Ember in the Darkness (Draft)

Birds chirped happily, skipping from one branch to the next. Sun shines on his face, giving his skin the otherworldly glow as cold wind billows slowly, rustling his short mass of hair, tinged with grey streaks, stark evidence that no one is immune from the ravages of time. 

He sat alone, dolent and forlorn in the midst of the humanity, lost in thought, lost in his own reverie, his world, supposedly untouched and unblemished by anyone until the eventful day.

His life is now just a hull of a hulking ship. Empty of its haul, its commodity in life. Life is never the same anymore. His life is like a ticking clockwork, devoid of purpose and direction. Just the tick-tock which moves like his beating heart. Involuntary muscle spasm that works regardless of emotional or spiritual agony that permeates his whole being. 

He peers around the almost empty park, trying to calm himself. Teary eyes blurred his vision, as rivulets streamed down his cheeks. He didn't bother to wipe his tears away. There's no need to do that anymore in this foreign land. He tried to hold back but waves upon waves of emotion flooded through his consciousness. He chocked, alternating between snorting and gasping for breath as tears grew from drops to gushing stream. 

He thought he had the determination to numb the pain that went beyond layers of human comprehension. He thought he was well crenellated against all the onslaught of emotional roller coaster, but he should have known that there's no bulwark that can withstand the tsunami. 

He felt helpless being so weak emotionally, he felt the emptiness at the core of his being, like a black hole with their immense gravitational pull into pure nothingness. 

Short stories (draft)

The aircon hummed in low decibel, constant and unnoticeable by the throng of people rushing to and fro the whole walkway. He tried to concentrate on the clean and sterile looking floor, devoid of spots.

 

With trepidation I waited for the news and strange as it may seem (or cruel), I heaved a sigh of relieve that the “chosen” one is not me.

 

I know it is dog-eat-dog world but to see 3 longer serving person getting axed while I remain gave me the sense of non-enjoyable happiness.

 

I’m feeling weird now… blur and weird.. and I’m shivering (not due to the cold).

 

 

The hustle and bustle in the cabin interrupted his thoughts. Upping the volume of his mp3 player, he sunk deeper into his seat, cradling the book he reads closer to his chest as he pondered on the hours earlier when he stepped on the flight with light footed steps.

 

As the songs directory shuffled itself automatically, he heard a familiar tune. A tune which grabbed his attention the moment his ears heard it. It brought him a momentary sense of tranquility despite the din, his book is all but forgotten.

 

Smile appeared on his weary face as he shifted his thoughts on the welcoming sight of his loved ones back home. It never fail to bring tears to his eyes whenever such thoughts crossed his mind. He, a man considered to be the pillar of strength brought down and mellowed with such emotional effect?

 

Closing his eyes, patiently he waits, and he played the song repeatedly. Thoughts firmly on the smiling face with that pretty eyes of hers. Sleep overcame him with ease despite the uncomfortable surroundings.

 

Suddenly he is jolted from his slumber with the bump on the plane landing and patiently he waited until it came to a screeching halt. 

The Last Touch

“Aarrrggghh… Papa!!.. Papa…!!” I shouted from the back of the house. My voice drowned by the volume of the TV at the front showing some classical Chinese show.

“What is it?” asked Papa while walking slowly towards me, clearly annoyed with the unwelcomed interruption.

“Papa, you’ve ruined my new pants with the amount of bleach you poured in. Look at the white mark on this particular spot.” I pointed accusingly to my freshly washed pants.

“Aiyah, no problem what! Who would notice that small spot when viewed from afar?” Papa countered my argument with his nonchalant air, slowly hobbling towards the kitchen.

I gave a deep sigh and resigned to the fact that all Papa wanted to do was to help clean my pants.

I looked around the old house I grew up in. It looks old but neat and tidy. The air of familial comfort seeps from every nook and cranny. I swear I can walk around the house blindfolded, knowing every details; chipped stones, paint on the wall, missing tiles, squeaking floorboards and such with unbiased clarity.

