BOOK REVIEW: THE BOOK OF LOST THINGS

If you like your fairy tales with a twist, head over to our sister site Learning Partners for a review on John Connolly's The Book of Lost Things.

Click here for the book review.

Short Story - Stall No. 51

This story was submitted for a Writing the City Competition (Dickens 2012: City Dwellers) and won the runner-up prize.


We hope you enjoy it; feel free to let us know what you like or dislike about the tale by giving a comment. We would love to hear from you.

Stall No. 51

Heavy, heady aromas wafted from various clacking and clicking pots and woks, mingling with one another, forming a complex, pungent, and yet common odour which hung heavily in the air.

It was a typical scene in this city. As the sun sank over the horizon and bright electric lights popped on, tables would fill and lines would form.

Amidst the bustle of this evening, the patrons of Stall No. 51 – Ah Huat Hokkien Noodles – were surprised to see a chap in his early thirties, dressed in a crisp white shirt and an expensive-looking tie that looked like it had come from a luxurious boutique. Leaving his well-groomed lady companion outside the hawker centre, he weaved his way towards Stall No. 51.

“Ah, Auntie Lim’s lawyer son is here again,” the regular patrons murmured to themselves as the smart-looking young man stopped outside Stall No. 51 and began to talk earnestly to the woman behind the counter, who ignored him completely and continued to stir and toss the heavy noodles in her huge wok.

‘Auntie’ was a misnomer for the woman in question seemed to be at least in her seventies, with a head of sparse white hair and a frame so frail that it was a wonder that she could lift the gigantic wok. But in this city, every female who was no longer a girl could be addressed as ‘Auntie’ and no one would raise an eyebrow.

The patrons observed with interest the scene before them. The young man remonstrating with the wilful old woman, his voice and gestures growing increasingly heated as his mother blithely ignored him, continuing to serve her clients serenely.

After about ten minutes, the young man gave up. Sighing in defeat, he placed an envelope on the counter and threaded his way back to his lady friend who was waiting for him.

“It’s rare to see such a filial young man these days,” a patron commented, to the nodding approval of his fellow diners.

As the young man joined the lady, she asked softly, “She still refused? Good grief, why is she so stubborn?”

“I know. Even though I told her I would support her, she refused. Why does she want to do this to herself? The work is hard and she’s not getting any younger. And she never spares a thought for me! Has she ever thought how bad this makes me look in front of my colleagues and partners?” The recollection of his co-workers and partners’ censorious expressions when they had learnt that his mother was working as a hawker fuelled his indignation and he turned back to throw his mother a baleful glare. Why couldn’t she be like other wives or mothers and pursue artistic interests or dabble in charity work instead?

Back at Stall No. 51, Auntie Lim was still serving her patrons, her hands and arms working automatically. There was still a sting, for she could never reconcile this familiar-looking yet foreign young man to the baby who had suckled at her breast. But she had learnt to ignore the hurt and bewilderment.

Cooking Hokkien noodles always helped. Her actions were fluid, and she was like a conductor leading an orchestra as her arms flew and turned and whipped. As she repeated her practised motions, she relived the scenes that had taken place under this very roof decades ago – she as a young girl, helping the original Ah Huat, her father, to serve the patrons; now a young woman who occasionally took over the stove while her ageing father rested; a good-looking young customer (bearing a striking resemblance to her lawyer son) that kept returning day after day; her young clever son doing his homework at one of the empty tables.

Each day that she came to the stall, the past stayed with her and it was like her loved ones had never departed and that was enough.

Teo Cheong Cheong

Short Story - Jasper

Here is a short story by Dominique, an abashed writer who does not want to talk much about herself.


It's a strange tale, set in an unknown world where the motivation of the antagonist is unclear on a deeper level. We know that the antagonist (known as Doctor) very much wants to know what he calls the 'real truth' but we never learn why he is so intent on finding it. The story is very claustrophobic; it's set in a building and there are only six characters involved.


Here is the story and feel free to let us know how you feel about it.

Jasper

The harsh scream of metal against metal rang out, the sound sending a tremor through her; even groggy and half-awake, a thrill of fear ran through her. 

