In a horse stable somewhere away, there lived a dung beetle named Fib. Fib was born with five legs, and it was how he got his name. The "F" "I" from "five", and the "B" from "beetle".
Usually, beetles with five legs were not born with five legs; instead, they lost one of their legs in battles which was considered gallant. Fib was born with five legs, and was thus, considered a freak.
Fib was made fun of when he was young. His peers did not take to him for posing as someone who lost his leg in a battle, even though Fib had not deliberately cut off his own leg at birth. When he was quite grown up, it was worse, because he finally understood what the women-folk said about his mother sleeping with the horse ("five legs is exactly the average of six legs plus four legs, you know").
Thus, Fib took it upon himself to be crazy about dung collecting, he wanted to provide for his mother, so he worked very hard. He also hoped that by working hard and doing good it would quell the rumours and gossips and whatever bad reputation, so that he could make some friends and live happily. It was hard for a dung beetle with five legs to roll dung, because he was one leg short on one side, and it was harder to make the dung ball round. Yet that was not enough to stop Fib, who worked hard against the odds to roll a lot of dung balls for his family.
Alas! The other beetles just made remarks like "Wow, Fib must really be the horse's son, because the horse dotes on him enough to shit in little pellet balls especially for him. How else could he be able to have so many dung balls? He has only five legs, surely he couldn't have rolled them all by himself. Even if he did, they wouldn't be so round, he is five-legged, you know."
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Wednesday and Monday
There was a pair of sisters who were into attempting suicide. Nobody knew why they were like that, or why they were depressed, or if they were depressed at all. Most people blamed their mother for not going through confinement properly, because instead of staying at home and not showering for a month, she when out shopping for Prada and Gucci clothes to fit her little girls. They came from a high-income family, by the way. And the mother not having gone through confinement was hardly a logical enough explanation for the girls' condition. So, nobody knew why they were like that.
The eldest sister's given name was Feng Ling, the younger sister's name was Ling Long. "Feng Ling" meant something like phoenix's agility, and "Ling Long" meant something like resourceful and clever and agile too. They had pretty Chinese names, yet, when they came of age, Feng Ling decided to call herself "Wednesday", after the Addams' family character. Ling Long called herself "Monday", because Monday was blue, and she liked blue.
By respectively, 16 and 14 years old, Wednesday and Monday had tried hanging themselves, drowning themselves in the sea, storm drains, swimming pools, and many kinds of substance abuse (including ingesting doll parts in attempt to choke themselves). They always took turns doing it so that the other person could prevent the attempt from succeeding.
Wednesday's favourite past time was to draw mosiac patterns on her wrists with wrist slits, and then to plaster the cuts (and blood and gore) quickly with glue, and then to sniff it. Monday's favourite past time was similar, except that she preferred to use blue paint instead of glue.
One day, when their mother gave them clothes that were not designer, they were shocked. Their father had been retrenched, and even though they had a lot of money tied up in assets, they had to pretend that they were middle-income. Their father thought that they were going to take it badly and commit suicide for sure. He was sad because he loved the girls, though he previously had no time to spend with them, he never even bought sweets or chocolates for them as little girls. In his fit of regret and remorse, he bought sweets and chocolates and ice-cream for his daughters. He took care to buy blue colour sweets and blueberry icecream for Monday. It turned out that their mother had all along deprived the girls of such things to keep their dress sizes small, so they can be super models someday.
Having tasted sweets and chocolates and all different flavours of ice-cream, Wednesday and Monday had a rush of sugar high that they had never experienced before. They abandoned their previous hobby and all thought of suicides so that they could live and love sugar. They never attempted suicide again and lived happily ever after.
The eldest sister's given name was Feng Ling, the younger sister's name was Ling Long. "Feng Ling" meant something like phoenix's agility, and "Ling Long" meant something like resourceful and clever and agile too. They had pretty Chinese names, yet, when they came of age, Feng Ling decided to call herself "Wednesday", after the Addams' family character. Ling Long called herself "Monday", because Monday was blue, and she liked blue.
