Reminiscence
Wednesday, 10th February 2010
1.45am
Since we are on the topic of Reminiscence, I shall tell you an old story about a story.
I believe the year was 2002. I entered a competition called the '48 Hour Short Story Competition'.The topic if I remember correctly (I could be delusional here) to do with some sort of humourous piece in relation to Christmas.
I did not win first prize but I won second prize. It was an obscure and terribly amature piece of work, but I believe written with all the vigour that a person at that age could have mustered in 48 hours.
I was subsequently asked to write comments on the competition/work/other works. The organizers never contacted me after the commentary I made. I include this commentary at the end of the piece.
Its very well that I never became a writer I guess.
This piece is for Astro Boy. I think you might like this one.Its your kind of thing. Happy Valentines Day and Happy Chinese New Year. You may not understand my pain, but you are always by my side.
CHRISTMAS MORNING
written and published online in December 2002
I’d been running so fast, I almost missed the corner. I scrambled for a moment to back step, while trying to keep my balance. It was difficult running in 5-inch heels and floor length gown. I had to hold up the hem of my dress as I ran. The sound of my pointy heels echoing loudly on the white marble flooring. I could have taken them off, but there was no time to waste. Every second was a matter of life and death. Great. Just Great. With all the racket I was making, there’d be here in no time.
I’d been running so fast, that this time, I forgot to stop. With the little surface area that my shoes covered, there was no way I could have braked on this lustrous floor in time, even if I had tried stopping a few metres off. There wasn’t much of a crash as my body slammed into the door at the end of the corridor. The door, as I’d found out by now, was wooden. Better wood then glass I thought. My vision was blurring but voices coming from somewhere far off awakened my senses. I was up on my feet in no time, pounding away at the door. It was locked. And I was minced meat if I didn’t open it soon.
I turned my head to look back and my eyes caught onto a mechanism on the wall of the corridor. It looked like some sort of calculator. “ENTER PASSWORD” flashed on its display. What was the password? Somehow, it was there, in my subconscious. I knew it. But what was it?
A-R-I-S-T-O-T-L-E?
Wrong.
A-G-U-S-T-I-N-E?
Wrong.
A-Q-U-I-N-A-S?
Wrong again.
Aloysius. That was it.
My palms were sweating so badly that continuous beats of sweat made their way down to my elbow, then fell silently on the marble floor, forming a puddle at my feet. That and the fact that I was crying profusely too.
A-L-O-Y-S-O, no.
I was shaking so badly. I was mis-typing. Last chance. If I didn’t get it right this time. It was kaput Maya and the door to the other side would lock forever.
I tried to steady my hands.
A-L-O-Y-S-U-
Damn it.
Sirens rang out almost instantly and the sound of footsteps followed closely. I wouldn’t make it back up the corridor in time. There was no way out but UP.
The ceiling was low enough for me to touch on tiptoe. I raised my hands, made a jump and managed to hang onto the metal runner. So far so good. Lets just hope the runner holds up. I make an acrobatic half-backward swing to dislocate the gypsum panel. The back of my knees grab onto a runner but my hands loose grip and my head hangs floor-ward. Everything is upside down before darkness engulfs me. I am momentarily blinded by my dress falling over my face. I can’t see, but I can hear them coming. My hands try to find an opening among the folds of chiffon. I finally catch some light and the swat team closing in on me. I attempt a 270-degree swing up. I only make it one-third of the way up before my head hits the unlodged gypsum board and the dress falls over my face again.
When my vision begins to clear up, my power yoga tutor and classmates are peering over me, shaking their heads and sniggering. Its not the first time I’ve fallen asleep in class. I mean. I can’t help it. Each time, Mrs. Ravi says ‘Let your eyes rest in your sockets’, I conk out instantaneously.
How many times have I dreamt this dream? In bed, in yoga class, at work. It comes back in different variations, but always with the same theme. Being chased and being trapped.
Since Aloysius left. It’s never been the same.
~
The Christmas crowds slow my advancement to my destination. Its 9pm on a weekday in Orchard Road, but still the crowds don’t show any sign of thinning. $1.99 shop forecasts increased sales this season. How heartwarming.
I finally make my way up Emerald Hill to ‘Ice Cold Beer’. Toru is slouched against the wall on our usual bench waiting for me. He has the ‘don’t-ask-its-been-a-bad-day-too’ look on his face. We pass the night sipping beer in silence and scowling at waiters passing in their white-fur rimmed, red Christmas hats. We’re no Scrooges, but Christmas is that time of the year we disliked most. For us, Christmas marked a kind of lonely death anniversary.
