Adventures of Grandpa's Ghost

I dreamt of Grandpa last night. He came back to us, in ghost form. He was looking for ‘small Annie’. Only problem, ‘small Annie’ is not exactly small anymore. He stood between my unsuspecting parents in the driveway, listening in on our conversations. This gave mom a bit of a fright. Had she or had she not said something about Grandapa since his passing? The mark of a gossip that is – to be more horrified at the idea that the ghost has heard an unsavoury remark rather than the ghost himself. But that’s ok, so Grandpa says. Her cooking is really good. Especially those dead-man muffins. You know, the white ones and those coloured in putrid pink.

He actually eats them? I ask.

Mom calls me a silly child, didn’t I always notice that they were intact after prayer?

They smell heavenly though, says Grandpa. When you’re dead you can’t taste anything. Great sense of smell though.

Had I always been able to See? Had I always seen him? Well, not till now really. It’s been 9 years now. Where had he been? To China. How typical. For all these years? Well yes, assuming Grandma headed that way. Where is she now? I stare behind him, thinking she might be hiding somewhere. Ran off with a general. Always been a runner that one. You do know she ran here all the way from China didn’t you? With you, Grandpa? I thought you met here. No, with some other bloke. Alas, poor man didn’t have my good looks.

Mom interrupts in a whisper, why’s he come back?

He can hear you, you know.

Well, then?

He’s come to see if we’re ok and was surprised to find the house empty. We’ve been away, To Paris.

Ah.. Nice place Paris, says Grandpa. Rude people though.

You went to Paris?!

Just a short detour from China.

I know my geography Grandpa. Paris is wayyyy over on the other side.

So back to the questions. How could I see him? Do I have the Gift?

Well, most children can really.

I’m not a child!

And the innocent, he added quickly. Not naïve. Just those who are you know, pure.

Grandpa!!!! I look at my parents. They do NOT need to know about my sex life.

No, not sex. It’s more than that. Anyway, I probably won’t seem as clear to you as I would the other two.

So if I can see you then.. what about that evil woman who haunted me? Does this mean you’re haunting us? (Yay!)

Ghosts who haunt are those without friends. Grandma was right to rub burnt ashes across your forehead. Turned her off. Strong sense of smell. Each to their own dislikes. Garlic useful for some.
I’ve been sleeping in the garden shed for the past week, waiting for you. So can I see ‘small Annie’ now? Something to ask her.

Just because

What's she doing there?
Why didn't you tell me?
Maybe it's because you knew this
is what I would ask.
What's she to you?
Why didn't I know?
Maybe it because you knew this
is how I would react.

What's she got that I don't?
Why don't you tell me?
Maybe it's because
I already know
What are you up to?
Why won't you tell me?
Just because
you don't need me anymore.

It was only a couple of months back really..

We met under precarious circumstances. For him at least. Me? Life is always a challenge, so nothing new there.

I remember we talked about this girl who he very much loved I'm not sure what happened between us. Actually, I do know, but part of me wants to pretend that I don't. He was useful because I need to be trusted. And he needed to trust after having been battered to the last of his wits. And there I was.

I do that a lot you know. Handing trust on a silver platter. Should he have been afraid? I still do not think so, but my faith wanders every now and again. That's just for me to feel better you know. Because in the end I'm the one who is alone, like I always was. And I despair to think that I might always be. But that's another story.

Of course, he was kind enough. He must be. I never take interest in those who haven't a decent bone in them. There are those people, rare, but there are out there all the same. I takes effort to be all bad I feel. We are human after all. He told me about possibilities and dreams amidst the doubt and gloominess. With all the attention, I started to hope again, knowing very well that faith borne from vulnerability is really more of a need not a want.

So now I am sitting here again, and the end of a chapter, with blank pages ahead. No foreseeable direction to the next piece of the plot in life. I am grateful though, for those people who are constant, fading in and out of this long journey of mine. Never seeming to mind when I disappear into my own world now and again, sometimes for months. never begrudging me of the times where I forget about them, and turn up only in times of need. Thank you is not enough but all I know how to begin. And you can be assured that there is no end to that appreciation, no matter how unclear it seems.

E = Embarrassment

Helen walks into good old Borders armed with boxed lunch, laptop, and her Mental Disorders Bible. Nothing new. Two hours of vigorous typing ensues and ends abruptly when her laptop gives out.

No problem.

She clears the table and heads for the food court where electrical outlets are made readily available for the unsuspecting student. Except they would have to be suspecting otherwise no one would think to bring the power cable.

This student suspects. Hurray!

Out comes the laptop. Crumbs make way for the mound of papers on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (does not include lingering thoughts of matter-of-fact storytelling by Celeste Jones "Not without my Sister").

