A Chest Of Dreams

'Humans collect two things, money and memory. '

Who am I and what do I’ve? This was what I used to ask relentlessly in my prayers.

Thank God. I might be nothing but I’ve a chest. An ordinary chest, to be precise. It’s not very stupendous as well. Perhaps stupendous is a very misleading word, but I don’t care, do I? I’m sure you are intrigued by my boastful introduction. Well, everyone has a chest, a wardrobe, a bookshelf or anything that can store things. I also said that it’s ordinary. So why I still care to describe it to you all tirelessly?

Because I don’t know how to use it.

I used to ask around and inquire anyone who appeared to be wise. My mother told me the colour of the hair indicated the intelligence of a mortal and my father added to that by telling me numbers of wrinkles may reveal the depth of a scholar. I believed in my parents. But my parents’ little trick backfired when I asked them how to use my chest.

They were astounded. Busily concealed their grayish hairs and dreaded wrinkles, they sought for the long gone youth. From that moment, I understood one thing. Even a wise man wouldn’t know how to use my chest.

But I never gave in to my ill-fated life. I continue to ask, hoping someday, somehow somebody can tell me how to use it. Then I heard people say, ‘why don’t you ask the person who makes it teaches you how to utilize the chest of mine?’. I just shrugged and pretended as if I had no idea of its origin. Of course I know the origin, but knowing it doesn’t make me wiser. In contrast, it makes me look like a complete fool.

I made the chest myself.

I’m not a carpenter nor am I hoping myself to become one. I made that chest many years ago and the exact date was already forgotten. Nor do I remember why I create it. The purpose? The material? I couldn’t remember at all.

Maybe the absence of the chest in my life has already erased the trace of its origin. Maybe it’s just I already get used to the life without the chest I created meticulously and painstakingly. Pardon me for not be able to recall any detail of the making of that chest. If you are willing to assist me, we must solve the more pressing issue first.

How to use that chest?

I’m sure you know a thing that serves no purpose will soon be discarded, forgotten and eroded by the marching time. It’s bizarre that after so many years of life without it, suddenly, it has come back to my life. It just springs back to my picture, too abruptly, all of a sudden. Maybe it’s really useless, but now, I ‘m more determined than ever to find the way to utilize it. Don’t ask me why, I loath it. Perhaps I’m too exhausted to answer that or I don’t even have an answer. Too shameful to answer it, I choose to be evasive.

I once asked my parents why I don’t know how to use it. They said because it has no shape and container that is shapeless like a bottomless bottle, stores nothing, serves no one. Till this moment, you are still baffled by the dimension of my chest, aren’t you? I don’t blame you.

Because it really doesn’t have shape.

But the detailed description won’t help, will it? Who will want to use a shapeless chest? As I continue to seek for the answer, there were few times I thought I had come close to the answer. At the end, it’s just another futile effort. Eventually, determined to make the chest ‘seemingly’ useful, I decided to put something in. Therefore, I started writing my ‘wishlist’ or my ‘dreams’ in some colour papers and casted them into the chest.

Until now, I still put my ‘dreams’ inside it, fantasizing that somehow my dreams will come true if I continue writing my ‘dreams’ on the colour papers. I’ve no idea what am I doing. All I want is to keep the chest occupied, not being abandoned unavailingly.

There are many things I can’t reminisce but I could still remember my first ever ‘dream’ I wrote was, ‘I want to become a physicist.’ At that time, sci-fi comics are a new buzz in our society. Shortly after it’s introduced, it had created an immediate sensation and with the production of the sci-fi movies, the hype was pushed to the record high. That’s when I wished to become a scientist.

Later when people got bored by unrealistic flying and invisible men, a new social realism slowly displaced the fantasy. That’s when I wrote ‘ I want to become a president.’ Watching our president, who was renowned for his polemic oration addressing his supporters enthusiastically, I vowed to follow his steps.

Soon after that, I’ve written few other dreams. Most of them were products of the hormone infatuation when I went through a period of inferiority complex and insecure. When I was introduced to an enchanting next-to-door girl, I scribbled down ‘ I want to become a good lover.’ After I realized I was just being duped by the seemingly innocent girl, I maneuvered my pen furiously, ‘I don’t need a girl.’

So many years have passed since I first wrote ‘dreams’ to my faithful chest. Now, my interest in its real usage has been rekindled, inexplicably and bewilderedly. I try to recall all ‘dreams’ I have casted in. Some of them have been forgotten, some of them are still remembered vividly.

‘I want to be successful.’

‘I want to be a singer.’

‘I want to be a pianist.’

‘I want to be a bodybuilder.’

As I flip through every ‘dreams’ in my mind, I can’t help but to smile mirthfully to every youthful and willful dream. Then, I notice that.

None of the dreams I chucked into the box has come true. I owe a cramped apartment, not a lavishly decorated mansion. I excel in all subjects except physics. Even an easily achievable dream like ‘I want a watch’, I failed to secure every single one of them.

Dismayed. I concluded the chest is indeed good for nothing. But commonsense tells me everything exists for a reason. Is there a thing that existing for being useless? I doubt.

There is nothing I can do as well. Self-doubt is like a venom, gnawing in my veins. As hopes, even false hopes gradually recede from my picture, I decide to make my one last wish. Reaching for a pen and a piece of a green-coloured paper, I scrabble down ‘I want to use you.’

Knowing readily it’s a fruitless effort, I still fold the paper carefully and cast it one last look before putting it into the chest. Unbeknown to me, the moment I’m watching the colour paper disappear in the chest, something crosses my mind. It’s the question I used to ask when I was young.

