Short stories

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The Department of English at City University of Hong Kong is pleased to announce a one-year full Tuition Scholarship, to be awarded to a 2010 candidate for our new, international, low-residency Masters of Fine Arts (MFA) in Creative Writing. The winner will be the applicant who submits the sample of creative writing that demonstrates the greatest potential for success as a professional literary author. Applicants in any genre are eligible, as long as they meet the acceptance criteria for this postgraduate degree. There is no restriction as to country of residence, age or nationality.

At City University, we seek to develop Asia's future writers, and this scholarship is offered to attract the most talented writers to our programme. This summer, we begin our first class of writers for the MFA in Creative Writing specialising in Asian Writing in English, the first programme in the world to offer this specialty. Based in the English department, the innovative 45-credit, two-year programme will accept a limited number of students in creative non-fiction, fiction and poetry. The degree is benchmarked to international standards for the MFA. The Hong Kong native author Xu Xi assisted in its development and joined the Department as their first Writer-in-Residence on March 1.

"We anticipate the majority of applicants to be from Asia," Xu says, "but many writers in the West, both of Asian and non-Asian ethnicity, are increasingly drawn to Asia, especially China. They're not always best served by MFA programmes in the West where there’s little focus on either a contemporary or historical Asian perspective or Asian literature." The faculty will all be writers who 'know Asia, live Asia, read Asia, write Asia' as the programme’s advertising says. The top criterion for admission will be the quality of creative work.

This initiative is part of an overall strategy to develop the creative curriculum at the university. Professor Kingsley Bolton, Head of English at City University says, "Our English Department is a very young one, but probably one of the most dynamic and innovative departments of its kind in Asia. In the next few years, we are aiming to make the English Department here a leading centre for creative writing, drama, and cultural studies, not only for Hong Kong but also for the whole of the Asian region." The MFA is generally considered a professional degree, qualifying students to work in professions where good writing skills are required, as well as providing the groundwork for an international writing and publishing career.

The low-residency graduate degree model is relatively new in Asia. A long-established pedagogical model in the U.S., such programmes are especially suited for the creative arts. In particular, this programme is ideal for working professionals who cannot afford to spend two years as full-time graduate students in a traditional writing programme. Structured for individualised learning, students work via distance learning with writing mentors on a one-on-one basis during the semesters, and attend brief 'residencies' at the university two to three times a year. The low faculty-to-student ratio allows for intensive feedback on the student’s work and approximates the professional editor-writer relationship.
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Dr. Emma Dawson, "works at the intersection of postcolonial writing, pedagogy and the emergent field of World Englishes literature. Her recent study addressed the teaching of World Englishes literature in schools in England." She is involved in a project which is set to publish 8 anthologies of new writing in English from around the world. Cameroon and Nigeria (Nov 2009) are out, Uganda and Kenya will follow, Malaysia, Singapore, India and a Caribbean nation after that.

Below is a request for submissions from Malaysia and Singapore (There will be two separate anthologies.)

- Word count: 3000 - 8000 words
- There is no theme, only 'Malaysia' or 'Singapore'.
- This is adult fiction (in the sense that it is not 'children's fiction').
- The work must be written in English (i.e. not translated from another language) and must be written by a resident of Malaysia (or Singapore) (this is not a collection of diaspora writing).
- The story must be 'new' in the sense that it is 'unpublished in book form' - this makes life much easier in terms of 'rights'. (We can accept submissions which have been previously published in magazines if necessary.)
- Please send submissions by email to worldlits@googlemail.com, attached as a Microsoft Word document (saved as a 1997-2003 version please) and formatted as follows:

- Name of author (Times New Roman, 12pt, bold, left justified).
- Contact address, telephone number and email (Times New Roman, 12pt, bold, left justified).
- Title of short story (Times New Roman, 14pt, bold, centred, underlined).
- Body text (Times New Roman, 12pt, justified, 1.5 line spacing, black).
- Page numbers and name of author on every page please.
- Word count at the end of the story (Bold, left justified).

Maximum of two entries per person please.
Please submit by January 31st, 2010. (The closing date has been extended to 28 February 2010.)
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Guangzhou has intimidated me from the moment I arrived. I feel out of place buying a common lunch of soupy noodles although the food and restaurant setting are familiar. Cantopop alternating with Mandarin chart-toppers on the radio cuts through the hustle bustle sounds. A press of hungry office workers crowds the counter. The people wend their way between plastic chairs and tables. The smell, the heat, the bodies, the noise and the oily floor don't faze me. I'm smooth, I'm cool, I tell myself.