It was Christmas morning, when Toru woke up and everything was gone. The furniture, the utensils, the tatami mats and even the futon he was suppose to be sleeping under. Gone from right under his nose. One day, he had a wife and two cats, the next day, he was wife-less and cat-less.
That was two years ago, around the same time, my boyfriend in New York made the biggest disappearing act since Hudini. No calls, no letters. He just vanished into thin air (with a girl).
Toru and I are the best of friends. An unlikely pair. A twenty four-year-old record store assistant and Toru, the middle-aged, Sony executive posted to Singapore two years ago. This melancholy, this simultaneous dislike for Christmas and like for Japanese music brought us together, but there wasn’t anything more then friendship between us. Cupid had taken one look at the two of us and thought, ‘naaaahhhhhh’ and proceeded to shoot the couple next to us. Put two manic-depressive people together and you have suicide.
In a way, we were like a two-person support group. Always there for each other. The last year, we’d made a pack not to ‘celebrate’ Christmas. Our belief, being; you didn’t have to wait until a special occasions to give presents or be nice to someone. How many of us have presents we never use sitting somewhere on the shelf that we end up throwing away anyway? Worse, how many of us have actually given away presents given to us?
We passed that Christmas Eve playing scrabble until the dawn broke while I reassuring him that his furniture would still be intact when the morning finally came. This Christmas Eve, Toru would be passing it on a plane bound for Tokyo, where he would settle back into that tatami-less house again, probably never to return to Singapore. Me? I’d settle back to my routine of opening the tiny record store in Far East Plaza every morning without fail and heading home to sit in front of the TV every night after work. There’d be no more watching ‘Love Letter’ for the hundred and twenty eighth time, or raving about the latest Chara CD, no more midnight roller blading at East Coast or prata suppers. Somehow, Christmas would always be associated with parting and things looked likely to stay this way.
~
Sarong and clogs. I should dream up something better next time. How about Nike tracksuit. Throw in a pair of cross trainers and my life would have been a little easier.
Tadanobu Asano is hot on my heels. Or clogs. Under normal circumstances, I would be happy that my favourite heartthrob was chasing me, but with that shotgun in right hand, and this same stark white corridor I was running along. This was a regular nightmare.
By the time I made it to the door, it was too late. I turn around to face the showdown almost sure I’d wake up. For some reason, I’d always woken up just when there’d manage to catch up with me. This time I didn’t.
‘Finally caught up with you this time. You’re a real runner. None of us from the system could ever catch up with you.’ Still huffing lightly, he broke into a grin and tucked the gun into his waistband.
He took out a tiny red box the size of the matchbox and placed it in my hands then pointed to the door and said, ‘There’s another one behind that door, thrown in, compliments from the system.’
Written on one side of the box was ‘Merry Christmas’. I flipped the box over and on the side in bold as ‘HAPPINESS’. Happiness sitting right there in the palm of my hand.
When I looked up, Tadanobu Asano was gone.
I didn’t hesitate this time. I knew the password immediately.
T-O-R-U
Behind the door was an identical corridor, with a glass table. On the table was an Identical red box, labeled with the word ‘LOVE’. I picked up the box held it in my other hand.
When I came through, it was already daybreak and it dawned to me that Toru was gone. He was sitting on the plane, probably somewhere over the South China Sea, sipping on some red wine while I’d have to make do with teh tarik.
~
I made my way along the deserted streets of Orchard Road. Christmas morning, but we opened shop as usual. I rode the escalator to the third storey where I worked, a wave of loneliness passing through me.
Standing outside the closed shutters of Beng Huat CDs was Toru. Luggage by his side. Our eyes met and we both understood.
‘Christmas would mean something only if I had someone to share it with’, he whispered.
Taking my hand in his, We ran, that Christmas morning, mad smile on our faces onto the empty streets.
(1568words)
COMMENTS
Well, since you asked.
Firstly, I did it for the money. Yes, I was that hard up. Could have bought me 150 cans of baked beans. Attractive huh? The other reason, was this strange nostalgia for the fact that I use to work in a firm along the same street as you guys for a year. There’s great coffee in that corner shop and did you notice that guy with a moustache who serves coffee and he’s almost always wearing a t-shirt in the shade of green. Grey-green, army-green, lime green etc. Impetus enough to write? The only other reason I think anyone else would join was because they’re serious writing fanatics, eager to test their skills. And the promise of a ‘showcase to discover writing talents’ of something in the drift was poisonously lethal.
