Ted Mahsun's Short Shorts

Here's Ted Mahsun's story bit. I can't believe how many stories have come and are still coming in! Thanks so much guys!

The Painter
By Ted Mahsun

Ash was a painter. He grew up on the outskirts of Ipoh, in a small Malay settlement called Kampung Sungai Rokam. Some might think Ash's real name was Abu. That is untrue. His real name was Ahmad Samad bin Hamidon. He kept his straight hair long, and sometimes if he felt it was becoming a nuisance, he tied it back in a ponytail. His skin was a dark brown, a contrast to his pearly white teeth which shone brightly back at you--a testament to his cheery disposition. He liked to wear a tattered, grey t-shirt, which he always wore together with a pair of jeans, which naturally, were ripped at the knees.I asked him once, why did he never change his shirt, and he replied that he did do so every day. He had seven t-shirts in his wardrobe, all of them equally tattered and grey.

One day a rich man saw Ash paint the roof of his house. The rich man, being a patron of the arts, offered a large sum of money to buy Ash's roof. Ash refused, and told the old man to go away and leave him with his painting. Ash was very stubborn and hated monetary rewards. I suppose one would think he was eccentric because he was a man of the arts. He vehemently denied such an accusation and treated "man of the arts" as an insult. He refused the label "artist", and preferred "painter" because that is what he does: he paints.

Animah's Short Shorts

Denial
By AnimahK

I was planting daisies the day they stormed the Prime Minster’s Office. They were such pretty daisies. Floppy white petals with a sunny centre.

The next day I planted lily bulbs in neat little rows as a border. The riots began downtown and the Chinese flooded the airports.

On the third day I lovingly cradled my roses, soft pink, scentless but oh so satiny, and gently laid them in their warm ready bed. Designer boutiques blew up in iambic rhythm orchestrated by a manic musician.

I pondered over the travelers palm, coughing as the black airport smoke hung across the skies, a warning for those who dared abandon this beautiful land.

On the fifth day, I dug a deep hole and caressed the small frangipani stem. The Prime Minster was stoned and beheaded before a roaring crowd live on TV.
The Prophet, peace be upon him, had told us to plant for eternity even on our last day of life.

Mag Tan's Flash Fiction

Here's a bite of fiction from Mag Tan. With all this unexpected response from complete strangers, I suddenly feel like putting together a compilation of flash fiction. Hmm...will have to chew on this a little more.

Horrific
They told me there’d been an accident. But I didn’t
know!
I didn’t know that I’d see, that I'd see such -

Look, I’m new, ok? It’s only my first week here, I
thought I’d be handling stuff like coughs and colds,
not, not -

(pause)

It was awful.
I thought she was gonna die.
If not from the loss of blood, then surely from the
shock.
Can you imagine?
They called it an accident!?
That young mother was gasping like a bloated fish out
of water and they called it an accident!
All the claws scratching her, the powerful canine jaws
shredding her womb, the screaming, the growls, the
PAIN!
And her dead baby.
Trampled beyond recognition. I didn’t even know it was
a foetus.
All chewed up into a mushy lump of blood and it was
supposed to be a newborn baby.
I didn’t know what to do!
I couldn’t look! I couldn’t stand it!
I just ran out of the room, I just ran.
And when I came back, there was no more mother.
Just the quiet nurses cleaning up the room.
I couldn’t help, I really couldn’t help.
I’m sorry.

Jerusha's Flash Fiction

Jerusha, another one who got caught up in the Flash Fiction challenge, sent this little piece to me today. Have a read!

Cones
By Jerusha
Dots. Thousands of bright red moving dots, in a curly line like the inside of a 'C' weave between blades of grass. The first, with pincers snapping open, shut(a child's hands clapping in glee) treads the grainy soil with six impatient feet. These feet do acrobatics so cunningly (in strange akimbo fashion) that they threaten to dislocate and come off. All a hair's breadth away from the ground.

Suddenly, these feet halt. Red dominos tilt backwards in an effort not to crush their front neighbours. There's a faint stirring in the ground beneath as their hoofs jar the first layer.

They leave their prick-prints behind, orbits in a galaxy of dirt, climbing onto the wet, slimy surface of a half-eaten banana. Sinking their teeths into the sweet pollen.

Five feet away, a child (red gums in full view, spittle wetting her lips from the effort) whines to her blonde mother Why can't we have ice-cream, but I want an ice-cream!

