Life As A Writer

Michael Daaboul. 26 y/o from Australia/Melbourne. Digital Designer & Creative Writer.

notes from the traveller's christmas journal

The wind whispers often here, not pleasant, but soothing for me. The silence finds refuge inside and it’s hard to accept it. During the darkest part of the night, the wind screams and howls, I can almost understand it, as if, we both are looking for some sort of comfort, some … company.
Excerpt from Notes From the Traveller’s Christmas Journal (The Finale) By Michael Daaboul

the lost pages of the traveller’s christmas journal (the finale)

(Read Part 10 HERE)

Egypt, The Last of the Lost Pages, One for the Ages

In Egypt, robberies, shootings and deaths peak on Christmas due to the deadly regime imposed by government officials working with the Orthodox Church.

Christmas starts on the 7th of January here, they call this regime Advent and it’s in place for 40 days. People are forced for 40 days not to eat, drink, and leave their houses or shower.

This used to be a voluntary activity until the officials declared this compulsory in every household, a sickening form of dictatorship.

No freedom, no rights and especially no privacy. The Egyptians were under constant surveillance.

"Surely, you could sneak in food in your homes, they would never know."

"Of course they will know! I saw my neighbour and his family shot in front of my own eyes, they know, they see all."

The resistance are a group of rebellions trying to fight this order by using crime. They break into stores and shoot soldiers in the gentle passing of silence in Egypt.

Most of them are dead now; the resistance were no match for the force, no match for this heartlessness.

The dead bodies are placed inside the pyramids, as a reminder at the end of Advent, Egyptians are shown as an example what happens if orders of the President is refused.

As I was leaving Egypt, I passed by Tahrir Square in Cairo where the new resistance was taking place, hordes of brave Egyptians protesting their rights for a better life. I didn’t stay long as the horror was about to explode into a bloodbath of human tragedy. The military dressed ready for war destroyed the uprising one by one, the bullets flew from all corners, battens released hitting the face like a baseball and women stripped and beaten to death.

This is the last of the lost pages of my journal entries, I hope they never see the light of day as if these events would still occur in a world that seems educated and more developed means this could have been, might have been a delusion of the past.

In fact, nothing has changed, if we took a picture from a long time ago, our souls have remained unchanged, but the scene is different. We’ll remain alive for the time being, but not for long.

Before the end of my trip from The North Pole, you know, the northernmost point on Earth where everything has remained pure, I wrote a letter to Santa Claus about my Lost Pages, he replied back and from his reply I knew all hope was lost.

(the end.)

the lost pages of the traveller’s christmas journal (part 10)

(Read Part 9 HERE)

Great Britain

Not a quiet moment goes by in Great Britain in the lead up to Christmas; it’s a day the people are rushing as if their lives depended on it and during the night, not a soul in sight. Perfectly calm, no wind, empty park benches and owls lurking on top of red telephone boxes.

It’s during the night that interested me; I didn’t care much for the day as it was too busy for my liking so I often slept in.

The preparation for Christmas was obviously set for when the Sun was high in the sky, and when the Moon made a show, it seems it was a lingering sadness when no one was in slight.

An old man searching for food in trash bins was wandering nearby, he said, "Strange black cars follow people during the night and they park to ambush their victims."

"How did you know what I was thinking?” I said with a rather baffed look on my face.

"It’s written all over your face. You’re not from these lands; you’re foreign which explains why you’re out at night."

"I’m pretty sure there’s others here not from Great Britain."

"No. No one comes here anymore other than those who live here."


"Were you not paying attention? I told you black cars come out at night and ambush their victims."

"Is this every night, or does it only happens in Christmas?"

"Just during Christmas."


"I don’t know, I usually stay in the park, no one comes here. I have nowhere to go, so it doesn’t bother me."

"Oh, alright."

"You should leave, but stay here for the night; it’s not safe right now."

With that advice, I stayed with the old man for the duration of the night, I’m not so sure if I can accurately determine if anything he said had any truth. He may be in an altered state suffering from hysteria.

In the morning as I was leaving Great Britain, I saw several black cars pull up near an alleyway.

This entry was thrown in the rubbish bin as a precaution. The old man might have been crazy, or maybe he wasn’t.

(to be continued …)

the lost pages of the traveller’s christmas journal (part 9)

(Read Part 8 HERE)


Corruption and conspiracy plague Greenland as during Christmas time mercenaries dressed in heavy chain armour raid unexpected homes.

I didn’t see any Christmas trees here and it was no mystery as to why such green wonders were strangers to homes.

The mercenaries are hired by unknown entities that are believed to have paid the mercenaries unbelievable amounts of funds to carry out their sadistic plans.