Before she could react, a knee slammed into her gut, so hard that her back crashed into the wall behind her with a resounding thud; the brutal wakeup call was more than enough to drive her eyes open. She lay on her side, her arm at her chest as she gasped for breath.

“Wake up!” The screeching, inhuman voice cried out as someone prodded her hard in the side with a metal rod. “Wake up! The Doctor is waiting!”

It was with great effort that she managed to sit up; she opened her eyes wide, properly taking in her surroundings for the first time. White-washed walls, dull metal bars, a cell cast in dimness and shadows. Where was she?

“Get up!” The rod was jabbed into her side again, even harder than before, hard enough to make her jump to her feet as she whirled around to face the aggressor. But before she could make a move, something was wrapped around her face, managing to cover her eyes with surprising accuracy; she gave a surprised yelp, falling backward instinctively, but rough hands caught her and pulled her into an upright position. In vain, she tried to twist her wrist out of the restraining grip, only to be met with another pair of hands.

There’s at least two of them against me. And judging by their hands, likely male. How in the world am I going to get out of this? Her thoughts were despairing as she let her arms go limp, deciding not to waste energy trying to fight against two much stronger men. One of the men grasped her tiny wrists easily, cuffing them together.

The screeching voice issued out a steady stream of orders. “Take her to the Doctor, quickly! We’ve wasted too much time already, and he must not be kept waiting!”

The hands handled her carelessly, roughly shoving her; she released a sound of protest as she crashed into something cold and hard, most likely the metal bars of the cell. Without a word of apology the hands righted her, then pushed her again, this time navigating her safely out of the cell.

It was a long walk.

She did not know how much time had passed as the two pairs of hands prodded and shoved her in the direction they wanted, but as she strode through the winding path she could feel her feet beginning to ache slightly.

“Stop,” one of the pair behind her spoke for the first time, his gravelly voice distinctly male. It took a moment for her to register his instructions, but before she could turn on her own a pair of hands grabbed her and yanked her back.

There was a sharp rap; she guessed that one of the duo had just knocked on a door.

“Approach.”

The responding voice was clear, despite its deep baritone. There was a curious whistling sound in response; suddenly, the two pair of hands shoved her hard and she fell forward into empty space, landing painfully on her bound arms.

The whistling sound hissed again, this time from behind her. As she gingerly got to her feet, trying to maneuver without her arms, a soft chuckle sounded. “Having difficulty, my dear?”

“Obviously.”

“You could always just ask, dear.” The deep baritone voice came from somewhere in front of her; the voice was refined and cultured, with none of the slang of commoners and peasants. A hand reached out and took hold of her by one wrist, helping her up and seating her in a chair. At least, she thought it was a chair.

“Do you know why you are here, dear?”

“I don’t see why I should answer the questions of a stranger whose face I haven’t even seen before.” She fired a retort back, fighting to keep her voice nonchalant.

There was a distinct pause, as the man seemed to weigh his options. Finally, a hand reached out and grasped her blindfold, pulling it off in a single swift movement.

For a moment, she was blinded; light streamed in from windows - something she had not seen since yesterday morning, and her eyes were dazzled. She blinked rapidly a few times, shaking her head to clear the sudden dizziness. The man waited patiently; through her blurred vision she could see him leaning forward, his fingers locked and his hands placed on his crossed lap.

As her vision began to clear, the man’s face slowly came into focus; the first thing she noticed was the harsh slash of his dark brows drawing downwards, making his face seem perpetually angry. His eyes, in contrast, were a clear sky blue, sharp and watchful as he studied her face. His hair was raven-black and cropped, reminding her of a man who had just been discharged from the army.

“Who are you?” She blurted out.

His smile was cryptic as he leaned back in his chrome-coloured sofa. “You may call me the Doctor. I am the man in charge of this place.”

There was a silence as she absorbed his words. It was with a great effort that she fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “You’re the one who has trapped me in this hell-hole of a place? Why? How did you get me away from home? Where is this, anyway?”

“Trapped you?” His voice was amused, as if he were laughing at her. “No, no. I didn’t trap you, dear. I didn’t need to. You were escorted here, by your own parents. Do you not recall?”

She froze. “What?” Escorted? What does that even mean? This man must think I am insane, to believe that my parents voluntarily brought me to this place.

“Well, I can’t say I blame you. After all, you were sedated just before you came in. We were introduced yesterday, in fact, but you seemed a little unable to focus, so we had you brought down to your room instead.” He shrugged, as if her being sedated was something he could not help. “Come, now. Do you not recall moving through this place as if it were a blur? We did not bother to blindfold you last night - we knew you wouldn’t remember much.”

A blur? His words jolted back a sudden vivid memory from yesterday night; her blurred vision of her cell - the dull metal bars and white-washed walls cast in shadows - as she was thrown into bed. And the prayers she had said afterwards, when her “escorts” were gone - prayers begging to be brought out of here, prayers which clearly had not been answered.

This time, she could not keep her voice as cool as before. “What am I doing here? Why have I been brought here?”

The Doctor leaned forward again, his dark brows drawing even more closely together. “Curious - you truly do not know why you have been sent here?”

She could only shake her head mutely, completely unable to imagine why her parents would want to send her to this hell of a place.

“You’re insane. A lunatic. Bat-shit crazy.” The Doctor’s voice was matter-of-fact as he whirled a finger around the side of his head. “Your parents were very worried - and completely unable to deal with a daughter who was, well, off her rocker. So they sent you to us. An excellent decision, if you ask me. We are most well-equipped to deal with youngsters like yourself.”

“Insane?” Her voice was disbelieving as she repeated, “Insane? How am I - how can they say that I’m- I’m perfectly normal!”

“Are you?” The smile suddenly dropped from the Doctor’s face. “Since young, you have preferred solitariness and the company of the many dolls you own - to the point of talking to yourself, and even to those dolls. And your cat - Jasper. I was informed, in fact, that dear old Jasper died nearly five years ago, and yet you still continue to keep cat food in the house and periodically pour food out for the cat. Are those not clear signs of insanity?”

“It’s my own choice of living! What’s so wrong with me wanting to talk to myself? And what’s so wrong about me missing my cat? You’re the insane one! I want to talk to my parents!” She shot up from her seat, her eyes wild, unable to contain herself any longer.

“Sit down.” The sudden change of tone was shocking; the Doctor gazed up with eyes full of loathing, his deep baritone no longer friendly and humorous, filled instead with pure dislike and simple authority. “You forget, young lady, that you’re not in charge here. I am.”

Almost at once, the girl sat back down, suddenly speechless in the face of such venom. It was as if a flip had switched - the Doctor’s face became amiable again, if slightly worried. “My dear, this is far worse than your parents had told me. For you to be in such denial...it is a worrying state of affairs.”

Out of nowhere, the tears began to come. “Please, let me see my parents again. Just- just let me talk to them, and explain...”

The Doctor shook his head, his expression woeful. “No, my dear, no. We cannot return you to your parents yet. Not until we make you better.”

“Make me better?” Her head rose, her tone half fearful, half hopeful.

“Yes, just as we do for all the other members of this institute.” The Doctor flung his arms out wide as if to encompass a greater mass than just his office. “You are not the first lunatic we have encountered, and you will certainly not be the last. The process of recovery differs from person to person - some understand what they have to do fairly quickly. Others, on the other hand...and judging from your response today, I’m afraid to say you might well fall into the latter.” The Doctor sighed, putting a hand on her shoulder as if to say he felt for her pain.

“But for now-” The Doctor’s other hand rose, and he pressed a button on the side of his table that she had not noticed earlier.

The whistling noise sounded again from behind her - by now she was certain that it was the sound of the door opening. There was a thud of footsteps as someone entered. “Sir?” Judging from that screeching, high-pitched voice, it was sure to be that person with the metal rod from earlier in the morning. She fought back a shudder; there was no doubt in her that this was the same person who had kicked her in the gut.

“Blindfold our patient and escort her back to her room - oh, and starve her. She needs incentive.” The Doctor casually tossed the blindfold over her shoulder. A hand grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, yanking her back; before she could struggle, the blindfold was once again looped over her eyes - and, once again, her world was plunged into darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The screech of the metal door being dragged open jolted her awake - but she was too weak to do anything besides open an eye, straining to see who had disturbed her slumber.

It was Screech-Voice. Screech-Voice knelt down beside her, feeling her forehead; behind Screech-Voice was a taller figure, dressed in a white coat.

“Her fever’s going up, Doctor.” Screech-Voice reported, her-or was it his?- voice marginally less screechy. Screech-Voice shot her a disgusted look, but by this time, she was no longer concerned with mere glares.

The Doctor took Screech-Voice’s place, tutting as he knelt down by her. “My, I thought you would hold out for longer than that. Most of the other patients hang in there for at least four days. You’ve only lasted two!” He shook his head, clearly disappointed, then motioned for Screech-Voice to pull her into an upright position.

She was pulled up into a sitting position, and almost involuntarily, she leaned against Screech-Voice, knocking over the one now-empty cup of water they had given her. She studied the Doctor tiredly; his eyes as blue as ever. A devious grin curved his lips.

The Doctor held something out.

Was that-

It was. Bread.

Weakly, she held her hand out, but before she could reach the bread, the Doctor snatched it away. “Not so fast, dear. You have to answer a few questions first.”

She just waited.

“Why do you talk to your dolls? Do they answer back to you? Do you hold conversations with them?” The Doctor leaned forward, a glint in his eyes.

“For fun.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Screech-Voice snorted, while the Doctor looked even more disappointed. “How can you lie to us, dear?” He looked sadly at the bread, careful to keep it out of her reach. “Looks like there’s no food for you today again.”

“Please...please.”

“Last chance, dear. Your cat, Jasper. Why did you leave food out for it even though it was dead? Did you, perhaps, see your cat even after it was dead?”

“No-missed him.”

Screech-Voice’s snort was even louder this time.

“...A pity, dear. We did so want you to get this piece of bread, but since you lied...” The Doctor stood up, taking a big bite from the bread himself. “Delicious.” He stepped out of the cell.

Screech-Voice ruthlessly pushed her away, ignoring her as her head landed with a loud thud against the wood of her bare bed.

She lay against the bed, unmoving. And she began to weep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hands shook her roughly, stealing her from the blissful realms of sleep and dreams. Her body was limp as she was turned over onto her back, and it was with the vaguest recognition that she noted Screech-Voice’s voice. “Her heartbeat is rather faint, sir.”

“Bring her to the ward. Strap her down and feed her intravenously.” Even the Doctor’s commanding, clear voice sounded faint to her.

She felt hands moving under her, lifting her up from the bed - and it was as if she was filled up with helium inside, a lightness spreading throughout her body, making her feel as if she was weightless.

She fainted.

She didn’t know how many hours later it was when she finally regained consciousness - but what she did know was that the Doctor was already there, waiting.

At the sight of the Doctor, she recoiled, fear flitting across her face.

“Why are you scared of me?” the Doctor asked, seemingly truly puzzled as he leaned his hands on the bed.

She opened her mouth to speak, but only a dry croak sounded. She licked her lips, realizing for the first time just how thirsty she was. She tried to point to her throat, only to realise that her hands were bound tightly to her sides.

“Can’t risk you trying to escape, no matter how weak you are. Desperation is powerful, you know,” the Doctor informed her. He leaned over her. “So, why are you afraid of me? I expect an answer, you know.”

She swallowed thrice, trying to wet her parched throat. It was a few minutes she could answer, and even then her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Scared - you’ll hurt me.”

The Doctor placed a hand on his heart, feigning hurt. “Me? Hurt you? You know, I really don’t want to, either. But when the patient is bad, the doctor has no choice but to go even further, yes? And you are a bad patient, dear. You lied to us, last time.”

She didn’t bother to answer.

“Either way, you answered my question satisfactorily. So-” The Doctor reached from somewhere behind him and produced a bowl of porridge, laying it neatly in front of her.

She stared at it in disbelief for a few moments. Then she lunged forward, completely ignoring the spoon, her fingers greedily scooping up the porridge and stuffing it into her mouth.

The Doctor watched this display patiently for a few moments. Then he held out his hand. “Stop, dear.”

She had learnt enough to know to obey him.

“I still have a few questions, and I expect you to answer as straightforwardly and honestly as you did earlier on. If your answers are satisfactory, you will be rewarded with even more food and water. If not...” the Doctor’s voice trailed off ominously, and she tensed.

“First. The dolls. Why did you speak to them as if they were real people?”

She hesitated, weighing her options. Her eyes flickered to meet the Doctor’s, then away, onto the now half-full bowl of porridge.

“Dolls talked to me too.”

Something changed in the Doctor’s expression, but his tone did not change as he delivered the second question. “And dear old Jasper? Why did you leave food out for him?”

The answer came a little faster this time. “Thought Jasper still alive. Saw him.”

There was a long silence; she could literally feel her heart beginning to beat faster, her body tensing up as she tried to read the Doctor’s expression.

All of a sudden, the Doctor’s hand lashed out; it knocked into the bowl of porridge, overturning it, its contents flying out all over the floor.

A strange choking noise emitted from her throat; she leaned against her bonds, trying desperately to reach the remnants of the food, but the Doctor grasped her roughly by the shoulders, wrenching her back to face him.

“Look at me!” His voice was a feral snarl, his blue eyes suddenly dark and bulging. “You’re nothing but a disappointment. You think I don’t know if you’re lying to me? You’re a liar, a bloody liar!” He drew his hand back and punched her once, hard, in the stomach. She doubled over, a soundless gasp escaping from her lips. Without the slightest pause he slapped the side of her head, so hard that her head whipped around. “Liar! I don’t want your dirty lies! I want the truth! The truth!”

She was whimpering, cowering now, but she managed to muster the courage to force out her answer. “Original answer true. Talked to dolls for fun, left food for Jasper because I missed him.”

Suddenly the Doctor released her, letting her fall back onto the bed; she tried to lean away from him, but the bonds restrained her. The Doctor sighed, shaking his head in dismay. “You still don’t get it? Your original answer is your truth. I want the real truth. Not your false truth.”

She just leaned away from him, her expression uncomprehending.

“Like I said, dear, you’re a very bad patient. And it seems I must take things a little further.” The Doctor snapped his fingers; as if by magic, Screech-Voice appeared behind him. “Bring her back to her cell. No food, no water. Nothing. Let’s see if you will insist on holding on to your false truth for the next two days, dear.”

Screech-Voice ripped the bonds away from her, chaffing her skin, and began to drag her back to hell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When she awoke this time, she was already strapped down. Bonds ran across her body, restraining her arms, her legs, her shoulders, every part of her body except for her neck and head. The Doctor was standing there, a constant presence, his arms folded as he waited for her to notice him. “It seems, dear, that you are completely resistant to our usual methods of treatment. So, we have no choice but to take drastic measures.” His voice seemed to linger on those last two words, his clear blue eyes lighting up as he smiled at her.

“The same old two questions, and I want honest answers now.” The Doctor leaned over her until his bright-teethed smile was the only thing she could see. “The dolls. Why did you talk to them?”

“Fun.”

There was a sudden burning sensation on her left arm and she let out an ear-piercing shriek. The man who had been standing on the left lifted up the poker; its tip was white-hot, and next to the man stood a bed of fiery red coals, looking as if they had been given by the Devil himself.

“Let me ask you again: why did you talk to the dolls?” The Doctor’s voice was nonchalant.

“Fun!”

A jabbing sensation in her right arm this time, followed by a searing pain that ran all the way up her right shoulder; she was twisting and writhing in agony, screaming in horror as she strained against her bonds.

The Doctor just shook his head. “The cat, then. Why leave food out for it?”

“Missed him!”

The pain shot up her right foot now, and she was thrashing and wailing, the tears streaming down her face like a leaking faucet. But it didn’t matter how hard she struggled; the bonds only cut harder into her skin, leaving behind dull-red welt marks.

“Don’t lie again, dear. Why leave food out for the cat?” The Doctor’s voice rose, louder than her screams and wails. “Why?”

“Missed him! Missed him!”

She didn’t have to wait for the pain to know where it would strike - all four of her limbs were on fire now, and she was bucking and thrashing like a fish out of water, but even as she shrieked she knew it would make no difference.

“Why?! Why leave the food out for the cat?! Tell me the truth!”

“Missed him! No matter how many times you ask, answer will still be the SAME! MISSED HIM!”

The Doctor gave a roar of fury; he jumped at one of the four attendants, snatching the poker from him. He whirled around, turning on her, looming over her, his snarl terrifying. Then he stopped himself. Abruptly he stepped back, lowering his hand.

“You know, the forehead bleeds more than any other part of your face. Even if the wound isn’t deep, it’ll just keep bleeding and bleeding, until it seems as if you will die from blood loss. It was one of the first things I learnt in medical school.” The Doctor’s voice was low as he studied the poker in his hands.

She ignored him, simply lying still, her breaths deep and shuddering.

“Don’t you want to know what we branded you with?” The Doctor stabbed the poker deep into the coals. “Aren’t you in the least interested? Or did you simply think we used normal pokers?”

She didn’t respond.

“Liar. That’s what we branded you with. On your hands, on your feet - a reminder of the lies you’ve told us during your tenure here, a reminder that will follow you forever.”

Her breathing harshened.

“But I think I have come up with an even more fitting punishment for a liar like you.” The Doctor straightened. “Someone like you, who lies all the time - people must be warned about what you’re like. In case you try to lie to them. And so we need to let everyone know, the moment they see you, that you’re a liar.” He lifted the poker. “And the best way to let them know...”

She stared up at him, her eyes dazed.

He stabbed down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This time she was shaken awake by gentler hands, hands that helped her to sit up against the wall. Her head lolled limply, and she kept her eyes closed, her head upturned.

“Open your eyes, dear.” The Doctor’s voice was warmer, more amiable than ever before.

She opened them, gazing straight into the Doctor’s smiling face. The Doctor was holding a mirror. “Look at yourself, dear. The perfection, the truth we have given you.”

The word LIAR was branded upon her, fiery-red against her white forehead. But she just stared it, not reacting, not responding.

“Dear?” The Doctor frowned. “What are you thinking?”

Her eyes narrowed, her vision tunneling into the corner of the mirror. To her far left - yes, she saw it. At last she saw it. The real truth, not the false one that she’d always been telling - she realised that now.

And she smiled. “I see Jasper.”

Book Review: Night Shift

Night Shift by Stephen King

A collection of twenty short stories from the King of Horror, Night Shift is a good fit for anyone without the patience or attention to sit through a whole novel. Most of these stories were written and sold to various publications in the seventies – the heyday of King’s writing, in my humble opinion – before being anthologised in this tome.

Some readers may castigate me for saying this but I prefer the King’s earlier works – The Shining, Salem’s Lot, The Dark Half – to his later books – Needful Things, Gerald’s Game. The truth is that I’m not a fan of his writing style (having being brought up on a diet of British books, I find his style a little too informal, a little too direct), but there is no denying the fact that he is a good storyteller. As evidenced from these short stories. Practically every one (with maybe only 2-3 exceptions) is a gripping tale that holds the reader tightly without letting out till the end of the story. And that is why the short story format is great in this instance. Instead of obsessing over a thick book for 2-3 days and letting normal duties slide, the short story can be finished within forty minutes to an hour and after that, you’ll be free to go and handle your daily grind.

Twenty tales is too many for me to introduce so I’m only going to talk about the six that I like most. If you hate spoilers, stop right here.

Inaugural Post Giveaway - Free e-Book

This blog was set up about 2 (?) years ago to explore my other interests besides education. Said interests include books, films and any strange or interesting things/events/newsflash that get inserted into our daily lives so that our seemingly mundane lives are occasionally infused with a flavour of whimsy, hence the name: A Celebration of Life's Odds and Ends and the URL address: aquiverofquirks.blogspot.com.


Sad to say, after I set up the blog, my attention was distracted and the poor blog has been lying dormant, neglected and unloved. Well, it's now time to figuratively sweep the dust off and give it some love and attention. To Celebrate the very first post of this blog, we'll be giving an e-book written by one of Learning Partners' very own pupils, Loss.


If you like Stephanie's Meyer's Twilight series or Amanda Hocking's Trylle series, you might like Loss too.


This story was written when the pupil was 11 (in Primary 5). She is currently in Secondary 2 and she says that she is slightly embarrassed by the quality of the story. But we say that it is a valiant effort for a Primary 5 pupil.


What do you think? Why not download the e-book and decide for yourself? We welcome your comments below.


Click here to download e-book.