Murky Clarity

I have moved

2010-11-26T22:56:00.001+08:00

Dear friends and family, I have moved to Typepad, and will no longer post here. All my posts have been transferred there, but this blog will remain alive until I've finalized everything.

Here's my new address:

http://www.fadzjohanabas.com

Hope to see you there!

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2010-11-26T21:04:00.002+08:00

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Into the Rain (Published at KAP, now dead)

2010-11-09T23:55:00.003+08:00

Thunder rumbled overhead. Usually I would count the gap till lightning struck, but not this time. I was busy praying I wasn't too late.

I bounded up the narrow stairwell two steps at a time. I held on to the banister, fully aware of the filth and grime that were beginning to coat my palm with a thickening layer of slime. Not that I had much choice. Raindrops pelted at me like an endless wave of angry insects, limiting my vision and making my steps treacherous. I'd already lost count on the times I almost slipped. Above the din of the building storm, I could hear my heartbeat. I could even feel it in

my fingertips.

Please. Don't let me be too late.

I lost track of how many floors I left behind me. My chest felt tight, my breaths came out ragged and hot, and my sides felt like someone was squeezing me hard, long nails burying deep. I was already panting, acrid-tasting raindrops making their way into my open mouth, but still I ran.

Wait for me.

I could barely make my way to the partially opened door when I reached the top landing. The small, dust-coated space was littered with broken and forgotten desks and chairs with missing legs, piled up looking like they would topple and bury me with the slightest sneeze. Even the rotting door leaned at a slight angle inward, its top hinge broken. I was never acrobatic, but determination helped me through the door. Into the rain. Lightning struck somewhere beyond my periphery vision, casting the sky with a sudden illumination before plunging me into near darkness again.

Please.

I'd been on this roof only once before, and even then it was one time too many. The big granite slabs were unsteady at some places. With piss-smelling hallways filled with maggot-laden garbage bags, I wouldn't expect the roof to be maintained with any more care and devotion. I promised myself then I would never come here again. Yet here I was, rubbing my eyes with my grime-free hand to clear the rain off my lashes.

Why must he pick this freaking place, of all places?

Shielding my eyes the best I could, I scanned my surroundings. People could play badminton and basketball up here, full court each, without getting into each other's way. If the footing wasn't this uneven, and if the edges weren't only secured with knee-high rusted railings. Other than a few other stairwell openings and the occasional vent pipes jutting out awkwardly, the roof was an open space. He was nowhere to be seen, and I was running out of time. Even without the blinding rain, twilight was fast approaching, and I wouldn't be able to see much anyway.

Where the hell is he?

I took out my phone, risking damaging it in this deluge. I had to try. I pressed the button 2 without even looking at the keypad, to speed-dial his number. I closed my eyes, and listened.

At first I thought I was imagining it. Then Damien Rice's song got louder there was no mistaking it. It came from the other stairwell. I flew toward the sound, praying hard I would find more than his mobile there.

I found him sitting against the wall, his arms hugging his drawn knees. He was looking down, chin resting between his knees. His eyes were partly hidden by his hair. He ignored the rain flowing from the plastered locks just as much as he ignored the clothes that clung onto his body. He was shivering, but I couldn't tell if it was from the cold. His mobile lay forgotten by his side, its screen glowing softly. The song stopped abruptly when I canceled the call.

My heart almost stopped.

"I told you not to use the song as your ringtone. What if I couldn't hear it?" Could he hear me above the chatter of my teeth?

He didn't look up. He didn't move one bit. His silence was loud.

"I was afraid you'd jump."

"I could have," he finally said, barely above a whisper. "I wanted to."

"Are you alright?" I took a step closer, my hands reaching out. I was shaking. But I did not feel the cold. He was here, in front of me. My heart reached out further than my tentative body could.

"I don't know if I could do this anymore, Rina." He looked up when he said my name. What I saw looking into his golden eyes, dark now without luster, broke my heart more than the words he told me when he left six days and three hours ago ever could. Where was the fire? Where was the life I loved to discover in those beautiful eyes? He bowed his head low and started rocking back and forth.

Where was the Adrian I had always known? Where was the anger, the confidence? Where was my Adrian?

"Everything I've done. Nothing. Gone." His shoulders sagged lower, boneless. Even his voice, his tone, was midnight.

I kneeled in front of him and reached for his face. I lifted his chin to face me. He did not resist. "Hey, I'm here, aren't I?"

He closed his eyes. "I don't have any strength left."

"Adrian," I whispered, each syllable of his name a song on my lips. I smoothed hair, dark with rain, from his eyes. "Let me in. If you refuse to see the light, let me in on the darkness. Let me be lost with you. Let me be your strength as you've been mine."

"You can't, Rina," he said. "Not after what I did to you."

"I love you, Adrian."

I hugged him close with all the strength I could muster. I would not let him go. Not this time. He was still at first, but then a miracle happened. He hugged me back.

The rain was heavier still, but I was far from cold. Adrian was a soul helplessly lost, and so was I. But we found each other again. If I was never sure of anything else in my life, this I knew to be true:

I love Adrian.

And he loves me back.

Equatorial Snow at Crossed Genres

2010-11-01T11:17:00.002+08:00

My short story, Equatorial Snow, is up at Crossed Genres. It's free to read, but please support CG by buying the print/ebook formats.

What is good critiquing?

2010-10-29T01:50:00.001+08:00

I'm venting, I'm bitching. So forgive me in advance.
I really should not do it, should have learned my lesson the first time. But I still follow a lot of LP members' blogs. Mainly to know what you guys are thinking, who you are in real life.

People say that a person who knows a little does more harm than good when giving opinion, right? That's why I don't critique poetry. At all. But I know short stories and novels. I know medical stuff. I know technological stuff. I know most of the current rules of writing. And I know Asian because I'm a bloody Asian living in an Asian country. And when I give suggestions and opinions, it's generally to help make a story better. Granted, I get it wrong sometimes (as evidenced with Ben's stories), but you guys know I'm not talking crap, right?

Maybe it's because I don't have an MFA.

But come December, I'm eligible to apply for Associate Membership with SFWA. I've sold, what, 15 stories? Most of them at the first attempt? That says something about my writing, right?

(Yes, I know I'm making you guys roll your eyes and vomit)

When I say a character seems vaguely Japanese, I mean it because I can tell how vague the whole setting is. Malaysia is not Japan, but I grow up watching Japanese shows and learning their culture just as much as my own, and the Westerners'. When I say that, I talk from my own experience writing stories vaguely American (I think the older stories are still in my port). Even I can tell they're not convincingly American.

So. If you dislike my reviewing methods, please tell me straight up, so I can add you to my list of people I don't review. Granted, I need the rest to post more stories so I can meet the quota of 1 review per week, but that's a technicality.

If knowing a little is dangerous, letting people know a little is dangerous too. Why not post the whole story, and let people decide, instead of leading them with a snippet, and let them make conclusions you want them to make.

So, what is good critiquing?

- I don't think this story works. Sorry.
*Some people insist that when a critique say such a thing, he's spot on. But when he elaborates, a writer should be wary.

- OMG, that is such a good story! I don't see why the publisher rejected it, it's so good! It's all right, 7th try is the charm!
*I don't believe in giving false hopes. In my line of work, it's the worst thing I can do (other than killing a patient).

- I want to like this story, but I don't.
* I can be like the editors who reject my stories. Fat load of help that does.

I haven't taken a formal creative writing course. I haven't been to workshops or conferences. But I don't mind spending hundreds on good books on writing, and I recommend the really good ones to my friends. And I don't find them to be self-help books. Those authors have become my teachers, across space and time. And proof that I have learned much from them is my writing. Heck, I know I've improved a lot.

And I want the same from the others. I want people to be published. I want you guys to be famous writers one day, so I can one day bring my children to a massive bookstore overlooking a park with an artificial lake that spews dancing fountains, and tell them, "Look at this shelf. All the different titles, but only one name. You know what? I know this author. We're friends."

No matter. What's done is done. I'll just not review further stories from said author.

Griping session over. Sorry for being a jackass, people.

It Gets Better

2010-10-21T11:55:00.004+08:00

I wanted to write a post about my birthday bash (which was airwolf, by the way), but as I was browsing the net this morning, I came across something much bigger than me, happening on the same day: Spirit Day 2010.

Spirit Day, with its theme It Gets Better, is aimed at giving support to gay youth who are bullied for what they are. A support website has listed statistics pertaining to gay teenage suicide, which can be accessed here. Homosexual teens are 3 to 4 times more likely to commit suicide compared to heterosexual ones. 8 out of 10 homosexual individuals suffer from isolation, and a significant number are subject to physical and/or psychological oppression.

I am a Muslim, and Islam views homosexuality as a sin, as an unnatural deviation of human nature. Hawa (Biblical Eve) had been created to complement Adam, to be his life companion, and to produce future generations so that the human race will survive. I think most organized religions share the same view. However, recent studies have shown that a person may not have a choice in his or her sexual inclination. Sexual preference is a mixture of biological (genetic and hormonal), development and environmental factors. Because of this, people argue that homosexuality is not a choice, not an 'alternative lifestyle'. It is a medical condition, though not necessarily an illness.

So where do we go from here? Science or religion? Let me use a different element as an example. Everyone knows smoking cigarettes is bad for the smoker, but more so for people around them. It is scientifically proven. What's more, Islam considers smoking sinful, as it is hazardous to health. But people have been smoking out in the open for ages, it is considered a social norm. Sometimes, in certain social circles, it is a prerequisite. Some people (like me) are not even the slightest bit piqued by cigarettes and the act of smoking. It's as if we have a mental block against it, and it's not even an active, conscious choice. It's just the way it is. Some people have the urge to smoke, but refrain from doing so for various choices: health, social acceptance, expense, unavailability. Some smoke occasionally, and are able to say "No" at any time. Then there are chain smokers. Studies show that these people have a predisposition to smoking addiction. Some maintain that the chemical contents of a cigarette, especially nicotine, affect the chemicals in a smoker's body, that it causes dependence. Withdrawal can cause adverse physiological and psychological effects.

So how can some people be totally immune to the temptation cigarette-smoking brings, while some cannot help but to smoke even though they're on their deathbed from lung cancer? It is really a lifestyle, a chemical-induced addiction, or an inborn predisposition?

Let me use something closer to home. Psychologists acknowledge marital infidelity as a medical condition. Some people are driven to unfaithfulness for various factors: marital discord, distance, external temptation, falling out of love with one's spouse. The list is almost endless. Some, however, cannot help themselves. They have the urge to be unfaithful even though they are happily married. People also say that men are predisposed to spread their seeds as much as possible. Again, human nature. Maybe this is why Islam condones polygamy, within boundaries. To ensure marital happiness and to avoid infidelity.

What do all these have to do with homosexuality? Say that we take it as an inborn urge. There are plenty of people out there who claim that homosexuality is not a choice. At the same time, people also claim that humans have free will, and what separates us from robots and animals is the freedom of choice. Isn't this a contradiction? People reading this may even say that people don't choose to get cancer. To me, cancer is a condition. People who have cancer, and family members of cancer patients have choices in facing that condition, whether to succumb to the illness and let it prematurely end your life, or to accept it as your lot in life, or to fight it for as long as you can, or even to help others and raise awareness. Same goes for homosexuality, smoking, infidelity, and other conditions. Some people are predisposed to such conditions. They always have a choice (even multiple ones) on how to face these.

Society, especially with Eastern sensibilities, shun homosexuality. People still get beaten to death because if it. Only a small fraction of homosexuals openly declare their sexual preference and lifestyle. Most hide in their closets, afraid of discovery and persecution. Some manage to grow up as a 'normal' person, get married, and have children. This doesn't mean their condition is cured. These people may still have the urge, but keep it repressed. Some families remain reasonably happy, while others end in divorce. But what about those who do not feel the slightest attraction toward the opposite sex, but are afraid to come out of the closet? What about people clinically depressed because of this? Isn't depression hazardous to health? Can we then say homosexuality is an abject sin if repression of the urge can cause more harm?

It's an endless debate, but I will say this: how can a person choose, if he or she doesn't have the freedom of choice? Smoking is hazardous to health, and it is a sin, but why do we see deeply religious people smoke in public, in front of children, at that? Why do people turn a blind eye at this bad influence, but when they see couples of the same sex walk hand-in-hand in public, they wait in a dark corner to jump at these couples and beat them to pulp?

In an ideal society, maybe sometime in the future, the general populace will be more tolerant toward homosexuality. If people look at it as they do smoking, then maybe people with homosexual predisposition will finally have a choice they can make without fear of persecution.

Unfortunately, we do not live in an ideal society. People fear the unknown, the different. Children, even as early as kindergarten age, form social groups. This is human nature, like calls to like. And it is always the same; children who are different usually get left out. Parents actually play a big role in promoting this exclusion. I remember my dad labeling one of my friends as lembut, sotong, pondan -- Malay terms for fagot. He didn't stop me from befriending this kid, but he didn't approve of it either. Indirectly, he was imposing his view of the world onto me. He may not have meant it; he was brought up that way. Apparently my dad was not alone in this. The kid was mercilessly taunted and teased by our peers, and parents who occasionally stick around to monitor their children at school didn't do anything to stop it. Teachers didn't do anything to stop it.

In a way, I'm lucky to have my mom. On the first day of primary school, there was this boy who could not be parted from his father, and had cried loudly in the classroom. He also peed in his pants, and was somehow slower to answer questions than the rest of the class. Other kids jeered and teased him. Honestly, I couldn't be bothered, because my social circle before kindergarten was my elder sister alone, and we were extremely close. I befriended everyone in Kindergarten, even the teachers. So when I entered primary school, I didn't know how to tease and jeer. I just couldn't be bothered, because it was my first day at a new school, in a new environment, and I was overwhelmed. But my mom actually talked to the kid's dad, and made him stay out of sight, and brought the kid along with me and my then-best-friend (our mothers went to college together, so in a classroom of strangers, we became instant best friends) to eat with us during recess.

I think seeing my mom taking him under her wing prompted me to do the same. I was the runt in the class, but I protected the boy against bullies for the next six years, even though we were in different classes. I befriended other outsiders, too. I wasn't exactly the popular kid (all-boys school, go figure), but due to my academic achievements, bullies had skirted around me. Come to think of it, being a teacher's pet (there, I said it) had done the trick, not my achievements.

In school, I had helped those who were bullied. Funnily enough, as I had stated in my earlier post, I ended up psychologically bullied by my peers, and I didn't have anyone to turn to. Because I had tried taking my life when I was 13, suicidal tendencies escaped me when I was bullied at 17. I wanted to escape, wanted a way out, but not through death.

Here's my message to those who read this post: It gets better.

When I finished school, I left everything behind, even friends I used to protect, who still look up to me. When I was in school, I felt as if it was my world. It was, until I finally left it. I discovered there was a much bigger world out there. I have made friends who accept my quirks and oddities, but are still close to me even after over 11 years, friends whom I wanted around me during my birthday bash last night -- and they all came, with the exception of one.

But none of this came easily. When I entered college, I reinvented myself. I had convinced myself that high school Fadz was a loser, an outcast. I made sure I hid certain facets away, so that people wouldn't discovered what had happened. I told myself not to be emotionally close to anyone else. But that isn't my nature. To some, my revealed my true self, even though I was afraid they would run away.

They didn't.

For those who are bullied, hang in there. Get help. If people around you don't seem to care, find a constructive outlet. I found mine in writing. Don't say, "To hell with society" because we don't live in isolation. We need society, as it needs us. Instead of succumbing to despair, use your situation as a tool to succeed later in life. Prove to yourself that you are a potentially great person, and live up to that potential.

Remember, bullies are bullies because they are afraid of the different. Homosexuality, neurotic quirkiness and mental syndromes may be medical conditions, but we are free to choose how to live our lives.

Maybe, one day, society will let us choose without imposing their preset values. Maybe, one day, freedom of choice will really mean what it states.

Until then, hang in there. It gets better.

Tweet, tweet!

2010-10-19T23:37:00.002+08:00

Took me forever, but I finally joined the Twitter community. My user name is fadz_johanabas. Feel free to add me, though I may talk crap most of the time. I'll follow you like a Digi Yellow Guy in return.

Hardcover, too

2010-10-05T01:15:00.005+08:00

This week, God has been especially kind to me. First, I found out that my most anticipated anthology, Aether Age: Helios, is coming out on November 29, to commemorate the publisher's anniversary. I've known the anthology will be out in print, ebook and audiobook, but when I checked the website, I discovered that the anthology will be printed in hardcover, too! How cool is that? Yesterday, when I got back from Midvalley with Reza, I received an acceptance letter from Crossed Genres, for my apocalyptic Science Fiction, Equatorial Snow. It's about geoengineering gone wrong, and the world re-enters the Ice Age, and an expecting Muslim couple faces the threat of losing their precious child. The magazine comes out in print and online formats. Just now, after attending three patients at the emergency unit (on-call today), I received another acceptance letter, this time from Northern Frights Publishing. I submitted Visions, previously published at Expanded Horizons, for their print anthology Fallen: An Anthology of Demonic Horror. The book is coming out later this year. So. Including A Long Sigh Goodnight at CCC Press's Malaysian anthology, Act of Faith at COSMOS and Fountain of Youth at Skive, my stories will exist in print form in 6 book titles. 14 stories published or accepted for publication so far, more than enough to make an anthology of my own. And maybe I will, later, once all publication rights have reverted back to me :).

We All Have Issues

2010-09-29T21:09:00.004+08:00

I just finished reading Jay Asher's "Thirteen Reasons Why". I definitely will write a review on it; it's such a good book. The story deals with the 'snowball effect', where little things, mean things, callous things, all amount to one girl taking her life. Sure, taking your own life is a decision you make on your own. Blaming others is unfair, as if justifying the wrong thing you're doing. But I can relate to Hannah Baker in the book. Sometimes life gets too much, too scary, and even though you're surrounded by people who care about you, sometimes you feel all alone. And when you want so desperately to find one reason to cling on to life, someone will disappoint you. How do I know? I tried taking my own life, once. I still have the scars on my right forearm. Whew. I've never said that in public before. Only a few people knew about this, but I know now that I need to heal. However, I don't want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway. What I am going to come clean about is what happened during the final year of my high school. I went to SJI, an all-boys' school in the middle of KL. I was a runt; I was small and skinny, and I wore clothes 1 size too big (Mama said so I could grow into those clothes, and we wouldn't have to buy new ones -- she was still blindly hoping I would grow, and not stay a midget). But I had never been a bully victim. Even when I first entered school, I defended others who were bullied. Ended up making friends with the bully himself. Imagine this: a chihuahua (the small dog that looks like a rat -- Paris Hilton's dog) defends his human against a bear. Yeah, I'm the chihuahua, but with two 'Immunity Idols', as they use in the Survivor series: a. my excellent grades. People pick on smaller kids, but not when they are academically accomplished (well I was, up to Form 3). b. in high school, my status as 'Lisha's younger brother'. Boys older than me kept on asking me to say hi to my sister for them. Of course, I often replied with "Go to hell", but that didn't seem to deter anyone. Chihuahua, remember? Make that 3. I've forgotten I had another reason, one that played a significant role in defining me in later years. So here it is: c. I would freely give whatever extra money I had to anyone who needed it, and I also had this big-ass pencil case that fitted a stapler and a lot of pens and pencils, and paper clips. I even brought a paper puncher to school. I was a walking stationery shop, minus the business transactions. People liked me because I could supply them with things they needed. Anyway, I remained a geek, but a happy one. No one disturbed me as I leaned against a pillar and read the Dragonlance series I borrowed from my friend Ming-Han. Well, teachers did try to confiscate the books, but I told them that I was reading a book, instead of jumping around making noise or drawing graffiti or skipping school to smoke. Saved my books every time. Yeah, I had no fear of authority figures even back then. Form Four (equivalent to Junior Year) was the best year of my life. I had two best buds, one an Indian and one a Chinese (eat that, 1Malaysia campaigners). I held the post of junior editor of Garudamas, our school yearbook. I was failing my Additional Mathematics and Physics, but only because I hated the teachers who taught them (I heard one of them was a much better tutor at his private tuition center -- heh, money does make some people better). I aced other subjects, but Mama kept screaming in my ear about how I could have let red letters ruin my report card. Toward the end of that school year, a transfer student came in. A hockey jock. I couldn't be bothered at first, but we were in one of the top classes, and he was flunking almost everything. You know me and my lost causes. I helped out with whatever I could, at first, but the more I got to know him, the more I was intrigued. His life was less than perfect, and after a few months, he admitted it, and we instantly became close friends. I was still close with my two buddies, but I spent less and less time with them. Yeah, I know where this is headed. So let me set things clear right off the bat. I wasn't romantically inclined with him. Sure, I admit he was good-looking. But so are my cats, and I love them, but never romantically so. Sometimes I think of myself as a leech (or a tapeworm). Once I get attached to someone, I tend to be a bit clingy -- I did say I want to come clean, right? I want their world to be a better place, and I go all out to do it, even when it's saving a whole week's allowance (translation: minimal purchase during breaks and lunches) so we could have lunch at McDonald's after Friday prayers, my treat. I know. The perfect setting for a psycho-stalker story. And you may be right. We were great friends, the two of us. I would go to his house to tutor him Mathematics. Mama would have killed me if she had found out I didn't go home straight, but went to my friend's house after school instead. During weekends, I would spend time on the phone trying to get him to get the correct answers. In turn, I got an A for my Additional Mathematics during the first-term exam in my senior year. After failing throughout Form Four. Go figure. All my grades went back up, actually. And after Friday prayers, we would just chill. Not saying anything, not doing anything, just stayed in the mosque and...chilled. You have that too, right? Someone whom you can spend time with, without having to say anything, but still enjoy the comfortable silence? I had that. I loved it. That was when I didn't have to be the over-achiever who's too afraid to disappoint anyone. Someone who used to be a friend of mine since primary school talked about what happened in the mosque to the two buddies of mine (one's a Buddhist and one's a Hindu, so they had no reason to go to the mosque with me). Well, I had trusted that particular friend, too. I had spent 2 entire months not going to the canteen during rest breaks back in Standard Four just because that friend had his arm in a cast, and didn't want to get jostled about by other boys. I had (still have) issues, I tell you. So what did my 2 buddies do? Spread rumors behind my back that I was gay. Naturally, when this close friend of mine heard about it, he started distancing himself. Things started to go downhill form there. I couldn't figure out, at first. All I knew was one of the only reasons I felt good about myself was drifting away. And when he started dating and spent less and less time with me, I freaked out. Needless to say, I did a lot of stupid things, things I won't mention here because I know they'll make excellent material for a YA novel, dammit! One thing I will mention, though. One day I got too far. Our school's Sports Day, to be exact. I had entered a 4 x 200m track race (didn't win, but that was the first time I entered a sport event in high school!). My friend ran, too, in several events, and won medals (well, he was a jock). We had planned to grab lunch together, along with other close friends of ours, but at the very last minute he canceled, to go out with his girlfriend instead. I snapped. I stampeded toward the girl (1 year older), grabbed her shoulders, and slammed her against the wall. I had made a vow to myself long before that, that I would never hit a woman, and I renewed my vow after that. What I did was wrong. Immediately after I realized what I did, I knew I had much to atone for. Sometimes, even though over 12 years have passed, I relive that moment. I relive that shame. I didn't care about other people's reactions. I saw the surprise and pain in her eyes, and the betrayal in his. If I could go back in time, that moment gets to be top priority. I lost my friend for good, and deservedly so. Retrospectively, had I been cool with his girlfriend, we would have stayed friends. Maybe. Well, maybe not. Other people started to distance themselves even further. One stormy day, I climbed onto the roof of our Form Five block, not to kill myself, but to just get away from the looks my classmates were giving me. That friend of mine? We were no longer in talking terms (he even shifted his seat to the back), but he came after me. He found me sitting against the wall, crying. He may not have seen my tears, because we were both drenched. And he sat there, beside me, without saying anything. Remember the comfortable silence I talked about? He gave me that, one last time. And I'm eternally grateful for it. But the others? The two friends I had trusted so much actually ran to the library at the building across the field from ours, where they could see the rooftop scene unfolding. They brought a few hangers-on with them. I found out later that they actually placed bets on whether I would jump or not. Those backstabbing bastards. I was adrift after that. Those two friends of mine stopped talking to me altogether, even though we hung out occasionally (I didn't know their schemes at that time). But my breaking point? When one of them walked in a rush, and I had to run to catch up with him. Then he turned toward me, with his finger pointed at my face. I can still recall this vividly (the curse of my good memory). This is what he hissed at me: "You either walk in front of me, or behind me. Don't ever walk beside me." If I had known how to skip school, I would have. I made excuses not to go to school, pretending to be sick. Sometimes it worked, but only occasionally. By then, we had covered all of our syllabuses, and classes were mainly for revisions. Whenever I was at school, I buried my nose in my storybooks even though what I needed to do was study. I ate alone. Most of all, I would borrow the editorial room key from my teacher, Mrs. Brahma, to escape from everyone, including myself. I would lock the room, to immerse myself in old school magazines, in my revision, but most of all, so that I could freely cry. Since I had attempted suicide years before that, I knew that it was not worth it. But it didn't mean I had to love life. Then a miracle of sorts happened. My computer broke down, taking with it all soft-copies of my yearbook. I was the Editor-in-Chief, by the way. It was already August, so close to the deadline where we had to submit our files to the printer, and much too close to our final exam (end October). Other Form Five Garudamas members couldn't help me, and I didn't mind. That exam took priority. The two friends of mine? They were also in Garudamas. Found out later that they played a role in deterring everyone else from helping. Losing all the files was a disaster, so how could it have been a miracle? I had my junior Garudamas members to help me retype everything. And since other seniors no longer worked on the magazine, I had free reign to redesign it the way I saw fit. Mrs. Brahma encouraged me. We bought professional magazines and bounced ideas off each other. I suspect she knew something was wrong with my life, but she didn't prod. Instead, she helped me focus on repairing my school magazine. We did more than that, so much more. We redesigned the entire magazine. And you know what? 1998 was the year when Garudamas became more than just another school magazine. We became a benchmark. From then on, Garudamas became the envy of other school magazines. I'm not sure if it still is, but Mrs. Brahma and I, we initiated a change. How many people can say the same? Both of us share that special bond, and we still reminisce, whenever we get to meet each other. Mama blamed Garudamas for my shitty SPM results, though. She kept on insisting that had I not spent too much time with the magazine, I would have gotten much better results. I defended myself by saying Garudamas was the one thing that kept me on track, but she wouldn't listen. I didn't explain why, either. She had too much in her hands to worry about, and I didn't think she would understand, anyway. I wasn't underestimating my own mother. Can you understand what went on with my life back then? Can you honestly read all that and not think I'm either gay or crazy or both? Most of my extended family members think I am gay. I'm almost 29 and I don't even have a girlfriend. To be honest, I had one, back in uni. We didn't declare it or anything, but all my friends could tell that I loved her. She knew I loved her. I even had a confusing relationship with a faculty member, later on. That didn't end well. I'm not in a relationship not because I'm gay. The truth is, I do not have the capacity to love and care for another person because I hate myself. I hate myself for the things I did, and for being a people-pleaser. I'm not exactly ugly, but I'm not good-looking, either. I have this demented view that people will only like me if I have something to offer, and with the people closest to me (including family), I push them away to test them. I still fantasize about what would happen if I die in an accident. I won't intentionally hurt myself, but I can be reckless during surgery as well as on the road. Only when I'm driving alone, though. So, being in a relationship will be unfair for the unlucky woman. Of course, people want to introduce me to their younger sisters and/or their daughters (mostly because I'm a sweet, good guy, I think), but I have too many skeletons in my closet. Do I want to be in a relationship? A lot of my stories are about relationships, so that says everything. But I have to learn to accept, to love myself first. So some of you wondered where I get materials for my stories. My life's a never-ending drama, and writing is how I channel my emotions. I hit the lowest point in my life in my second year of university. The stress was too much. I turned to my family. I told Mama I wanted to quit Medical School. She immediately scolded me, saying I almost gave her a heart attack so early in the morning. I shut her out for over a week, after that. I briefly thought about offing myself, but I wrote about a girl who committed suicide instead. Turned out to be one of my strongest stories back then, and I immediately felt better. I always turn back to writing whenever I feel a strong need to vent. Have you heard about the term 'altruism'? In psychology, it means a person's selflessness to benefit others, without obvious benefit to the person, and may cost the person in the process. There's a point when altruism overlaps with hedonism (pain gives pleasure). One of the only reasons I love my job is because by saving other people's lives, I don't have to deal with my own. I can put my life on hold while I deal with life and death situations. Sometimes I jump to do CPR without taking precautions such as wearing an apron and gloves. Nurses call me to help patients even though they're supposed to call other doctors, and I can never say no to them. I give everything I have at work, so that when I get home, I'm too tired and too drained to be of any use to my family. At least I don't have to deal with my life, or lack of it. If you've read this far, I'm sure you won't look at me the same way ever again. I'm sure some of you will even say, "So what? We all have problems. Deal with it." And you're right. I will. Someday. Is this a suicide note? Far from it. I may have issues, but one suicide attempt is more than enough in this lifetime. I've been feeling depressed and repressed, and I needed to decompress. And I do feel better. I honestly do. To that best friend of mine, to Sani, even though he won't ever read this, I am sorry. I truly am. You're a good guy, bro. To Mama, despite everything, in spite of everything, and because of everything, I am where I am today because of you. That I'm broken inside is my doing. That I'm a decent, successful and kind-hearted man, that's all you. To Reza, brother in everything but blood, I've done a lot of shitty things to push you away, but you've always been my anchor during stormy days. You've kept my sanity intact. To anyone reading this, thank you.

The One That Jumpstarted My Journey

2010-09-24T19:01:00.004+08:00

I think I've mentioned much earlier that I started writing (and publishing) in 1997, back when I was in Form 4. 'A Mother's Love' -- that's the name of the story published in Garudamas, my school magazine. A Fantasy, about a family of wolves. I still wince whenever I read the story; I can't believe I was so proud of it! Stopped writing after Form 5, and restarted in 2001. Back then I had plenty to express, and writing short stories had been an outlet for all my frustrations and wants. Some of the stories were dark, but most were filled with a longing to belong. Long story, one I'd rather not delve into. I stopped writing again, and restarted in 2004. Didn't produce as much, and I have to admit, they were still amateurish. Not that my stories are any professional now, but still. After I started working, I lost touch with this facet of myself. I was happy, I was busy, I didn't have that many things to vent. Then, late 2008, Tita found me on Friendster (yes, I still have the account, though I've not accessed it for over a year now). She was the one who pushed me to rediscover writing. She also pushed me to enter the MPH-Alliance Short Story Competition, whose deadline was end March 2009. I contemplated on it, but I knew I had to hone my skill first. I don't have formal training, so my earlier writings were all intuition and no knowledge whatsoever of the rules. I started buying books on writing, one after another, sometimes 2 to 3 at a time. And I have to be honest; they don't come cheap. Prices range from RM60 to over RM120. Before buying these books, I had been buying books and magazines on photography, a passion my siblings and I share. So that kind of prompted me to buy books on writing. I thought, "Hey, if I can learn photography through these books, why not writing?" Why not, indeed. The more I read the books, the more I discovered how ignorant I was about this craft. It wasn't until early 2009 before I was ready to actually start writing something for the competition. Now that it's far behind me, I think I'm ready to admit the reasons I wanted so badly to win. The laptop interested me more than the first place additional prize money. Sure, I could use an extra RM5000, but the laptop enticed me. Could I afford one? Sure, more or less. However, I own a custom-made PC, and most of my money go to periodically upgrading my ware. Buying a laptop meant I would be using the money I could have spent on upgrades (I'm a geek that way). Well, I own an Alienware laptop now (can't actually use the term laptop or notebook -- the freakin' thing's heavy!). So I guess the not winning the prize didn't matter much. One thing mattered, though. More than the prize, I was aiming for recognition. I wanted to establish a platform from which I could launch my writing 'career'. In Malaysia (and maybe in everywhere else), you're nothing until and/or unless you're a somebody (or knows a Somebody). The first story I wrote is something very personal to me. Working in Neurosurgery, I see a lot of lives shattered, countless potentials squandered, from road traffic accidents (we call them motor vehicle accidents here). I always worry about Faiz because he drives more recklessly than I do, and he does it half-asleep more often than not. So I wrote a story about two brothers who love and respect each other in their own way. When the younger brother meets with an accident and becomes comatose, life as they knew it ended. Though the recurring theme of A Long Sigh Goodnight is about death, the actual premise is how disasters and deaths affect the loved ones left behind, how they pick up the pieces. I've written about deaths before -- in fact, I have more stories with a character's death than those with 'happily ever after' endings -- but nothing this up close and personal. The other story, The Last Anniversary, is a love story. I'm not sure what to say about this one. Do I love it? I do. Do I have as much conviction with this one as I do with A Long Sigh Goodnight? I've stopped attempting to place the story after a couple of tries, so that may say it all. I may submit the story to a non-paying market, or even self-publish it as an ebook for USD0.99. That's a thought, actually. Needless to say, I didn't make the cut. Judging from Sharon Bakar's relpy after receiving a copy of both stories once the competition had ended, my stories didn't even make the long list, which means the staff at MPH had rejected my stories in their first pass, so the professional judges did not get to read them. However, I didn't go into another self-imposed Writer's Block as I had expected earlier. I knew then, as I know now, that the stories, especially A Long Sigh Goodnight, are good; publishable, even. From the knowledge I gained from all those books about writing, I joined an online writing community, Writing Dot Com. I entered a daily contest for flash fiction (stories under 1000 words), and I won more than 75% of the time. I joined a smaller group within the community, one that is focused on publication. I posted my two stories, along with the newer ones I wrote, to be torn apart and analyzed by fellow writers, to be criticized with blunt honesty. Somehow I didn't submit A Long Sigh Goodnight to another market. It didn't feel right, to attempt publication at non-paying or small press markets. I made first internationally recognized fiction market with "Mother", a story I wrote for the daily flash competition. Thanks to Sarah, of course, who recommended that I submit it to QLRS. Then I made USD30 for a horror story I wrote for my writing group's challenge. I collected further acceptances among heaps of rejections, but still I didn't send out A Long Sigh Goodnight. Until, of course, I came across Sharon Bakar's blog about a call for submission for a Malaysian anthology, edited by Dr. Emma Dawson of Worldlits (CCC Press), based in UK. I knew then it was the perfect market for my special story. I submitted as quickly as I could. That was back in February this year. Dr. Dawson periodically updated those who submitted. Life went on for me, and I wrote and published more stories. Sometime last month, a Singaporean writer received an acceptance letter for a Singaporean anthology by the same editor. There was a contractual clause she was concerned about, where the publisher reserves the right to abridge accepted stories, and retain publication rights until they decide to stop publication runs for the anthology. Also, there's something about other publishers having to pay them should they decide to publish a reprint. Since I haven't seen a copy of the contract, I opined that she publish it anyway. After all, writers, like other artists, have the capacity to write more, better pieces, in fact. Of course, I got thrashed for it. A commenter accused me of condoning exploitation, and that for me, the end justifies the means. Well, that brought about my post. If you know what your rights are, if you know what you're getting into, and you willingly agree with the contract, it's not exploitation. So, in the middle of the night last Tuesday (was on-call), I received this mail:

Dear Fadzlishah Johanabas bin Rosli, I am pleased to inform you that your story 'A Long Sigh Goodnight' has been accepted for CCC Press's forthcoming anthology of short stories from Malaysia, to be published in 2011. Your story will be published subject to contract and conditional upon your agreeing editorial changes which may be discussed between you and the editor, Dr Emma Dawson. A contract will be issued to you in due course by CCC Press and if necessary you should discuss contractual (rather than editorial) matters with CCC Press once the contract has been issued. Note that Dr Dawson is not involved in contractual matters.