I took a deep breath and looked at my Papa. The old man is still strong despite his advanced age. I smiled and I went to hug him from behind and playfully tapped his seemingly bloated tummy. We both laughed and I cheerfully took his mug from him.

“I bought your favourite ice kacang lah Papa. It’s in the fridge. Let me pour it for you.” I smiled as I walked towards the fridge.

“Are you sure I can finish it all alone? Ask Mama to join us lah. Then when we drink each other’s saliva, we will have similar facial features.” said Papa while smiling broadly.

I jerked up all the sudden from the midday reverie. Comfort of the old house faded and replaced by a whitewashed room. Blades of the fan spin slowly on its axis, dispensing warm breeze on a hot and humid night. 

Faintly but surely, I hear the soft breathing, laborious with every breath. My heart felt the pain.

My hand caressed the shoulder; the strong shoulder that used to carry me high up, so that I can reach and pluck the low hanging mangoes. The skin now dry and tout, worn with age and disease. 

My own eyes moisten as I see him struggle to form his sentences, asking me about my work and to take good care of myself. 

I crave to listen to his deep voice dispensing words of care and wisdom, or of him scolding me when I misbehave.

I held his hands close to my heart and tap his tummy, all I can feel is his protruding ribcage and hardened liver. His body a shell now, devoid of strong muscles and fats that I used to hug and play with. 

I moved my palms, one to his heart, another caressing his sparse grey hair, then gently cupping his face, feeling the bone under his skin, far cry from his usual form. 

Telling him not to worry about anything, to rest and relax. Constantly reminding him to take his meal no matter how little the portion is. How helpless I felt when he turned to me with a small smile on his face and those gentle eyes looking straight at me as I offer words of comfort. 

Then and only then, as I opened my mouth to utter that I love him so very much, barely a whisper, I felt as if I have pits lodged in my throat, as if I have exhaled my last breath and my lungs are devoid of air. The pain and emotion contained within the void of my chest, in each alveolus of my lungs.

The word love seems odd in thoughts but when I uttered it to him, it came out naturally. I braved myself and told him that I love him, louder this time. Unsure if he heard me the first time. 

He kept quiet, closed his eyes, and I saw tears trickle down the corner of his eyes. 

My eyes began to water, blurring my view. I don't care anymore. I grasped his hand in mine as I told him again and again that I have always loved him. That it's the foolish sense of male ego that prevented me from saying it to him before all these. 

I wished all the wishes that made my heart ache. Most of the wishes are impossible now but I can’t bear to part with Papa, not just yet.  

He kept his silence. And then, he gave me that slight nod, acknowledging my tirade of emotional outburst, slowly tapping the back of my head. I needed that. I crave for that. 

Papa, I love you...

Source: ImageShack.us

The Longest Chat

The room is clean. Aircon is at its full blast but I am not cold. There is no spare bed except for a lazy chair by the side; yet I don't complain. For this is the moment when the chat is the longest and yet, strange as it seems, it is the most fulfilling ever.

What did we chat about? Hmmm... we chatted about everything but nothing. How's my work he would ask. I would say it's as apolitical and yet it is highly political. No point making others worry about you particularly the one you love the most.

How about politics? Will ruling or opposition win this time? There are rumours swirling around but none is certain. Perhaps we can see to it together when the time comes. Perhaps perhaps. It would be great don't you think? We can then vote together.

Oh! Do you still remember the Romance of the Three Kingdoms? You enthralled me with layers upon layers of those historical tales. I still remember hearing those stories as you fed me years ago. My mouth went "O" as you kept me on the cliff-hanger and will continue only when I dutifully swallowed my food.

I spoke to you as I kept running my fingers through your sparse, grey hair. Emotions chocked and brimming at the seams. Do you know that I love you so very much? How can a man tell that to another man without shame; oh, that shame of man-love. Or should I put that as egoistic feel of not confiding when the time is ripe and now?

Look at the time, its almost 6am. Can you believe that we've chatted for more than 7 hours now? Go to rest now papa. Do you want to have anything to drink or eat before you sleep? Don't worry papa, Chinese New Year is nothing without you. Just rest and don't worry about anything else ok?