Secondly, my frank opinion is that the topic was cliché. My first reaction was to take a smoke. However, being as professional as I was, I came back after finishing my last cigarette and proceeded to finish reading the rest of the instructions. I think it including some requirements like ‘ flash backs, humor, meaningful, funny, character development’ and other rather meaningful suggestions (I can’t remember for sure because you’ve already taken the topic and instructions page out of your site). I was thinking, hey, you guys are literary professionals after all, deploying instructions about methods and styles of writing. Humor too is much harder and challenging to express then a depressive story would have been. But really you expect sensitive character developments and flashbacks in 800 – 1500 words? That’s a collage general paper essay, not a short story. Most of my character developments and flashback went into the recycle bin by the time I finished. And 1500 words in 48 hours? I had time for a manicure and a shopping spree in Kuala Lumpur. Somebody turn up the heat please. Make it at least 2000–2500 words in 48 hours. This is suppose to bring on major heart palpitations not induce sleep. And well, as for the humor and the funny and the meaningful part, most of the entries I read made me run for a dosage of Prozac. Some of the essays had spelling mistakes, mine included. I would have liked someone to inform me first before my essay was published. Some poor writer had a mistake like ‘He thrusted her’, instead of ‘He trusted her’ which I’m sure was noticed after it was sent. I know you pride yourself as ‘professionals with extensive language and technical subject-specific expertise’, but like an editor from a magazine, there should be some sort of prior consultation before anything is printed.
Thirdly, your site sucks. I’m sorry. Looking at your site, I know there’s a lot of emphasis on professionalism, but frankly, I wouldn’t taken a second look at your site. You’ve got to do something about this site. Then maybe, I can tell my friends that I joined this competition. Writing, like design is a creative field. Purple backdrop doesn’t go easy on eyes when it comes to reading. Imagine books painted on purple paper.
Fourth, what do YOU the organizers think? I’d like to know how many people sent in their stories, how many gave up, basically the response and how you find the general standard of writing. After all, you’re the professionals. No use only having me comment on my own amateur attempt.
Lastly, if you haven’t disqualified me already, know any job openings?
1.45am
Since we are on the topic of Reminiscence, I shall tell you an old story about a story.
I believe the year was 2002. I entered a competition called the '48 Hour Short Story Competition'.The topic if I remember correctly (I could be delusional here) to do with some sort of humourous piece in relation to Christmas.
I did not win first prize but I won second prize. It was an obscure and terribly amature piece of work, but I believe written with all the vigour that a person at that age could have mustered in 48 hours.
I was subsequently asked to write comments on the competition/work/other works. The organizers never contacted me after the commentary I made. I include this commentary at the end of the piece.
Its very well that I never became a writer I guess.
This piece is for Astro Boy. I think you might like this one.Its your kind of thing. Happy Valentines Day and Happy Chinese New Year. You may not understand my pain, but you are always by my side.
CHRISTMAS MORNING
written and published online in December 2002
I’d been running so fast, I almost missed the corner. I scrambled for a moment to back step, while trying to keep my balance. It was difficult running in 5-inch heels and floor length gown. I had to hold up the hem of my dress as I ran. The sound of my pointy heels echoing loudly on the white marble flooring. I could have taken them off, but there was no time to waste. Every second was a matter of life and death. Great. Just Great. With all the racket I was making, there’d be here in no time.
I’d been running so fast, that this time, I forgot to stop. With the little surface area that my shoes covered, there was no way I could have braked on this lustrous floor in time, even if I had tried stopping a few metres off. There wasn’t much of a crash as my body slammed into the door at the end of the corridor. The door, as I’d found out by now, was wooden. Better wood then glass I thought. My vision was blurring but voices coming from somewhere far off awakened my senses. I was up on my feet in no time, pounding away at the door. It was locked. And I was minced meat if I didn’t open it soon.
I turned my head to look back and my eyes caught onto a mechanism on the wall of the corridor. It looked like some sort of calculator. “ENTER PASSWORD” flashed on its display. What was the password? Somehow, it was there, in my subconscious. I knew it. But what was it?
A-R-I-S-T-O-T-L-E?
Wrong.
A-G-U-S-T-I-N-E?
Wrong.
A-Q-U-I-N-A-S?
Wrong again.
Aloysius. That was it.