I will be a part of a Malaysian anthology! A piece that didn't even make the competition's long list will be published by an established international publisher. Granted, only 30 or so submitted for this one (we could submit 2 stories each, I think), but I saw names of established authors and journalists along with mind, during the correspondences. Granted, some of them may have pulled their pieces out after the debacle about publishing rights and 'exploitation' (there were some immature comments, coming from professional grown-ups). Still, an acceptance is an acceptance, and I'm more than happy my story has found a home, accessible by the whole world. Should the anthology come out, I'll be part of the images of Malaysia visualized by people who have never seen our shores. If by this the end justify the means for me, if by this I'm selling out a story dear to my heart, if by this I'm ruining a chance for future inclusion in an anthology of my own, I think the sacrifice is worth it. For I am a step closer toward my ultimate goal: to walk into a bookstore and see a book with my name on the spine.

The Door Opens Wider

2010-09-11T23:54:00.004+08:00

As I said earlier, I had a patient at around 03:00. When I got back to my room around 03:20, 2 emails came my way. One will potentially change my life forever:

I'm relieved to report that your story (now retitled "Act of Faith") has been accepted by editor Wilson da Silva for the December 2010 issue of COSMOS. The fee offered is $AU 300.00. I hope this is acceptable. Sorry again for the delay. Damien Broderick

This will me my first professional market sale. I'm getting around RM750, and that's a HUGE amount for a short story, but most important is that it will open doors. Most professional markets will only look at writers seriously if they have another professional market credit. COSMOS has over 100,000 readership, and stories there get reviewed by people that carry weight in the Science Fiction market. I'm not sure if people will take it well, as the story is about a robot embracing Islam, but still. Once this story is published, I can no longer be considered a 'new writer'. Some markets will be closed for me, but a bigger pool has just opened up. Exciting times.

A new Raya experience

2010-09-11T23:24:00.003+08:00

Working during the first day of Raya wasn't so bad, after all. Sure, Shiraz called me at 01:30 to make sure I wasn't wallowing at home, all alone (he read my previous post). Nadiah invited me over (not in the middle of the night. For Raya. You pervs). But the following morning was something else altogether. I wore my best baju melayu to work. The one that cost me RM700, initially worn when I was IZ's best man. Needless to say, people were impressed. Some even took photos. Hah! Anyway, it drizzled all morning, but instead of casting a certain gloom, it made the atmosphere pleasantly cooling. I brought the lemang along, and gave 3 to each ward. The nurses brought other kinds of food, so after ward rounds, we had a blast eating. Everyone loved the lemang I brought. Been buying it for years, so I didn't notice the high quality. The whole day was quiet-ish, and knowing how my calls usually are, my colleague Irina got highly agitated when I had no cases to discuss. Had one big case, though, a perforated gastric ulcer (in plain English: a man had a gaping hole in his stomach, with all the stomach contents spilling out and contaminating the space between the bowels). Managed to finish 2 movies, Forever Strong and She's the Man. Yeah, talk about how free my call was. Still, had a case near midnight, and another at 03:00. So in the end, I managed to sleep about 4 hours before I could safely leave the hospital. Bought McDonald's Big Breakfast on my way home, and I arrived just about the same time Reza did. Opened the door, and almost gagged at the stench of cat waste. Both Keeno and Chiqa were hungry, so fed them first before I cleaned piss, shit and vomit. All three. Joy. Had breakfast, took a quick shower, and left home at 09:30. Had cat fur all over me from sending the two rascals to the vet for boarding. Amost broke my heart, seeing the fear and sadness in their eyes. So. Streets were clear. Reza drove at a leisurely speed, and we made it to the bust terminal around 10:05. The bus was already there, and I didn't want to keep Reza waiting, so I boarded the bus after buying drinks (his treat). Initially planned to continue reading Breaking Dawn (yes, I do read the Twilight Saga), but the guy beside me was the friendly type, so we ended up talking half the trip. Slept for a while after that, woke up intermittently due to discomfort, and finally arrived in JB at 15:15. Paksu and Fizal picked me up, and we went straight to Mama's cousin's house. Slept in the evening, woke up in time to eat lontong (been craving for it, sigh). So here I am, staring at my laptop, with my phone tethered as a modem. I can't live without the Internet, I tell you. Oh. I know this post is mundane as mundane can get, but I have something big to share. It deserves a post of its own, though. Selamat Hari Raya from JB!

And to all, a good night

2010-09-09T21:13:00.003+08:00

I knew this day would come. All my life, my family and I would drive back to JB to celebrate the Eid (or Raya, in my language) the day before Raya itself. I can still recall our trips back in the days before the North-South PLUS highway. It would take us between 6 and 8 hours to get there from KL. My parents would be up front in our silver Isuzu trooper, with Kasha sprawled across the back seat, and Faiz and I, well, our parents would organize our luggage, the food warmer, a large number of tubs and containers filled with rendang, biscuits, cakes, and other foodstuff, and then lay the pink-and-gray-stripes sofa mattress over the cargo. That was where my brother and I hung out for the duration of the long drive. We would always stop at this particular mamak shop at Yong Peng, and Mama would take the chance to do some pottery shopping (typical). Back then, Raya used to be magical. Partly because we were eligible to collect packets of money whenever we went visiting relatives, or when they came to our grandparents' homes. But most important, we got to meet up with our grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins. Yeah, we're bad relatives that way, only meeting up occasionally (at least once a year, though). But life happened. My favorite cousins, the Roslans, moved to Perth in 1989. Then my dad's parents passed away one year apart. Dad's siblings sorta drifted apart (family drama). We made new traditions. Every year, on the first day of Raya, we would go visiting our grandparents' graves. We would always get ourselves lost, but whenever I go there, I can recall their general position, as well as the grave numbers. We'd stay at Mama's parents' house for the whole duration of our stay in JB, and when we could no longer visit relatives in Singapore (more family drama), we'd meet them at my grandparents' house. With the completion of the highway, our drive became significantly shorter. It usually takes us just over 3 hours to get there, but since I started driving, I would aim for a shorter time. I once drove there just over 2 1/2 hours. I always get sleepy midway, and have to stop at an R&R whenever I notice the car veering off sideways, but whenever Mama asks if I am tired or sleepy, I'd just wave it off and tell her I need to pee. Inside the gents, I'd splash water on my face, and give my cheeks a good slap to wake myself up. Our little secret, hear? In 1999 I went off to Kulim, Kedah, for my 1-year pre-university course. The environment during the last days before Raya was amazing. We would exchange cards -- well, truth be told, the girls were the ones giving out Raya cards. I'm not so good at returning in kind. I made an early trip to Bukit Mertajam (1 hour bus ride) to secure tickets for myself, Reza, and Izwan (my 2 best buddies). They insisted I was overdoing it, but when the actual day came, quite a number of our coursemates ended up stranded at the bus station because they couldn't get any tickets. Hah! It was just as fun when I was in Kubang Kerian, Kelantan, during my 5 years in Medical school. The only difference is, I had to buy A LOT of serunding (beef and fish floss) for Mama to distribute among family members. I had 1 whole big suitcase for the serunding alone. I kid you not. And since I would always carry my heavy CPU along (didn't have a laptop; I like to upgrade my computer system, so laptops didn't give me much freedom in that department), I would have luggage almost impossible for me to carry alone. Somehow I managed. Looked like a turtle doing it, but I managed all the same. For the whole five years, I made the 8-hour bus trip with close friends of mine, Zay, Zila, Sina and Ayue (also known as the KLites). However, the Raya environment itself had lost some of its magic. Maybe because I was growing out of it. Maybe because I no longer received money packets. Maybe because my cousins were growing up as well, and had their own friends they'd rather hang out with. Still, we maintained our family tradition, with improvisation. When we reach JB, we don't go home straight, but we would do some last-minute shopping. On our way to our grandparents' house, we'd stop by this awesome stall to buy ikan bakar (smoked fish) and the famous JB-ABC (they use cocoa instead of the funky-colored syrups used elsewhere). In 2007, my grandma passed away. It's a shame you didn't get to know her. She was one supremely lovable lady. Most of my fondest memories going back to JB revolve around her. Naturally, Raya that year was bleak. Mama and Mak Su kept on weeping whenever they recalled the things Tok Mak would do during Raya. After that, Raya was never the same. There's always something missing. Kasha got married the same year. The following Raya, she celebrated the first days of Raya at her husband's parent's in Pekan, Pahang. Ayis and Kasha gave us a surprise, though. They arrived at my grandparent's doorstep on the third day of Raya. They wanted Tok Bak to meet the latest addition to our family, Arwen. Suffice to say Mama went watery-eyed. Now, back to my opening statement. I always managed to celebrate Raya with my family in JB. Not this year, though. I started my General Surgery rotation in July, and when I found out all the Medical Officers in the department are Muslims, I immediately offered myself to be on-call on the first day of Raya (which is tomorrow). The major reason is that I don't want to rush back to KL to get to work and be on-call the third day of Raya or something. So now I'll be on leave for one whole week. Word. Since Raya has lost its magic for me, I thought it'll just be another weekend call. Oh, boy, I thought wrong. I let Faiz drive my car back to JB, and I'm using Ayis's Satria to work (manual transmission -- lucky I still remember how to drive it!). Kasha, Ayis and Arwen have gone off to Pekan earlier this morning, so I didn't get to send them off. Most of the Medical Officers in my department took the latter half of the day off, but I stayed (until 4pm, at least) because I had to cover my ward. Fair enough, since I'll be on leave next week. I thought about breaking my fast at the Curve, but ended up buying Burger King on my way back, and popped on a movie while I waited for Maghrib (19:20). For the first time, I heard the Raya prayer-recital from the mosque near my house. Well, every year I hear the same recital during Aidil Adha (another Eid, but not as grand as this one -- in my part of the country, that is). But it doesn't feel the same, that recital. Hearing the recital, it all came to me in a rush. I miss celebrating Raya, one of the supposed constants in my life. I miss being with my family while ushering the Raya in. I'm taking the 10:30 bus to JB on Saturday, but I've already missed the greatest joy of all: the night before Raya. The magic has never disappeared; I'm the one who tuned it out. @23:45 Took a break; ended up waiting in queue for 1 1/2 hours to buy lemang Pak Ali (glutinous rice cooked with coconut milk, within big bamboo trunks). Promised my nurses working tomorrow I will bring the lemang, while they bring other Raya-related foodstuff. I always treat my workmates as an extended family, so I hope tomorrow I won't feel so bad missing out on my own family gathering. So, for the first time ever, I'll be spending the first day of Raya alone-ish. I asked for it, so I'm not complaining. Just didn't think I would feel so hollow inside. At any rate, for those of you celebrating Raya, Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri. I hope you'll forgive all my previous transgressions. I hope you're having a fine time with your family, be them your own, your in-laws, or your fellow colleagues. As for the rest, I bid you all a good night. May your dreams be pleasant, and may tomorrow be sweet. Peace be to all.

Random Monday

2010-08-23T18:43:00.003+08:00

OK, check this out: I was not supposed to be in the operating theater (OT) today, but a colleague had to attend a court case, and asked me to take her place in the OT. When I arrived, I found out that one of the cases had been canceled, so my short OT list became somewhat shorter. We finished our other 2 listed cases by 13:00. The Anesthetic MO, being kind and generous, offered to proceed with a short case listed in the other (long) OT. We finished that case by 14:00, so my surgeon asked to proceed with another short case, which the Anesthetic people obliged (much to my surprise). We finished just before 15:00, which is the limit for our short OT. I initially wanted to go home straight, but decided to hang around my ward first. Rounds had just finished, so I had nothing to do; I went to the other ward. Left the hospital around 16:00, but since my petrol warning light flared orange, I went to fill my tank up at a nearby Shell first. Somehow my credit card got jammed, and I had to waste a few minutes there (apparently I had to lift the nozzle and replace it first, before the machine released my card). Just as I was passing by the hospital, my specialist called and asked if I could give him a ride home at Ampang (he lost his keys, or someone took them; we're not quite sure). I said, "Sure, no problem." I drove him to his house, and headed back home. Then I saw a flyover headed for KLCC and Jalan Tun Razak. I took a sharp left, much to a van driver's chagrin. Too late, I realized I took the AKLEH (Ampang-KL Elevated Highway), which doesn't have an exit until after the toll booth in the middle of KL. I know, right? It was already 16:40 by then. Since I was already there, I decided to head for KLCC (specifically Kinokuniya). Wanted to buy Suzanne Collin's Hunger Games trilogy, but the final part will only come out tomorrow or something (hardcover -- I plan to buy paperback). So I didn't. Throughout my foray into KLCC, I kept on thinking about buying some beef lasagna for Mama (she loves the lasagna sold at the Italian stall at the food court). When I did manage to get a hold of her and asked her if she wanted lasagna, her voice suddenly went bright when she said, "I've been thinking about eating lasagna the whole day. I actually wanted to ask if you were going to KLCC this weekend. You read my mind!" So, children. No, you're missing the point. I'm not a telepath. I'm not even an empath, just occasionally empathic. I'm talking about fate here. Well, beef lasagna may not count as a Big Event that requires divine intervention, but if I didn't do all the random things I would not have normally done on a typical day, I wouldn't have ended up buying lasagna the day Mama felt a craving. Weird, huh?

Book Review: Without Anchovies

2010-08-22T18:23:00.005+08:00

I found this anthology by Chua Kok Yee beside Clutch, Brake, Sellerator and Other Stories the other day at Kinokuniya. Truthfully, I am partial to book covers. Contrary to what the saying goes, I believe that book covers play an important role in presenting a first impression. The cover has to be interesting enough for people to pick the book up. I found this book's cover drab and uninspiring with a dull background of dried flowers, and a cheap title font. I don't care if the author himself designed the cover; there are certain things a publisher needs to look out for (like potential book sales, for one). The only reason I paid the RM30 price tag is because I collect Malaysian-English anthologies. With that in mind, I picked up the book prepared not to be impressed. Read enough Malaysian-English short stories, and you'll discover that a majority of them have trick or hanging endings, as well as deus ex machina (god of the machine, aka WTF?!) plot where something totally new and unrelated with the story so far is introduced toward the end to create an unexpected ending. I don't know if it's something inherently Malaysian, but Malaysian editors and publishers seem to accept such stories as publishable materials. Try this with even small-press publishers outside Malaysia, you'll be given a prompt form rejection slip. Back to this particular book. Bad cover aside, the paper quality is what I've come to expect from Silverfish Books. Smooth, high grade paper, and a clean layout. So that's a plus. But the book could have benefited from a more thorough editing process. The table of contents shows an impressive list of 22 stories, but seeing how thin the book is (171 pages), I knew from the start to expect flash fiction inside. I have to clearly state that the first story, Sambal Without Anchovies, took me by surprise. It's a simple tale about a father-son relationship, and a nasi lemak (coconut milk rice) stall, but nothing is simple about the storytelling. Maybe the dialogue could use a little work to bring out the characters, but the story is beautiful as it is. I was duly impressed when I finished reading it. Maybe Chua Kok Yee is a different breed of Malaysian-English author, after all, I thought. Unfortunately, the rest of the book falls flat. Most of the flash fictions are vignettes and not full stories (Dinner, Embracing Your Shadow, Cruel Mother, and Monthly Winners, to name a few). Some, like Smoking Can Kill, feel like a public service advertisement, with the author being distant and heavy-handed. The concept is there, but Chua could have invested more in personalizing the characters, and making the message subtler. And despite having Malaysian names, a lot of the characters and stories have Western sensibilities. Armed robberies in Malaysia involve plenty of parang (machetes) and other melee weapons, but seldom pistols and shotguns due to the fact that such things are almost bloody impossible to get here. You may be able to smuggle guns, but what happens when the ammo runs out? Even police officers nowadays are trigger-happy, just to show how seldom they get to use their issued-guns. Die Like a Dog, interesting as the story is, feels more American than Malaysian because of this. Armed robberies aside, the way some of the characters talk and act echoes stories set in Western countries. Since I'm all about character-driven stories, quite a significant number of stories in this anthology disappointed me. A story is not Malaysian just because you slap local names on the characters. A story is not Malaysian just because the characters eat nasi lemak, roti canai, murtabak, or whatnot. A story is certainly not Malaysian just because the characters use Manglish (but it certainly colors the story, when used correctly). We are a people steeped in culture and Eastern sensibilities. No matter how modern you are, people raised in Malaysia retain a certain amount of these sensibilities. Reading some of these stories reminded me of the stories I wrote when I was much younger. I had difficulty accepting Malaysian characters using English, so I wrote stories with vaguely Western settings. Then I tried using local names, but the stories didn't feel right, didn't feel local. Now, having Westerners loving my stories partly because of the exotic settings and values, I think I'm doing all right. Sorry. Enough about me. I found that some of the stories, such as Saviours in the Night and The Wall Dragons tread dangerously close to having a typical Malaysian-English story device (mentioned above). While there are interesting moments, like A Cemetery Story, Moving Home and Thieving Daughter, lackluster characterization and underdeveloped descriptive writing hampered them from reaching their full potential. Still, despite my disappointment in other stories in this book, Sambal Without Anchovies shows me the potential Chua has in becoming a brilliant writer. If he can write something like that, he certainly can reproduce the same quality and success in other stories, if not better. With more experience, I am quite certain Chua will be a much better writer. I will certainly look out for more from him. So is this book worth RM30? While not impressive, it's not bad, either. The author shows promise, and even though I would have appreciated more descriptions and deeper characterization, the writing is in general clean. Should this book go into reprint, however, the cover needs a major revamp.

Book Review: Clutch, Brake, Sellerator and other stories

2010-08-16T20:11:00.006+08:00

I finally made it to Kinokuniya yesterday (I rarely go to KLCC now that I'm working at H. Selayang), and found a collection of Malaysian-English books displayed near the main entrance. Much to my delight, I found Clutch, Brake, Sellerator and Other Stories there (was dreading I would only find it at MPH). So, what's so special about this book? MPH and Alliance Bank collaborated in a national English short story competition held between October 2008 and April 2009 (or something like that; I can't remember the exact dates). I submitted two stories, but I don't think they even made the longlist. So, when the winners were announced in July 2009, I wanted so bad to read the winning entries -- there were 2 grand prize winners, and 4 shortlisted stories. At first all I wanted to know was how those stories could win when mine didn't. Even though the stories I submitted were the first two I wrote after 4 years of silence, I know for a fact they didn't suck. Maybe they weren't literary enough, but, whenever I pick them up for a re-read, I know they're quite good. That was then. Now, with 7 stories published and quite a few more under consideration for publication, I know that my stories likely didn't make it because they didn't suit the judges' taste, and not because of my lack of competency as a writer. So when I sat down with this book in my hands, I read for the pleasure of reading. There's not a hint of bitterness, honest. So I wrote this review both as a reader and as an editor (I edit, review and tear apart my writing group members' works, most of which are now published). Tan Twan Eng, in his story Some Things Will Remain, tells a poignant tale about the extent a mother is willing to go through to save her relationship with her only child, and of the repercussions of her decisions. While the story is beautifully told, the prose is a tad overblown. The narrative and dialogue voices of the main character, told from the first person perspective, are inconsistent and differ greatly. Had the story been narrated in the third person, it would be much more believable. Ivan Yeo's Clutch, Break, Sellarator is a refreshing read. A coming-of-age story, it serves as a warning to those who have just earned their driver's license. Using Manglish definitely lends color to the story, but what I like the most is the distinct narrator's voice, which is full of character. However, Ivan manages to jumble up his tenses -- not in a good way -- throughout the story, and the piece is littered with style/formatting issues. But I don't mind them that much. What's really disappointing is the ending. With the easy, conversational pace throughout the story, the end feels rushed and anti-climatic. He certainly could have played with the ending more. Still, it's an enjoyable read and I won't mind a re-read. I like reading Shih-Li Kow's Pilling Time. She has opted for omnipresent third-person narration, told in a fairytale-like style. Reading the story reminds me of the game The Sims, where the player can stop time and that particular community will go on, leading their lives blissfully unaware that for them, time has frozen. That is, until the player gets bored and reactivates the age button. A clean story, with good, constant pacing. Unlike the rest of the winning entries, the story doesn't have that Malaysian feel to it. However -- and I agree with her statement -- in her very own words: "Is a story recognisably Malaysian only because it is populated with local names, or because of the way dialogue is written, or because of references to teh tarik, nasi lemak, roti canai and all those staples we employ to colour a story?" I do, however, question the judges' decision with Vincent Foo's The Cobra's Mate. The story violates at least half of the basic rules on writing. It seems to have been told from limited third person Point of View, but perspectives are changed with reckless abandon from one character to the next (including a cobra's). Passive voice dominates the story, and the dialogues are stilted and far from believable. Some dialogue-paragraphs taken from the story:

"I have my suspicions about that also. I overheard several people saying that my father died after drinking a bottle of tuak Banang had given him. From the manner of his death, it was obvious it had been laced with poison, most probably the juice of a poisonous tuber. My father hadn't known whether it was day or night for a long time. Alcohol was his weakness. He couldn't have resisted accepting the rice wine even if he had known it was from an enemy. No one dared to testify that they saw Banang giving the liquor to my father." "How horrible! Banang scares me, 'king." "I'm afraid of him, too. I have been, in fact, for the last ten years ever since he saw me vomiting my stomach out."

The storytelling style may have been popular in early 1900s, but it has long since been discarded. The dialogues are filled with expositions; one character explains to another things that they should likely know, what with sharing the same rumah panjang and all. They also seem to control a vocabulary incongruous with their education level (the story takes place during the time of the White Rajahs). There is nothing fresh about the storyline. There must be something in the story that I still fail to see, as it made the shortlist. The interaction between the protagonist's family members in Lee Eeleen's The Englishman at Table 19 certainly is familiar, and wholesomely Malaysian. She uses proper English and not Manglish, but the dialogues are believable and again, very Malaysian. However, the protagonist doesn't really grow, and her encounters with David Niven's apparition do not gel with the rest of the tale, making me wonder what his purpose in the story is. Of all the stories in the collection, my favorite, without a doubt, is Zed Adam Idris's The Hunter and the Tigress. Not because it's speculative fiction, but because of the beautiful storytelling. Here is a story I can truly look up to. Zed manages to captivate me from the very beginning, and I empathize with the protagonist, Kulim. Good characterization and story arc, constant voice and pace, and the mental images the story invokes are vivid. If there is only one story that makes buying this anthology worth the RM21.90 price tag, this is it. 1 Fantasy, 1 ghost story (sort of), and 1 pseudo-SF made the shortlist. Impressive, as I have always thought Malaysian publishers much prefer mainstream stories with a literary bent as opposed to speculative fiction. Maybe there is a place for speculative fiction here in Malaysia. Having written 2 horror stories, 2 SF, and plenty more stories, all set in Malaysia, reading this book gives me hope. So should you buy this book? For the pleasure of reading, for the sake of encouraging more writing competitions, and to support Malaysian-English writers, I say go for it.

My First Story in Print

2010-07-31T02:30:00.006+08:00

I think I mentioned somewhere that I sold one of my stories to a vampire anthology. Well, the book/magazine is out, with over 145 pages. Well, here it is:

The image is linked to Lulu.com, where the book is sold. Super excited! Mood: accomplished

Publishing your work

2010-07-27T18:28:00.005+08:00

I wrote this as post responses at Sharon Bakar's blog: Writing and publishing are two separate entities, and never let the thought of publishing tarnish your writing. If the reason you write fiction is for publication (works for hire are a different story, hear?), you’re likely to get disappointed. Publishing a story/novel is hard! But if you write for the love of it, because you have the urge to write, because you want to share your thoughts, your passion, you feel this undeniable elation every time you finish writing a story, especially if you think it’s good. But it doesn’t mean it’s any good. I know writers are artists, and most artists are fragile creatures. But toughen up. Grow a thick skin. Do not expect only praises, be prepared to be criticized. If you cannot accept criticism, you’ll never grow as a writer and as a person. Don’t let your mother criticize your work; she’s bound to say she loves it, just as she loves you no matter how screwed up you are. If you can get a Trusted Reader, you’re lucky. If not, join a group. With the advent of the internet, this cannot be any easier. Websites like Writing.com are littered with writers and enthusiasts, but bear in mind that there as many good ones as there are bad ones. Join groups that will help you, but be prepared to give as much as you receive. Don’t be so kiasu. Polish your work. Write more. Edit other people’s work, and you’ll learn to edit yours. Now, when you truly believe your work is publication worthy, look for markets that suit your needs. Again, Duotrope is truly a boon for writers. You don’t have to buy the thick, expensive market database. Always work your way from the top. Don’t settle for obscure, unknown markets. Start with professional markets; if they reject your story, work your way down (semi-pro, token payment, non-paying). This is important: DO NOT give a reason for publishers to reject your work. READ THE GUIDELINES carefully. FORMAT YOUR MANUSCRIPT well. Most of them will lead you to this link, but some will have their own preferences. WEED OUT THE TYPOS AND GRAMMATICAL ERRORS. First impressions play an important role. Choose your market, and please, protect your rights. If you think a market is not suitable for you, if the publisher is dodgy, you have the right to go somewhere else. You may regret not placing it there later, but always do what your heart feels is right. According to the U.S. Copyright stature*, works published after March 1, 1989 no longer require a formal copyright notice in order to receive copyright law protection. This protection is imposed automatically the moment the work is fixed in a tangible form so that it is perceptible either directly or with the aid of a machine or device. In short, once you dictate, write it down, key it in, or type it out, you own the copyright. The length of protection for works created on and after January 1, 1978 is the life of the author plus 50 years. For works for hire, it's 75 years from the date of first publication, or 100 years from the date of creation, whichever comes first, unless the publisher agrees with a shorter term. Unfortunately, that's U.S. Copyright Protection. Those posted in the blogsphere, in countries other than the U.S., the protection may vary or not exist at all. Now, the author owns these rights: - The right to reproduce the work (copy, imitate, reproduce, duplicate, or transcribe). - The right to derivative works. - The right for distribution. - Public display right. - Public performance right. When a writer sells his story in exchange for money, copy of work, or exposure, he sells his rights depending on the terms of conditions, whether they’re distribution rights, dramatic, television and motion picture rights, electronic rights, and so on. When he agrees to the term and signs a binding contract, he is bound legally by that contract. If a publisher buys all distribution rights indefinitely, you still retain other rights, such as copying and imitating your own work, and publish it under a different title. You have to know your rights first. You have to read the fine prints of the contracts, and negotiate to protect your own rights. Okay, this is important: if publishers reject your work, it DOES NOT mean they’re rejecting you. They don’t even know you enough to care. Editors have a certain mindset about their readership. They have their own target audiences to cater to. Most of the time you get form rejections, which aren’t helpful at all. Sometimes, though, you get personal rejections telling you why your story is rejected. Pay attention to these. Otherwise, keep on finding other markets! The latest story I’ve sold had been rejected 5 or 6 times. I’ve just received a proof today for my perusal, and it looks good! It’s a print anthology, by the way. Good luck, and if anyone wants me to read and edit a short story, just email it to me. I don’t spare a writer’s feelings, though. Some of the members in my group even called me an obnoxious know-all, once (as if you guys don’t think the same). Hope this helps, and keep on writing! *Read the full article here.

Why Nicholas Sparks is my hero

2010-07-24T17:57:00.005+08:00

A significant number of literary aficionados out there associate Nicholas Sparks with other writers like Stephen King, Dan Brown, Sidney Sheldon, and Danielle Steel (among others): writers whose works aren't even that great, and have recurring themes in their stories, but made bank, and end up in the bestsellers' list with every new novel. I like reading novels from all the writers above. People call their works 'popular/commercial fiction'; they are as good and delicious as fast food, but not exactly wholesome and nourishing. Personally, I think people are just jealous they're not as successful as these commercial fiction writers. I do admit, each of the superstars I mentioned above have recurring themes: Stephen King writes speculative fiction with a strong horror element; Dan Brown writes conspiracy theories revolving around secret cults; Sidney Sheldon is always about fast-paced thrillers, while Danielle Steel will almost always write about upper class women and their upper class issues. Nicholas Sparks writes love stories. He gets irked whenever people call his works 'Romance'. In life, love and romance usually come hand-in-hand, if not always. But first, let's explore the definitions. According to Oxford Dictionary, Love

noun

[mass noun] a strong feeling of affection

a strong feeling of affection and sexual attraction for someone

affectionate greetings conveyed to someone on one's behalf

a formula for ending an affectionate letter.

affectionate greetings conveyed to someone on one's behalf

a great interest and pleasure in something.

[count noun] a person or thing that one loves

British informal a friendly form of address.

(in tennis, squash, and some other sports) a score of zero; nil

verb [with object]

feel deep affection or sexual love for (someone)

like or enjoy very much

Romance

noun

[mass noun] a feeling of excitement and mystery associated with love

love, especially when sentimental or idealized

[count noun] a love affair, especially one that is not very serious or long-lasting

[count noun] a book or film dealing with love in a sentimental or idealized way

a genre of fiction dealing with love in such a way

[mass noun] a quality or feeling of mystery, excitement, and remoteness from everyday life

a medieval tale dealing with a hero of chivalry, of the kind common in the Romance languages

a work of fiction depicting a setting and events remote from everyday life, especially one of a kind popular in the 16th and 17th centuries

Music a short informal piece

verb [with object]

dated try to gain the love of; court

informal seek the attention or custom of (someone), especially by the use of flattery

[no object]

engage in a love affair

another term for romanticize

There's quite a significant amount of overlap, right? Not in literature. They're two different worlds! You can find Romance novels and other works on shelves specifically reserved for this genre. These novels are highly formulaic, and according to Romance Writers of America, the main plot of a romance novel must revolve around the two main protagonists as they develop romantic love for each other and work to build a relationship together. A romance novel also must have an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending. I mentioned this genre is highly formulaic, right? There's a 'secret formula' that most Romance authors abide by, I kid you not. I may be getting this wrong, but after reading quite a number of Romance novels (Mama used to read them, and Kasha too, before she started a family -- I read whatever I can find, and before I started earning my own income, my choices were somewhat limited), I think I have an idea what it is:

The story starts off with the heroine, who's not necessarily stunning (people say only male and lesbian authors write about eye candy heroines), but can think on her feet and get herself out of trouble (preferably without help). Almost invariably she has a scarred romantic past, and is looking for a fresh start.
Right in the opening, our heroine meets or bumps into the hero, who's almost invariably tall, dark and handsome. Well, he can be blond, but there's something about him that's dark and mysterious (straight male and lesbian authors don't usually amp up the hero's physical beauty). Oh, and the heroine later finds out that he's also hung and is great in bed (and on the kitchen counter, in the closet, at the back of his car, in a cheap motel, and so on). Anyways, when they first meet, the heroine will either:

hate his guts right from the start (almost always the case).

notice him from afar, and keeps stealing glances back at him.

fall in love with him, just like that (makes for a shorter and less exciting plot)

So, they cross paths again and again, and slowly they build a romantic relationship. Or the hero does something grand and unexpected that changes the heroine's view about him. Or he saves her life. You get it, something happens that brings them together.
They have phenomenal sex (about 1/4 or 1/3 into the novel, sometimes much faster).
About halfway through, they discover how great is is they've found each other, all all is going well.
Right afterward, something big happens that tears them apart (misunderstanding, discovery of a dark secret, betrayal, kidnapping, death of someone close, return of the ex).
A moping-about scene is optional, but encouraged.
Something big happens to bring them back together again, culminating to a climax (can also be taken literally).
The two protagonists end up together again, discovering they're meant for each other (MFEO), and depending on the author, they can either deliver a sweet, memorable kiss, or a passionate tongue exchange, or a hand-in-hand stroll toward the sunset, or a make-up sex.
The End.

Follow this format and you cannot go wrong with Romance. But what about love stories? Why won't you find them in Romance or Women Literature sections? Why are they in general fiction? According to Nicholas Sparks, who dominates the field, you'll never know what will happen with love stories. It can be about the relationship between two teenagers or young adult, between mature adults and old people, between parent and child, between siblings, between friends, even between owner and pet (my own words, not Nicholas Sparks's -- I consider Marley and Me a love story, because it's about love and loyalty between Marley and his human family). There is no formula. Still, having read plenty of his books and watched movie adaptations of his books, there is a recurring theme with Nicholas Sparks's works, as highlighted at Cracked.com. Well, in his defense, the characters in the novels aren't necessarily beautiful, be them male or female. But these things are familiar:

Two people who are unlikely to fall in love, do so anyway.
A great obstacle stands between the protagonists, but they persevere and beat the obstacle to stay together.
They always meet the parents (I think Mr. Sparks is old-fashioned that way), who don't necessarily approve of their relationship.
There's another great obstacle, this time unbeatable (death, whether of one or both of the protagonists, or a close family member), but love prevails.
Oh. The stories usually take place in the southern regions of North America (in and around Carolina).

