dark side of the moon #9

that smile could hurt...

photo by Ventus17 at pixabay



dark side of the moon #9


1.
She said I was a special friend. I wondered what 10-year-old children meant by special friends. We laid in the long grass in the fields just outside the village, watching the clouds, the sky a shade of gloomy blue. She was holding a doll close to her body. The doll was naked. I pointed out that one of the clouds looked like a bunny. She said there was another bunny behind it. I looked long and hard. The clouds seemed to have merged into a ball of candy floss.

I turned my head and looked at her. She had pulled down her dress. She was naked.

2.
The villagers were baying for my blood. Disgusting child! How can you do such a thing! A couple of the villagers had suddenly chanced upon us in the field. Incensed, they dragged me and the girl back to the village without giving me a chance to tell my side of the story. In the village square, despite my parents' pleas, they whipped me with canes again. As the village was deciding what to do with me, the girl, who was quietly standing at the sides watching, came over and looked at me.

She gave me a smile. Or really a smirk. She was holding her doll. The doll was headless.


08/05/21
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because Halloween...

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Alessia Cara & The Warning - Enter Sandman

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

stitches

It takes time, but the stitches will hold...

photo by Bru-nO at pixabay



stitches



On the wall of our kitchen hangs a framed cross-stitch artwork. It simply reads "OUR KITCHEN", and beneath the words are child-like pictures of fruits and vegetables. But the stitchings are fine and neat and one cannot count the hours she spent on the aida fabric. She is very perseverant, my missus.

She is also a good seamstress. She fixes up the missing buttons on my shirts, alters my new jeans. She sews dresses and skirts for herself and friends. Her pencil skirts are stunning. She modifies old jeans to make shorts, long before distressed jeans hit the stores. All this on a sewing machine at home.

"Aren't these shorts a bit too short?", I ask one alarmed day. She smiles and says it was not, and she will look good in it, which I cannot argue with that.

Tonight, after work, I pack a dinner home from the coffee shop and rummage in the fridge for a beer. The house is eerily quiet. I light up three joss sticks and place them in the urn on the altar, in front of her memorial tablet. Sometimes I would tell her that living without her is difficult, but I will try.

You see, sometimes in life, you pick the short end of the straw. Like her. Out of the blue a disease, a sickness, which she fought very bravely. The doctors tried to stitch her up as best as they can, but the rogue cells were rampant, and it has been many years since she lost that war.

I stand at the kitchen window, looking down at the parking lots below, at the stragglers going home to their families. I feel a tinge of envy in me, but I smile. A cool wind rushes in from the warm night, caressing my face, holding back the tears that are welling in my eyes…



03/08/2019
**********

313 words. Exactly. Semi-autobiographical.

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Andy Lau - Thank You For Your Love

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

Sense

This is just fiction. Thank goodness.

photo by Hebi B at pixabay



Sense


They were sitting on a bench in the park, under the shade of old trees, from the mid-afternoon sun, watching a glassy pond. Just two hours ago, they were total strangers in a cafe in another part of the city. He was a writer, trying to find some inspiration, minding his own business. She was there having a coffee, alone. He had noticed her earlier, because she seemed agitated. Then she started to undress. First her blouse, then her brassiere. Before more could be removed, he acted, wrapping his jacket over her.

“I really don’t know what happened back there”, she said, “I felt so hopeless”

“Yours is not the only bizarre happening this week. A man jumped off a bridge, shouting the end is near. A disabled guy held up a store. A surge of crazy stuff in the news”, he said.

“What are you afraid of?” she suddenly asked.

“The loss of my faculties”, he replied.

“I am afraid of fire. Dying by fire. I am really scared”, she volunteered. “I have told my boss I am staying with my sister down at Reno for a few days.”

“Ah, I am planning a road trip up north, away from this sin city for a while. Recharge, maybe.”
Then they hugged, promised to keep in touch, and left their separate ways.


It was almost night when the squat truck pulled into a carpark in the middle of town. The driver was instructed to park the truck at a particular spot, press a button on a little box and leave the town. Easiest big money in years, he thought. In the back of the truck was a big vending machine, securely fastened. In the vending machine was a crude but working nuclear bomb.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, he took out the metal box and put a greasy finger to the button.



