CETHU: My most reviewed writing to date

One of my Malay short stories was published in an anthology titled KOPI by FIXI a few years back (March 2012). There were only limited copies, and was sold out pretty quick.

As an  archive and a reminder to myself that I actually do have at least one good writing worthy of  comment both bad and good; here are the reviews I could find:

1) 

TRANSLATION:
Phew, this is a short story I took some time to digest. But I like the language. I like the detailed and interesting scenes, which were infamiliar to me but I learned from them. I like the naughtiness imagined through a language that perhaps when used by other people, might not be very polite. Sometimes I think the characters should have been better in Bali rather than in Yogyakarta. A lot of "what-if's" in this story. Similar to Kau Kopikoku, the idea in this story is unique. Coffee dregs which no one would have thought to spun into a tale, made me imagine many things when turned into a short story. But if Nabila Najwa was to write a book, I think it would take me centuries to finish her writing. Her style of writing sort of strays from the concept of a typical Fixi book, which are more casual reads. But there's nothing wrong in learning new things. Right?

2) You can read the beautifully long, whole review dedicated to my short story by clicking the link here.

TRANSLATION:
In a nutshell, this short story has an interesting emotional voice, channeled with shocks and an effort in poetic writing about same-sex love which sediments in the soul like "cethu". The protagonist is a girl from a rich family who studied medicine in Yogyakarta, meeting an Indonesian partner who opened her eyes to seeing the culture of Yogya and the beautiful things associated within.

3)

Do I really need to translate this? :p

4)

TRANSLATION:
Cethu I feel is one of the "heavy" short stories in the Kopi anthology. This writing by Nabila Najwa needs time to sip and understand. However all that effort is needed a little to understand the love spell mantra which was tried to be conveyed.

5)

TRANSLATION:
Perhaps another short story that is quite hard to read (after Luwak dan Kretek by Ridhwan Saidi), the writer tries to bring readers through the city of Yogyakarta and accompany Cethu, a type of coffee mixed in with charcoal block.

Honestly, eventhough I have read the story three time I still could not truly grasp the story in Cethu. Is it the remains of love from far? Is it a soliloquy of unrequited feelings? Is is a dream fragment of someone on a high?

6)

TRANSLATION:
The writing style reminds me of Ophan Bunjos (Ghost Writer), the author of Kontrol Histeria and also BIN. In Indonesian language - as the first background was an area in that land over the seas. I could not review further about this, but I can say the flow and arrangement of the short story - about the life of a doctor makes us nod, become silent , read, nod and focus again.

7)

TRANSLATION:
A story of... A story of... okay I fail at this one.

Comment: language, plot only understandable by coffee people. And I am not a coffee person. And maybe I only read it once. But the setting in the story is beautiful, I could feel that.

8)

TRANSLATION:
The memory of a girl who studied medicine before, in Indonesia. Full of metaphors and flowery lingo which left me "blur" in understanding the short story.

9)

TRANSLATION:
What I can summarize, is that the story is filled with metaphors, flowery lingo of which a level 1 reader might find hard to understand the intent of the writer. But what I can say is that the story is of a girl who studied medicine in Indonesia, specializing in the research and treatment of venereal diseases. She has a rebellious mother and the girl is a smoker!

And cethu the writer mentioned I did not quite grasp as well. I have vainly tried to imagine it but failed. Maybe after this I need to travel to Indonesia to find out what is cethu. Overall, I think it is a brilliant short story! Congratulations to the writer.

10)

  

TRANSLATION:
In conclusion? Who cares for a conclusion, this is the kind of fiction I want to surf the imagination and the beauty of the word strings. I read it 3-4 times, to understand this short story.

11)

TRANSLATION:
Perhaps many are clueless to what exactly is this cethu thing. Some call it 'cethe coffee'. I also don't know how to pronounce it but it is one of the famous types of coffee in Indonesia. There is a special way of making this cofee. Especially when the coffee dregs are allowed to sediment in the cup's base. Even when you search on Google, the cethu dregs could be mixed with water and milk for 'nyethu' or also called 'nyethe': as explained in the short story. Nyethu is considered "a must have" for hanging out while drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. To nyethu, you only need to smear or rub the cigarette sticks with the coffee dregs, that's all. About the short story? It tells of the memory of someone during their studies. What the person does, everything. An addiction that could not be discarded.

THANK YOU so much to all the reviewers. This has been a good writing and translating exercise after so long; good motivation too. I guess I should start writing again for reals.

P/S: I like bad reviews too. Give them to me.

Writing Warmups

The busy traffic blares a Tchaikovsky at my feet. That's Jakarta for you. 

I wish the red pool in my cupped hand was wine instead. The warm liquid trickled through my fingers unto the green vines that looked grey in the dark of the jutting balcony shade and dust. I wiped a wet left palm on the back of my jeans.

I noticed how hushed the crowd was on the roof of the Rainbow. The noon clientele of Plaza Semanggi (Plangi) were made up mostly of bored housewives with not that much money. They were dressed up, bright and tacky. If they were married to rich husbands, they wouldn't look that way. They wouldn't be here.

I have a rich husband, yet I too am here.

He took me to TIM last night, to a musical. I smiled at the heartwarming moments he aww'ed at while cringing inwardly. To say it was a crappy performance would actually be a praise. He gushed about it all the way home.

I was at the peak of my depression, which means I lied about the cringing. 

I was not lying when I told him I knew about Linda. I even had photographs I printed out of him and her together. Threw them calmly on our bed where they fell beside the play's booklet. Maybe I'm biased, but in that fleeting moment I noticed how much warmer her smile was when playing a character.

Or maybe she was acting when her arms were wrapped around my husband's waist, I don't know.

He called me a hypocrite.

Linda had smiled her warm smile in this room before. 

Maybe she was also acting when she had her thighs wrapped around my head. My husband did have a camera rolling by the bedside.

Linda had smiled her warm smile many times in this room. My tongue had rolled over that smile, drinking in her seawater sweat. She was the ocean, wild and wandering and effortlessly takes over those who tried to conquer her.

A guard in his grey uniform approached me. Don't stand too close to the edge, bu. We've had accidents happen before, bu.  

I smiled wanly at his words and nodded. Thinking he had done a good job, he ambled heavily away. I could hear his breathing even after the tenth step.