I covered him carefully and tapped him to sleep.
Sitting uncomfortably at his side, never once complaining because this is the longest chat ever. As the antiseptic smelling, sterile looking room quietened down, I kept my vigil. I kept hoping against hope that there will be more such days to come. But alas, fate dealt a different hand. Never before, and never ever again will I have the chance to have such long heartfelt talk again. Chinese New Year will never feel the same.

Telling Tales by Various Writers

Once in a while I get really tired of reading full fledged novel especially those with snail pace plots; example: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez :-P
So, I either start reading Wikipedia (its more entertaining than watching news on TV ok?) or I will read short stories. Lo and behold, I have in my collection of unread books, a compendium of short stories entitled “Telling Tales by Various Writers”. :-)
This is not your typical Top 10 best short stories kind of book cos as indicated at the back cover; “The publisher’s profits from the sales of this book will go to HIV/AIDS preventive education and for medical treatment for people living with the suffering this pandemic infection brings to our contemporary world.” Truth to be told, I felt really good cos not only the illustrious writers contributed their stories for free; I also did my part by purchasing this book using my hard-earned, cold-hard cash. :-)
Anyway, to cut the long story short (else I will deviate from the topic again), there are 21 short stories in this book and their reviews are as follow:

1. Bulldog by Arthur Miller
About a 13 year old boy buying a puppy with sexual twist, in which he “had it” with the lady who sold him the puppy. After that, he thought about the experience every now and then. It is also about the excitement that comes with growing up.
My 2cents: Cougar getting her Toyboy :-P

2. The Centaur by José Saramago
Touches on the life of the last Centaur to roam the Earth after his kind was hunted down by Heracles. Eventually he died after he slipped off the cliff and body split into two; half a man, half a horse.
My 2cents: He ain’t gonna get any date in current crazy world.

3. Down the Quiet Street by Es’kia Mphahlee
About the on-goings at a place called Nadia Street and its eccentric residents congregating to exchange gossips at the on-going funeral procession only to realize that it’s a cover-up for liquor trafficking.
My 2cents: Reminded me of the movie “American Gangster; starring Danzel Washington”.

4. The Firebird’s Nest by Salman Rushdie
It’s about Mr. Maharaj’s marriage to an American lady. Mr. Maharaj is a firebird and the American lady is the rainmaker. Surrounding the whole establishment is Miss Maharaj and her motley crew of dancers (for what purpose I don’t know). One fine day, Mr. Maharaj went crazy and changed into firebird, burning his sister to cinder. Ms. American went crazy and turned into water/rain and the deluge drowned the firebird and its nest.
My 2cents: Salman’s stories/novels are extremely tough meat to chew on. I don’t even know what to make of this story when it ends. Hidden metaphor perhaps? I’ll give Salman 2cents to explain this story to me. :-P

5. Cell Phone by Ingo Schulze
A couple's (Constanze and the main character, I depict here as "A") life is strained when the main character passed his cell phone number to his neighbour, Neumann. This neighbour kept calling A up even when A has moved out from the neighbourhood. Constanze became paranoid when she thought about the possibility of Neumann passing A’s number around.
My 2cents: Obviously written when cell phone is still a novelty item.

6. Death Constant Beyond Love by Gabriel García Márquez
An a$$ politician who is about to die in few month’s time met his love/lust in one rickety village during his electoral campaign. An equally eager father decided to prostitute his young daughter to the politician in order to straighten his own dire predicament.
My 2cents: Morality down the drain.

7. The Age of Lead by Margaret Atwood
Chronicle around the life of Jane and Vincent. Their interaction and comfortable relationship with each other. Never married, moved apart, went out with different partners but eventually got back together. Though I can’t see the relevance of a dead young sailor (due to lead poisoning) from Franklin Expedition entombed in permafrost in this story. Weird enough. :-P
My 2cents: Maybe Jane and Vincent’s life is akin to the failed Franklin Expedition.

