Showing posts with label Stories that are Surrealist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stories that are Surrealist. Show all posts
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Sunday, 4 April 2010
The Auntie who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-food-products
There was a woman, in her early forties, who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-foodstuff at a snack store that she owned. She was gradually turning into a fish. Well, sort of.
It was not as if she grew scales or fins or gills, but her lower lip became larger and protruded, as did her eye balls. Her jawline and cheeks sagged, and her nose grew flatter and the distancebetween the nose and mouth, grew wider. In the emoticon sense, her expression grew to be more like this -
8 (
- which, if one would stretch his imagination in the right direction, is an expression that would really make any woman look more like a fish, let alone a woman who was sort of gradually turning into one.
The last time she had sex, which was the first time after a long time since the previous time, with her husband, with whom she married for a reason she could no longer remember and who was 15 years older than her, something even more strange happened - her belly began to swelled up over the next few weeks days. A few months later, before she could concluded that she was pregnant, she gave birth, on the toilet bowl, to about four-dozen fish balls. After getting over the shock, she collected the fishballs, and rinsed it clean, and deep fried them, and put them on satay sticks, three-by-threes, and took stock, and deep fried them again just to be sure they were thoroughly cooked, and brought them to the store for sale - as the special item of the day.
Since the incident, she did not want to have sex anymore, and her sexual frustration made her sulk even more, which in turn, made her look like a fish lagi even more than ever.
It was not as if she grew scales or fins or gills, but her lower lip became larger and protruded, as did her eye balls. Her jawline and cheeks sagged, and her nose grew flatter and the distancebetween the nose and mouth, grew wider. In the emoticon sense, her expression grew to be more like this -
8 (
- which, if one would stretch his imagination in the right direction, is an expression that would really make any woman look more like a fish, let alone a woman who was sort of gradually turning into one.
The last time she had sex, which was the first time after a long time since the previous time, with her husband, with whom she married for a reason she could no longer remember and who was 15 years older than her, something even more strange happened - her belly began to swelled up over the next few weeks days. A few months later, before she could concluded that she was pregnant, she gave birth, on the toilet bowl, to about four-dozen fish balls. After getting over the shock, she collected the fishballs, and rinsed it clean, and deep fried them, and put them on satay sticks, three-by-threes, and took stock, and deep fried them again just to be sure they were thoroughly cooked, and brought them to the store for sale - as the special item of the day.
Since the incident, she did not want to have sex anymore, and her sexual frustration made her sulk even more, which in turn, made her look like a fish lagi even more than ever.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Tick-talk
I dreamt of being infested with my dog's ticks. In my dream, the ticks had evolved, and were no longer single red bulging dots with six legs; they were with three jointed parts, like ants, and had ferocious teeth - ferocious as in it looked like it'd hurt a lot if I were bitten - and looked blood thirsty.
I woke up being a little afraid.
The next day, I kept feeling ticklings on different parts of my body especially on my armpits, my private part, and the part of my back I can't reach enough to scratch properly.
Now, the paranoia has died off, and I don't quite still feel the tickles. I don't rule out the possibility, however, that a couple of ticks are living on me - there're quite a few places to hide - especially if they stay still so that I won't even detect their crawling motion. I mean, like afterall, I don't remember the last time I took a good look at my back.
When I do consider it, the idea of having a couple of ticks on my back is actually surprisingly alright. It's kinda freaky, but really, I should have enough blood going around to afford such "pets".
Maybe if I stay still enough they would breed and breed and one day, there would be ticks all over me. I'd be like I'm covered in red scales - except that they're actually ticks. It's kinda gross, but if I stop thinking that ticks are dirty and disgusting (which they're not inherently), it can be kinda cool. If I were all covered in ticks I'd probably get into guiness books of records in a new catagory and appear on reuters or something.
I woke up being a little afraid.
The next day, I kept feeling ticklings on different parts of my body especially on my armpits, my private part, and the part of my back I can't reach enough to scratch properly.
Now, the paranoia has died off, and I don't quite still feel the tickles. I don't rule out the possibility, however, that a couple of ticks are living on me - there're quite a few places to hide - especially if they stay still so that I won't even detect their crawling motion. I mean, like afterall, I don't remember the last time I took a good look at my back.
When I do consider it, the idea of having a couple of ticks on my back is actually surprisingly alright. It's kinda freaky, but really, I should have enough blood going around to afford such "pets".
Maybe if I stay still enough they would breed and breed and one day, there would be ticks all over me. I'd be like I'm covered in red scales - except that they're actually ticks. It's kinda gross, but if I stop thinking that ticks are dirty and disgusting (which they're not inherently), it can be kinda cool. If I were all covered in ticks I'd probably get into guiness books of records in a new catagory and appear on reuters or something.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Mr Bu
Then one night, he gasped loudly, stood up, spun around and exclaimed "When the moon hits three-quarters for the five hundred and twenty third time, I shall be released!"