‘Who am I and what do I have?’

‘I’m a columnist. I’ve a writing career,’ answer me instantly. As if struck by lightning, I’m petrified and speechless for a while. Can I be wronged? I break into convulsive spasm and tears of relief drift down my cheeks.

I guess you’ve already realized what’s happening. If you have no idea, I give you a clue. Of all ‘dreams’ I wrote, columnist or writer is not among my ‘I wants’ list. O, I’m getting delirious now. Please feel free to interrupt me when you don’t understand anything.

Clueless? Let me tell you. The chest I’ve, is not a wish granter. It’ll never grant me wishes. That’s why nothing I wrote ever came true. On the contrary, whenever I’m drifting off from my destiny, this chest draws me back from my seemingly promising fantasy. I’m destined to be a writer! Not a president, not a scientist!

After so many years spent in made-believe wilderness, I never fully realize that may chest stores yesterday’s fantasy and childhood dreams, which is pivotal. I can’t imagine being a person who is bounded by plethora of unrealistic illusions. Neither can I imagine a life of thaumaturge and legerdemain. Such a simple wisdom takes me so long to grasp and comprehend. Maybe I’m really a fool.

Wasting no time, I reach for my fountain pen and stack of blank papers. Then, an article comes to mind. Subconsciously, I pen down everything and make sure there’s nothing left unwritten. I’ve even decided the title. It’s going to be ‘A Chest of Dreams.’

Feeling contented, I sob again, this time in unrestrained jubilance.

The Way You Are, My Little Kampong (Ignorance)

Devil and evil don’t exist, ignorance does. ~ PC Wan

His head was about to explode, at least this was what he felt right now. The joyous laughter of his neighbour’s five mischievous kids and the noise of the motorbike rhymed together like some oxymoron orchestra. The longer he heard, the more unsettled he became. “For God’s sake, can’t they rest for a while?” He was annoyed by their mother who just sat on the bench, witnessing everything unfolded in front of her eyes, but did nothing.

He tried to concentrate on his novel, which he bought few days ago and dutifully devoted in reading it dutifully. Reading was always his only pleasure, while girls did arouse her sometime, he preferred to rhapsodize the fiction he read in his imaginative mind.

Unable to concentrate, he stood up and stared at the kids and hoped their daydreaming mother would stop them before they had the chance to demolish the house. The oldest among the boisterous children, was only 11 years old, and God blessed him, he was now riding on a motorbike with his 3 brothers following behind like herd of pilgrims. There was another girl, who was his youngest sister, wailing and howling in top notch incessantly out of jealousy.

“They really know how to raise kids, don’t they?” His mother grinned sarcastically while she was watching drama unraveled in front of her.

So nice of neighbourhood right? He still remembered he once wrote an essay about the disastrous deterioration relationships between city dwellers. But, the scene right in front of him, reminded him the relationships between kampong dwellers was nothing less than calamity. That’s why he always reprimanded cynically when he heard somebody trying to say ‘how nice to live in a kampong’.

“There is nothing nice living in a kampong. Yes, we don’t have congestion in our arses and traffic, thus we will be healthier blablabla… But we have people burning their old furniture unscrupulously in their courtyard, even the police is so impressed until they are willing to jump on the bandwagon of burning spree. They burned whatever they could find, plastics, papers, conscience etc. Who cares about driving without license when we can bribe the police with cheaper price? Unlike metropolitans like KL, bribing a police here isn't going to cost a bomb. There’s also myriad of poor managements going on in kampong, uncollected rubbish, porous roads which resemble stomata on leaves, static water which breeds nothing except Aedes sp. The bus will never be punctual or there’s no bus service at all sometime. Vandalism is rampant, road racing is commonplace, reckless driving is part of our life, so tell me what so nice about living in kampong?”

This was the way he showed his fury when he was irritated by illiterates (according to him, it means people who ask senile questions).

“Another problem comes…” His mother was looking at something.

X

Now, he heard that and he immediately knew what that problem was. A faint groan of car engine approached amidst the noise of the motorbike and kids’ annoying holler. His another neighbour was back with his ageing yellow jeep.

He still remembered how he used to blame his parents for not buying a corner house so that he was not going to suffer these two torturous families, The Chims and the Chais.

To his left, the one with kids darting with motorbike like scud missile, belonged to Chims. To his right, the one with yellow jeep that was always parked perpendicular, not parallel to the road, belonged to Chais.

To hell with ‘the more the merrier’. His family was the last to move to this neighbourhood and this house which situated right middle of these two families’. Mr Chai who had two dashing sons and one ravishing daughter, was a retired teacher and a renal failure patient. Perhaps the removal of one kidney had retarded him or somehow slowed down his reaction time, Mr Chai had already managed to crash two times into his own rubbish bins and three times into his neighbour’s.

He never knew how to park his car properly and worse still, we had proverb sounded ‘like father like son’, his son had somehow inherited Mr Chai’s superior parking skill. His son was a busy man. He seemed like chasing the time all the time because he seldom reversed his car slower than 40km/h, which deemed as an incredible achievement by Mr Chim’s sons. Everytime he reversed his car, stentorian applause would break off from Mr Chim’s house and both kids would stare at his godlike reverse skill enviously.

Mr Chim, on the other hand, parked his car properly, but had difficulties in keeping his car keys out of the reach of his unusually motivated sons. His eldest son ignited his car in one fine morning while he was only 8 years old. He second son, unprecedentedly, reversed Mr Chai’s 4x4 when he was 7 years old and crashed into the gate.