By respectively, 16 and 14 years old, Wednesday and Monday had tried hanging themselves, drowning themselves in the sea, storm drains, swimming pools, and many kinds of substance abuse (including ingesting doll parts in attempt to choke themselves). They always took turns doing it so that the other person could prevent the attempt from succeeding.
Wednesday's favourite past time was to draw mosiac patterns on her wrists with wrist slits, and then to plaster the cuts (and blood and gore) quickly with glue, and then to sniff it. Monday's favourite past time was similar, except that she preferred to use blue paint instead of glue.
One day, when their mother gave them clothes that were not designer, they were shocked. Their father had been retrenched, and even though they had a lot of money tied up in assets, they had to pretend that they were middle-income. Their father thought that they were going to take it badly and commit suicide for sure. He was sad because he loved the girls, though he previously had no time to spend with them, he never even bought sweets or chocolates for them as little girls. In his fit of regret and remorse, he bought sweets and chocolates and ice-cream for his daughters. He took care to buy blue colour sweets and blueberry icecream for Monday. It turned out that their mother had all along deprived the girls of such things to keep their dress sizes small, so they can be super models someday.
Having tasted sweets and chocolates and all different flavours of ice-cream, Wednesday and Monday had a rush of sugar high that they had never experienced before. They abandoned their previous hobby and all thought of suicides so that they could live and love sugar. They never attempted suicide again and lived happily ever after.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Space Cadet
Lately, I would suddenly recall one of the strangest dreams I ever had. The dream was about being shot into space and floating around in space and sometimes getting sucked around in worm holes and being stuck in dimensions for timeless period of time.
I was looking for you. Or waiting for you, in case you were looking for me.
There was a dimension where there were other people who were stuck in as well. In this dimension, there was a big black room that I stayed in for a while. The room was too big and black to describe how big it might have been, I was in a corner of it. The ceiling was too high and it was too dark to see where it ended. If I should walk along one of the walls, I would be too tired and u-turn before I reached another corner of the room. This dimension was unique, because in this room, there was gravity, and there was sound. Elsewhere, perhaps because in space there was too much vacuum to go around, everything was silent. Here, people spoke. They asked me to tell them things about Earth. They might have passed me some messages to bring back home, but I have lost them all. They generally freaked me out by being obtuse. I was afraid that if I stayed there too long I would forget you. I left after leaving them with a message for you.
I came back to this room, after a doing a round of bouncing around in space. You reached there shortly after I left. I regretted leaving. But I thought not to take it for granted that I still remembered you. You left shortly before I came back. You left them with a message for me to wait for you to come back. How would you know that I would come back here? Did you go around leaving messages for me? Where were you?
While waiting for you, I recalled how it felt when I was orbiting around a planet, in the dark in the emptiness, silent until there's not even the deafening sound of silence, trying to swim and direct my navigation but to no avail. I don't know why I remember it in so much detail, but I remember. Recalling that I was recalling in dreams happens when I have too much coffee and too little sleep. It makes me wonder if all these even happened in a dream. The memories are more vivid than my memories of being five years old.
Towards the end of the dream, you came back to the room and found me. Before I could feel joy and be reunited, we jumped into a little unimpressive space ship and we flew away. You called me a space cadet, you must have been my trainer or captain of sorts. I wondered if you knew I was in love with you and how relieved I felt when I saw you again.
I was looking for you. Or waiting for you, in case you were looking for me.
There was a dimension where there were other people who were stuck in as well. In this dimension, there was a big black room that I stayed in for a while. The room was too big and black to describe how big it might have been, I was in a corner of it. The ceiling was too high and it was too dark to see where it ended. If I should walk along one of the walls, I would be too tired and u-turn before I reached another corner of the room. This dimension was unique, because in this room, there was gravity, and there was sound. Elsewhere, perhaps because in space there was too much vacuum to go around, everything was silent. Here, people spoke. They asked me to tell them things about Earth. They might have passed me some messages to bring back home, but I have lost them all. They generally freaked me out by being obtuse. I was afraid that if I stayed there too long I would forget you. I left after leaving them with a message for you.
I came back to this room, after a doing a round of bouncing around in space. You reached there shortly after I left. I regretted leaving. But I thought not to take it for granted that I still remembered you. You left shortly before I came back. You left them with a message for me to wait for you to come back. How would you know that I would come back here? Did you go around leaving messages for me? Where were you?
