Creatures of Near Kingdoms is a beautifully illustrated bestiary of Malaysian flora and fauna. Each one-page description is accompanied by a full-page illustration or lino print.
It's whimsical. And fantastic. And witty.
And occasionally confusing if you're trying too hard to figure out The Point.
It's best read in short bursts. Take it as a collection of microfiction, if you will.
I'm lagging behind in my reviews because... idk. I'm playing catchup with work stuff that I can't delay because I'm clearing up my schedule. So the book reviews are the first to go.
Anyways, thought I might as well post this to make up for yesterday's missed post, even if it's not in the current review schedule (which is messed up).
Buried--
so deep you'll never find it again.
Dreams and visions
longings and yearnings all
dead and buried.
Gone up in flames,
ashes.
Ashes and dust,
from dust you came, to dust you return.
Ashes on your tongue from the dreams you've given up,
Dead,
--buried.
Treasure--
once sought after but now forgotten.
All that glitters isn't gold,
but this gold dust you scattered on what you once loved
is gone.
Leaving nothing
but a mirage of
baubles that were gems,
gilded frames,
but nothing of worth, fake
--treasure.
Here you'll find treasure, buried treasure,
the ashes of dreams
and their once-gilded frames.
The kitten just looked up at her, uncomprehending.
"You can't walk all over my keyboard, Kits." Katie booped the pinkish nose offered to her. She lifted the tiny thing and settled her on the pillow beside her.
The kitten mewled her disgruntlement.
"Stay." Katie continued staring at her laptop, willing the numbers in the excel sheet to start making sense again. She was tired, so tired. Maybe it was time to take a break. She leaned back and stretched, only for an orange and white streak to zoom past, settling on the keyboard again.
"Why, Kits, why?" Katie lifted her kitten, made sure that nothing had gone wrong with her formulas, then walked over to the kitchen table with Kits in hand. "Well, I guess it's time for a break anyway."
---
Because people apparently need more kittens in their lives. Here are some!
There are guards at my door. Guards who follow me wherever I go, who listen to all my conversations. I tell them to go, but they do not listen to me. They answer only to the Regent. Relka is the only one who has yet to be subverted from my service, as far as I know. He does not leave my room except to do the laundry. Food is delivered to my room.
In defiance, I ignored the food sent up and go down to the dining hall for dinner. There is a troupe playing, though I do not recognise any of them.
“I thought Jeffet would have stopped this… Mahan practice,” I say to Azman. He sits beside me, stiff and awkward.
“Baginda—He tried, but the nobles complained. They like it too much.”
My eyes narrow at his slip. Are they addressing Jeffett as Raja then? Has he gone so far as to try to claim the throne for himself? “Where is this troupe from? I do not recognise any of them,” I say instead.
“From Bayangan,” he answers. “The Mahan troupes have gone. Most left after the execution.”
I choke on my rice. I’d known—I’d accused Jeffett of murdering Amanah, but having it confirmed still comes as a shock. “When did—what did he do?”
Azman looks confused. “Did you not sign off on his death?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, unable to find any tissues or wipes on the table.
“Gross,” he says, handing me a handkerchief. “Did you really not sign off on that?” He looks a little troubled.
“Not personally,” I reply, after thanking him for the handkerchief. “Jeffett made me sign the edict. He did not see fit to inform me of what else he has done after that.”
“Oh.” He shifts in his seat, avoiding my gaze. “He made the proclamation in the square, and then he had him beheaded. There was a crowd. It was… messy.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry, Tuanku. I know you… knew the man.”
I shrug my shoulders, trying to seem nonchalant, but failing. “Do you know what happened to the rest of his troupe?”
“As I said, most of the Mahan troupes left after that spectacle. I… have not seen any of them around, so I suppose they have all left.”
I hope so too, but I cannot count on it. “Who’s in the dungeons?”
His eyes flick up to mine, then quickly flick away.
“Who is in the dungeons?”
He sighs. “I don’t know, actually. I have no cause to check.”
I consider that for a moment. Repetitive actions in the dance catch my eye. I study them, study their movements, scrutinise their hands and fingers, but there is nothing there for me. This troupe either does not know the secret hand language, or they carry no messages. I cannot tell which.
“For the sake of our… friendship,” he winces when I say that, “would you please let me know if any of the troupes are in the dungeons?”
He sits, eyes fixed on the dancers. The dance is nearly at its end when he says, so quietly that I almost miss it, “What good will it do for you to know?”
“It would ease my conscience.”
He doesn’t reply then, just lets me finish watching the dance, then escorts me back to my room.
“I’ll try,” he says. He lingers in the doorway a little longer, then moves to shut it.
He stops when I turn. I don’t want to look at him. I force myself to lift my eyes to stare into his face. “Why?”
“Why what?” He tries to make his face calm, but he’s the first to drop his eyes.
“I just need to know why.”
He huffs. “I thought it was for your own good. The Regent convinced me that you were not in your right mind, that your reason was compromised. What was I to think when I saw that letter?”
“You couldn’t have asked me first?”
“You were compromised.”