Don't believe me? The Notebook The hero's a local nobody, and the heroine, who comes from a wealthy family, is visiting for the summer. They fall in love, but as her family strongly disapproves (different social classes), they are torn apart. He writes her a letter every day for a whole year, but the heroine's mother intercepts the letters and hides them (doesn't burn them, though). He goes to war, she becomes a nurse, and she assumes he's forgotten about her. She falls in love with another man (though there's no spark), while the hero rebuilds a dilapidated mansion hoping that the heroine will find her way back to him. Along the way, his dad dies. The heroine finds out about the hero and the rebuilt house while she's preparing to get married, and seeks him out. They rekindle their lost love, and she ends up having to make a difficult choice. What makes this story stand out is that the story takes place when they're both old, and the heroine has advanced Alzheimer's. She no longer remembers anything about her past. He tells her the story of their life by reading his notebook, and sometimes she remembers again. They end up dying together on her bed. Beautiful story. A Walk to Remember The heroine is goody-goody and optimistic, while the hero is a trouble-maker. They fall in love anyway. The girl's dad doesn't like the hero, though. It's later revealed that the heroine has leukemia, and is dying soon, but the hero, now a changed man/teen, stays with her till the end. Even 4 years after her death, he still holds a torch out for her. Message in the Bottle The heroine is a burnt-up reporter who discovers love letters in glass bottles washed up on the beach. It's from the hero to his dead wife. The heroine seeks him out, and they manage to fall in love despite the distance between them, but he gets angry and disappointed after finding his letters in her home, and leaves. The heroine later gets a visit from the hero's dad, saying that he hero died at sea while rescuing someone, but had written a letter to his dead wife, saying that he'd found someone to love and would do right by her. Nights in Rodanthe The heroine is on the verge of divorcing her cheating husband. He helps her friend manage a B&B for a few days, where the hero stays while he seeks out the husband of his patient (the patient died during surgery due to anesthetic complications). He's estranged with his son, while she's trying hard to keep her family together, with or without her husband. They end up falling in love, and both of them are changed for the better. The hero goes to South America to rekindle his relationship with his son, and the two protagonists exchange love letters while they're apart. However, the hero dies in a landslide, but the heroine later receives a letter he hadn't managed to send, saying that he was going to start a life with her, and would do right by her. Dear John The hero's a Special Forces Sergeant, on a 2-week break between missions, and the heroine's visiting for Spring Break. He rescues her bag, they end up falling in love, but they're parted because he's got to go back to work. Both of them live off their love letters for over 2 years, but then she decides to break off, and gets engaged with someone else. Frustrated, the hero enlists himself over again, getting himself hurt in the process, but only comes home when he receives news that his autistic father is dying from stroke. Yes, his father dies. He then looks for the heroine, who's already married, not to the jerk of a friend he suspected, but to an old family friend who has an autistic child. The guy has cancer, by the way, and they can't afford an experimental drug treatment. He also tells the hero that the heroine still loves the hero deeply. So the hero sells his dad's coin collection and anonymously donates all the money for the treatment. In the book, the guy lives on, so the hero and heroine aren't reunited (bittersweet ending), but in the movie, the guy dies anyway, and the hero receives a letter from the heroine that makes him come back, and they're reunited. The Last Song This one was written specifically with Mylie Cyrus in mind, for her transition from Hannah Montana. She even chose the heroine's name. She wanted something like A Walk To Remember. So Mr. Sparks was approached to write a screenplay and a novel simultaneously. Anway, the story's about the heroine who's staying with her estranged dad for the summer at South Carolina (her parents divorced some 3 years before). The hero (a local from a rich family) literally crashes into her while playing beach volleyball. She doesn't quite like him at first, but (you guessed it) they fall in love anyway. His parents don't quite agree with his seeing her, but he doesn't agree with his parents about anything. It's later revealed that the heroine's dad has cancer, and that he's dying. The heroine rebuilds her relationship with her dad. Much later she overhears the hero apologizing to her dad about not coming clean about a church fire his best friend caused, and she pushes the hero away. Her father dies, and she finally forgives the hero. They get back together. Wow. I hope I don't get into trouble for summarizing the novels (which are also movies). See the pattern? I won't exactly say Nicholas Sparks is formulaic, but after a while, there's bound to be a pattern. But what I love about his works is that they're accessible, and they revolve around regular people, with regular life issues. He concentrates on the little things that people take for granted. Plus, I'm a sucker for love stories and tear-jerkers. Anyway, for those who don't know about Nicholas Sparks's success story, I don't mind sharing. He worked for a pharmaceutical company (among other jobs), and he had written 2 novels before The Notebook. He readily admits those two will never see the light of day, though. He approached agents and publishers, but they all turned him down. Until Theresa Park, a new literary agent, fresh out of college, found the manuscript among a big slush pile. She loved it, and represented Nicholas Sparks. One day called his home to tell him that she sold the book to Warner Books for a USD1mil advance. Both their lives were changed right there and then. Nicholas Sparks continues to write bestselling novels and makes banks from both the novels and their movie adaptations, and Theresa Park opens her own agency. Nicholas Sparks claims (if somewhat arrogantly) that he doesn't have a contemporary. No one in this particular market comes close. In a way, it's true. Who else keeps on producing similar love stories and gets adaptation offers over and over again? I think this is why he has as many haters as fans. So, why is he my hero? IS it because of the ridiculous amount of money he makes? I know right from the start that it's just a fluke, and I'll never come close to making USD 5000 for a book (if I end up finishing one!). But I love the stories he tell, and the way he tells them. I love the fact that his visions are realized into movies -- the pinnacle of any author's career. Do I want to emulate him? I write tear-jerkers, I write about the little stuff everyday people face. I've received praises from international readers saying exactly that. I have a novel in my head (Adrian & Rina) that's somewhat familiar with Nicholas Sparks's recurring theme, but in my own defense, I came up with the original idea in 2004, long before I started reading Nicholas Sparks's work. I started writing about love and relationship in 1997, though I have to admit they're aren't any good. Now I've started writing speculative fiction (SciFi, Fantasy, and 1 Horror). But I don't think I'll ever be capable of writing a literary piece. I tried once, but I caught myself sounding pretentious. I write in the line of commercial fiction, and I'm OK with it. So back to my own question. I love Nicholas Sparks's works, and I may write love stories along the way. But I wouldn't want people saying that I'm the Malaysian Nicholas Sparks. Chewah. Belum apa-apa nak pikir sampai situ (rough translation: I'm way over my head). But one thing is for sure: I'm now comfortable writing English stories based in Malaysia. I used to think that foreign settings where people actually use English as their first language are the best places for my stories, but my groupmates at WDC keep on reminding me that my local settings are new and exotic to them, and that my works stand out partly because of it. So, as I said, I'm still stuck, and I can't write anything beyond the first few paragraphs, but I'm re-reading whatever I have of Adrian & Rina, and I'm seriously thinking about finishing that darn novel. Whatever it is, my days are quite numbered. I'm applying for my Master's Degree end of this year, and if accepted, I'll be beyond busy for the next 4 years (at least). So, Tita, if you're reading this, get me off my ass and prod me to start writing already! Ahahahaha. Edit: I find these covers/posters interesting:

Oh, and these:

Have a good day!

There isn't an easy way about it

2010-07-24T17:04:00.004+08:00

Well, not normally, at any rate. Another of my stories has just been accepted a few days ago, a vampire short story that's not really about a vampire, but about an old woman reminiscing on her past, her youth. I wrote it for a fountain-of-youth-themed competition at writing.com (WDC) late last year, but it didn't place. Cleaned it up a bit, submitted the story elsewhere. Trust me, selling a vampire story is not easy, what with the multitude of stories written, and writers hoping to profit from the Twilight craze. Yes, I am aware that the 'saga' violates almost all aspects of accepted vampire lore, but the world in general is crazy about it -- well, crazy about Kristen Steward (Bella), Rob Pattinson (Edward), and Taylor Lautner (Jacob), but let's not get into technicalities. Anyway, Skive has accepted my vampire story, after 4 or 5 rejections, I think. One of my WDC group members, Ben, even suggested for me to use a water spirit instead of a vampire. Since I love the story, and I love vampire lore, I decided against it and remained adamant about placing/selling the story as it is. And persistence paid off. I can't exactly remember how much I'm getting paid, but it's not much. What's important is that it's a print-publication, so I'll be able to hold it in my hands and show people my name as one of the contributing authors. So, to date, I have sold 10 stories since the middle of last year, the first 4 to non-paying venues (so I don't know if I can consider them 'sold'). My major publication credit is still Aether Age, and it'll be published in various forms (looking forward to getting my hands on the book sometime later this year). I also haven't written anything new since May, when I was physically and mentally burnt out from my impossibly hectic work schedule. I'm working at Hospital Selayang until end of December, and since the surgical department is overflowing with house officers, I basically have nothing much to do, so I'm not supposed to have any excuses. Unfortunately, I started playing World of Warcraft (WoW) again -- plenty of articles out there say the same thing: you can stop playing WoW for a long time, but you can never really quit. People come back. They always do. And so did I. Was looking forward to this on-call-free weekend to level up my beloved druid, Suliyanna, but when I woke up this morning, I saw an email stamped at 06:00 stating that I recently changed my password. My account was hacked, again, and most of my characters are stripped naked and broke. Wrote a petition, received a reply some 2 hours later, and Blizzard promised to look into the matter and roll back my account so that I can get all my lost hard-earned gears. But it'll take about a week, more or less, which means that I can't play the game because without money and gear, I can't do anything much! So. back to writing, then. I have at least two calls for submission that I'm interested in:

2010 Blizzard Global Writing Contest. (deadline: August 23, 2010 -- I thank Reza for telling me about this contest)
Fem-Fangs, an Anthology (Pill Hill Press). (deadline: August 15, 2010)

Those, plus a novella (20-30k words), a collaborative effort between my WDC goupmates, by the end of October. I'm currently stuck in my old pattern: I write a few paragraphs, and end up discarding whatever crap I've written. Some of my colleagues can trudge through blocks, and write crap that later on are polished into brilliant gems, but I can't seem to do it. Part of my personality, I guess. I want to get things right the first time. I'm not that good at repairing and correcting messes, though weirdly enough, at work I almost invariably get at least 1 repair-surgery case whenever I'm on-call. There really is not easy way about it. I can no longer procrastinate and avoid writing, since I can't WoW, though I can definitely take up reading books and anthologies that I keep on buying but never finish reading. I can't hope for my personal muse to strike me at the back of my head. I think she left me for someone else, since I'm so lazy about writing and drawing. I just. Have. To. Write. Bummer.

Greetings from Singapore

2010-06-11T19:16:00.001+08:00

KL at Sunrise

2010-05-10T22:08:00.005+08:00

Everyone says Kuala Lumpur sucks the life out of you. It's too rushed, too hectic, too noisy, too expensive, too crowded. And the rush-hour traffic is horrendous!

Well, I can't deny it; Kuala Lumpur is indeed all that. But it is also more, so much more. Have you had the pleasure of driving around town at sunrise during weekends, when the world around you is crouched between sleep and wakefulness? It usually rains in the evening, so when morning comes, the air is fresh, and the vestige of warmth from the day before caresses you as you drive at 50km/h with the windows rolled down.

During weekends, the streets are usually clear, except for the few people going to work, or those going home after a night shift. I like driving fast, but during these times, I drive at a leisurely pace with the windows down, and Jason Mraz crooning live versions of his songs on my stereo. Sometimes the sunrises are brilliant: indigo gives way to a red flare, and the glass walls of skyscrapers reflect the sun before it is even visible to me. The shapes the clouds take -- if only I could stop by the roadside and snap pictures! Not one day is the same. Always, there will be a subtle difference that makes me catch my breath.

And the sounds. If you sit at Starbucks KLCC, you'll hear the gentle hum of ceiling fans, coffee brewing from behind the counter, and the lapping of the fountains as they touch the surface of the man-made lake. I roll the cup of Venti Caramel Signature Hot Chocolate (with cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon) in my hands, and take a sip while I close my eyes listening, just listening to the quiet sounds of Kuala Lumpur. Not many people appreciate this gentle purr, as they only hear roar of a bustling city.

Last week, as I drove toward the hospital in a drizzle, I beheld an unexpected sight: a rainbow. I know the picture isn't great; I took it using my iPhone. I don't really have my SLR ready at any time. It's dying, in fact, and I have to think about a replacement soon.

In my hectic schedule, I sometimes forget to stop and take a breath. And then these sights, these sounds, these unexpected gentleness in a hard environment come along, reminding me that life is beautiful.

I promise I'll try to get photographs of Kuala Lumpur at sunrise. The sunsets are equally dazzling, but I'm usually caught in traffic then, so I can't go snapping pictures at random.

So there. Just stop, stand still, and drink in your surroundings. Life is beautiful.

The Birth of an Age

2010-03-23T12:49:00.009+08:00

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myths, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning. Robert Jordan, The Eye of the World; Book One of The Wheel of Time.

Ae.ther n. Greek Mythology

personification of the sky or upper air breathed by the Olympians; son of Erebus and night or of Chaos and darkness.
a medium that was once supposed to fill all space and to support the propagation of electromagnetic waves.

Earlier this year, I came across a call for submission for an anthology named Aether Age, co-edited by Chris Fletcher and Brandon Bell, and co-produced by Hadley Rille Books and M-Brane SF. I love watching Science Fiction movies and TV series, but when it comes to reading and writing, I lean toward Fantasy (among other things). And Aether Age is a Science Fiction anthology. But I kept my mind open and I read the submission guidelines. Never had I come across a writer's guidelines so comprehensive and specific like that of this anthology. The basis of Aether Age is simple: what if Aether came to Earth during the time of the ancient civilizations and prompted an exponential growth in culture and technology, starting from the discovery of printing press? Instead of facing a decline, in this alternate reality civilizations like Kemet (Ancient Egypt) and the Greeks prospered and discovered space travel much faster than in our reality. The timeline events given were specific, but instead of constraining, I found the guidelines refreshing and inspiring. I started asking myself, "What if?" Every writer knows this very question is the spark needed to nudge inspiration into written words. Where my sister loves astronomy, I love ancient civilizations and the myths that accompany them. I began thinking about Ancient Egyptians. They had been a people shrouded in mysticism and mystery, and had been deeply spiritual. I asked myself how such people would discover their first flight. Ideas and dreams took shape. I discovered the rough outline of my story. I wanted it to be epic, but not large-scale. My forte is in characterization and in dialogues, so I concentrated on developing a central character. I scoured Kinokuniya (where else?) for books on Ancient Egypt, and found Traveller's Guide to the Ancient World: Egypt in the year 1200BCE, by Charlotte Booth. The book gave a wonderful insight on Ancient Egypt during Ramses's reign, from the holy to the mundane. I read the book, I searched the net. Little by little I built a world surrounding my character, Issa, a temple scribe with a dead, useless right arm. And soon enough, Flight of the Ibis was born. I asked other writers in my group at WDC to review and to comment on my story. I made the corrections and adjustments based on their suggestions. Before I had a chance to doubt myself, I sent the 4.7k-word story off to Chris Fletcher on January 22, well before the deadline on January 31. I kept on checking my mailbox, I kept on visiting Aether Age's website (click on this post's title to access the site). No news. As usual, agitation and self-doubt crept in. I wrote other stories, but nothing as grand as Flight of the Ibis. I couldn't write other stories as well as I did that one. I told myself my creative well had dried up, and needed time to be replenished. Then I came across a blog update. The publishers were extending their deadline to February 15, and they extended their invitation to writers who had submitted to submit more stories. Should they deem those stories publication-worthy, they'll publish 2 stories from the same author. This time, I found myself turning toward the Ancient Greeks. But instead of the near-beginning of the storyline, instead of a different perspective on the discovery of space travel, I thought about the end of the timeline, where colonies on the planets surrounding Earth have been established, and whispers of otherworldly beings are spoken. Though I am not a spiritual person, I wanted this new story to have the same spirituality as Flight of the Ibis. Maybe it has something to do with my finding my way back toward God, even though my stories touch on polytheism. But I also knew that this time, I had to delve deeper into Science Fiction. But I threw in a safety net. I added a Love Story element into the mix. My foray into Kinokuniya sent me back to the Ancient Civilizations section. A close WDC friend of mine, Raven, had suggested Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea: Why the Greeks Matter, by Thomas Cahill. I was in luck; the book had been waiting for me, silent in its shelf. I also wanted to buy Traveller's Guide to the Ancient World: Greece in the year 415BCE, by Eric Chaline, but the book eluded me. I read the book I had bought, and I read snippets from the Iliad and the Odyssey. I read about the temples the Greeks had built, and the deities they worshiped. Since in Aether Age the Romans never came to power, the planetary system hasn't been named after Roman gods. Venus would not be Venus, but Aphrodite. And the volcanic, barren landscape may not be so barren after all, with life-giving Aether surrounding it. Soon enough, another story took place, but with my work schedule, I knew I wouldn't make the new deadline. I emailed Chris Fletcher for an extension, and he was more than accommodating. I took it as a good sign for the story I've already submitted. After much revision that included killing off (by that I mean total wipe-out) a child-character, multiple changes of the title, and re-writing whole segments, The Return came to be, just shy of 4.5k words. Some of my colleagues loved it better than Flight of the Ibis, while some thought the opposite. But all of them urged me to send the story off, as they believed that the story is publication-worthy. Two days after the deadline, I submitted The Return with a prayer on my lips. Double agitation for me, and it took a toll on my writing. I couldn't write anything half decent, and I missed deadline after deadline for other calls for submission. My hectic work schedule didn't help, as it left me both physically and mentally burnt every time I reached home after spending over 30 hours working. I waited, I checked my mail, I stalked the website. Monday morning, March 1. Big news for me. I woke up to an email from Chris Fletcher saying that he definitely wants to publish Flight of the Ibis. He's contemplating on The Return, as he's still not sure how he wanted to end the timeline. But he asked for all the accepted authors to keep the news to ourselves as he finalized the acceptances and rejections. I was ecstatic! Another story of mine has been accepted for publication. I still kept my hope up for The Return, though I was already thinking about other venues should the story be rejected. Yesterday, as I was having lunch at Carl's Jr. with my cousins, I received another email from Chris Fletcher. He and Brandon Bell have decided to merge my story with another writer's, Jaym Gates (an established writer), by breaking up the scenes that we had, and intertwining those scenes in an alternating sequence, to make up a 5.3k-word story named The Shadow of Phrixos (the title of Jaym's original story). I printed out the story and read it. I'm still blown away at how well the two stories melded. Of course I agreed to the new version. Another story of mine is getting published! This morning, when I checked the website, I found that Chris Fletcher has put up the Table of Contents. I have wanted to write this post for a very long time, but I wanted to wait for the ToC to appear. I saw my name there not once, but twice. For someone so eloquent when writing, I cannot describe the feeling when I saw the ToC. I am now officially a part of something big, something grand. Aether Age will not only be available in print, but also in ebook, as well as an audiobook. My stories will be heard as well as read. Now, if only there is a way to get the book sent to Malaysian stores as well...

Hi, I'm Fadz, and I'm a professional writer

2010-03-03T22:53:00.004+08:00

On February 24, I woke up (late, as usual) to find this email waiting in my iPhone's inbox:

Dear Fadzlishah, Thank you for your submission to Expanded Horizons. I have read your story, "Visions," and I really like it. I would like to include it in our upcoming March issue. I will send you a version with my (small) edits, and the contract. Do you have Livejournal or Facebook? Expanded Horizons has a presence there. Do you have PayPal? We prefer to pay electronically, but we can send a physical check where that is not possible/feasible. Welcome to the Expanded Horizons team! Dash

A publisher wanted to buy my story, for USD30 at that! I don't write horror stories. This one actually came about as a challenge at my online writing group, where we were given a genre/style that we're not used to writing. I write mainstream/contemporary, love stories, and a dash of fantasy, so horror is as much out of my element as funny. Ironically, I have one funny/ironic story published at QLRS, and now, a horror story to add to my credit. I have been paid to do something I love (well, I love being a doctor, but that's a different story). I'm talking about something Mother dear wouldn't let me even dream of taking up professionally (with good reason, upon reflection). I mean, Kasha has her graphics, and she's making money out of it. Faiz has photography, and he's making money as well as earning accolades for it. I've dabbled in graphics, photography, figure drawing, oil painting, scriptwriting, movie-making and some other forms of Art that I can't recall right now, but fiction writing has always been my Great Love. I dream up complete movie-like dreams at night, and I imagine stories while I people-watch. I love reading fiction, and I dissect movies and TV series while watching them. I have to admit, though I'm always told that my writing is good, I'm not good at coming up with original storylines. (even in rejection letters they say that though my writing is good, I clearly have talent, but they have to reject my work because [fill in the blank]). Back when I was 16 and 17, I took rejections personally. Why didn't my stories win? I wasn't good enough, was I? Was there something wrong with me, with who I was? You get the idea. I had been devastated and entered a self-imposed writer's block. I tried writing again, but never more than a paragraph or so. Then I started writing again. To express myself, my situation, my anger and frustration, my hopes and dreams. I couldn't run away from writing, even though I knew no one else would read the stories I wrote. Then work got the better of me, and I put writing on hold. When Tita stumbled upon my Friendster account, she got me writing again. I think it's true that you have to mature as a person before you can write well. I didn't even make the longlist to MPH-Alliance's National Short Story Competition last year. I didn't win the Commonwealth Short Story competition. But that didn't stop me from writing. I devoured book after book on how to write. The blessing behind not attending formal writing courses is that I'm free to experiment, to explore the rules and bend or break them. I write and review other stories at WDC, especially within my group, Let's Publish! Then Sarah recommended that I submit my stories to QLRS. I'd never heard of it before. So I did. I submitted 3 stories, and they published "Mother". I submitted again in December, but all three were rejected (not enough plot). I submitted other stories elsewhere, and they too were rejected. Then I got the mail from Dash, editor of Expanded Horizons. He wanted my story. He paid me for it, even. And that's not all. I also received another acceptance letter on Monday morning, for my spiritual science-fiction stories (one is confirmed, another is pending further contemplation, and may need a major revision). I was asked not to make it public, so I won't talk about the details yet. But it's going to be a massive project, with print, ebook and audiobook publication -- plus a soundtrack. I'm talking about print publication. My name in a physical book. I'm talking about my life-dream coming true. So what happens when your dream comes true? I grinned the whole day. When I couldn't do it outwardly, I did it inside. And I ran to Mother dear to tell her the news. I messaged Tita (yep, I'm guilty of not contacting her a long time). I shared it with my WDC group. And I emailed Reza, who's in Aberdeen at that time. I'm still feeling elated, even though things are not finalized yet. I can't wait to hold the book in my hands! So, more about that later, once I get the green light to make it public. For now, please visit Expanded Horizons and I hope you'll enjoy the story, as well as other amazing stories they have there.

The Sad Truth

2010-02-08T18:53:00.003+08:00

Got myself a bout of food poisoning on Saturday, and am still feeling the aftermath. What a waste of annual leave. Gotten back to writing short stories, not playing AION for over a week now (don't ask me why. I'm not even sure myself). So, anyway, I have 9 or 10 stories out there in the world, still waiting for an answer. Five venues have already rejected my stories, including QLRS (the batch I sent late December had good characterization and dialogues, but not much plot -- I'll give them plot, you'll see). Before I prattle on, for any of you who haven't heard of Duotrope, well, here's the wonderful website. It's a database of publishers all around the world (QLRS is also listed, but the database is still empty). There's a comprehensive record of response time, expectations, payment scheme, lists by genre, and a lot more, for both prose and poetry. There's a deadline calendar for those of you who want to write a story based on those deadlines (to minimize response time). Open an account so you can keep track of your submissions, acceptances and rejections. So, anyway. I've sent an epic short story set in an alternate Ancient Egypt (chances of acceptance are good, I think), a hantu raya story (yes, apparently I can do horror too), and Beauty and the Beast in a real-medieval-French setting, among others. Which brings me to the sad truth. Ever since I was small, I dreamed of going overseas (for extended periods of time). I went to the UK when I was almost 2 years old (can't remember anything), Bangkok when I was 7 (I remember the flight, the rubber monkey with the wire-inside -- funny, I can still remember its taste and smell. That's right. Taste. I also remember the tuk-tuk going airborne at this hillock. Mucho fun. In fact, I remember a lot from that trip). Singapore every Raya as a child (no more), Hatyai with Reza's family back in uni (mom gave me hell for it, more of it later), and my last overseas venture was to Perth for 3 weeks after completing my housemanship (now that's a trip I'll always remember). Not that many trips, to be honest. I thought I could study overseas, but when my time came (1998-2000), it was during the recession, so no scholarships were awarded for Ireland/Australia med schools. Even if they did, my grades wouldn't have let me anyway. Now that I've decided to do Neurosurgery for my Master's Degree, I'll be headed back to Kelantan for another 4 years or so (please, no in-campus!). Maybe once (if) I've become a specialist, I can go overseas for conferences and training. I heard specialists have to pay for their own trip, but I also heard they get RM2000 per month as a specialist's allowance. Yay for extra income! So, here's the sad truth: I dream of going far, of experiencing life in ways I've not thought possible, but I'm rooted here. Reza, since working for Expro (American-based petroleum/oil servicing company), has been traveling non-stop to Kemaman, Labuan, Brunei, Aberdeen, and somewhere in Australia. My uncle and his son do a lot of overseas traveling themselves (separately). My brother-in-law studied Engineering in the UK, and my cousins live in Perth. One of my younger cousins did a foreign student exchange program and lived in France for over a year. And my brother, once he's made a name for himself here, is planning to live in New York. I believe he can do it. So how do I experience life outside my skin? My stories. That makes things significantly sadder, no? People comment on how detailed some of my stories are, as if I've written from experience. One word: Google. Well, one more word: Kinokuniya. I've stopped buying books on writing now, because I've discovered that they say the same things, only using different words. I can even write a book of my own. In due time. Once I get properly published. So, what about going on an actual holiday instead of bitching about being stuck here? I can certainly afford an occasional trip, but something inside doesn't let me do it. It's called guilt. When we were little, each and every holiday was done as a family unit; a trip is never complete without one of us. We're close. When I followed Reza's family to Hatyai, mom told me to do it on my own expense (she refused to give monetary support. Thing is, she always gives monetary support, however token). But then, she had this jealousy thing about my being close to Reza's mom. I know, right? I'm not even talking about introducing a girlfriend here. Throughout the trip, I didn't have optimal fun because I kept thinking how much nicer it would be to have my family with me. When I went to Perth (this time mom gave monetary and technical support -- I exchanged my own RM2000 with Australian dollars, and I got around $700. Bummer), I kept thinking how my brother and sister would have liked this place and that to photograph, how my parents would appreciate this view or that. Half the time I felt guilty for doing that solo trip. What's vexing is my brother keeps on making holiday trips with his friends (with monetary support, of course). Have I mentioned he gets away with everything since we were little? Full support, no matter what, and he still gets to screw up. But that's a different matter. So. I can't make solo trips without supreme guilt, and I can't afford to bring the whole family along. So I'm stuck here writing stories that take place in different countries, different times, different worlds. And that, fellow friends, is the sad truth.

Serendipity: Best Romantic Movie Ever

2010-01-17T00:04:00.005+08:00

For those who haven't already known, I'm a sucker for love stories, especially ones with a hopeful ending. Not necessarily happy, but definitely hopeful. Throughout the years, movies based on that Great Love comes and goes, but I will always come back to one particular movie whenever I feel the need for a perk-me-upper. And that movie is Serendipity. This 2001 romantic comedy flick was directed by Peter Chelsom, and starred by John Cusack (Jonathan Trager) and the beautiful Kate Beckingsale (Sara Thomas). The story is about finding a soulmate through chains of fortunate accidents, of serendipity. As a writer, I have learned that acts of coincidence are suspect; they are highly discouraged, because there is no coincidence in fiction. In life, yes. Sometimes life is all about whole strings of coincidences, of fortunate accidents. But in fiction, the author may arrange for things to appear as coincidences, but to actually plant one is considered cheating. However, rules are sometimes meant to be broken, and this particular movie broke that no-coincidence rule. Just imagine, two perfect strangers accidentally grabbing the last pair of black gloves, then because they either are subtly attracted to each other, or don't find each other repulsive, goes to this pastry shop, part ways, then bump into each other again because both forgot their packages at that shop. And because Sara is a firm believer of fate, she makes Johnathan write his full name and number on the back of a $5 note, then buys some mint using that note, and later on writes her name and number on the first page of 'Love in the Time of Cholera' and sells it to a used bookstore dealer in New York. And fate decrees they part ways. Fast forward to eight years later. Both of them have their own fiances, and are about to get married (not to each other). Jonathan has never actually stopped looking for Sara, always checking that particular book throughout New York, and Sara, who's now based in San Francisco, keeps on flipping $5 notes to see if Johnathan's name is on the other side. Both of them are getting cold feet, asking 'what if'. But fate decides to play a trick on them. They are always within reach, but never get to come face to face. Towards the end of the movie, Jonathan's fiance gifts him with the book he's always been looking for, while Sara mistakenly carries her best friend's purse, with the special $5 note in it. But Jonathan is scheduled to get married that afternoon. So. More fate-related occurrences happen, but the story culminates to my favorite part, the part where I always look forward to in every love story. Jonathan is lying down at a skating rink in Central Park. Soft flakes of snow float down, and it is cold. But Jonathan doesn't really care. He has just lost his fiance, and he has to give up his search for his soulmate too. He is still alive, he feels the biting cold. That much he is thankful for. He doesn't feel hopeless, just a sense of freedom. At least he tried. At least he searched for his supposed soulmate. Then, just as the snow starts to build up, a black glove floats down and lands on his supine body. He checks the glove, and the one lying beside him. He has always been holding one glove, and not a pair. He sits up, looks around, and finds Sara standing there, eyes glistening with tears. They walk toward each other, tentative, unsure. They meet halfway. He reaches out his hand to shake hers. "Hi, I'm Jonathan," he says. "I'm Sara." They stand still for a while. Then, he reaches down just as she reaches up. And they kiss, soft, long, taking their time learning about each other. They have found each other. That moment, that perfect moment when everything falls into place, that special kiss with that perfect background music, that's the exact moment I always wait for. It doesn't matter what life has in store for them after that. In that moment, they are in love. And that's all that matters. I don't know. Maybe it's weird for a guy to love all this stuff, but I keep asking, why not? Who says such things cannot happen in real life? Who says people have to know one another at school or university or work for them to fall in love? What's wrong with thinking that one day it's possible to just bump into someone, and have that someone turn out to me my soulmate? Well, for one thing, I'm still single after breaking off with that special girl in uni. Why didn't I contact her? I still think about her fondly from time to time, but it just doesn't feel right. And I want to feel right about someone. I want to feel passionate, and when that passion settles, I want to stay in love. So. In the meantime, I'll just enjoy Serendipity and feel good watching it.

Avatar

2009-12-21T20:52:00.004+08:00

In my ignorance, at first I thought Avatar was an adaptation of the cartoon series of the same name (Avatar: The Last Airbender). Yeah, laugh away like Reza did. I don't watch the cartoon, but I've read sometime ago they're planning to make a live-action motion picture out of it. So I thought, kay, this should be interesting. I couldn't be more wrong. Avatar is a masterpiece, a culmination of genius and experience of the talented director James Cameron. You know, the guy who sank the Titanic, with the famous phrases of "Draw me wearing this, Jack. Wearing only this." and "I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go." So, he's been quiet for so many years. If I'd made half as much as he did with Titanic, I would be too. So, in a nutshell, without spoiling the movie for anyone who hasn't seen it, Avatar is a story set several hundred years into the future (2154 AD to be exact). A rich deposit of a valuable ore has been discovered underneath the surface of Pandora, a moon of a large gaseous planet within the Alpha Centauri A system. Thing is, the moon is not barren like ours. In fact, its biological system is lusher and more complicated than the Amazon. And a humanoid race called the Na'vi populate the moon. Humans have tried to mine on the moon, but have been met with resistance from the Na'vi. Dr Grace Augustine (played by Sigourney Weaver) created the Avatar program, where DNA of the Na'vi and of a specific human are mixed to create an avatar, a Na'vi vessel to be mind-linked with its human controller. Think creating and controlling a character in a role-playing game. In rolls Jake Sully, an ex-Marine who's paralyzed from the waist down. His twin brother, Tommy, was a scientist scheduled to do his research on the Na'vi, but he was killed before the trip. Being identical twins, Jake shares the same genetic makeup as Tommy, therefore he is able to control Tommy's avatar. Hold on. This sounds like a recap of the movie. Sorry. Anyway, Pandora is a wild rain forest, rich with beautiful and dangerous life, breathtaking in every sense. When Jake's avatar gets separated from his crew, he meets Neytiri, a Na'vi princess. And so his story begins. Treehuggers around the world will hold this movie as a beacon of hope, just as Brokeback Mountain is for gay and lesbian folks. Actually, to liken Avatar with the movie would be doing Avatar injustice, as this monster is in a league of its own. The premise of this movie is about the human race, greedy and arrogant in its self-proclaimed superiority, look at this alien race as inferior, less than human, no better than monkeys, just because they lack the same technological advancement. They think, by offering education, better food and technology, the Na'vi would be indebted to them. They think that because the Na'vi are a backward people, human explorers have the right to mine the ore as they see fit, destroying everything in doing so. They think that the Mother Goddess Ewya, the spirit trees, the bond the Na'vi has with the land are just superstitious crap. Sounds familiar? Dances With Wolves and Pocahontas, among other stories, have the same premise. While the storyline is not original (is there an original storyline anymore?), the storytelling is. This movie is a seamless blend of fantasy, science fiction and love story. The Na'vi are a mixture of native South American and African tribes. James Cameron did not preach with his storytelling; he is a Master storyteller. Other than the beautiful storytelling, I also noticed the beauty of Jake Sully's character arc. He starts of as a cripple with nothing to live for, nothing to hold on to. When he becomes a Na'vi avatar, he is not the strongest, he is not the brightest. In fact, Dr Augustine sees him as in inconvenience. James Cameron could have made him an exemplary Na'vi, but he wisely didn't. Jake has many flaws. He is loud and brash, he cannot ride the native horse -- the pa'li -- well, but he is persistent, and he perseveres. He also proves to be a natural ikran (a pterodactyl-like creature) rider. When he falls in love with the new world he experiences, he is torn between two worlds. His achievements do not come easy, but with a heavy price. As a lover of beautiful things, of amazing visual effects and of haunting, otherworldly music, I fell in love with Avatar. As a fantasy fan, I was fulfilled more than I was with LotR. As a writer, I am inspired to write stories of this exemplary class. I am happy that this USD300 million movie has made USD73 million in the US in its opening weekend, and an estimated USD 232 million worldwide*. I have watched this movie twice (I still prefer the 3D version), and I'm planning to watch it again soon. To James Cameron, I take off my hat for his Masterclass storytelling, his vision, his genius. I am inspired, and I hope to one day be half as good as him. To James Horner, I salute for composing and choreographing such beautiful music to accompany the movie. And I congratulate the actors for taking part in this monumental mark in history. To those who haven't watched this movie, I suggest going to the cinema to do so. Watching this movie on the computer or the TV screen will not do this movie justice. Avatar is meant to be watched on the big screen. *Taken from Wikipedia.