While waiting for you, I recalled how it felt when I was orbiting around a planet, in the dark in the emptiness, silent until there's not even the deafening sound of silence, trying to swim and direct my navigation but to no avail. I don't know why I remember it in so much detail, but I remember. Recalling that I was recalling in dreams happens when I have too much coffee and too little sleep. It makes me wonder if all these even happened in a dream. The memories are more vivid than my memories of being five years old.
Towards the end of the dream, you came back to the room and found me. Before I could feel joy and be reunited, we jumped into a little unimpressive space ship and we flew away. You called me a space cadet, you must have been my trainer or captain of sorts. I wondered if you knew I was in love with you and how relieved I felt when I saw you again.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Untitled
She was angry at him for not remembering the details of their first kiss and the first time they made love. How could he forget such memorable events of their being together? She raised her voice so that the tension between them would hold her heart together from falling apart.
He had always tried to keep these things in mind, but his memory failed. He was apologetic, but how could she not understand that loving her did not require remembering all these? He was getting sick of having to always argue about these things. He didn't even remember his mother's birthday! He looked at her face for signs of her possible empathy. His mind shut out on her emotional blackmailing with whatever that she was saying or not saying. He looked at her... He did not find empathy.
Her small face was so flushed with frustration that it looked like she was going to explode any time. Unthinkingly, he reached out to hold her face in his hands and said,
"I don't remember the first time we did it, because I'm always thinking about the next time we'll do it."
He had always tried to keep these things in mind, but his memory failed. He was apologetic, but how could she not understand that loving her did not require remembering all these? He was getting sick of having to always argue about these things. He didn't even remember his mother's birthday! He looked at her face for signs of her possible empathy. His mind shut out on her emotional blackmailing with whatever that she was saying or not saying. He looked at her... He did not find empathy.
Her small face was so flushed with frustration that it looked like she was going to explode any time. Unthinkingly, he reached out to hold her face in his hands and said,
"I don't remember the first time we did it, because I'm always thinking about the next time we'll do it."
Untitled
I dreamt of taking a walk in a field at night. They were having a competition there. About flying model planes. Now to the think of it, it wasn't exactly late at night, it was in the evening, because I could still see the colours of the model planes.
There was one that was red, styled like an old fashioned aeroplane. With propellers. Some of them didn't look like planes at all. There was one that was yellow. It was in the shape of a hot-air balloon, except that it was just a cut-out. It looked like a surfboard.
You had gone for some dinner, and I was just walking around, waiting for you to call me when your dinner ended.
I remember I felt lonely. Perhaps because I was amidst the people, the teams, scampering around, working together on their model projects. Perhaps because I was alone. Perhaps because I was without your company.
There was one that was red, styled like an old fashioned aeroplane. With propellers. Some of them didn't look like planes at all. There was one that was yellow. It was in the shape of a hot-air balloon, except that it was just a cut-out. It looked like a surfboard.
You had gone for some dinner, and I was just walking around, waiting for you to call me when your dinner ended.
I remember I felt lonely. Perhaps because I was amidst the people, the teams, scampering around, working together on their model projects. Perhaps because I was alone. Perhaps because I was without your company.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
My Ex-Chinese Teacher
I saw a woman who looked like my high school Chinese teacher. I wondered whether they could have been related. Perhaps she was her cousin. Perhaps not. I don't know.
There was quite a lot of animosity between my Chinese teacher and I. As in, I didn't like her very much. She was in charge of my form class and a pain in my neck. She'd nag at how I should pack up my table and how I failed at Chinese.
Once, when I finally did pass one of my class test, she was surprised and sarcastic and remarked at how the sun might have risen from the west - meaning that it was an impossible and unlikely feat that I managed to pass. Never mind the fact that I probably cheated anyway, but that was not what a student who had finally passed something had wanted to hear. As much as I disliked her, I wanted her to say "well done" or something to that effect. I may still dislike her even if she commended me, but I still wanted to hear her commend.