“I was grieving.”
“We all were.”
The audacity of his statement strikes me like a physical blow. “They were not your parents.” I slam the door in his face, then lean my forehead against it, trying to stop the tears that flow.
The lock snicks from the outside.
---
Here's an excerpt from the WIP because I was trying to write something else, but couldn't.
---
From Raising Cain: How the Bible Shapes the Things You Say
Judas
Meaning: Someone who betrays another under the guise of friendship.
"They're your children. You can't just wash your hands of them," a voice spoke from the darkness.
Iman froze. She spun around, searching the dimly lit room.
Rahsia rose from the couch, rubbing at her eyes as she yawned.
"What are you still doing here?" Iman clutched at the door frame for support.
"Making sure your two young children are fine. I couldn't leave them alone, could I? When I don't even know when you're going to get home?" Rahsia turned up the lamps, revealing dark circles around her eyes. She shuffled towards the door, stretching as she went.
Iman stood blocking the doorway. "Well, you might as well spend the night then."
"I have work tomorrow."
"Oh. You couldn't--"
"No, Iman. Unlike you, I am responsible. I won't shirk my work to take care of your children."
"But Rahsia, you know what the Secretkeeper has to do. Nek herself bore this responsibility--"
"Don't bring Nek into this." It came out sharper than she intended, but Rahsia allowed herself to be a little bitter. After all, she'd been waiting, training to take over Nek's role as the Secretkeeper, only for it to somehow jump family lines to her best friend, Iman.
"You know how important this is. With the sacking of Suci and the prophecies..."
Rahsia's face didn't soften. If anything, it grew harder. "Tulen misses you. Telus is asking for his mak. Farouk can deal with Suci for one day without you. Your children must come first." They must, because she knew this feeling too well. Rahsia knew how it felt to be deserted by her parents, by the grandmother who was supposed to take care of her, but was always too busy with the Temple, always on call for everyone except her. She couldn't let her godchildren feel the same way too.
Iman bowed her head, stepping aside. "I... yes, fine. I'll tell Farouk."
She looked so lost and exhausted that Rahsia finally relented.
"I'll come by after work. Tell Tulen that." For the children. She would do this for the children, even if their own mother abandoned them.
---
From Raising Cain: How the Bible Shapes the Things You Say:
Hands, Wash one's Meaning: To end one's association with someone or something; to abandon or renounce responsibility for someone or something. Source: Matthew 27:24; When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it.
A fitting prompt, I thought, for the Holy Week even if the story doesn't quite keep the theme.
She followed the ghaut down to its natural end, soon leaving hard-packed dirt for coarse sand. The soft breeze stirred her hair, warm and balmy, but still a slight relief for the sweat that dripped down her neck. She reached up and caught her hair up, twisting it into a bun. Holding it with her left hand, she dug into her pockets for something to tie it with. All she found was a blunt pencil. She fiddled with it a little, then stuck it into the bun. It held.
A few more steps and she'd be in the water. The wooden pier on her right continued on into the sea. At the end of the pier, fishing boats congregated, her father's among them.
The cool water lapped against her toes. She wiggled her toes in the sand, digging them in. The sun burnt her skin, harsh and hot directly above her, triggering a headache. Still, she stood there, watching the sluggish activity at the end of the pier.
Why are they not searching?
Hardly anyone was out in the heat of the day. Her father often left before the sun rose, returning with his catch whilst it was still rising. Except today, he hadn't returned. His fellow fisherfolk had brought his boat back without him. They'd go out again in the evening when it was cooler, and he wouldn't be with them.
The water was cold against her knees. She slumped against the wooden stakes of the pier, sheltering in its slight shade.
If you wait for me at the ghaut, he'd promised her as a child, I will always return.
She waited. He didn't return.
---
From the Oxford Dictionary of Foreign Words & Phrases, 2nd edition. Ghat (also ghaut), from early seventeenth centuryHindi:
1. (In the Indian subcontinent) a mountain pass.
2. (In the Indian subcontinent) a flight of steps leading to a riverbank; a landing place.
3. A level place at the top of a river-bank ghat where Hindus cremate their dead. In full burning ghat.
...which also solves the mystery of why, along Beach Street, we have Church Street on the right and Church Street Ghaut on the left (and others, all along the street), except that the ghauts don't reach the sea anymore. They just reach Pengkalan Weld (Weld Quay), which used to be the port until it was reclaimed and the jetty pushed further out.
You say you are strong, you can make it on your own.
You put on your cape, strap on your mask, and you stand tall, ready to face the giants.
Then the world crashes around you and you realise you are smol, and you are precious.
It's okay to be fragile.
---
My brain died today.
That's it.
Better luck tomorrow.
The young woman looked at Elena with just a little bit of trepidation.
"I'm sorry, you what?" Elena asked. She hadn't been paying attention, wondering what her children were squabbling about in the background.
"Just wondering if I could have a bit of help with the rent this month, Miss...?"
Elena sighed. "Elena, just call me Elena. Hold on one second," she said, muting the video call. She turned around and yelled, "Five minutes you miscreants! Just shut up for five minutes and I'll get you lunch!"
