行得通不通?

By the way: Pornography

Little Red Riding Hood went to visit the witch

"Go eat a little piece of shit," said the witch to Little Red Riding Hood, who asked back,

"But why?" in her act-innocent manner.

"You said you wanted to bewitch the wolf, right? Since you are in love with him?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but yes... I want him to fall for me."

"Then go and eat a little piece of shit. I mean his shit. It's actually a fairly economic spell, you know."

"That's disgusting! I asked you for a love potion!"

"Gee," said the witch as she lit up another cigarette and thought about how it didn't pay to be kind, "As if you'd know more than me. You must have been reading too much stupid teenage novels or what. Anyway, if you really want it in potion form, then pay me about a thousand bucks or so, and I'd give it to you in potion form. Liquid, right? In your little world, all potions have to be in liquid form, right?"

"They tend to be... It's something for me to put in his food, right?" Little Red wanted to start devising a plan.

"No, you'd have to take it yourself. Why would you think the problem is with him? For not being in love with you? Of course you are the one who needs the potion, to make you better, so that he'd fall for you."

"Tsk," The Little Red pulled up her riding hood over her head. She did not like the idea that she was not good enough for the wolf. She was also disappointed at how straight forward the affair would be, and she wouldn't have to devise of any schemes to show off her deviousness. Yet she couldn't forget how the wolf snubbed her. Who was he to give her the cold shoulder, right? What the fuck? She must make him love her.

"So?" the witch exhaled her smoke into Little Red's face, "Will it be the potion for you, or not? It usually cost a thousand and six hundred and sixty-six. But since you're so cute as to wanna do it with a wolf, I'd let you have it for a discount."

"How much?"

"Maybe ten percent? You'd have to pay sixty percent as deposit first though. If you're okay with it, then just fill out this form, and sign here. You gotta give me his correct name and address so I don't get the wrong wolf, yeah? And any descriptors or whatever. You wouldn't want the wrong wolf falling for you."

"Don't worry I'd show you his photo. How much would it cost for having two wolves fall for me then?"

"Woah! Woah!" The witch widened her eyes, "You're kind of a sick little girl eh. You really didn't look like it."

"Tsk. Just answer the question."

"As separate potions or combined into one? You want them to fall for you at the same time, or..."

"At the same time."

The witch inhaled deeply and looked towards the ceiling, "It'd cost twice as more."

"No discount?"

"Same. Ten percent."

"Lend me your calculator," Little Red asked. She thought it would be nice to let the wolf have some competition and experience some jealously. She had roll-out a clever scheme somehow. The total came up to be 4,500 after discount, but instead she proposed: "How about three wolves for 4,000?"

"Woah. Little Red... Three? At the same time? Now, now, don't be hasty..."

"Tsk. I'm not being hasty. How about it?"

"Okay. Okay. I'm not one to judge," the witch took over the calculator and pretended to do some maths. "Nope, it'd have to be at least 4,500. It's complicated now that it's 3 wolves. And at the same time! I might get found out. 4,500 is already the discounted price."

"Fine, whatever then," Little Red started to fill out the form, "I have no specific preference which 2 other wolves it should be, but just make sure they are handsome, eligible, and preferably sought after. Can I trust you to do that for me?"

"Do you like them old or young? Big or small sized?"

"As long as they're handsome, then it's fine. At least, they should be as good looking as the first one. Here's his picture," Little Red showed the picture of the wolf on her phone to the witch, who agreed that he was quite a handsome wolf.

As she was making her payment, Little Red was plotting a cheesy, Korean-drama-style, love story between the three wolves and her. Little did she know that the witch's potion would make them want to have sex with her so much that they would eventually rape her, because that was just what all love potions were meant for - to let the other party want to make love to the potion consumer. In her case, the other parties would come after her. Lesser did she know that the potion was really going to be made of three little pieces of shit from the three wolves.

And perhaps some chocolate syrup. The witch thought. And some Ribena. To musk the taste. And tequila. To musk the smell. And to give it the 'kick'. Little Red would probably think that potions should have a kick...

Going around to collect and melt the three pieces of shit would be horrid, but 4,500 is good money. The witch briefly wondered if Little Red, being so open-minded, would make a good apprentice (she was thinking of hiring one), but nah, Little Red was probably too romantic to get anything done properly. The witch made a mental note to save any extra ingredients, since Little Red seemed like the type to come back for seconds.