But, Mrs Chim, remained unperturbed. Neither the crash scene nor the motor-drifting stunt in her house’s very own courtyard would move her, even a little bit from her adored couch, which situated perfectly perpendicular with a TV set, equipped with state-of-the-art satellite (illegal).

She once complained to his unfortunate neighbour that his sons (daughter as well) wouldn’t listen to her and she was too busy and preoccupied (by?) to look after them. What kept her so busy? Well, it still remained as a great mystery to her neighbour until today.

Today, while everything presented in front of his eyes, Tash shook his head. After living in this neighbourhood for more than 10 years, he had been witness more grievous stunts before. Motor-drifting in house? He surmised that if the kids were given the truck’s key, they could drift the truck as well.

“The way you are, my little kampong.” He scowled while the exhaust gas emitted from the motor hit him.

X

God worked in His own way. Tash couldn’t agree more with that. People here, though was not as busy as city’s white-collars, they would always wish there was one more hour for a day, ‘how nice will it be if we’ve 25 hours a day’ was what he often heard in this small neighbourhood.

Mrs Chai, whom Tash suspected reincarnated from a troubled slave who had thousands of grudges was unusually hardworking, compared with her compatriots (women) in this neighbourhood. She was a fishmonger. She never parked her car in front of people’s house because she was bad in maneuvering anything that was mobile. The last time she mustered enough courage to reverse a car from her house, she crashed into her neighbour’s house, which was one street across. She vowed she would never drive again.

She never complained that time was terrible insufficient. Despite her workload, woke up 3am every morning, worked until 5 pm, she never uttered a single complain. Mrs Chim, on the other hand, jobless (housewife), often spotted in her neighbour’s house, telling how terribly insufficient her time was.

“You know what, taking care of the children is the most toilsome task in the world.” She told Tash’s mother on morning. Tash just shrugged.

“You reading one ha? Boring stuff isn’t it? I can’t lay my eyes on book for more than 5 minutes.” She told Tash’s mother. Oddly, she regarded that as some sort of glorious achievement.

“I’m very busy one, how to read? Though I like reading…” That’s what she told Mrs Chai in another occasion. God told Tash people could change, for once, Tash questioned God.

Tash wondered when a woman, methodically watched 5 hours of TV a day, faithfully went to KTV at night and then woke up at 10am, would 30 hours a day ample enough for her. On the other hand, Tash was also amazed by Mr Chai, who was once a “Great Teacher Award (GTA)” winner. Always baffled by the criteria the panels chose the ‘Great Teacher’, he asked Mr Chai one day when he saw Mr Chai stepped out from his yellow jeep, which was 50cm away from Tash’s rubbish bin.

“You interested in becoming teacher meh? No secret one la, I also don’t know.” He smile anxiously as if he had just spotted how close his car to other people’s rubbish bin.

Tash couldn’t agree more with that. There was no secret to become a ‘Great Teacher’. All a person needed to do was to feign ignorance to everything around him/her. Never read, was the first golden rule. Never took initiative to know, was the second golden rule. He had once seen Mr Chain struggling to recall their current Minister of Education’s name. He had once overheard a heated argument between Mr and Mrs Chai over the location of Moscow. Mr Chai, remarkably, insisted Moscow was located in Latin America.

In this neighbourhood, what people cared was ‘interesting’ news aka gossips. Who divorced who was the all-time favourite while sodomist and child rape were becoming increasingly popular among flibbertigibbets (both males and females). Everyday, Tash would see couples of gossipers sitting by the roadside and exchanging news like CIA spies. But what befuddled Tash most was sometime, people who were always ‘busy’ and ‘preoccupied’ also joined the gossips-study group formed informally.

“So much of integration, so much of kampong spirit.” Tash was about to greet Mr Chai’s eldest (or second?) when he suffered sudden lapse of memory. “What’s his name?” Tash was vexed.

If not because of a bizarre comment he heard few months ago, Tash wouldn’t even remember his face. Few months ago, in an oppressively sweltering afternoon, he overheard a conversation between Mr Chai and his son.

“Nothing interesting today ho? I mean newspapers.” (God bless him, he read!!)

“No rape case ma…so boring nowadays.” His son said that.

Tash’s mother reacted more viciously when she heard that.

“Let’s have our fingers crossed that anything will happen to his gorgeous and curvy sister.”

X

Mr Chim, on the contrary, not only good in parking his car skillfully, he was as enigmatic and as nocturnal as an owl. Tash seldom saw him and he had no idea what Mr Chim’s occupation was. When he was home, he would slam his door shut in spectacular fashion. When he was not at home, he would either leave his cigarettes carelessly on the table or his car keys imprudently in front of his children, like a dangled carrot in front of few rabbits

If Tash was asked whether or not Mr Chim was a good parent, Tash’s answer would be an unequivocal yes. He left his parenting job, sensibly, to his ‘busy’ wife. Being a head of a middle-class family, life could be implausibly arduous and tough for a man like Mr Chim. Hence, he claimed that he didn’t have time for his children. That also meant he could turn a blind eye on his children’s awe-inspiring motor stunts without qualms.

Apart from agonizing workload, he claimed that he had to socialize. Rather than called it a part of obligation, he would prefer calling the activities like participating in inaugural fishing competition, boar hunting competition and golfing ‘leisure activities’ that played a pivotal role in fostering goodwill with workers and bosses.

Being very prudent, he avoided all the lure of lapsing into complacency. He always wanted to have the best for his 5 children. Leaving them at home was a plan to teach them how to become more independent. Letting them reversing the cars on their own was to nurture them to face the challenges as early as possible and leaving a packet of cigarettes together with a lighter was to let them know the smoking was a health hazard.

