed, sadly, only due to this geographical inconvenience.)
On that warm day, the most powerful president of the era was playing golf.
As he watched his ball soar proudly into the sky, millions of his citizens occasionally glanced upward as well— not because of golf but terrified that the sky might soon rain nuclear fire.
Fear, you see, has always been humanity’s most profitable product.
For media, it is currency.
For governments, it is justification.
For the public, it is a slow, steady poison served with daily tea.
Then, mid-swing, the president clutched his chest and fell.
The world gasped:
*A heart attack? But he was powerful. Wasn’t he supposed to be… immortal?*
One doctor, armed with absolute confidence and questionable evidence, declared:
**“Fat is the enemy.”**
His logic *Ignored the packets of cigarettes smoked per day by the president in past .*
Another doctor dared to disagree.
He argued that fat was not the villain at all—something else was.
A dazzling refined white substance found everywhere, hiding in everything, loved by industries and laced into the heartbeat of society.
Let us call it **arsenic**—not its real name, of course, because neither Heaven, Time, nor you the reader’s future lawyer can afford a lawsuit from *Big Arsenic*.
This doctor reasoned:
*“Human ancestors ate meat and fat for ages with no heart-attack epidemics. The danger isn’t nature’s food. It’s what we stripped, refined, powdered, and pushed into every meal.”*
Big Arsenic panicked.
Their sweet empire was threatened.
They had funded wars for production of this powder. Toppled an economy, Even wrestled for power of an island nation for it
They were not about to lose a debate to a man with a stethoscope and common sense.
So the industry lobbied—vigorously, poetically, patriotically—and won.
A quiet note may or may not have reached the doctor’s desk saying:
*“We helped your nation win a world war. So you will lose this dietary one.”*
Now, understand—fat *can* be harmful in excess. So can water, oxygen, and common sense.
But this moment, this televised medical circus, was the first time in history humans were told not **moderation**, not **balance**, but almost a total **elimination** of something on diet.
Rather than saying: *“Eat wisely,”* the world was told: *“Remove this.”*
Without proper research, nuance, or evidence, fat was dragged to the guillotine.
and white arsenic was crowned its replacement by food industries.
Low-fat, no-fat, fat-free—
the labels spread like gospel.
And inside every product wore the same hidden guest, white and refined, by the spoonful.
Ketchup, bread, drinks, sauces, snacks.
Every corner of the world. Every age. Every household.
White became right. Sweet became safe. Excess became invisible.
And sixty years later, in that very world sugar-coated to brilliance—
is where the young man delivered chicken and tiny cups of mayonnaise to a man who believed sweetness was comfort… not warning.
I once spoke of this with Earth—mother of all life, including humanity.
She listened with the patience of old mountains and whispered back to me:
*“Love, a few centuries ago, a small scratch could have killed a man. Today, infections kneel before medicine. Yet death is fair—it serves both kings and beggars, wise and foolish alike. So when humans innovate to extend life, they simultaneously invent new, creative doors through which death may enter. Has it ever been otherwise with humans?”
Story 9
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