New Obsession: AION Online

2009-11-11T02:58:00.006+08:00

I've been fawning over this particular game since more a year ago. Yes, I've been secretly cheating on WoW (World of Warcraft) even while actively raiding with my guildmates. Kept on going back to the site and read the updates, counting the days 'til it's release. It was supposed to be late last year, but was postponed until the release date became official: 22nd September 2009. I went, "September, September...COME!" When the game was finally released, I found out to my dismay that it was not sold in Malaysia. Not even via Amazon.com (this item is currently not available for your country). Sucks bad, right? So, anyway, I kept on complaining and Reza kept on asking if I really wanted the game. Last Tuesday he came over my home after work bringing a steel-cover copy of AION! He asked his friend in Dallas to courier it for him. So, what's all this rave about? Remember how I said I'm obsessed with winged creatures? AION avatars (characters) have fully-functional wings, and there are even aerial battles! Granted, I can only fly at certain areas, and only for a minute at a time, but still. Wings! The character creation process is, on its own, amazing and a half. Imagine Sims 3, but with richer graphic and fantasy-base. Unline WoW, there is no choice of race, only Elyos (from pale to tanned skin, with white wings) or Asmodians (range of purple to green skin, with black wings and claws for fingers, talons for feet), but how tall or short, how thin, muscular or fat, how flat-chested or voluptuous, how elven-like, gnome-like, or dwarf-like, is totally up to a player's taste and creativity. And the game itself is almost FMV-quality. Only hitch: my RM1k graphic card couldn't stand the weight of the game and kept on crashing the computer. It was top of the line 3 years ago, but is sadly laughable now. Went to Low Yat Plaza. This is what happened: Me: What's the best graphic card you have? Guy: What's your budget? Me: Show me your best. Guy: (nudges his way to the display shelves and brings back a large black box) NVIDIA GTX 285, 2GB memory, 1 kbit. Me: (almost drooling) How much? Guy: RM1700. Me: (hand gripping the wad of money in left pocket) Alamak. That's out of my budget. Guy: (snickers) That's why I asked your budget ma.... Me: Cheaper got? Guy: GTX 275, 896MB memory, 448 bit. RM779. Me: Why the big price difference? Guy: Quality ma.... Me: Something better? Guy: Wait ah. (nudges back to the shelves and brings back another big black box). Only stock left. GTX 285, 2GB memory, 512 bit. RM1350. Me: (alternate looking at him and the box. Thinks back on AION and other new games I couldn't play because my graphic processor sucked) OK. Bungkus. So he packed it in a plain yellow plastic bag that I can stuff groceries or trash in. No fancy paper bag or anything. I get decent paper bags at Kinokuniya with purchases over RM100. This one? No such luck. SoI bought me an RM1.35K graphic processor, and some memory card upgrade. There went my money. Anything for AION, right? I went back home (without having lunch first. My stomach protested all the way home, but I wasn't drooling for food) and assembled the cards I bought. Had to clean the CPU though; it was filled with dust, cat fur, and some random murukus. Turned on the PC. Waited. Waited. Started AION. OH. MY. GOD! The game's beyond beautiful with maximum graphics. And to top that, my FPS (frames per second) rate is maintained above 28 in the busiest city, and over 45 elsewhere. Human eyes view 29 FPS as smooth-flowing moving images (standard TV quality). So I wasted -- ahem, spent -- more time creating new characters. Because I can. And be cause they're so damn beautiful. I'm not ashamed to admit I play female characters online, because. And because the male characters look weird and I refuse to dedicate so many hours and effort leveling an avatar I can't stand seeing. But with AION, I can create gorgeous guys and gals. Played half a day to reach level 9. That's when I got to do an ascension quest, where at the end of the chain-quest, I get my pair of wings. OH. MY. GOD! The game is reminiscent of WoW, so the transition is easy. And the game doesn't disappoint. Stunning graphics, easy learning curve, familiar and good gameplay. I stopped becoming active blogging after I started writing short stories for WDC. Now I don't review and write so much due to AION. Still. AION rules! So here are some (posed) snapshots of my character, Collan (a cleric/healer. I come home from the hospital to play doctor in-game. Go figure).

Atrocity

2009-11-05T16:32:00.004+08:00

I checked my computer and saw Yahoo! homepage already opened. The headline grabbed my attention: Islamic Icon Spared in Disaster Flick. I read on. The short of it is that the director of 2012, the upcoming global disaster movie, Mr Ronald Emmerich, contemplated on destroying the Kaaba, but was talked out of it by his co-writer talked him out of it (for fear of a fatwa). In his interview, he admitted wanting to destroy Kaaba. And when talked out of it, he said that it wasn't something important, anyway. OK, fine enough as it is. But wait. There's another link to his interview with Sci Fi Wire, and there are plenty of comments left by visitors. And the nonsense people sprout! I don't know how, but the blame for this debacle goes to Islam and Muslims, for being extremist, for being suicide bombers, for being stuck in the dark ages, for not wanting progress. The commentators keep on talking about the comic where the prophet Muhammad was portrayed, about Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses. For those not sure about Salman Rushdie's work that put him into hiding, he came up with alleged Quranic verses that had never existed before. The content? The title of the novel says it all, but what's most important is that the Quran has never seen any change throughout its existence. The Holy Book is still pure, not tampered with. I seriously am one of the least religious Muslims around. But to read these hate-saying comments, to imagine the Kaabah destroyed for the sake of a movie, well, it's hard not to get angry. Have a read. Click on the links I posted. Then tell me if you don't get angry reading those comments. Some are just haters, provoking other, making their own country, their own religion (or lack thereof) look bad.

Published Author in the House!

2009-10-30T23:09:00.003+08:00

Finally, I'm a published writer! I got an email from one of QLRS's publishers earlier tonight: From: Kai Chai subject: QLRS Oct Issue Dear Fadzlishah, I'm Kai Chai, the short story editor of QLRS. I'm happy to tell you that we have selected your contribution, Mother, for the October issue, which will be ready in a couple of days' time. Have a good weekend, Kai Chai. That's a big first step. QLRS carries substantial weight in the Southeast Asian region, for future print publication. Now I have something to write for the credential part of a query letter. And that's the aim, to have my name on a cover of a book! Will post the link once it's out. HAPPY! I bet I'll fall asleep grinning tonight. A big shout-out to Sarah, who told me to submit the story to QLRS. Cha cha cha cha cha, cha! Cha cha cha cha cha, cha!

Birthday Boy

2009-10-20T23:43:00.003+08:00

So. I turned 28 today. Reza SMSed me his birthday wish before midnight, in case he fell asleep and forgot all about it. My brother and his girlfriend Ili followed suit, around 00:20. To be honest, I was asleep in the on-call room at that time, and only noticed the messages around 02:00 when I went down to OT for surgery. Ended up waiting over an hour before I could start cutting, and I was thankful the case was straight forward. Feeling a little down because the two patients I operated upon last Saturday passed away. Their conditions weren't good to begin with, but still. So I finished this morning's operation around 04:15, then continued writing a review at WDC. Slept for 2 hours, woke up, got ready for work (gray shirt, gray vest, black slacks and shoes -- no tie). The rest of the family called around 08:45. Arwen was silent, but Papa told me she danced when she heard my voice. Funny girl, her. Finished rounds around 10:00. Found out that Sister Yee, my ICU head nurse, bought me a Secret Recipe cake. Chocolate and Cheese. Seriously. Yum. My Head of Department, Mr (Dr) Saffari came, Fazrin came, and the nurses sang "Happy Birthday". I blew out imaginary fire on the 2 candles (we couldn't find a lighter), and we ate the cake. Finished my work in ICU, loitered around a bit, and headed for Bangsar at 12:30. Had lunch with Reza at BSC Chili's (he paid for it). Went back to work, loitered until 16:15, got bored and sleepy, drove home. Noticed a large brown envelope with the name Fadz J Rosli on it. Wondered who it was from. Didn't think to look at the PosLaju docket. Turned out to be a cool black notebook from Tita (checked the docket after opening the gift). SMSed to thank her. Headed straight for my computer and downloaded Heroes and Brothers and Sisters, watched Fringe while downloading. Fell asleep watching Fringe. Woke up when Arwen planted a wet kiss on my cheek, continued to straddle both realms of awake and asleep. Reza came by to copy last season's Fringe. Watched the first episode of Glee (trying to get him to watch the fabulous show). Watched Heroes after he went home, then re-watched Fringe since I was already alert. Just in time, Brothers and Sisters finished downloading. Watched that while eating curry Maggie Kasha made for the three of us. Read a short story on WDC, and decided to update this blog. So there. A full day on my 28th birthday. Oh yeah. Kept on receiving birthday wishes from a lot of people on Facebook, friends and family alike. Friends and colleagues SMSed as well. All in all, it may seem like a blah day, but the amount of love and attention I've received, well, I can't possibly ask for anything more than that. I'm thankful for all the people around me. Oh. Mama promised to have my birthday dinner this weekend, since I have the weekend off, and I'm post-call today. She knows how tired and cranky I can get after a call.

Loving October

2009-10-08T17:05:00.003+08:00

Hotdamn! I haven't updated in ages. Since I joined http://www.writing.com (WDC), I've been actively writing new short stories. I also joined a small writing group within the site, where I give reviews and comments on other members' pieces. Works both ways, so it's all good. I couldn't give reviews on poetry because, quite frankly, I suck at it. Speaking of sucking, I went to Kinokuniya during lunchtime and guess what I saw. Books on vampires, zombies, werewolves, and other creepy crawlies on display, sold at 25% discount with other purchase (in other words, buy something else to activate the discount). And right beside the entrance I found this amazing book: By Blood We Live, an anthology of vampire stories by famous authors including Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Anne Rice, Tad Williams, Kelley Armstrong and many more. Come on. Vampire short stories! That's something to die for and to sink one's teeth in (pun intended)! I've always wanted to buy anthologies from top authors, and having a whole collection on vampires...wow. Click on the picture for a link to the official website). So the price is RM64 before discount. My receipt shows a minus RM16 (25% off). I've only started reading the second story. The first one is Neil Gaiman's interpretation of the original Snow White, not the happily-ever-after Disney version. He told the story from the the stepmom's perspective, in first person PoV. The story is dark and twisted, the prose beautiful. I love it! I'll read the whole book through and write the review later (maybe much later, at the rate I'm going with my lousy journal-keeping. There are other books on the display counters, books on vampires and witches and angels (my favorite supernaturals), some of them I never even noticed all the times I went to Kinokuniya. I don't celebrate Halloween (although I find it fascinating). But being able to afford to buy all these books (two or three at a time, mind) gives me reason to celebrate! Speaking of celebration, my birthday is coming this 20th. I'll turn 28, which means I will have less than a year to come up with a complete manuscript, and another year to put my baby out for acceptance. Tita forwarded me a mail saying MPH is accepting submissions for novels and anthologies, but limited to mainstream, literary, crime/horror, romance and some other literary/mainstream-related genres. Strictly no fantasy, no sci-fi, no erotica. Crap. So MPH is out of the question for me! Funny thing is, my Urban Fantasy/Supernatural novel showcases Kuala Lumpur, from the loftiest vantage points to the shadiest alleys. But since Fantasy is a niche-genre, local publishers are hesitant about buying the works. Same goes with Malay novels. So in order for me to publish a novel that partly advertises Malaysia, I have to seek out publishers from other countries who I hope will be interested at the exotic settings and cultures. I hope to really finish that novel, so that I can revisit this post, and we will all laugh together at some lame joke I tell, simply because I'm famous and everything that comes out of me is golden. Seriously. That's the true Malaysian way, eh? Well, I've discussed with Tita about a possible anthology project. Theoretically, it shouldn't be hard for me to come up with 13 to 15 stories in a few months. I've produced 14 new pieces since I joined WDC mid-August, and won 8 out of 11 Writer's Cramp entries. If that bears fruit, I may be able to approach MPH for possible publication. I am also sending out some of my babies for online magazine publication, to add to my resume when I type out that query letter. Funny thing about publication is, in order for a new writer to publish a work, he preferably has to have other published works. Weird, right? So for agents to know how serious I am about my novel, I must have a few stories published or competitions won to impress them, more or less. Did I mention I'll turn 28 this 20th?

Feedback

2009-09-17T20:13:00.003+08:00

Thanks guys. Don't worry. I'm not fragile. I didn't post this argument on my blog for the sake of getting pats on the back. I appreciate it, though. Honestly, absolutely appreciate it. I knew from the start this guy had a point, logically thinking. But the main character in that story isn't an ordinary guy, and the squadron of 24 Knights is worth more than a whole army. I asked him to read the whole thing through before passing judgment. There are a few lessons from this, though. 1. Sometimes people are blinded by how they perceive things, you cannot put in a word otherwise. 2. A majority of writers are defensive about their work(s). Say something negative, and ouch. I'm thankful I've been cleared off that silly notion (don't worry, Tita, you're not evil). Although this can be looked at as pride in one own's work, but when it hampers growth and progress, this can be dangerous. Same goes for other things in life. I thought I gave him a fair review on the techniques of his writing. I'm still learning, but I've learned a lot from reading both fiction and books-for-writers. 3. I can whip out an argument out of nothing. The guy has medieval history to back him up, that's why he has a firm belief on how high fantasy should or should not be. If he hadn't been an ass, I'd have asked to learn from him. As it is, I don't know squat. My take on dragons is how the general population perceive them. Big, mythical creatures that can or cannot spew fire, nasty temperament, and with luck, can occasionally be killed. Because a dragon is a metaphor for adversity, of a near-impossible challenge, that only those who persevere may overcome. 4. The piece is in sore need of an overhaul. I'll be the first to admit it. The concept is nearing a Dragonlance-fan-fiction (was too immersed in reading those books at that time). But sometimes, it doesn't matter if you've written a gem. Some people will think it's crap. Don't get angry with them. Don't get angry with yourself. You know you've created something beautiful. You're capable of it. Go create more. ~~Well, there are lots more to be learned, but as it is I've written more than a single post!~~ Hell, why not. Copy > Paste it is! I love computers! Anyway, bottom line is, you can't please everyone. The person whose opinion should matter the most is yourself. Just not all the time. You'd end up like Chronicler. Thanks everyone, for your positive feedback. John, I saw the cover of your book popping up on Sharon Bakar's sidebar, under "Books from Malaysian Writers" (or something like that). You're an inspiration, mate!

Some people can be so immature

2009-09-15T11:34:00.001+08:00

If you have the time and patience to read this, I would appreciate your comments. Chronicler: Review on "The Dragon Knight" Rating: 2.0 Sorry, but I had to stop reading this after the first paragraph. While the writing itself was good, as an adult afficiendo of high fantasy literature, I was immediately "turned off" by the notion that mere human "knights" had the ability to kill the typical, large dragons of fantasy lore. Dragonslaying knights is really the stuff of fairytales intended for five year olds who have no knowledge of how deadly someting like a dragon would really be. This is why when a blockibuster film like "Shrek" makes fun of fairytales, they cannot overlook the ridiculous notion of "knights" killing large dragons, and rather intelligently depicted the dragon's cave full of knights bones and empty armor, because any other conclusion is ridiculous. In the future, you might want to say your story is intended for "young readers". Good luck with your project in any case. If it was devoid on unbelievable, cliche', dragonslayer nonsense, I would probably be interested in reading it. Me: Thanks, mate. Was waiting for an honest review. Jor-aren is not human, and no mere knight. Deeper into the story, it'll be revealed that he's Irda, a race far older than humans, whose innate magic are surpassed only by the dragonkind. And these knights had been infused with dragon essence. In Dragonlance, Huma was a plain human. Granted, a dragon helped him, but with the dragonlance he showed everyone that dragons could be killed too. It's not another fairytale, but a story about a jaded, cynical young man who wants to avoid taking the path set out for him. Please, if you don't mind, have another go. I have to admit, though. I wrote this one some years ago. Chronicler: Dragon Lance is pretty much aimed at adolescent readers as well. You won't see books written by bestselling adult fantasy writers like Terry Goodkind or Terry Brooks writing such nonsense. And as I recall, the only way a dragon could be killed in Dragon Lance was with the magical "dragon lance". But if a single dragon WERE threatened by such a weapon, they would simply wipe out mankind by burning every field and killing every domestic animal. It would be impossible to stop them, and so, Dragonlance is utter nonsense. The people who write this stupidity don't seem to realize that if evolution is real, (and it is generally accepted world wide now), dragons would have to be FAR more ancient and ADVANCED than any humanoid species. Their intellect and magical abilities would be MILLIONS of years ahead of any primate. MILLIONS. And why would such vastly superior creatures infuse their "essence" to violent primates that might someday attack them? They wouldn't, of course. In fact, the only reason any primate would live in a fantasy world with large sentient dragons is if the dragons wanted them to. Even if humans COULD hurt a dragon, which is highly unlikely, NO human would dare to do so, because the dragons could inflict a terrible retribution that would kill millions, and do so with absolute impunity. And if ever threatened by vastly superior odds (most likely an impossible scenario in a realistic fantasy), why would you suppose a dragon would fight to the death, or give anyone an opportunity to hurt it? Most animals NEVER do. They cut and run. And dragons could retreat to inaccesible places nobody could ever reach. Sorry, but to me, this dragon slaying by anything less than a bigger dragon is just kiddie nonsense, written in an age of Marvel Super Hero comics. What can I expect from an author than belives such a thing? I would have absoultey no faith that anything else he writes would be realistic. Such a person simply has no idea of the real capabilities of huge, consumate predators. A human sized creature only has so much reach, and so much muscle mass, whatever you may think. A rat the size of a human would be a far deadlier predator than a human. . But what chance does a rat have agains an eagle? ANY normal sized humanoid would be just as helpless against a large dragon. Dragons would be nothing less than gods to any race of primates, as shown in some of my stories and my next book. Lose the dragonslaying stupidity and I will consider reading more. As it is now written, it is simply not worth my time. Sorry. I don't read dragonlance either, they are stupid, unrealistic books fit only for children. Fairytales...nothing more. Me Well, Mr Chronicler, it does seem that we cannot please everyone, and it's a good thing I never aimed to do so. As you are adamant about the logic and 'realism' of dragons, I have to ask you this: what are dragons, if not a myth? The Western depiction of dragons are large lizard-like creatures with wings. I reckon the myths originated from dinosaur bones found by ancient people. The winged, flying dinosaurs that did exist had hollow bones and streamlined bodies, and they lived near shores where the windrafts could lift them. They were gliders, not fliers. Not reptile living now can actually fly. The Eastern depiction of dragons are serpentine leviathans that glide the open air. There is no logic in that too. What about dragons having magic, then? How do we explain magic? Those that we have today are merely illusions. Magic is a term used to something unexplainable by science. Ancient Chinese who discovered firepowder hid the fact and made everyone else cower in awe by their 'magic'. How indeed do dragons, reptiles, possess magic? Or the command of language? We take another lore. Fire-breathing dragons. Now how is that possible? How can living tissue withstand the heat? I have read the short stories you posted. You portray dragons as gods, and if that's the way you roll, then good for you. Most stories portray gods as petty creatures with their own wants and agendas. I'm Muslim and I believe in the One God, but Abraham, Moses and Jesus prayed to the same God too. And we know that God is not petty. God cannot be understood or visualized by mortals, by us. God creates life. God takes life. God makes mountains and trees as easily as God destroys them. How can dragons be gods when they cannot create life, but can only destroy? When you say it is not possible for mere humans to kill dragons, how can all stories, all mythologies depict dragonslaying? The reason is simple. A dragon is a metaphor for an impossible obstacle. Many give up or are defeated by this impossibility, but for those with heart, for those who persevere, the impossible becomes possible. Stories like these are meant to give people hope. Lose the dragonslaying stupidity and I will consider reading more. As it is now written, it is simply not worth my time. Sorry. I don't read dragonlance either, they are stupid, unrealistic books fit only for children. Fairytales...nothing more. By stating this, you are mocking my intelligence. In fact, you're saying I'm stupid. You may have written books, but you don't have the slightest idea what I do for a living. If you deign to read other works (Dragon Knight is the only dragon story I wrote), you'd find that I have a gift. But writing is not my source of income. Neurosurgery is. I understand that as a 'dragon specialist', you look down on people who don't portray dragons as you see them. But please. I would appreciate it if you could lose your snobbery. Right now you sound like one of those literary artsy snobs who curse on John Grisham and Dan Brown and Stephen King and JK Rowling for writing trash that made millions. I'm sorry to have to say this, but I have met your kind before. Just because you are well versed in a particular field, you look down on others who do it blindly, based on the stereotype. Well, you can write a story with a hospital setting, and you may get it all wrong, but if your writing is good, if your story resonates, I will read to the end, and supply a few helpful comments. That's what I do, because I love reading and helping people. I don't simply tell them I stop reading at the first paragraph because I find the concept illogical and stupid, which, I have to point out, you did at great length. You did of course say my writing was good, but how can you tell when you stopped reading at the 1st paragraph. Since you are adamant about the logic of dragon portrayal, I suggest that you read Jurassic Park. That's as close as a real dragon can get. Because, after all, dragons were born from dinosaur bones. Having said all the above, I do appreciate your spending time giving me a review and a follow-up comment. Chronicler: What a coincidence. In my last note I almost added that you ought to watch Jurassic Park to learn something about usual outcome of human versus giant carnivorous reptile. Now if jurassic park was written by the comic book writer of Shanna the Jungle Girl, she would have slaughtered the T-Rex with a bowie knife, just as your "knights" are able to slaughter giant sentient dragons. Now do you understand. When mere humanoids can kill giant sentient reptilian predators, the work is little more than a children's comic. I agree about the magic. But if there is going to be "magic' in a fantasy world, it might be what scientists in our own world consider paranormal phenomena. Some serous scientists have stated that thousands of years from now, humans will refine these abilities and use them. So if any creature in a fantasy world might possess some of these abilities, it might be creatures that have been sentient for 100 million years instead of 200 thousand. Virtually every human culture spoke of actually seeing living dragons and interacting with them. Perhaps these are mass hallucinations, but if you profess the God of the bible is real, these scriptures also document dragons, and they are the highest assitants to the real Creator God. How could they "breath fire", read this short story about the world's most famous dragon, taken right out of the Bible that you must be familiar with. How Dragons Breath Fire With great apprehension, the white-bearded patriarch pulled back the curtain, and entered the richly decorated, leather topped tent that would later come to be known as The Holy Tabernacle. Bright flames flickered from the seven spouts of the imposing, intricately wrought candelabrum of gold, and their reflections danced like a thousand points of light on the iridescent, blood-red scales of the great creature whose coiled body perfectly filled the antechamber. Well-sated by a substantial meal of several sacrificial calves, lambs, and the first born children of those who could not pay the prescribed ransom in precious metals, the beast noisily snored until the man neared the tent. Now there was a deathly silence. The patriarch went to his knees, and in a whisper implored, "Lord of Lords, your servant speaks". With the acute senses of a consumate predator, the beast had heard the man's tread even on the soft desert sand the tent was pitched upon, and was now wide awake. The cat-like, but intelligent golden orbs were open, and bore down upon the fearful man. Great scaly lips parted, revealing rows of teeth, each as large and sharp as a fine Egyptian dagger, and an oily black, forked tongue, as long and as broad as man's leg, tasted the air, withdrew, and then in a deep, resonating voice, the creature replied, "Why do you disturb my rest, Moses?" With an unsteady voice, the old white beard stammered, "Lord of Lords, the people grow disaffected again. They complain of the monotony of the manna you feed them, while you daily consume their finest livestock. Few still have treasure from Egypt to ransom their first-born, that you demand, and the harshness of the desert becomes intolerable. They wish that members of their own tribes would be among your priests, and not all from the Levites. Some think they were better off as slaves in Egypt, and wish to return ithere, if they are not brought soon to the Promised Land." The great reptile tasted air again, detecting the scents of many men, and said, "I sense people outside the Tabernacle who are not my priests. Are they the disaffected ones?" The Patriarch replied with unease. "Y-yes oh Lord, and they request an audience to voice their displeasure." "So be it", the reptile flatly stated. "Let them feel the fiery wrath of their Lord". Moses shook his head in affirmation, and asked, "The oil skin, Lord?". The dragon gave a grunting nod and then gaped wide it's terrible jaws. Moses entered the second, smaller room, partitioned by a curtain, and removed the lid to the magnificent gold-sheathed, wooden ark that reposed in honor there. Along with the device that the old man sought, the chest housed original copies of the laws the creature had imposed upon His people, as well as his finest treasures. Among the dragon's baubles of silver, gold, and lapis lazuri, he lifted out a large, heavy, liquid-filled vessel, fashioned from the entire skin of a young calf, but where the head would have been was a fine bronze spigot, bound to the calf's neck with sinew and pine resin. He also removed a polished white object that looked all the world like one of the great creature's teeth, only this one was hollow and fashioned from elephant ivory. The Patriarch hefted the heavy calfskin into the dragon's mouth, carefully positioning it on the base of the forked tongue where it broadened considerably, with the bronze spigot facing outwards. Then he loosened the hardwood cork, and filled the hollow ivory tooth with the highly volatile mixture of naptha, pitch and oil, taking care not to let the bitter fluid soil his master's tongue. Replacing the stopper, he then carefully inserted the ivory tooth in an empty socket in the very front of the reptile's bottom jaw. He then inserted a common lamp wick of twisted linen into the tip of the faux tooth and set it alight with a small branch that he ignited with the flame of the wondrous, seven branched oil lamp. The dragon carefully closed its jaws just enough to conceal the calfskin, but not enough to extinguish the flickering lamp, and with his snout, pushed Moses toward the tent flap. The Patriarch strode out before the assembled dissidents, each of whom had carried a smoldering bronze censer that burned aromatic incense in respect for their Lord. Moses rebuked them, saying, "Woe to you for your disaffection and ingratitude to the God who delivered you from Egypt. Now feel the wrath of your Lord!" With that, the great 'fiery and flying serpent" uncoiled out of the tent entrance like a flowing river of glistening red scales. Rising up upon his haunches, He spread its great wings, lowered its head, and gently squeezed the calfskin with its tongue against its pallete, causing the cork to pop out, and a great stream of oil to spew forth, igniting when it reached the flaming ivory tooth-lamp. The dissidents screamed as the plume of flames enveloped them. The multitude of Israelites who witnessed the event, were awed by the magical power of their Lord, and for a long while, complained no more of their hardships. So memorable was the event that it would be recorded in the scriptures that we now call the Holy Bible. " And fire came out from the LORD and consumed the 250 men who were offering the incense." Numbers 16:35 And to confirm where the fire came from: "Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth." Pslams 18:22 END But no, you totally misunderstand my writing. I did not say dragons were gods, I said humans in ancient times would believe they were their gods. There is a big difference. As for talking, there is plenty of scientific precedent. Dinosaurs and Pterosaurs are not mere reptiles, but Archosaurs. Birds are also archosaurs, and surely you are aware that they can pronounce human words. Your information about Pterosaurs is also outdated. Some of the largests ones (and one type is large enough to swallow an adult man whole), lived in flat terrain can could fly like a traditional bird witout relying on cliffs or wind. I am not trying to be snobbish or arrogant. I just think stories about humanoids with iron age technology killing gigantic intelligent flying reptiles is ridiculous, just as most scientists would say a humanoid with iron age technology killing a T-Rex with the brain the size of an avacodo is likewise ridiculous. And an intelligent dragon would be far, far more deadly than an unintelligent dinosaur. And believe it or not, I run a military museum, have studied military technology and combat skills for decades, and have even jousted on horseback in full armor. If you watch the History Channel you have undoubtedly seen me equipped in museum quality armor from ancient to medieval times. I do know what I am talking about. In the fantasy I like to read, it should read like quality historical fiction, and NOT like comic books with heroes impossibly slaying enormous monsters far superior to the human in every way. Like I say, eliminate the dragon-slaying sillliness, and I'll be happy to read and comment on the rest. I am not saying eliminate dragons, as fantasy worlds without them are very boring places. But if dragons are in your world, they should be realistic, and not mere fodder to be slain to enhance an unbelievable human hero. Me: Even with the lines from the scripture, there were no further verses or explanations to identify that the Lord, or the creature from whence the fire came from, was a dragon. In Quran, quite a number of the passages are vague, but have to be taken at literal value and are not open to interpretation, and rightly so. Different people with different background and prejudices have different interpretations. And from these differences come dispute. " And fire came out from the LORD and consumed the 250 men who were offering the incense." Numbers 16:35 "Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth." Pslams 18:22 These could also be interpreted as a volcano erupting. And I wouldn't be wrong. You did mention that my take on the flying dinosaurs are outdated. Why? Paleontologists found more evidences that contradict their previous assumptions. Just like the T-Rex. It's now a scavenger and not a hunter as they previously believed. They cannot agree with each other, because there aren't enough facts to back them. They can't even agree on whether the dinosaurs have feathers or not. What about skin color? More assumptions. Just because you have a certain ideal, a certain belief on how a dragon should look like, should behave, doesn't make it real, doesn't make it undeniable fact. Dragons are open to anyone's interpretation, just like the deep sea monsters, just like unicorns and flying horses and chimeras and the like. If other people's dragons don't fulfill your vision, you have no right to scoff at them for telling their stories the way they do, unless you have a pet dragon under your basement. Only then do you have the right to say, "Sheesh. These people. They know nothing." The way you're putting your foot down can be likened to some people scoffing at all the alien-related books and movies, because they know. They've seen aliens. Or maybe you'll laugh, saying that these people are just crazy. The universe is big. Maybe there are aliens. Maybe there are dragons who rule countries like demigods, demanding sacrifices. Maybe there are dragonkin who evolved to become humanoid. And maybe, just maybe, there are alien knights out there who hunt dragons for a living. It's called speculative fiction. People speculate, then they write the fiction. By the way: why would a dragon want treasures, like what you've written. That's just not logical. They can't wear the jewelry, they can't spend the coins. So they just like shiny things? Now, knowing what you work as, I would have understood and respected you if you pointed out if armors or weaponry are all wrong. Because you would know for a fact. Because you immerse yourself with the FACTS of life during medieval periods. But we're talking about dragons here. They never even existed for you to preach people on how they should be portrayed. As it is, you come off as one of those die-hard Star Wars fans who wear Jedi-getup everyday and worship the Jedi religion, and argue with everyone the real cultures and behaviors of the creatures that George Lucas created. Chronicler: On the contrary, there is considerable more evidence that the Biblical Yahweh is a dragon, but understand, that in both original Hebrew beliefs, as well as the earlier Canannite tradition where he is called "Yaw" or "Yam", this creature is one of 72 lesser gods, each one adopting a human tribe or culture. Deuteronomy plainly states that Yahweh had the Hebrews, just as Ba'al had the Cannanite...... But the cheif God over all of these "dragons" around the world was called El or Eloi to both the Cannanite and Hebrews, and this is probably where "Allah" comes from as well. But El is probably not a dragon, for as the creator, he had to exist before the dragons described in the Bible, including Yahweh. Volcanos do have a "mouth" but Yahweh also: has nostrils that spew smoke is described with big wings definately had assistants, maybe even children that were dragons (the real meaning of the word Seraphim) He was fed lambs, calves, first born children and liquor to drink ordered Moses to make his idol in the form of a "fiery flying serpent". That is all in the Bible. In addition, the enormous Perisan Empire stated in their Zoroastrian scriptures that Yahweh of the Hebrews was a dragon, and many early Christians also believed Yahweh was a dragon. And it is no coincidence that virtually every culture that ever left records stated that there were intelligent dragons, that in some cases taught them things. Now you can dismiss all of that, including the Bible as all nonsense based on seeing dinosaur bones, but the subject of my ciritisism wasn't whether or not there is some truth to the worldwide dragon beliefs, but rather, how ridiculous is is to believe humans, or similar sized creatures, armed with basic iron weapons could possibly kill something like a giant, intelligent, flying spinosaurus. (better choice than a T Rex because of the large forearms. You are the one who brought up Jurassic Park. We don't see anybody killing T-Rexes with swords because that would be stupid, childish nonsense, and JP had scientists as advisors. So how could you think a creature FAR more deadly than a T-Rex could be killed by a human, or hunanlike creature that could only have neglibable more muscle mass, senses, etc.. If you wanted to give your knights, high tech modern weaponry, yeah they could kill a dragon, but long before the humans adopted that technology the dragons would probably recognize humans as a threat and wipe them out. This is common sense that few fantasy writers think about because they are not historians. You can have your heros kill as many dragons as you like in your stories, it is your right. And it is my right to laugh as such childish absurdity, and refuse to waste my time reading anything more from a person who could believe such nonsense is possible. This is based on the typical, large intelligent, dragon of fantasy genre. Now if your dragons are no larger than a small pony, like the only dragons people in the Middle ages thought even a Saint could kill, then your story wouldn't seem so silly. This has nothing to do with my opinion, it is the same common sense and science that prevented Jurassic Park being ruined by somebody killing a T-Rex or Spinosaur with a medieval type weapon. Also it is only one paleontologist's opinion that T-Rex was a pure scavenger. In truth ALL predators are scavengers too. Most Plaeontologists refute this idea of T-Rex as a pure scavenger, and I agree. T-Rex was probably an ambush predator like a crocodile, and therefore did not have to run fast or far. Why do dragons collect gold? Other Archosaurs like and collect shiny objects, but more probably it was for status among other dragons. But a dragons money can still buy weapons for the people who worship it, just as we see in the bible with the conquest of Canaan with this dragon's assistance. And in a fantasy world where dragons may not have to be so secretive as on this world, dragons could use their gold to hire mercenaries, make armor, etc, but of course, humans wiithout modern technologies would be no threat to them. They may want the gold simply to attract human thieves, which would be less bother than hunting for animals with tough, indigestible fur coats. In some fantasy worlds dragons could be law abiding creatures that buy animals from hunters or farmers, instead of stealing them. In ancient cultures, humans were happy to feed their dragon 'gods' some of their animals, just like the bible says. Me: Ancient Chinese said that mountain ranges were sleeping dragons. That's why their dragons are serpentine, without the wings Westerners seem to like. Some still do believe it. So, is it at all possible that the dragon of your reference are merely volcanoes, and nothing more? Some lava erupt from the mouth/crater, but some seep out from the sides of the mountain. When it is active, before eruption, smoke trails out of the crater, or the nostril(s). A large, long body? Part of a mountain range, maybe? Big wings? some mountains may give the impression of folded wings. Before the advent of science and understanding nature, villagers offer sacrifices to appease such gods, hoping that they will have a successful hunt, bountiful harvest, but most of all, free from natural disasters, which, at that time, were thought of as a sign of the displeasure of gods. I will keep on giving my point of view, and you will counter with your historian background. This will not end. What I've been trying to say is that you've let your firm belief on your take on dragons that you've closed your mind to other possibilities. When it comes to fiction, especially speculative fiction, it is not about what a reader believes should happen. The reader is there for the ride. The story world is created by the author. He has the prerogative to tell the story as he sees fit, but. There's a big but here. The author has the responsibility to lead the reader true. If the sky is green instead of blue, fine. Make sure it is green throughout. If animals could talk, fine. Don't make them operate fine machinery that requires opposable thumbs unless they have opposing thumbs in the first place (humanoid form). If a dragon can be killed by humans, fine. The question is how. I do agree with you. Take a regular blacksmith-edition sword and try to stick it in a dragon, it'll die of laughter (I heard dragons have an odd sense of humor). I didn't write that with my story. My protagonist isn't even human. You judged me without even reading the story. So I can't say anything about it. And I do hope you will one day realize this, when I say please lose the snobbery. Just to recap: - You gave me a 2.0 rating without even reading the story, when this website is about writing and reading other writers. - 1st email (review): Sorry, but I had to stop reading this after the first paragraph. While the writing itself was good, as an adult afficiendo of high fantasy literature, I was immediately "turned off" by the notion that mere human "knights" had the ability to kill the typical, large dragons of fantasy lore. Dragonslaying knights is really the stuff of fairytales intended for five year olds who have no knowledge of how deadly someting like a dragon would really be. -2nd email: The people who write this stupidity don't seem to realize that if evolution is real, (and it is generally accepted world wide now), dragons would have to be FAR more ancient and ADVANCED than any humanoid species. Their intellect and magical abilities would be MILLIONS of years ahead of any primate. MILLIONS. And why would such vastly superior creatures infuse their "essence" to violent primates that might someday attack them?...What can I expect from an author than belives such a thing? I would have absoultey no faith that anything else he writes would be realistic. Such a person simply has no idea of the real capabilities of huge, consumate predators...Lose the dragonslaying stupidity and I will consider reading more. As it is now written, it is simply not worth my time. As I said, the world of that story was of my creation, was of my vision. You stumbled onto it with your firm beliefs and prejudices and it stopped you from experiencing other authors' worlds. Yes, you definitely have the right to your own opinion. But to have the audacity to imply (in my face) that I am stupid for creating my own world with my own possibilities, that is snobbery at its worst. And you have the galls to tell me to modify my story to suit your taste. I'm sorry. I've not heard of an author doing that. I welcome any and all reviews about my writing. But you didn't do that. Instead, you're preaching me how dragons should behave. If you tell me "Now look here, no monkey in this world can breathe underwater," I would look back on what I wrote and thank you for pointing out my silly mistake. But, if my story is about water-breathing monkeys, I'd just say "This is fantasy. This is my story. Live with it." The same can be applied with our predicament here. You let your mind shackle you from enjoying good reads (I'm not referring to my story here. The reason I posted it is to show myself how I've improved over the years). As a reader, as a writer, that is a dangerous liability, when we should be open to all possibilities. PS: There is no mention of dragons in Quran. And Allah is not derived from Overlord Gods. I can't say anything about the Bible, as its original form the Injil had been tempered with. Christianity assimilates local cultures and believes to make the transition of conversion easier. So it's no surprise if dragons get into the picture. The Torah as well. Its original form, the Taurat, is no longer in existence. PPS: That being said, with your background and your view on dragons, you have the potential to spin stories different than the stereotypical ones out there. Pursue that, but keep an open mind. That's my advice from a fellow writer who's still learning the craft. Chronicler: Any good source on Chinese dragons both illustrates and explains that the earliest ones had wings and looked surprisingly like "western" ones. Perhaps when dragons became less frenquently seen their appearance was more stylized. This will all be illustrated with original artifacts in the book. The Chinese histories record the names of Civil Servants paid to take care of visiting dragons. Dignitaries whom dragons gave rides to are recorded. One account states that a ship captain paid a dragon a keg of wine to push the boat off of a sand bar. How to you confuse this with "a mountain". While not specifically in the Koran, dragons are still acknowledged in other early Muslim texts as punishers of the wicked, exactly as they were in anceint Christian and Jewish texts. A famous Islamic artwork of Mohammed ascending to heaven shows him being escorted by a Dragon, which is what all of these ancient faiths understood the Seraphim to be, though now christianity has turned them into swan winged humanoid angel.s Like I said before, it is not just my opinion that human sized "humanoids" would be inacapable of killing large intelligent "dragons" if we give them the expected attributes of large theropods like the spinosaur, which is essentially a standard fantasy dragon if you added wings. So if I begin reading a story how two large dragons are killed by 24 knights I immediately know the author has absolutely no concept of medieval era weaponry, human capabilities, nor how dangerous a giant, intelligent "flying dinosaur" would be. Such creatures could exterminate humanity if they wished to do so. It is really not even debateable. When I read this, I could only imagine you were a teenager. And then there is a whole segment of fantasy readers that wouldn't read your story from that point on simply because they like dragons and stories about them being killed makes them unhappy.. Like I said, little kids like to read that stuff, but most adults cannot take it seriously. If your audience is little kids who fantasize they too, can be a mighty dragonslayer, they may like your story. i may have liked your story if you hadn't revealed how little you know about fighting weaponry, animals , etc. when you added the dragonslayer nonsense. Many people, including several published fantasy authors value my advice. Some have eliminated all dragonslyayer nonsense from their stories after talking with me. You don't have to listen to anything I say. I spent my own good time telling you why your story turned me off. That's what reviews are for. The rating is low, because anyone who writes about knights killing large intelligent dragons suggests he knows nothing about the subject. If I am going to be entertained by a story, the story has to be good. Even if the writing is good, if the author knows so little about the subject he would write such nonsense, I will not waste my time reading the rest. And believe me, I am not the only one who thinks this way. The blockbuster movie Shrek made fun of the whole idea of knights slaying dragons. Most people (except little children and you, apparently) think the idea of knights killing enormous dragons is ridiculous. It is perhaps the stupidest of all Fairytale Cliches, and this is how you start your story. Good luck with your project. . If you clean out the dragonslayer nonsense, I will read the whole thing because I do like quality fantasy (devoid of unbelievable silliness).. Me: Review on "The Dragon and the Virgin Priestess" Rating given: 3.0 TITLE & GENRE: Title is simple but appropriate. Well chosen genre. STORYLINE/PLOT: Definitely has potential, but the history lessons could have been done with more grace and subtlety. At the moment, it stops the story, breaking the flow. CHARACTERS: Rahab could have been portrayed better. As it is, I found it hard to emphatize with her, especially toward the end, when she acted out of character. She was a high/senior priestess, as such, her faith would have been strong and not as easily swayed as she did. Unless from early on she started doubting her god Ba'al for abandoning her and her people. You started near the middle, when she saw the serpent and started rationalizing its existence. She was in awe-with the serpentine living god, and when its tongue gave her pleasure, she was immediately a convert. EMOTION: There were too much side-information feeds that I found it difficult to feel what Rahab should be feeling. These emotions should have conveyed with absolute strength: fear, desolation, and finally awe. IMAGERY: It is a possibility you had to limit your total wordcount, and with the amount of things happening, you could not spend much words on descriptions. There's room for improvement. DIALOGUE: May have benefited from dialogue, to strengthen the imagery of era and level of intelligence as well as mannerisms, but as it is, I did not find this story lacking. TECHNICAL/SUGGESTIONS: There are quite a few that I would like to point out if I may: 1. usage of adverbs and other modifiers weakened your prose. E.g. "roughly pulled" could be replaced with "yanked". 2. careful of redundant descriptions. E.g. "triumphantly returned from their victory" both "triumphantly" and "victory" convey the same meaning. "fetid odor" also bring about the same meaning, and could be replaced with "stench". "cringed in terror," cringe, def: to shrink or flinch in fear. 3. long-winded (wordy) sentences are sometimes too much. One of the tricks is to voice out your sentences, and see if your tongue stumbles. If it does, so will reading in silence. E.g. "Everywhere Rahab looked there were bodies, countless thousands of butchered male children of all ages, and their mothers, all with their throats slit, and with those violent deaths, came the pungent coppery smell of blood, as well as a fouler smell that came from the inevitable, involuntary discharge of liquid and solid wastes." Sentence could have been stopped at "throats slit" to give a grave impact. 4. careful of cliched, inappropriate simile. E.g. "They effortlessly lifted her up like a child’s rag doll" - would a child in that era play with rag dolls, in a land of constant war? Were there rag dolls in that era? This simile is common and overused, and for this piece inappropriate. OVERALL: This story has much potential, but I felt cheated when I reached the end of the story. Here was a great serpent-god who humbled other gods, and not only was it lying there doing nothing (throughout the story I imagined it a contraption created by the white-bearded patriarch, nothing more.), it started to molest and rape (more pleasure than rape in your depiction) the priestess. A god, with godly concerns, takes its time to use its tongue to pleasure a human being. By the way, having been celibate for 30 years, and had never known a man's attentions, it is hardly believable that Rahab felt pleasure. Pain, yes. Terror, definitely. But a woman being raped never feels pleasure. I was disappointed reading this development because from a historical fantasy story, you turned it into a hentai, Japanese cartoon porn with tentacles and such). Think back on this. RATING: As I said, the story has much potential, but ruined by the ending. I'm afraid a 3.0 is the best I could offer. ADDITIONAL COMMENTS: Much room for improvement. Keep on writing! Chronicler: Thank you for the detailed review. It is understandable that you really didn't comprehend elements of the story, as by your own admission, you know almost nothing about the Bible. This story was intended for people with a basic understanding of the stories of the Old Testament. To people who understand these things, here is a typical review I received on another writing website for this story, along with the highest possible point award: " good god. rawr. lol. a stunningly portrayed, powerful story, this was awesome. gripping from start to finish, you have a gift for imagery that draws a reader in. this was such an imaginative story on such a little known subject. f ing amazing." And not only do you know nothing about the subject of this story, but the absurd, childlike notions revealed in your own fantasy writing make it impossible for me to value your judgement. No offense, but you are the one who thinks 24 knights with medieval technology would be able to wipe out an entire city along with two, apparently large and intelligent dragons. How can I take anything you say seriously after that? Believe me, I was trying to help you, and for my efforts you give me a bad review in spite. Very, very mature. And you're really a Neurosurgeon?