8. Witness of an Era by Günter Grass
Captured the conversation between two World War 1 veterans/writers. Vivid description on usage of chemical weapons during the trench war.
My 2cents: Make lots of love, not war. :-)

9. The Journey to the Dead by John Updike
An old man and his touchy friendship with his dead wife’s friend who is dying of cancer. He refrained himself from becoming too close with her just in case she fancies him as well.
My 2cents: Perasan kuat punya orang tua. :-P (literally translated as: Very handsome old man.. hahahaha)

10. Sugar Baby by Chinua Achebe
Its about a guy named Cletus who threw some sugar away to show that he is rich enough to dispense sugar nonchalantly; something which was unthinkable previously.
My 2cents: Wasteful habit. Spank spank!

11. The Way of the Wind by Amos Oz
Strained relationship between a strong willed Jewish dad, Shimson and his weakling son, Gideon; was pushed to the max when the son failed in his maiden parachute jump. He ended up killing himself and in the process, deeply humiliated his dad.
My 2cents: It’s never easy to please the elders especially the illustrious ones.

12. Warm Dogs by Paul Theroux
Future filled with sterile adults and their ideas of purchasing baby to fit their requirements. A couple named Raths got the worst deal when they ventured across the East River; a place inhibited by wild children to purchase a baby.
My 2cents: Never take any chances. Besides, children have the right to choose too.

13. The Ass and The Ox by Michel Tournier
Everyone knew about the scene at the Nativity but the funny part of this story is that it depicted the animated conversation between the ass and the ox and having them as part of the witness to the birth of Jesus Christ.
My 2cents: I’ve never read any story told from a totally different angle like this. Really refreshing.

14. Death of a Son by Njabulo S. Ndebele
A dad powerless against the apartheid, making blank promises to protect his family only to see everything fall apart when his son is killed by stray shootout by white police. To add salt to the wound, he had to buy his son’s body back from the murderers.
My 2cents: I’m so glad apartheid no longer exists. Hail Nelson Mandela!!

15. The Letter Scene by Susan Sontag
I can’t understand this compendium of mismatched letters at all. No review for this one. A lot of intense emotion but I can’t link it all.
My 2cents: Same offer as Salman Rushdie’s The Firebird’s Nest :-P

16. To Have Been by Claudio Magris
Imagine two little representation of yourself sitting on each side of your shoulder talking about “having been” and “to be”. This is exactly what happened to Jerry, a guitarist who can no longer perform due to injuries.
My 2cents: I will kill both the little guys first.

17. A Meeting, At Last by Hanif Kureishi
A cuckolded husband and the wife’s lover met up; embittered and conflicting interests thrust both alpha male into this ring of deceit. Wonderfully crafted short story.
My 2cents: I wonder if this kind of conversation is even possible.

18. Association in Blue by Christa Wolf
All about blue makes me blur. This is evidently the “bluest” story I’ve ever read. Blue sky, blueberry, blur bird… you get what I mean.
My 2cents: Same offer as Salman Rushdie’s The Firebird’s Nest and Susan Sontag’s The Letter Scene.

19. The Rejection by Woody Allen
Kid rejected by premium kindergarten. Egoistic parents went crazy and started bribing every TD and H (Tom, Dick and Harry). Parents went bankrupt and kid is still rejected. End of story.
My 2cents: How much would you do/pay for your kids or to inflate your egoistic self?

20. The Ultimate Safari by Nadine Gordimer
This is really the ultimate safari as we follow a family’s hardship in their quest to escape the bandits which destroyed their home, their journey through Kruger National Park in order to reach the refugee camp.
My 2cents: Love will get us through all obstacles.

21. Abandoned Children of This Planet by Kenzaburo Oe
An old lady who brought together her family during a traditional funeral and insisting on visiting their ancestral home. The story depicts the growing generation gap between the old and new Japanese people.
My 2cents: Close the gap and learn to love those who’re elder than you.