John Ling's Flash Fiction

Here's a nibble of fiction written by published author John Ling. It's actually the opening chapter of his novel in progress, but he reckons it stands well as flash fiction too and has kindly allowed me to post it up here.

Benjy
Benjamin Chang died suddenly, violently.

It happened when his tire blew out and went flat on the way home. He stopped at the side of the road and got down, braving the growl of passing vehicles, blinking away the grogginess in his eyes.

 His wife Emma lowered her window, yawning as she did. "It's not safe, dear. Come back inside. We'll call for a tow truck"

He knelt and fumbled with the tire. He gave her his winning smile. "No, it's alright. I think I can handle it." 

And that's when he got sideswiped by a drifting SUV. In the predawn darkness, Emma never saw its number plate or its model. All she saw was poor Benjy being flung by the bone cracking impact, his arms and legs twisting.

Emma screamed and screamed.

Another Bite Of Flash Fiction

An anonymous reader of this blog left a comment on my 'Flash Fiction' post, saying that s/he just didn't get the story and that such writers should get off their high horse and write stuff that people can actually understand. I promised him/her another story from O magazine's collection, so here it is. This is also one of my favourites.

Her Number
By Antonya Nelson

Dear Jim Barr,
You don't know me, but I know you. I was given your old number. It's for a secret cell phone, bought to have a love affair. Sometimes, instead of calls from my lover, I get yours.

Like me, you can't be trusted. The angry woman, for instance, who accuses me and then lets loose her barrage of complaints about you. I can see why you'd abandon this number. Those creditors won't give up either, their flawless Indian-inflected English, the gentle hum of others in the background. like me, you've made some promises you can't fulfill.

You live in my hometown, your area code from the state where I grew up rather than where I live. If my husband discovers this phone in my underwear drawer, tucked awya like a land mine, I can claim it's my mother's.

I looked yo up, Jim Barr, last time I was home, just to see where you live. Not far from my mom's it turns out. You ought to get rid of that broken play pool on your lawn. And the swing set without swings. You got rid of your number, and now it's mine. My lover and I whisper over it persistently. My heart pounds. I want him so furiously.

I'm not you, I tell those clam but persistent 800 operators, them and that angry woman. She is as furious as my husband would be.

This phone is for passion; it ought to be hot to the touch.

Sincerely yours,
404-BAD-RISK

Frankly, if I got such a letter, I'd call Bukit Aman, burn the phone company to the ground and bury land mines under the broken swings. Anonymous, I hope you like this better!

World eBook Fair

35 years ago, the United States Declaration of Independence was the first file placed online. Thus began a new era in the literary world - the era of ebooks. It wasn't long before the world's eBook Library was born and today, it boasts a massive collection of books in over 100 languages. In celebration of this 35th anniversary, the World eBook Fair is inviting all book lovers to download1/3 million eBooks FOR FREE. Who's responsible for such an indulgence? According to the fair's website ,

This event is brought to you by the oldest and largest free eBook source on the Internet, Project Gutenberg, with the assistance of the World eBook Library, the providers of the largest collection, and a number of other eBook efforts around the world. The World eBook Library normally charges $8.95 per year for online access, and allows unlimited personal downloading. During The World eBook Fair all these books are available free of charge through a gateway at http://www.gutenberg.org and http://WorldeBookFair.com.

We hope the invention of eBooks will advance the world as much as did the invention of The Gutenberg Press, and look forward to the Neo-Industrial Revolution following the advent of eBooks, just as the invention of The Gutenberg Press undoubtedly led to the first Industrial Revolution, and your participation can help bring this new revolution in reading and libraries to the world.

The fair lasts until August 4th. Still lots of time! I had a quick browse but it didn't pique my interest tremendously, mainly because there wasn't any modern fiction. A good number of their collections are non-fiction and trade books. But do have a look. Maybe you might strike gold!

Shorter Than Short

Picking up this month’s issue of O magazine was like going mining for diamonds and later discovering you unwittingly brought home rubies, emeralds and sapphires too. The theme of this issue, printed in blood red along the spine, is Summer Reading Issue. The gems within include Love At First Sentence (a roundup of irresistible openings), What You’re Really Going To Want To Read This Summer (32 tantalizing books for the beach), How To Read A Hard Book, Flash Fiction, How To Tell A Story and The Reader As Artist (written by the great Toni Morrison). I’m only halfway through the magazine and can already feel my resolve to not buy another book this month steadily cracking. But what really grabbed me among the articles above was Flash Fiction.