All the nurses were a shock, of course; after all, this elderly Mr Bu Min Jie had been in a catatonic state for about 40 years now. Watching Mr Bu dance around the ward, even those nurses who had been caring of Mr Bu felt like celebrating with him.
He was admitted to the hospital after being found unconscious in the middle of the road. When he woke up in the hospital, almost one year later, he was catatonic. They thought it might have been a traffic accident which caused him to suffer from some bad trauma to his head. Brain-specialists took turns to target their enthusiasm at him. It seemed like they scanned his brains almost every time the machine was available, but they discovered nothing.
He didn't have any identification, nor anybody missing him enough to identify him, so, they named him Mr B (after his ward). Over the years, the nurses, with the combination of their own inside jokes, extended his name to Mr Bu Min Jie.
Little did anybody know the truth was that he actually belonged to a world, that existed halfway between the ground to the sky, that could not be seen by the psychically-indisposed. He was cursed by a spell-binder, who cut a magic manhole in the ground of that world, from which Mr Bu was kicked out from, with a left foot, into this world. Mr Bu had tried to rob the spell-binder's wife. His real name was Dan (which meant "egg").
(sneak.)
All the nurses were a shock, of course; after all, this elderly Mr Bu Min Jie had been in a catatonic state for about 40 years now. Watching Mr Bu dance around the ward, even those nurses who had been caring of Mr Bu felt like celebrating with him.
He was admitted to the hospital after being found unconscious in the middle of the road. When he woke up in the hospital, almost one year later, he was catatonic. They thought it might have been a traffic accident which caused him to suffer from some bad trauma to his head. Brain-specialists took turns to target their enthusiasm at him. It seemed like they scanned his brains almost every time the machine was available, but they discovered nothing.
He didn't have any identification, nor anybody missing him enough to identify him, so, they named him Mr B (after his ward). Over the years, the nurses, with the combination of their own inside jokes, extended his name to Mr Bu Min Jie.
Little did anybody know the truth was that he actually belonged to a world, that existed halfway between the ground to the sky, that could not be seen by the psychically-indisposed. He was cursed by a spell-binder, who cut a magic manhole in the ground of that world, from which Mr Bu was kicked out from, with a left foot, into this world. Mr Bu had tried to rob the spell-binder's wife. His real name was Dan (which meant "egg").
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Lavender Remedy
Atera visited her auntie while having a cold and a blocked nose. Her auntie had heard from a friend of a friend that lavender was a good remedy for stuffy nose and made Atera some lavender tea.
It didn't work that well, but it was quite nice enough to drink for Atera to finish drinking her share - bottom-of-the-cup's up. In the process, Atera was unaware that some lavender seeds got stuck in her nose, and she went to sleep.
Overnight, they would grow into lavender bushes - one from each nostril - and she would wake up, sit up, and find two lavender bushes hanging from her face.
It didn't work that well, but it was quite nice enough to drink for Atera to finish drinking her share - bottom-of-the-cup's up. In the process, Atera was unaware that some lavender seeds got stuck in her nose, and she went to sleep.
Overnight, they would grow into lavender bushes - one from each nostril - and she would wake up, sit up, and find two lavender bushes hanging from her face.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Sock puppet
The boy put his hand into his sock that he just took off from his feet that he just took out of his shoes which he just got home from school in. Today, his teacher showed his class an educational video featuring sock puppet hosts，and he was really impressed with them and had been eager to go home to try it out.
His version of the sock puppet didn't look as nice as the ones on the video - it didn't have the fake button eyes and funky features made of felt cloth patches - it was plain and a bit greyish with dirt.
Suddenly, his sock spoke - as in, the voice was not in his head, but as in, a voice really came from his undecorated sock puppet (he knew it was real because the voice was louder when the sock was put closer to his ear and softer when pulled further away). The sock said to to the boy in a low voice,
"Kid, listen to me carefully. I have been waiting for this day for a long time. Look, I've transferred some of my taste buds to your hands. These are taste receptors that would send wireless signals back to me so that I know the taste of what you eat.
"I have been wanting very badly to taste food because the oven mittens told me - when we met in the laundry bin - that food here is great. And the oven mittens are so... hot. I mean...
"Ah, what the heck... to be honest, I have a crush on them. And I want to taste some food so that we would have something to talk about next time we meet. Your feet ain't quite the conversation point, you know.
"Anyway, all you've gotta do is to touch the food with your hands later. As in, use your hands to eat. My taste buds/receptors on your hands and fingers would transmit to me the taste signals of whatever you touch.
"The taste buds will probably make your hands smell slightly, and some suspect they're probably going to make you sick if you eat it... but no matter. Don't worry, we can take that risk together. So, regardless of what your mother says, YOU BETTER don't wash your hands before dinner.