The Tragedy of the Siberian Tiger

There was a Siberian tiger who developed an unfortunate case of odor of the feet. It was not known how he came to contract odor of the feet, but the doctor said he should keep his feet dry, which was to his tough luck having to live in, well, snowy Siberia and to be slogging around in at least ankle-deep snow pretty much most of the time.

It grew so bad that it threatened his very livelihood. Potential prey would smell him approaching and run far away before he even got close enough to think of approaching them. He only knew that they got away when he came across the taunts they wrote in the snow (e.g. "To S. T.: your feet fucking stinks") with their pee, which also stank, but not as much as his feet did.

They were deers, mostly.

He tried to turn vegetarian and discovered an allergy to soy protein, resulting in a case of severe rash he’d rather not talk about.

He would have died of starvation, if not having first killed himself, from the stress and depression, by banging his head repeatedly against a tree until the skull broke and cut his brain, resulting in intracranial haemorrhage, which actually wouldn't have killed him if he had received prompt medical attention, which of course, he didn't receive.

Of a Lion and a Siren (Part II)

This went on for some time and the air was filled with sentiments of love and sadness that permeated the animal kingdom. After being taken aback by their beloved son's weird fetish for a fish, and getting over it, the royal lion family tried to source for solutions to bring the lovers together. Through some recommendations, they got to know a powerful witch, also known as Ponyo from the cliff, who came from the land of the rising sun.

Ponyo was touched by the love story between the Simba the lion prince and Ariel the giant arapaima fish, and it reminded her of when she was young and foolish in love. She asked the couple to choose whether she should turn Simba into an arapaima - an offer to which Ariel and the royal family strongly objected, or to turn Ariel into a lioness - an offer to which Simba strongly objected and Ariel quietly objected. They loved each other in their present forms, and while their love and beauty was beyond skin deep, it was also hard to deny how their appearances were an integral part of who they were and loved.

Ponyo teasingly offered to give Simba a tail and Arial, feet. The couple rejected this idea arguing that this would only unite them with both being freaks of nature as they would still be unable to consummate their love, which was really the crux of the issue.

Eventually, Ponyo, the benevolent, allowed them to have the magic to be lions one day and arapaimas the next, whatever was their choices. She warned them, however, that they should never make experimental love when one was a lion and the other a fish, no matter how kinky they might feel, and made them promise her with their favourite swear words. They shrugged and agreed quickly; at that point, they were not yet able to imagine why they would ever want to do that, since they were precisely begging for the ability to transform themselves to become a matching couple.

Thus, they lived happily ever after... until they gave birth to a son, who was a merlion, and who also had bad problems with his bowel movements and motion sickness and had to swim around but would vomit for hours on end when he came to land.

Simba and Ariel tried to approach Ponyo for help, instead they were reprimanded by Ponyo sternly, "I warned you! And you promised that you would not have done that! No, I shall not reverse it, you both should know better to love him for who he is." Simba tried to turn on his charm, but Ponyo slammed the door in his aged majestic face, almost trapping his drooping whiskers.

It was ironic that while the baby was still in his mother's womb, his parents had already announced that he was to be named him "Sireneo" - a combination of the word "Leo" that represented his paternal heritage and "Siren" that represented his mother. They felt doubly guilty that their son's name was mawkishly apt.

Sireneo was sensible and didn't blame his parents for his freakish looks, poor health, and complicated name that he had to almost always repeat twice whenever he was asked for it. He was okay with being a merlion really. He had a few good friends from school and work (he was the second son and not in line to inherit the throne) and generally lived meaningfully - going about his businesses and doing the things he wanted to do despite his poor health condition.

A few arapaimas and lionesses had crushes on him, but he expressed that he would rather be alone. His parents would secretly hope that he would one day fall in love so true that the love would too, move Ponyo to grant him the magic of transformation, but he never fell in love. When asked by them, he would shrug and reply, "some beings are like that" or "not everyone is like you two, always going on about love, blah, blah". Truthfully, he did not see the big deal about relationships, and was sick of being told of his parents' love stories; he usually thought to remain as a bachelor except for the rare occasions when he wondered if he just hadn't met the right person yet.

(sneak.)

Of a Lion and a Siren (Part I)

Once a upon a time, in a land ruled by lions and lionesses, there was a prince. His parents wanted to give him a simple name, as they believed that a common name would help make their child easier to raise - like a commoner's child, so he was named Simba.