Power cable yay!

Adapter no.

Much ado about nothing. She slinks back home with 545 words.

Thinking about Writing

You know there are brilliant storytellers like Jeffrey Archer and writers like Jodi Picoult that make you cry all the time. There are so many "budding" writers out there, so what makes you think you're outstanding?

Hmm. I like writing. I don't know if I love it. If blogging constitutes as part of the art of "writing" then I guess I write frequently enough. Very early on I realize I don't have the makings of generating amazing-sounding prose. Then somewhere along the line I notice that no matter how hard I tried, I never could come up with a decent plot. By decent I mean something out of this world, something that has never been thought about before. So what am I good at really? You have to have some "special" talent to write, but surely there has to be something that makes you stand out if you want a book on the shelves?

Not that it's one of my big goals. But I guess I care enough to dream about it.

I think it was some time around the second year of uni, most probably during Marion's class when I discovered what I could work on as an amateur writer (beside my spelling and grammar, that is) - speech and thoughts, more specifically the human mind. Heck you know, I'm studying psychology, surely it'll work for me.

First year of uni creative writing told me I couldn't do poetry (granted the lack of vocab and my dead mind when it comes to playin' around with words) even if my life depended on it. <---- Immediate second problem, too many cliches due to reading confined to Enid Blyton and too many Sweet Valley books (which is just a longer way of saying, "I suck" at it).

Ah yes, what a shocker. I only started expanding the scope of my reading material when I got into university. Imagine how ecstatic I was when I found out about Harry Potter in Form 5. I know, you're going "Form 5? It was out ages ago!" If people remember, it was then the fourth book had just been published and that was when the hype started but back to the point - I wasn't really reading anything with interesting plots other than those from the likes of Secret Seven, Famous Five, Fear Street, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. All of which, by the way, are perfectly good reading material for young kids - no questions asked.

So while I was caught up with the lives of delightful blonde twins, my writing consisted of short-lived escapades and teenage lovesick woes. In fact, after the first creative writing class, I started questioning whether I was meant to be doing this or if it was even worth my time given the lack of talent. My tutor Courtney however, was very encouraging and continued to challenge me for the whole of first year. She insisted on writing about things which I could identify with, and this of course, she reprimanded, does not include flighty character imitations based on shallow identification with 12 year olds living in a world of impossible adventures. You see how endearing she was.

So I wrote about little Yuan who watched her general hero die on hangman's trap and her resentment towards her Communist boot-licking father who paid less attention to her than he did her younger brother. Then post-tsunami I identified Ying amongst the debris of her swept away village, watching the calm waters which hours ago had consumed her family and her childhood.

At the end of second year, under the guidance of Marion I began the journey of Azman who struggled to fit in with his people and yet finds himself unable to discard friendships with those of another race. It started off as an insert of simple thought in a situation of extreme social discrimination and segregation but as time (plus assignments, plus humans, plus life) caught up with me, I have yet to know where Azman is heading. A lot has happened to this country in a short period of time. What I set out to write two years ago may very well become true before I have the chance to finish it.

I can't spout decent poetry, I don't have Webster's implanted in my head, and I can't take wild fantasy rides to other worlds. But I reckon I know myself enough to trust that unmasking realistic trains of thoughts and detailed observation of human behaviour can work well for readers who want to identify with their literary heroes.

Now all there's left to do is actually start writing again.

"Does my ass look big in this?" Part 2 - The Secret Society for Small Sizes

I have perfect view because the social seating chart rarely changes. All Lily has to do is not grow vertically. Any other direction is fine by me.
She collects her lunch. A plate of fries just enough to pass for an adequate meal. A plate of fries I know she will never eat. The entire cafeteria is too engulfed in busy conversation to notice. What was that about the party last night?

Maybe she’ll tell me her secret. I wonder which diet she's on. Just a month ago I swear she looked the same and 20 kilos heavier. How does she do that?

The girl walks across the room, her torso slinging from side to side, bangs swinging like curtains to her face. Ohmigod, her jaw’s never done that before! I touch my chin and sigh. Tell-tale signs of a multi-layered epidemic. What is her name again?

Oh right, Sandy or something like that.

She chooses to sit at the corner table behind the group of students deeply engaged in their textbooks. Reaching for the ketchup bottle, she drowns her fries. Maybe that’s what I should be eating. NOT.

Smile. Just as I thought. There she goes again paddling the bloody mess with a sole yellow fry. It’s all a setup so nobody knows what’s going on. She’s lost in her little whirlpool. Who would’ve thought the nerdy little misfit could come up with the winning fat loss program? And she thinks she can get away with it.