My husband and I tangled after the confrontation, twisting fitted sheets out from their rounded corners. We whispered and shouted truths to each other. He loves me. I love him. He loves her. I love her.

She loves him second and herself first.

It was not falling that I fear. At least I was a bauble in her effervescent world. 

He had pushed into me hard, grabbing a handful of my hair and making an arch with my back. I cried after our lovemaking in his arms, feeling unworthy of the shelter in his strength. My husband cooed from behind, sensing something was not right. He was a man of little word, and I never shared with him the vocabulary of my mental health. I withheld my sobs until I was sure he was not faking his snores. 

My tears streamed for three seconds. I guess when you're drowning in an ocean, sadness becomes insignificant.

The Tchaikovsky was not ending any time soon. I inched closer to the edge of the shore of rooftop cafes before another set of fingers wove itself into mine.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 21/9/2014 8:05:15 PM)

A Reclaimed Past Time and a Little Book Pimpin'

Hello there.

This is awkward.

I have been absent from the blogosphere for so long. I feel like I have betrayed my blogging roots.

My hair is longer now. You can't see it now, but maybe you can imagine.

I've fleshed out a bit. By a bit I mean by 20 kilos. Yeap, baby really got back now.

Haha.

Um.

Look, I can explain my absence. On second thoughts, maybe I can't. Maybe I just don't want to.

Still battling with depression. Yep yep. Still not dependant on drugs. Nope nope. Still a silent attention-seeker. Sigh.

Anyway...

Not only one, but TWO books with a short story by yours truly is out now. Both are different stories, although maybe in the same vein. So sue me for being a one track writer. No, don't. I'm still struggling with debt from college years.

Here goes.

BOOK THE FIRST: DIRTY : DIRTY (dirty paintings by Mugi Takei)

I don't know what to say about this book. I have not received my own copy (which was my only payment. Not complaining because it was kind of a really super short mini story) so I can't provide you with a review yet. All I can say is that a bunch of guys and girls wrote smut and had it compiled to be bound, published and sold. Oh and a girl (hot pixie cut) drew the illustrations.

As you can probably tell, it's erotica. And I promise you it will be dirty. I don't know why I used my full name tho. Silly idiot. I hope I don't get into trouble with the local government. Wait, I jinxed it by typing that out didn't I? Pray for me please.

Moving on.

BOOK THE SECOND: KOPI

First of all, this book is limited edition. So before continuing with the review, you may need to order it here if you are in Malaysia or here if you are overseas and able to read in Malay or have the time and effort to spare to have it translated. I would offer you my services, but I'm kind of busy at the moment juggling THREE novels to translate and working towards getting into college (again!)

Like what the Amazon description said, this is

"An anthology of 19 addictive short stories by writers associated with the Malaysian publishing label Fixi. All are inspired by coffee. Some stories are dark and hot, others are creamy and smooth. Have a sip!"

I would have written a less cheerful description though. But judging on how fast the books are flying off the shelves, I'm glad I wasn't responsible for the description write-up. And seriously guys, this book is selling like hot cakes. And there will not be a reprint, despite the typos which are now (jokingly) a trademark of FIXI (hey, I didn't say it, I think it was that Zombijaya guy).

And now for a sorta kinda review.

Most of the writers stuck to the same style of "whoops, surprise ending! Betcha didna see THAT coming!". But hey, that's okay. I like that kind of storytelling method. It's traditional and it works. And the stories are great. They reflect the Malaysian culture (both apparent and hidden). I learned a lot of things about Malaysia from reading this book. (For those not in the know, I have been away from Malaysia for a long time and I am now a recluse who stays at home. So keep your snide remarks to yourself).

However, a few writers broke out of that traditional mould. Here are the stories which made me go "whoa":

I am a fan of Neil Gaiman and Eddie Izzard. One is a writer and the other is a stand up comedian who is now a so-so actor. Both deliver materials that are surreal, sometimes rambling, but always interesting.

Venti by Redza Minhat, Malam di Meja Tempat Kau Terlentok by Hafiz Hamzah, Hari Inditih by Asyraf Bakti and my superduperawesomest favourite Luwak dan Kretek by Ridhwan Saidi managed to be surreal and made me go "SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT" all the way through the KTM ride from KL Sentral to Sungai Gadut.

Kudos goes to Nik Adam Ahmad who was the only one to present his story (Kopi Jantan Kaw) through the medium of photography. "Massage" girls, a begging cup stuffed with money and a lonely rattan chair were among part of his cast.

Special special special thanks to Raja Faisal for meeting up with me and putting up with my dull IRL persona. And for that coffee. And for all that anecdote. And for making me late for my train (Okay, admittedly it was because I couldn't get a cab at that damned eCurve).

I'll hopefully be able to make it to the book launch this 24th March. So if you see a timid short stubby girl looking really awkward and out of place, please say hi?

Are we friends again now?

Selir

"Kisahkan padaku tentang istana".

"Apa kau mau aku mendongeng?" tanyaku.

Anak itu menatapku dengan anak matanya yang hitam pekat. Menakutkan, seperti aku bakal terhisap masuk ke dalamnya. Petanda dia sedang merasa tidak senang, dan dia paling tak senang kalau merasa dipermainkan.

Aku menghela nafas panjang. Keluar bunyi seperti dua besi karatan bergesek dari batasan bibir atas dan bawahku.

"Cerita yang mana pula kali ini?"

Dia mendongak dengan tersenyum ke langit yang warna birunya tersulam abu-abu perak dan oranye aprikot, tanda sore yang makin menjelang, dan mungkin hujan. Kain sarung dengan motif ganggang patah yang lemas menggantung diantara kedua lututnya menari di antara jemarinya yang mungil. Ekspresinya bahagia seperti seorang kolektor buku yang terkurung sendirian di dalam perpustakaan, dan dia dikelilingi milyaran buku-buku cerita di dalam benaknya sendiri.

Aku menunggu dengan sabar. Dengan anak ini tidak ada kata buru-buru. Kenangan-kenangan itu juga tidak tergesa-gesa ingin aku mengulangnya. Bukannya karena pahit, justru keindahannyalah yang menyesakkan.

* * *

"Akan aku bawa kau pergi dari sini".