"You also BETTER don't remove me - as in, the sock - until just before dinner time. And until then, in fact, until dinner time, you better don't dig your nose or scratch your backside. You can only go do all those funny things AFTER you wash your hands with dish-washing liquid (preferably mama lemon) AFTER dinner. That would deactivate the receptors.
"If you don't do as I say, I'm going to gnaw at your feet and give you one hundred and thirty blisters! I will torture you! GEDDIT, kid?"
The boy was really intimidated, because the sock puppet was talking, and had an low, creepy, authoritative voice, and was threatening him into do something his (hypochondriac and intimidating-in-her-own-right) mother is surely going to give him a good scolding for. And being really intimidated made him really, really regret choosing to play with the sock before going to pee.
His version of the sock puppet didn't look as nice as the ones on the video - it didn't have the fake button eyes and funky features made of felt cloth patches - it was plain and a bit greyish with dirt.
Suddenly, his sock spoke - as in, the voice was not in his head, but as in, a voice really came from his undecorated sock puppet (he knew it was real because the voice was louder when the sock was put closer to his ear and softer when pulled further away). The sock said to to the boy in a low voice,
"Kid, listen to me carefully. I have been waiting for this day for a long time. Look, I've transferred some of my taste buds to your hands. These are taste receptors that would send wireless signals back to me so that I know the taste of what you eat.
"I have been wanting very badly to taste food because the oven mittens told me - when we met in the laundry bin - that food here is great. And the oven mittens are so... hot. I mean...
"Ah, what the heck... to be honest, I have a crush on them. And I want to taste some food so that we would have something to talk about next time we meet. Your feet ain't quite the conversation point, you know.
"Anyway, all you've gotta do is to touch the food with your hands later. As in, use your hands to eat. My taste buds/receptors on your hands and fingers would transmit to me the taste signals of whatever you touch.
"The taste buds will probably make your hands smell slightly, and some suspect they're probably going to make you sick if you eat it... but no matter. Don't worry, we can take that risk together. So, regardless of what your mother says, YOU BETTER don't wash your hands before dinner.
"You also BETTER don't remove me - as in, the sock - until just before dinner time. And until then, in fact, until dinner time, you better don't dig your nose or scratch your backside. You can only go do all those funny things AFTER you wash your hands with dish-washing liquid (preferably mama lemon) AFTER dinner. That would deactivate the receptors.
"If you don't do as I say, I'm going to gnaw at your feet and give you one hundred and thirty blisters! I will torture you! GEDDIT, kid?"
The boy was really intimidated, because the sock puppet was talking, and had an low, creepy, authoritative voice, and was threatening him into do something his (hypochondriac and intimidating-in-her-own-right) mother is surely going to give him a good scolding for. And being really intimidated made him really, really regret choosing to play with the sock before going to pee.
Monday, 5 October 2009
A Story Seldom Told
I wanted to write a story today, but I had no idea.
Suddenly I heard a little voice, that was faint, but pretty clear.
"Then write a story about us, it's a story that's seldom told
About when the humans did not yet have feet included to its mold.
About when I was just a tortoise, minding my own sweet time,"
Said my left foot to me, in the following little rhyme,
"And about when an elephant came along, suddenly on my right.
You know, tortoises don't usually move so fast, so I got quite a fright,
Thinking that it would be the end of me if the elephant were to land
Too much of its weight on me that my shell wouldn't withstand.
But instead, the elephant picked me up, with its strong but gentle trunk,
With which I never really spoke, but for whom somehow I sunk
First into infatuation, and then it grew into love...
A tortoise with an elephant's trunk - it's unspeakably unheard of.
We went here and there and manywhere without the rest of the elephant knowing,
Until we were finally caught one day when we were out making
Excuses for us to go out to make excuses again...
Being caught dating a tortoise by your "parents" - how would you explain?
I suppose we didn't actually put forth a convincing case,
But we simply pledged our love, in front of the elephant's face.
Perhaps it was too surprised by our blatant disrespect
Of the obligatory embarrassment that it could reasonably expect...
Of a tortoise and its own trunk who wanted to be with one another,
Or perhaps it was moved by our sincerity altogether.
By the way, conveniently, the elephant was asked to finish the task
Of designing the humble human form that it would then unmask...
So, the elephant decided on the spot, to make me the left foot
And then it modelled a bit of its trunk to become the right foot..."
At this point I awoke to find my hands resting on the keyboard,
And this story that is on the screen as my only record,
Of how my left foot was a tortoise who was in love with an elephant's trunk,
Which is my right foot... I honestly don't at all recall being or getting drunk...
(sneak.)
Suddenly I heard a little voice, that was faint, but pretty clear.
"Then write a story about us, it's a story that's seldom told
About when the humans did not yet have feet included to its mold.
About when I was just a tortoise, minding my own sweet time,"
Said my left foot to me, in the following little rhyme,
"And about when an elephant came along, suddenly on my right.