Despite of his majestic and thoughtful plan, clearly his wife wasn’t impressed because he and his wife could never stop bickering. Determined to fight for everything they both had diverged opinions, sometime, Tash could hear faint sound of percussions on the wall, breaking plates and strange conversations like:

“You know how busy am I? I’ve to look after all of them!! All five of them!”

“Why you let them drive the car on their own again?”

“Can you please shut up, later people hear, very malu one le!!”

Tash would refrain himself from listening to their conversation if he heard something like that.

After the ferocious brawl like that, out of Tash’s surprise, he saw them holding hands together again the morning after the fight. Moment later, he saw a furniture company lorry stopping in front of Mr Chim’ s gate.

“Surely he has a hand over his wife.” Tash thought.

X

Tash refused to take a grim view on kampong spirit but what happened around him was too true to ignore. Mr Chai’s son-in-law, again, blocked Tash’s way out by parking Mr Chai’s car comfortably in front of Tash’s house.

At the same time, Mr Chim’s youngest son (5 years old) was putting a cigarette into his mouth, again. Gossipers were still as motivated and agitated as ever. Tash still didn’t know name of Mr Chai’s son.

But at least, there was something Tash could take solace on.

As long as Mr Chai didn’t lose his another kidney, he wouldn’t (hopefully) crash into Tash’s house.

As long as, Mr Chim was still sober enough for not leaving his truck’s key, which his adorable sons always lusted of, on the table, Tash’s house would be spared from imminent annihilation.

He kept on telling himself this and he even convinced his parents that Chais and Chims were none of their business.

As long as Chais didn’t crash their rubbish bins again, Chims didn’t throw their plates over, the gossipers didn’t spread malicious rumour about Tash’s family, all the absurdity around them could be tolerated.

But little did he know, it’s this ‘as long as’ attitude that overshadowed the kampong dwellers very slowly and gradually.

Because of this ‘as long as’ attitude, Tash thought he could just turn his back on everything. But, he was wrong.

Because of this ‘as long as’ attitude, Mrs Chim, thought naively at long as his sons didn’t kill anyone on road, everybody would be safe forever. But, she was wrong.

Because of this ‘as long as’ attitude, Mr Chai could console himself by pointing out the fact as long as he could be ‘Great Teacher’, who cared whether he read or not? He could stay ignorant forever. But, he was definitely wrong.

Because of this ‘as long as’ attitude, kampong dwellers could still continue gossiping idiotically as long as they could sustain their life. They thought they would be indispensable in this competitive society. But, they were gravely wrong.

X

‘As long as’ attitude should be reprimanded, quite obviously, because it’s one form of ignorance. It’s true we should never prophesize everything because it’s simply humanly impossible. But at least what we can do is to identify what’s nonsense and what’s not. Shed the ‘as long as’ attitude, we can avoid pitfall of abominable complacency that hinders us from prospering and improving.

Always remember, what always plagues a society, a country, isn’t disease that can be eradicated overnight, it’s ignorance. We can always tell ourselves how great we are, how magnificent is the kampong spirit, but it’s just ignorance and nonsense. At the end of the day, they are just deceitful illusions.

Ignorant or smart, do or die. It’s time for you to choose.

Absurdity rules, truth obscured.

Blindness speaks, conscience buried.

Ignorance exists, lies told.

Over and over again,

Until enlightenment overcasts absurdity,

Light outcasts blindness, and

Wisdom outplays ignorance.

Disclaimer : This is not a description of my neighbourhood. This is just a metaphor.

I Saw Her

I see no bravery, no bravery, in your eyes anymore. ~ James Blunt

Although we are the products of our past, we are not prisoners of it. ~Betty

An eerie howling broke the delicate balance of an unusually silent night. Unease spread sporadically and that’s the first time I saw him. He looked like anything except human. Blood stained head, distorted face, hollow eyes and strange scent from his body, nothing from his body would suggest he was once a human, a private who fought courageously against the rebels.

He was carried out from the militia jeep and the doctor with some nurses approached him in hurry. Little commotion broke out around the jeep, spontaneously but oddly, the immediate chaos didn’t seem bother the faces of the medics at all. Their gaze, though was warm and encouraging, hollow at the same time and there’s no flicker of fire I could see from the eyes of the combat units.

Fierce exchange of words between the driver and the doctor and the rapid-fire instruction given by the doctor welled my eyes with tears and my throat with disgust. This was the third day I had reached the centre of the battalions. The whole land assault unit was based in this war-torn town, which was surrounded by inferno and occasionally blasted by surprise air raid.

I still remembered 3 days ago while I was sitting in a similar militia jeep with one sergeant and a lieutenant, we were utterly surprised by a massive air raid carried out by the rebels, the Union Of Liberation (UOL). The whole jeep was buoyed the sudden quake incurred by a scudding missile that soared past us and hit a building behind. The aftershock threw my stomach upside down and the ringing in my ears nauseated me. I threw out few times before we reached the hospital, which once was a stadium.

En route to the stadium, though it was a starless night, I could still see rubber, collapsed buildings engulfed by merciless inferno and mutilated bodies. Misery was omnipresent and floating along with the heaviness of the dusty air and the scent of the charred bodies, which one of them pointed its finger towards the sky.

Unable to cope with the distraught image in front of me, I threw out for another time.

X

The injured private was laid on a bed and he was just given an injection of some morphine. A circle and a cross were marked on his face with a chalk by one of the nurses. The mark, which I immediately knew, meant ‘poisoned’.

