She runs

She runs on the soft green grass and falls. Rolling on its soft and moist cushion from the morning dew, she closes her eyes and dreams of lovely days now tucked far away in the crevices of time. When love and laughter filled her home. When dad and mom would talk about bringing her on holidays to beautiful places. When her sister would cook her favourite chips in tomato sauce, burning herself occasionally from the hot oil jumping on her arms from out of the old, worn wok. When she would play with her friends in the neighbourhood chasing down cats and burning their hiding holes.

She was rid of such joy the day her dad left home and her mom called, weeping.

Short Story: Called Out of the Dark

She huddled in the corner of the room. Her small hands clutched her ears tightly, shutting off the berating in the living room and the monstrous sounds in her head that cursed the miserable life she did not choose to be living. The air in her lungs could not flow in and out properly and her lungs clamped in on her fast beating heart. Her vision narrowed to nothing more than a deep black tunnel that stretched to the end. She was so afraid; she shut her eyes so tightly she could see red through her eyeballs. The unnerving trauma cast a shadow over her life and terror gripped her soul. She felt everything around her caving in on her and wished for death to consume her right there and then.

“Take this wretched life away from me!” she yelled at the top of her voice, and collapsed into a motionless lump on the sweat drenched floor.

She awoke with a shiver and felt a dry lump on the side of her mouth. Unable to see in the dark, she could only smell her own sweat, urine and what was that familiar smell? Ah yes, blood. Dried blood. That was what was caking up on the side of her mouth when she fell unconscious on the floor and knocked the sharp edge of the lamp table. She put a hand on her heart and was surprised at both the silence outside in the living room and the slow, constant beat of her heart. She almost smiled when she shook her head hard to make sure she was not dreaming. No, she was not. She was breathing and living – in the dark.

“If only my husband was still alive – none of these would be happening to me,” she lamented to herself.

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A tribute to my aunt who lives in torment and neglect following the demise of her husband. Once the humble wife of a rich car dealer, she now lives her daily life in shambles and abandonment, reliant on support to get around, or for most part of her miserable, slow-crawling days, lies on her side, reminiscing the once good life she had when her husband was alive, by her side, money in abundance, and no one disrespected her. She cries each time I visit her, but the pain and emotional wreck it leaves me after each visit stops me from seeing more frequently than I would like to. I need greater strength to love and care for one in such desperate need. For now, I can only write of her sorry tale.

Short story: Home - where we belong

No matter how many times she swore never to let her father's voice torment her, it always did. She was always living in fear of her father's sudden temper outbursts and the pain and shame from caning that she has come to associate her father to a tyrant, a sort of autocratic leader like Stalin who ruled with an iron fist. She sometimes joked with her elder brother Wallace that father was a 'communist' – when he spoke, no one dared to interrupt. What he says goes. No one could question nor defy him.

Yet she understood the hard side of her father. She has heard him scream in the middle of the night, while he was asleep, a scream so tormenting she found it hard to sleep after. In the morning, as she took her usual seat at the kitchen table, she would eat her breakfast in silence and observed her father intently, looking for any sign that could explain the mystery the night before. None. His face offered no answer; in fact, he did not look bothered at all. She winced in disappointment. Finally, unable to hold her curiosity no longer, she caught her mother when she was alone cooking, and creeping up quietly behind her, while stealing glances at the kitchen doorway to make sure her father did not step in, asked in a low tone, "what happened last night?"

Her mother, wiping a film of sweat off from her forehead, answered softly: "He dreamt that he was being beaten up by his father. He always does. Even at this age - can you imagine? You see, your grandfather was a very violent man. And your father had it the most. He was most severely beaten by your grandfather all through his boyhood. And when your dad dreams, it was real to him. He still feels the agony of his childhood..."

Mindy's heart broke. 'So that was why he was always so hard on us,' she thought to herself. Excusing herself, she went up to her room and closed the door behind her. Tearing out a piece of paper from her notebook, she sat down and wrote her brother Wallace a letter.