O challenged eight writers to tell a story in less than 300 words or less. Something like, as O put it, a novel crossed with a haiku. The result was eight stunning pieces. Like exquisite hor’dourves.

Since reading Proulx’s masterpiece of Brokeback Mountain earlier this year (yes, I’m a late bloomer!) I’ve been fascinated by the art of short story writing. Getting my first piece rejected by the editor of Silverfish New Writing 6, made me even more intrigued about this cili padi of the literary world. So I gobbled up all these eight little pieces. All were delicious, but one left an aftertaste that lingered for a long time. Here it is.

Near Taurus
By Dawn Raffel

After the rains had come and gone, we went down by the reservoir. No on was watching, or so it looked to us.
The night was like to drown us.
Our voices were high – his, mine; soft, bright – and this was not the all of it (when is it ever?).
Damp palms, unauthorized, young: We would never be caught, let alone apprehended, one by the other.
He was misunderstood; that’s what the boy told me.
“Orion, over there. Only the best. The body won’t show until later,” he said. “Arms and such.”
Me, I could not find the best, not to save my life, I said.
Flattened with want: “There is always another time,” he said.
He died, that boy. Light-years! Ages and ages. And here I am: a mother, a witness, a raiser of a boy.
I could tell you his name.
I could and would not.
“Here’s where the world begins,” he’d said. I se him now – unbroken still; our naked eyes searching for legends – the dirt beneath us parched.

Now, I didn’t share this with you solely out of goodwill. ☺ If you’re reading this post, I challenge you to write a piece of flash fiction – 300 words max –and post it on your own blog. If you don’t have your own blog, you’re most welcome to email your story to me at stephsm_78@yahoo.com and I’ll post it up for you here. I’ll post my own piece up by the end of this week. On your marks, get set, WRITE!

P/S: Do drop me a note when your story is up. I’d love to read it!

New Birth

I have a new blog. It's called The Path To Bodhichitta. However, this blog is like the durian. You'll either like it or hate it. My new blog is solely on yoga and all things related to it, including meditation, alternative therapy and healing. It will chronicle my new journey as a yoga teacher. This is a path I only recently started walking on and fell in love with almost immediately. Why am I writing it? To share my passion and create an awareness that yoga is more than just about tying yourself up in knots. It's not meant to preach, convert or brainwash.

So do drop by when the time feels right. Otherwise, just drop by this blog from time to time. I'll keep it for my literary escapades and the miscellaneous events that spice up my life!

Behind The Scenes

My poor abandoned black blog! In my mountain of work, it has been pushed to the backburner and has patiently remained there for the past three weeks. One of the Everests I'm climbing is The Weekend Chef cookbook that's due out in October. Titled For The Love Of Food, it's aimed at the average Joe and Jane who love the idea of entertaining and playing chef but mistakenly believe they aren't up to mark. A total of 15 meals - each meal with a minimum of 3 dishes - will be featured in the book and 5 chefs are involved its creation. We've shot a grand total of 7 meals so far. It's been hard, hard work but such delicious fun!! And so here's a behind-the-scenes peek into what goes on in putting a cookbook together.

Early this year, Steven (TWC publisher) decided that The Weekend Chef needed a massive shot of energy. And so he made a bold proclamation.

“It’s time for a cookbook.”

Yan Sean, Jon and I raised our eyebrows, smiled and nodded politely. Then we moved on to the next agenda, amused at the far-fetched idea. A cookbook, indeed!

A month passed. At the next meeting, Steven tried again, “Guys, I really think it’s time we took The Weekend Chef to the next level. Let’s do the cookbook!”

“Sure, sure!” we chorused, the same way a guy assures a girl he never plans to date again that he will call her. Another month passed. Sensing he’d have to wield a rolling pin before the cookbook ever got off ground, Steven sat us down again and outlined his plan. This time his passion caught our attention and by the end of his little speech, the idea actually seemed plausible. But just to be sure, I decided to play the role of Negative Nelly.

“Who would want to support it?” I challenged.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But there’s no harm trying.”

That was enough for us. And so we set out to put a face to this vision. We burned the phone lines, faxed countless of letters, met numerous potential partners and spread the word across cyberspace. At first the response was discouraging. The initial companies we approached liked the idea but were ‘very sorry we can’t support you for various reasons’. Most of the chefs who wrote in submitted sample recipes that included fried cabbage with anchovies and fruit salad with yoghurt.