"You said that an hour ago!" Julie, her eldest yelled back.
"I promise. Last call before lunch. Now take Tommy to your room and keep quiet!" There was some grumbling before the door slammed and all was quiet again. Elena turned back to the video call and unmuted it. "Sorry about that. Kids. You know how it is."
The young woman nodded, eyes wide.
"What's your house number again?" Elena asked, buying time as she stared at the woman's details on her second screen.
"A-22-8," the woman said, "it's just that my husband's lost his job, and my freelance work isn't enough to--"
Elena knew that. "Rachel, is that right? You've been at A-22-8 for five years?"
"Yes. We've always paid on time. If we could delay it by a week? It's just till--"
Elena looked again at the email from the head office. She swallowed her discomfort and said, "Unfortunately, management has issued a directive that all rent is due per normal and we can't give any discounts or allow delays. I would really like to help, but..."
Rachel's shoulders slumped. "Well, thank you anyway."
"I'm sorry, Rachel. We've been trying to lobby management but we haven't made much headway yet. If anything changes, I'll let you know immediately."
Elena ended the call, leaned back in her chair and massaged her forehead. These days, she really hated her job as an estate agent.
---
This story has been brought to you by the Oxford Dictionary, Twitter, and COVID-19.
They were little things. She held five of them in the palm of her hand, little seeds the size of a Tic Tac, each a different colour.
The first was a beautiful blue, like the sky on a sunny, cloudless day. It tasted like adventure and excitement, the rush of possibility. She spat it out, afraid. The world was too vast, the future too frightening. There was no knowing how it would all end up, whether she would live a long life with the people she loved.
The second seed was lime green, fresh and bright and a little sharp on the eyes. She rolled it between her finger and her thumb before putting it on her tongue. It tasted like growth and stretching, roots digging deep, branches reaching ever upwards. She held on to it for longer, chewing enough to break through the capsule, before spitting it out as well. There was too much bitterness hidden inside.
There were three left in her palm and she wanted to throw them away. It was too risky. Life could be lived normally without them. She didn't need them.
Still, it was curiosity that finally made her stick her tongue out and lick the bright red seed. It burned on her tongue like fiery peri-peri and she dropped it immediately. In her mind, her thoughts ran to fire, the anger of a thousand tiny cuts bursting into one huge bonfire. She could burn the world down and rebuild it from the embers. But would she stay the same? This one she held for a little longer, then went out to press into the soil. Even if she couldn't handle it, she could keep it, nurture it for someone else. Someone stronger.
She went for the grey next, tasting ash on her tongue. If fire had been too strong, this bleak nothingness was too weak for her. It tasted of routine and boredom, a life of safety that was too empty, too constrained, too dead. She pondered it for a moment longer, then gave it up with a sigh. As much as she loved the quiet, it would bury her alive.
The final seed was a curious thing, purple dappled with pink. She held it up to her nose and inhaled the scent of cotton candy and morning dew, lavender and chocolate, a first edition musty with age. It sparkled slightly, reminding her of fairy dust and unicorns, and the improbable balance of being. She didn't have to taste this one to know what it would bring.
---
Pfft. This one took forever to write because I couldn't find any nice D words.
She sat, sipping slowly. The warm brew settled her stomach, taking away the queasiness that had been building up all morning. She closed her eyes and basked in the sweet smell of honey and chamomile. When she opened them, she drank deeply, set down the empty mug, and got up to get things done.
###
"It doesn't work that way," the healer insisted. "He's dead. You can't get anything from--"
"Just show him to me." She folded her arms on her chest and stared him down. When he didn't move, she reached out and nudged the papers she'd shown him when she entered the room.
He flipped through them again, bringing the seal on the last page right up to his nose.
"It's authentic," she said drily. "I highly doubt anyone would forge the Secretkeeper's seal just to see a dead... person."
"This is very unconventional," he protested, but he handed the papers back to her and crossed the room to where, presumably, the head was kept.
She followed close behind him. "It's not every day you find a severed head in the street."
"It was at the port," he replied, "and it was deliberately planted. By our enemies. As an act of war."
"Which makes it an even more singular event."
He opened the chest on the table and stepped aside, nearly knocking into her.
She looked in. It was a ghastly thing to behold, a severed head on a silver platter--why was it on a silver platter?--eyes still open in shock. She reached out her hand.
"Don't touch it."
She ignored the warning, taking a deep breath while wishing for more honeyed chamomile to fortify her. Nothing. Well, she'd expected that. You'll likely find nothing, the Secretkeeper had said, but we owe it to the Sultan to at least try. She shifted her fingers downwards to close the poor man's eyes, then jerked her fingers back at the buzz. There was the faintest wisp of a memory still lingering. Amazing. He's been dead for three days. She closed her eyes and concentrated.
"Well," she said when she'd gotten all she could. "Baginda Paduka will be quite interested in that."
"What? What did you find?" The healer stared at her incredulously.
She smirked a little. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"But the head--he's been dead--how--"
"Don't underestimate the powers of Impian's Justices," she said, leaning towards him. "Should I read your mind?"