Simba had a spoilt childhood, with mothers who spoilt him, and a chauvinistic father, who believed in giving him a Confucian upbringing. He was rather stout and cumbersome as a cub, but grew up with a strong manly chest (did a lot of push ups in his teen) and a proud brownish-golden mane. Simba was so handsome that the flies, that typically hung around lion's snouts to feed on the leftovers from their mouths not wiped clean after every meal, did not dare to go near his unclean snout, for fear of being poisoned by his majestic, royal beauty.

One warm evening, Simba decided to take a stroll by a river he seldom visited. It was then when he heard an attractive song of a low seductive growling that he had never before heard of. Like that of a siren, the song drew Simba to followed it to the source - at a river bend, there was a group of giant arapaima fish - all almost as long as himself or longer still - surrounding a female arapaima, who glowed with a pearly, green-and-reddish gleam in the moonlight, who was singing the seductive song. The group of arapaimas were so enchanted with the performance that they did not notice Simba's approach.

Simba had heard of other lions speaking of the giant arapaimas living in the river, but had seldom seen them for himself, let alone to witness such a large gathering of these giant fishes. Seeing the way, their gigantic bodies float near the surface with the ebbing water calmed Simba, and the scene accompanied the soothing song of the female arapaima well. The more he listened to the song, the more he was convinced that it was the most beautiful music in his father's kingdom.

Simba crouched down and remained silent, not wanting to disrupt the performance; only when the song was complete, he let out a gentle roar of appreciation for the mystical arapaima's song.

Startled, the gathered arapaimas submerged and scattered quickly, except for the singer, however, who was scared stiff and simply remained where she was.

Simba got up and apologise for disrupting the party; at the same time, when his eyes met o those of the singing arapaima, he realised he was glad to have the time alone.

"Lord Simba," the arapaima said humbly, paying her respects.

"Good evening, fish. I was intending to introduce myself, but I suppose you already know who I am," said Simba with a smile, turning on his charm.

"That is but of course, you are our Lord. Your parents' picture hangs in our classrooms and school hall where we recite the national pledge in school every Monday," said the arapaima in a flurry before stopping with embarrassment by her seeming incoherence. "I mean... and you look like your father."

"Relax. Don't worry. I'm not uptight like him. Please introduce yourself?" urged Simba. He approached the water.

"I am Ariel, Daughter of Arapaima III of the Eastern River," she said as she swam backwards away from him.

"Show me your face, come closer to the bank."

"Are you intending to eat me, Sire?" Ariel said, apprehensively.

Simba laughed at her innocence before reassuring her that he was not, and he did not like to eat bony fish.

Ariel hesitated and realised that she should not defy the will of the prince. She propelled herself towards him, and swam at a shallower part of the river, where her shimmering scales caught more of the moonlight, and revealed a tiny lunar rainbow on almost every scale.

This was the moment when Simba fell in love with Ariel.

"I like your song, Ariel. Would you sing for me every night?" Not wishing to be rejected, he added, "I command it?"

"If you so wish, my lord, it would be my pleasure. But wouldn't you be bored with the same song? I would be bored singing it every night. How about I teach the song to your royal performers and perhaps they could sing it to you in the comforts of your palace."

"Excuse me," blushed Simba, "I meant, I like your singing, Ariel. You could sing any song you wish."

This made Ariel blushed too.

Simba returned to the river bend every night to the river to listen to Ariel sing. Sometimes she sang lively songs that were typically sang to araipaman children to teach them some lessons about being araipama; sometimes she sang slow songs, telling the stories to the ancestors. Simba listened with relish as the songs taught Simba much about Ariel's life.

He learned the different colours on her scales that changed with the phase of the moon. By looking at the scales, he learnt to tell which day of the month it was. Sometimes, he was so enchanted by Ariel that he would approach the river, and stand in the river, so much as being knee deep in the water. Whenever he wet his mane, he would rather regret it as he would have to comb his hair back, and that would worry him about looking like an ah-beng.

Over time, Ariel too began to take a liking to Simba and saw past his attempts to act cool and was moved by his pathetic and sincere attempts to impress her by bringing her rare game meat - like lamb chops and hot dogs. She was more practical, knowing that they would never be able to be together. Slowly, she began to sing love songs about star-crossed lovers or unrequited relationships. Simba, delighted to know that his love was finally being reciprocated by Ariel, yet at the same time, he was sad that she would keep reminding him of how they would not be together.