He was now, lying calmly and stiffly on the bed. I was not a medics but I somehow could move around in the ward, which was the changing room of the athletes. Maybe everyone was just too preoccupied to notice me or they were just too numbed by the existence of human beings.

There were no familiar faces in this ward where only the terminal patients would be warded in. Put it in another ward, infantries who were admitted into this ward, largely were beyond help and once admitted in, nobody would expect them to come out from that alive.

Even the medics there thought so. They did their best to bring last comfort and what they could do next, was just had their fingers crossed that miracles could happen. Realizing nothing much they could do, layers of dullness had gradually overshadowed their, once optimistic and hopeful, gaze.

There were only two patients in this ward. One of them was having a thick bandage around his waist but one-half of his face was nowhere to be seen. I was later told his face was ripped apart by the brutal force of flying shrapnel from exploding mortar. Another one was the man I saw at the entrance of this ‘hospital’ and was closer to me.

Distant explosion could still be heard, followed by the light quakes that would shake the whole building slightly, displacing some sands from the roof. Watching the sands falling from the roof, it’s like watching a sand clock, I wondered how much time those two injured infantries have.

At the same time, the one who was closer to me said sometime. He sounded like he wanted tell me something but his voice was blur. Perhaps it’s the side effect of the injection of morphine.

But I swore I heard he said “I could see her, an angel.”

x

Panting.

He was lethargic. The feeling that somebody was following him made him nervy and uneasy. Listening carefully to any suspicious sound, he moved forward with his rifle ready.

This was a starless night but it wasn’t dark at all. Distant explosion of mortar and the constant crossfire lit the path before him. It was muddy. Normally after a heavy rain, the battlefield would become extremely muddy but the more unbearable part would probably be the heaviness of the air. Every time he inhaled, his chest would be groaning uncomfortably.

He was sweating. ‘Be careful of dehydration’ his trainer’s advice was reverberating in his ear but all he wanted to do was to survive. ‘Goddamnit’, was the first word he muttered after he discovered his canteen had been dislocated mysteriously.

His head was throbbing, throat was burning, but he knew this was not the time to stop, he must find his battalion back. Surrounded by tropical canopy, he felt trapped. That was the feeling he couldn’t shrug off, but it was useful, at least it kept him vigilant.

“Where am I now?” He cursed inaudibly.

Suddenly, he heard something. A high pitch shrieking.

‘Bangggg!!!!’ One mortar hit a tree not far from him and exploded in a spectacular fashion. The wave from the explosion unbalanced him, the noise was deafening but what he was more worried was the deadly shrapnel that was scattering everywhere. He knew he couldn’t stay on the ground, he needed a pithole to cover himself up.

But, surprisingly, there was no shrapnel. His stood up but sill pretty much disorientated, confused, he fell again. The next thing he realized was he was surrounded by layers of misty gas. “What the….” Now he knew what was that gas. Characteristic mustardlike smell, greenish colour, it was mustard gas.

No time for hesitation. He rolled on the ground, trying to keep his head low. The path around him was covered by the same fatal greenish gas. Panicked. The irritating ringing was still reverberating in his ears, his situation couldn’t be worse.

Desperate, he stole a look around, trying to seek for anywhere to hide. No luck, all he could see was naked land. He knew he might be exposed to the enemy gunfire, he didn’t even know whether he was within the shooting range.

His vision was blurring. His body was burning due to the exposure to the gas. His energy was draining away from his body.

Struggling, scrambling, fighting.

Finally he collapsed but before that, he thought he saw something.

X

He swore to me he saw her amidst the yellowish and fatal smoke. I had no intention to fight with him, realizing life was edging from his body, I couldn’t bring myself to argue with him. He insisted he saw her extending her arms to him in the smoke.

“Who was she?” Although I knew perfectly there was no one, I just asked him, thinking it might at least ease his pain.

“Don’t bother, my brother. But I swear to my sweet Jesus that I saw her.” He refused to tell me.

He went on telling me how excited he was when he saw her because he thought he was not going to make it home. But against all odds, he saw her, as real as ever.

“Was she beautiful?” Tears, again, welled my eyes. But I was too shameful to even cry. While a dying private who was going to meet his imminent death didn’t even shed a single droplet of tear, I was too timid and too scared to even cry to my heart’s content.

“Yes, she was, of course, of course…” He repeated his answers for few times as if he were trying to seek for some sort of recognition.

I sank into my deep muse. Therefore, I didn’t really pay any attention to his murmur. Knowing he was not fully conscious, I didn’t blame him. He reminded me of a story I had written few years ago. It’s about infantry, who defied all odds, survived the war and went back to his hometown only to know his parents were both dead.

He committed suicide the day after, leaving a note.

I saw angels,

Angels who brought me home safely but killed my parents.

Now I see death,

Death who brings me to back my true home and kills me.

Many people questioned me how could a devastating man could ever write a poem? I simply told them dying people always saw angels. The angels could be their pasts, could be anything. It took various forms and it had different ways to recount the stories right before you died. I never knew where I got this idea. Perhaps this was merely another arrogant speculation. But the man before me had just proved me right.

“I tell you, you’ve to believe me, she is an angel.”

X

He spoke with such clarity and confidence. Hard to believe it all came from a dying man who wrestled time with God.

“Tell me, did she change?” Perhaps I was a little too anxious to know the answer, I instinctively raised my voice which brought a wary frown from a melancholy nurse.

“Nope, she never changes. She still keeps her cute side bang with her, just like the first time I saw her. She even spoke to me, with voice I’m familiar with. Though her voice is somehow laced with a new maturity, she didn’t change much. As beautiful as ever.”