You know, tortoises don't usually move so fast, so I got quite a fright,
Thinking that it would be the end of me if the elephant were to land
Too much of its weight on me that my shell wouldn't withstand.
But instead, the elephant picked me up, with its strong but gentle trunk,
With which I never really spoke, but for whom somehow I sunk
First into infatuation, and then it grew into love...
A tortoise with an elephant's trunk - it's unspeakably unheard of.
We went here and there and manywhere without the rest of the elephant knowing,
Until we were finally caught one day when we were out making
Excuses for us to go out to make excuses again...
Being caught dating a tortoise by your "parents" - how would you explain?
I suppose we didn't actually put forth a convincing case,
But we simply pledged our love, in front of the elephant's face.
Perhaps it was too surprised by our blatant disrespect
Of the obligatory embarrassment that it could reasonably expect...
Of a tortoise and its own trunk who wanted to be with one another,
Or perhaps it was moved by our sincerity altogether.
By the way, conveniently, the elephant was asked to finish the task
Of designing the humble human form that it would then unmask...
So, the elephant decided on the spot, to make me the left foot
And then it modelled a bit of its trunk to become the right foot..."
At this point I awoke to find my hands resting on the keyboard,
And this story that is on the screen as my only record,
Of how my left foot was a tortoise who was in love with an elephant's trunk,
Which is my right foot... I honestly don't at all recall being or getting drunk...
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
The Bayon
You appeared out of nowhere and with a kind smile, you said,
"Come, follow me, I'll bring you to the most beautiful place in the world."
On my way there, in between thoughts about work and other mundane thoughts, I studied the intensity of your shadow as I put my feet deep in the tracks that you made. At first, I thought I should make full use of the silent trek to contemplate on what to do with my life, or at least, what I would do about all the things to do back in the office... you know, 'constructive' thoughts. My only revelations were, however, to realise that I was lucid dreaming again - from noticing how the shadows looked very serious despite it not being particularly sunny - and that I did not recognise you from anywhere I could remember.
"Excuse me," I asked, "but where is the most beautiful place in the world?"
"You'd know where, when you get there," you said.
I tried to relax myself.
We walked by a dry pond, where a lot of headless dragonflies congregated - almost a swarm - but it was not very beautiful, just miraculous, perhaps, and somewhat creepy, so we didn't stop.
We walked by a ruined temple, about which gathered a group of ladies who had the upper body of humans and the lower body of snakes. They were singing and dancing - or that might have been the way they spoke normally - and they were really quite beautiful... with their graceful poise and dresses, and especially, with the way their snake scales glowed or shimmered... but I didn't think this was where, so we didn't stop.
As we went deeper into the forest, the ground became muddier until it didn't make sense for me to walk in your tracks any further, so I tried to find my own footing... I was engrossed in keeping balance and thoughts on how tedious it would be to clean my shoes until I made up my mind to throw them away when we were through.
When we came upon a clearing where the ground was hard again, I looked up and knew I was there.
I stood before the Bayon, stunned. All my silly thoughts and worries and wastes of mind dissipated into the glorious light that engulfed me - I was quiet. I carefully beheld the sight before me and dared not to breathe too hard lest I were to wake myself up.
From the silence, a whisper in my head secretly told me you had left, and that I was alone, and it asked me what to do next. I did not know. It asked me something else. I did not know. I did not know anything. And I did not care anymore. I could no longer.
I could only be quiet, in awe of the most beautiful place in the world.
"Come, follow me, I'll bring you to the most beautiful place in the world."
On my way there, in between thoughts about work and other mundane thoughts, I studied the intensity of your shadow as I put my feet deep in the tracks that you made. At first, I thought I should make full use of the silent trek to contemplate on what to do with my life, or at least, what I would do about all the things to do back in the office... you know, 'constructive' thoughts. My only revelations were, however, to realise that I was lucid dreaming again - from noticing how the shadows looked very serious despite it not being particularly sunny - and that I did not recognise you from anywhere I could remember.
"Excuse me," I asked, "but where is the most beautiful place in the world?"
"You'd know where, when you get there," you said.
I tried to relax myself.
We walked by a dry pond, where a lot of headless dragonflies congregated - almost a swarm - but it was not very beautiful, just miraculous, perhaps, and somewhat creepy, so we didn't stop.
We walked by a ruined temple, about which gathered a group of ladies who had the upper body of humans and the lower body of snakes. They were singing and dancing - or that might have been the way they spoke normally - and they were really quite beautiful... with their graceful poise and dresses, and especially, with the way their snake scales glowed or shimmered... but I didn't think this was where, so we didn't stop.
As we went deeper into the forest, the ground became muddier until it didn't make sense for me to walk in your tracks any further, so I tried to find my own footing... I was engrossed in keeping balance and thoughts on how tedious it would be to clean my shoes until I made up my mind to throw them away when we were through.