He shrunk back, raising his arms in front of his head. "No! I haven't done anything."
"Of course you haven't." She looked back at the chest, and Amanah's head, and sighed. "Poor man." She closed the lid. "See to it that his head is returned to his family."
###
Mikal, Jeffett turns the Bayangan nobles against me and I am under house arrest. If he succeeds in his bid, he will do all he can to re-start the war. Suspect all missives that come under my name. Yosua.
She finished writing down the message that Amanah had held as his last thought and wondered if the man had known that she would be able to extract it. Mind-reading was such an imprecise gift and very few Justices could read from the dead, especially one that had been dead for such a length of time. Still, his name indicated that he came from Impian, which could mean that he might have more than a passing knowledge of the gift--maybe he had sisters who were gifted Justices themselves.
Like me.
She sent off her findings with the messenger who had been waiting, made herself another cup of honeyed chamomile, then curled up on her bed. She took a deep draught as she dropped the mental walls she'd erected in the morning.
Grief crashed over her as Jujur finally mourned her dead brother for the first time today.
---
Okay, I opened the dictionary at random and picked the word Chamomile. Which led to this unexpected story that's somehow tied in to the WIP I'm working on right now. I don't know if it will actually happen in the story, but eh.
Bayangan comes into view in the evening. The walls surrounding the city are still blackened with fire, partially crumbled from the last war. No effort seems to have been made to rebuild them. We pause for water by the gates, where a large party awaits us.
An open carriage, white trimmed with gold, stands ready. The two white horses harnessed to it paw at the ground and toss their manes. Permaisuri Layla takes the hand of a groom and steps up into the carriage, arranging her skirts as she sits down primly. Ayahanda is brought up behind it. They rearrange his chains so that his hands are bound before him to a bar that runs across the back of the carriage.
There’s a short discussion amongst them, then Temenggung Jeffett mounts a large, black horse. He raises his parang, shouts an instruction, and we set off.
Inside the city walls, rows and rows of shacks have mushroomed in the ruins of old houses. The buildings are haphazard and there’s rubble everywhere. The stench of decay and sewage permeates the air.
Is this what Maha will look like in twenty years? I cannot imagine returning to a place like this. I cannot imagine why they haven’t rebuilt, why neglect pervades this part of the city. Is it the lack of money? Lack of resources? If Bayangan really needed resources, why have they given up the treaty and the marriage alliance for this? Surely continued trade would help Bayangan more than whatever plunder they’ve taken from Maha?
The deeper into the city we go, however, the more prosperous it gets. Wood turns to brick and stone. New buildings tower above us. There are some remaining patchworks of blackened stone, but most of the buildings have been rebuilt. We pass a large marketplace where all sorts of wares are on display. It is here that we stop first, where many of my countrymen are led away.
The Bayangan citizens come out to watch, lining the cobbled streets or peeking out of high windows.
“Behold your triumphant Permaisuri!” the soldiers that precede us shout, blowing their trumpets and waving flags.
Trade comes to a temporary stop. The Bayangans cheer for their permaisuri and their army. They jeer at us as we pass, pelting us with rotten fruit. Slowly we proceed through the throng, boxed in on all sides by sharp parangs and ugly, angry faces. The road narrows, inclining upwards. Walls rise again to greet us as we reach the end of our journey.
The Bayangan Castle is tall and narrow, made of scrubbed white stone. There are no large, wide windows for the breeze to flow through, only narrow slits that squint and sneer at us. It is a defensive place, built to repel others, unlike the Mahan Palace, which is gentle, open, and welcoming.
The gates open with loud clanks and the crack of whips, a great maw opening to swallow us whole. There are no open balconies or large gelanggangs, only suspicious turrets and the one crowded courtyard we’re being herded into like cows.
The slam of the gates closing behind us is a knell of doom.
---
Here's a short excerpt from The Weight of Strength, Mikal's reactions when he and his fellow captives see Bayangan for the first time.
Malaysia has just extended its MCO order to end on April 14... which means I'll have another three weeks of staying in.
This isn't much of a HUGE change for me, personally, but "Eh, I don't feel like going out" has a different connotation than "I'm not allowed to go out".
Work on the WIP is going fairly well: I passed the 30K mark on Monday, and will probably buckle down to get out another 15K to 20K by the end of the week.
Look at that!
Work-wise, I have 3 projects to keep me busy for a while.
At any rate, since I probably won't have any distractions (other than facebook, twitter, and following COVID19 updates, ha!), I decided that I might as well participate in the A to Z challenge again.
I don't know what I'm going to be doing yet, except that it will be flash fiction. If you have any topic/theme/word suggestions, feel free to drop them in the comments.
Hope all of you are keeping safe, staying healthy, and staying at home!
Zephaniah the Zealot had a zarf. It was made of silver, with beautiful chasing and filigree work, and he used it every morning as he sipped his Tazo Zen (TM) tea (a blend of green tea with lemon verbena, spearmint and lemongrass—the perfect way to add zest to his morning) from a glass cup.