Family Secret

2009-09-12T02:03:00.004+08:00

Family Secret Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli (855 words) Winner, The Writer's Cramp 4.9.2009 Featured on Writing.com's weekly Fantasy Newsletter 9.9.2009 Prompt: "They" say that cats have nine lives. But are cats the only creatures with nine lives? Write a story or poem about some animal other than a cat which has, or had, nine lives.

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Every family has their own secrets. Mine is no exception. Earlier this morning Daddy received a phone call that sent him into the dining room where we were having our breakfast. “It’s time,” he said. Now we’re two states away, with Daddy parking the car beside Uncle Jamil’s in front of his parents’ estate. From the amount of cars and motorcycles crammed in the big yard, almost every one – if not all – is here. My sister and I burst out of the car before Daddy even turns off the ignition. Mama carries my youngest brother. He’s too young to walk without falling, much less to know what’s going on, but our excitement seems to have caught. He’s wide awake and jumping in Mama’s arms. My grandparents’ house is big, filled with antique furniture that Mama tries so hard to prevent us from touching or knocking over every time we come to visit. But Mama is a grown-up. She doesn’t understand the grand adventures my cousins and I have up and down the stairs, in and out of the many rooms, and up and around the four shady rambutan trees in the backyard. Even with the whole family crowding the hall, the house is quiet. I see Uncle Jamil’s children and I go to them while Daddy and Mama settle down at another corner, my sister trailing them. I don’t see my grandparents, but I think they must be in the middle of the room. “What’s happening?” I ask Cousin Asri. “Nothing the past hour we’ve been here.” My taller cousin rolls his eyes. “It’s boring.” “Shh,” says Uncle Jamil. His eyes are stern. From somewhere beyond the wall of uncles and aunts comes a weak squawk. After a collective gasp, I see everyone looking up. I follow their gaze. The crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling is glowing red, except that light is not coming out of it, but from underneath. A small bird is flying in a slow circle. It looks wrong, not like the beautiful bird I remember. The crimson feathers have lost their sheen, the gold beak lacks its usual luster. I feel a lump forming in my throat when I look at its eyes. The bird is saying goodbye to us. “Fly, Garuda, your final flight,” comes Grandfather’s voice. At first I don’t understand what’s going on, but looking at Daddy standing across the room, I remember the story he told my little sister and me when we first saw the bird years ago. Garuda is a special bird, a secret I can never tell anyone, not even my best friend Kit Wan. It has been looking after my family for generations, when Grandfather’s grandfather was young. I remember telling Daddy it’s impossible, but he said that this is Garuda’s eighth incarnation. I still don’t understand what that means. The bird flies toward us and hovers over Uncle Jamil’s head. I see everyone nodding, as if agreeing with a well-chosen decision. Uncle Jamil is smiling. It feels wrong, somehow, to see him happy when the bird is giving off such a sad feeling. The bird sighs. I sigh with it. With gentle flaps of red wings, it floats down to land. Not on Uncle Jamil, but into my arms. I hear everyone gasping aloud. I see them clearing a circle around me, but right now I don’t care. I stroke Garuda’s little body. It feels light and soft. And warm. Tears start to drop on its belly. I’m crying and I don’t know why. “Put it down, Khir,” says Grandfather, his tone gentle. I ease the bird onto the marble floor and sit in front of it. Garuda squawks at me and lifts its head. It sighs again, before going limp and lifeless. I cry out and reach for it, but it suddenly bursts into flame, gold and red. It feels warm, but not scalding like the fire on a stove. I hear Mama crying out, but I reach out anyway. The fire tickles my skin. It feels like clothing fresh out of the drier. I touch Garuda’s burning beak and gasp not in pain, but in surprise. The bird crumbles into ash, and in the middle is a gold egg slightly smaller than chicken egg. “Garuda has chosen you, Grandson, to be its next keeper.” I look up and see Grandfather smiling at me. Daddy too. Mama looks worried, though. “The egg feels warm.” “When it hatches, Garuda will be reborn the ninth time. Whomever it chooses is destined for greatness. I hope I’ll live long enough to see you achieve it.” Grandfather chuckles, and the whole family laughs with him. Except for Uncle Jamil, although I can’t understand why. “Guard our secret well, and Garuda will watch over you and your family, Khir.” I cup the egg with both hands close to my heart. I feel a quiver, a pulse, matching my heart. I don’t understand much of what Grandfather has just said, but I know this much is true: I will have a lifelong friend, and no matter how dark things can get, there will always be light.

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Author's note: With this piece, I wanted to write something different, but believable. I didn't want to write about how an animal lost its previous lives, but I wanted to concentrate on its current life. I thought about an animal that had multiple lives. I immediately thought of the phoenix. Granted, it's a mythological animal and not a real one, but the prompt was not specific enough to stop me from looking into this. Using a phoenix, I knew my story would be difficult to believe. That's why I rooted the story in reality, and instead of concentrating on the bird, I wrote it from a human perspective, witnessing the miracle of its death and rebirth. A few days before the prompt came about, I was contemplating on writing children's stories, mainly for my niece Arwen. I wanted her to have something grand, something meaningful, something she could pass down to her children, something hers and hers alone. I've been buying her stuff, but it's different. Since I'm good at spinning stories, why not? Why not have her read something that's from me for her. So when this prompt came, I gave children's story a try. And readers love it! They say I kept the PoV and perspective from a child's throughout the story, and his innocence and naivety is portrayed well. And the story is believable. They want to read more, of what happens next. I'm thinking about turning this story into a book, with illustrations. Sigh. If only.

Writing but not writing

2009-09-12T01:17:00.002+08:00

OK. I know I haven't been updating much. I'm a lousy journal keeper. Unlike the characters of Vampire Diaries, who diligently progress the storyline with "Dear Diary." Speaking of which, I've watched the 1st episode of the new series, based on L. J. Smith's books of the same main title. And I loved it. Granted, the story's along the line of Twilight, a Daywalker vampire in love with a human girl, and will do anything to keep her from harm, which seem to follow her doggedly. But the vampires here don't glitter in sunlight, and they need a special ring to be able to do so. Plus, I've always had a soft spot for anything vampire. Sigh. But talking with my sister earlier tonight, I've come to realize why I love watching Twilight and Vampire Diaries. No, not because of Rob Pattinson, goddammit! This is the reason why: I've read the books before watching the motion pictures (series, in the case of Vampire Diaries), and to be honest, with the amount of adverbs and shallow, cliched writing, I wonder how the books made publication and are well loved in the first place. When reading Twilight, I had a feeling I was inside a simpering teenage girl's head who whines whines whines all the time. Felt like a pervert too, getting into Bella's head. The saving grace for the novel-series is the amazing and believable chemistry between Bella and Edward (Stephanie Meyer lost that connection in Breaking Dawn, but gained in action sequences and strength of plot). Reading Vampire Diaries...well...felt like I stole a girl's diary and read it! I honestly don't consider myself a literary snob. I'm not. But I've read online stories from unpublished authors (I still think published online is not the same as published in print. That's why I consider myself unpublished) that are waaaaay better than those books. But not only did the books go into reprints (not just single prints, mind, but reprints!) but they transited into the screen! That's the Holy Grail for authors anywhere! And, regardless of what people may say, having read those book made me appreciate the improvement scriptwriters and directors made! Twilight may have stayed true to the book on most parts, but Vampire Diaries was totally changed! In the book, Elena is blond and blue-eyed, a typical all-American popular girl who seems to be OK with her parents' death, and looks at getting Stefan a conquest. In the series pilot, Elena is a brunette (hot, extremely hot), who has a junkie brother (instead of a toddler sister), and is having a hard time dealing with the death. The TV series seems much more believable, and has depth and layers. So why do I like both books-turned-motion picture? They give me hope. Hope to be published, hope to reach the stars and beyond. They tell me that getting published is not just a pipe dream. Not 'just a hobby' as my mom puts it. Granted, she's amazed to no end at the pieces I come up with, but she'd strangle me to death and raise me to kill me again if I ever quit my day-job for writing. Anyway, speaking of writing, I'm glad to share that as of this moment, 7 out of 10 new stories I posted for Writer's Cramp have made the winning spot. Well, competing against 5 or 6 other writers for 1000-word short stories may not be anything, not like winning a national competition against 1000 other writers (I'm still licking my wounds from the rejection of the MPH-Alliance competition). But still. One of the stories was featured in a weekly newsletter (that is big news, bubba!). Wanted to take a screen shot, but the frame wouldn't include anything about the newsletter or the editor's picks. Please click on the hyperlink. Thank you! Oh. Will post the story after this. A few of the fellow writers there keep on giving me constructive criticism. They say I have a special God-given talent, and they want to push me far. They apologize for being harsh, but I tell all of them the same thing: Fire away. My IR (ideal reader) cum editor Tita is ruthless and never spares my feelings. Which is why I keep on bugging her to edit my works! And I've found out something interesting too. No matter how enthusiastic and serious I am about writing fiction, people don't look at me seriously so long as I am unpublished, or I haven't won any accolades. Praises I have for Writing.com, but readership and reviews for the works I submitted only increased if that particular piece had won. People will only start noticing you if you've proven you're worth anything. Story of my high school life, all over again. And I love it. So now, part of the reason why I want to get published is to stand up to those who ignore my writing because I'm a nobody right now, and tell them to shove it. OK. One last thing about me. The application forms for Masters program is out. But I'm having second thoughts. Of applying this year, at least. The reason: I want to get myself published first, before I hit 30. I don't want to give up on that. Least not for now. My mom will kill me if she finds out! As long as this meme post has been, my debut in the global writing community is nothing compared to what my siblings have achieved. My brother has won Harper's Bazaar-Canon Fashion Photography Competition, and is featured in this month's magazine. Don't have a working scanner to scan the page. You have to check it out for yourselves, interview and all. Heck, his interview was published! That's what I've always wanted for myself! Too proud to be jealous right now. And my sister's baby poster business has lifted off! She's made over RM500 (and counting). She's a genius when it comes to captions and typefaces, and she's finally found her calling. Feel free to visit her advertisement blog here, and place your orders. So far they're for babies, but I'm sure she'll make exceptions. Sorry this post is all words and no pictures. Will try to update more often than what I'm doing now.

The End of Summer (Winner, Writer's Cramp 28.8.2009)

2009-08-30T11:40:00.004+08:00

Prompt: Write a story or poem entitled, "The End of Summer." (865 words) She stayed only for the last week of summer, but when she left, she took my heart with her forever. In Malaysia, we don’t have summer or winter. Only heat and rain, and for a few months, during the monsoon, more rain at a steady rate. I was on a two-month end-of-university-year break. Instead of moping around the house, making my parents’ hair prematurely whiter, I decided to help my uncle at his beach resort at Perhentian Island. It wasn’t a fancy place. I wasn’t even sure it was worth any star, other than the millions overhead painting the sky on a cloudless night. I worked hard at the resort, cleaning the chalets, scrubbing the floor, replacing burnt bulbs. Just three days there, my olive skin had browned to veneered mahogany. My uncle brought tourists on his speedboat to snorkeling trips. They were mostly Caucasians – Mat Salleh as we called them. The locals somehow preferred to hang around or play at the shallows. Halfway into my second week there, a group of six Mat Salleh girls stepped off my uncle’s boat with so much luggage I couldn’t figure out how they fit into the small boat. I couldn’t stop gawping; they were wearing bikinis. Almost all of them anyway. One was wearing a dull grey T-shirt with ‘Save the Cheerleader, Savage the World’ printed in bold black letters. Looking at that much exposed skin, I was thankful I was wearing an oversized T-shirt that came down mid-thigh. My uncle beckoned me to help with the luggage. I was idling about the next day, looking for a clearer reception for my mobile phone when I saw one of the girls lying on a hammock tied between two tall, swaying coconut trees. I recognized her as the one wearing the T-shirt the other day. I approached her. Girls were less intimidating when alone. “What are you reading?” She looked up without moving her face. Her eyes were the most brilliant green I had ever seen. No leaf, no grass in my country had that shade. I kept my distance, but I could still see the distrust in her knotted eyebrows. She held the cover toward me. “Dune.” I whistled. “I like this one the best of the lot.” She sat straighter. “You’ve read the series?” The way her tongue rolled with each syllable intrigued me. I always fancied foreign accents. I gave her a big smile. “No, the movie.” Her “Oh” came with a slumping of her shoulders. “I’m more of a fantasy guy. See?” I whipped out a browned paperback novel from my back pocket (I was wearing baggy Bermuda) and held it out to her. The edges were frayed, and there was a darker band on the side where my thumbs rested when I read the book. “Servant of the Empire. Is it any good?” “Part one of a trilogy. I’ve gone through it four times.” “Don’t you get bored?” “Of reading? Never.” I flashed her another smile. This time she smiled back. “Say, you’re American, aren’t you?” “New Jersey. How’d you know?” “Your accent.” “You sound almost American yourself. Do you study there?” “Me? No. I grew up watching Nickelodeon and MTV.” She laughed then, light as the cool breeze whispering from the beach. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking. About our different cultures, about our homes, about life in general. In the span of two hours I knew more about her than I did some of my colleagues in university. She had a week left of summer holiday and came here with her friends. I also found out that she was single. I knew it would not lead anywhere, but at least I could dream without feeling guilty. The next three days seemed to me a dream, one I wished to never wake up from. If I had slackened doing my chores, my uncle didn’t complain. Her friends went out for snorkeling trips but she stayed behind. She wasn’t much of a swimmer, she told me. Neither was I. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let the days end. But ended they did, and she had to leave. Her luggage felt heavier than when I first carried them. Maybe it was only because I didn’t want her to go. She was the last to climb up the boat, and when she half-stumbled, I rushed to help her. But her friends were quicker. She turned and gave me a sheepish grin. “Hey,” I said. “I don’t even know your name.” She leaned down and planted a kiss on my right cheek. Her lips were soft, her kiss light. Fire spread from my cheek to the rest of my body, but I welcomed the blaze. Her friends cheered. I turned purple. “Check your book,” she whispered into my ear with a smile. With a roar, the motor came to life and the boat backed away from the white shore. I took my novel out and flipped the pages with a frenzy. In the back cover was her name and e-mail address. Alyssa Stuart. The name was as beautiful as the person. I waved at her retreating form, but not to say goodbye. I waved her a promise.

Family Man (Writer's Cramp Entry, 26.8.2009)

2009-08-30T11:35:00.004+08:00

Prompt: Write a story or poem about an employee that just got fired. It can be from the employee or the employer perspective. (845 words) Vinod sat in his car and thought about dying. Simple, he thought. Much simpler than what he had to face. The engine of his nine-year-old Toyota chugged and spluttered, rocking the whole metal frame even though the car was crouched idle. He barely felt the air conditioning, and it was at its maximum strength. His wife Shanti kept on nagging him to buy a new car, something like their neighbor’s Proton Persona, sleek and sporty, and Malaysian-made. Vinod wasn’t against local products, but he had his eyes on a Mercedes Benz for the longest time. His uncle Shanker drove one, a white E200. How the rest of the family envied the old man for being able to afford the money-drain. But not Vinod. He was closer to his eccentric, single uncle more than he did his parents. Uncle Shanker always let him drive around in his car while he sat at the passenger seat, smoking his cigar. Vinod shook his head to banish the idle thought. He would never be able to afford a Mercedes Benz, and after what happened today, he couldn’t afford a Persona even if he traded in this hunk of scrap metal. He thought about his wife. She would be in the kitchen right now, hands white with flour as she kneaded dough to make chapatti for dinner. Seeing her in the kitchen was always a welcome sight. Her waist had grown much thicker than when he first met her thirty years ago, and there were wrinkles on her face and white in her hair, but she was still the light of his life. And he could not bear to enter the house, to face her bearing the bad news. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on her face. But more than that, he was ashamed to enter the house to face his son. Kumar had just received an acceptance letter to a university that offered a twinning program, with the last two years in Australia. The boy couldn’t stop talking about it, not to the family, not to his friends. With Vinod’s salary, he would be hard-pressed, but with a little budgeting, he should afford the tuition fee. Should. Not anymore, now that he lost his job. Vinod shuddered thinking how to tell his wife that he could no longer pay the mortgage, how to tell his son he would not be able to afford a university education. The shudder turned to spasms, and before he knew it, hot tears were streaming down his cheeks, collecting in his thick mustache. He wiped the tears away but more came out from his blurring eyes. The last time he cried was when he was a little boy. His father had beaten the tears out of him. Only girls and sissies cry, he had said. Real men don’t cry. Ever. But Vinod was crying now, alone, in his car, at the driveway in front of his house. Outside it was already the purple-black darkness of twilight. When he arrived home, the sky had been red with the evening sun. He had not noticed the passing of time. Vinod knew he should walk through the front door and confront his family. With a heavy sigh, he turned off the ignition. Dying was much simpler, and less painful. But he was a man, and his family mattered above everything else. When he opened the door, the expected scents of dhal and curry did not greet him. Nor were there sounds of commentaries on football from the television in the living area. The house was dark and quiet. “Shanti? Kumar?” The crinking of metal on metal heralded his wife’s coming from upstairs. Shanti held on to the banister as she stampeded down the narrow staircase, gold bangles covering both wrists to mid-forearm clanking against each other. Thick necklaces bounced with each heave of her bosoms. Even at home, dressed in fading forest-green sari, she wore her jewelries. Vinod felt a tightening in his stomach; he would no longer afford to buy her more. “Shanti, what happened? Where is Kumar?” His wife stopped for breath at the base of the staircase, one hand on the wall for support. “Football game with his friends. Have you heard?” The two sentences came out in one rushed pant. “Is everything all right?” Thoughts of his termination and the future of his family were pushed back. There was urgency in his wife’s voice. “Your Uncle Shanker. He just passed away.” “What?” Vinod staggered and leaned against the wall. “Heart attack. I know how much you love him, Husband.” Shanti adjusted her sari and closed the gap between them. She held Vinod in a fierce hug. Vinod could only stand there frozen. “Uncle…” “His lawyer called. Uncle left you his car and his estate. Everything.” Vinod thought his heart stopped beating for a few seconds. He hugged his wife and this time, he let the tears flow unstopped. “Uncle…” Vinod cried for the loss of his favorite uncle. But a small thought pierced through his anguish. He would own a Mercedes Benz at last.

Writing.com

2009-08-30T10:36:00.002+08:00

Hmm...again, I have to thank Tita for introducing me to Writing.com. So far I've entered 4 short stories to be considered for the daily prompts, and I've won 3 of them. Of course, there aren't that many entries, but some of them are good. Somehow, if I had won every time I entered, I would suspect the quality of judging and writing, and I would doubt my own writing. Writing short stories less than 1000 words is hard work. Because of the limitation. I find it difficult to use elaborate descriptions to create setting and mood, and to have character development and story movement as well. I try not to use narrative summaries, and use immediate scenes instead (remember the previous tutorials?), but it's bloody hard with 1000 words or less. Would have been more comfortable if the limit is about 2500 words. But the good thing is, I now have 4 brand new stories written within 1 week, not recycled ones, and all of which can be developed more. I also have my eyes set on a few open competitions, namely Happy Ending Love Stories (at least 4000 words), Classic-Character driven Short Story (maximum 10000 words), and Newbie Short Story Competition (can't remember the details). Maybe I'll recycle some of my older stories, maybe I'll write new ones. Wish me luck. I'll be posting the 4 short stories here. Comments and criticisms are appreciated.

Need help

2009-08-25T02:27:00.002+08:00

So. I'm in-between cases, I'm sleepy, cranky, and also hungry. But sleepy trumps all, so I just want to finish this case and crawl onto the bed and under the blanket. Not that I'm complaining, but hey, I did say I'm cranky. Anyway, I have over 60 viewers for the short stories posted on http://www.writing.com. Heart-warming and encouraging comments to boot. Feel like upgrading to a paid account so I can post more stories (my current portfolio is limited to 10). Which brings about the real reason for this post. There is a quarterly competition for short stories less than 10,000 words (trust me, 10k words is so doable) where characterization is judged. Sorta like a typical literary fiction. We are to create a resonating character, whom people still think about long after they finish reading the story. I'm not sure if my characterization has reached that level, but there's no harm in trying. This is the catch: I need some prompts, some ideas from life. Tita knows how I roll with this. I hear a glimpse of people's lives, and I turn it into a short story. So I'd appreciate ideas from all of you. I promise to let you be the first to read it (after Tita and I edit the story, of course). So how about it? You game?

Sweet Taste of First Victory

2009-08-20T00:34:00.003+08:00

Oh wow. I was hoping, I was hoping, but I was too afraid to have expectations. Before that, a quick recap. Been busy procrastinating. Playing online games again. EVE-Online, to be exact, a game about spaceships and space exploration. And I had a tiring call on Sunday, and when I came back on Monday, I...well...kinda went dead(er). Slept from evening to the next morning. Problem was, I didn't take off my contact lenses from when I put them on, on Sunday morning. We're talking about daily contact lenses here. Naturally, my eyes were red and swollen. Could barely open my left eye. And I misplaced my spectacles somewhere, having not worn them for a long time (skin condition, later story). Spent the whole day almost blind. Yep, without my spectacles or my contact lenses, everything is just a blur to me (short-sightedness, -7 both eyes). Had to squint mere inches from the 'puter screen to make out what I was doing. At any rate, Tita mailed me a website for writers, http://www.writing.com. It's a hub for aspiring writers to display their works, and to share comments and constructive criticisms. A platform for exposure, of sorts. She also linked me a daily competition on the website, where they give a prompt and writers submit stories less than 1000 words or poems 40 lines or less. When I checked the site after midnight yesterday, the prompt was to end the story or poem with "In the end, there were no regrets." I wrote a storm. In less than an hour, I came up with a story (what else, jiwang la), and disturbed Tita at 02:30 with a mail asking her to check it out for editing. I know. Totally wrong of me. Lucky she wasn't asleep. Other than some minor hitches, she gave it a green light to be submitted. So. I submitted. Immediately after I did, I received a mail congratulating me for becoming a Registered Author. Hear that, me, author. Anyway, I waited. And waited. And kept on refreshing the pages. And waited. And read the other entries. There were a couple more short stories and three or four poems. Fine, I can hear your derisive laugh. With so little entries, it's not a competition. Well, bugger off. I watched The Matrix to kill time. Man, I miss watching the trilogy. And when it was done, sometime after midnight, I refreshed the competition page. 2 winners, and mine is one of them. Yay! I've even gotten 2 criticisms to boot. Life is good. So this is what it feels like to win a writing competition. Sure, it's 1000 Writing.com Gift Points (GP). I don't even know what the points are for. I can sleep almost blind but happy. Now the next prompt is a story about a conversation overheard in a bus. Hmm.... PS: Do tell me if you can't access the short story. I'll post it here.

Stuck

2009-08-12T18:37:00.004+08:00

I have not been writing -- make that posting -- anything for ages now. I have several drafts that haven't made the cut. I've tried discipling myself to write at least 500 words every day. To be honest, night, actually. All the books on writing I read say that to be able to write well, one has to rise early, when one's surrounding is still on the verge of waking up, and write during those silent hours. Well, they're established writers. They don't have to face the traffic on a daily basis, and feel tired and sore all over when reaching home before sundown, and with frequent 36-hour work schedule. Yeah, yeah. Excuses. Anyway, I'd been good for the first 2 weeks. Writing wherever my character takes me. I didn't plot the path ahead. I wrote, I stopped, and the next night my character told me what he would do next. When I first read about this, I thought the authors of these writing books were winging it. Apparently it's true. Try it one day, you'll be surprised. But then I got stumped. My third week of writing became erratic. I missed a day or two. Fourth week: nada. At the moment I can't see where to go next. But I have to keep on writing. So what am I writing about? I don't want to jinx it by talking about it and coming out with nothing. But I abandoned my initial attempts at writing contemporary literary fiction, which English Literature aficionados of Malaysia take particular interest in. To hell with trying to please others, writing something that has the vaguest chance of being published locally. I'm writing what I love, for myself, and also to keep Tita at the edge of her seat, sending her daily chapters ending with cliffhangers. But, as I said, I'm stuck! Plus, I suck at being disciplined. I'm a true Libra, sign of the Air. So, for the time being, I'm reading City of Glass by Cassandra Clare. It's the third installment of The Mortal Instruments. She's getting better at this. I can read her confidence, her fluency of flow, he wiser use of similes and metaphors. Still lots of adverbs though. But this story isn't for conservatives. Nope.