When we came upon a clearing where the ground was hard again, I looked up and knew I was there.
I stood before the Bayon, stunned. All my silly thoughts and worries and wastes of mind dissipated into the glorious light that engulfed me - I was quiet. I carefully beheld the sight before me and dared not to breathe too hard lest I were to wake myself up.
From the silence, a whisper in my head secretly told me you had left, and that I was alone, and it asked me what to do next. I did not know. It asked me something else. I did not know. I did not know anything. And I did not care anymore. I could no longer.
I could only be quiet, in awe of the most beautiful place in the world.
Monday, 24 August 2009
The Bowler Hat
I imagined that the bowler hat, that I bought a few months ago, and wore even fewer times, spoke to me, and I imagined how surprised I felt, and then I realised that all these were imagined, and then I continued to imagine that the bowler hat said these to me,
"I would like to go to Japan in the Spring time and watch the sakuras bloom and wither for an entire month. It would be ideal, if I could also attend the awa odori and get drunk and join in the parade for a while. And if given the chance, I would also want to spend an entire week watching snow fall in a Shinto temple's garden, sometimes while listening to the tanukis' snore.
"But, seriously, what are the chances for a black bowler hat with lofty aspirations to go on a cultural tour of the Orient. For if I were you," with 'you' meaning me, "and I were to be lucky enough to go for these colourful gay cultural events, I, too, won't feel like bringing me along. I'd remind me too much of dreading work, of the working class, of Sisyphus, of the boring etcetera, etcetera. The colours won't even match, imagine the picture of a black bowler hat against the bright blue skies and delicate pinks and white? How inappropriate is the irony of a black bowler hat to enjoy the jolly drunken celebration of living for the reckless moment? It would jeopardise spoiling the good mood of the party.
"Sigh! Nowadays, it seems that one of the most esteemed qualities of a bowler hat is to be reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin, and to make light of the mundane etcetera, etcetera."
I wondered if the bowler hat would feel better if I tie something silly to its puggaree.
I had bought the bowler hat in celebration of Magritte's paintings.
"I would like to go to Japan in the Spring time and watch the sakuras bloom and wither for an entire month. It would be ideal, if I could also attend the awa odori and get drunk and join in the parade for a while. And if given the chance, I would also want to spend an entire week watching snow fall in a Shinto temple's garden, sometimes while listening to the tanukis' snore.
"But, seriously, what are the chances for a black bowler hat with lofty aspirations to go on a cultural tour of the Orient. For if I were you," with 'you' meaning me, "and I were to be lucky enough to go for these colourful gay cultural events, I, too, won't feel like bringing me along. I'd remind me too much of dreading work, of the working class, of Sisyphus, of the boring etcetera, etcetera. The colours won't even match, imagine the picture of a black bowler hat against the bright blue skies and delicate pinks and white? How inappropriate is the irony of a black bowler hat to enjoy the jolly drunken celebration of living for the reckless moment? It would jeopardise spoiling the good mood of the party.
"Sigh! Nowadays, it seems that one of the most esteemed qualities of a bowler hat is to be reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin, and to make light of the mundane etcetera, etcetera."
I wondered if the bowler hat would feel better if I tie something silly to its puggaree.
I had bought the bowler hat in celebration of Magritte's paintings.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
Flippers
One day, she woke up and found her ankles missing. Her feet merely stuck out at the end of her legs, like flippers.
At first she was worried thinking about how would she walk and how would she get to work and if she was going to get fired. Then she persuaded herself to be optimistic.
Sometime later, she eventually ended up as a circus act. She made a living by balancing a ball on her nose and pretending to be a seal.
At first she was worried thinking about how would she walk and how would she get to work and if she was going to get fired. Then she persuaded herself to be optimistic.
Sometime later, she eventually ended up as a circus act. She made a living by balancing a ball on her nose and pretending to be a seal.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Watch out!
There was a girl who was sitting on the toilet bowl one day and she shitted what she initially thought was shit. Then, before she flushed it away, something caught her eye - something that moved in the water. So she pulled her face closer to look.
Floating near the surface of the water, was a little brown hemisphere of something, and from it, fine ribbons hung - a little bit translucent, a little bit murky brown... it was a little brownish jellyfish...
In her mind, she immediately thought of all the marvellous things, wow, the news, the sensation, the fanfare about how she's the miraculous girl who gave birth to a jellyfish. (Through her anus.) Oh how the scientists would have a field day, it might hold the antidote to some strange illness. She had pretty healthy bowels, maybe the jelly fish kept it healthy, maybe it holds the antidote to cancer! Oh no, now that she's shitted it out would she be unhealthy from now? Nah, it'd be okay, it's for mankind, she'd save the world! Watch out, Illness! and Pre-mature Death-due-to-colon-cancer! (It should at least help cure colon cancer.) Here comes the shit jellyfish!