The rumour that floats around Peary Land here where the air is too thin to breathe, the riches of riches have too much on their hands and as a form of mercilessness acts of their petty amusement, pay ruthless brutes to film and carry out acts as a result of their own inability and cowardliness.

If Christmas trees where seen from outside, the mercenaries would charge in through the front door and set the tree in flames. The flames are put out and the house saved, but the doors become locked and the deafening silence remains.

I had no way of leaving Greenland for the time being and I was told that I could go seek refuge at the local inn where I could wait out the cold for a better day for safe travels.

However, mercenaries are also here at the local inn and women are slaves to them, or so it seems. The women satisfy the mercenaries in an attempt to poison their beverages. As their breasts creep up to their eyes, the lingering poison is dropped and soon after their hearts stop.

The women here are seen as heroes and gallant warriors for the sacrifices they have to make to bring peace and order back to Greenland.

God bless their souls, as the only monsters in this world are humans and if children are put to bed at night saying there is no such thing, a terrible element of mendacity rusts the souls of innocence.

The treatment of the Greenlandic people is one of sad torment and grief; the evil hordes spend their money on destroying humanity on Christmas where families are together instead of giving to the poor or donating to a wonderful cause.

This entry is too sad to keep, I threw it into the fires of a burning Christmas tree that was about to go out.

(to be continued …)

the lost pages of the traveller’s christmas journal (part 8)

(Read Part 7 HERE)


The Sun disappears in Holland during the festive season; St. Jabiru is believed to be living somewhere within the underground waiting to give gifts to children who have been behaving.

However, it was not all that nice, as the rumours flowed like the Nile River of Africa, but I was cynical, I didn’t believe until the priest told me to leave this place.

He warned that St. Jabiru would break through the ground with a list of children’s names that have been unsound during the year and makes examples of them.

The farmers in Holland sound their long horns during Christmas Eve, the sound of death as the locals call it, the sound of hell. St. Jabiru breaks the ground and vanishes through the darkest parts of the night, everywhere he goes, and it’s dark, as if light suffocates in the midst of his presence.

No warning at all the children are usually asleep, God bless their doomed souls, he strikes at night, a spear to the heart, his hands with one swipe cuts right through the bone, they had no chance.

Even if the children tried to escape; hm, but they can’t since the sea’s volcanic eruptions cause tsunamis too wild to think about leaving via a ship and the skies roaring thunder and lightning make it never safe for flight, you can’t go anywhere, there’s a high rate of suicide in Holland.

This is a saint of madness, a fallen angel of the devil’s own work for its amusement, the saint that we believed in for so long, deceived us.

No child is safe in Holland, some remain, some hopeful, the crime rate is low here, but not at this cost.

As a warning, I decided to not stay for Christmas, and this entry will not be shown to children or anyone else for that matter, as this rumour could scare them away from an otherwise gentle and pleasant place.

(to be continued …)

the lost pages of the traveller’s christmas journal (part 7)

(Read Part 6 HERE)


In Micronesia, the small islands are quiet; you can hear the wind and the gentle brushing of the trees speak to each other.

Not many people are around during Christmas time, so I decided to see what everyone gets up to. I was thinking it would involve family gatherings and overindulging on coconut juice. However, a young boy told me all the adults go to church, which to my surprise wasn’t an option I had been considering since most of the places I visit have something to do with a church.

Arriving near the entrance of the church, I decided to take another route and climb the edges that were sticking out. I could finally live out my dream of feeling like I was part of an Assassin’s Creed video game series. I had an unusual feeling that something wasn’t quite right, the type of uncanny feeling you get when you have just watched a horror movie and you feel your room is infested with ghosts and demons.

Everyone was so quiet.

I reached at the top of the church, crazy I know, but it wasn’t that high, well, okay, pretty high. I couldn’t see anything regardless. I decided to look the other way towards the exit. People were coming out like they were suffering from vertigo and their eyes as white as the clouds.

A strange hymn was sung from within the church but I couldn’t understand it, not a language I have heard before.

I made my way down from the church and the boy stood there like he was suffering from vertigo.

I asked, “Did you go into the church?”

He replied rather hastily, “The adults only go into the church.”

I felt threatened but this boy didn’t seem normal, I didn’t feel like continuing in these small islands, I had no idea what was going on in any other part, I’m only near Kiribati.

I started at the bottom end of Micronesia and didn’t venture anymore, I felt the atmosphere crashing my lungs and I needed to get out of here and decided to leave this entry out. I can’t encourage any traveller to go near the small islands of Micronesia.

(to be continued …)

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