She also told my mother at the parent-teacher meet that I wasn't going to get into a good school. Never mind that I eventually didn't. But her words really didn't help, and it pissed me off because it violated the expectations of what good teachers were supposed to be like. Good teachers as portrayed in school textbooks and advertisements for the teaching career. Nevermind that I wasn't a good student, I was a kid and I had room for improvement. On the other hand, all teachers should be good teachers, if not, then not a teacher at all.
I went to her funeral wake, after she passed away. I wonder why they call it a wake. The wake for the eternally asleep? It happened a few years after I graduated. She died of cancer, I think, one day. I wonder if she had suffered a lot. A few of my ex-schoolmates gathered to go to pay our respects. It was one of the first funeral wakes that I went to. At least a non-family-related one. As a kid, I was usually excused from attendance.
Prior to that, I had already heard that she was unmarried. As a cruel student, I had probably called her an old virgin woman, behind her back. I didn't understand what it really meant, until at the wake, I noticed that it was quiet. There were no children by the altar or many people around when I was there. I think that her only sibling was a brother, whom she lived with. Either that, or I might have remembered it wrongly, and I just thought it was quiet because I was quiet. I think the casket was opened, but I didn't go and see.
I dreamt of her. After she died. I dreamt of her, a few times. Once, several years ago, in a dream, she told me that I was a bad person, and that she was dead. As in, she told me that she was dead in my dream. So, I was pretty spooked and feeling pretty guilty. Was I really a bad person?
Perhaps I shouldn't have defied her so much while she was alive, and she was my teacher after all. But somehow I had developed a self-righteous attitude that I wouldn't respect anyone simply for her position of authority, and that she ought to convince me that she should deserve my respect. I don't know if I believe in that still. Anyway, I would think that if she were a good teacher, as portrayed in movies and television shows, she would have understood that I was just a kid who was feeling empowered to rebel against teachers, but was just really being stupid. Then again, she was not a good teacher. And may not have understood me, or might not have even cared.
Then who was she? She was a human being. And human beings die. So she's dead.
And does a dead human being care about being a good teacher? No, the dead don't care.
Who cares? The living. Not all of the living though. Only human beings. Not all living human beings though. Only stupid ones. Like me.
(For my Ex-Chinese teacher, and other dead ex-teachers, RIP.)
There was quite a lot of animosity between my Chinese teacher and I. As in, I didn't like her very much. She was in charge of my form class and a pain in my neck. She'd nag at how I should pack up my table and how I failed at Chinese.
Once, when I finally did pass one of my class test, she was surprised and sarcastic and remarked at how the sun might have risen from the west - meaning that it was an impossible and unlikely feat that I managed to pass. Never mind the fact that I probably cheated anyway, but that was not what a student who had finally passed something had wanted to hear. As much as I disliked her, I wanted her to say "well done" or something to that effect. I may still dislike her even if she commended me, but I still wanted to hear her commend.
She also told my mother at the parent-teacher meet that I wasn't going to get into a good school. Never mind that I eventually didn't. But her words really didn't help, and it pissed me off because it violated the expectations of what good teachers were supposed to be like. Good teachers as portrayed in school textbooks and advertisements for the teaching career. Nevermind that I wasn't a good student, I was a kid and I had room for improvement. On the other hand, all teachers should be good teachers, if not, then not a teacher at all.
I went to her funeral wake, after she passed away. I wonder why they call it a wake. The wake for the eternally asleep? It happened a few years after I graduated. She died of cancer, I think, one day. I wonder if she had suffered a lot. A few of my ex-schoolmates gathered to go to pay our respects. It was one of the first funeral wakes that I went to. At least a non-family-related one. As a kid, I was usually excused from attendance.
Prior to that, I had already heard that she was unmarried. As a cruel student, I had probably called her an old virgin woman, behind her back. I didn't understand what it really meant, until at the wake, I noticed that it was quiet. There were no children by the altar or many people around when I was there. I think that her only sibling was a brother, whom she lived with. Either that, or I might have remembered it wrongly, and I just thought it was quiet because I was quiet. I think the casket was opened, but I didn't go and see.
I dreamt of her. After she died. I dreamt of her, a few times. Once, several years ago, in a dream, she told me that I was a bad person, and that she was dead. As in, she told me that she was dead in my dream. So, I was pretty spooked and feeling pretty guilty. Was I really a bad person?