Finally I’m done reviewing all the short stories… whew!!
All of it are nice with exception of 3 which I don't understand at all. :-P

The Call (draft)

Candle lights on the altar fluttered as she hobbled slowly across the room to close the remaining open windows.
The lazy gaze of the Gods she prayed to seem to follow her every move.
She would welcome the billowing breeze on such warm and humid night but the pesky mosquitoes buzzed incessantly, lavishing themselves on exposed skin at the nape of her neck.
Picking up the cordless phone, she hobbled to her room cold, dark room. Journey made difficult after her debilitating stroke she suffered years ago.
Settling herself on the squeaky bed, she squinted hard and pressed on the keypad.
Familiar ringtone came through the earpiece. She held her breath, hoping that she did not call at the wrong time again.
The ringtone goes on and on, like a malfunction cd, skipping on the same track over and over again.
Eventually, it lapsed into expressionless tone bot requesting her to leave her message.
Sighing loudly, she hung up the phone and looked around the room. The only sanctuary within the wide expanse of the house.
She grimaced when she thought of the days when her children ran around the house, a house filled with laughter, tears and most of all, it was a house filled with life.
Her prayers were not answered. Her repeated calls were conveniently ignored by her children.
Tear blurred her view.

Flight Home (draft)

The hustle and bustle in the cabin interrupted his thoughts. Upping the volume of his mp3 player, he sunk deeper into his seat, cradling the book he reads closer to his chest as he pondered on the hours earlier when he stepped on the flight with light footed steps.

As the songs directory shuffled itself automatically, he heard a familiar tune. A tune which grabbed his attention the moment his ears heard it. It brought him a momentary sense of tranquility despite the din, his book is all but forgotten.

Smile appeared on his weary face as he shifted his thoughts on the welcoming sight of his loved ones back home. It never fail to bring tears to his eyes whenever such thoughts crossed his mind. He, a man considered to be the pillar of strength brought down and mellowed with such emotional effect?

Closing his eyes, patiently he waits, and he played the song repeatedly. Thoughts firmly on the smiling face with that pretty eyes of hers. Sleep overcame him with ease despite the uncomfortable surroundings.

Suddenly he is jolted from his slumber with the bump on the plane landing and patiently he waited until it came to a screeching halt.

Dreamland aka Momoland

The night is dark, weather is wet,

Enclosed in blanket, the bed is set,

Eyes are open, unsleeping yet,

Pondering about dreamland, I hope to get.

Dream eludes, I wonder why,

Clock is ticking, dawn is nigh,

Lying awake, my eyes are dry,

What should I do? Oh how I sigh.

- by Springy Jottings @ 0352hrs -

On such nights, I will day-dream, night-dream or dreaming while I’m awake or half-asleep or whatever la... and I happen to day-dream about the following:


A magical place filled with all the gentle creatures.
Rainbow and sun shining over colorful wide plains.
Waterfall which cascade down the steep incline, followed by gentle flowing rivers.

Where fishes frolicked and if you’re lucky enough, you'll see white unicorn pack drinking at the side and there will be fairy dust.
Bushes teeming with colorful butterflies and trees with 1001 birds of all feathers constituting the colorful diorama of life.

And in the midst of it all, a warm and quaint little cottage.
Right on top of the small knoll with transparent roof.
With garden filled with colorful buds of tulips bordered by short, white wooden fence.

An old oak tree, old... but strong and stout where there's a swing tied to it.
With the pathway made from cobbled stone... colored cobbled stone.
Two rocking chairs on the verandah with a coffee table in between.

Soft wind billows, carrying with it scent of small potted herbs perched on the verandah.
Rosemary... dill... basil... thyme.

Fire place and chimney, providing warmth during winter and the place to watch snow falling from the sky.
Comfortable double couch beside the French window covered by checked quilts.
And hot mugs of coffee in place.

Aaahhh… sheer pleasure... perhaps I should just close my eyes and dream of this place called Momoland :-)

Prickled?

The weather was warm and slightly humid when the Son sauntered into the kitchen.

“Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Just sit here and ask while I prepare the dinner.”

As he sat, he realized that his mouth quickly filled with saliva as he sniffed the luxurious smell of herbs and roasted chicken.