Pigeon

There was a pigeon who preferred walking over flying. It was not that he was a bad flyer. He merely preferred walking.

"Eh, there's food over there!" His friends would say and point to a kopitiam across the road where food was possibly shrewn on the ground.

"Ah, you guys go ahead, I'll meet you there," the pigeon would say back and began to walk in the said direction, as his friends flew off towards wherever.

That was what happened one day, when the pigeon was crossing the road, to catch up with his friends... Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot... when a car drove by and ran him over.

Seven tau-gay legs

There was a spider, that had seven legs, that were not proper spider legs - black and hairy. Instead, they were made of tau-gay, or green bean sprouts. She had lost her eighth leg in a fight.

Despite her handicap, the spider was with a lively spirit who enjoyed the occasional practical joke. Once, she was in a store, that was somewhat like Singapore's version of the Metropolitan Museum of Art store, pretending to be brooch. When she was caught, she laughed mischievously in such an infectious way that nobody could then fault her for trying.

She would have danced a little if she could have, but she could not, for her legs were soft and flimsy. She had accidentally stepped into somebody's warm bath water, and her tau-gay legs got scalded and became somewhat flimsy ever after. This was to her greatest regret, as she had loved dancing.

If she felt bad for herself, she would think of her friend, a spider who has cabbage leaves for his legs. Imagine, all eight legs! Cabbage leaves! All too big to fit on a little spider! And all slightly curved! He never walked a single step from birth. If he needed to get anywhere, he would roll his way there. Like a tumbleweed! Except he bruised more easily! Let alone dance!

Tau-gay legs are really not too bad! Or so the spider with tau-gay legs would remind herself comfortingly. She would sing or hum her favourite song to herself. It was ABBA's Dancing Queen. If she let anyone hear her, they could feel sorry for her and go on and on about how dancing was not a big deal. This would then make everything more difficult to bear.

Purple Land of Golden Oats

Once upon a time, there lived a group of elephants in a land of purple grasses and golden oats. These elephants loved to eat golden oats all day. They ate so much golden oats until they shat shits of golden oats, and their hides turned a little golden at some parts.

In the purple land, these elephants had no natural predators, except time and age. Occasionally, they would get into quarrels amongst themselves but they would never fight. They did not know how to fight, for there was no violence in the purple land.

At least, that was until one day, when a human boy, who loved to eat brinjals, ate so much brinjal for dinner that, at night, he entered the purple land in his dreams. He was so overwhelmed by the magnificence of the gold that stood out shining brightly from the purple in the land. The brilliance of the gold and purple land nourished the seeds of corruption that laid hidden in his human heart with greed... They germinated. The boy wanted some of the gold for himself.

The boy schemed to capture an elephant to bring back home so that he could harvest the elephant's shit. This was because, after drawing some irresponsible conclusions, he had decided that the oats were golden because they were nourished by the elephants' golden shit. He could sell the shit, or grow some golden oats for sale, and he would become rich and eat all the brinjal he wanted.

The boy laid a trap to capture a little elephant. It was an elaborate trap, but an ineffective one, as he was soon found out. The elephants asked him why he was trying to capture an elephant, and if he had any difficulty that they could help he with. This moved the distraught boy (imagine being confronted by a herd of talking elephants in a foreign purple land), and he told them his true intentions.

His honesty, however, only repaid their kindness with implanting notions of greed, envy, and violence into the elephant's culture.

The boy was sent back with an elephants' kick in the behind.

***

Sometime later, when the boy became an old man, he returned to the purple land. It seemed that things changed.

Golden oats were farmed in plots of land and did not shine as brilliantly as before. Perhaps, as purple grasses were hardly to be seen, there was no contrast for the gold to stand out from the land.

There was a bustling industrial area, where metal works and machineries were constructed and sold. Elephants were haggling with each other over lower prices and other matters of business concerns. There were also cages to contain huge and obese elephants held in captivity, apparently for the harvesting of their waste-matter for the farms.

When the old man witnessed the scene, he felt so displaced that he forgot to keep out of sight. He was caught by the elephant police for trespassing.

Upon establishing his identity, the old man who was once the boy caused another sensation amongst the elephants. Some of the elephants wanted to celebrate his return, as he was the benefactor and founder of the modern purple land society (as was taught in the elephant schools). Some of the elder elephants, particularly those who were children of the civil war, wanted to hang him for corrupting the elephant culture and the purple land of peace as they remembered it.