Perhaps I shouldn't have defied her so much while she was alive, and she was my teacher after all. But somehow I had developed a self-righteous attitude that I wouldn't respect anyone simply for her position of authority, and that she ought to convince me that she should deserve my respect. I don't know if I believe in that still. Anyway, I would think that if she were a good teacher, as portrayed in movies and television shows, she would have understood that I was just a kid who was feeling empowered to rebel against teachers, but was just really being stupid. Then again, she was not a good teacher. And may not have understood me, or might not have even cared.
Then who was she? She was a human being. And human beings die. So she's dead.
And does a dead human being care about being a good teacher? No, the dead don't care.
Who cares? The living. Not all of the living though. Only human beings. Not all living human beings though. Only stupid ones. Like me.
(For my Ex-Chinese teacher, and other dead ex-teachers, RIP.)
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Grandmother's story (2)
I visit my friend's grandma sometimes. One day, she told me a story that I cannot forget. She used to be a nurse, during the 1930s to maybe 1960s, I don't know what's the time period for sure, but it was during a period of time when women committed suicide by drinking acid.
Grandma used to be nurse and she trained at a ward that housed the depressing patients who attempted suicide. It was during a period of time when the people who attempted suicide tended to choose dying by drinking acid. The idea was to have the acid burn up the internal organs, resulting in death. It must have been a very painful process.
For those patients in the hospitals, their suicides attempts must have failed. To fail in an attempt to kill oneself by drinking acid was to have to live with a disfigured face, burnt esophagus, and possibly damaged internal organs. If living was hard before, it was sure to be worse after. It was not uncommon then, for patients to attempt suicides in the hospitals.
That was what grandma was telling us about, on that day. That when she was working there, she was a bit bothered with possibly being surprised by hanging dead bodies behind a door.
A minor detail that she casually included in her account of dead people was that there was this particular woman, who drank acid, and whose insides were so badly damaged that she couldn't eat, and grandma, being her nurse, had to feed her by pumping milk up her anus.
"Er, grandma... wait... what? How did you feed someone by the anus?" I had to make her back track.
"Ya, like enema. Enema, you know? Like just pump the milk up her anus until it reached the stomach. Because her throat was so badly damaged that she couldn't eat la. Poor thing, she was as thin as a stick. These women, they mostly did it because of men, you know? Heartbroken and all that. I wonder what happened to her... the soldiers came around then and I had to go away..."
(For Gary's grandma. And the woman mentioned.)
Grandma used to be nurse and she trained at a ward that housed the depressing patients who attempted suicide. It was during a period of time when the people who attempted suicide tended to choose dying by drinking acid. The idea was to have the acid burn up the internal organs, resulting in death. It must have been a very painful process.
For those patients in the hospitals, their suicides attempts must have failed. To fail in an attempt to kill oneself by drinking acid was to have to live with a disfigured face, burnt esophagus, and possibly damaged internal organs. If living was hard before, it was sure to be worse after. It was not uncommon then, for patients to attempt suicides in the hospitals.
That was what grandma was telling us about, on that day. That when she was working there, she was a bit bothered with possibly being surprised by hanging dead bodies behind a door.
A minor detail that she casually included in her account of dead people was that there was this particular woman, who drank acid, and whose insides were so badly damaged that she couldn't eat, and grandma, being her nurse, had to feed her by pumping milk up her anus.
"Er, grandma... wait... what? How did you feed someone by the anus?" I had to make her back track.
"Ya, like enema. Enema, you know? Like just pump the milk up her anus until it reached the stomach. Because her throat was so badly damaged that she couldn't eat la. Poor thing, she was as thin as a stick. These women, they mostly did it because of men, you know? Heartbroken and all that. I wonder what happened to her... the soldiers came around then and I had to go away..."
(For Gary's grandma. And the woman mentioned.)
Monday, 2 February 2009
Owl's Story
One day an owl came to me and told me to write a story about him. He was clutching on to a stalk of aloe vera, and I was curious if this owl had come from the desert or something. So, I asked,
"Did you come from a desert?"
"If I did, would you write a story about me?"