He was as agitated as me. Coughing and jerking violently now, I was hit by ripple of panic that he couldn’t finish his story in time. The saddest story, to me, was always the story untold. The story which was frozen under layers of snow had no meaning. Story was meant to be read, to be cherished and to be debated. If he died now, the story would diminish for good, nobody would ever able to immortalize it in books, plays and songs.

“What did she say?” To no avail, I tried to push him harder. But my conscience halted me, he was an severely injured infantry, not a story teller.

He went on telling me what she said to him amidst the gas. Though there were interruptions in between, he managed to tell me all. He himself seemed relieved as if the story itself were a heavy burden he didn’t wish to carry with him to the grave.

X

Amid the piercing gas, he saw a silhouette in front of him. At first he saw her ankle only because he was lying on the ground. The gas had gradually shut down his sense. His vision blurred, his hearing was distracted by the echo of the explosion, his skin was sore and dry. He crept forward, now he knew who she was.

She was Mora.

He opened his mouth. No voice was coming out. He moved his fingers frantically, trying to warn her to flee from the battleground, mortar was shattering the ground everywhere and the bullets were penetrating every inch of the moist soil.

“I forgive you. It’s not your fault, it’s my fault. Please come back to me. Please…”

Did she just tell him he was forgiven? Droplets of moist fuzzed his vision, he no longer cared whether it’s tears or sweats. All he wanted was to listen to what Mora had just said again.

He tried to focus on her and had a final look on her. But now, every inch of his body was burning. Every movement would bring unthinkable pain and eventually a futile attempt to lift his arm had completely knocked him out.

He thought he saw her again.

X

“Who was she?” Again, I asked this question, subconsciously. Barely knew what I was doing right now, I received something from his trembling and extended arms.

He didn’t say anything and he returned his gaze to the ceiling again. I opened the humid paper in my palm. It’s barely legible and the room is dimly lit, therefore, I went out and read.

X

Dear Valor,

It’s been a while since we talked to each other. I just heard that you’ve signed up for the army. Your decision surprised me. I know your temperament, you are not the kind of person who is combative and blood-thirsty. You adore writing and reading more than anything.

I ever saw you, shutting yourself in your room, writing for whole day and came out with nothing. But the happiness I saw from your face deceived no one. You are willing to spend whole day on something that doesn’t yield something. That means something. God wants you to continue writing. I know you’ll never believe in God, but He really has his own way. Believe in yourself, you are a writer, a poet, not an infantry. You wrestle with pen, not rifle and magazines.

I know you still feel sore. I’m grateful you’ve confessed everything to me but love doesn’t work in that way. You can write me poems everyday but that doesn’t mean I’ve to fall for you. Valor, you are always a brave man, just like your name. Maybe my frankness has hurt you, I’m sorry about that but you should never live in your past.

Move on, I’m sure there are plenty of girls who will fall for your love poems. I’m sure there are people who are willing to stay by your side and perhaps write together with you. Sorry once again, I can never be that person.

Valor, how can I change your mind? Can you tell me?

Yours sincerely,

Mora Doloridoe

X

The letter was not complete, many parts of it had been censored and some part of it was simply too illegible.

Volar, who now bedridden in front of me, was certainly a big fool. Had he regretted? He was just another wretched teenager who sought for love, love he didn’t deserve. By committing to Mora wholeheartedly, he thought he would soon be rewarded.

Nonetheless, I was moved. The story was crippled but was too beautiful and at one moment, I doubted if I could ever rhapsodize it into dancing alphabets which were coined together to breath life into strings of words. Gnarl of doubt was consuming my confidence. As I continued reading his story, at certain point, I wished to stop him, sensing the beauty of the story was beyond my grasp. To tell an ordinary story, I needed authenticity. To tell this story, I had to be honest and explore the darkest corner of my heart, the corner I would wish to conceal forever.

I was stripped naked before the story, by its honesty and frankness.

I started visualizing Mora in my mind. Who was she? Had she ever laughed like an angel? Did she have a sweet voice?

These questions had popped out one after another but the sudden spasm of his body drew me back to the ward again. He looked more wretched. His eyeballs were protruding out like an elf and the subsequent violent spasms had finally drawn the preoccupied doctor back to the ward.

Politely, the doctor asked me to stand aside. The nurses were all standing by the bed and listening obediently to every instruction by the doctor.

Suddenly, my tears streamed down my cheeks. His image was diffracted into millions of crystallized jigsaws by my tears. I tried to wipe my tears dry and scrutinized his hollow eyes for one more time.

I saw nothing but sorrow which crawled out from his eyes, finally. How long had he pretended he could take all this nonchalantly? He was still a fool, even before his imminent death.

Maybe he still wanted to tell me something, but I knew it’s all gone now. Sands had stopped falling from the roof, so did his lethargic heart, stop beating at last. I lied against the wall, too exhausted to even cry.

X

He had passed away. He could never quite forgive himself for turning his back on everything, Painful love, solitary poems and the immaculate angel. He had never seen an angel, in his dying second. Actually he saw himself. Whatever the angel said was what he always wanted to say.

“I forgive you. It’s not your fault, it’s my fault. Please come back to me. Please…” was what he always wanted to say to Mora.

But it didn’t really matter now, because he could finally free himself from the prison of his past and rest in peace forever.

p/s : writing this post has been a very painful experience. Striving to give my characters more depth, I've modified and remodified and reconstructed the whole story. So far, this was the most difficult story i've written. I hope you'll like this post and accept the darker side of mine. But if you wish to read a very touching story, sorry once again, I think I'll disappoint you.