01/05/2019
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313 words. Exactly. I would like to develop on the characters and the earlier events but that would mean exceeding the word limit. Maybe I will work on the expansion later. :)

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Pink Floyd - Two Suns in the Sunset

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

Wolf May Cry

I took a fairy tale (and some) and turned it on its head. 😁

Image by ArtsyBee at pixabay



Wolf May Cry


It was a very glorious morning, but Little Blue Riding Hood was not too sure about visiting her grandmother, whose house was in the deep woods.There were warnings of wolves in the forest, but the berries that she picked yesterday were too red and plump not to give to grandma.

"Just be careful, if you must go", her mother had said. "I wish I could go with you but there is work to be done here".

The journey through the woods was quite uneventful until she was near her grandmother's cottage. Then she saw it. A wolf on the trail, a huge one, yawning and picking its teeth with a wood splinter.

"Ah, good morning!" said the wolf

"Are you going to eat me up?", asked Little Blue, marveling at her new found courage.

The wolf blinked. A slight pause of silence, then Little Blue said, "the villagers, the town folks say wolves love to eat..."

"All fake news! They made us look like serial killers!" said the wolf, a little hint of agitation in his voice.

"But why?"

"Simple! It's all economics. It provide jobs. The huntsmen, the trap-makers, the blacksmiths. Say, you do not seem to be afraid of me."

"I wonder too. They also said you made too much noise at night, the howls."

"It wasn't us. The coyotes. Our miserable cousins. They are always quarreling. There you go, misinformation again!"

"I am here to see my grandmother, but I fear you have already eaten her."

"Oh, nonsense! I just talked with her, I think it's your grandma, a short while ago. Such a nice lady!"

"It's a strange conversation I am having. I am going to meet my grandma, if you are not going to eat me.

"No, Alice. Please be on your way. And don't forget your nice basket", said the wolf, standing aside.

"Alice? You're confusing me with another girl. The one who dropped into a rabbit hole?"

"Oh, silly me! Anyway, young lady, I need to run along. There's a little boy who keeps calling my name over that yonder village. Need to see what he wants." And with that, he sprinted off like a huntsman was after him.

Little Blue continued her journey and before long, was at her grandma's place. She found her grandmother clearing up some debris at her vegetable beds.

"Grandma, what happened?", asked a concerned Little Blue.

"Oh sweetheart, it is all right! It's those pesky three pigs. They came and tried to blow down the house, and all they managed to do was destroy part of the fence and this bed of carrots", said grandma.

"But isn't it the bad wolf who..." her voice trailing off.

"Yes, dear, the wolf. It was a good thing he was passing by. He chased those nasties away. He told them he will turn them into pork chops if they ever dare to show up here again.Then he helped me put up those fences. I invited him inside for some tea and muffins and then he left."

Little Blue grinned. It had been a very strange day. "And I think your muffins are a bit hard", she said.

"Dear, how do you know that?", asked a puzzled grandmother.

"Never mind", said Little Blue,"but I still want some of those muffins".


05/04/2019
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not a poem! 😁

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“Curiouser and curiouser!”

― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland


Shared on Poetry Pantry #478 at Poets United. This was supposed to be for an edition of Prose Pantry, but it would not pass muster as it weighed in at 500 over words.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

the letters

I have posted this story before, but i think it is a rather nice tale, so here it is again. :)

I wrote this short story for some competition. The rules are simple. The story will be completed in 3 parts and each part must be less than a hundred words. A key word is provided for each part of the story, and it must be present in it. When the first part is submitted, the keyword for the next part will be provided. When all the three parts are submitted, a winner will be picked.

The keywords were as follows : post office, discover, letter.

No, I did not win anything.:)

photo by Sergey81 at morguefile.com




the letters



I passed this quaint little post office on my way to and from work each day. It was a sturdy brick and steel building, nestled in a quiet neighbourhood. But what interested me was not the post office itself, but a pretty lady who was always around the place when I returned home in the evenings. Dark-haired, slim, so dainty that a rush of wind could blow her away, she sat on the steps of the post office, under the porch lights, reading some letters. As the days passed, she intrigued me more and more.