The clatter echoes around the tiled walls. I make my approach and say, "May I order, please?" The man looks at me in disdain and answers in Cantonese. He's asking me impatiently to tell him the type of noodle I want and what I want with them. I can understand that much. Boiling soup in a stainless steel cauldron hisses and gurgles, laughing at my discomfort.

The choices are laid out on the counter. I recognise liver, minced pork, meat balls, intestines, tripe and two types of vegetable, green and white. The glass case holding the noodles has a menu of Chinese characters reminding me of my illiteracy. I point at the balled-up yellow noodles. Those. I swing my finger around the assortment of meats. Everything. I point at the liver and waggle my index finger. "Everything but that," I say.

He shrugs and gives me the sideways glance I am so used to by now in this crowded city. A look I am convinced says, I have no time for the likes of you. Maybe it is just my imagination. Look, I want to say, I understand you and I hate liver but the words in Cantonese stay silent on my cowardly tongue. Perhaps it is just my insecurity in this place chock-a-block full of Chinese people who look like me. They speak Cantonese and rapid fire Mandarin. I just can't keep up.

I look for a place to sit. I smile at the pretty woman sitting across me who holds a straw in her tall glass of coffee. When the steam from my bowl fogs up my glasses, she disappears and I can't tell if she smiled back. I push my glasses up on my forehead and I can see the liver slices in there, slightly pinkish with little holes. I slide the bamboo chopsticks out of the paper envelope and snap them apart smartly. See, I know how to do this. I flex my fingers and the chopsticks meet at the tip without crossing. Watch me, I can use my chopsticks with grace. I fish out a slice of liver, dip it in soy sauce and put it into my mouth. Look, I'm not afraid of half-cooked liver. I gag a little. The texture is awful, like rotten meat and I hate it. I try to swallow without grimacing. Hello, I am Chinese like you. Hello, look at me, but the noodle seller ignores me and laughs with another customer. The pretty woman looks away pointedly.

Here, where my surname was sown, I am an impostor. Why doesn't my blood quicken in recognition of my ancestral homeland? I slurp the soup. It's good and I wonder about MSG.

On the three-hour flight back to Kuala Lumpur, I work some more, crunching numbers on the laptop. I'm dead tired but I've earned my right to feel good about a very successful working trip. It is night when I touchdown and I'm dying for a hot drink. I find an all-nighter, an Indian Muslim restaurant, and I pile a plate full of rice, tandoori chicken and pappadoms. How much, I ask the dark-skinned man standing at the end of the steel buffet counter. Six-fifty, he says. Drink, he asks?

Cham peng, I say. Two little Chinese words and the man who does not look like me knows exactly what I want. He brings me an iced drink that is milk tea mixed with coffee. I laugh with relief, knowing that here I am home.

My blood doesn't quicken here either. Perhaps it's the MSG in the tandoori.
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The Coroner's Omission by Anna Couzet.

It is all he could do. The coroner was drunk.

The picture looked black and white, if it were not for the trickle of clotted and almost dried blood around the toe. A dangling foot from a gurney, delicate, lean and young. Dead, though. A little bit of a leg follows, not much muscle, bony, rigid. It might be a female, no hair so far, or it could be a young boy barely out of childhood. I found this picture on my way out from the hospital. It might have slipped from a medical file. There was no name attached, only a number. The white square tiles on the floor and walls as a background, make this image strong and appealing. Almost a Michelangelo Pieta. The diaphanous shine of the skin, once flushed with pulsating and throbbing life, seems to have taken on the purity and smoothness of a Carrara polished marble. Now, its rests, incognito in the hands of death, once putrid, eaten away, will be forgotten implacably.

I approach a nurse passing by. She is in a hurry; the Christmas party at the doctors' quarters is in full swing. She cannot be bothered. And with a few polite words, she tells me to redirect my enquiry at the desk in charge of guarding the house while everybody is merry. As she pushes a door a few steps away, a maelstrom of sounds, voices, laughs and carols comes rushing into the empty corridor. I am left with the anonymous picture, an unidentified corpse, a body vacant of its soul in my hands. On the spur of the moment, tired of having gone through another chemo, I am almost ready to leave this picture where I had found it: on the bare, cold, sanitized and spotless floor of this hospital. It is Christmas, or soon it will be. I have lost touch with the celebrations of life. Too much pain lately, with this crab eating away at me. Thoughts of happier times come flooding into my mind as if life's resiliency wanted to intrude into this gloomy moment. I sigh. It is not over yet. Not for me. I push back a few tears, hold the picture still in front of me, and silently make a promise: I will bring you back to where you belong. Life is not finished with you too.