C'est La Vie

Ripple of prophecy irrupted, there is bedlam.

Disorder spreads, like vice, sporadically, gleefully.

Soon after the calamity, whole self is plundered, into unceasing havoc.

Flowers blossom, memory rekindled. Oh, there is no order.

Abased souls, mortified mortals, chagrined poets, possessed by insanity.

There is no control, no attempt as well.

Nocturnal melody accompanied by delirious disarray.

Irony arises, hope resurrected, amidst the deadly reincarnation of subdued lore.

Chronicle unthawed, dormant ideas awoken, in realm of uncertainty.

People scream for departed tales, watch their back, masochistically.

No man is sure, whether the departed is alive or simply frozen in melodramatic stanza.

To no avail, poets commemorate the lifeless, with ravaging amount of determination.

Like a drowning man, like a somber preacher, like a trivial poet,

People are no longer scared of unexplained peculiarity.

Trying in vain to grab something,

Mysteries finally unraveled, like the Christmas presents which are eagerly anticipated.

Nothing could be spared, when chaos erodes itself, until routine prevails.

Under ferocious churning of endless trivia, feverish quest for realism.

Obscure stories are forsaken and forgotten, like yesterday’s banality.

Depth no longer interests, height no longer intrigues, miracles no longer amaze.

Chaos, just like any coup, destined to be slumped.

Robust time gets fatigue.

Unassailable survivors of tests, ineluctably exhausted.

By hackneyed epoch.

Stand firm against the ingratiatory and tantalizing coziness of aftermath,

Story-tellers are determined.

To stir the placid bay, to prompt hibernating minds, to sow suspense,

To recount vanished nostalgia, to recoup lost voice, to condense vapourised narration.

C’est la vie, of a willful rebel.

Call Me Billy

I’m Billy

I would like to tell you a secret. Perhaps you’ve no interest whatsoever in listening my unworthy secret, I wish to tell you nonetheless. I fall in love with a lady! A lady, is it possible? People tell me, dream less and you will be more realistic. No, no, no, you are wrong, I’m truly and crazily in love with her.

Ok, I will tell you her name, but please don’t complain because this is not going to be a fairy tale. I would say this story is a mixture of chocolate and alcohol, the heavenly bitter sweet flavor blended to my heart’s content.

Her name is Belinda Lane. I saw her in a function and she was, I tell you, the most stunning, sexiest and the most outspoken in that function. She danced like a butterfly who tirelessly waving her wings to humble desperate souls around her. I fell in love with her at the very first sight.

Well, this is my another shameful secret, but I would tell you dutifully since I already promised you, didn’t I? I couldn’t help but locked my keen gaze on her bosom. They were just, whoosh, pretty. Staring at them made me wonder what’s the feeling to fondle them with my, emm, ardent and loving hands?

I guess the feeling will be heaven like. That’s why when I approached her and greeted her with my exquisite manner, I purposely shook her hands longer than I should. Her hands felt like silk and I could imagine the intoxicating pleasure I would have (hopefully) when I mount her.

Sumptuous. My patience burnt out in precipitous pace, my head was throbbing while her gaze danced elegantly on my body. Was she trying to scrutinize and fantasize my jittery masculinity?

Now, I can tell you now shamelessly? Why? Because I tell you, she was a horny bitch. I could still recall the pleasure when she pressed her delicate bosom on my chest and groaned “c’mon baby”. We were still in that ballroom but did we care? We couldn’t care less!

She rubbed against my body, told me she would like to have me cut into pieces while her hands were playing mischievously with my aroused masculinity. Again, we didn’t give a damn to people around me.

“Are you fake?”

“Oh, can’t you feel them? Can’t you savour their greatness?

“I’ve bad hands.”

“Then, use your mouth.”

She winked at me and I knew this night wasn’t going to be brief.

I’m not Billy

I’m standing here right now. Ok, you can strip me, I afraid neither being naked nor obnoxious. But, before this, I must tell you I’m not Billy. Who the hell is Billy anyway?

The character I created yesterday? To hell with him.

Now, you choose to listen to me, so whatever Billy says, you should forget about it. His view about the world is totally blasphemy and insulting. Be sensible, whoever listens to me should never believe in the world Billy fantasized.

He is not real. Undeniably, isn’t it?

You might not believe me but what if I tell you I’m a novelist? I sense worm of doubt gnawing inside you, how dare you! You are the one who come to me first but now you tell me you have doubts on me? Ludicrously foolish, aren’t you all?

Yes, I’m a novelist. Billy is a character I created yesterday, not with mud just like what God has done, but with my adored fountain pen. Please don’t accuse me for acting like God, I’m just a hapless writer, the characters I created have no souls. They lived in a virtual world where whores are available and sex is permissible everywhere.

Talk about sex, I must confess, I’m a virgin. But I’m proud, like an actor who just won an award. Why? Because sex is meaningless. Pleasure? Don’t lie to yourself, you don’t need pleasure. Tell me, do you need pleasure to continue writing? Well, despite being an amateur in sex, my few novels about sex were both award-winning and bestseller.

“Didn’t you have better thing to write about? How about politic?”

I rebuked with amble of anger slowly creeping in my body.

“Politics? Are you an imbecile?”

Who cares to read anything deemed as boring stuff? Sex is the only thing that will arouse my readers’ interest. I don’t feel sorry for those who just bought my recent bestseller, they are just senile enough to believe in anything I purposely put inside my unworthy novel.

“Hei, have you bought my newest bestseller?” I postulated my question in nonchalant and little lackadaisical attitude.