When helping the needy is NOT an option

2009-07-31T18:02:00.005+08:00

I actually wanted to rant about something else, something that has been pissing me off so much at work that it's unhealthy. But I think I have have cooled off; I've lost steam. There is, however, something that I have to let out. This is about family taking advantage of indisposed loved ones. This is the truth about government hospitals and clinics in Malaysia: we actually care about patients, especially Malaysians. With RM 1 (sometimes RM 5, or RM 15, but I won't get technical over here) you can register to be examined by a certified doctor, and you will receive proper care. Sure, queues are horrendously long, and some find the care substandard, but we don't say no. We treat patients first to the best of our capability, and payment comes later, when the patient is discharged alive or deceased. Those who cannot afford the standard payment of RM 500 maximum (for Malaysians no matter how many years they have been incarcerated* in a hospital) may opt to pay in installments. If they cannot afford even that, there are channels opened for social welfare to help. So when is extra money involved? When the patient has to pay for implants not provided by the government, such as titanium bone plates and implants. Pharmaceutical companies provide the government with a set number of implants, and with payment from patients, those implants are replenished so that other patients may benefit from similar surgeries. I'm talking specifically about Neurosurgery here: we do not charge extra for major operations, or ventricular-peritoneal shunt insertions for hydrocephalus (them babies with extra large head -- had their families sought treatment earlier, them heads won't be so big), or prolonged ICU stays. We do have to charge for special programmable VP shunts (around RM 2000), and titanium skull replacement (less than RM 5000) and plate-and-screw implants (around RM 150 per set of 3). Totally optional. There are free alternatives available. We also have to charge for spinal implants, and these are the expensive ones. So it pisses me off to no end seeing headlines about families needing RM 30,000 for treatment of hydrocephalus, or RM 100,000 to get a paralysed patient walking again. Sure, private centers charge about that amount, but government centers provide the same (and at times better) care and management. Students are given free treatment. So are parents and children of civil employees. If those needy families need the money for long-term care of their special needs children, be upfront about it. Don't go saying 'this poor baby needs RM 25,000 for an operation'. That's a load of bull. This brings about the latest cause of my grief (not the one I didn't mention at the beginning of this post). There was this unfortunate lady, unconscious after a massive intracranial bleed, and complicated with multiple problems. Then her husband came, demanding to see a doctor. Since I am in charge of ICU, I stayed back after office hours to talk with the husband (wasn't that long, only a few minutes. I try not to stay in the hospital more than required). So he came into the Sister's room, brown shirt faded and frayed at the hems, a few days' worth of stubble lining his jaw, and eyes bloodshot with layers of bags drooping the lower lids. His voice was gruff, his vocabulary limited. I wanted to help him out, no questions asked. His nephew came along, tall and imposing. His white T-shirt was not in a better state than the old man's. The old man wanted me to write a note to the bank, authorizing him to withdraw his wife's money, to be used during her hospitalization. I wanted to help him no longer, regardless of how dire his family's condition might be. You see, it is much easier for us to just give that goddamn signature. Apparently a doctor's signature carries more weight than gold bullions. Just sign it and get it over with. So simple. But throughout my tenure here in Neurosurgery, I've had patients who complain that while they were unconscious and incapacitated, their families cleared out their bank accounts, sold off their homes and lands, leaving those patients with nothing to live on once they've recovered. They came to me begging to help them regain their lost possessions. Unfortunately I couldn't do anything other than advising those patients to lodge a police report against their inconsiderate families. I told those same patients that if they could procure the documents with their thumbprints authorizing their families to withdraw their bank funds, dated when the patients were unconscious, they should sue their families. Fuck them all. There were also instances when one child of an unconscious patient came and got what he wanted: that goddamn signature of authorization. Another sibling came later, screaming shouting yelling, claiming that the useless brother never took care of their mother. He had no right to do what he did. We couldn't do anything to help. The damage had already been done. I didn't press the other sibling to sue, because the doctor(s) who had their signatures down may get into trouble later on. Yes, it is freaking easy and expedient to just sign and get done with it. No risk of getting stopped and be beaten to a pulp later. No risk of being yelled obscenities. No risk of an early stroke from all that stress. But we're here to help people, and help is not limited to giving medical care. So please, I implore my colleagues out there: please do not sign off power of attorney or authorization to withdraw money/transfer assets of unconscious patients. It is unethical, and damaging to ourselves as well as to the affected patients. Oh. The uncle I was talking about. With his limited vocabulary, he sprouted obscenities. He said that I am not a good doctor, and I do not care that his family is hard-pressed. His nephew said that if they did not withdraw the money, the bank would return the amount given by SOCSO. I told the husband that I refuse to help because I was also thinking about the patient lying unconscious on the ICU bed. I told the nephew to ask the bank to write a formal letter of affirmation to what he claimed. I would help then, to write a letter to the bank stating the patient's current condition. As I said, a hassle. But is not about me. Patients come first (not all the time, but hey, I'm not perfect). *question not my choice of word. Try staying in a hospital more than 2 days; you'll feel imprisoned too.

On Fangs, Feathers and Newt's Tail

2009-07-22T20:50:00.004+08:00

For as long as I can remember, I've been obsessed with these fantasy-based elements: vampires, witchcraft, and winged creatures. Especially winged creatures. You know, like Pegasus and angels. Even from my earliest sketches -- scribbles and scrawls, more like -- wings dominated the pages. I used to look forward to Halloween. Not that I celebrate it, but horror movies would be aired around that time. Back then it was either RTM 2 or TV3 for an English movie fix. For that matter, I loved Christmas too, for the hope-filled, family-themed movies. Diwali for the day off from school; I'm not a big Hindi fan. Mom is, though. Movies I loved in particular were those with witchcraft and magic. One of the earliest I could recall is Teen Witch (1989), which was shown on RTM 2. It's about a high school girl discovering that she's always been a witch in her past lives. And what else teenage girls want? Popularity and that hot quarterback. I recently downloaded the movie. Yes, they have it in digital format! Then there is The Craft (1996), dark and enticing. The moment I saw the movie was when I fell in love with witchcraft. Not enough to actually try practicing it, but reading about it, keeping an eye out for shows about it. The Covenant (2006) is also high on my list. Anything witchcraft, anything magic. I grew up reading fantasy, and playing fantasy computer games. My particular class of choice is magician/sorcerer. Magic. Even the idea of it brings a smile on my face. Unfortunately, it doesn't translate well on-screen. Not yet, at any rate. But witchcraft, the spells, the powers unleashed. As i said, enticing. So, naturally, I followed Charmed like it was a new religion. Wait...I'm not that religious, so it's a wrong analogy. More like my going out at night to eat McDonald's every time I'm on-call. I just couldn't go without it. Ah, Charmed. Major props for having Alyssa Milano as well. Hmm...(wipes drool dripping off chin). Then there are the sexy vamps. Imagine my glee at the sheer amount of vampire movies and TV series. Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) was too artsy for me, but I'm talking about Interview With the Vampire (1994), Queen of the Damned (2002), Underworld series, Blade trilogy, and yes, even Twilight (2008). And speaking of series, it was a sad day if I missed watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I had the longest crush on Sarah Michelle Gellar (still do, come to think of it). And not to forget, Eliza Dushku. OK. Teenage crushes aside, other latest vampire series include True Blood (don't dig how they portray vamps -- uncouth and uncivilized, except for Bill. And what kind of vampire is named Bill, anywho?), Midnight (ran for one season only. Pity.), Blood Ties (Canadian, based on Tanya Huff's books, also for one season), and the up and coming Vampire Diaries (based on RL Stine's books). Vampire overload, and I don't mind draining myself watching these (pun intended). There is something about vampires, how they are usually portrayed, mysterious, well-kempt, civilized when compared with their werewolves counterpart, and beautiful, unearthly. Eternal life, eternal damnation. Romantic. Wings. Don't get me started with them. My greatest obsession. A preeminent symbol in my life. I love angels for the wings on their backs. I have a bigass Masterclass Zero Wing Custom Gundam model my best friend Reza bought for me for my birthday. White robot with serious angel wings, for the uninitiated. I have drawings of seraphs. I prefer playing the White deck in Magic: The Gathering because of the angelic host. I can't wait to play the MMORPG Aion: The Tower of Eternity when it's scheduled to be released end of this year. You get the picture. So what does the symbol mean? A later time for that, perhaps. Anyway. Wings and angels. Movies and TV series don't portray them that well. Most of them are in the lines of Touched by an Angel (Hallmark TV series). But movies like Dogma (1999) and the miniseries Fallen (2007 -- a must-watch) show warrior angels, badasses, fallen angels, the works. Animes like Escaflowne. Now that's what I'm talking about. So now I come to talking about books. A sub-genre of Fantasy, in particular. Urban Fantasy. It's far from the Traditional Fantasy of wizards and dragons and elves. Well, there can be elves in Urban Fantasies. Wizards too. Maybe throw in a dragon or two. Confused? Don't be. Traditional Fantasy is set in different worlds and realms, like Lord of the Rings, Dungeons and Dragons, and Earthsea. Urban Fantasy is usually set in a contemporary background, the real-life modern world. Something like the movies and TV series I mentioned. Books like Spellbinder by Melanie Rawn (not the Australian TV series, although that was good too), the Otherworld series by Kelley Armstrong, American Gods and Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman (major must-reads), City of Bones and City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare, and other witchcraft/demons/vampires/werewolves books I have lying about at home. And recently I had an epiphany, thanks to John Ling. We actually started off debating on Sharon Bakar's blog about racism issues. Hot one, at that. But later on, once things cooled down, he told me that he could see my first love has always been fantasy. Yes, I dabble in the six-spoons-of-sugar-in-a-cup-of-tea jiwangness (jiwang = sappy), but fantasy is my greatest romance. (Don't worry. Even I am confused with the latter half of that statement). Back when I was in high school, I asked my Ustaz whether it would be wrong for me to write stories with different systems of belief, with multiple deities. Yes, I harbored dreams of becoming a writer even then. So he gave me this patient but with a dollop of amusement look mothers always give you when you say something really stupid. Then he told me (not verbatim), "Why write stories -- something that deviates from our faith, at that -- when you can do other things more noble in God's name?" I felt like this giant door before me cracking into a million pieces before crumbling, blocking my path. Being the block-headed bloke that I am, I wrote stories with the encouragement of my English teachers. But I steered clear from writing Fantasy, other than three completed short stories: one about mythical wolves, one reminiscent of Dragonlance series, and one about a vampire (falling in love with a human, and in doing so effectively destroyed his clan. Isn't that what all vampires do?). And since I love people watching, and observing relationships, I started writing stories about that. Don't know if any of them are convincing and believable, but what the hey. So. That epiphany I talked about? I still love Fantasy. And Urban Fantasy seems a good outlet for me (I only recently discovered the existence of this sub-genre). So why the Hell not (quite literally, I might add, since I've got myself a first-class ticket headed there, at the rate I'm going with my life anyway). John Ling said (not verbatim), "Write Fantasy, since you love it. You may find it hard to publish it in Malaysia (publishers here prefer literary fiction. Genre fiction is still given a wide berth). But the Internet has opened opportunities. You can get published before turning 30. Definitely." So I started bugging Tita in the middle of the night, asking her to read rough 3-pagers. She gave me the thumbs-up with a giant green light above her head. And she doesn't even like Fantasy. So. Why the Hell not?

Book Review: On Writing, by Stephen King

2009-07-19T13:25:00.006+08:00

Since I can't get any creative writing done, even with my muse pouting at me, I might as well do something productive with the one free 24-hour day that I have. I've been meaning to share this book with others, if not physically, then in review. I have mentioned this in one or two earlier post(s), but I cannot refrain from voicing it out again. I looked for this book at the ELT section in Kinokuniya, where other writing instruction books are housed, but to no avail. Then I asked the ever-accommodating staff behind the counter. She directed me toward the Horror section, where Stephen King's name dominates at least two rows of the shelf. Stephen King, master of horrors. His books have been made into blockbuster movies. He has a cult following of his own. He has writers emulating him, his style, but with less success. There is only one Stephen King. Before I officially begin, if you're interested in this book to learn how to write like Mr King does, you may be in for a disappointment. This book is a memoir, a glimpse into his life. This book is about the man behind the bestselling author. Mr King starts off with his curriculum vitae, his CV. He describes snapshots of memories of his childhood, back when he was just Stevie. He used to be sick most of the time, and his family (his mother, his elder brother, and himself) moved around a lot. Their life had been far from comfortable, but Mr King tells us his story with a deft hand, making light the hardships. He spent a great deal of his childhood housebound, but it didn't stop him from having grand adventures on his own, and with his brother. He ate up comic books aplenty (not literally), and at some point, began writing. In his own words:

At some point I began to write my own stories. Imitation preceeds creation; I would copy Combat Casey comics word for word in my Blue Horse tablet, sometimes adding my own descriptions where they seemed appropriate.

When little Stevie showed these to his mother, she was at first astonished and impressed, before finding out the truth. Her disappointment affected him deeply. But she told him then the magic words that would shape his life from that moment on:

"Write one of your own, Stevie," she said. "Those Combat Casey funnybooks are just junk -- he's always knocking someone's teeth out. I bet you could do better. Write one of your own."

And write he did. He wrote about Mr. Rabbit Trick and friends who rode in a car, helping children. His mother loved it, and told Stevie to write more. So he did.

Four stories. A quarter apiece. That was the first buck I made in this business.

But it wasn't always smooth sailing for Mr King. He tells about rejection after rejection. He nailed the disappointing letters onto his wall. But he persevered. He also tells how he met his soulmate, his Ideal Reader, his inspiration to keep on going -- his wife, Tabitha. He had to take a dayjob to keep his family afloat. He worked in a mill, a laundry, and other minimal-wage places. He was also a teacher (his mother encouraged him to get a teacher's credential to have something to fall back on). From the rejections, from all the hardships, Stephen King kept on writing, even when the days looked the bleakest. He created stories drawn from his experiences, of places he'd lived in, and from his observations. He is the Stephen King because he refused to give up writing. Mr King also gives a good explanation on what writing is. It's telepathy. You can write something down, describe it in any way, and people from different places, from different times, will conjur up similar images.

You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair -- the sense that you can never completely put on the page what's in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.

In the second part, one he names Toolbox, Mr King describs the tools a writer needs to equip himself with. A toolbox, with three or more levels, just like the one in your father's shed (or in my case, storeroom). The top level, where common items are placed, is for the writer's vocabulary. It's a matter of how one uses it, not how much one knows. Also belonging in the top shelf is grammar. Here Stephen Kings talks a little on the technical side of writing, but in an informal manner. Oh. And he hates passive voice and adverbs. On the second level is style. He encourages his readers to read The Elements of Style by Strunk and White. In the third section of the book, On Writing, is where Stephen King imparts with his knowledge, his experience, his instructions. Equally informal, equally informative, as the rest of the book, the instructions come in his distinct voice, his distinct style. He describes about the pyramid of writers, where bad writers belong at the bottom, adequate writers above them, and then good writers. At the top are geniuses, the select few whom people talk about ages after they no longer are. Although it is impossible for bad writers to become adequate writers, and from good ones to geniuses, it is possible to rise from being just adequate to good. The trick is: there is no trick, no shortcut. One has to read a lot and write a lot. Hold on. What about the third level in the toolbox? What does it contain? To learn that, my friend, you have to read the book for yourself. I highly recommend this book for it is an inspiration to keep on writing no matter what life throws at you. I bought my copy, published by Pocket Books in 2002, at RM 32.11. What is learned, what is shared by the great author himself, is priceless. Go on, get one copy now. Or when the bookshop opens.

Visiting old Ghosts: Touched by an Angel (Oct 2004)

2009-07-19T01:49:00.004+08:00

Riley flexed and stretched tired fingers and rubbed the back of his neck. His muscles were sore from sitting in the same position for almost a full day, and his vision had started to blur whenever he looked at the same spot for more than ten seconds. He had not had proper sleep for more than a week now, enraptured with ideas and plots that had taken over his conscious mind. He could now get that long-overdue rest without worrying about that mouse of an editor plaguing his voice message box. After a bit of refining he would call that little pest and tell him he could start arrangements with the publisher. Riley got up, leaving a deep indentation on the cushioned seat. He did not want to stop working, but he was in sore need of a caffeine boost. He was beginning to see double, and the room, messy as it already was, looked like a hellhole straight out of one of his stories.
The kitchen was no better off. Empty pizza boxes lay in stacks on the kitchen counter, some having been there for a few months. He was also running out of clean mugs; the sink was laden with unwashed ware, the dishwasher broken down and forgotten. The one he was using to fill cold coffee was already crusted with a stain that would not come off so readily. It was all her fault. If she hadn't left, this place would not have fallen to such a sorry state. The kitchen had been her domain, not his, and she had left it as easily as she had left him –Riley poured the last of the black, thick liquid and exited the kitchen as quickly as he could, not wanting to linger there lest ghosts of unwanted memories come and haunt him. Already he could feel their silent, hungry fingers grasping at him, pulling him down to a place he had long since forsaken. No, he had to finish his story. He had no time to go back to that awful place. Yes, he had to go back to work. Sick, sadistic readers were hungry for his book. He would rather indulge these tormented souls than face his memories. Engrossed in his battling thoughts, Riley neglected to notice the box of books lying in his path. Riley stumbled forward like an eight-month-old trying to run without knowing how to walk, his neck jerking painfully back. He lost his grip on the mug, and its momentum saw it hurtling toward his writing table, sending coffee splashing all about its path. Of all the places it could fall, the mug just had to land on the typewriter. The loud crack of ceramic hitting metal jarred Riley to his senses. He got up to his feet and rushed to the table that occupied half of the living room, but what was done could never be undone. Riley's heart sank deeper than he thought possible when he saw the typewriter. His typewriter. Pieces of the broken mug lay scattered all about the old equipment, but most were lodged between the keypads. A dark blotch was spreading on his finished manuscript, smearing the ink into an unreadable mess, but he did not even glance at his damaged work.Riley burned with anger, a strong surge of emotion he thought he had long buried. He lifted the heavy chair and flung it away, partly to vent his anger, but mostly because he did not know how to react to this loss. The sound of breaking glass pierced the night air, but Riley was too numbed to care what he'd hit. He did not even feel the gust of strong wind that invaded the room, sending papers flying madly, wet with the tears he could not cry, and cold as his stone heart that was now covered with ice. The tempest that raged inside of him was by far greater than the midnight storm that found its way into his home through the broken window.

* * *

"What do you mean you can't fix it!"The question that came out as an enraged snarl mirrored his emotion. This shop was the one place in the whole state that serviced old modeled typewriters, but the little rabbit in front of him was saying he couldn't do anything. After tearing the phonebook apart looking for options, Riley had nowhere else to go. This mothball-smelling shop in the middle of a town he had never heard of before was his only hope. Now it felt like he was being denied life itself, and after losing so much, he couldn't handle anymore loss."Just name your price." The rabbit shook with every word that came out of Riley's mouth. "I…I can't. There's too much damage! And we don't have the parts –""Well get the bloody parts!" He could no longer contain his anger. The rabbit shirked away, cowering as he faced the bigger man's wrath. His thin, leathery neck almost disappeared into the safety of his neatly pressed striped shirt. "This model is very old. An antique." He paused, searching for proper words that wouldn't offend this large hound dog with fiery hair and smoky eyes. "I have another just like this. You could –""If I wanted another one I wouldn't have come to this stinking rat trap in the first place!" Riley grabbed the typewriter from the counter and stormed out of the dimly lit shop, leaving behind a shaken but immensely relieved rabbit. Cold autumn wind blasted onto Riley's face as he yanked the door open, but he ignored the biting draft just as he ignored the pain in his still tender palm. The broken mug had done more than hurt his heart.Clutching the typewriter tightly till its metal edge bit into his ribs, Riley walked without a particular destination. His steps were uneven, sometimes quickening, sometimes slowing down to almost a crawl. His unclasped long coat whipped about madly, his untucked shirt flapping like a fledgling trying to take flight, deepening its permanent creases. Riley looked about when the wind no longer bit deep into his bones. His surroundings were unfamiliar; shady trees filled most of the landscape, with brown and golden leaves crowning each broad trunk. Leaves were falling here and there, giving up life to rejoin the earth as autumn gave way to winter. Sunlight glinting off a flat, dark surface just beyond a dense cluster of trees hinted a lake, or a pond at least. Riley had never been to this remote, sleepy town before, but he assumed he was standing on the grounds of a park of sort. Now that his anger was almost spent, Riley felt suddenly tired and empty inside. The emptiness was a familiar companion that was almost welcome. By feeling empty he could crawl back to the impenetrable fort he had built almost two years ago. But his legs ached too much for him to walk any further. Riley paced to a bench facing the lake and sat down feeling much older than his twenty-six years. Under the shade of a large oak, he stared at the lake without seeing its still waters. Instead, he was seeing something deeper, further back within his past.Riley stroked the typewriter resting on his lap, feeling its familiar indents and elevations. The surface of some of the buttons was smooth with wear. Right then he felt like throwing the bloody thing away into the river, but his body refused to budge an inch. He felt betrayed. Why must the typewriter break down, leaving him just as she had? Why had she betrayed him in the first place? She had promised to always be there, but she had lied! Without thinking, Riley stroked his chin. A few weeks' growth of beard sliced into his inflamed palm, but he invited the pain willingly. She had hated facial hair, but wasn't here anymore. Why should he care?No, he was not ready to return to that place. Riley then diverted his thoughts to the irony in his life. Once he had been so confident that with money he could do anything. Apparently he couldn't be more wrong. Money could not repair his typewriter, and it certainly hadn't stopped her from leaving him – "What are you looking at, Mister?"Riley snapped back to the present. The source of the voice that had so rudely jarred him back was an imp with a crown of golden hair. Riley looked around. The sun was already casting long shadows. Which stupid circus owner had let loose this wide-eyed beast? Trying not to be obvious, he gave this newcomer a closer look. Bright blue eyes were studying him back without a hint of fear. The white gown she was wearing looked new; surely someone was having a birthday party nearby. But upon closer look Riley spotted something wrong. The base was dripping wet, as if she had been playing in the lake. He had not heard splashing noises to betray her presence. Odd. "Mister?" She tilted her head to show her curiosity."What?" His sharp reply startled the little imp, but he had never been good with children. Riley sighed. She did not show any signs of running away. Instead, she clambered up the bench and seated herself beside him without being invited. Her proximity unnerved him, not from the coldness of her skin, but from the shock of human contact. He had long ago given up on other people, seeing them as less than human, barricading himself deep within his emptiness. "Is that yours?"Her little fingers neared the typewriter, but Riley jerked it away. Broken as it was, no one could touch his typewriter, especially a shameless imp! She touched her chin in a contemplative manner."Hmm. You love it very much, huh? Had something like that once, you know." She did not sound like a curious six-year-old. "What? A typewriter?""No. Miss Cynthia." Riley forced himself not to be curious. "She's my doll." She had answered his unspoken question.Despite himself, Riley could not help but ask, "What does that have to do with a typewriter?" "I loved Miss Cynthia and carried her around. Aunt Eleanor said my mom gave Miss Cynthia to me when I was very little." At the word 'mom' she gave a distant, wistful look. She leaned closer with each passing minute, chatting away as if she had known Riley all her life. Riley edged further but let her speak, not actually hearing her words as he didn't care for little girls' dolls. But he decided to cut her off when she was saying something about a boy named Bobby hiding her doll and not returning it."What's your point?" "I lost Miss Cynthia but I have Jenny and Alice and Bobby and Elsa." She suddenly came closer and spoke in a lower voice. "Don't tell anyone. I like Jenny the most but not Alice. She smells funny. I'm Callie."Like all children, this one had a tendency to jump from one topic to another, but he did not have to ask her about all those names to know they were her friends. Human friends. Her incessant prattle didn't hold any meaning for him, but the message her words carried shook his emotional fort to its foundations. He had lived his life much longer than this young brat lived hers, but she had shown so much more wisdom in dealing with life and loss. Riley could no longer hear the little girl talking. In his mind he saw his great fort crumbling to dust, and for the first time, the stone heart encased in ice deep within the solid structure began to pulsate with life. As he absently stroked the typewriter, memories came flooding in, unstoppable now that the gate had broken away. Sarah smiling at him when he woke up every single day. Sarah sleeping within the safety of his arms, their bodies a perfect fit. Sarah watching him as he tried hard to concentrate on his writing. Sarah's sweet voice floating from the kitchen as she sang while cooking the Italian spaghetti he loved so much. Sarah waiting on the sofa in front of the television when he arrived home late at night, insisting on waiting for him even though he had warned her he would be late. Sarah shaving him with great care, slowly but surely sliding the sharp blade on his jaw. Sarah waiting excitedly as he opened the wrapping that concealed his typewriter. Then Riley saw Sarah on the hospital bed with an intravenous line attached to each hand. He saw her slipping away, yet he could not do anything for her but watch as the cancer gnawed at her bones and other organs. How many nights had he stayed awake for fear of her going away without saying goodbye? And then he saw the casket lowered into the ground, the finality of the scene always keeping him awake on his empty bed.Blaming Sarah for leaving him had been the simplest way to deal with her death. By being angry with her, he could forget her suffering and his helplessness. Anger had fueled him, helping him wake up every morning on a bed much too big for him alone, had been his companion that filled the empty void inside. But Riley could no longer blame Sarah, not after what this girl had made him see. Neither could he blame the cancer that had stolen her away from his arms. Now he felt like he was the one betraying her by refusing to face reality. Added weight on his lap told him the girl was resting her head there. He looked down and saw her sleeping, and he did not know what to do. Sarah would have known.As Sarah's face returned, a surge of emotions long buried and forgotten burst from the depths of his soul like an active volcano erupting after a millennia lying dormant. He welcomed these strong feelings as he had never done before, and for the first time since Sarah's death, Riley embraced life. He looked down. The girl was shivering. Without moving much, Riley took off his coat and blanketed her small frame. She turned and smiled at him. "Are you a writer Mister? People don't walk around with type…typewriters."Riley smiled. He had forgotten how, having been so used to wearing a permanent glare to mask his loss, driving people away in the process, but this girl's sleepy voice, so trusting, made him remember. "Will you read me your story Mister?"Riley did not have the chance to answer. Little Callie had snuggled deeper and was fast asleep. He smoothed straight, silky hair from her face and leaned back, letting memories of Sarah take over his very being. Callie was nowhere in sight when Riley woke up. He was comfortably blanketed by his warm coat; she must have had covered him with it while he was sleeping. He had not felt the little girl slipping away, but he assumed she must have gone back home, wherever that was. When Riley stood up to stretch stiff muscles, he found a small shoe at the foot of the bench, its black surface shining in the morning sunlight. Callie must have left it behind.Riley searched the area for the nearest house. Maybe people around here knew the little girl and would know where she lived. He had to return the shoe; it was the least he could do to return the immense favor she had unknowingly done him. He was more than hungry when he finally found a big house filled with children running about. A sign at the gate had read 'Osler Community Orphanage'.A middle aged woman, her hair tied in a neat bun and her apron stained with brown gravy, answered his polite knocks at the main door. The lines on her face told him she was made to smile. She was not smiling now though, but looked at him with controlled suspicion. Riley unconsciously smoothed his hair. He must have looked like a common crook with unkempt beard and hair and clothes full of creases. "Sorry. I'm Riley O'Brien, and I'm looking for a little girl named Callie. I'm wondering if you know her?" Those were the most polite words he had uttered since Sarah."Sorry, sir. There's no Callie here." The slight pause between words revealed that she was not telling the whole truth. It was only natural to protect those under her care from perfect strangers. "She left this," he offered, holding out the little shoe.The woman took out a pair of glasses from her shirt pocket and put them on. She gave the shoe a close inspection. "Sorry. I've not seen this before." The woman sounded agitated somehow. She made a show of closing the door to end the conversation, but Riley pressed the door against the wall. Her strength was no match to his."Wait. She said something about something. A doll. Miss Cynthia?" Blood drained from the woman's face.

* * *

As Riley sat in front of the computer, eyes fixed on the glaring monitor, he made himself think of the conversation he had had with Mrs. Eleanor Green, the lady from the orphanage. He had reasoned out later that his experience with Callie had only been a dream, a hallucination at best, but everything felt too real to be a mere dream. Her weight, her warmth, even her shiny golden hair had been all too real. But there was no denying what he had gone through was an outright impossibility.Mrs. Green had brought him to her office and had taken out a piece of newspaper for him to read. It was dated November 19^th, 2001, a good three months back. But the picture of a little girl and the headline that accompanied it had had him taken aback. "Girl found drowned in lake" was the single-line title, written in big, bold letters, but Riley had found himself doubting the printed article. Callie's smiling portrait had gazed back at him, mocking his senses and sanity. Impossible, his mind had shouted over and over again. Bloody impossible! Riley smiled softly at the memory. Miss Cynthia returned his gaze from beside the computer. It looked as if it had seen better days, an eye sewn back to its original place, and both arms crudely sewn back at their shoulder joints. The doll was smiling back at him, its wide eyes staring, never blinking, and never living. It had taken much persuasion on his part to get the lady to part with it, as the doll was something of personal value to her, but he had to have it for his latest project. Riley gave the doll a secret little smile. The sound tapping of buttons on the keyboard, fast and constant, filled the silent night.

* * *

Riley stood still in front of the tombstone, suspended in a moment of silence as he bowed in reverence to the gentle serenity that floated all about the hilltop cemetery. A cool breeze caressed his smooth face and made gentle waves on his neatly pressed blue shirt. The event that had transpired at the lake still made him question his sanity of that moment, but he believed now things happen for a reason, just like what Sarah used to tell him as she lay helpless on her deathbed."Hey, kiddo. It's me, Riley." He felt more comfortable talking out loud even though he knew no one would be listening. "I brought you Miss Cynthia. Remember her?" Riley took out the doll, looking much more decent now after having it cleaned up thoroughly and repaired by professional hands. With deeper reverence than he would normally give an inanimate object, Riley settled the doll against the gray stone tombstone. He spent a moment looking at the doll in silence, wanting to say much more, but unable to say anything appropriate. "And remember you asked me to read you a story? Well, I've written a new one, and it's already on sale. My editor said it's the best I've ever written, and it's totally different from my previous books. He always says that to keep me writing. So I want you to decide if it's any good or not. It's about a man who thought life had given up on him, who had given up on life, and it took a little girl to jolt him back to the real world. I named the story 'Touched by an Angel'. "Before I go on, I want to thank you. I don't believe in ghosts, and I don't believe in spirits. To me, dead is dead. But my wife Sarah used to believe in angels, and she told me once whenever a child dies, that child becomes an angel. So I guess you are an angel, Callie. And you've helped me a lot. You've made me see life in a different way, and made me believe that things really do happen for a reason." Riley's eyes gazed everywhere but at the tombstone. Unshed tears were starting to pool behind his lashes. "The shoe they never found, it's intended for me, wasn't it? I hope it was."Riley sat cross-legged on the grassy ground in front of Callie's resting place on the hill overlooking a vista of newly sprouted green leaves and grass and a silver line of the river sparkling in the soft afternoon sun. As he opened his book and read the first chapter, he envisioned a little blue-eyed angel looking down at him, smiling as she held Sarah's hand and guided her to the place where she belonged.

Visiting old ghosts: Angel

2009-07-18T23:10:00.003+08:00

*To be read while listening to this:

The light from the lamppost flickered in its feeble attempt to keep a vigilant watch on the lonely street below. Just when the light got steady again, the bulb gave up on life and darkness took over. Rain poured relentlessly since some hours ago, enveloping the city in its gloomy blanket. Even the dogs in the back alley were too miserable to bark at passing cars. Inside the unlit room, the only sounds heard were the constant pitter-patter of raindrops drumming the glass panel window and the grumbling of a century-old heater.

Alicia had been concentrating on the imaginary patterns made by droplets lingering on the window, trying hard not to dwell on her decision lest she change her mind. Now that the light from outside had expired, she could no longer make out the live painting on the window. With that, her mind was free once more for a heated debate. Trying to get that off her mind, Alicia felt her way through the small doorway into the bathroom – or whatever they call the small, cramped, insect-infested hellhole. She groped in the dark for the tap and turned it, standing silently as water churned in the ancient piping and filled the bathtub in a noisy, erratic jet. She had stumbled a few times in the desolate darkness, yet she refused to turn on the light. Alicia feared her own reflection more than anything at that moment, and she would not risk even an accidental glance at any mirror; not that there were many: one on the wall that supported the sink in the toilet, and one on the dressing table opposite the moth-ridden bed. Both were so cloudy one could barely make out one’s own features, but even that was more than enough for Alicia to handle. Outside, the rain showed no signs of calming down. Just beyond the sound of tap water was the pitter-patter on the window.

The heater in the room suddenly made a lurching noise and died down. Within minutes the faint warmth dissipated, leaving Alicia even lonelier and more desolate than she already was. The melancholy was overwhelming, and all the willpower she mustered was not enough to stop her from falling down to her knees. If she was brave enough to look at her own reflection, Alicia would have been disgusted to see the cheap mascara she wore making twisted, uneven lines on her face, one on each cheek. She forced herself to stop crying, to gather whatever dignity she had left, but the emptiness inside was much too much. Leaning against the cold bathtub, she wept in pitiful sobs, a multitude of unchecked emotions surfacing in a raw, powerful torrent. In the dark of the night, Alicia folded her knees close to her heaving chest and wrapped her arms around them. She rested her chin on the groove between her knees and rocked herself back and forth as she cried.

Her parents would blanch if they saw her in this condition, rendered helpless and pitiful by circumstances she had never asked for in the first place. They were always too busy with work to notice their only child even when she retaliated by getting intimately acquainted with numerous men, some her age, some older than her father. They hardly even noticed when she ran away from home. If they had cared, they would have found her by now. They would have saved her and made everything okay again. This was partly their fault. If only they cared….

Wiping back tears with the back of her right arm, Alicia felt for the lidded top of the toilet bowl. It should be there somewhere. She had left it there when she first entered the hotel room. Behind her icy water was already seeping out the brim of the tub, falling onto the moldy tiled floor in a weak cascade. The cold now seeped deep into her bone marrow, and she shivered involuntarily, but soon it would all be over. If she was lucky enough, she would no longer be bothered by the biting cold and the dark emptiness ever again. Ah, there it was. Its smooth metal surface refused to warm in her shivering grasp. Soon now, this will all be over. She just had to summon the strength she had found in making this decision.