Finally, a rich elephant merchant bought him and kept him as part of a private collection of humans. During this time, he was fed with brinjals for his meals. These were the sweetest brinjals that the old man had ever tasted. When he later found out that these brinjals grew from the coarse purple grass of the land, which were basically the weeds in the oat-farms owned by the merchant, the old man fell into depression until his eventual death, upon which he was flushed down the elephant's toilet bowl.

I, its mealy bug

I bought a potted plant recently. It's a humble peperomia acuminata that cost me $2 - plastic pot inclusive. Enthusiastic about the new addition to my routine, I searched online for plant-caring tips.

They said that this plant (or some other plants I got mixed up with) tended to get infested by mealy bugs - which are little white cottony bugs that suck the life out of the plants. And that one's gotta go and scout them out and wipe them off with a cotton bud (the irony) soaked with rubbing alcohol. And that one has to go and repeat this over a few days because they might have laid eggs that would hatch later.

I switched on my book-light and poked around. Indeed, I spotted 2 of them.

For the past few days, I've been wondering if I should remove the bugs - to kill by spraying alcoholic perfume or wipe the plant with an alcoholic wet wipe - but killing's too cruel, so, perhaps I could snip off the leaves they're on (they're not fast bugs) and throw them in a park or on someone else's plants - so that they won't kill off my plant eventually. Yet, I can't reconcile that actually, the mealy bugs are quite just minding their own business, and playing out their part of the food chain, and look, really, it's not that big enough a deal to smite the mealy bugs for.

I mean, to the universe, what's the difference between a mealy bug and I? There're probably more similarities - perhaps, I don't work or eat or live on a leaf, but I work and eat and live in this time and space? Like, the world is my peperomia, and I, its mealy bug.

Well, I guess, I could adopt the bugs as pets.

(sneak.)

I overheard the cats...

I overheard that night, when the cats downstairs and below my window were talking about how there's a kind of crazy cat doctor. I don't know how it works and where these cats came from and why I understood what they were gossiping about I don't know. But they talked and I overheard about how there's a kind of crazy cat doctor from their kind of crazy cat world where they came from. The crazy cat doctor was a kind of cosmetic surgeon who was basically going around trying to multilate other cats. He was cutting off tails and ears and don't know what parts off cats and then transplanting them onto other cats.

What? The other one of the cats exclaimed. no, it was more like, WHAT? (In a way you must imagine a crazy cat would say it in.)

So the first cat went on and on about how those stranger than strange cats that would go and visit this doctor would all be granted these deviant secret wishes, to have 2 tails, to have 4 ears, to have 11 tits and all that. But the real question was, is, was, is? (They weren't particular about grammar and tenses.) Where did all these extra body parts came from?

Some rumours said it was from dead cats who recently died. Some said it was from like orphans that the mothers sold. Some said it was most likely from those cats who didn't speak and were normal and didn't have higher cognitive abilities... that would have been the most humane. like, dummy cats, farmed for this very purpose.

But the truth is, was, is, was, and I know because I know someone who knows someone who went to get an extra leg (apparently so that she could scratch herself better) and saw the doctor for herself, that it was done by some kind of blue magic, or black magic, or the ancient magic of the moon. You could ask for any body parts except for the eyes. There could be no mention of eyes. Because the doctor himself also has no eyes.

You see, the doctor was a subject of mutilation by some powerful magician - probably a human being who owned him as a pet or something - who gouged the eyes out of him and transplanted his testicles into his eye sockets. Makes sense, because only they could be bothered to do something like that. Then apparently, something strange must have snapped and happened such that not only could the doctor still see very well, he had a magical power for things like that.

If you ask me, I would say that the cat doctor probably was a powerful magician to begin with. And he might could might have performed the strange transplantation himself, because of some ancient magic or something, because it's really unlikely that any human being would have known better than his cat. The testicles thing must have only boosted his initial prowess exponentially.

And they went on to talk a little about the degenerate state of their cat-kind before they went away and I couldn't overhear them any more.

(sneak.)

The Racoon

There was once a raccoon who rode a Harley Davidson bike. He wore chunky Harley Davidson biker boots and black Harley Davidson biker tee-shirts. He liked the way it matched his tail and dark eye circles.

One day, he got in an accident while riding his bike, his almost last thought was, "What the fuck?" Then, he thought, "Well, after all, it's a befitting way to die for a biker to die on the bike... like for a samurai to die in war. What more could I ask for?"