"Even if you didn't, I can write a story about you. Do you have a specific story in mind? If you tell it to me, I can write about it."
"Hoot. Hoot. I didn't come from a desert. I like to eat aloe vera. As a punishment to me, one day, my children disappeared and all that was left in the nest were stems of aloe vera, in their place."
"Why would you be punished for liking to eat aloe vera?"
"Because this aloe vera belonged to Queen Cleopatra. You see, I stole it from her garden, so she stole my children from me."
I blinked hard at the strange owl and began to frown. I didn't know how to carry on the conversation from here. I couldn't imagine how to write a story about what was exchanged. So I continued to frown as I tried hard to imagine. Meanwhile, I also realised that I didn't recollect seeing any owls in the day before. This must be a special owl. At that, the owl hooted two times and flew onto my bed and began eating the aloe vera. After staring at him for a while, I decided to turn on my computer to make notes for the ensuing interview.
"So, owl," I asked, in a way I thought journalists asked their questions, "what is your name and please tell me about yourself." I sounded more like someone at a job interview.
"That is not important," the owl replied, "I want you to write a story about me."
"Is it the story of Cleopatra and the aloe vera?" I raised the left half of my face as I watched the juice from what he was eating sipped into the sheets of my bed.
"No. Write a story about me. Write it such that I am an eagle in the story."
"Why would you want to be an eagle when you're an owl?"
"Why would you want to be a man when you're born a woman?"
Then I realised that I do sometimes want to be a man. I did not know why the owl knew that, perhaps he was just drawing a random analogy, but I reminded myself that I shouldn't be surprised with what a talking day-time owl could say anymore. I asked,
"Alright, so anything else you'd like to be included in the story?"
"If it's possible, I would like it to be a love story. Other than that, nothing. I just want to be an Eagle in a love story."
"Alright, then how will you repay me for a story?"
"I don't know. Hoot. Do you like aloe vera? Or name your price?"
"A favour. You will repay me with a favour."
"Hoot. Alright. The degree and level of the favour must be commensurate with the depth of the story you hoot write."
I told myself to aim to earn at least a favour for clean sheets.
Once upon a time, there was an eagle named Owl. Many people did not understand why the eagle's mother named the eagle Owl, but these things happen, even for eagles. And when these things happen, they have to be accepted, even for eagles.
Owl was a sea eagle, and liked above all, to eat cuttlefish and squids that usually live in the deep sea. Being unable to dive that deeply, he decided to court a sea turtle, so that she would go into the deep water and catch squids and come to the surface and regurgitate it out for him to eat.
Unexpectedly, Owl succeeded to make a sea turtle fall for him. He named her "Squidcake" as a term of endearment; and because she did not have any other names to be called by as it was unfashionable for sea turtles to have names, being under the sea where they have a "silence please" policy like in the libraries.
Owl and Squidcake spent many many mornings and afternoons meeting on a deserted little rocky island. Owl would bring seagull meat for Squidcake to pretend that he loved her, and then gorged heartily on the squid remains of that she regurgitated. Sometimes, she would bring him whole squids, if she managed to keep them in her beak as she swam to meet him. They would exchange tales about Owl's soaring in the high heavens and exotic sightings on land and Squidcake's deep sea diving and curious friends at the coral reefs.
All was well and full of happiness and delight until one day, Squidcake was late and Owl felt worried, because Squidcake was never before late, and Owl was never before worried. Owl wondered if Squidcake had met with any accidents when she was catching squids, because she weren't really good at catching squids anyway. Squidcake herself liked to eat jellyfish, and ate cuttlefish only to regurgitate for Owl. Oh, should anything happen to her, Owl would never be able to forgive himself. He would rather give up eating all the squids and cuttlefish in the world just to see Squidcake again. This made him realise that he had really fallen in love with Squidcake.
"Why are you crying, my dear?" Squidcake asked when she finally arrived, "Are you upset because I am late? I'm sorry, I had to do run some errands. I'm sorry, I'm just a little late. Please don't be upset with me anymore. I promise to bring you a big cuttlefish next time, okay?"
"No, please don't. I don't want that anymore. Squidcake, I'm not upset with you at all."
"Then why are you crying, my dear? What is wrong?" Squidcake asked.