"Dear Wallace, I miss you. It has been three years since you last came home. Dad and Mom miss you too. We all do, you know that, don't you? I am writing to explain why Dad hit you so hard the last time you came home announcing your plans to drop out of university. Please understand that Dad placed high hopes on you to be the first graduate in the family. You know Dad, he was always studious, reading late into the night, even bearing hopes of going back to school himself. Can you imagine? At 58? But that is Dad. He loves knowledge, and had hoped that you would too. It was understandable why he reacted so strongly when you decided to drop out of university. You were given an opportunity he never was.

You see, Dad had a rough childhood. He was a hard working boy, and had big dreams of being a policeman, but his father could not afford to send him to high school. When his father found out that he has not been tending to the chickens and pigs in the farm, but had instead been hanging out in the backyard of schools to listen to lessons being taught, he became furious and chased him around the 'kampong' compound, hitting him again and again with a thick wooden rod.

How do I know this? Mom told me. You see, last night, I heard Dad scream in his sleep. And when I asked Mom this morning, she told me the whole story. Dad always dream the same dream - and he is 58 years old! He is still being tormented at this age. I am not writing to justify the pain Dad caused you. I am writing to make you understand why Dad leashed out on you in such anger.

Wallace, stop running away from Dad. Stop running away from our family. I don't want you to get married some day, have kids, and still dream of being beaten by Dad when you are old and grey.

Come home soon ok? I love you, big bro.

Love, Mindy."

That year, her brother Wallace came home to visit. He brought with him a new girlfriend the family has never met before - a young, sweet-looking Thai girl whose age was the same as Mindy. Since Wallace's return, things at home brightened up. For one, Mindy's father came to smile more often, and spoke kinder to them both. His outbursts became less frequent. Mother cooked nicer dishes too; an occasional Thai dish or two; a new skill she learnt from Eleenikrabot, Wallace's girlfriend. Even the family dog barked lesser, Mindy noticed, which has found for itself a new joy - chasing birds across the front porch on hot, lazy afternoons.

Growing up, she has always wished she was born into a different family, in a kinder home. Yet through the years, she has come to thank God for her imperfect parents and her intolerable brother Wallace. She has come to realise that even her parents have their past demons, and even they are learning to deal with it. She realised that no one set of parents have it altogether, that no matter how hard they try, they would be less than perfect.

Standing at the church altar with her handsome groom in hand, Mindy turned around to look at her aged parents and a beaming Wallace with his newly wedded Thai wife by his side. Mindy smiled and under the veil, she prayed that as she steps into a new phase in her life, into a family of her own now, she would always carry with her a valuable lesson learnt – that there is no greater place on earth but a place to belong to, a unit of identification, a family to call one’s own.

Recluse

Over the course of time she has come to be subdued in her nature. Once a go-getter and never one to be intimidated by situation or people, she is now content to recline to the backseat - cruising along a path littered with bags of regrets and shattered dreams.

He looks at me in the eye and I glare back. 'I dare you to move me from where I am, coz nobody's getting me out of here. If I have to move, I will move myself.'

He withdraws his gaze and retreats, as if frightened by my threat. Again, I have been a pain not just to my surroundings, but to myself. I am stuck, and I am here to stay.

Truth is I wish not. But I realise this is my lot - that change doesn't come from others making the case for me, but the hard work rests with me. If I want to get out of my situation, I have to do so by my own will, strength and might.

Trouble is, I have none of the three - will, strength and might. Months and months of routine and mundane responsibilities root me deeper into the black cushioned seat. Sometimes I get a cold from the inactivity, sometimes I walk to the bathroom and cry.

He refuses to give up and comes round one more time. What do you want to achieve out there? I soften at his question, realising he meant genuine concern and would help if I let him.

'I don't know, really. I thought I am a go-getter and I have answers to everything, especially about things concerning my life. But I am wrong. I don't know what I want now. I want to be a story teller, but it sounds too idealistic to be achieved. And hang on, I know what you are going to tell me - that as long as I can dream it, anything is possible - I can achieve it. I have come not to believe in those tales anymore.'

He sees the forlorn look in my eyes and feels a pang in his own heart. I know, because I know him. He feels this way about anyone lost. And I am lost. The one others thought is admirable and indestructible - is held captive by her own prison.

The pain in my head throbs more violently. I wince like a caterpillar crushed under someone's foot. 'Help me get out of here,' I hold his hand and plead sincerely.

'Please.'