In her frenzy, her body, however, reacted quite differently. Her pupils dilated, and her heart beat faster, and her mouth opened and uncontrollably let out her voice that screamed, "MY SHIT IS ALIVE!" which triggered her arm to uncontrollably reach towards the flush handle which she flushed.
As she watched the jellyfish spiral in the toilet bowl uzumaki (whirlpool), she felt the flush from her face flushed away with her hopes for fame. She stood. Stunned. For a while. It was only until the water in the water tank stopped trickling and the water surface in the towel bowl stopped vibrating altogether then she came to her senses enough to wonder - hey, did I really just see a shit jellyfish in the toilet bowl, or not? and even if I did, did I really shit it out or not? Unless I should ever shit out another jellyfish, I would never know. And even if I shit out another jellyfish, how would I know that I did shit one before, and it was not due to how my mind was set on shitting out a jellyfish?
Confused, perturbed, and in an uncomfortable daze, she went out of the toilet and forgot to wash her hands.
(sneak.)
Floating near the surface of the water, was a little brown hemisphere of something, and from it, fine ribbons hung - a little bit translucent, a little bit murky brown... it was a little brownish jellyfish...
In her mind, she immediately thought of all the marvellous things, wow, the news, the sensation, the fanfare about how she's the miraculous girl who gave birth to a jellyfish. (Through her anus.) Oh how the scientists would have a field day, it might hold the antidote to some strange illness. She had pretty healthy bowels, maybe the jelly fish kept it healthy, maybe it holds the antidote to cancer! Oh no, now that she's shitted it out would she be unhealthy from now? Nah, it'd be okay, it's for mankind, she'd save the world! Watch out, Illness! and Pre-mature Death-due-to-colon-cancer! (It should at least help cure colon cancer.) Here comes the shit jellyfish!
In her frenzy, her body, however, reacted quite differently. Her pupils dilated, and her heart beat faster, and her mouth opened and uncontrollably let out her voice that screamed, "MY SHIT IS ALIVE!" which triggered her arm to uncontrollably reach towards the flush handle which she flushed.
As she watched the jellyfish spiral in the toilet bowl uzumaki (whirlpool), she felt the flush from her face flushed away with her hopes for fame. She stood. Stunned. For a while. It was only until the water in the water tank stopped trickling and the water surface in the towel bowl stopped vibrating altogether then she came to her senses enough to wonder - hey, did I really just see a shit jellyfish in the toilet bowl, or not? and even if I did, did I really shit it out or not? Unless I should ever shit out another jellyfish, I would never know. And even if I shit out another jellyfish, how would I know that I did shit one before, and it was not due to how my mind was set on shitting out a jellyfish?
Confused, perturbed, and in an uncomfortable daze, she went out of the toilet and forgot to wash her hands.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Sometimes, life is like that.
Every now and then, when I come home at night, in the window in my room, I would see an old man. He usually sits on a green chair, in front of a green wooden door, surrounded by beautiful blue hydrangeas. He usually has one leg over the other, with his left arm on his lap, like he was waiting for me, with his right hand raised to say hello and a casual "hello" kind-of expression on his face.
Hello, old man. Good to see you again. I would sometimes say. But he never says anything back. And he fades away.
I didn't know him before he died. Those who did would often sing his praises and say he was funny and describe a couple of his odd habits. I always feel an affinity towards him, although I can't quite put a finger to it, but I suppose that's why he appears at my window anyway.
Perhaps anybody who have heard about him from anybody who knew him would feel an affinity towards him. Perhaps, he's just that kind of personality. I wonder if I'd like to be somebody like that - interesting, funny, clever, probably, and likeable - but I think a lot of these traits are inborn.
I suppose, sometimes, life is like that. What they may sometimes call "unfair"... which by the way, is a concept created by whom? Life is never fair, what. From the moment of birth, one may be funny or not, or a boy or a girl, or Asian or African... to the moment of death... by cancer, by premature birth, by tumbling down the stairs... since when was life ever fair?
If the old man would ever speak, maybe this could be something that I would seek his opinion on.
Until then, I'd just leave it as - sometimes, life is like that.
(sneak.)
Hello, old man. Good to see you again. I would sometimes say. But he never says anything back. And he fades away.
I didn't know him before he died. Those who did would often sing his praises and say he was funny and describe a couple of his odd habits. I always feel an affinity towards him, although I can't quite put a finger to it, but I suppose that's why he appears at my window anyway.
Perhaps anybody who have heard about him from anybody who knew him would feel an affinity towards him. Perhaps, he's just that kind of personality. I wonder if I'd like to be somebody like that - interesting, funny, clever, probably, and likeable - but I think a lot of these traits are inborn.
I suppose, sometimes, life is like that. What they may sometimes call "unfair"... which by the way, is a concept created by whom? Life is never fair, what. From the moment of birth, one may be funny or not, or a boy or a girl, or Asian or African... to the moment of death... by cancer, by premature birth, by tumbling down the stairs... since when was life ever fair?