The zarf was his prized possession inherited from his late grandfather, the only thing in the world he valued almost as much as his tea, so it came to quite a shock when he woke up one morning to find that it was gone.
“What do you mean you can’t find it?” he asked his housekeeper, who was actually his housemate that he’d bullied into making tea for him every morning and doing all the chores.
“It’s gone,” Benny said. He was quite tired of clearing up after Zephaniah all the time, especially when the man seemed to spend all day making YouTube videos about the benefits of tea and how everyone should drink them only from clear glasses held in zarfs.
“It can’t be! It was just there last night!”
“Yes, but it’s not there this morning,” Benny grumped, folding his arms across his chest.
“I can’t appear on YouTube this morning without my zarf!” Zephaniah was totally not zen about this.
“Too bad. Don’t appear on YouTube then.”
“But… but… my fans!”
“What fans?”
“My audience! The people I preach to every day and extol the benefits of tea and zarfs!”
Benny rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they’ll make do without hearing from you for one day.”
“But if you don’t find my zarf, then I will never be able to make another youtube video ever in my life!”
“Uhh… buy a new zarf? Or make one? Get one made?”
Zephaniah fell to his knees. “You don’t understand, Benny. That is THE Zarf, the Best Zarf, the Greatest Zarf In The World.”
“Woahhh,” Benny backed away, “it can’t be all that.”
“It’s like the holy grail. For tea.” Zephaniah clarified with a sniff.
“Right.”
“Please, Benny, you have to help me find it.”
“Um…”
“I’ll reduce your rent! Again!”
Benny didn’t think about it for too long. Doing all the housework and making tea for Zephaniah was tiring and sometimes annoying, but he was paying very little rent. If Zeph reduced the rent even further, he’d barely be paying anything to stay there. It wasn’t a bad deal.
~
Three hours later, after turning the whole house over, Benny found the zarf hiding behind a zither. Where the zither came from or how the zarf got there, he had no idea, but he took it up to Zephaniah’s room.
“Oh thank you, Benny, my man, my best friend! You have saved the day! I will finally be able to make today’s YouTube video where my zealous fans have been waiting all day.”
“You’re welcome, I guess,” Benny replied.
“Wait, don’t go. Let me introduce you to my fans!”
Zephaniah turned his video cam around and Benny found himself being talked about as the saviour of the day, for having found the stolen zarf. Benny smiled awkwardly and waved, though he had no idea who was watching, or how many people would watch it later in the day. It was a matter of principle for Benny that he never looked at Zephaniah’s YouTube page. Ever.
As soon as he could, Benny escaped from Zeph’s clutches and scurried back downstairs. He needed to clear up the house after having turned it upside down in search of the zarf, but when he pulled back the curtains, he just couldn’t. It was a gloriously sunny day outside and all of a sudden, he was just desperate to get out of that zoo he called home. Seriously, living with a Tea and Zarf Zealot was sheer madness, despite the low rent (and even lower now, since Zeph had agreed to another 20% reduction). Pay peanuts and get monkeys, as his mother used to say.
Benny made himself a cup of Zeph’s Zen tea and then went out to the zoo.
Thank you to everyone who gave me words to use, even if I didn't end up using them! :)
Here's a link to the final list if any of you want to have a look.
No, don’t say that. Don’t give me that wavering smile that means you are listening but you’re not hearing, that you heard me but you don’t believe me. There is a brightness in your eyes, a generosity in your smile, a sweetness on your lips and a glow on your skin that makes you who you are. You are beautiful, inside and out, beyond definitions, beyond conventions.
You are.
You are more than you think you are.
No, don’t deny it. Don’t put yourself down because you think you don’t do enough, because you think that others are brighter, stronger, bigger, better, more than you. There is a fullness in your soul, an overflowing in your spirit, an openness in your hands and a mileage on your feet that defines your very presence. You are enough, whether you do or do not. It’s not a competition.
Your skin
Oh yeah, your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
You know, you know I love you so
You know I love you so
I don’t say this because I love you. Yet I do say this because I love you. Because you deserve to hear how awesome you are, how good and great and glorious, and if no one else says it, then I must.
The world is a cold, cruel place, but more damaging still is your mind when it spirals, when it is colder, harder, more unforgiving than the world around you. Because the world forgives, it forgets, it moves on, but you don’t. Where they fold in to protect, covering themselves in spikes for defense against the world, you fold your spikes inwards, tearing yourself again and again, protecting the world from you.
They don’t need your protection.
You do.
Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
And you know
For you I'd bleed myself dry
For you I'd bleed myself dry
You are more than you think you are.
You are beautiful.
You are.
You.
I love you.
---
Today's suggestions were:
yellow, from Barbara Harrison
Yarmulke/Yiddish/Yom Kippur/yoga/yam/yin,yang/yen/Yule, from Cherie Osier
There was a xiphoid hole in Marcus’ view of the world. It was where his anger used to be, where his hatred and xenophobia once resided. No more. He slumped back against a column in the xystus, exhausted.
“Do what you will,” he said aloud, though there was no one to hear him. “I cannot do this any longer.”