I shift in my seat. Anything to keep Sharon’s elbow from jutting into my ribs. Always the superstar with her long glossy hair - nevermind the school rules. Wait till I get my hands on the secret. Then we’ll see who’s the new queen bee.

I frown. She’s leaving. One, two, three, four, five, six steps to the bin. Lunch tray, contents all accounted for, down the chute. Another six shuffles toward the door and I’m out of my seat. The party can wait.

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Just around the corner then it’ll be over. Well done, good show.

“Hey!”

Fuck someone’s coming.

“Hey you!”

Go away. Go away!

“You! Sandy right?”

Big grin, big boobs. What the fuck does she want?

“Sandra.”

“Hi! I’m Jean. We’re not from the same class. You might know my friend Sharon?”

Woo! My lucky day. Princess Clone 1 speaks.

And silence. Fuck. What is she waiting for? Come on. Dish it up. Insult of The Day. I can take it.

“Listen. I was just.. well, how do you manage to lose so much weight?”

Are you kidding me!

“Wait! Do you think you could maybe.. you know, tell me? What is it? Atkins? No? Ok. I actually tried that one and well.. obviously that didn’t work.”

Shut the fuck up. Where is that toilet when you need one?

“Is it South Beach? I did that a couple of months and managed to shave a few but I was thinking maybe you have some better ideas…”

Boy. Girl. Heaven. Damn this door.. is.. heavy.

“How about low carb? That worked for Sharon. You should hear her sometimes.. ‘I’m soooooo fat’. Right, she’s like, so ridiculously skinny…”

“Do you mind? I need to get in.”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll just wait here”.

Whatever.

“Maybe we can talk sometimes? Not like, in the hallways and stuff. Maybe after school? We can grab a drink or something. There’s this cute little place nobody knows about. You know noisy crowds are not my thing… ”

Right.

“Oh I’m not saying you don’t like them, I mean you can of course. I’m just saying you know.. how bout some quiet time just us two girls chillin’ out…”

Think Sandra… concen..trate.

“We can swap recipes. I know this fabulous shake. It’s just 3 times a day. I swear to you I lost like, 4 whole kilos in a week…”

Must… hold.. it.. down.

“Oh I know. You’re thinking ‘she must be joking!’ Of course, we can do it your way. I must say, your thighs are like, absolutely perfect. Do you do exercise? What am I saying? Of course you do. I try about 5 times a week to the gym. Sometimes more. Lily thinks swimming does it better. Why, just last week she had the nerve –“

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“You want to know how it’s done?”

“R-Really? You’ll tell me?” Sick. Sickly sweet.

“Listen carefully.”

And I let it all out. Wave after wave of nothingness crashing into the still water below. I heave several breaths of relief and send my secret swirling down the drain.

Drip. Drip.

Drawing the back of my hand across the corners of my mouth, I sit on the floor, listening to the stunned silence on the other side of the cubicle door.

"Does my ass look big in this?" Part 1 - Three months ago and the years before that.

Fuck. The bulge is still there. Bruised from god-knows-what but who cares.

Pinch. Pinch.

Why won’t it go away? Mondays suck. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Now where is that sweater? Fuck. It’s got a huge stain streaked across the collar. Smell. Who the fuck ate chocolate and hid it? Fuck. Must throw it away today. What to wear? Fuck I look fat in this. Need more clothes if I don’t wanna show up in school naked. Damn it! Pants too tight. Have I gained weight? Shit. Stupid machine is broken. Ouch my foot!

Cringe.

“Sandra! Are you dressed for school?”

No time. Blue shirt will do. Ok. Backpack, gum, gym gear and water bottle. Hell no. Pancakes. SICK. But oh so good. No, no breakfast today.

“Are you going to the gym today?”

“Yes Ma.”

“Make sure you go an hour on those machines. You want to look your best when your aunts come around.”

YesMawhateveryousay. Hey, did I tell you about the ‘A’ I got in English last week? Oh that’s right. You don’t care.

Time for school. AW! Stupid door! Shit. Big bruise. Must hide it.

Do I look alright in this? What’s he staring at? Stupid fucker. Can he see my stomach? Ok he’s gone. But just to make sure.

Tug. Tug.

Fuck. Can’t walk in these pants. Oh no. Here they come. Does my butt look big? I need some sunglasses and a wig somebody. Quick!

“Well well.. what do we have here girls? If it isn’t Miss Save-Free-Willie the Whale herself.”

Giggle sheepishly. Smile. Laugh along. That’s it. Don’t let it get to you.

Fuck I hate them.

“Where are you going this morning? I didn’t know they had a school for whales here.”

Quick. Must…get…away. Can’t let them see me cry.

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Copyright@Su Chien Ya.