Finally, one evening, after much debate, I decided to speak to the lady, but she was not there when I arrived. And the following nights too. So on an off-day, I was at the post office sending parcels when I asked Sato-san, the postmaster, about the lady. With a quizzical stare, he told me her husband was away in the war, the Islands. She would be here at the post office, waiting for his war-zone letters . And then very strangely, he warned me to keep away from her . What I have discovered so far only deepens the mystery.


Now I know more about love and the human heart in these few weeks than in my entire life. You see, her husband never made it back from Iwo Jima. Day after day, she read that government letter, until her heart broke. They found her dead one day, on that post office porch, her tears still wet on those fair cheeks. And all this happened before I moved into this neighbourhood. I should be afraid, very afraid, but now I am not afraid anymore. As I stepped out of the porch, the fireflies scattered into the scented night.



Aug 2012
********

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if i could pluck the stars
put them in a jar
will you come back to me?

--dsnake1, longing



Shared on Poetry Pantry #311 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

the letters

I wrote this short story for a challenge. The rules are simple. The story will be completed in 3 parts and each part must be less than a hundred words. A key word is provided for each part of the story, and it must be present in it. When the first part is submitted, the keyword for the next part will be provided. When all the three parts are submitted, a winner will be picked.

The keywords were as follows : post office, discover, letter.

In case you are wondering, no, I did not win anything.:)



photo by mcandea


the letters

I passed this quaint little post office on my way to and from work each day. It was a sturdy brick and steel building, nestled in a quiet neighbourhood. But what interested me was not the post office itself, but a pretty lady who was always around the place when I returned home in the evenings. Dark-haired, slim, so dainty that a rush of wind could blow her away, she sat on the steps of the post office, under the porch lights, reading some letters. As the days passed, she intrigued me more and more.


Finally, one evening, after much debate, I decided to speak to the lady, but she was not there when I arrived. And the following nights too. So on an off-day, I was at the post office sending parcels when I asked Sato-san, the postmaster, about the lady. With a quizzical stare, he told me her husband was away in the war, the Islands. She would be here at the post office, waiting for his war-zone letters . And then very strangely, he warned me to keep away from her . What I have discovered so far only deepens the mystery.


Now I know more about love and the human heart in these few weeks than in my entire life. You see, her husband never made it back from Iwo Jima. Day after day, she read that government letter, until her heart broke. They found her dead one day, on that post office porch, her tears still wet on those fair cheeks. And all this happened before I moved into this neighbourhood. I should be afraid, very afraid, but now I am not afraid anymore. As I stepped out of the porch, the fireflies scattered into the scented night.




Aug 2012
********

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And a haiga to go with the story...

photo by arien, image from morguefile
haiga by dsnake1

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"Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.”

― Dylan Thomas



Shared on Poetry Pantry #162 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2013

Angel

I wrote, and posted this story in this blog two years ago. One of the few times I attempted a short story.

It was inspired by Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and in the spirit of the season, I am re-posting it.

I have been cynical and grouchy and bad-tempered this year. So I hope that this little Christmas story, a tale about hope and redemption, will light up all those dark pages I have written. ( Will try to post a new poem soon, when the work in the office has return to sane levels)



photo by Bosela
image from morguefile.com


Angel


1.

He stood on the train platform, waiting for the train to arrive. The large TV monitor above him flashed 10.00 p.m and that the train will reach the station in another two minutes. Two hours to Christmas and in two minutes his sufferings will end. All around him were people talking, laughing, giggling, lugging last minute Christmas shopping, all absorbed in the festive spirit.

He looked down at the shopping mall and the shops around the train station, where he had wandered, like a dazed man, for the last two hours. It was a tough decision to make. But the world was just too unfair to him. Why did his company laid him off while less deserving ones stayed? He was unemployed for nearly a year, not that he did not try to get employment. It was either they had someone for the job, or that he was too old. He watched as his savings dwindled, until it was gone. His wife had to go out to work at a fast food joint to help out, and he felt sorry for his daughter, for he could not afford a proper meal for her each day, let alone the computer she had so wanted.

Two months back, a man in his same situation had jumped onto a rail track, in the path of an approaching train, killing himself. The case was given wide coverage in the media, after the dead man’s plight was made known. Donations from a sympathetic public were made to the man’s family. Large donations. He hoped this will repeat with him. If his death will result in a better life for his family, it was a trade-off he would gladly make.