Cahaya kuning pucat matahari yang masuk lewat jendela terbuka meminjamkan hangatnya buat aku dan dia. Aku yang duduk di hujung ranjang dengan tangan terlipat, memeluk dadaku yang telanjang, mencoba untuk tenang. Perbahasan ini bukanlah untuk yang pertama kalinya.

"Badanku mungkin lepas, tapi kenyataannya jiwaku di sini, untuk mengabdi," balasku.

"Cobalah kau mengerti, kita sudah sampai di sini berjuang. Karena apa?"

"Kenapa tidak kau saja yang coba mengerti?" Suaraku parau menahan lengkingan emosi.

Aku mengenalnya baru-baru saja, tetapi cukup kenal untuk tahu kalau dia tak bakal terusik dengan nada bicaraku yang tak sopan. Edukasi yang dia terima memintanya untuk memperlakukan aku sederajat dengannya, tetapi juga mengajarnya untuk memaklumi perbedaan intelek di antara aku dan dia.

Dia meningalkan meja dengan tumpukan kertas dan buku menggunung, menghampiriku dari belakang dan merangkul pundakku. Warna putih kulit tangannya seperti bercahaya, jernih dibandingkan kulitku yang legam. Nafas lembutnya menggelitik leherku, menghantarkan sejuta sensasi ke sekujur tubuh. Rambut dengan warna jerami padi, dibiarkannya tergurai melintasi dadaku, seperti muntahan cairan emas menuruni bukit-bukit lumpur.

Aku menerima bibir pucatnya, melimpahkan merahku di kulitnya yang tanpa warna. Tanpa sadar air mata dia dan aku menyatu di pipiku. Kasur mendengus malas menerima beban tubuh kami yang merebah.

* * *

Gerimis dengan gemulai menyampaikan pamit. Tetes-tetes air langit turun santai menimpa rambut hitam aku dan Dani. Hujung ombak sampai di bangku bambu kami, menolak kaki-kaki kami yang kecil, seperti menyuruh lekas-lekaslah pulang.

Pantai ini sahabatku, dan selayaknya sahabat, kusimpan cerita-ceritaku disini. Selayaknya sahabat, aku padanya kangen sekali. Selayaknya sahabat, hatiku berat untuk berpisah lagi.

Tangan anak itu yang dalam genggamanku terasa hangat dan lembap. Jari-jemarinya menggeliat resah, mengingatkan aku akan keberadaannya. Mengingatkan aku kalau aku masih punya yang lain untuk menemaniku.

Dani tersenyum manis ke arahku, dan aku membalasnya. Mungkin tidak semanis polosnya senyuman seorang anak kecil, tapi senyumku ini pernah membuat orang-orang menggilakannya.

* * *

Bahuku berat sekali rasanya dengan adanya tangan besar laki-laki itu menumpang singgah. Punggungku pegal menahan duduk tegak di kursi kayu jati berbalutkan baldu merah. Paru-paruku menahan ketatnya korset hitam yang menutupi kelancangan kebayaku.

Tapi senyumku tetap aku pertahankan. Terpaksa aku pertahankan di hadapan lensa kamera dengan blitz-blitz yang menyilaukan mata.

"Senyumlah. Tetap tersenyumlah. Cuma tinggal sebentar lagi selesai."

Pernikahan adalah kekonyolan. Semua formalitas sandiwara buat menutupi sebuah kekacauan. Memaksa aku untuk tersenyum di bawah topeng menor bedak, gincu dan emosi semu. Untungnya ini bukan acara resepsi, cuma pemotretan buat dipajang di ruangan bertamu, buat membuktikan kalau aku adalah miliknya.

Tidak bakal ada yang namanya pernikahan buatku.

Tapi tetap saja aku jadi yang dia punya.

Aku dan anak laki-lakiku satu-satunya.

* * *

From One Black Sheep to Another (In memory of Ahmad Marzuki)

because he told me he loved. Not in his own words though. But it wasn’t me he loved in specific, it definitely wasn’t his family, but he loved nonetheless. That’s why his heart broke to pieces smaller than mine did. That’s the reason he bled more furiously than I did. That’s the simple fact why he left Us like he did.

    He wasn’t always a shadow when I first knew him. He was flesh and blood, when they allowed him to be. He used to be a kaleidoscope of which I ran through the sun to refract the many harlequin patterns upon my face. He was my friend, both real and imaginary. Real, because we shared the same interests in colors and sounds. Imaginary, because I didn’t get to see him much and because they won’t let him be that way. It’s funny how They fed him cheese and did not expect him to grow into a rat.

    And he was a man-rat alright. He stole, he plundered, and he hid in dark corners. Timid, sly and crafty, but he was nevertheless a dignified rat with blood red eyes. He used to sniff around me for favors that I couldn’t give out at that time. I was too young.

     Didn’t I tell you that he played the guitar magnificently? He lured all the wannabe little band boys like the flute player enticed the little rats of Hamlin, into the glittery dreams of rock stars and giggling groupies. He told every story that could possibly start with the G chord. I hung around because I wanted to be baited along, but I was a girl. Girls do not have dreams; they live the dreams of others. I guess his parents must have wished for a daughter.

    His parents were not military, and do not believe in ruling with birch wood canes (unlike my own parents). His family lived a quiet, country life. Simple and serene. Then his mother died (this may or may not affect him, I didn’t get a chance to ask). He was then sent abroad to study, and he came back with a sense of change. No one could pinpoint the exact time this transformation occurred, not even my Mother, who claimed to care for her little brother so much.
  
    But the only boy in the middle of five sisters, he had always been different. Where they were rambunctious, he was quiet. Where they drowned themselves in mathematical and scientific figures, he was busy dipping his fingertips in paint. Where they were busy getting themselves married off, he stayed silent in his solitude. I guess he already found it pointless trying to fit in.

    The cookie cutter world has sharp edges, and he must have been cut badly at times.  An unfinished degree in a family of academics does not go too well with society. Especially within the intricate tapestry of strict middle-class Asian families. His eyes were always half-open, or half-closed I guess. I prefer the thought of him squinting through the bright shiny people he meets all day. It’s not that I don’t think highly of him, but I prefer imagining him as a low-life. Lovable, but a low-life nonetheless. That way, we would at least be on equal footing. You see, I myself am a low-life.

    I crawled through the ditches too. I stole, but from the wallets of men whom I gave opportunity to rummage through my own bearded purse. I plundered the hearts of many. And I’m still hiding in a dark corner. At least he’s with the light now, maybe not basking in it, but close.