“Who asked you to fight?
Marcus jumped at the words, twisting and turning to see who had spoken. There was no one around. “Who’s there?”
But no one replied.
~
Three days later, exhausted from his morning work out, Marcus leaned against another column, panting.
“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard. What are you trying to prove?”
Marcus looked around with a frown. He still couldn’t identify the owner of this mysterious voice. Again, there was no one in the xystus.
“What do you want?” he asked, feeling stupid for speaking to the air. Though for all he knew, the person could be hiding outside amongst the bushes. The portico was open-air, after all, and he couldn’t see around each tree and bush.
The voice seemed to have disappeared again.
~
The next time the voice spoke to him, Marcus was prepared. He had several of his servants hidden outside and scattered around the xystus to spot if there was anyone around.
“Guilt cannot be assuaged by a sword. Neither can it be diminished by running yourself ragged.”
“Who said I’m guilty?”
“What do you seek to achieve then?”
Marcus had no reply and the voice didn’t speak again. None of his servants could find anyone in the surrounding area. Even his silent watchers were too far away for their voices to have carried.
~
Marcus was slick with sweat, hands trembling, as he leaned over in the middle of the xystus, hands on his thighs.
“You don’t have to haunt me, Justus,” he said as he panted. He’d thought this through over many nights, even as he pushed himself harder and harder every morning. “I know your death is my fault. And I know that I will never get over my guilt. So let me have this, at least.”
“What are you fighting for?”
“You.”
There was a pause. “You know I’m no longer here.”
“But you are. You speak to me. Why?”
“It is not your guilt to shoulder.”
“I let you die!”
“Did you?”
When Justus was alive, his calm, pointed questions would always make Marcus stop and think, would make him reevaluate the rash decisions he often made in anger. Justus’ last question hadn’t made him stop long enough to prevent him from lopping off the head of the other village’s messenger, the other village’s peace messenger, the one that turned out to be the chief’s only son, who had come with an offer of peace.
He’s lopped the boy’s head off because he was too dark and too swarthy and too other. And then there had been war and Justus had been killed in the retribution, had offered himself up for the chief’s anger, ending it all.
Marcus fell to his knees, hand grasping at where his sword should have been, the one he’d given up the day Justus died, when he’d surrendered his village to the rule of the other. Their chief had been merciful, only restricting him to his home. If Marcus looked hard enough, he could see his silent watchers, the soldiers guarding his property to prevent him from leaving.
“You can’t keep punishing yourself for the past.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why do you do this to yourself? Why do you punish your body every morning and starve yourself every evening?”
“What else is there to do?”
“Ask for forgiveness.”
“I’ll not grovel.”
“He won’t expect you to. He’s given you this much.”
“He’s given me this much rope to hang myself.”
“Bitterness does not become you.”
Marcus slumped against a column, exhausted. “I cannot do this any longer.”
Winnie had always wanted a pet, but no matter how many times she begged her mother, the answer was always no. She tried asking her father, but his answer was “ask your mother”, so that wasn’t much use. Her best friend Wanda had a rabbit named Wiggles and even her worst enemy in school had a cat, so it was quite unfair that Winnie wasn’t allowed to have a pet, even though she was almost ten.
One evening, when she was especially bored, Winnie wandered out into the backyard. She was standing by the fence, kicking at the clods of dirt, when she noticed weird little cubes on the trail outside. Winnie’s house in Tasmania was right beside the forest reserve, so she’d seen many wild animals passing by, but she didn’t recall seeing any of these strange cubic pieces of… poo before. Throwing a quick glance back at the house, she slipped out of the back gate and followed the trail. No one called after her, so she happily went on her way, being careful not to step on any of the poo.
Birds called overhead as she passed, but she kept her eyes on the ground, searching for this mysterious animal. She came to a sudden stop when she heard a quiet yelp.
“Ow, that hurt,” a low voice said.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” another voice replied.
Winnie peered through the folliage to see two small, furry, brown creatures talking. She frowned. How come she could understand what they said?
One of them looked up suddenly, staring straight at her. “Uh oh, I think we’ve been spotted,” it said. The two started to lumber off.
“Wait!” Winnie called after them.
The second one stopped and turned to look at her. “You can speak to us! Walt, wait—the human speaks wombat!”
Walt stopped, baring his teeth at Winnie. “I don’t know, Wanda, are you sure you can trust humans?”
“Is that what you are? Wombats?” Winnie asked, ignoring Walt.
Wanda nodded. “But how is it you understand us?”
Winnie shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just following the trail of poo when I heard you talking.”
Both Wanda and Walt started blushing.
“You… you didn’t see us then though, did you?” Walt asked in a strangled tone.
“No, I only saw you after. Why?”
Wanda smiled. “Oh, nothing. It’s just… heh. Nothing, dear. It was just a slightly embarrassing thing. What’s your name, child?”
“Oh, I’m Winnie. Nice to meet you,” she replied. “Is the poo yours?”
Walt’s nose twitched. “Not ours, I don’t think. But part of the wisdom’s.”