But Owl could not answer her.
"Did you come from a desert?"
"If I did, would you write a story about me?"
"Even if you didn't, I can write a story about you. Do you have a specific story in mind? If you tell it to me, I can write about it."
"Hoot. Hoot. I didn't come from a desert. I like to eat aloe vera. As a punishment to me, one day, my children disappeared and all that was left in the nest were stems of aloe vera, in their place."
"Why would you be punished for liking to eat aloe vera?"
"Because this aloe vera belonged to Queen Cleopatra. You see, I stole it from her garden, so she stole my children from me."
I blinked hard at the strange owl and began to frown. I didn't know how to carry on the conversation from here. I couldn't imagine how to write a story about what was exchanged. So I continued to frown as I tried hard to imagine. Meanwhile, I also realised that I didn't recollect seeing any owls in the day before. This must be a special owl. At that, the owl hooted two times and flew onto my bed and began eating the aloe vera. After staring at him for a while, I decided to turn on my computer to make notes for the ensuing interview.
"So, owl," I asked, in a way I thought journalists asked their questions, "what is your name and please tell me about yourself." I sounded more like someone at a job interview.
"That is not important," the owl replied, "I want you to write a story about me."
"Is it the story of Cleopatra and the aloe vera?" I raised the left half of my face as I watched the juice from what he was eating sipped into the sheets of my bed.
"No. Write a story about me. Write it such that I am an eagle in the story."
"Why would you want to be an eagle when you're an owl?"
"Why would you want to be a man when you're born a woman?"
Then I realised that I do sometimes want to be a man. I did not know why the owl knew that, perhaps he was just drawing a random analogy, but I reminded myself that I shouldn't be surprised with what a talking day-time owl could say anymore. I asked,
"Alright, so anything else you'd like to be included in the story?"
"If it's possible, I would like it to be a love story. Other than that, nothing. I just want to be an Eagle in a love story."
"Alright, then how will you repay me for a story?"
"I don't know. Hoot. Do you like aloe vera? Or name your price?"
"A favour. You will repay me with a favour."
"Hoot. Alright. The degree and level of the favour must be commensurate with the depth of the story you hoot write."
I told myself to aim to earn at least a favour for clean sheets.
*
Once upon a time, there was an eagle named Owl. Many people did not understand why the eagle's mother named the eagle Owl, but these things happen, even for eagles. And when these things happen, they have to be accepted, even for eagles.
Owl was a sea eagle, and liked above all, to eat cuttlefish and squids that usually live in the deep sea. Being unable to dive that deeply, he decided to court a sea turtle, so that she would go into the deep water and catch squids and come to the surface and regurgitate it out for him to eat.
Unexpectedly, Owl succeeded to make a sea turtle fall for him. He named her "Squidcake" as a term of endearment; and because she did not have any other names to be called by as it was unfashionable for sea turtles to have names, being under the sea where they have a "silence please" policy like in the libraries.
Owl and Squidcake spent many many mornings and afternoons meeting on a deserted little rocky island. Owl would bring seagull meat for Squidcake to pretend that he loved her, and then gorged heartily on the squid remains of that she regurgitated. Sometimes, she would bring him whole squids, if she managed to keep them in her beak as she swam to meet him. They would exchange tales about Owl's soaring in the high heavens and exotic sightings on land and Squidcake's deep sea diving and curious friends at the coral reefs.
All was well and full of happiness and delight until one day, Squidcake was late and Owl felt worried, because Squidcake was never before late, and Owl was never before worried. Owl wondered if Squidcake had met with any accidents when she was catching squids, because she weren't really good at catching squids anyway. Squidcake herself liked to eat jellyfish, and ate cuttlefish only to regurgitate for Owl. Oh, should anything happen to her, Owl would never be able to forgive himself. He would rather give up eating all the squids and cuttlefish in the world just to see Squidcake again. This made him realise that he had really fallen in love with Squidcake.
"Why are you crying, my dear?" Squidcake asked when she finally arrived, "Are you upset because I am late? I'm sorry, I had to do run some errands. I'm sorry, I'm just a little late. Please don't be upset with me anymore. I promise to bring you a big cuttlefish next time, okay?"