    They told me he was crazy, but I envy the crazy. The crazy always seem to have more fun. To run around freely in that empty place you call your mind. He was my mentor in terms of rebellion. Although I believe his acts were not entirely intentional. I know mine aren’t.

    I guess his hurt was very much intolerable. But even if he showed it, I wasn’t there to witness it. I was too busy surviving boarding school. He was busy being passed around from one sibling’s care to another. It wasn’t surprising that he would choose to flee such a life. I assume he had the same amount of self-love that I had. Not enough to prevent ourselves from being destroyed, but enough ego to allow only our own hands to do the destruction. But They always brought him back, to pass him around again. And again. And again. And again.

    He led a colorful life, he was a Dali canvas full of mishaps and misshapes that terrifies but leaves one addicted. Yet I only remember him later on as a gray blob. A sad mass with no color, as he sits with a blank stare on the front porch, all sense of direction lost. This was after I learned about the color red that spurts periodically through me. This was after I caught my young cousin referring to him as ‘that ungrateful motherfu-r’; I had to stop myself from listening to such infamy and from swinging the six-year old from his limbs and throwing him into the ocean. How dare the little monster! How dare his parents teach such a thing! I kept silent though.

    But now I stop and think, and curse myself for my lack of empathy. We black sheep should have flocked together. I should have defended him. But I was young and thought I knew everything. And I wasn’t as black back then, maybe off-white or light gray. So I probably thought highly of myself.

    But still he stared out. This man whom they say has no respect, no love, and no life. It was the period where he started turning into a shadow. I was a self-righteous teenager and… he had a tattoo on his left arm! It showed one day, accidentally through his white shirt wet with rain, and I remember glancing with wonder, too shy (or afraid?) to ask about it. It was rude then to ask your elders such imposing questions… and I guess I must have had a crush on him back then.

    He was frequently seen dressed in white attires afterwards, and They all applaud this as a positive transformation, albeit with much skepticism. But the brightness of white only made his grayness more apparent. I was saddened. My prism has broken into pieces, and I didn’t have the guts or the glue to fix it up.

    I don’t blame the drugs for his demise. I blame Them, who are ignorant in their kindness, who took away the drugs, his only source of blunting away hurt. And I know he hurt a lot. They all think addiction is as easy to cure as a headache, but I know that they’re wrong. I didn’t drop out of medical school after four years for nothing, and I know things that my classmates who graduated cum laude don’t. I know pain.
   
    They make pain sound like an abstract thing, these medical school lecturers. They talk of anesthetic procedures and morphine. They mention excisions and excavations. But they don’t talk about the pain that I am familiar with. They only discuss the different nerve endings and degrees of paralysis.

But I understood pain. He embodied pain. I am pain. He and I, we walked hand in hand with pain. Pain was our friend, but a cruel friend whose jokes sometime go out of hand. And unless you’re strong and brave enough to face up to it, the pain’ll cripple you. Hence, the drugs.

    I was lucky that my drug was sex. It doesn’t leave a bad effect if you leave behind matters of the heart. The advantage of being a girl is that my drug comes free and sometimes with rebates. I was unlucky though to have bad-mouthing ‘friends’ who ran an expose behind my back, and who gave my religious father a heart attack.

    Maybe he gave his own father a heart attack too. His father was strictly religious, even more than my own father was. Not that I’m aware of it though. They always manage to keep me in the dark regarding such matters. I don’t believe he died a virgin, but I’m sure he wasn’t as promiscuous as I was. He didn’t show much interest in the opposite sex, and no, neither was he keen about men. He was just… he just is.

    I don’t even know where They buried him, but I see him more often now. The gray of his footsteps guide my trot. His wan smile is in my reflections, his paint marks stain deep beneath my skin. Like kaleidoscope glass, he is fragile and he beats as part of my heart. I shall guard this heart, not because I care for myself, but…

…because he told me he loved.









Dearest Uncle
May you finally find the peace you deserve.

C is for Celebration

Confetti.
Paper strips in a plastic packet, meaningless until scattered over beaming faces. To shower down like little colorful candies. To mark the existence of happiness here.

I catch a handful and deliberately sprinkle some on my head. They tumble down to my shoulders and some stay stuck between strands of hair. Hullo irony, I’m not happy.

An old lady looks at me funnily, and my face freezes by default into a smile as I bow towards her stiffly. She laughs and gives me a thumbs-up sign. She mouths something that I don’t catch, pointing excitedly towards the two people being celebrated. I nod politely and turn to look away towards the distance, waving to an invisible person, mouthing ‘excuse me’ to the dame and making my way through the cheerful crowd of well-wishers.

Cellphone.
A wireless communication device that breaks the boundaries of privacy. But for just this once, I wish it would ring and bring me out of my being lonely. For a month there have been no calls, no text messages, yet there she is now.

I miss her deeply.

Clown.
He is squatting underneath a stout palm tree by the refreshments section, dabbing away perspiration from his brows, carefully so as not to wipe off the thick white make up. It must be like hell for his skin, trapped beneath the thick layer of gunk day after hot, sweltering tropical day.

I hand him a cup of punch, he looked like he needed it badly. He refuses.

“Not supposed to drink that,” he says and points towards a red mouth slightly agape.

“Can’t you just re-apply the lipstick afterwards?”

He shakes his head. “Got to save, everything’s expensive now.” He frowns, “That was not my point though...”

A woman in a white suit and pinstriped trousers approach us, her sharp heels leaving little dents on the grassy soil. She gives me a fleeting look over and I stare back. She looks familiar and I do not doubt that she feels the same about me. I guess she must be a friend of the bride. She makes full attempt in ignoring me however, choosing to solely address my companion.

“You’ll be performing in the Hall. Remember, no balloons. The groom is… He wishes for no balloons, that’s all.”

Ha! The groom is scared of balloons! How manly.

I snort and at the sound of sarcasm, the woman all in white tilts her head towards me. This time, recognition dances in her eyes and her mouth forms a letter O. Unnerved, she signals the man to come inside, leaving me with two drinking cups full of liquid mango mixed with squash.

Poor Harlequin! No longer limber now with a family to feed. No longer thrilled at the prospect of chasing Columbine, not even while shuffling tiredly behind one, the golden band circling his finger peeks under the ridiculous ancient frills of long sleeves.