“The wisdom?”
“The rest of our group. Not all the younger ones remember to clean up after themselves sometimes.”
“Oh. Are you all family?”
“Mostly. This is our home territory,” Wanda replied. “Where do you come from, Winnie?”
“Oh, over there.” Winnie turned to point at her house, but realised that she’d lost sight of home. “Oh dear. I can’t see my house anymore.” She bit at her bottom lip. She’d been warned many times by her mother not to wander off too far, and the light was beginning to fade as the sun was setting. “I… I’d better go. I hope I don’t lose the trail.”
Walt and Wanda shared a look. “We’ll come with you, dear,” Wanda said. “If it’s that big white house near the fence, we know the way.”
“Oh, thank you,” Winnie replied.
The two wombats shuffled along beside her as they made their way to Winnie’s house. It didn’t take long before the trail seemed familiar again and Winnie saw the fence and her house beyond that.
“We’ll stop here then,” Walt said, clearly uneasy about being seen by anymore humans.
“Thank you so much!” Winnie replied. “I hope I’ll see you again one day.”
“Maybe we will,” Wanda said.
The two wombats turned and walked back into the forest, leaving Winnie a clear view of a huge bite mark on Walt’s backside. She wondered about that as she hurried back into the house where her mother was calling her for dinner.
---
Today's suggestions were:
wombats, from Barbara Harrison
Wonder/wander/wishful/worship/WORD, from Cherie Osier
wallaby/wedge-tailed eagle/willy wagtail/wattle, from Sharna Steinert,
Wombats were an easy choice because they're cute. haha. I also could not pass up the chance to pass on the knowledge that, according to National Geographic, a group of wombats is called a "wisdom".
... on an aside, this has got to be one of the weirdest vids I've seen in a while.
It wasn’t vanity. At least, it wasn’t to Vanessa, not anymore. It was the need to stay in charge of something, even if that something was just the way people saw her. She needed to look poised and in charge, ready for anything the world threw at her, whilst her life burned down to ashes. If she went down, she would go down looking beautiful, like the queen she was. Should have been.
Vanessa hadn’t understood this when she was younger. She’d looked at the women, both young and old, who populated the spaces she inhabited and scoffed at the thick make-up and perfectly coiffed hair, making snide remarks about how vacuous they were, how air-headed. She had things to do, great things to achieve, and she would do it by sheer willpower without resorting to sexual wiles. She didn’t need to look pretty doing it, she just had to do it.
It’s funny how a decade or two changes things.
~
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” Foundation first, smearing it on thick, smoothening out her skin. Concealer for concealing, hiding all her imperfections.
“You can’t—getting pulled into their vortex will kill you.”
“I can’t paddle hard enough to stay outside them.” Contours. Highlights. Illusions to make you thinner, sharper, more desirable. But also, pointier.
“But—”
“It’s the way of the world. It’s sink or swim, dear.” Was she pointy enough? With edges sharp enough to cut? Her brows were on point. She hoped.
“Or? There’s still an or?”
“Look if I don’t play the game, I’m out. And then where would I be? What would I do? If I play the game, at least I’ll still be…somewhere.” Eye shadow, sparkly but subdued. Look at me, look at me, it screamed. You want me, it whispered.
“You’ll be dead. Career-wise, I mean.”
“No. Not if I’m smart enough.” Eye-liner. Such stabby things. She hated them.
“No one is smart enough. You can’t challenge the establishment.”
“I’m not challenging it. I’m working with it to subvert it.” The perpetual blush. Pink, rosy, healthy—not quite demure. She wasn’t going for demure, she was going for Queen.
“It’s not going to work.”
“We don’t know that yet.” But they would, soon enough. A final touch of red on her lips. She closed her eyes. This was it. This was the reinvention of Vanessa Ling, the explosion of chaos, into She Who Has It All.
~
The thing with success is… it comes to those who look successful. The world had an idea of what victors and losers looked like, and if your skin wasn’t the right colour, at least your clothes and demeanour could make up for it. As could your make-up.
Vanessa had thought it vanity, a long time ago in her youth, but now she knew better. She knew to hide her vulnerability behind a mask of victory, skirting the vortex of those who would bring her down by drawing closer to those who could pull her up with them. It wasn’t quite the truth, not yet, but it was an armour. And the more you wore a mask, the more you became it.
Vanessa would look victorious, even if she crashed and burned. And no one would be able to tell the difference.
---
Today's suggestions were:
vortices, from Barbara Harrison
Vortex, anonymous
vanity/vulnerable/vacuous/victorious, from Cherie Osier
If there is one thing I enjoy the most, it’s sound of silence. Nothing moving, no one speaking. It is then, in the quietness of your mind, that you find peace.
The stillness sustains you, it is the sustenance your soul needs. Not many people find it. Sam and I have.
My mother-in-law calls it superstition, but her mind is so noisy that she cannot move beyond petty things. Noise is the sepsis of your soul. It eats at you, poisoning you. She calls me a witch.