Brushing away the thought of the feast he’s about to savor during dinnertime, he looked towards his Mom and asked.

“What is the meaning of prickled? I couldn’t find the exact meaning I wanted from the dictionary nor the net.”

Piqued by such question, the Mom brushed away bread crumb from her fingers and sat opposite the Son. “Hmmm... now that is one really interesting question. So tell me, what kind of meaning are you looking for to be exact?”

“Well, I was at school today and I didn’t see Sara who usually sat beside me. Initially I thought she might be late but it turns out she was absent for the whole day.”

“And then what happened?” asked the Mom looking straight into his Son’s innocent eyes.

“Well, initially I was worried about her getting lost as she walks to school you see. After that, I was worried that something might have happened to her. Like she fell sick or something.”

“It seems that you genuinely care about her then. But you still haven’t told me how the prickled word came about.” enquired the Mom.

Fiddling with the embroidered fringe of table cloth, the Son spoke in hushed tone now. “After that, I sort of imagined that Sara skipped class so that she can play with Tom because his Dad just bought him a new tricycle. She did tell me that she would really love to ride on it you know. And I realized that I couldn’t concentrate in class whenever I thought of it.”

“And when I told Dad about it, he said I’m feeling prickled over something. So what is prickled Mom?”

Clasping her hand over the Son’s hand, she explained to her Son as simple as she could.

“Son, you’re feeling prickled because it shows that you care deeply about her. It is a heartfelt reaction and there’s nothing to be ashamed of ok?”

“But Mom, I feel bad even when I thought about it. How can that heartfelt reaction be good then?” prodded the Son further.

Patting the Son’s head, the Mom smiled as she said, “Well, you feel bad because you assume she skipped class so that she can have fun riding the tricycle with Tom. In other words, getting prickled because it shows that you care for her is good… but it is good as long as you don’t assume anything okay?”

Feeling his own cheeks warming up with the rebuttal from his Mom, the Son nodded his head silently.

“Now now. Why are you having that sour look on your face? Come here and let me look at my precious Son. Just make sure that you don’t assume and clarify things with Sara when you see her back in class alright?”

Nodding excitedly, the Son’s frown slowly but visibly turned into a broad grin. All the while reminding himself that getting prickled is good after all, as long as he doesn’t assume things.

As for Sara, he hoped fervently that she is alright and he can’t wait to see her back in class tomorrow.

Lunch?

The time is 11.45am sharp.

He stood up to stretch his stiff body and took the opportunity to glance nervously around. He realised with a shock that he is right in the midst of a hive filled with various activities.

There are some who walked to and fro with sense of purpose in their stride, while some stared blankly into their computer screen filled with coloured rows of highlighted numbers.

From far, those minute looking digits and characters look sinisterly like fire ants, the fire ants he used to burn with joss stick back at his kampong house.

Shaking his head to clear off this irrelevant reverie, he sat down with a thud on the somewhat uncomfortable, squeaking chair.

He sighed inwardly and thought of the luck he got so far in securing his current position.

As he turned and stared at his computer screen, he realized that his mind is totally blank and could not comprehend the numbers displayed on the screen. Those stagnated numbers kept on blinking like constant heartbeat, taunting him repeatedly.

He closed his eyes, obscuring his vision momentarily. Despite this, the floating numbers remained in his view, burnt into his mind like a charred emblem. He rubbed his eyes hard, swirling the numbers and saw splitting stars at the back of his eyeballs in the process.

Slowly he reopened his eyes and glanced at the wall clock again. He noticed that the minutes arm nudged slowly but surely, time now showing 11.55am.

He nervously shuffled his feet on the carpeted floor, feeling the carpet’s roughness through the sole of his shiny leather shoes. He silently wished that he could take it off and free his sweaty feet from the confines of his shoes.

Slowly he extended his neck above his cubicle wall like a tortoise emerging from its shell. Again he looked around. The place is much calmer now and the bustle of activities he saw earlier has thinned considerably.