Gulping down our disappointment, we ploughed on. Then, something strange happened. The more we spoke about the cookbook, the more passionate we grew and suddenly doors began opening. Slowly, my unanswered questions found their answers.

We needed four chefs. Non-professionals who cooked beautifully, entertained frequently and who were available on both weekdays and weekends. In trooped Candice Foong, Tricia Especkerman, Rekha Sekhar and Alizakri Alias.

Then we needed partners, whose products complemented The Weekend Chef in terms of usability and style. Up stepped IKEA, La Bodega Deli and Nestle.

Next, we needed photographers who snapped for passion rather than money, who were unafraid and willing to go the extra mile. Enter Kevin Han and Yan Sean.

Finally, we needed a food stylist who understood our style, who would be easy to work with and who had an eye for style. Candice accepted the challenge.

Armed with this ensemble, we marched forth to create a cookbook that would be the first of its kind in Malaysia, and possibly in the world. Like with every other project, we had expectations of this one too – hard work, long hours, coordinating conflicting schedules, as well as endless research and planning. What we didn’t expect was to have more fun than we imagined!

One of the first few shoots was conducted at Tricia’s apartment. She had put together two menus, which Candice dubbed Vegetable Fiesta and Rustic Italian. When we arrived at 10am, the mushroom soup was bubbling merrily on the stove, the cherry cheesecake and papaya pie were sitting pretty in the fridge and a gorgeous array of fresh vegetables lay on the kitchen counter.

After the compulsory shot of caffeine, we got down to business. Yan Sean and her team set up the lighting, Candice began peeling vegetables and I assumed my spot by the kitchen sink. Washing up can be very therapeutic!

When the first dish was carried to the makeshift studio, the real work began. First the lighting had to be perfect – not too clinical and not too warm. Then the food had to be styled in a way that would make even a kitchen virgin grab an apron and oven mitt. This could be anything from shooting the dish in its entirety and zooming in on any tantalizing bits to slicing, breaking, scooping and piercing it. Each serving of food was placed in a variety of tableware from bowls and plates and to saucers and pans. Different textures were used, from wooden and ceramic to plastic and glass. It was shot with and without cutlery, given a messy and clean look, as well as raw and cooked. And that was just one dish. We shot a total of six dishes that day. By the time we wrapped up at 4pm, we were dead on our feet. But as we sank down to tuck into the amazing food, all of us had a satisfied twinkle in our eyes. Well, all except Tricia, who was craving a hot bath and deep sleep.

The cookbook photo shoot was nothing like the meal story shoots we’ve done for the website. This shoot demanded a more intense, detailed and creative approach which each of us strived to achieve. But despite the added responsibility, The Weekend Chef still worked its magic. It brought strangers together over food once again.

Throughout the six-hour shoot, there was a steady flow of laughter and banter. For all of us, it was our first attempt at a food project of this magnitude, but instead of working against us, our amateur status strengthened the camaraderie as we encouraged, supported, inspired and helped each other produce the best work possible. It was a wonderful feeling to look at each other at the end of the day and say, “That was fun!”

The Weekend Chef’s Rules Of Food Photography

• Always bring more props than you need. Creativity knows no bounds at a photoshoot.
• Never interrupt the chef while s/he’s cooking. We did and were punished with ten ruined gnocchi balls.
• Pleas like ‘Wait, wait, WAIT!’ have no place at a food shoot. Once the food has melted, cooled or burnt, there’s no turning back.
• If your hands buckle under pressure, do not volunteer to carry out any instructions that involve the words ‘just a drop’, ‘very carefully’, ‘very fine’ and ‘slowly’.
• Not everything is possible with Adobe Photoshop. Yet.
• If the chef is lifting a delicate piece of food and it wobbles dangerously, do not shout. Do not even whimper.
• Do have lots of paper towels ready. Accidents happen.
• Do not try to be perfect. Like real people, real food has its beloved flaws.
• Do not be afraid to experiment. You’ll know when you’ve gone overboard - the photographer will refuse to shoot.
• Do argue. The best ideas are born from differences in opinion.
• Do not feel obligated to carry on an endless conversation with the chef. S/he needs to concentrate and your chatter will be just white noise.


*Sorry can't provide pictures. I have no idea how to reduce the massive size and my creative producer is on leave!