'I can be helped, I know I can. Don't let me stay this way. Help me through this blackness. I will be useful again.'

To each his own

There are groups formed and gathered all over the room. There is the occasional lone individual seemingly busy, not because he really is; he is pretending to be, so as to disguise his loneness and lack of companionship.

The one who seems to be in the centre of attraction, having more than a couple of people surrounding her at class intervals – she is one who talks loudly, colloquially, and seemingly without a care in the world – the one who is not hard pressed, but easy natured, friendly and not easily offended. She is usually not one who speaks polished English, who behaves civilly, and is well-mannered. More often than not, she is brash, imperfect, and not very attractive – yet holds a certain measure of charm that attracts.

He, on the other hand, is one who similarly, is loud and not quite attractive, but equally possesses a witty charm, earning him much companionship – his personality though shining in the group, gets drowned in the crowd of many like him.

She sits at the back of the class and observes the buzz of college activities around her – the room though crowded with companionships, lacks tangible warmth. Sitting quietly by herself with her hands to the keyboard, typing furiously to produce this note, she concludes that the only warmth and sincerity; reliability and consistency she has experienced, can expect to experience, and knows will always be there – is that found in church.

Found wanting

In time she grows increasingly tired. She looks often, over the thick wall and wonders what the other side has to offer her unfulfilled life. She has heard stories of merchants trading, actors performing; she has heard of men acquiring gold and silver, and women held in high esteem by men.

Her heart flutters with each passing thought of greener pastures.

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The Chase

There must come a time when she stands up for what she wants to become. The day will come when she stands on the threshold of the incumbent and know that her choice of her dreams may cost her everything, laying bare on the ground the foundation of which she now clings on dearly with her life - it's everything she's got now. She must battle the monsters that attack her from every side, with one goal of bringing her down to the pit of despair. Will she recognise the impending threat upon her sacred life and search for a way out? Or will she lose her way in the winding dark maze of hope lost and dreams afar off?

She looks down into the gurgling waters and closes her eyes. She is yet to be.

Fat cows

A short paragraph on the wound of false accusation.

There is a plain with juicy green grass. It didn’t use to be so juicy but recently much rain fell upon the area and now the grass is green as far as the eye can see. It’s lovely to hop around and play merry in the field. Until the fat cows came along and tread on the grass. Not just that, the fat cows feed upon the grass and is causing the field to look trodden and quarterly bare. It won’t be long before it’ll be more trodden and half bare. And soon it’ll be badly trodden and very much barren. Something has to be done before that happens. The fat cows have got to go. How? Got to think of a solution. Prayer is one. This is an important one, please. Now, besides prayer, the other possible solution is to unearth the grass seeds across the field, throw the seeds in the air and let the wind blow them to another plot – where no fat animals disturb.

- A.T.

The Asian Girl

The beauty of an Asian is in her gentleness and grace. She knows her place in her family, she knows not to over rule in the presence of males, she knows not to speak till deemed appropriate. She receives instructions with humility, carries them out with diligence and coins her craft to perfection. She is the pearl of the orient.

The infiltration of media and foreigners changed the entire landscape of the continent. Suddenly she is exposed to vulgar cultures of explicit sensuality and notoriety. With change and uncertainty comes confusion and doubt. She questions her upbringing, culture, education and belief system. She wavers in her principles. She lowers her values. She flings her arms wide in reckless abandonment. She lost her soul in the large deep ocean of the west.

She finds herself beaten by rough waters and crashed on by gigantic waves. She tries to befriend her enemy by cooperating (she hasn’t been taught how to handle adverse situations) and finds herself taking in more of that which she tries to shield herself from. It goes deep into her and makes her nauseous and she vomits large gulps of filth and junk.

She sees a passing fishing boat. They fish her out of the boisterous waters and bring her to temporary safety. She is tended to and given warm food, drinks and clothes. She sees kind eyes and feels compassionate arms around her.

They are eyes and arms of her people. They bring her home to where she belongs.

Things are different. She can feel it. It tingles in her bone. It rings in her ears. It causes an ache in her heart, a tear in her soul. She walks out into the streets once again in search of her lost innocence and sees foreign eyes every corner she turns. Where do I go from here, she silently begs an answer from her Creator.