His palms grew wet and clammy with anticipation. He fidgeted on his chair, the squeaking sound now louder as the place grew quieter.

He jolted when he felt someone tapped his shoulder and asked him, “So, how was your first day at work? OK so far? Would you like to join us for lunch?”

With that, he felt a true sense of relieve and happily accepted the lunch offer with a smile on his face.

The BBC National Short Story Award (2009) by Various Writers

After reading countless books depicting various themes and genres on thick; full length novels, I’ve decided to take a breather (another one after the sensual stories earlier :-)) and decided to read short stories instead.

I’ve read quite a number of short stories but the one that I can really recall is entitled “The Minority Report” written by Philip K. Dick. The main reason is due to the adaptation of the short story into full movie starred realistically by none other than the enigmatic Tom Cruise.

To cut the story short (metaphorically speaking); I didn’t want to browse around for short stories for too long. Thus, I bought the collection of best short stories for 2009. And in this case, I’ve selected the winners of The BBC National Short Story Award for 2009.

This book consists of 5 winners/writers and they are:

· Naomi Alderman; Other People’s God
· Kate Clanchy; The Not Dead and the Saved
· Sara Maitland; Moss Witch
· Jane Rogers; Hitting Trees with Sticks
· Lionel Shriver; Exchange Rates

Below are reviews for each of the stories mentioned above; and I promise you it is going to be a short review as befitting the story itself :-P

Naomi Alderman; Other People’s God
Story about a Jew named Mr. Bloom who bought an Indian God idol, Ganesha into his home and started to pray to it. His whole family then followed suit and felt “bestowed” by the newly introduced deity.
However, their neighbourhood rabbi came to know about it and in order to bring Mr. Bloom back to the “right-path”; he smashed the idol into smithereens. Thus, turning the ever gentle Mr. Bloom into angst filled person.

Kate Clanchy; The Not Dead and the Saved
There are no names for the characters. The Son is playing “The Son”; The Mother is playing “The Mother” and so on… if you get what I mean ;-)
It is basically about a terminally ill “Son” and the “Mother’s” tumulus relationship in which “The Son” is trying to live a separate life and “The Mother” is always there by his side to support him throughout his struggle with his illness and his life.

Sara Maitland; Moss Witch
This is a really strange story because at the start of the story, we’re introduced to the legend of the Moss Witches and by the end of the story; even I tend to believe that Moss Witches really exists.
It is about a bryologist who ventured into a moss filled jungle and stumbled upon a Moss Witch live in action. The bryologist was astounded by the knowledge of the Moss Witch as she rattled and muttered common and scientific names of various genera of mosses; from Vulnerable to Critically Endangered species.
However, the sweet story ended when the Moss Witch murdered the bryologist as he attempted to take some moss samples in front of her. She then stuffed the bryologist’s body with various mosses before instructing “them” (the mosses) to overtake the body and to grow as fast as possible; thus erasing the very trace of the murdered bryologist.

Jane Rogers; Hitting Trees with Sticks
I’m taking a really simplistic approach here but rest assured that this is another beautifully written short story from a perspective which I’ve never “experienced” before.
The gist of this funny story is about a suspected senile old lady who ventured out to her garden to check for her shopping items only to be locked out of her own house in the process. Out of place and no place to vent her anger, she grasped the garden broom and whacked the old tree in her garden.

Lionel Shriver; Exchange Rates
What would you do after you’ve dined with your dad? Who will pick up the bill? Is it the son’s responsibility of the father’s?
In this heart-warming story, the dad picked up the bill but then requested the son to provide free service to cash out his check and convert the currency in the process. However, due to currency fluctuation and in-depth anger of the son over the feeling of being short-changed by the currency exchange; the son remitted the conversion rate lower than the dad’s expectation.
His satisfaction over the deal ended prematurely when his dad passed away shortly after he sent a nasty email to his dad explaining about the short change.

Personal rating:

No rating but it is indeed a different set of genre compared to full length novels. A refreshing read indeed.

Cons:
1) N/A

Pros:
1) N/A