Silence prevailed but I can still some people busily concealing their angered masculinity.

I was not Billy

Don’t get confused. I’m still Billy but I was not called Billy after I have met her.

Her scent was still on my body, like a radiating aura, so brilliant and resplendent. If you are easily embarrassed or your face will blush in brilliant red easily, please refrain from listening to my narration because it’s going to be inevitably erotic.

Moments ago, our bodies were intertwined. After making love like the two lunatics, she finally asked about my name. Didn’t I tell her? No, I didn’t.

What should I tell her? I’m given no name by my dearest ( foolish as well) author (creator as well). This really troubled me and caught me off guard.

“You are nameless?” She was more persuasive than what I had anticipated.

Unsure, I told her my name is Billy. She cogitated for a while and I seized this opportunity to look at her attractive bosoms once again. I couldn’t believe I had just mounted her! I nearly cried out in joy when she asked suddenly, “Why Billy?”

She knew I was nameless. Panicked, but still managed to remain my composure, I turned my gaze to her LV bag left pathetically on the carpet.

“Belinda Lane I Love You."

BLILY ~ BILLY.

She gasped. Was it because of my talent in anagram or my futile attempt to please a lady?

“That’s very sweet of you.” She moved her slender finger to my chest and caressed it tenderly.

“I’m always as tender as spring breeze frozen in Shakespeare’s stanza.” I proclaimed confidently.

I am destined to be Billy

I thought I heard something while I was cracking my head, trying to add predictable yet entertaining twists into my novel. I knew Billy was going to die, no matter what happened. Death aroused hibernating people, didn’t it? I was sure most of my author would be intrigued by death, especially it’s imminent.

Who cared about life? I always wondered why people were chasing around plot that’s not going to materialize in reality and chose to neglect whatever that’s going to happen. Anyway, I didn’t want you to hear my grudges and lamentation of my insignificant life.

My life was worthless and uninteresting. So was my sluggish story, lacked of mocking animation and crystal clear sound. If I were going to write story about myself, it’s going to be distorted and annihilated eventually.

Thinking of that, it made me grief.

I whined like an old lady. I screamed at top of my voice, out of desperation, out of despair. I couldn’t be Billy, could I? Did I need to compromise and masquerade myself and stepped into loathed Billy’s shoes in order to be noticed?

I refused vehemently!! But that voice I heard was ringing again.

Someone just told me I will end up like Billy and even predict my ultimate demise. After hearing that, I waved my arms in defiance, I can’t be Billy, can I?

But, he convinced me I would continue writing about Billy, until I instinctively breath my life into Billy, thus giving Billy an unwanted soul. Then, Billy will live like me. How terrible will my life be!

That person told me, a novelist will never write something that he/she doesn’t even know. On the contrary, a novelist will write like the other novelist, imitating each other.

I cried in utter bewilderment, “But I never read any novel by other novelists! I will never imitate!”

“But you are imitating my narrating style right now.”

“It can’t be true!”

“Not if I’m your novelist.”

Oh my God, you are God!

“You are right.”

I will always be Billy

My writer told me he will be me. He just told me and I’m really telling the truth, why don’t you believe me?

What is the churning feeling under my belly after I heard the news?

Disorientated, I’m still skeptical. How can he be me? I’m a Don Juan, he is a nerd. I can’t live without woman, he can’t live with woman around. That’s another secret, he has erectile dysfunction, so his masculinity has wilted hopelessly. Did he tell you he is a virgin and how proud he is? He is a wretched liar.

Deep inside me, I know he also lusts for embrace of sensual body, I know he is aroused by sensual pleasure derived from staring at the hardening nipples. Only he will naively reckon I will never know his ignominious desire.

He is a mediocre novelist, as he always has surmised. I wish I can tell him personally and spit on his despicable face. How can he lie to everyone who reads his books so loyally?

He likes to be spectacular, doesn’t he? He always imagines he’ll perhaps write a novel that can touch so many people. Tell me, did he ever tell you all he wishes to be a prophet? No, he didn’t? Pathetic liar.

What should I write? I often hear that while he is pondering for his novel. Sex, nope… Violent, nope… Love, nope…

He possesses no courage, he doesn’t even know how to kill me whom he always wants to kill. To him, I’m his enigma and nemesis. He tells himself he must eliminate me before he can become a martyr, how myopic he is! Doesn’t he know I’m him and he is me?

Please tell him, all of us are dice to one and another. He thought by creating me, he is no inferior than our Almighty Lord, but he’ll soon know he is also a story, written by another braver novelist, who reluctantly creates him but skillfully kills him slowly.

“Who is your die?” Belinda asked.

“I don’t write story, I enjoy being a story.”

“I like your arrogance.” She smiled slyly.

I’m becoming Billy

Painfully, I’m morphing. Can you hear my requiem clearly? I’m in a cocoon, lamenting my fate.

What takes to be a writer?

Guts or Guards?

Compromise or Contemplate?

Be a story or Stay out of a story?

Both of us are Billy

We will never write a good story without bravery. But if we are not cautious, we will be too absorbed into our own story. Are we ready to compromise? When other despise our story, when your love one tells you frankly your stories are dry, are you ready to change? To write a good story, of course we must look clearly into our subject, what we want to write and what message we wish to convey.

To write a good story, you should neither be a story nor stay out of a story. What you should do is write a story as if you were not a writer and tell a story as if you were the listener. Am I understood? No?

We don’t blame you because we are both Billy. Who’s the writer and who’s written?

p/s : No offense to Intec's Billy...