My palms were sweating so badly that continuous beats of sweat made their way down to my elbow, then fell silently on the marble floor, forming a puddle at my feet. That and the fact that I was crying profusely too.
A-L-O-Y-S-O, no.
I was shaking so badly. I was mis-typing. Last chance. If I didn’t get it right this time. It was kaput Maya and the door to the other side would lock forever.
I tried to steady my hands.
A-L-O-Y-S-U-
Damn it.
Sirens rang out almost instantly and the sound of footsteps followed closely. I wouldn’t make it back up the corridor in time. There was no way out but UP.
The ceiling was low enough for me to touch on tiptoe. I raised my hands, made a jump and managed to hang onto the metal runner. So far so good. Lets just hope the runner holds up. I make an acrobatic half-backward swing to dislocate the gypsum panel. The back of my knees grab onto a runner but my hands loose grip and my head hangs floor-ward. Everything is upside down before darkness engulfs me. I am momentarily blinded by my dress falling over my face. I can’t see, but I can hear them coming. My hands try to find an opening among the folds of chiffon. I finally catch some light and the swat team closing in on me. I attempt a 270-degree swing up. I only make it one-third of the way up before my head hits the unlodged gypsum board and the dress falls over my face again.
When my vision begins to clear up, my power yoga tutor and classmates are peering over me, shaking their heads and sniggering. Its not the first time I’ve fallen asleep in class. I mean. I can’t help it. Each time, Mrs. Ravi says ‘Let your eyes rest in your sockets’, I conk out instantaneously.
How many times have I dreamt this dream? In bed, in yoga class, at work. It comes back in different variations, but always with the same theme. Being chased and being trapped.
Since Aloysius left. It’s never been the same.
~
The Christmas crowds slow my advancement to my destination. Its 9pm on a weekday in Orchard Road, but still the crowds don’t show any sign of thinning. $1.99 shop forecasts increased sales this season. How heartwarming.
I finally make my way up Emerald Hill to ‘Ice Cold Beer’. Toru is slouched against the wall on our usual bench waiting for me. He has the ‘don’t-ask-its-been-a-bad-day-too’ look on his face. We pass the night sipping beer in silence and scowling at waiters passing in their white-fur rimmed, red Christmas hats. We’re no Scrooges, but Christmas is that time of the year we disliked most. For us, Christmas marked a kind of lonely death anniversary.
It was Christmas morning, when Toru woke up and everything was gone. The furniture, the utensils, the tatami mats and even the futon he was suppose to be sleeping under. Gone from right under his nose. One day, he had a wife and two cats, the next day, he was wife-less and cat-less.
That was two years ago, around the same time, my boyfriend in New York made the biggest disappearing act since Hudini. No calls, no letters. He just vanished into thin air (with a girl).
Toru and I are the best of friends. An unlikely pair. A twenty four-year-old record store assistant and Toru, the middle-aged, Sony executive posted to Singapore two years ago. This melancholy, this simultaneous dislike for Christmas and like for Japanese music brought us together, but there wasn’t anything more then friendship between us. Cupid had taken one look at the two of us and thought, ‘naaaahhhhhh’ and proceeded to shoot the couple next to us. Put two manic-depressive people together and you have suicide.
In a way, we were like a two-person support group. Always there for each other. The last year, we’d made a pack not to ‘celebrate’ Christmas. Our belief, being; you didn’t have to wait until a special occasions to give presents or be nice to someone. How many of us have presents we never use sitting somewhere on the shelf that we end up throwing away anyway? Worse, how many of us have actually given away presents given to us?
We passed that Christmas Eve playing scrabble until the dawn broke while I reassuring him that his furniture would still be intact when the morning finally came. This Christmas Eve, Toru would be passing it on a plane bound for Tokyo, where he would settle back into that tatami-less house again, probably never to return to Singapore. Me? I’d settle back to my routine of opening the tiny record store in Far East Plaza every morning without fail and heading home to sit in front of the TV every night after work. There’d be no more watching ‘Love Letter’ for the hundred and twenty eighth time, or raving about the latest Chara CD, no more midnight roller blading at East Coast or prata suppers. Somehow, Christmas would always be associated with parting and things looked likely to stay this way.
~
Sarong and clogs. I should dream up something better next time. How about Nike tracksuit. Throw in a pair of cross trainers and my life would have been a little easier.
Tadanobu Asano is hot on my heels. Or clogs. Under normal circumstances, I would be happy that my favourite heartthrob was chasing me, but with that shotgun in right hand, and this same stark white corridor I was running along. This was a regular nightmare.