"No, please don't. I don't want that anymore. Squidcake, I'm not upset with you at all."
"Then why are you crying, my dear? What is wrong?" Squidcake asked.
But Owl could not answer her.
The executive, his colleague, & the auntie
There was once an executive who had problems with a colleague in his office. His colleague would always embarrass him by taunting him. For example, at lunches or during office outings, the colleague would accuse the executive of sucking up to the bosses or of being spineless for not standing up for his own proposals. Sometimes, the colleague would even insult him by talking about the size of the executive's penis.
The executive felt maligned and upset. He just wanted to do his work and fuck off, and get paid the end of the month. So what if he doesn't stand up for his own proposals? He doesn't even care for them, really.
On a particularly bad day, he was so stressed that when he went to the toilet to splash water on his face, he blurted out his complains to the auntie cleaning the toilet.
The auntie, like a genie, took out from somewhere a stack of newspaper and a red marker. She mumbled something in a dialect that the executive didn't understand and left.
The executive then thought that he was taking the auntie's advice, vented his frustration by scribbling the name of the dreaded colleague with other rude things on the newspaper and threw them around in the toilet. He wetted some newspapers and stuck them to the toilet walls like posters.
The colleague was shamed and learnt to keep his mouth shut.
When the executive next saw the auntie, he gave her a wink, and before he could thank the auntie, the auntie took out her stainless steel tongs (like barbeque tongs which she usually used to pick up rubbish) and beat the executive's backside one time good good.
"Wah lan! Auntie! Tia leh!" shouted the executive, which roughly translates to: "My dick! Auntie! It's pain, you know!"
"Of course I know it's pain lah!" replied the auntie angrily, and tried to beat his legs, "I am so good hearted to give you the newspaper so you can look for job elsewhere if you're so unhappy working here. Who ask you? Si lang kia, throw the newspaper all over the toilet for me to clean up. You think I auntie auntie like that, easy to bully is it?"
"Wah, auntie, your ang mor is very good leh. Sorry lar, I thought you give me the newspaper and marker is to put like poster on the wall. Then use newspaper easy to clean mah... Why you didn't talk to me in ang mor that day leh? I didn't understand what you said."
"Now you're blaming me is it?" The auntie glared at him and beat him and chased him into the toilet. She only relented after the executive gave her fifty dollars for the trouble that he caused her.
The executive felt maligned and upset. He just wanted to do his work and fuck off, and get paid the end of the month. So what if he doesn't stand up for his own proposals? He doesn't even care for them, really.
On a particularly bad day, he was so stressed that when he went to the toilet to splash water on his face, he blurted out his complains to the auntie cleaning the toilet.
The auntie, like a genie, took out from somewhere a stack of newspaper and a red marker. She mumbled something in a dialect that the executive didn't understand and left.
The executive then thought that he was taking the auntie's advice, vented his frustration by scribbling the name of the dreaded colleague with other rude things on the newspaper and threw them around in the toilet. He wetted some newspapers and stuck them to the toilet walls like posters.
The colleague was shamed and learnt to keep his mouth shut.
When the executive next saw the auntie, he gave her a wink, and before he could thank the auntie, the auntie took out her stainless steel tongs (like barbeque tongs which she usually used to pick up rubbish) and beat the executive's backside one time good good.
"Wah lan! Auntie! Tia leh!" shouted the executive, which roughly translates to: "My dick! Auntie! It's pain, you know!"
"Of course I know it's pain lah!" replied the auntie angrily, and tried to beat his legs, "I am so good hearted to give you the newspaper so you can look for job elsewhere if you're so unhappy working here. Who ask you? Si lang kia, throw the newspaper all over the toilet for me to clean up. You think I auntie auntie like that, easy to bully is it?"
"Wah, auntie, your ang mor is very good leh. Sorry lar, I thought you give me the newspaper and marker is to put like poster on the wall. Then use newspaper easy to clean mah... Why you didn't talk to me in ang mor that day leh? I didn't understand what you said."
"Now you're blaming me is it?" The auntie glared at him and beat him and chased him into the toilet. She only relented after the executive gave her fifty dollars for the trouble that he caused her.
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