If the old man would ever speak, maybe this could be something that I would seek his opinion on.
Until then, I'd just leave it as - sometimes, life is like that.
(sneak.)
Sunday, 19 July 2009
The Song of the Cradled
There was a people who was poor and lived in drastic and harsh conditions. They lived in the high mountains where food was scarce and not tasty and it was cold. They don't think and invent tools to improve their lives because they don't have enough to eat and don't have enough energy to think. These people quite often gave birth to stillborns since marriages were usually between very close relatives. In fact, their children were weak and they often died before maturity.
After their passing, the dead body would be washed and cleaned and wrapped up in some hide or cloth. The parents, or if not, only the mother, would usually cradle the dead child and sing a song. This was known as "The Song of the Cradled". The song was about being born into this world and the harshness of the land and the beauty of the love that the child has never got to experience, and how fortunate it was to die young and having not to suffer hunger any more, and about how the living had to suffer their ill-fate for not being dead yet. When it should come to be their turn to die, they would not be held by their parents, but only be cradled by the merciless chill of the mountains... and they bade their goodbyes.
After the song was sung, the parents would cut the head off the carcass and de-gut the body. They, and whoever at the ceremony, would then eat the flesh of dead child.
After their passing, the dead body would be washed and cleaned and wrapped up in some hide or cloth. The parents, or if not, only the mother, would usually cradle the dead child and sing a song. This was known as "The Song of the Cradled". The song was about being born into this world and the harshness of the land and the beauty of the love that the child has never got to experience, and how fortunate it was to die young and having not to suffer hunger any more, and about how the living had to suffer their ill-fate for not being dead yet. When it should come to be their turn to die, they would not be held by their parents, but only be cradled by the merciless chill of the mountains... and they bade their goodbyes.
After the song was sung, the parents would cut the head off the carcass and de-gut the body. They, and whoever at the ceremony, would then eat the flesh of dead child.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Relieve
There was once a girl who was at a meeting when she suddenly felt a big piece of snot falling apart from the roof of her nostrils. She found it hard to concentrate on what was discussed because the loose piece of snot flapped with her every out-breath and threatened to drop out of her nose.
It was a big one. It was a potentially gooey one as well - the hybrid kind of snot with the dry end and the gooey wet tail...
She really ought to excuse herself and go to the toilet and get it out before embarrassing herself - but being a junior executive, she was uncomfortable with having to get out of her chair in the middle of senior management's discussion and to possibly disrupt anyone by going across the room and opening and closing the big and heavy door.
Thus, she decided to take a deep breath - and to suck in the snot.
It was a big mistake. She sucked too hard, and it got pulled back too far into her nose and that was so uncomfortable that she wanted to dig it back out, but she still wanted to keep a low profile, so she struggled a bit and kept quiet. In a desperate fit, she thought to take another quick and hard breath to suck it further back in so that she could swallow it.
It was an even bigger mistake. She was right that the snot was sticky at one end, and it was stuck somewhere. She felt like gagging and wanted to cough, but again, she was shy and reluctant to attracting attention to herself, so she held it in and kept quiet, and she was did such a good job until she silently choked and died.
Soon after her death, they noticed her anyway because she relaxed and released her bowels.
(sneak.)
It was a big one. It was a potentially gooey one as well - the hybrid kind of snot with the dry end and the gooey wet tail...
She really ought to excuse herself and go to the toilet and get it out before embarrassing herself - but being a junior executive, she was uncomfortable with having to get out of her chair in the middle of senior management's discussion and to possibly disrupt anyone by going across the room and opening and closing the big and heavy door.
Thus, she decided to take a deep breath - and to suck in the snot.
It was a big mistake. She sucked too hard, and it got pulled back too far into her nose and that was so uncomfortable that she wanted to dig it back out, but she still wanted to keep a low profile, so she struggled a bit and kept quiet. In a desperate fit, she thought to take another quick and hard breath to suck it further back in so that she could swallow it.
It was an even bigger mistake. She was right that the snot was sticky at one end, and it was stuck somewhere. She felt like gagging and wanted to cough, but again, she was shy and reluctant to attracting attention to herself, so she held it in and kept quiet, and she was did such a good job until she silently choked and died.
Soon after her death, they noticed her anyway because she relaxed and released her bowels.
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Withholder
There was once a girl who was particularly adept at withholding her breath so much so that she fooled everybody into believing that she was dead. They held her wake and funeral and everything. She thought it was funny and marvellous that she should be able to pull off such a feat - until the sombre timbre of the resonance of her self-amusement startled her to realise that she was alone in a coffin buried five and a half feet underground.
So, she decided to crawl her way out of her grave.
After much effort and might, she managed to gasp a breath of fresh cool graveyard air.