By the time I made it to the door, it was too late. I turn around to face the showdown almost sure I’d wake up. For some reason, I’d always woken up just when there’d manage to catch up with me. This time I didn’t.
‘Finally caught up with you this time. You’re a real runner. None of us from the system could ever catch up with you.’ Still huffing lightly, he broke into a grin and tucked the gun into his waistband.
He took out a tiny red box the size of the matchbox and placed it in my hands then pointed to the door and said, ‘There’s another one behind that door, thrown in, compliments from the system.’
Written on one side of the box was ‘Merry Christmas’. I flipped the box over and on the side in bold as ‘HAPPINESS’. Happiness sitting right there in the palm of my hand.
When I looked up, Tadanobu Asano was gone.
I didn’t hesitate this time. I knew the password immediately.
T-O-R-U
Behind the door was an identical corridor, with a glass table. On the table was an Identical red box, labeled with the word ‘LOVE’. I picked up the box held it in my other hand.
When I came through, it was already daybreak and it dawned to me that Toru was gone. He was sitting on the plane, probably somewhere over the South China Sea, sipping on some red wine while I’d have to make do with teh tarik.
~
I made my way along the deserted streets of Orchard Road. Christmas morning, but we opened shop as usual. I rode the escalator to the third storey where I worked, a wave of loneliness passing through me.
Standing outside the closed shutters of Beng Huat CDs was Toru. Luggage by his side. Our eyes met and we both understood.
‘Christmas would mean something only if I had someone to share it with’, he whispered.
Taking my hand in his, We ran, that Christmas morning, mad smile on our faces onto the empty streets.
(1568words)
COMMENTS
Well, since you asked.
Firstly, I did it for the money. Yes, I was that hard up. Could have bought me 150 cans of baked beans. Attractive huh? The other reason, was this strange nostalgia for the fact that I use to work in a firm along the same street as you guys for a year. There’s great coffee in that corner shop and did you notice that guy with a moustache who serves coffee and he’s almost always wearing a t-shirt in the shade of green. Grey-green, army-green, lime green etc. Impetus enough to write? The only other reason I think anyone else would join was because they’re serious writing fanatics, eager to test their skills. And the promise of a ‘showcase to discover writing talents’ of something in the drift was poisonously lethal.
Secondly, my frank opinion is that the topic was cliché. My first reaction was to take a smoke. However, being as professional as I was, I came back after finishing my last cigarette and proceeded to finish reading the rest of the instructions. I think it including some requirements like ‘ flash backs, humor, meaningful, funny, character development’ and other rather meaningful suggestions (I can’t remember for sure because you’ve already taken the topic and instructions page out of your site). I was thinking, hey, you guys are literary professionals after all, deploying instructions about methods and styles of writing. Humor too is much harder and challenging to express then a depressive story would have been. But really you expect sensitive character developments and flashbacks in 800 – 1500 words? That’s a collage general paper essay, not a short story. Most of my character developments and flashback went into the recycle bin by the time I finished. And 1500 words in 48 hours? I had time for a manicure and a shopping spree in Kuala Lumpur. Somebody turn up the heat please. Make it at least 2000–2500 words in 48 hours. This is suppose to bring on major heart palpitations not induce sleep. And well, as for the humor and the funny and the meaningful part, most of the entries I read made me run for a dosage of Prozac. Some of the essays had spelling mistakes, mine included. I would have liked someone to inform me first before my essay was published. Some poor writer had a mistake like ‘He thrusted her’, instead of ‘He trusted her’ which I’m sure was noticed after it was sent. I know you pride yourself as ‘professionals with extensive language and technical subject-specific expertise’, but like an editor from a magazine, there should be some sort of prior consultation before anything is printed.
Thirdly, your site sucks. I’m sorry. Looking at your site, I know there’s a lot of emphasis on professionalism, but frankly, I wouldn’t taken a second look at your site. You’ve got to do something about this site. Then maybe, I can tell my friends that I joined this competition. Writing, like design is a creative field. Purple backdrop doesn’t go easy on eyes when it comes to reading. Imagine books painted on purple paper.
Fourth, what do YOU the organizers think? I’d like to know how many people sent in their stories, how many gave up, basically the response and how you find the general standard of writing. After all, you’re the professionals. No use only having me comment on my own amateur attempt.
Lastly, if you haven’t disqualified me already, know any job openings?
posted by Cloudjuice at 5:40 PM
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