I down the sickeningly sweet juice one cup at a time. Watching their retreating backs, I realize that I still don’t know their names.

Clock.
It ticks its slowest when one anxiously waits. I saw her leave and she has not returned. I am glad that she kept her hair at the length I remember last, the curly locks still hang by the nape of her neck.  She is not wearing a dress though, that would be pushing luck too much.

The hour hand points towards three and its longer counterpart is at 7 in a lopsided grimace. Being bored, I make a face too, screwing mine up tightly.

Aghast, it retorts, “At least you’re the one celebrated here. I’m ignored until there is need for haste, and still they look at me with anguish.”

    “How long do you think she’ll keep avoiding me?”

    “It depends. How long have you been ignoring her?”

    “These shoes are killing me.”

    “Ah, I see…” And it falls into its old habit of muttering to itself again.

Tick. Tock. Tick.. Tock.. Tick... Tock…

Cakes.
Angel cake. Because the bride is (supposed to be) fair and virginal. Pah!

Brownies. Low in calorie, for the weight watching ladies and gents.

Cheesecake. Because it’s expensive and reflects the event’s status. For select guests only.

Dumplings. Traditional and finely hand made, also a sign of status.

Egg custards. It’s a Chinese thing.

Fairy cakes. For the young ‘uns.

.

.

.

(Let’s save time here.)

Wedding cake. All three strata covered in white and with sugary rosebud borders. Pink of course, because that is the bride’s favorite color. The miniature bride and groom sneer majestically from a height of 3 meters. I place fingers on my lips and wet them discreetly, and with an innocent flick of the wrist, secure a portion of cream at the tip of my nails.

Lick.

Ugh. So much for being costly, when all you get is cardboard.

Chariot.
The engine hums impatiently and the bouquet of carnations and chrysanthemums quiver silently on the hood that they were placed upon. Personally, I myself would have chosen sweet smelling jasmines. They’re her favorite flowers.

The crowd erupts in a cheer, and I see my daydream scattered in pieces by my feet. I imagine crunching sounds as I tread gingerly across them, every step on the weathered red carpet hurting my heart as the splinters travel through my veins.

I smile and wave a gloved hand automatically around while asking myself: Where is she?

I stop breathing the moment I lay eyes on her. She stands opposite me, in a straight line. She is, as always, beautiful, even in a checkered shirt and black jeans. My hand sticks awkwardly upwards in an unfinished gesture, like a marionette whose puppeteer has gone for a lunch break.

She raises a yellow plastic cup in my direction: a toast. She smiles, but there are no other signs to betray her emotion.

I slide as quickly as I could through the wide open door, tripping over the slippery satin that is my dress. The smell of luxurious leather does nothing to soothe my nerves. The driver, startled by such a rush of movements, peeks nervously through the rearview mirror.

    “Is everything all right, Ma’am?”

I nod shakily. So it has come to this, although she has on countless times denied possible, our relationship reduced to ‘friend’ status, maybe less. I peer through the dark tinted window, braving myself for a last look, but she is already gone.

I sigh, fine mist forms on the glass where my nose rests. My groom joins me on the plush seats, taking my hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. I beam at him appreciatively, and suddenly his lush overgrown beard tinged with straggly strays of gray matters no more. I bring the back of his hand near my lips and kiss the fingers softly. He seems startled at the sudden sign of obedience, but merely smiled. It must be the effect of the car freshener. Lavender calms even the most angered elephant.

Under my breath, I mutter, “I’m sorry.”

    “Eh, what for?”

I shake my head, and say nothing. The power windows roll down, and my thoughts are drowned in the farewell din. The silver limousine rattles on slowly, breaking the group of people in many directions. Life goes on.
At least I’ll be okay.

Cigarettes.
The finely cut tobacco burns beautifully in its blend of cloves. The rolled paper edges curl from white, to ember to black to gray to scatter smoothly downwards as particles of ash.

I am back under the stout palm tree, choosing to stay as close as possible to the drinks. One does get very thirsty in such dry weather. The guests have not begun to disperse, and I’m not yet inclined to leave. The rough bark tickles my back through the thin cotton of my shirt, and I fight a terrible urge to scratch myself in public.

I flick away the spent stub, in an upward motion which lands by the feet of a young girl with her face ghastly made up. She throws me a dirty look, which I reply with a sheepish grin.

I reach into the pocket of my trousers for the filter-tip pack and giving it a slight shake, flick the top open and peer inside. Damien Rice’s pained voice echoes in my head; you gave me three cigarettes to smoke my tears away.

I light another fag, inhaling deeply and blowing out rings of smoke. The smoke must have gotten into my eyes, for the water that runs down my cheek are not tears that I cry.

And slowly I fade, like the spiraling smoke I exhale.
  
Cheers, darlin’.

Need help for this short story too

Soul Seller

The crows crow mightily, black birds on thick black wires that loosely stretch for miles between tall metal poles. They smell the stinking flesh, both of rotting animal carcasses and of decaying human hearts. The people who are but mere specks in a bird’s eye view, bustle and hustle in the small marketplace nestled in the heart of a busy city, thinking themselves with errands more important than the other person.

The bird brained crows know better.

Within the push-and-pull, a young man stands erect, withstanding every shove, ignoring every irritated glare. He holds a box that hangs by a sling from his shoulders and within it, lidded bottles clink and rattle with every shake he makes. People with a higher degree of patience and gifted with a wonderful sense of humor smile privately as they imagine the thumping of a tambourine while elbowing past the young man.

There are fish up for sale, fresh vegetables, and pots and pans. The wet produce drip moisture upon the black tar, producing puddles black and thick. The oil leaks from motorcycle engines and tall barrels, creating puddles with rainbow colors reflected. The many different puddles release different pungent smells as they are stepped upon by the many different feet.

The young man sells souls. His is a puddle of perspiration that hangs by the brows.

A fat woman waddles and cuts through the thronging crowd, carrying a rattan shopping bag, her big unshaped breasts encased in a too tight shirt rest on top of her groceries like an object from a Dali painting.

She pushes forward with her purchase placed forward like a battering ram. The young man winces as she steps on his toes in her haste. He imagines ligaments tearing away as the sharp wooden heel of her platform shoe digs into the skin clothed only in rubber sandals.