With that he muttered, "ah fuck it" and closed his eyes and let go of his life and passed away in a simple way shortly after.

The Golden Beetle

My mind smashes around like the golden beetle who is confused by the fluorescent lights whose dashing allure promised and baited it to enter into a room, a house, a building, a world that is cold and foreign and that it just can't seem to get out of - but surely there is a way! a way to defend its dreams its ideal its will to live! It must beat its wings as hard as it can as hard as it can and it tries to go a little crazy i fly towards the outside, but i slam against the window it's closed i don't know it's the window perhaps I should gain more speed, perhaps these walls are like the shadows of a dense tree, if I just zoom into it, it will give way it will give way so i ram myself against the wall but i fall i fall I fall on my back and never mind it's okay I will struggle to flip myself back i will not give up i don't know what it is to give up, i have landed on my back before, when I was young, and I can flip myself around then I will try again and I will take a deep breath and I will fly I will fly and beat my wings so hard and so fast and I will burst through the wall and that sense of triumph will surely make this all worth while I will go i will go i will go and tell this story to my wife my kids or the girl that I love or my father and he'd be proud of me and wish that he was the one who was telling me this story instead and it'll be worth while for that moment of glorious glory to see the look on their faces and so I go I go I go I go! but I fall I fall I fall I fall.

What's that i feel? is it pain? i did not fold my wings properly. did I injure myself? did i injure my wing? did I hurt my head? what's this heaviness I feel coming over me? I am tired it is late I am sleepy the corner here is comfortable and quite familiar I will rest for a while and soon I will forget what was life before because I am after all just a beetle - how much do you expect me to be able to remember? Was I born here? Soon I will believe I was born here. Soon, I will forget what I remember. What do I remember? I was born here. I not know despair.

Little dog chasing his own tail

There was a little dog who was chasing his own tail - around and around in circles, he went.

A kind dog came by and saw and shook her head and thought, poor little dog, he is so busy chasing his tail that he has no chance to think about what he was doing. I remember, when I was a puppy, I was like that too.

A merciful dog came by and saw and shook her head and shouted, "Hey little dog, stop for a moment and think about what you're doing and if it is worth your while at all!" This distracted the little dog who stopped to see who was talking to him, he cocked his head to one side and looked like he was thinking, but he actually just wanted to scratch his balls, which he did, before chasing his tail again.

A third dog, who was lazing in a corner, amusing herself watching the little dog amuse himself, snorted a snort and thought, the very reason why the little dog is chasing his tail, is that he cannot think - that he doesn't have the cognitive ability to consider his actions - in the first place.

The bee minder

Billy went to see a lot of expensive doctors and specialists only to be diagnosed as a mild schizophrenic for reportedly hearing a bee buzz all the time, except when he's asleep. The truth was that there was a bee living in the fourth dimension in his head, it was alive and well kept and buzzing around in his head. If he was not distracted from it, he could feel the bee knocking against his skull sometimes. He even almost choked a few times when it flew too close to his nose and wind pipe.

He dare not describe his true sensation to anyone for fear that they diagnosed him as a severe schizophrenic, which he was not. He was just a man with a bee in his head that nobody else would ever believe him for, unless someone invented a fourth dimension seeing glass and cut his head open or something.

After running out of faith in medicines, Billy spent his money drinking, because it helped dull his senses, and he could take a break from hearing the bee's buzz when he got the beer buzz buzzing louder.

Fib, the Dung Beetle

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."

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.

The French Crow

I first met Pierre when one morning I woke up with him in my room on my bed. He nipped off my right middle finger and ate it. Though appalled and frightened, I gave chase as I did not know what else I could do to get my finger back. Pierre flew out of my window, and before I knew it, I was flying too. That was when I realised that I was in a dream.

When Pierre finally roosted in a tree that was full of crows, and that was typically in the middle of a car park overseeing polished cars, I approached him and said,

"Hey, crow, can you give me my finger back? Or else I won't be able to flip people off with my right hand. Sure, I suppose I could use the one on my left hand, but having the option to use the right hand, or to use both hands to emphasize my point sometimes, well, is important to me." I paused to ponder about my options as Pierre replied,

"Je m'en fous. Je ne veux que chier."