As he inched himself nearer to the edge of the platform, he felt a gentle tug at his hand. A little girl, maybe not yet ten, smiled at him, holding up a tin can. “Hello sir, donation to the poor?” For a child so young, her voice rang with a clarity he had never heard before, like a choral hymn he had heard once when he was young.

The little girl had jet black hair, pulled back in a neat ponytail and fastened with a floral band. She had on a pure white frock laced with gold trimmings. It was a rare outfit to see on a girl these days, what with their denims, shorts and camo prints. Her clear brown eyes shone with such an intense innocence and compassion he had not seen before. He dug in his pocket for his last five dollar note, folded it, and put it in the can. He squatted down and took a closer look at the girl.

She so reminded him of his daughter, they were about the same age. He noted that his daughter was leagues away from this one, but he loved his daughter all his life. There were almost tears in his eyes, as he pointed at the plain-looking tin can and asked her what charity was that. Salvation Army? Spastic Children?

The little girl smiled and pointed at the TV monitor above him. He looked up and instead of the usual ads for movies and train arrival times, a tableau of a person’s life unfolded before him. He recognized the person as himself. There he was at his wedding, laughing and holding his bride. The happy day when his daughter arrived. And then the scene changed, he was walking towards the edge of the platform, as if a few moments ago, the train screaming into the station. And finally, he saw his wife, gaunt, eyes swollen from tears, calling his name, and his daughter, hands reaching out for her father.

He wanted to say, no, stop this! He stood transfixed, as if a fossil frozen in time, a million thoughts tumbling through his brain. Suddenly, he remembered the girl, and turned his head to look for her. But she was gone; he was standing alone in a deserted train station.

When he looked up at the TV monitor again, it was flashing 10.00 pm and that the train will reach the station in another two minutes. All around him were people talking, laughing, giggling, lugging last minute Christmas shopping, all absorbed in the festive spirit. And then he felt a calm he had not known for a long time, covering him like a warm blanket, coursing all inside him. He knew exactly what he had to do. As the train curved into the station, he ran.


( to be continued...)


© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Angel 2

woodblock print by Tanigami Konan
image from visipix.com



Angel (part 2)


2.

He ran down the stairs of the train station, walked briskly across the hall, through the turnstiles, and out of the station. The night crowd was still thick. There were the families going home, the hungry diners at the delis and McDonalds, the all-night revelers going to the nightspots in the city.

When he found a coin-phone at a shop, he fumbled in his pockets for the last few coins that were his entire fortune. He called home and almost immediately, his wife picked up the phone. She sounded relieved. “Oh, we were so worried about you, are you coming home soon?”
“I love you, honey”, he said. He had wanted to say that from the time he came out of the station. He could not remembered when was the last time he had said those words to her. There was a short pause and he thought he heard her sobbed,
“I love you too,” she said, and added “I bought some food from the KFC. It’s not much, but I thought on the night before Christmas, we will have something better…”
He was trying hard to fight back his tears.
“I will be back soon,” he said. “Tell Ah Girl daddy loves her too.”
“I will. And another thing, a HR person from the logistics company that you apply for a job called this evening. He said they would like to talk to you again, two days after Christmas.”

The night was cool. December nights in the tropics usually are. A breeze was blowing, and he thought he heard carols drifting with the wind. Overhead, the sky was a canvas of navy blue, strips of cirrus clouds floating like wisps of candy floss. The street lights shone like welcome beacons, casting warm, golden glows on the crowds hurrying under them. From where he was, it would be another few minutes to reach his home, if he walk briskly. Trying to fight back his tears, he told his wife that he would be back home soon.

He hurried along the corridor of his apartment block, hoping to reach home as soon as possible. His daughter was already at the gate, waiting for him. He squatted down and hugged her, something he had not done for some time. His wife, beaming, walked across the tiny hall to greet him. Behind her, on the dining table, was a red and white paper box. No turkey, no ham, and the fried chicken were getting cold, but he knew that it will be the most delicious chicken he will eat in his life.

As he prepared to walk into his house, he turned his head to take a brief look at the sky. A tiny point of light sparkled, and seemed to wink at him. He smiled, his tears of joy now flowing freely. He knew somewhere up there, there was a little girl who had watched over him.


15.12.06

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End


I wonder if this can be made into a short film. :)

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, everyone!

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )