Small Sparks, Big Fires

'Little Boy' was bored that afternoon; he just could not stay indoors as demanded by his ever so busy mother.  Sometimes he thought his mother  hardly ever considered he existed since he had learnt to do alot of things independently. Don't you go running away and you make sure you are around when your Pa comes back. He looked at his mother with his big dopey eyes and with his lips pouted. His mother refused to look at him because if she did, she would give in to him. He knew his mother's heart too well, but that afternoon his mother was not going to be tricked again. She did not want to be disappointed again.
The last time she gave in to his demands had such bad consequences that she would not trust him again.  She had allowed him to join his friends in a local skateboard competition, with the promise that it was going to be safe and accident proof, but he came back with a broken arm.  Enough was enough.  She had enough of work in the house, having to take care of a sick bedridden eighty year old mother, three more children of ages from one to six, and an always hungry husband. ' Little Boy' was the eldest, an eight year old  autistic boy. A squeaky sound interrupted the woman's thoughts. Squeaks again. As swift as a flash of lightning, 'Little Boy' ran to the kitchen.  He squatted at the sink cupboard.  He opened its doors and took out from inside, a wire cage used by his mother for trapping rats.  He expressed disgust at the huge black rodent in the cage and as he drew it out of the cupboard, he could hear his mother's equally excited voice. Take it out to the backyard! Take it out to the backyard!
He did not understand why his mother had to repeat her instructions so many times. Perhaps she was extremely scared of the animal herself. The poor animal was as scared as his mother.  It was running to and fro from one end of the cage to the other. Its beady eyes had no expression but its whiskers were twitching furiously. When 'Little Boy' finally put the cage down on the ground in the backyard, the house rat thought it could escape. It dashed into the wire cage again and again. Sometimes it stopped to nibble at the wire. You can't break the wire, stupid rat.  'Little Boy' teased.  He  forgot all about his boredom. His mother came out with a kettle of hot water.  Move away.
I am going to kill it with this boiling water before it sends an 'SOS' to its friends. That was how 'Little Boy's mother used to tell him; that if he needed help, he should send an SOS, that he should seek help and not keep his problems to himself. Perhaps it was her attempt to joke in such a horrible situation.  She was going to kill the animal.  How horrible!  Go away! Don't look! However, 'Little Boy' refused and with a glint in his eyes, he looked on.  He saw how the rat squealed, dashed against the cage  like it had been possessed by an evil spirit, stopped momentarily, and he even went on to observe how its legs became motionless as it laid in the cage. Horrible, horrible ! His mother yelled.  Why do I have to do this? I hate  it.
'Little Boy' did not understand why his mother had to be so upset about killing the dirty pest. Next time, let me do it Mum.  He requested.  There will be no rat in this house if we do not have left over food in the dustbin or in the drain! The trouble with you all. Wasting food. 
His mother was indeed angry that afternoon. While his mother was having her afternoon nap, 'Little Boy' took the dead rat out of the wire cage, using a pair of iron tongs. He did not know what to do with it at first. He was sure he would not want Mrs Green's big fat cat from the house next door to make a meal out of it.  Ah! He had a brilliant idea.  He decided to put it into Mrs Pinkie's laundry basket.  Mrs Pinkie was his other neighbour on the left.  He wanted to scare her.  He wanted to take revenge on her for she had always treated him badly. She had accused him of stealing her newspapers and bottles of milk.  'Little Boy' could not understand why she had made up stories like that.
The next morning, 'Little Boy's mother came into the house after she had hung out her laundry to dry, muttering something about Mrs Pinkie falling down and breaking her pelvic bone after she was scared by a dead rat in her laundrey basket.   She was extremely terrified of rats, especially dead ones.  Now, Mrs Pinkie was hospitalised and there was no one to look after her house.  Would you, 'Little Boy', go over to her house to feed her parrot and doggie? How did the dead rat got into the basket? 'Little Boy', don't you tell me you are the one that put the dead rat in her basket? No, Mum, no.  I threw the dead rat down into the drain, Mum.  Oh, that means it must be   Mrs Green's black cat that  carried it to the basket.  What an unlucky thing to happen! Poor Mrs Pinkie! 'Little Boy' was too shocked for words.
A month passed by.  Mrs Pinkie was back on her feet, though she still needed the crutches. Her thoughts had been wondering about what happened on that fateful day. She was removing the clothes from the basket and suddenly she saw a dead rat among the clothes. It was no ordinary dead rat; it was not one that had been killed by a cat because it would be mutilated or chewed upon.  She thought she had seen the same kind of dead rat down in a drain somewhere but she just could not recall where. Angry thoughts were directed at Mrs Green. Mrs Pinkie was sure it was Mrs Green who had put it there on purpose. She remembered how Mrs Green threatened her with a dead rat, knowing that she was terrified of it since childhood. Why would Mrs Green do that? It was something that happened about fifteen years ago. Mrs Green and Mrs Pinkie were childhood friends who grew up and went to the same high school together.  Somehow something happened that only both of them knew, Mrs Pinkie married Mrs Green's high school sweetheart.  Since then, both girls were enemies and they never in their wildest dreams knew they were to be neighbours living two doors away.  How they loathe the sight of each other and Mrs Pinkie would literally 'fume' when Mr Pinkie greeted Mrs Green. That whore! Who does she think she is?  Miss World? Always giving men the come on look? Can't see what is so attractive about her!  Mrs Pinkie just could not stand Mrs Green's confidence. The whole day would be hell for her husband should he dare to give any attention to Mrs Green.
Evil thoughts begin to develop in Mrs Pinkie's mind. I am going to show her who's boss.  Walking up and down the living room, still holding on to a crutch, Mrs Pinkie almost forgot the pain in her left pelvis as she thought of a plot. Quickly she got dressed to go out.  An idea was hatching. She was too excited to wait a day longer.  She walked out of the main door of her house, locking it before she left.
She hailed  for a taxi when she saw several of them waiting for its customers at a bay nearby. She instructed the driver to go to a hardware shop in town.  Soon she arrived and in her haste to go into the shop, she knocked into a balding middle aged man who was coming out in a hurry too.  The man tripped over the crutch Mrs Pinkie was holding  and both of them nearly lost their balances.  Mrs Pinkie was yelling on top of her head due to the sharp pain she suddenly felt when the man pushed her in an effort to stay upright.  Both started to quarrel.  The quarrel ended as fast as it started when Mrs Pinkie remembered what she was there for.  She remembered that man, a Mr Potter something.  She saw her husband talking with him once and they were not on amicable terms, if her memory was still good. Detestable man! She muttered under her breath.
Without much ado, she went into the shop and asked for a tin of red emulsion paint.  She did not have time to bargain, which she normally would do just to make sure the shopkeeper would not overcharge her unnecessarily.  She paid and left the shop, taking the same taxi she boarded before.  The driver was happy to see her again.  Soon, she was in her house.  She opened the tin and with an old brush which she dipped in, she managed to get some amount of red paint enough to  smear on anything.  She sneaked out her kitchen into her backyard, looked around to make sure nobody was watching and in quick small steps, she moved over to the wall where  Mrs Green had her favourite bedspread out for drying.  With a wave of her right hand a big blob of red paint fell on the beautiful blue floral cloth and it was such a huge stain that it would surely break Mrs Green's heart.  Mrs Pinkie was satisfied with what was done and feeling victorious, she went back into her kitchen.  She was elated and feeling exhausted from the day's activity, she sad down on her sofa in the living room to rest. 
She checked to make sure the brush and tin of paint was out of her husband's sight. She definitely would not allow her husband know anything of what she had done. Soon she was dozing off.  After some time, she thought she heard something in the kitchen.  Must be the cat looking for a rat! Pussy, Pussy, don't you bother me. She heard the kitchen door creaking but she was too tired to get up.
That evening there was much commotion in Mrs Green's backyard.  Mr and Mrs Green could be heard talking loudly about their bedspread. 'Little Boy' who had just come home from the playground
heard about the commotion. Ah, the red paint! He thought it looked familiar.  Yes, he saw Mrs Pinkie coming home that afternoon with a tin of red paint. He knew about it when the loud sound of the taxi's engine interrupted his concentration. Oh, brother! Why can't it be absolutely quiet for once? He wished he was living in an exclusive place like the one he saw during one of his errands he did for his father. 
Later that evening, there was another piece of news that made everyone shudder in fear.  Mr Potter was killed in a bloody murder.
He was slashed five times in the abdomen. His house was cordoned off by the police.  Almost everyone in the neighbourhood knew about it and were talking about it over dinner.  Mrs Pink was more than shocked.  I have just seen him this morning.  I knocked into him as I was coming out of the hardware shop.  He was quite rude this morning and I was wondering what had got into him.  Oh my, how scary! Mrs Pink rattled on at the dinner table. Mr Pink was puzzled as well.  He was in deep thoughts and was not aware of his wife's chatter
as he slowly chewed his food.  That evening everyone went to bed with an uneasy feeling that there was a murderer on the prowl around the neighbourhood.
The morning silence was broken by the sound of the siren from a police car, barking dogs and heavy foot steps.  There were visitors at Mrs Pink's doorstep.  Mr Pink opened the door and was surprised to see two police officers.  Quickly, Mr Pink invited the in and asked what was the matter. One of the officers sat down on a chair nearby and told him in a quiet voice that both he and his wife were suspected for the murder of Mr Potter. But why us?  We would never kill anybody! There's proof? What proof/
A butcher's knife?  Red paint on the floor?   Search the house?  Do you have a warrant to do that?  Alright, go ahead.  I am sure you cannot find anything.
The other  officer who had gone into the kitchen to conduct the search came out with the tin of red paint. Sir, this is the red paint that Mr Wong at the hardware shop was talking about.  It was the same one that Mrs Pink bought that morning Mr Potter was found dead.  The butcher knife was sold two years back and it came from Mr Wong's shop too. According to Mr Wong, there were only a couple of people in this community that bought this kind of knife.  Not many of them.  Could both of you come with us to the police station?
Hold on. I must call my lawyer first.  Mrs Pink was in tears.  She had just wanted to play a trick on Mrs Green.  Now it had backfired. What is she going to tell her husband?  What is the red paint doing in the house? When did you get this thing?  Don't tell me you are the one who smeared Mrs Green's bedspread?  This is ridiculous! Like life isn't hard enough!  We did not kill Mr Potter!  Yes, I quarrelled with him.  That's because he did not pay me for my services.  I repaired his TV and he hasn't paid me yet. But that is no reason for me to kill him!

What Did I Forget?

I am trying to remember now what it was I wanted to write an hour ago.  It was something very important , very interesting and intellectual. That much I can remember now.  I wanted to write it immediately as the inspiration came but I was called to attend to the yelping dog and the ever demanding 'other half'. Oh, what was it now?
Perhaps one day I will write about how I forgot to write what I forgot to write.
Sounds baffling.
What was it? What was it?
Nobody can help me except myself.
Should have jotted it down on a piece of paper or something.
How can I forget something so important.
Maybe I should leave it as it is now.  Next moment, next day or possibly in the next few days, the same inspiration may come.  By Grace of God, I hope it is something useful, meaningful and worthwhile writing.
What was it?

My Stories: Never Satisfied, It Must Be a Prompting

My Stories: Never Satisfied, It Must a Prompting: Often heard is that quite many people don't seem to be happy in their present situation, and often they will wish for greener pastures some...

Never Satisfied, It Must Be a Prompting

Often heard is that quite many people don't seem to be happy in their present situation, and often they will wish for greener pastures somewhere.
Probably the solution is not the drastic decision to physically move on to where one hopes to find
'paradise'.  However, it may be just a prompting that one  should do something in the present place to change the situation in order to achieve the so-called 'happiness' or 'comfortable' life. Just imagine if everyone becomes very mobile and there will be numerous movement from one continent to another.  Definitely a boost to the airline industry and the real estate agencies.On a smaller scale, some city dwellers sometimes pine for country living whereas some countryside people will yearn to go to the cities for the excitement and the amenities after a while. Instead of having this kind of 'unsettled feeling' unresolved year after year, decade after decade, something may have to be done.
  
Just as we hope ourselves to be all rounders, the towns or cities we live in should also be such.  They will ideally be ones that have a mix of the vibrant and interesting city life, and the serene, fresh countryside goodness. Wouldn't you like it if while on your hectic, almost mad rush to your corporate office somewhere on the high floors of the skycrapers, you get to pass by a stretch of farms, be it an animal farm, or vegetable farm or an orchard? You might even have time to get a bottle of fresh newly pasteurised warm milk from a dairy farm, or some fresh  fruits just plucked from the trees or  fresh vegetables on your way to or from work, whichever appropriate.  You might even laugh at the idea, at the suggestion to have farms when the land in the city is exorbitantly priced.  But who says it is going to be a large piece of land? It is killing two birds with one stone actually.  It will serve to function as a green lung as well as a place for busy city dwellers to get really fresh food.  On the other hand, the farmers will be able to reap more profit, doing away the middle man charges.That is what I call life worth living.  Working so hard at the work place, under great pressure to be productive, to perform superbly well and then we get rewarded with fresh air , food and water.


I think I am speaking in my dreams.  I think it must be one of my dreams remembered.



.

Aching Heart, No Way Out?

She is not the breadwinner, that is what the whole world thinks and probably says.  She is mostly confined to her home. That pleases her husband alot, though it is not her intention to She hardly bothers about him these days; it is not worth her energy to.  She will never be appreciated and on the contrary, which she had recently discovered, he is even suspicious.
What is annoying her recently is she is expected as before to contribute to the family's spending even though she is no more in the workforce, much to his 'credit'. When she was working a nine to five job, she was not supposed to work overtime, not even overstaying at the office for more than half an hour. At the end of every working day, on the dot at five, she was expected to leave the office to wait for him  to come and pick her from work so that she could go home quickly to cook dinner for the others in the family. It was awfully embarassing as she would leave the desk at the same time the boss would leave, sometimes a little earlier.
 Why overtime? Are you paid for it?  I don't understand what you are doing in the office the whole eight hours and still got to work overime.  I think it is an excuse.  You mean I am trying to avoid having to cook dinner. Oh, I won't be so bold as to have somebody else to cook my dinner.  I am no queen.  Others can be the queens or princesses but not me.  I am a cheapskate.  Oh no, that is not what I mean. Don't you go picking a quarrel with me.  No, I am just joking.  No, you are not the type that joke.  The squabbling went on.  She was already tired after her  office work.  She didn't understand why her husband could go on arguing with her, not being a gentleman at all.  She wondered why he had so much energy. Didn't he work today? She hadn't time for all this nonsense at all.  She rushed off to cook in the kitchen.
Damn!  They didn't take the meat out for thawing.  It was already seven.  Dinner's at eight.  She took the chopper and with a heave, she split the slab of meat into two, then into fours and finally into eights.  No  more time to cut into smaller pieces.  With 'superwoman' speed and strength she managed to cook rice and three dishes for a family of eight adults.  By the time she bathed, changed into home clothes and came down for dinner, the food that she had prepared was almost gone.  She was left with a few leaves of choy sum out the whole plate of them, two broken off pieces of meat and a few shreds of beans, enough for her to eat with a half bowl of rice.  She kept her cool. Nobody apologised,and everybody seemed oblivious of the fact she hadn't eaten yet or she was the one who cooked except the mother-in-law and husband. Does she want to make a fuss? No, she remembered what her father taught her.  Tolerance.  Harmony in the family.
Now, she understand why her father loves her more. She was always the one giving.
 They are renovating the house.  He is paying for the paint, he says.  About the brickwall, how would you like it to be? Draw me the picture.  Oh, for this, we have to do this and that,but  she was not interested as to how he is going to do it. She won't understand what je is telling her. Surely that isn't what he meant for her to listen literally.  He is implying the costs involved.  He is hoping that she will pay for it.  Closed topic.  They will just forget about making the brickwall.  She is not the one working now but she is expected to pay for many things.  She wishes she can get away from all these. From having to bear the burden.  When she was earning a stable income, he had to spoil it by saying all the bad things.  He even said that those who work overtime in the office were taking opportunities to have office romances, touching each other when everybody has left the office.  How could you think like this?  You mean to say that all office workers who work overtime are such lowly people? How could you have such dirty thoughts? So, only people who works from home are virtuous people? Many epsiodes of senseless jealousies recurred.  Involvement of the 'tall order', namely mother-in-law, left her weak in defense till she gave up totally.  She might as well join the many unemployed, and soon enough, she was being categorised as 'stupid' , 'you don't know anything' or 'you can't do anything right'.  Now they are satisified.  Insecured people hate your successes, that is all I can say about them.  Don't mind them.  Just focus on God and doing right.

My Stories: Of Balsams and the 'Ginseng' Plant

My Stories: Of Balsams and the 'Ginseng' Plant: The  right hand of a female flower enthusiast has strewn some seeds of the balsam plant randomly over the  flower pots at a corner...

Of Balsams and the 'Ginseng' Plant

The  right hand of a female flower enthusiast has strewn some seeds of the balsam plants randomly over the flower pots at a corner of her house.  Those were the prospective producers of deep red and bright pink blooms of the newly found interest.
A week passed. Many tiny seedlings have sprouted.  The lady was going to let nature take its course; just  as what her garden was befittingly themed, 'Miniature Wilderness'.  What a naughty idea it was, she thought.  Soon, there were going to be critters coming although she was not expecting many varieties. At least I could get some company in the early morning, she thought to herself, when the house  would be as silent as a graveyard; after the children have all left for school and the 'grumpy bear'  has gone to 'hunt' for the day's provision. 
Then, the balsam plants were getting taller and leafier.  She thought she heard the 'ginseng' plant gasping for breath.  She parted the bigger balsam plants to reveal an inconspicuous straggly 'ginseng' plant hidden away.  How pathetic! It has lost its glory to the stronger balsams.
 Now, the faithful 'ginseng' plant has hardly any green leaves left and its tiny purplish flowers are a shameful sight.  The blooms have no chance to reach maturity, and they have all dropped, failing to open their buds.  The plant is obviously deprived of nutrients.  Oh, I must save it fast.  I do not want it to go 'extinct'.  My poor 'ginseng' plant! You have served me well by giving me the most beautiful and the daintiest of purple flowers, and I remembered how happy you have made me.  How could I forget!
She sets off to cut off some of the balsams' leaves to make sure the 'ginseng' plant gets its share of sunlight.  In my world, there is going to be equality for all.  Everyone has a share of this world, she tells the plants, the critters which had come by and the tiny dog that is watching all her actions nonplussed. Ah, there it is! Balsam, you won't die with this little sacrifice, neither will 'Ginseng' with its uncomplaining and generous sharing. No boundaries of any sort, probably some physical barriers, no political parties, no religious divides,  just simple, plain old survival rules, with Mother Nature watching over.