A pang of consciousness halted her tears, but not the wrecking hiccups that accompanied them. Was she making the right decision? According to her mother, she was incapable of making one. But her mother had never been in this situation. Surely there was some way out? If she did this, would anyone care? Her parents had not even bothered to look for her, her boyfriend had left her for another girl, and her ‘friends’ had abandoned her to be eaten by ruthless vultures that bit at her chunk by chunk, leaving her nothing for herself. She had been wild, and her lifestyle would surely humiliate her parents if they deigned to take any notice, but surely she did not deserve this fate. She had never asked for this…thing inside her to coalesce. The act that brought this predicament about her was not even of her own volition! Five men had taken turn violating her, and she was almost torn apart because of that. But they left her with more than a burning ache and destroyed dignity. No, there was no other way out.

Alicia bit her lower lip and slid the sharp end of the blade across her cold wrist, deep enough to cause warm liquid to escape the cut. For the first time in what seemed like ages, she actually felt warmth. She felt it seeping down her palm and fingers. She reveled in the comfort it offered. Alicia lay down on the floor, ignoring the deepening puddle in the bathroom, and cupped her wounded hand with the other. She felt her strength ebbing, but she no longer felt the cold. That was enough.

As consciousness threatened to leave her, Alicia found herself reminiscing on her past. The only fond memory Alicia had of her parents was the time when her grandmother passed away. Her mother had placed Alicia on her lap and told her in a warm, comforting voice that an angel had come to take her grandmother away to someplace where she would be happier, a warm place filled with peace and happiness. Alicia smiled as she waited to be in the arms of the angel.

On Muse and Metaphor

2009-07-18T21:12:00.004+08:00

I have in my head a myriad of stories to be told, of characters to be released, to lead me down their own paths. I have a few drafts written between operations. But all half-written. It sounds romantic when I read books on writing, to write 1000 words, or at least a page, a day. But with a full-time job that requires me to work long hours, to stand between one to six hours while operating, the mental and physical tax may get in the way of creative thinking. I think I spent all my creativity opening up people's skull, and drawing my intra-operative findings on the post-op notes. Yes, people, I sketch down my findings. Yeah, yeah, excuses. But I have not slackened. I have been busy writing down comments on Sharon Bakar's blog, in particular responding to comments about racial discrimination. Click on the link here. I dunno. I get worked up when people wave about racial issues like a flaming torch, bright and hot, and also dangerous. Sure, you say. I'm a Malay. I'm on the greener pasture, what do I have to complain? My mother, my sister, and myself, have on occasions been branded traitors of Malay. Because my mother can only converse in English while doing business transactions, and on formal accounts. Because my sister is fluent in English, and does translation work as easily as breathing. Because she refuses to be restrained by the Malay stereotype. Maybe partly because both of them do not wear tudung. Who knows. As for myself? Because I'm generally closer with non-Malay friends. In academics I compete with Chinese colleagues. Because I defended the non-Malays during a BTN course back in university. I can go on about this, but I think those comments I wrote are more than enough. So I want to get back to writing. My muse is here, sitting on the table beside me, her feet dangling like delicate pendulums. Yes, my muse is a she. And she's smiling at me, her full lips in a cross between a pout and a smile. Her long, soft fingers ruffle my hair, paying more attention to the back of my head where it is the most sensitive. Her flaming red curls tickle my nose. I see more golden highlights now then when she first came to me years ago. Her eyes, half closed and hidden behind long lashes are the deepest emerald I have come across, with flecks of brown, drawing me in every time I look at them. What is she wearing? Today she has on a sundress, woven using leaves of all the hues of green imaginable. Hold on. Am I describing my muse or writing a foreplay in an erotica? I told you my muse is a feisty one. Alas, the stories have to wait. I can rant on, write crap. I can reach 1000 words or more, of crap. But what I want to do is to write from the heart, to write stories that will do my characters justice. So I have to wait for my mind to rest, to rejuvenate. In the meantime, I once shared a metaphor with Tita, sometime back. I've lost the original text, but it goes something like this: If we are a tree, our branches spreading wide under the warm gaze of the sun, then lovers are flowers. The scent is sweet, the attraction irresistible. Some are decorated with a multitude of brightly colored petals, while some only have a single stalk to grace them, but grace them these flowers do. Most wilt and die to be replaced by new flowers, but a select few bear fruit. Within this fruit of commitment, lie seeds that carry a new generation. But what about family and friends? They are the roots, unseen but run deep. The stronger the roots, the more sturdy the tree. They are most of the time unappreciated, but those who grow true provide nourishment for the tree, and protect it against raging tempests. Some friends, some roots, may also bear fruit. One has to remember that.

MPH-Alliance winners are announced

2009-07-14T23:58:00.005+08:00

Argh! It hurts! It burns my eyes! It breaks my heart! A little melodrama is therapeutic, I heard. Sharon Bakar posted the list of winners for the MPH-Alliance The Prize 2009. And my name's not in it. There goes my delusion, my last dangling hope like a monkey clinging to dear life while a swarm of ants gnaw at his tail. Splat. Just like that. Oh well. Life's like that. On with life. With more heads to open, with more bad news to break, with more life to be photographed, and of course, with more stories to be written. Just because I didn't get shortlisted doesn't mean my pieces were crap. I will find a way to publish them, maybe here. Then I can link the stories and you can comment on them. Want to post them here, but apparently even posting on my own blog would consider the stories published, and that will put a red light on getting them published anywhere else (never been published rule). One thing for sure though. I want to one day walk on the raised platform at Kinokuniya, my footsteps clomping on the polished wood, and stop by Malaysian Literature section, to see my name in print. The numbers of Malay English writers can be counted with one hand at the moment. But I refuse to do it for the Malays. I refuse to do it simply to see my name on the shelves. I want to do it because I love reading, and I hope to share that love, that experience, with the world. I want to do it because deep down, I know this is what I do best. Wish me luck.

Interlude

2009-07-11T00:14:00.005+08:00

I wanted to be productive, to write something meaningful, like WTF is up with our education system? You want to teach in English, now you want to revert to Bahasa Melayu (or is it Bahasa Malaysia? Even the name keeps on changing). Definite pros and cons both ways, but lemme do some research before I blabber on about that. Don't want people flaming me for not getting the facts straight. I wanted to write another snippet of Tender Moments that's been bugging my mind. I wanted to get on with life and write another goddamn short story. Instead, I downloaded 17 Again and watched it. Yes, people. I had a Zac Efron overload. Not as satisfying as Hilary Duff or Mandy Moore overload, I must say. Whenever I look at that guy, I keep on thinking High School Musical. Quite OK for a musical, but it's never gonna beat Mamma Mia! And I'm on-call tomorrow, so I can't stay up late to write stuff. You know, stuff. Excuses, excuses. I know. But starting from tomorrow, I will be doing alternate 24-hour-day calls for four times. In a less confusing manner: work from tomorrow till Sunday morning, rest, work on Monday till Tuesday evening, rest. Work on Wednesday till Thursday evening, collapse. Work on Friday till Saturday morning, die. I am so not gonna bitch about work. The environment is condusive and warm. Seriously. Who else gets to say this: "I belted Jason Mraz's 0% Interest while opening up this guy's skull." I know it sounds sexy, in a gory, Vampire Lestat way. Move aside, Edward Cullen and his diamond skin. Anyway, there's internet connection in the doctor's room in OT, but no phone reception. Even with back to back cases, which I hope will not come to pass, I get at least 1/2 hour to 1 1/2 hours between cases. Which means I get to post an entry. If I get around to writing. Speaking of hospitals, Tita and I have something cooking. Well, maybe at the stage of compiling the grocery list, but that's a start. Right? I have a personal deadline. Before end of this year, before the Masters Program interview. A quick shoutout before I go: Eileen C, thank you for dropping by. I'm honored you even considered coming back to read more stories. They're either under Tender Moments, or Short Story. I have more (a compiled collection, actually) but I'm too embarassed to post them here. You know what, English Fiction scene in Malaysia is still young. Methinks more competitions will come up. If your dream is becoming a published writer, never let anyone say otherwise. Read, read, read and write. But get a day job and maintain it. Writing will not pay the bills. Unless, of course, big US or UK publishers buy your book and turn it into a movie. Apparently that's a fluke for writers. If you can only buy two books about writing, buy The Elements of Style by Strunk and White (RM 40.43) for the technical basics of writing, and On Writing by Stephen King (RM 32.11) to get a glimpse of what it really means to be a writer. That book is under Horror section at Kinokuniya, can you believe it? I have other books to recommend, but these two are must-haves. Jannah and Aisyah, thank you for your support. I've been following your blogs (yeah, yeah. I didn't save myself as a follower -- macam cult la pulak -- I memorized the URLs). Life, the entire expanse, the full potential, is ahead of you. Stop caring what other people say, unless they're telling you your fly is down, or there's a dark red patch on your skirt (OK, maybe that's out of line a bit). My whole life, people have been telling me to stop being weird, the oddball, to conform. But since my own mother is OK with who I am, fuck everyone else. Nate, I will write something meaningful and not slathered with jiwangness. Even if it means dipping my foot in political issues (shudder). I hope it won't get to that. And congratulations on becoming a mother, although I think that wish is 2 months plus late in coming? Your son's got a lot of hair, unlike Arwen AHAHAHAHAHA! Dayana and Oops Did I Just Say That (I still can't figure out your name), I will keep on posting snippets of Tender Moments. After all, I can still recycle them in other expanded stories. If only I could sell the pieces to a chick mag. Kasha, you didn't even post a note to encourage me to keep on writing. Bummer :P. Tita, one day we will get paid for writing fiction. And I will make you write that novel of yours. And to other, silent readers (if I have any more), thank you for spending your time reading what I have to say. Come back again, once in a while. Sometimes I have something meaningful to share. Cheers. PS: the shoutout ain't that quick, eh?

Help with Major Life Decision

2009-07-07T20:58:00.004+08:00

Hey guys. This is gonna be a short one. The MPH-Alliance The Prize 2009 shortlist is out (unofficially). Official result will only be out on the 15th, published in Quill (MPH magazine). The 12 shortlisted entrants were contacted today, and my phone remained silent. Well, other than the ICU calling me throughout the day. I'm gonna wallow in self-pity and despair, and then get on with life. But what I would appreciate is a poll from you, my readers. I don't care if I have less than 10. You've been reading my posts. Anyway. Should I continue pursuing my dream of writing and publishing fiction, be it a novel or an anthology, or should I stop this delusion, thinking that I'm a good (fiction) writer? I would love and appreciate your input. And please, be as honest and as scathing as possible. Hit me.

Finally down with the flu

2009-07-05T09:39:00.002+08:00

My whole family had been sick, with upper respiratory tract infection (URTI) some weeks ago, including baby Arwen. Keeno (our cat) doesn't count. She's always sniffling and sneezing since birth. I alone escaped unscathed. Maybe it's because of the Influenza vaccination Sister Yee insisted to inject me with. Maybe it's because I was on-call most of the time and didn't hang around home that much. Came Friday morning, my throat started to feel weird. Yes, I know. This is not a description a doctor should use. But if I go into specifics, I could post this in a Medical journal or something. Anyway. By afternoon my throat hurt to high heaven and I couldn't even swallow my saliva without wincing. I aimed a torchlight into my throat and as expected, the back of my throat was already blistered in patches. Pharyngitis. Crap. I had a fitful sleep Friday night. My nose was either completely blocked, or snot was streaming out like the Nile. Or both. Now that's annoying. When I came for work yesterday morning, I my eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. My voice came out wrong (more than usual) I think, due to the blocked nose. And I was developing fever. Double crap. I popped in two tablets of Paracetamol (tradename: Panadol), the KK (Kementerian Kesihatan) version. And the medication worked like a brand new car. For my fever at least. Couldn't do anthing about my mini Niagra Falls, or the clogged up plumbing. And it still hurts to take anything solid. Let's just hope it's not H1N1. I didn't come to contact with anyone suspicious. Then again, I work in a large hospital. Anything can happen. I'm on-call again tomorrow. Yippie! Hopefully everything will be quiet at night, like yesterday.

Tender Moments

2009-07-03T08:55:00.014+08:00

I try to rush to the top floor, but I can't do anything about the wall of people going up the escalators. KLCC is not in my favorite list during weekends. I swear half the population of Kuala Lumpur congregate here during non-working days. I look at my watch, a birthday gift from him that I only take off when I shower. Gah! I'm already 45 minutes late, fifteen more than usual. My fingers make a mini Mexican wave on the rubber handrest. There is something about going up the escalator and be greeted by the pale, great rectangular arch of an entryway leading toward my favorite haunt that causes my heart to skip every time I see it. Maybe it's the familiar chrome letters at the head of the arch, spelling out K-I-N-O-K-U-N-I-Y-A. Maybe it's the full glass-panel wall a few meters behind it, with light streaming in, lending it an ethereal glow. But I suspect it's knowing there are countless books and magazines inside, each with their own weight, their own texture, be it rough or smooth, and their own scents, all waiting to be picked up and read. I gulp in paper-scented air when I step off the escalator, suddenly remembering to breathe again. To the left, a plump guard in pale brown on brown uniform leans against the marble wall, smoothing his thick mustache. A banner standing next to him is promoting the cafe one floor up, giving 20% discount on hot beverages with every purchase of RM50 and above. Interesting. I'm already thirsty from race-walking here from the LRT station at the basement level. I rummage out my phone from my leather slingbag. Parts of the bag's surface are already peeling out, making it look like a sunburnt albino cow, but it's still sturdy and can withstand the weight of all the things I stuff in it. Good enough for me. Without looking, my thumb rests on the button '2', his speedial number, but I stop myself before pressing it. He's bound to be here somewhere, lost in his own world. I take two lefts and walk up the wooden ramp. On my way up I scan the stacks of books on my right for any new ones on display. R.L. Stine, Paulo Coelho, Neil Gaiman, more R.L Stine. Nothing new since I came here last week. I continue walking past the new arrivals and bestseller/movie tie-in shelves, toward the fantasy section. I tiptoe the last few meters, and stop with him in full sight. He is sitting on the wooden backless bench close to the glass-panel wall, leaning forward with both elbows resting on his thighs. His hands are cradling an open book, one of the Forgotten Realm series. His face is lost behind the book; I can only see his spiky jet-black hair. He's wearing a chocolate brown T-shirt. I suspect it's the one with 'Make Peace Not War' printed in white at chest level. And his favorite pair of jeans that looks more grey than blue. Right now, at this particular moment, I don't care I'm almost an hour late. Watching a man -- my man -- reading sends a tingle down my spine, spreading this warmth throughout my body. Seeing him frozen, occasionally flicking a page, amidst his ever-moving surroundings, gives my body an involuntary shudder -- no, thrill is a more suitable word for it. "Hey, you." In an almost lazy motion, he lifts his head. His eyes trail behind, and they seem unfocused for a few seconds. His whole face suddenly lights up when he grins. A hint of crow's feet line the corners of his twenty-two-year-old eyes. Sparse hair dot the edges of his lips like fledgling raven wings (he calls it a mustache and is proud of it too). "Li Lian." I love the way he breathes my name. "How long have you been standing there?" "Sorry I'm late." He makes a tiny arc with his left hand. "Don't worry. This book's good. I'm thinking about buying it." "Zarif. You bought a trilogy last week." "Done reading them." He gives me another grin, this time accompanied by a shrug. "So we good for lunch?" I unsling my bag and lean it against Zarif. Then I slide my navy-blue scrunchie off my hair -- slightly askew after lifting the bag off my shoulder -- and readjust my ponytail. "Hey. Leave your hair down. You look better that way. And what kind of girl wears a slingbag?" "And have me sweating my neck off? No way. You bought me that slingbag, and you ask me that question." I roll my eyes at him. "What kind of guy reads so many books?" "Your type of guy." "So you have an answer to everything?" "Not everything." Still smiling, he shakes his head. "Go find a book. I'll wait here." "You're buying, right? What if I find a two-part book? Or...a trilogy?" "Then lunch is on you." "Fine." I stick my tongue out at him, but my smile mirrors his. "Spend more than RM50 on me, and we can get a discount upstairs." "Fine." I walk away from him with a silly smile plastered on my face. As I veer to the left to the Horror section, I turn to steal a look at him. He's still looking at me. He mouths something before returning to his book. "Yes," I whisper to myself. "I love you too."

Silence of this Lamb

2009-07-03T01:28:00.003+08:00

Just got back from watching Transformers: RotF (the second time). Regardless of what my sister said, it's an EXCELLENT movie! But I may rant about that in her comment section. Anyway, just got back, and I felt like checking up on my modem/router. Voila, the net is ALIVE! Been netless for three nights. The first night, my brother called TM and they couldn't figure out what was wrong. Maybe our modem got sizzled from lightning or summat. So I went to Ampang Point on my way back home the next day to buy a modem. They were out of stock. What was left was a WiFi modem/router. That's RM183 down the drain. And guess what happened. No net. I called TM, and the customer care consultant (cool name, eh?) informed me that it was their server that got sizzled, affecting around 50 customers. My sister said, "Special nye kita. One of 50, out of THOUSANDS!" Well, that's RM183 too late. Yesterday night, still no net. This afternoon, TM people called me up to inform me that their system got sizzled any it may take 1 - 2 more days before we would get internet access again. Bummer. 01:30. Got home. Net is alive. Yippie! Well, I have to be in the OT before 08:00, which means less than 5 hours of sleep tonight. Bummer. Just to inform y'all, in case you missed me. Cheers!

Supernova

2009-06-27T16:04:00.004+08:00

Definition*: Supernova (plural: supernovae): The death explosion of a massive star, resulting in a sharp increase in brightness followed by a gradual fading. At peak light output, supernova explosions can outshine a galaxy. The outer layers of the exploding star are blasted out in a radioactive cloud. This expanding cloud, visible long after the initial explosion fades from view, forms a supernova remnant.

I'm starting with the man in the mirror I'm asking him to change his way And no message could've been any clearer If you wanna make the world A better place Take a look at yourself And then make that change (Man In the Mirror; Bad, 1987)

Yesterday, one of the brightest stars in entertainment passed away. And no words can describe this great loss as aptly as supernova. Michael Jackson, age 50, did not literally explode. But his death caused a ripple of tiny explosions, echoing throughout the face of the Earth. I was browsing glancing through my favorite blogs before going to work yesterday morning when I read "RIP, Michael Jackson". I read the post, and spent the next five minutes reading other reliable sources. Of course I was initially skeptical about the news. There had been nothing going on about Michael Jackson's health deteriorating. He was planning a comeback concert, even. Man, such unexpected news really hits you hard. One of my earliest memories of Michael Jackson is the video clip Billy Jean. Not for the lyrics; I could only mumble the few words I picked up listening to it. Back then the lyrics meant nothing to me. I wasn't even in school yet, I think. Plus, there was nothing about prom, or a girl, or a kid featured in that clip. What was I to think? The song was released in 1983, when I was 2 years old. But I must be remembering the clip being played a few years after that. What I do remember is the tiles lighting up as he stepped on the pavements. I have to admit, even now, at the age of 28, I still expect some of the large square tiles in shopping malls to light up where I step on them. Would that be cool. Come to think of it, my sister did too. Our early shopping excursions, when our mom was busy looking for clothes (for her, for us, it didn't matter), consisted of various silly games. Among them was stepping on particular tiles, imagining they would light up under our feet.

There are people dying If you care enough for the living Make a better place For you and for me (Heal the World; Dangerous, 1991)

I love Thriller video clip. Partly because I was scared off my pants because of it. Back then, the video was considered ahead of its time in terms of special effects. Everyone, including Michael Jackson, turning into zombies? That gave this kid, who has overactive imagination, nightmares for months. And that is one of the things that set him apart from his peers. All his video clips were ahead of their time. Black and White with the morphing faces, Earth Song with the world turning upside down, then reversed back to life, Scream with its space-themed black and white clip, and countless other songs that a lot of us grew up with. I guess that's why the news of his death came as a shock to me. I grew up listening to his songs. I didn't care about the grotesque change in his physical features. I didn't care about the tabloids. His songs are brilliant. He wasn't stuck in music limbo, like many other veteran singers. Michael Jackson evolved. And the music world, especially pop genre, evolved with him, because of him. How many people can claim that? And loving his songs throughout the years, I looked at him as a constant. As someone who would always be there, coming up with new songs, never growing old. And all of the sudden, dying of cardiac arrest at 50? That made him human, a concept I couldn't grasp all that well. Because it reminds me of mortality. Not of my own (sometimes I think dying is a quick fix for all my woes), but of the people around me. People I love. People who I look at as a constant too.

Beat me, hate me You can never break me Will me, thrill me You can never kill me Jew me, sue me Everybody do me Kick me, kike me Don't you black and white me All I wanna say is that They don't really care about us (They Don't Care About Us, HIStory, 1995)

Nevertheless, being human does not make him less a legend. Yesterday every radio station played his songs throughout the day, either back to back or alternated with songs from other artists. I even sang along, and danced (more like stepping front, back and sideways, and moving all the joints on my body in an inarticulate, haphazard manner) while operating. I was cleaning up and scraping off drainwater-smelling pus from a comatose guy's head. I needed the distraction. Save your high-and-mighty judgment on someone else. In recent years, he fluctuated from being ridiculed for his oddities, to disappearing from the radar. Not much good news. Only "Wacko Jacko" in bold letters occasionally splattered in tabloid newspapers. All the court cases, all the news about his supposed pedophile tendencies, and even the bit about his dangling his baby precariously on the balcony. And there were always news about his ever-deteriorating face. There's also a saying: "America, where a black man can turn into a white woman." Any lesser person would disappear from the face of the earth. Or have a mental breakdown, shaving her head bald and -- that's a different story. But Michael Jackson persevered. He would grow silent for a bit, and then would come up with a brand new song that's just. Fucking. Brilliant. Well, there will be no more of that from now on. And that sucks.

But they told me A man should be faithful And walk when not able And fight till the end But I'm only human (Will You Be There; Dangerous, 1991)

In dying, Michael no longer became Wacko Jacko. Everyone claims to be his friend. Everyone claims to have grown up inspired by him. Everyone claims to be devestated by the news of his death. Everyone stakes their claim to be a part of his legacy. Typical human behavior. If Michael were looking down from wherever he is right now, he'd be having another heart attack from laughing. At least everyone is only talking about the good stuff. That says a lot about a departed person. But, looking at the bigger picture, his death connects the whole world. Everyone mourns the loss of this brightest star, this legend. Billions of candles were lit for him. His songs are aired on almost every radio station in the world, regardless the language of the usual broadcast. His music, his life, his legacy, is celebrated.

We are the world, we are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day So let's start giving There's a choice we're making We are saving our own lives It's true we'll make a brighter day Just you and me (We Are The World; USA for Africa, 1985)

He is the brightest star among countless others in the clear, encompassing sky. He is a legend. His songs are an inspiration. His music is a bridge that links the world together. His legacy is planted deep within the hearts of millions. His death is a supernova. An explosion of a dying star, lighting the universe in its brilliance, leaving in its wake a dazzling cloud visible long after it has disappeared. Michael Jackson, regardless whether you had converted into Islam or not, Godbless. May your rest be peaceful. May your moonwalking footsteps live on throughout the ages. Thank you for the music. *Source: http://space.about.com/od/glossaries/g/supernova.htm

Modern Poetry

2009-06-21T21:41:00.008+08:00

Vindicated (Vindicate (verb): 1. clear of blame or suspicion. 2. show to be right or justified) Artist: Dashboard Confessional* Album: Spiderman 2 OST Songwriter: Chris Carrabba (in case this link doesn't work, click here.)

Hope dangles on a string like slow spinning redemption winding in winding out the shine of it has caught my eye And roped me in so mesmerizing so hypnotizing I am captivated I am Vindicated I am selfish I am wrong I am right I swear I'm right I swear I knew it all along and I am flawed but I am cleaning up so well I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself So clear like the diamond in your ring cut to mirror your intentions oversized overwhelmed the shine of which has caught my eye And rendered me so isolated so motivated I am certain now that I am Vindicated I am selfish I am wrong I am right I swear I'm right I swear I knew it all along and I am flawed but I am cleaning up so well I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself So turn up the corners of your lips part them and feel my finger tips trace the moment fall forever defense is paper thin just one touch and I'd be in too deep now to ever swim against the current so let me slip away so let me slip away so let me slip away so let me slip against the current so let me slip away so let me slip away so let me slip away so let me slip against the current so let me slip away Vindicated I am selfish I am wrong I am right I swear I'm right I swear I knew it all along And I am flawed But I am cleaning up so well I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself Slight hope it dangles on a string like slow spinning redemption...

OK fine. This song isn't exactly new. But time doesn't dim its beauty. And to think, the lyrics are for an emo rock song (at least it's not a Britney Spears or Backstreet Boys song -- not that I have anything against them, much). More than several conventional poets (i.e. traditionalists i.e. uptight snobs) shun modern day music as perversion of poetry. Well, I can't say anything about Womanizer, but songs like Vindicated are certainly inspired, and the lyricists (in this case, singer-songwriter Chris Carrabba) belong up there with other legendary poets. Get this: Chris Carrabba wrote this song under 15 minutes, after watching a special screening of Spiderman 2**. Songs, like poems, do not necessarily have to rhyme. But there should be music within the words, and the words bring a message. To this day I don't get the message behind "Womanizer, Woman, Womanizer/You're a Womanizer, oh Womanizer oh". It's catchy and sticks in your head like gum under a desk, I'll give you that. So. Many songs out there are trash. But there are gems as well. To quote this song: So clear/Like the diamond in your ring/Cut to mirror your intentions/Oversized, overwhelmed/The shine of which has caught my eye. Well, ears, but let's not get technical here. But (there's a but) trashy songs make top of the charts, and Vindicated only made 103 in the Top 100* (so technically, the song didn't even make it in). It made number 2 in the Hot Modern Rock Tracks** chart, though. That should amount to something, right? Why are songs like this not considered mainstream? Why aren't they sung by all? And why aren't they acknowledged by poets? Does this reflect the flavor and art appreciation level of the MTV generation? So many questions left unanswered. Well, maybe one day I'll come up with a poem/lyric half as good as this. Then again, I'm more of a prose person. And a ranter. Poetry eludes me at best. In the meantime, do enjoy this wonderful song. Cheers. *http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dashboard_Confessional **http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vindicated_(song)

Tender Moments

2009-06-18T23:11:00.006+08:00

I lie reclined on the thick mattress with my elbow in an almost right angle, and my hand cradling the back of my head. My eyes crawl in a lazy trail from her quiet face to the stacks of boxes behind her. Our room is a maze of piles of clothes waiting to be organized in the wardrobe, which still has the strong scent of wood, of picture frames in their protective wraps begging to be released and displayed, of table lamps and other small furniture with their matching partners lost in one of the unopened boxes, of my books and her magazines, stacked into little towers threatening to topple at the slightest sneeze, and of her odds and ends, her makeups, her vanity affair. We don't even have a proper bed yet, just the mattress pushed against the wall with the window. The guys from IKEA promised us delivery of the rest of our furniture today. My eyes return to her, as they always do. Gentle morning light dances between the leaves of the tree outside our apartment block, peeking through the window, bathing her in a warm glow. The way her body moves with each breath reminds me of the quiet waves of the beach at sunrise. Her hair, usually a mystery of cascading silk, is sticking out everywhere, a stark contrast against her tranquil face. Her long, curved lashes catch the light of the sun, but still her eyes dart about behind closed lids, assuring me that she is still deeply asleep. Her full lips curve slightly. Maybe she is having a pleasant time in her secret dream world. Even asleep she takes my breath away. I long to caress her smooth cheek, to trace a line down her angular jaw, to the small scar at the base of her neck, a token of her spirited childhood. She always tries to hide the scar, but I always tell her that it makes her even more perfect. Of course, she doesn't believe me. But I love kissing the scar. It's slightly cooler than the rest of her warm skin, where I love to kiss as well. Heck, I love kissing her, period. But I also love watching her sleep, so I refrain from risking waking her up. She moves a fraction, and her hair floats down to rest on her lashes. Without thinking, I smooth the hair from her eye and tuck it behind her ear. My fingers caress her earlobe with the slightest pressure. "Hey," she whispers without opening her eyes. Her dimple burrows a deep impression on her cheek as she smiles. "Hey." "Watchadoin?" "Watching you sleep." She lets out a throaty groan and pulls the blanket to cover her face. My exposed feet suddenly feel cold from the air-conditioning. I intertwine my feet with hers to share warmth. "I'm ugly like this!" I smile even though she can't see me, with her face buried under the down cover. I wait a moment before pulling the blanket over my head to join her. "No matter what time of the day, no matter how you look, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on." She lifts the blanket enough to peer at my face. She narrows her eyes to slits. "Well…besides Angelina Jolie." Which earns me a hearty punch on the chest. "Oof! Ouch, that hurts!" And we both break into a fit of laughs and giggles. I feel a stitch on my ribs from laughing so much. Settling down, I caress her chin between my thumb and forefinger. "Well, I’m thankful you consented to share your life with me. I’m glad I’m able to wake up beside you every day, and to be able to look at you, to watch over you while you sleep."

She rolls her eyes. "Last I checked I didn't marry a poet." She lifts her hand and uses the back of her fingers to trace the contours of my face. "I love knowing you're watching over me. I love having our feet twisted together like this. But most of all, I love you."

And we kiss, a long, soft, and gentle kiss.

"Ugh," she mumbles between kisses. "Your breath stinks!"

"Yours too. But I’m not gonna stop kissing you!"

People are so dependent on crutches it's humiliating

2009-06-15T22:31:00.004+08:00

I came across this article in Utusan Malaysia on Thursday, 11th June. Yes, people, I do read newspapers. Occasionally. Whenever there's one in front of me, that is. So stop that smirk I see on your face. Yes, you. So, anyway, the article. Feast your eyes.

ARKIB : 11/06/2009 PPSMI wajib dimansuh KUALA LUMPUR 10 Jun - Dasar Pengajaran dan Pembelajaran Sains dan Matematik dalam Bahasa Inggeris (PPSMI) wajib dimansuhkan mengikut Islam kerana ia mendatangkan kemudaratan kepada anak bangsa. Pengerusi Sekretariat Himpunan Ulama Rantau Asia (Shura), Abdul Ghani Samsuddin berkata, lebih 800 ulama di negara ini bersetuju bahawa dasar itu wajib dihapuskan secepat mungkin berdasarkan nas-nas naqli serta dalil-dalil agama. Jelasnya, kanak-kanak golongan miskin yang berada di luar bandar kebanyakannya tidak mampu menguasai bahasa Inggeris bagi memahami ilmu sains dan matematik. "Itu jelas satu bentuk kemudaratan. Berdasarkan nas-nas naqli, dinyatakan bahawa sesuatu yang mudarat dan boleh membawa kemudaratan adalah wajib dihapuskan," katanya. Beliau berkata demikian dalam sidang akhbar selepas mengetuai penyerahan memorandum 'Muafakat Ulama Mansuhkan PPSMI' kepada Majlis Raja-Raja Melayu melalui Penyimpan Mohor Besar Raja-Raja, Engku Tan Sri Ibrahim Engku Ngah di pejabat Penyimpan Mohor Besar Raja-Raja di sini hari ini. Memorandum setebal lima muka surat itu mengandungi 11 tuntutan yang didakwa diperakui lebih 40 persatuan ulama dan disokong oleh beberapa persatuan lain. Turut menyertai rombongan itu adalah Presiden Presiden Teras Pengupayaan Melayu (Teras), Mohd. Azmi Abdul Hamid serta Timbalan Pengerusi Gerakan Memansuhkan Pembelajaran Sains dan Matematik dalam Bahasa Inggeris (GMP), Prof, Shaharir Mohamad Zain. Antara tuntutan yang terkandung dalam memorandum itu adalah:
Menolak pelaksanaan PPSMI dalam sistem pendidikan negara.

Mendesak agar tulisan jawi kembali diperkasakan dalam sistem pendidikan negara termasuk menggalakkan urusan rasmi menggunakan tulisan jawi sebagai identiti negara.

Menegaskan kerajaan, khususnya Kementerian Pelajaran tidak boleh berdalih dengan alasan pencapaian Ujian Pencapaian Sekolah Rendah (UPSR), Penilaian Menengah Rendah (PMR) atau Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM) dijadikan asas bagi meneruskan atau memberhentikan pelaksanaan PPSMI.

Rough translation (coz I'm too lazy to translate the whole bloody thing):

Learning and Teaching Science and Mathematics in English Act (PPSMI), implemented by the government some years ago, MUST (capitalized to emphasize wajib, which means if you don't do this you'll burn in hell) be abolished as it is, get this, harmful toward the nation's youths. The chairman -- excuse me -- chairperson of Sekretariat Himpunan Ulama Rantau Asia (Shura) stated that over 800 ulama (learned, religious men) in Malaysia agreed that the Act should be abolished immediately, following Islamic dictum (nas) and proof (dalil). He explained that most poor children in rural areas cannot master English to effectively learn Maths and Science taught in that language. He went on to say that this is clearly harmful for those children (I'm trying hard to keep this translation unadulterated and to refrain from adding my own comments here. Read on for my comments in additional info). This guy actually led a group of pro-Malay language enthusiasts to submit a 5-page-long memorandum to the Sultanate. Among their demands are:
to reject the implementation of PPSMI

to push for the usage of Jawi (the Arabic lettering format) in writing in the Education System, in official context, and as a national identity.

to tell the government not to use the results of UPSR (Standard 6, end of Primary School), PMR (Form 3, mid Secondary School), or SPM (Form 5, end Secondary School) to decide whether to continue with or to stop PPSMI.