The young man tilts to the side, maintaining balance momentarily lost to the searing pain. The box shakes dangerously, and a jar falls down to the tar, breaking into a million pieces. The nicer people stop to stare, the mean ones glare, but nobody offered any help, as if they don’t dare intrude the young man’s personal space.

The young man looks in dismay at the glittering glass shards, but simply shrugged and continue standing resiliently, squinting against the sun rays that peek through corrugated zinc roofs.

The traffic trickles through as people gingerly step around the diamond disguises scattered, brilliantly refracting light, like precious gems. The young man unapologetically peddles his wares, silently and with his back straight. He is deaf to the mutterings and the cursing of the strangers around him.

A shopkeeper emerges from his stall,

I need another porn star here...

...for this short story that I can't seem to complete yet. I don't like the last painting, do you? So if anyone has any idea on who should be on the last portrait, do tell me.

Oh, and try guessing the pornstars, whoever got them all right, will get something special from me.
Plain Portraits of Popular Pornstars

…was the name of the attraction, and all hell broke loose. Young midgets came forward with palms plastered in fake ID. Young men came forward bearing eyes of glass. Young ladies came forward with their faces averted and mouths that run. The old came forward with grinning Botox masks. But only a select few were allowed in.

Inside the tent, the ringmaster is resplendent in stars and stripes and blows bubbles in the face of the spectators. He laughs and roars as the crowd boos him off. He crows pompously on a wooden pedestal painted blue. He picks a clown by the scruff of the neck and shakes him until the powder, the rogue, the wig, the nose, and the gloves all fall off. The clown’s painted grimace rights itself into a smile as he picks his properties up and cradles it like a precious baby.

Down the cheeks of those who watched the spectacle rolled big fat tears. A cannon blows and the super flying stunt man throws down red paper kerchiefs as he sails out of the tent and across the skies, never to be heard of again.

The rotund ringmaster invites the snake lady in and she slithers and slides under the careful eyes of her pythons. The reptiles majestically bow to the crowd as the snake lady curls into a briefcase and stays there, blinking stupidly at the crowd.

The crowd cheers as the snakes drag the briefcase backstage and they are then ushered into the next tent, to see the

First Portrait

She named herself after a continent where spice enticed the colonization desire in pale-skinned men. And how appropriately so. For the men turned red as lobsters when they invade her bountiful hills, tasted the fluid from her creamy rivers and came by the maddening tinkle of her laughter.

She is the lush lands.

She is the great goddess.

She is shivering in bed, weakened by feverish despair. The Prozac pills are scattered on the floor, its container long since rolled under the bed. She makes a mental note to eventually pick them up, it won’t do if the children would come in and pop one into their innocent little mouths. God knows she does not need another death.

Not hers, of course, she is probably unaware that the people from this side of the world have already mourned her departure. Gossip spreads like wildfire, and the disease they associate with her said demise is a popular one regarding her former occupation.

Anguish washes over her again in a sudden wave that crashes upon her conscience. She tells herself that there is no more room for crying, but still the tears pool by her eyes rimmed dark by the salvation she tries so hard to deny.

The evenings sun’s orange streaks through the window blinds of her room, illuminating a nipple, uncovered and bare.

The women sniff disdainfully, apparently unimpressed. The ringmaster enters the tent to signal the end of the show for this tent. He takes out a silver cane and knocks out a guest by giving him a hard blow, smack on the forehead. One of the clowns carries the unconscious man by his ankles, cursing all the way as he heaves and pants.

Someone from the back shouts for a refund, but the ringmaster only smiles serenely. “Patience comes to those who wait,” he says as he shoves the people to the entrance of the next tent, where waiting for them is the

Second Portrait

O, Mary, conceived without sin,

pray for us who turn to you. Amen.

When exactly was the last time she prayed? She knows the words of the bible by heart. Still remembers vaguely the lilting rhythms of the novena. A silver cross still dangles by a thin chain from her slender neck, for the sake of fashion of course, but a symbol of her faith, no less.

She stands in queue behind a long line of middle aged housewives, waiting for her turn to have her groceries rung. None of them pays the slightest attention to her, famous as she is. She is not afraid of overhearing herself being badmouthed; this is a country where emotions are kept discreet, at least not in your face.

She flicks open her clamshell cell phone, while thinking of what to cook for dinner. She imagines sweet curry, piping hot and its bright yellow a beautiful contrast to the whiteness of rice. Sugo-i ne. She giggles to herself, like the young girl that she is.

The line moves slowly, and she pushes her trolley forward with an elbow. Her shopping items include chicken breasts, potatoes, some herbs and a dozen eggs. She believes that not even a novice can go wrong in the kitchen with eggs around. Eggs are very useful, as she once mentioned in one of her videos, albeit with intention of mild innuendo.

There is a new text message on her phone, from her production house. It says: That gaijin producer is still adamant with his offer. What say you?

She pouts, and swiftly typed in a curt No.

She has gotten numerous offers similar to this, and it’s probably because of the hint of Caucasian in her face but people could still easily compare her physique to the tight, exquisite body of Eastern concubines.

This pearl still and will always belong to the Orient.

The men exeunt from the tent, all groaning. They shake their heads and pull at their hair. They beat the ground with clenched fists until they were raw and sore. A woman dressed as a peacock carries round a tray of refreshments at a dollar each. She smiles, and smiles, and smiles until her gums dry off and fall into little pieces at her feet. She carefully sidesteps and collects the pink pieces into a small pink purse.

The crowd makes way for the ringmaster, careful not to create another casualty. He simply points with his silver cane towards the entrance of another tent which contains the

Third Portrait

He is bigger than life, at least the parts of him that the industry considers vital.

He is a legend in his field, and has been called the stallion in many occasions.

He is confident that he is still as bright as the star he shares his name with, even with a receding hairline.

And like his male colleagues, his story is short and it ends here.

“Did you guess?” whispers someone from the small assembly. There is only an uncomfortable shuffling of feet as the people plod on glumly. “Are we supposed to?” was the reply, the loud voice of a woman. She sounds cross.

The ringmaster joins her, linking her arm with his, and beams most pleasantly.

“Oh, darlings, darlings. Do be a little more light-hearted, please. This is just the beginning isn’t it? This is not high art, definitely not at its best… or worst.”