After getting over congratulating herself on how capable she was, she thought of what to do next. She imagined that she would go home and scare the living wits out of the people who buried her, and have a good laugh. They might send her for counselling to find out what psychopathic condition might have induced such a funny behaviour before failing to diagnose her with anything specific. Then she'd be sent to school. If she's lucky, the kids at school might find her cool. Otherwise, she'd be ostracised - no big deal - because in a few years, she'd be out to work. Then she'd work - wake up earlier than she did for school - and get home later - she'd wear high heels or sandals and wrinkle-free office clothes. Then, she might start a family with somebody. Then, she might have some children - who might grow up - and start their own families. And by then, she'd realise how old she'd have grown - and then, she'd die of some terminal illness - then, they'd cremate her.
She looked up at the sky and forgot about the blood that was flowing from her nail-less fingers for a moment. Some of the stars shone clearly from behind the scattering of orangey clouds. The moon was new. There was the smell of some random flowers and other things from the offerings to a grave nearby. She thought briefly about looking for something to eat but decided that it would only be too troublesome.
She prayed silently and sincerely for peace to prevail and for all beings to relax and to eventually find salvation from suffering. Then, she anyhow re-buried herself before she suffocated.
So, she decided to crawl her way out of her grave.
After much effort and might, she managed to gasp a breath of fresh cool graveyard air.
After getting over congratulating herself on how capable she was, she thought of what to do next. She imagined that she would go home and scare the living wits out of the people who buried her, and have a good laugh. They might send her for counselling to find out what psychopathic condition might have induced such a funny behaviour before failing to diagnose her with anything specific. Then she'd be sent to school. If she's lucky, the kids at school might find her cool. Otherwise, she'd be ostracised - no big deal - because in a few years, she'd be out to work. Then she'd work - wake up earlier than she did for school - and get home later - she'd wear high heels or sandals and wrinkle-free office clothes. Then, she might start a family with somebody. Then, she might have some children - who might grow up - and start their own families. And by then, she'd realise how old she'd have grown - and then, she'd die of some terminal illness - then, they'd cremate her.
She looked up at the sky and forgot about the blood that was flowing from her nail-less fingers for a moment. Some of the stars shone clearly from behind the scattering of orangey clouds. The moon was new. There was the smell of some random flowers and other things from the offerings to a grave nearby. She thought briefly about looking for something to eat but decided that it would only be too troublesome.
She prayed silently and sincerely for peace to prevail and for all beings to relax and to eventually find salvation from suffering. Then, she anyhow re-buried herself before she suffocated.
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Emotional Blackmail
There was a woman who emotionally blackmailed a man into having sex with her. After a few times, she was impregnated, and she emotionally blackmailed him into letting her keep the baby and to move in with her. When she was a few months from the due-delivery of her baby, she emotionally blackmailed the man into marrying her. Of course, all along the way, she would constantly emotionally blackmail the man to get her way in every little way.
When the baby was born, it turned out that he was a little monster.
He had six limbs and an upside down face - his eyes were nearest to his neck and his mouth nearer the top of his bald head that was made of blueberry cheese cake - as was the rest of his body - and to match, he was covered in blueberry jam and a fine film of water - like condensation from being taken out of refrigeration too long ago - except that the water was probably salty and more like the perspiration of a fat labourer at the end of the day - which was not how he smelled like, though - He smelled like clean rotten durian yogurt mixed in with a little of how babies' shit would smell like. He had claws like that of a parrot's instead of hands and fingers. He had a tail like that of a rat's. And he had a piece of steamed yam for his little stick of a dick.
When he came out of his mother, the delivery nurse screamed and cried and felt so guilty for dropping the baby that she jumped out of the window - they were at the 23rd storey of the building - and died from the fall.
The little monster stretched a little and yawned and danced a sneaky dance to his mother's side - it was a miracle because he could walk and knew his way about - and strangled her with the umbilical cord - still attached to the womb.
(sneak.)
When the baby was born, it turned out that he was a little monster.
He had six limbs and an upside down face - his eyes were nearest to his neck and his mouth nearer the top of his bald head that was made of blueberry cheese cake - as was the rest of his body - and to match, he was covered in blueberry jam and a fine film of water - like condensation from being taken out of refrigeration too long ago - except that the water was probably salty and more like the perspiration of a fat labourer at the end of the day - which was not how he smelled like, though - He smelled like clean rotten durian yogurt mixed in with a little of how babies' shit would smell like. He had claws like that of a parrot's instead of hands and fingers. He had a tail like that of a rat's. And he had a piece of steamed yam for his little stick of a dick.
When he came out of his mother, the delivery nurse screamed and cried and felt so guilty for dropping the baby that she jumped out of the window - they were at the 23rd storey of the building - and died from the fall.
The little monster stretched a little and yawned and danced a sneaky dance to his mother's side - it was a miracle because he could walk and knew his way about - and strangled her with the umbilical cord - still attached to the womb.
(sneak.)
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