Wow, I thought, a French crow. How curious. I didn't even know I understood French. But the limitless power of the unconscious is always surprising, and I understood that he said something rude enough to make me realise that I might be able to flip people off with my right hand after all... I just had to grab him and snap his smart alec head off and attach it to where my middle finger was. Then, when I have to flip the birdie off, it'll be an elaborate, nice, and feathery display. With any luck, the smart mouth would crow some French for a dramatic effect and an uncalled for touch of act class. And it's black. It'll match my hair.

Ever since I attached his head to my hand (with the face and beak rightfully facing outwards, if you were wondering), Pierre became very becoming, at least to me. I've named him Pierre, after Pierre Corneille, who is somebody I didn't know I knew of, and because "Pierre" seems to be the most intuitive name suitable for any French character. He gets along very well with my left middle finger, whom we've decided to name Paul.

I shall love to introduce you to Pierre if we should meet in our dreams, but I'm afraid it would only be rude, so I shall not look forward to it when the time comes.

(sneak.)

The Champedek Tree

Once upon a time, there lived a champedek tree who wanted to fly ever since it was just a little seedling. Over the years, it painstakingly grew and groomed its branches and foliages in a position that it resembled a bird in flight.

There was just one problem though, the champedek tree, like all trees, have roots embedded into the ground. The only way to fly was to uproot and die. What was the champedek tree to do?

One monsoon season, there was a particularly strong typhoon, and as the strong wind blew, the champedek tree thought "it's now or never!" and uprooted itself and leapt into the air, and it soared across three small hills and three small valleys before being smashed into a mountain in its path.

As the champedek tree laid to die of rotting roots in the ensuing rains, it was full of smiles and happiness.

(sneak.)

Reminder: The dead lizard is dead

I was walking around in my dream and saw a dead lizard on the ground, so I took a picture of it.


See how it was dried and fried by a hot sun of sorts. I was amused by how, even in its death, it camouflaged itself with the grey concrete pretty well. The lizard must have died in a dramatically, with a right hand put to its chest in restraint, and a left hand caught dead flailing with unrestraint. Now they're dried and stuck there forever. This lizard must have been left alone to die, with nobody around to rest the body in a more comfortable resting position.

I was moved by it. It looks so heartbroken. Don't you agree?

Come to think of it, it's been more than two years since I wrote about the jilted lizard, a heartbroken lizard I met in a dream before this. It was on a hot day too. I wonder how is he.

Was this he? I curiously examined the anatomy of the dead lizard, if it was a female then it won't be the jilted lizard. But it was male... I think.

"Poor, poor, lizard, are you the jilted lizard? Have you come back to look for me? Do you have something to tell me? Or are you another lizard? Did you die heartbroken too? Do all lizards take matters of love so seriously...?"

"It doesn't matter," the dead lizard suddenly said, "Whether I died heartbroken or were wronged or were right, or if I were the jilted lizard or not, I died. And I am no more. You may take me home and season me with salt to eat, because I am crispy and will taste nice."

In the blink of an eye, the dead lizard had jumped into a plastic container, that had suddenly appeared, with a cover that says it's "microwave reheatable", and "reheatable" is apparently not even a word. I realised that the plastic container used to contain horfun but was washed and cleaned out to be reusable (which, by the way, qualifies as a word).

When I woke up, he was on my bed-side table.

To be able to take pictures in dreams is one thing, and to have a dead lizard who told me to eat him in my dream and then to wake up next to him is at a triple-advanced level that I didn't know I was at.

I wanted to apologise to him for taking him home, but he did say that he was dead and no more. I'm not sure if I agree with him, because if he was dead and no more, how could he speak to me?

Today is a wonderful day, with the weather the way I like it. It may be a little too cloudy to see the blue skies, but the winds are blowing and herding the clouds by fast. The trees are dancing, and if I close my eyes and listen carefully, I can hear the sha-sha sound from the different trees. The sound of the palm trees. The sound of the pine trees. The sound of the dunno-what-they're-called-trees. The sound of my curtains flying, the sound of the hairs on my ears tingling... the clackity-clack of me typing... the voices in my head... the lizard's talking... The world is alive, and the wind - its breath, and these sounds - its music and song.

Is the dead lizard not yet dead? Like how the world is alive, as long as I pay my attention to it? I don't know, because, here, right in front of me, in his plastic coffin, with a broken tail and two little bulgy things that look like they were testicles, lies a lifeless corpse - an undeniable reminder. That the dead lizard is dead. Like how I shall one day die. And that it won't really matter how or why.


(For the dead lizard and the jilted lizard. RIP.)