That’s okay. Her words cannot hurt me from the madhouse she’s sequestered in, many miles away from here. Maybe she will find her own stillness, find her own peace. She can’t do anything more to harm me and mine.
A persistent scratching pulls me out of my thoughts. I scowl at Sam. He looks guilty, stills his finger, his eyes begging and filled with tears.
I sigh.
“What?” I ask as I pull the gag from his mouth.
“Please, let me go,” he rasps.
In reply, I gag him again and wrap cloth around his hands, bound tightly as they are behind his back, so that he cannot move an inch.
I will have silence.
---
I... am sorry. That's not how it was meant to go.
Today's suggestions were:
sepsis, from Barbara Harrison
silence, anonymous
sustenance/sustain/simplicity/superstition, from Cherie Osier
Rebekah was ravenous. She rummaged in the fridge but came up with nothing. Where had all the good food gone? For some weird reason, the fridge was ridiculously empty.
“Maaaaaaaaa didn’t you buy food?” she yelled up the stairs.
“In the fridge!” her mother shouted back.
Rebekah opened the fridge door again. There was still nothing edible there. Not even rudimentary stuff like bread and butter. And eggs. What she saw instead was a bunch of ranunculus, though what the flowers were doing in there was rather puzzling. Maybe the rambunctious twins had something to do with that.
“Robbie! Randy! Where are you?”
Robbie’s head popped up from behind the kitchen table, whilst Randy peeked in from the open door.
“What?” Robbie asked.
“What have you done with the food?” Rebekah asked, putting her hands on her waist, her arms akimbo.
“Ate them,” Randy replied.
“All of them?”
They nodded in unison.
“That’s ridiculous!” she said with righteous anger. “How could you eat all the food in the fridge in one day?”
“We were ravenous. Rock wallabies eat a lot, you know,” Robbie answered with a sharp nod of his head.
“And red-bellied black snakes need to stock up on food before they hibernate,” Randy said, rubbing his belly.
Rebekah scowled at them. “You—do you even know what you’re talking about?”
The twins shrugged.
“Dunno, but rock wallabies are probably bigger than me and do a lot of rock climbing so they must eat more than me too.”
“Yeah, and snakes hibernate in winter. Don’t they?”
Rebekah sighed. “Okay, then what are the flowers doing in there?”
“Flowers?” they echoed, running up to the fridge.
They stared at the pink and yellow blossoms and then at each other.
“Oops,” Robbie said.
“Whoops,” Randy replied.
They grabbed the flowers and backed out of the kitchen.
“Bye Bekah!” they screamed as they ran away.
Rebekah stared at the now-empty fridge. She’d just have to go out and eat if she didn’t want to die of hunger. She went upstairs to change, coming down minutes later in jeans and a clean t-shirt.
The doorbell rang.
Rebekah went to the door and opened it to find her boyfriend standing there with a bunch of very familiar flowers in his hands. She stared suspiciously at him.
“Oh, uh, hey. Wanna take a walk down the block with me?”
“What’s going on, Jake?” Rebekah folded her arms across her chest.
“Just to the park.”
“Twins! Why is Jake holding the flowers!” Rebekah yelled.
There was no reply from either Robbie or Randy, though, so she sighed, rolled her eyes, and nodded.
“Fine. But only if we end up somewhere with food. I’m dying of hunger and there’s nothing in the house.”
“Okay,” Jake said.
She took his hand and they walked down the block to the park, where all her family and friends had gathered with a great feast and a banner saying “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEKAH!”
Dr Quaker was in a little of a quandary. He and his esteemed colleagues worked with animals and DNA, and he’d heard worrying reports that one of them wanted to use the DNA of the quagga to bring it back from the dead. Oh, he was aware of the current Quagga Project—but that involved breeding zebras selectively to look like quaggas, not trying to recreate a creature from its DNA. Hadn’t any of them watched Jurassic Park? Or Frankenstein? Well, obviously he knew revived quaggas weren’t going to suddenly morph from placid herbivores into Velociraptor-like carnivores, but what if they turned out to be brain-eating zombies instead?
At any rate, he didn’t want to be associated with quacks like that, so now he had to find a way to… find a new job, probably. Dr Quaker mulled over it for a long while before taking out his prized quill, dipping it into ink and writing a letter.
~
The new job in Australia was another whole new quagmire. He thought he’d be getting away from quacks, but it seemed that everyone in the community had wild dreams of saving almost extinct animals. At least the quokka was merely vulnerable, not yet extinct. Yet it remained that many of his new colleagues wanted to save and study their DNA just in case they could clone them or something sometime in the future.
He had to admit, though, standing in the middle of Rottnest Island with a quokka in his arms, that the happiest creatures on earth were rather… cute. When they were not shredding him to pieces with their claws. Or stealing food from his camp. Or stalking him in the middle of the night. If mad scientists wanted to clone anything, he’d go with the quaggas over the quokkas, if only because quaggas would probably make less scary zombie creatures.
~
After long consideration, Dr Quaker decided to take refuge in a quiet Quaker commune to ponder about life, the universe, and extinct animals.
Creatures of Near Kingdoms by Zedeck Siew