Oh, hey, will you look at that. I actually ended up translating the whole damn thing. For my cousins in Perth and Paris, this proves that I love you guys (feel free to roll your eyes here). The government implemented teaching Science and Mathematics in English a few years back, initially for Primary Schools only, and then followed by Secondary Schools, basically when those Primary School-goers grew up and entered Secondary School (or high school, whatever). Well, the government keeps on implementing new devices every few years or so to torment school goers I'm actually thankful I now belong with the working class. To me, personally, this was a good move. English is an international medium for business, as well as for higher learning. Mandarin and Japanese too, but let's not get that far. Most subjects in universities and colleges are taught in English. Most textbooks for such students are in English. Some of my friends failed their first year Professional Exam in uni because they could barely understand the lectures, and they had trouble understanding the reference books. Of course, having some of the lecturers teaching in a thick Southern Indian accent didn't help one bit. Even I had trouble understanding "Yeeyh Wai Eay Yehl Yuu Arr Ohw Yenn Aiy Sieh (HYALURONIC)". And this is a fact; not kidding. But those who persevered improved, and are now zombies -- er...I mean doctors -- in the Health Ministry. (Caution: Highly scandalous paragraph. Skip if you're the sensitive type) The Malays and other indigenous races of Malaysia are already given a mighty crutch. Article 153 in the Constitution protects our special rights and the benefits that come along with it, be it in education or in business. Seriously, don't go flaming me as a traitor of my own race. I'm not questioning the Article. I'm just saying that we are handed this privilege just by being born Malay, or Kadazan, or Iban, or some other indigenous race. We are given a free boost, a head start if we decide to participate in the competition. Other races have to do it on their own. When someone mentions withdrawing part of the crutch, everyone bitch about, complaining about everything. But if we look at our current situation, how many people actually make full and effective use of the help freely given? (Continue here) Now we have these so-called learned religious men flaunting Islamic teachings to protect another major crutch. They want poor villagers and rural people to stay poor, to deprive them the potential of good, solid education when these children grow up. They want these children to later on fail in education and get cheated on in business endeavors simply because they have difficulty mastering English. Likely, they didn't think about this future issue, just the ones at hand (like condemning whatever move the current government makes). That's why we need visionaries (i.e. evil, faith-deficit guys and gals) to think long-term benefits and consequences of any major decision that would affect the country as a whole. I get where Malay Language activists are coming from. Article 152 in the Constitution states that Malay Language is the national language, and is used for official occasions. This protects the language from being eliminated altogether. But with most subjects being taught in English, Malay Language could become obsolete in later generations. It certainly is headed there. It doesn't matter that the language itself is hardly original, but has a majority of words borrowed from other languages. It doesn't matter that the written language differs greatly from the everyday spoken language. Take my brother for example. He actually wrote 'amik' instead of 'ambil' for 'take'. We usually pronounce it as 'amik' or 'ambik', and rarely use the correct term 'ambil'. Imagine the gut-splitting laugh the whole family had when he showed us the test paper in dismay, generously decorated with red ink throughout the page. Slightly off topic, but bear with me. Malay Language, learned by all school-goers, is one of the glues that hold our nation together. I converse with Chinese and Indian patients in Malay (or using crude sign language and drawings, while jotting down 'Language Barrier' on the clerking sheet). With the so-called educated ones, I converse in Layman English most of the time. Easier for me to communicate, easier for them to understand. Win-win situation. Oh wait. What if everyone becomes educated and can converse well in English? Imagine the horror! Then anyone who's anyone can browse the internet for information of various diseases and can better understand their ailments. Oh the nightmare! Sarcasm aside, in a future where globalization is the in-thing, we cannot afford to lag just because we can't master English. And why can't we master English? Some zealots are complaining that learning in English is harmful toward the nation's youths. We are now all about One Malaysia. The rest of the world has already promoted One World ages ago. (Caution: political sentiment ahead. Skip if you're the sensitive type) Before we reached independence, the British only allowed Primary Education, segregated and taught in each race's native language. They didn't encourage higher education. The communists didn't encourage any education whatsoever. Why? Simple. Knowledge is power. If the locals understand English, they can't be cheated off their rights as human beings. If the locals can get access to higher education, they will band up and fight for their independence. Oh wait. That happened in our country. Our neighboring countries shun us for achieving our independence not with brute strength, the manly way, but with words, like a wuss. Well, we kept the killings at the minimal, yet we got our independence. Because of visionaries (evil, faith-deficit men). We retained more than enough manpower to build the country after gaining independence. (Continue here) These zealots are trying to prevent the youths of our nation from gaining education at its maximum potential. So what makes them different from those oppressive colonialists? Well, I may be exaggerating things a bit, but frankly I don't see the difference. Unless Malay Language is used internationally, by the whole world, stopping teaching learning Science and Mathematics in English because it is harmful to the nation's youths is just maintaining the crutch that will keep our children crippled. People can always say, "We learned in Malay back in the good ol' days, and we're educated. We're doing OK." And they're right. I learned Science and Math in Malay. I'd like to think I did OK. But I'm talking about learning at its fullest potential here. I found the transition from learning in Malay medium to fully English medium in uni seamless because I'm good in English in the first place (not bragging, mind. Just stating a fact). The same can't be said for my friends who weren't so good in that language, although their minds are far brighter than mine. That being said, teachers need to brush up their mastery of English in order for them to teach properly, and to make this move work. They cannot say, "Eh, susahla nak ajar guna Bahasa Inggeris," because that mentality will affect the students under their care. OK. You can start flaming me for the evil, faith-deficit guy that I am. For those of you who made it this far, and think along my train of thoughts, please share this with the whole world.

New Series: Glee

2009-06-14T16:14:00.007+08:00

OK. I don't do movie/series reviews. Not exactly my forte. But I write whatever that moves me. And this pilot preview moved me indeed. Created by Ryan Murphy, who has Nip/Tuck under his belt (that didn't come out right, did it? ROFL!), this new show is a teenage comedy/musical set in a small town in Ohio. Another High School Musical, you ask? Maybe. But so far, in the 1-hour preview, they sing in a timely manner. None of that suddenly breaking out in a song during a basketball match. Yes, I did watch High School Musical 1 & 2. Sue me. It is a veritable cesspool (always wanted to use that term) of cliched and hackneyed backgrounds. There's a good-guy teacher who wants to relive his glory days of high school, while stuck with a job that has mediocre pay and benefits, who's struggling between living his passion and earning enough to support his wife and her (possible) pregnancy. Then there's the typical American-style high school caste system, where the jocks and cheerleaders are at the top of the food chain, and the freaks and losers are at the bottom. And then there's the Glee Club, at sub-basement level (taken from a line in the show). This is the first time I heard of a Glee Club, sorta like a musical/choir group, with some choreography. I think. Apparently some (in real life) are freaking good. Anyway, the jocks and cheers want nothing to do with this Glee Club. Or so it seems, at first. There's a star quarterback who's raised by a single mother, and dreams of making it big, making her proud. As it turns out, he also sings well. Yeah I know. Some people are born blessed it's unfair. There's a diva who's raised by a gay couple, and who's a queen herself. She's the best singer (a Broadway act in real life), but hated at school. Definitely a Carrie potential. There's a clean-freak teacher who's mad about that good-guy teacher, and a potential love interest. And the list goes on. However, instead of the story itself seeming cliched, it turned out amazing. One of the reviews stated that this show is a satire on current American society, down to its economic crisis effect on the common people. The main theme of this show is about belonging. And about following one's passion. The students who sign up for Glee Club are (talented) losers. But they don't want to be anonymous losers. They want to be something more, something special. Most of the cast are also regular TV acts. I may not know their names, but their faces are familiar. The dialogues are sharp and clever, and the soundtrack (the songs they sing) is dope. The perkiness of it all is uplifting. Conflict, man are there conflicts rife in this episode. Maybe not up the scale of New York exploding in the future and it's up to some unlikely Heroes to stop it, or finding the way out of one prison after another, but conflict nonetheless. If you're looking for a story with a hook, this is it. From the first episode, I'm hooked. Well, I also have a soft spot for musicals, but hey. Bad news is, I have to wait for the Fall season for this show to start its regular airing. I know, right? Cheers! PS: Yeah I downloaded the show, like many other shows. It takes forever for US series to land on our shores, and even then not all shows get through. Thanks to all those wonderful people who come up with and share P2P!

A must read for those who write fiction

2009-06-12T23:47:00.002+08:00

Nathan Bransford is a Literary Agent, based in San Francisco. A lot of agents in the US and UK have blogs where they dispense advice, as well as share their experiences in the publication world. A whole different world than the one I reside in, I say. I came across his blog a couple of months back, when I was browsing for literary agents. I'm not sure if there are English Fiction agents here in Malaysia. Google came up with zilch result. If I do end up finishing a novel, I'd like to be represented. 'Cause my knowledge of the publication world is like that Google result: zilch. So. This ginormously beneficent agent has compiled all his previous posts pertaining to steps to publish a novel, which can be reached by clicking on this post's title, or here. So if you're serious about writing, and can't spend the moolah on how-to-write-well books, do read the posts, including the 200+ comments. A lot of the commentors are writers as well, and they share their thoughts and wisdom too.

Tender Moments

2009-06-11T23:13:00.001+08:00

I pluck the guitar strings together with my eyes closed. Picking up the discrepancy in sound, I turn the peghead and try again. I smile a fraction when the two strings sing as one. "What are you so smug about?" "Eh?" I crane my neck to the right and look at her looking at me. In her face I register honest curiosity. "Not smug. Why?" "You were smiling to yourself just now." "I wasn't even looking at you. How could you tell?" "Your dimple showed." "I thought you're reading?" With a sigh, followed by a shrug, she lifts her book off the grass and continues reading. Brother Odd by Dean Koontz. Not my genre, but then again, we disagree on so many things that I still can't believe she is sitting here beside me under the shade of this old tree, partially leaning against my back. I continue looking at her in silence, but I could've been a stump for all the attention she is giving me. Her eyes, half closed, dart about as she reads, her long lashes catching slivers of sunlight. Her lips are partially opened, and once in a while she would form soundless words.

Careful not to move too much, I give a shrug of my own. I love the feel of her weight on my back. Not too much pressure to make me exert a counterweight, but enough to assure me that she's really here. I turn my attention back to my guitar. Its once polished surface is now faded, and the original lighter color of wood grain shows where my callused fingers have been strumming all these years. I've changed the strings countless times, but the guitar still plays beautiful songs for me. I pluck the strings again, two at a time. This time the tuning is just about right.

I start plucking the opening chords of my favorite song. After playing the same chords twice, I start singing, just under my breath.

"And even though the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away..."

I must have drifted into my own world again, 'cause I don't feel her weight lifting off me. When I look up, she is already kneeling in front of me, her right hand resting on mine, effectively stopping me from plucking the strings. Her head is slightly cocked to the right, her expression a curious mixture that I can't quite figure out. That's one of the things I adore about her: I can never figure her out. Her book is on the grass beside her, closed.

"Wha?" I raise my eyebrows in a show of calm inquiry. Inside my heart is thumping madly against my chest. I give a quick prayer that she can't feel the slight trembling of my hands.

"Stop."

This is the first time I sing in front of her, for her. And she hates it. Goddamit! I knew this is a bad idea. I feel like shoving my guitar into its canvas bag before I do anything rash and stupid with it.

"I told you I can't sing that well. Hell, this is one of the only songs I can play."

"Liar."

"Which part?" I give her the most innocent look I can muster. "I can't sing well or I only know a few songs?"

"I know you can sing a lot of songs."

"Ouch."

"Well, you're not Johnny Rzeznik, obviously." It's a wonder her expression remains unreadable. My own must be changing like a tropical storm.

I look for the condemnation in her eyes. I find none. I watch her in nervous silence, my fingers frozen awkwardly on the fretboard. Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches into her jeans pocket and takes out her handphone. She then looks at her phone and fiddles with it.

"Start again. I'm recording this."

My fingers refuse to budge. "Why?" "Simply. Sing. Now." "Why?" She blows her wispy fringe off her long lashes in a loud huff. Sunlight dances in her dark brown eyes. A slow smile plays on her lips. "Because it's you, singing this song. Because I love your voice more than I'll ever love Johnny Rzeznik's. Because I want to hear this every day." A sudden wave warms my cheeks. "You'll get bored." "So sing me a new song when that happens. Sheesh. Now shut up and sing." I face down toward my guitar to hide my smile. I'm still smiling when I start singing Name.

Major Blockage

2009-06-09T21:09:00.002+08:00

My head feels like a shithole right now, heavy with dumps and junks that just can't be flushed out. I have a few half-written entries, mainly short stories, saved in drafts. I get stumped after a few sentences. I know I'm no brilliant writer, but I can't come up with something even half decent, much less tear-inducing. Last time I experienced this, I couldn't write a single story for 4 freaking years. People have a term for this: Writer's-freaking-block. Some people argue that writer's block is just an excuse for not being productive. A writer should just trudge on, regardless of lack of inspiration or capability to string words together to make a complete, lovely sentence. A writer's block is just a state of mind. I say, shove it up their jolly asses! Writing is Art, and artistic ventures need inspiration. With the state of mind I'm in, it's a small wonder I can even write this gibberish rant at all. On a lighter note, I'm being critical even though I'm writing crap. I'm filtering out plenty of 'even' even though I'm itching to use that word. I'm even (ahaha...didn't filter that out on purpose. In your face!) counting how many times I use a particular word, how a sentence sounds, and all that technical stuff about writing well. The whole shitty-jing-bang. Oh. And I'm loving being able to cuss about with reckless abandon in this post. It's the state of mind I'm in, see. So, back to this writer's block. I think I should first be an actual writer (i.e. paid to write) to be eligible to have a block. Like, whatever, man. Let me have my demons to fight and bitch about. Then again, I get paid RM40 for each Medical Report I write. Booyeah! I've almost exhausted my options of books on writing. I've bought and read so many that I start to see the pattern. They kinda sound the same, more or less. Hell, I've written an attempt at creating a writing tutorial from reading those books, as well as from my own experience. There's no such thing as reading too much, mind. Not even when it comes to porn. Hehehe. One book that I do find refreshing is Stephen King's On Writing. I love it so much that it warrants a review. One day soon. I promise. Funny thing is, Kinokuniya staff shelved the book along with other Stephen King books in Horror section. A non-fiction about writing, in Horror. Whatthehell?! So, what am I to do? When one finds that one cannot write, one can either rewrite something, or read. I bought Kill Your Friends by John Niven for my sister ages ago, and it's still in its plastic cover. Dark Comedy isn't my preferred genre, but one cannot be restricted when enriching oneself. I may even start reading those Medical books again. Urm. Ah. Gah! This block is. Freaking. Annoying! Just like a festering zit, throbbing, aching to explode with all its purulent glory. Gross. I know. Live with it. Ok. Now to start writing. I mean reading. The hell. Cheers!

Salam from JB

2009-06-07T00:37:00.002+08:00

I'm in my grandparents' home in JB trying to sleep. Definitely not looking forward to driving back to KL tomorrow evening.

Been having a good time here though. Good to be able to catch up with my cousins, aunts and uncles. Even better is the food. The ikan bakar and ais kacang (here they use cocoa instead of those funny colored syrup) are simply divine. My family's must-have food everytime we come back to JB.

The weather's superb. Sweltering-hot as usual, which is good since my cousin's having her wedding receptions from last night till tomorrow afternoon. I know, we Malays are suckers for celebrations.

Uh. Oh. What I'm looking forward to is being on leave till Tuesday. Time to recuperate. But Mother dear had her shoes stolen last night during the late night reception. Some sod must have been too tired to care that she put on the wrong pair. My mom says there are people who deliberately wear old shoes to be exchanged with nicer ones at gatherings. Not that any Westerner will ever come across this blog, but in spirit of clarity, we take off our shoes before entering a house. It's not gross walking around barefoot. Get over it.

So, anyway. I think my mom may be on to something. At any rate, she mentioned a shopping excurtion on Monday for a new pair of shoes. Some pairs, more like. Oh well.

Hmm...two days of (hopefully) 1 Tender Moments piece, 1 tutorial (I've been slacking, I know) and maybe some soul searching, to find the voices of Adrian and Rina again.

Oh. By the way. I never did get a chance to buy myself a cup of Caramel Signature Hot Chocolate on Thursday. Got out of OT just in time to do rounds and wardwork, and went home after lunch. Zonked out until 2300 ish, spent some quality time with my beloved computer (which is, thankfully, still nameless) and continued zonking out in as I recall a dreamless sleep. I woke up late on Friday and immediately checked my phone. No missed calls. I guess the ICU staff passed over the message that I'd be on leave.

Happy.

Sent from my iPhone

Sleepless in HKL

2009-06-04T06:03:00.005+08:00

This is a random, unintelligible entry. No joke. I have not been sleeping since...lemme see...when I woke up at 0700 hours, Tuesday. And now it's already 0600, Wednesday. No patients to operate till 1630, and that's when the day actually began. I didn't go idling about before that time, mind. And no, before anyone who happens to read this thinks that I'm bitching about work, I'm not. I'm currently in between cases. Just finished opening up someone's skull and taking out the evil blood clot, and waiting for the next patient for me to poke a tube in. Fun, isn't it? I'm halfway drowsy, hence this crap excuse of an entry. Anything to get my mind going, and HKL server blocks Freesky Online. That's a browser-based game. WoW is definitely out of the question. I tried, waay back in 2006. Uh. Oh. I got an idea on a novella or novel while chatting and gossiping (yes, you read right. Gossiping.) with my OT staff nurses (Kak Yana, Kak Haili and Mas) from midnight to 0230. I know, I could've slept then. Meh. Time well spent, I say. Anyway, before I get deviated. The story idea. It's definitely a romantic story. What else, coming from me? A girl gets dumped on the eve of her wedding. She gets heartbroken, she swears off men, the usual female reaction works. But, as I keep on saying, life goes on. She meets this guy, who's not exactly her type. He antagonizes her, he irks her, but he's kind to her at the same time. Just when romance starts to unfold, her ex-fiance appears into her life. He's still everything she wants, and she still loves him. So she has to choose. Well, I dunno if anyone has come across the storyline before. Not exactly 100% original. Some variation must exist somewhere. It's rare to come up with something totally different and completely original. At first glance, everyone would likely take side with the new guy. But what if the old flame is portrayed to be a good guy as well? What if he had a strong reason to have broken off the wedding, and that he still loves her, and only her? I can imagine Tita shaking her head at this. Likely the girl's character will be flaky and not strong enough, and she'll likely end up disliking the girl, like most of my other female protagonists. Sigh. Hmm...love triangle sounds like a Bollywood movie. If I add another female character, who's the new guy's best friend who's secretly in love with him, I'd get the formula for a successful Korean drama. Winnah! I told you, this entry is random, just like life. Total randomness. Oy. When is the patient arriving at the airlock? My change of clothes is still in the car, untouched since I arrived at work. Methinks, I'll grab a quick shower after this (hot water is out again. Lame.) and drive to Starbucks KLCC for a fix of Venti Caramel Signature Hot Chocolate and a Cinnamon Roll, heated up, for RM 19.20. Or, as what the barrista says whenever he sees me there, "The usual?" Goes to show how many times I've spent RM 19.20 at that place. Oh. By the way, some people would guard their ideas with a tenacity rivaling a mother koala. I don't mind sharing. Maybe someone will come across this entry and writes a story with the same setup. I'll say, "Good on ya!" and buy a copy of that book, to see how he/she tackles it. Basic ideas may be the same, but each storytelling is different, based on the author's background, education, character, prejudices, and beliefs. Life is too short and too precious for us to be spoiled sports. The patient still hasn't arrived! WHATTHEHELL?! OK. Gotta go. Can't think of anything else to say. One more case, shower, Subuh, Starbucks, Morning Conference, rounds, and if I'm lucky, my specialist wouldn't mind my chucking off after that. If he ends up minding, I have to continue working till 1630. Crappers. Friday it's driving back to JB for my cousin's wedding. I hope I won't face statements along the line of "Fadz bila lagi?" Aku lepuk kang. Cheers!

It never gets easier

2009-05-31T15:44:00.005+08:00

It was early this morning. Or late last night, depending on how you count days. Around 0200 hours, give or take ten minutes. Most people were either asleep, getting home after a late night show or a session at the latest clubs, or surfing porn behind closed doors, with the lights turned off. I was wide awake longing to be asleep. I just came back (to the hospital) after grabbing a quick dinner at McDonald's Ampang Jaya. Before that I was drilling holes in people's skulls. I knew there was a patient who deteriorated an hour past midnight in our ICU. I knew there was a possibility I had crawl into the blue OT attire again, to open up the patient's skull, to take out the bone, the blood, or whatever that was making him more ill than he already was. Sounds routine, doesn't it? The patient has not quite reached sixteen years breathing the air we're all breathing. I have about twelve years on him, and God willing, I may see more years passing by. But he won't. In the time I'm writing this, his life force is barely a flicker, ready to be snuffed out. I wasn't the one who admitted him, nor was I the one who operated on him. I'm simply the doctor managing the ICU where he happens to be treated. I had the opportunity to explain to his father about his condition. I told him that his son, the one on the bed that looked much too big for his still form, with all the tubes and wires connected to him like a grotesque parody of a sci-fi novel, was in bad shape. But he's still young. There's hope. There's always hope. That was on Friday, before I went home after work. Fast forward to Sunday, 0200 hours. About eighteen hours into my call. The same patient deteriorated. Where was the hope? Out with whatever dreams he had before that freak twist of fate that landed him on the ICU bed, dying. What happened to him in the first place? No, he wasn't riding a motorcycle, doing whatever stunts teenagers these days are doing. He didn't play truant during school hours. He was playing soccer with his friends. Witnesses said a flag pole fell onto him. His family kept asking me whether there was a possibility someone hit him at the back of his head. I may never know what happened. But whatever happened definitely wasn't his fault. Life's unfair that way. I offered to inform the family. I knew it was going to be hard. I spoke with the father earlier. I saw some of the relatives. In a way, I had a fleeting glimpse into his life. His father was working night shift, so his elder brother came. I led him into a room and took a seat facing him. How do you tell close family members that the younger brother is already brain dead, that only his heart is pumping independently? How do you tell them that the sixteen-year-old will not live to see another day? I chose to tell the elder brother straight on, without pretense, without medical jargon. I spoke as softly as I could, as slowly as I could. I paused to let the words sink in, and saw the change in his face. I saw the hard set of his jaw, the tears welling in his eyes. I saw his denial, I saw his anger. After a minute of silence, I broached the subject of organ donation. I hate myself for doing it, but it had to be done. The patient was a suitable candidate for it. Naturally, from the look on his face, he was not going to listen to anything else from me. I laid it there. I told the brother to call his family members, to say their goodbyes, to be there with the patient as he fades away, with their prayers and their blessing. He asked me if there was anything else we could do. I told him the truth. There wasn't, other than to ease his passing. The patient's mother stopped me at the door on her way in. She asked me what was happening with her son. I told her he was dying. She turned and headed his direction. I stood by the door long enough to see her sit down by his bed, her head and shoulders slumped. I went into my room and lay on my own bed, trying to absorb the enormity of the words I just exchanged with the patient's family. I heard the elder brother talking on the phone, telling other family members one by one that his brother no longer was. Before I knew it, a few drops of warm tears rolled on the bridge of my nose and cheek. Maybe I was yawning at that time. If I was, I couldn't recall doing it. This morning, his blood pressure was unrecordable. His heart was still beating, but weak; it was a flutter compared to the stomping of mine. I did the only thing I could do: I whispered the syahadah into his ears before asking the nurses to call his family in. This time his father was around. I told him it would be anytime soon. I asked him to guide his son, to ease him, to be there in his final moments. He asked if his wife could come in. I nodded and asked the nurses to provide them with a few books of Yasin, and a couple of chairs. I asked for them to draw the curtains, to give the family the scant privacy we could afford them with. Life goes on for me. I reckon I'll be facing similar situations, like I did before this. But the same is not true for this particular patient. Nor will it ever be the same for the family he's leaving behind. I cannot even attempt to imagine how it is for his parents, to see him slipping away from their embrace. I sincerely hope, I sincerely pray, that my family and friends will never face this nightmare. May it never touch you and yours, whoever is reading this. This is dedicated to the patient. His family loves him, deeper than the roots of the earth, but Allah loves him more. Al-Fatihah.

I'm not crazy, just a little unwell

2009-05-30T20:14:00.002+08:00

It's been a hectic and tiring week...didn't have time to update my blog! Fine. I've received a copy of The Sims 3. And I'm hooked on telling my Sim what to do, where to go. He's now a Rock Star, by the way. I have another Sim whom I'm training to be a writer. His wife, a hot redhead with a pixie haircut (drool), is busy tinkering with tubs and stoves. Self-cleaning. Figure that. Yes. I'm an addict. But more on that later. I'm going to dedicate one long post -- with pictures -- on my addiction to games. And yes. I'm playing The Sims 3, which is only scheduled to be released June 2nd. All Malaysians are pirates (I'd prefer the term resourceful). Get over it. Doesn't mean I'm not tempted to buy the original game. I've read we get a complete downloadable town after purchasing the game. Another redhead to frolic around a new town. Yummy. But seriously. I'm not lying when I said the week's been hectic. The whole month, in fact. Not enough MOs, so more workload for those still around. Blah blah blah, same story everywhere. This month has been a transition period. A lot of people are taking leave before going for their Masters program, and a lot of Masters students sat for their exams. Next month we're supposed to get new people in. Yay! The tired body is not condusive for creative thinking, though. So I'm left with the almost-mindless job of ordering my Sims around. I still owe that tutorial, and I also owe Tita a short story where the female main character gets more spunk and character. One that resonates. That's a tall order, but I think I have a story in mind. Just. Need. To. Think. Straight. Looking forward to and dreading June at the same time. Results are coming out the end of the month. For those who know about the competition, you know we can't advertize our entering it online or whatever. Wish me luck! I'm actually waiting for a patient to get zonked out (getting sedated and prepped for operation) so I can drill a hole in his head and stick a tube into his brain. Gross, huh? In private hospitals, they actually charge people RM12k-RM16k for the procedure, with the surgeon's fee of around RM4k. Not so gross anymore, huh? I'm doing it with a payment of RM170 for 24 hours. And I have two more patients waiting to get drilled and stuck with a tube. Gross. K, I have to go. Cheers!

Tender Moments

2009-05-23T23:48:00.007+08:00

I thought I was over this, I was over her. I thought wrong. A single phone call was enough to send me racing toward the hospital. I couldn't even remember what I was doing before she called me. Maybe I was browsing through the channels. Maybe I was eating leftover pizza. Or maybe I was napping. It didn't seem to matter. "Amir," said a voice I didn't think I would ever hear again. "I don't know who else to call. My dad. Doctors are saying he's had a heart attack." "Where?" "General Hospital." I never thought five years could flash before my eyes within the span of ten minutes. Apparently it could. All my memories of her, the best ones as well as the worst, resurfaced even though I tried do drown them with the stereo. Hitz was playing I'm Yours. Switch. Mix was playing Truly Madly Deeply. Switch. Fly was playing Unfaithful. Off. The memories were louder with only the sounds of air-conditioning and the engine. Everything freakin reminded me of her. Back to Fly, full blast. I thought, after six months, the wounds had healed. But here I was, bleeding through every pore on my body. My heart hurt. My head throbbed. My knuckles were painful from gripping the steering wheel too hard. I could bleed myself dry for all I cared; I weaved through the traffic with a single minded purpose. She needed me. I needed to be there for her. I had to circle the hospital twice to find a parking spot. I wanted to do an illegal, but the guard flashed his light at me, yelling something I couldn't hear. When I reached the Emergency Zone, the staff there almost didn't let me in. "Kamarulzaman Idris. Heart attack." I tried my best impersonation of calm on the small, dark skinned man in white uniform. He certainly took his time typing the name on his keyboard. "Red Zone. Are you family?" I could have been. "I...ah --" "Amir!" I turned and saw her standing by the inner entrance. She was wearing a faded white T and dark sweats. Her long hair was sticking out in all direction. Her eyes were wide and wild, in fear, in distraught maybe. She was biting her lips. Even looking like this, she still took my breath away. I closed the gap between us in three wide steps. "Sorry I took so long. Parking was --" "I didn't think you would come. Not after what I --" "How's your dad?" "I don't know. They still wouldn't let us in. Mak is in the waiting room, with Pak Long." "You want to go back to them?" She gave the tiniest shake. "I need a breather." I walked beside her in silence, slowing my pace to match hers. My body was moving by reflex. We stopped across the road from the Emergency Zone. I took off my left shoe and she sat on it without saying a word. Just like she used to. I squatted next to her. For a few minutes we stayed there without saying a word. We listened to the sounds of siren, of cars whooshing by, of people crying in pain, of arguments. "We were having dinner," she finally said, barely audible above the noise. "He just collapsed, gasping, screaming. I've never seen him in so much pain." I looked straight ahead, even though what I wanted to do was put my arm around her, assuring her that her dad was going to be all right. It was no longer my place to do that. "Sorry I called you." "Don't be. I'm glad you called." At least I wasn't lying. "Where's whatshisname? Johan? Johar?" "Johar." a few moments of silence. "He didn't pick up the phone. He usually wakes up after midnight." I could only guess the amount of calls left unanswered before she had to resort to calling me. "I'm really sorry, Amir." "It's OK. No trouble." "For leaving you." "Oh." That stopped our conversation as surely as a red light, with a policeman by the side. We sat in awkward silence for I couldn't remember how long. Then I saw a familiar figure standing by the entrance. "Yana. Your mom." She bolted up and rushed across the road. I put on my flattened shoe and followed her at a slower pace. They were clasping each other's hands when I reached Yana's side. Aunty Zarah raised her eyebrows when she saw me. But she was smiling. "Amir." "Aunty." I took her hand and bowed down to kiss it. I felt her other hand brushing by hair back. "The doctor said we can go in to see Abah," said Aunty Zarah, looking at Yana. "Is he OK?" "He didn't say. I came out here to get you." Yana turned and touched my forearm. Lightning crackled where her skin met mine. "Amir, will you --" "I'll wait here for you. Go. See your dad. He needs both of you right now." "Thanks." I watched as they disappeared behind the swinging doors. Not knowing what else to do, I sat at the back row of the waiting area. I played with my phone, deleting old SMSes, changing my ringtone, then changing it back. I couldn't remember how long I was sitting there sweating when Yana came out. From the way she walked, from the look on her face, I knew what she would say. "He's gonna be OK," I said before she opened her mouth. I stood up to greet her. She nodded. Her eyes were wet. Before I could react, she wrapped her arms around me, burying her face in my chest. I responded the only way I could. I hugged her back, resting my chin on her head. The peach scent of her shampoo filled my senses, triggering memories of when we were still together. "He's going to be all right, Amir," she said between sobs. "He's going to be all right." I was the first to let go. We had our history, but I was no longer hers. "Hey. Go back to your dad. Tell him I wish he gets well soon. And no golfing for, I dunno, a year or so." She wiped her tears with her sleeves. She nodded again. "Amir. I'm sorry. Truly." She looked up to meet my eyes. The clarity in hers made me want to forget everything and take her in my arms again. "Letting you go was the worst mistake I ever did," she added in a whisper. "Shh. What's done is done. We moved on. Now go back to your parents. Update me, OK?" "All right. Thank you, Amir." I gave her a wide grin and ruffled her hair. I turned and walked away. Just outside the entrance, I turned back to face her. "For what it's worth, I've never stopped loving you." The doors slid closed between us.

Tender Moments

2009-05-21T22:20:00.003+08:00

We walked side by side, not saying anything to each other for long minutes. I loved the silence between us; it was comfortable. As comfortable as her fingers intertwined with mine. The silver rings on her thumb and forefinger felt cool on my skin, enhancing her warmth in contrast. I loved how she swayed her arms when walking. Front, back. Front, back. Front, back. My right arm swung along with her left one. There was no awkwardness in the movement, despite the tip of her curly head not quite reaching my nose. All around us, their figures reflected on the polished marble floor of Pavilion, were people milling about with their own shopping trips. Most of them moved at a fast pace, their mannerisms reflecting the pace of Kuala Lumpur. But the two of us were in our own timeline. Our movements were deliberately slow, our arms going front, back, front, back, as our feet moved forward. Despite the surrounding noise, I could almost hear her heartbeat as I felt the pulse on her wrist. My own heart, usually beating fast, must have slowed down to match hers. Not intentionally; she had this effect on me without her realizing it. The music greeted us even before we came across the string quartet playing on a platform in front of Tangs. The tune was light, but the acoustics of the complex amplified the sounds. Without releasing my hand, she turned to face me and lay her free hand on my chest. I stopped walking with my right foot in midair. If her hand on my chest was causing my heart to flutter, the look on her slightly cocked head almost made it burst. "I know this song," she said behind her wide smile. Even with the slightly crooked canines, no one else could compare to that perfect smile. "I know this." "Endless love." She swatted my chest. I barely felt it, but my heart did a stumble. "Ouch." I winced, crinkling my nose for added dramatic effect. "Not fair. I wanted to say it first." Her voice was soft, a feather floating in the wind. I loved the silence between us, but more than that, I loved hearing her voice. "Sorry." From the smile on her face mirroring mine, I could tell she wasn't buying my apology. "Make it up to me." I groaned. My reaction this time was genuine. "Agh...you're not gonna make me try on women's hats again, are you?" "Tempting, but no." "Then?" "Dance with me." My jaw must have dropped, because she suddenly burst out laughing. I looked around us. The hallway was almost packed. A small crowd had gathered around the musicians, listening to their rendition of the beautiful song. "Dance? Here? Now?" "Why not? We're not breaking any laws." "Yeah right." "Come on. Dance with me." "You know I can't dance." "I can't dance too but that's not stopping me." Her smile was fading fast. I could see disappointment forming on her face from her furrowing eyebrows. "I mean..." I started, not knowing exactly how to react. "I'm not so sure it's a good idea." She sighed. She didn't pout; this light of my life never pouted, and only rarely allowed her anger or disappointment to surface. "You're right. It's a bad idea." She turned and started walking. I saw her shoulders slumping a fraction. My eyes trailed down to her left hand, which was still holding mine. With a sigh of my own, I jerked my hand back, pulling hers in the process. She turned with a high-pitched yelp. I caught her before she could straighten her legs, and encircled my left forearm around the small of her back. My feet started moving with the beat of the music. I was moving at the same spot, one foot lifting after the other. Before I knew it, she was resting her face on my shoulder, moving in perfect rhythm with me. I didn't have to look at her to feel her smiling. People were looking at us, some even pointing their fingers. Maybe there was approval in some faces. Maybe there was disapproval too. I drowned it all by closing my eyes. In that moment, there was only me, her, and the music. In that moment, our hearts were beating as one.

Fallen From Grace

2009-05-19T21:16:00.003+08:00

He stands where he fell battered and bloodied his wings torn apart. He is condemned denied his place yet malice dwells not in his heart. He is alone looking to the heavens above for the place he once called home. Yet his place no longer is among the stars but here on Earth where he is forever to roam. Once he was light so pure his wings the envy of all but one almost perfection was his face. He is now a shadow of that mem'ry for he is an angel fallen from grace.