Somewhere at the back of the gathering, someone breaks wind and the whole crowd breaks into hysterics.

The ringmaster turns suddenly around, this time looking fierce and wild, his white hair on end. He begins spewing infamy at the top of his lungs, lunging randomly at the crowd with his now infamous cane. A clown comes in with a somber teenager in a duck suit and carries the ringmaster away by the armpits. They dodge the sharp, heavy point of silver expertly, without betraying any trace of emotion.

“You are all idiots, you hear me? This here, this is entertainment. Carefully constructed and of best viewing pleasure! You dare mock me? You dare? You mock! Pigs! Swine! Muttonchops in the mouth of vegans!”

The crowd murmurs. “At least he still thinks of us as vertebrates,” braves one man and the others nod in ascent. They shuffle voluntarily into the next tent, to at least catch a glimpse of the

Last Painting

She faces her cupboard filled with barely-there clothes, and strokes them sadly, one by one. She had an empire built on the fantasy these clothes enticed. She thought she was happy.

She is happy no more. Or is she?

Sure they mocked her acceptance speech at the annual awards, sure they looked down upon her as she walked resolutely away, award in hand. Nature sure deals a tricky card for women. What liberated her is deemed unlucky by her fellow colleagues and by her fans.

She bites her thin lower lip and picks up the clothes by their hangers. She flings them one by one onto the bed, slowly at first but soon gaining momentum. She fights with a neon blue latex dress that stubbornly refuses to leave the cupboard, choosing to get stuck with a leather half jacket filled with studs, instead. She gives a vicious yank and torn piece of the dress comes out on her hands. She throws the cloth above her shoulders and continued picking out the clothes stealthily.

She appraises the pile of clothes on her bed with a renewed sense of nonchalance and picks up the corners of her tiger print bed sheet, tying them together in a triple knot. She drags the big bundle across the living room which at one time had seemed spacious and was planned that way but now seemed so empty and bare. She won’t have to worry about furnishing it anymore, anyway.

My First Published Short Story

...and in Jakarta Post, no less! Woo hoo!

Every name a prayer

By Nabila Najwa | Sun, 05/25/2008 12:01 PM | Bookmark

How do you define an ordinary day? The clouds are tinged with shades of yellow and gray, and march slowly against the blue backdrop of the sky. Ordinary. The sea waves carry the smell of summer girls in sun-drenched sweat. Ordinary.

The gray-gold sand tap-tap-tap dances on coarse little feet beneath my bare calves. Ordinary.

My big brother Jack shares more than just a plate of chips with me, our eyes squinting against the blinding afternoon sun. We laugh, trade jokes and give each other hearty slaps. We act how brothers should. Like brothers. Unusual.

Mother comes our way, calling out to Jack, telling him to please not forget to bring the plate and cups back like last time.

The smile lines on her face quiver in place, as she stiffly instructs Jack to not stay out in the sun too long; Jack has a history of being prone to sun strokes. She manages to ignore the apologetic smile I offer her, and with her curls, still a radiant black with the help of henna, tumbling between the blades of her shoulders, she shuffles back towards the car.

.... for more go here.

Realisation

Alcohol leaves an acrid taste in your mouth after two days of not using a toothbrush. What is worse is when you have bleeding gums and plaque buildup for... oh, probably 2 years.

For the first time in what seems an eternity, I woke up early in the morning. Right when the adzan* hummed in my ear, so far yet so near. I didn't realize the irony of it awakening me from my dream, a dream I'd remember forever, until now, sober and conscious, typing in front of an unforgiving computer, that shuts down every 10 minutes or so. After which I resumed my sleep.

I woke up again only to the ring of the phone. My phone, the backless, slim and black... She'd win the pageant, if she wasn't so ordinary... unlike me. I consider myself unique, a vanity which serves as a facade for my shortcomings. I am no beauty, however my partners would argue. Have never been... though Narcissism creeps up sometimes and accompanies me in the mirror, so I smile sometimes, a little. I am talented though, being sensitive to a fault, and I learn quick. Learning quick not meaning that I don't repeat my mistakes, no.

The girl on the phone was nervous, and she sounded as if she adored me. Of course she would, she has only known me from my pictures on the Internet friend connection service. The only place where both myself and myself reside at the same time. The ME and the ME of me. Confusing? No, depressing.

I laughed, partly for her nervousness and mostly for my pretenses. I play roles all the time, this time acting as a grown up woman of the world. I know everything, understand everything, yet nothing makes sense. It's like devouring books all your life yet always failing in exams. It may not mean that you've been reading the wrong books, it might just mean that you've been sitting for the wrong kind of tests all along. My head throbbed.

The girl called me again. We talked, we laughed, she insecure about meeting up, she confessing that she might have seen me before, she... called me sayang. An endearment that I have used so much that it probably has lost its proper meaning, but by the falter of her voice telling me she might mean it.

I feel like I have lost all sense of time. Why shouldn't I, when time means nothing but the dread of approaching doom? Rough calculations predict only three days left, before I need to disappear. Yet disappear to where? All I can see is Death, Marriage or Nothing.

I know that to die would hurt, not only me, but people who claim to love me, my family who I fail to understand and who try but miserably fail in understanding me, to a small handful of friends, who at least would probably fake tears out of respect for the jokes I dispensed.

But I feel... towards those who shamelessly throw themselves off tall buildings, who unthinkingly slice open wrists of their own, those who down gasoline, sleeping pills, cyanide , those who might find themselves awake in Limbo, a Hell worse than the blazing fires and repetitive self torture... a feeling very, very close to envy.

Many have promised marriage, many have disappeared, or proven themselves worthless, spineless bastards. A few friends offered to take my hand, gay friends at that, but not in time, not soon enough before I need to go. I have long since embraced the thought, yet too long I have been denied of it, that now I don't see the the point in such an institution unless for legal reasons.

...and Nothingness? Do I really need to elaborate such a complex thing that I myself not understand?

My chest hurts, and I ache for a cigarette. I can't work like this, and when I don't work I won't get any money, and when I have no money, I can't eat, and when I'm hungry, I can't think, and when I can't think, I am not myself. I scoff as I type the word WORK, for I do nothing of the sort. Not what generates income that is, only the private satisfaction of actually finishing something. The only thing dampening the thought is the fact that no one would read it, no one would care, and that the whole world will just carry on as usual.

Ah, the girl called again. This time with a steadier voice, her jokes funnier. It is funny that she would sound so feminine yet claimed manliness. I have never met her before, and I am now intrigued. I used persuasion... come on, it can't be that hard to meet up... but she was resilient with her refusals. It is weird, I have never found butch lesbians sexually attractive, if I wanted masculinity of the feminine kind, I'd rather hump a pretty boy.

Crass? Crude? Yes. I call my lovers Dogs, the Devil Lord, nothing sweet. If I ever was to be any other way, they will know that something totally wrong is going on with me. No Pumpkin and Sugar with me. No Honey Bunny, no Darling, no way. I save for sonnets all precious endearments, there only you will be my angel, and I have a few.

My dream? I feel no need to share. Let bloodied knives rust in the ground they are buried. Murder is sinful, but you won't need to pay in both worlds if you can help it. Even more so if the killing involves not bodies, only souls.

It is already dark, and cold creeps up from between my toes. Sneaking underneath my jeans towards my crotch, where my body keeps most of its warmth... and most sinful secrets. I trust my mouth more than my underparts in keeping my shame locked away. If money is the root of all evil, then my privates are farmers. Ye shall reap what ye sow... yadda, yadda.

She called again! Such a rich catch should not be wasted, should it? Either that, or she is the daughter of the owner of a telephone company. Being which, when you think of it, places her in quite a wealthy disposition. Why don't you want to meet me? Am I not desirable? Then why the persistent calls?

She is a virgin. I was stunned. I am not. She was shocked.

Was I raped, she asked. I am no innocent, I answered.

Was it good with men, she pondered. She shuddered with disgust. I laughed it off.

She is young, she is sweet to me. I am not old of age, but my soul is senile.

She chimed when she could have laughed instead, then hangs up. I am definitely hooked.

The silence she left me with was unsettling, so I switched through radio stations. Static, some folk song, some political talk, then static, more and more static, each humming in different lengths and tones to the trained ear, definitely not mine. Disgusted, I chose silence as comrade, but only for a millisecond. I turned the mp3 player on again, letting it bleat out songs I have repeated so many times that even the oldies has lost all its' nostalgia charm.

Another phone call, this time a male voice gruffly bellowed. No preambles, where are you, are you free tonight... My wallet screamed for attention yet this time the lower lips silenced lust, unintentionally, as nature wins over all arguments he proposed when I declined offers of a night out. Anyway, my head still hurts, increasing even.

I was once asked, what is it about me that keeps men in queue? I believe I have emphasized my lack of beauty and graciousness, so there is no wonder to why they question my many admirers. Not that they are jealous, no, but they fear for me. But it is their fear that pushed me the wrong way. I accept no gratitude nor give any away. Not in their way.

And yet I dream of them over and over again.

Halt! For that way madness lies! But if through madness, freedom reigns, then play on Macbeth!

I mixed my Bram Stoker with Shakespeare. That is not a good thing, I know. I decided that a night out is not so bad. I needed the coffee and cigarettes high, I needed to get away. Even the night air is fresh to the gasping convalescent soul. I said yes to the next call to come my way. It was not the girl, and I have started to miss her.

Where Cinderella raced against midnight, I rushed towards it, embracing the tingle of early morning air against skin padded with moisturizers. Burnt corn on the cob melted as if honeycombs in my mouth. Ravenously, I devoured the sweet bread, all courtesy gulped down in a single gulp of tea cooled by the chilly air, not stopping for a second to offer my companion a bite. Wait, was I not the companion?

I understand men and their wants, or as they put it, their "needs". To me, needing means to cannot live without, and no one has yet to die of an itchy phallus. It might drop off if left untreated long enough, but you'll only suffer, not die. The penis and knowledge differs in that, the more you use your "wand", the faster it loses its magic. Knowledge gets clearer reception with constant replay.

I understand him and his wants, or in his own words, his "needs". His wife is not making it easy, and his lover boy is growing more and more bitchy. In short, he has everything, yet he owns nothing... he is like me. I have grown to like his grumpy sullenness, his silence when he is deep in thought. He loves how I could still make him laugh, when I drop innuendos innocently. I am a Lolita to his Old Man of the Mountains.

It is past twelve and the girl called again. He raised an eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. I smile every time I answer the phone. Even when I'm crying. He understands that part of me, but I have yet to cry in front of him. Tears are not the means of how I earn a meal. I felt him pat my free hand as he left the table, probably to the restroom.

That abominable headache again! Curses! I grinned and bear it, but soon that too diminished as the girl admonished my staying up late, and that with a man. She called me a slut, which I acknowledged. I answered that it is part of what I am, part of my research to understand life better. I hate... hate the fact that she does not try to understand me, hate that she is younger than I am, hate that she is living a life far better than mine, hate the way she bosses me around... her.

I am a puzzle that she is trying to solve. The girl does not understand that I love men, women and everything in between the sheets or without. She asked me to choose. I refused. It is my life we were talking about. It may not worth much, but it is still mine, at least. And it is ridiculous to tell anyone to stop loving in a world of wars.

She instructed me to go home immediately. I said no. She hung up.

He came back with his face dripping wet, and eyes rimmed with red. A sign that something is wrong. I suggested going back to our own respected places, and he nodded. We left. No more of tonight.

I stood in front of the doorway, waving him goodbye with a smile. He left, and my face crumpled and I cried.

***

2 days have passed since my designated disappearance day, yet here I am, still existing.

The girl came to visit. She is the typical butch. I was disappointed, as I expected at least a higher degree of femininity.

She commented on my lack of housekeeping skills. She disagreed with my decrepit, old fashioned computer. She said I look pretty decent as a femme.

She noticed the empty condom wrapper, and asked, how much are you worth, with a nasty leer.

"Two hundred, could you afford it?"

She slapped me and called me a whore.

The solution smacked me so hard in the face that all that was left of my headache was a continuous buzz. My hand must have pushed the face mirror on to the floor, and I picked up a shard of glass and pushed it up her thigh, where an artery pumps out gushing blood. Majestically red, as she is descended from royalty.

She will survive, the paramedics came soon enough. I love events that end with a bang. Fireworks, ambulance siren, close enough.

Yet here I am, still existing.


*adzan : the call to prayer, Muslim