The front desk of that section of the hospital is hidden behind a huge board holding seasons greeting cards. A blinking cord of tiny bulbs snakes its way around words of praise and good will. I hear muffled sounds coming from behind. A young nurse and what seems to be an intern are looking through a hardcore magazine. Nudes, fleshy body parts, suggestive positions, butts, oversized breasts, hairy cunts, enlarged penises, makes me shriek at the sole view of this outrageous display. Life is for the living. And I am in between. They gather themselves at once.

'May I help you,' the young, embarrassed nurse says. I gather the little strength I have left, and bring forward the picture. 'I found this in the corridor on my way out the chemo ward.' She does not seem to be much concerned at first; I guess she has not recovered yet from that shameful moment. Indeed, I look aghast, lost, demeaned, drained, exhausted. Too many emotions have shaken this broken body. The male intern grabs the picture from my hand as if he wanted to take away from me a big burden. He hopes I will show some improving signs. I am not in the pink of health, for sure. My face is the colour of ashes. 'Where did you find this?' he enquires as if he had not heard when I spoke to the nurse. I guess he too needs to adjust. 'On the floor,' I reply dryly. 'Ah, I see ... Poor boy, another one, another victim of a drug overdose. I am sorry if this has caused you any trouble. I may have lost this picture while bringing the file to my boss.' He seems to be sincerely concerned. I dare to ask for more: 'What happened? Do you know the boy? Where is he now?' He comes out from behind the desk and takes me gently by the elbow. 'Let's have a seat over there. Shall we?' I let him guide me as if I were without will, unable to choose any direction. I take some time before picking up a seat, split between the black and dark blue chairs. He does not hesitate. Black, blue or any other colour is not a priority to him. Unlike me, anguish has not planted its claws into his brain. 'Well, we are waiting for the next of kin to claim his body. I took this picture while my boss, the coroner was trying to assess the cause of death. We get those overdosed bodies on a regular basis. I am still not comfortable around them. Something is not right. To die so young, this way, while we try incessantly to save lives hanging by a thread.' 'Yes' I say, 'I understand.'

I feel empty as if life had decided to take a stroll while I try to make up my mind about this strange and awkward situation. We are in a hospital, I remind myself. It is time for you to go home. I am not in a hurry to go home. There is no one waiting for me. I look into the intern eyes whom by now has reconciled himself to the fact that life has its own ways. In a flash, without knowing why, I grab the picture from his hand. 'Can I keep it?' I almost beg him. He looks puzzled. 'Uh ... why? Is there anything else that I can help you with?' He gets up, disappears for a while and brings me back a paper cup full of water. I take a few sips, and I slowly get up. 'Let me assist you to your car,' he offers. 'Yes, please.' We walk silently, side by side. There is not much to say. The pain is mine to bear.

I notice, on the way to the taxi stand, signs of hope, shreds of despair, torn faces in pain, shattered hope, shrieks of a child holding a colourful batch of balloons, a mother smile.

As a taxi alights by the entrance, I seize the intern's hand. 'Thank you,' I say 'for the picture. This is my Pieta.'

Labels: Anna Couzet

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Tales from the Court by Matthew Thomas.

"Banguuun," ordered the turbaned policeman. This signaled the entrance of Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din, the resident Second Class Magistrate of Palong Likit, the local arbitrator of issues and dispenser of justice.

Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din was a short, stout man with a beer belly although he protested that this was not due to any intemperate habits but to imbalances in his genes. He focused at the floor as he entered. The occupants of the court all arose in unison and bowed to Tuan Hakim who in turn returned the bow and sat himself. The crowd, then, followed suit.

Rukumani Devi, the court interpreter cum court clerk, cum file caller, cum amicus curiae of the court, cum confidant of the magistrate, cum Amway agent rose, a tinge of white ash smeared on her forehead and in a crisp yellow sari, looking important. She reeled out the civil and criminal action numbers with accompanying names of legal firms so fast that I missed mine.

She then called a second time around, this time angrily, "How many times must call-lah?"

Rukumani Devi conducted herself as would a maestro conducting an orchestra. Everything was at her fingertips, an upturned palm if she wanted counsel to stand and a down-turned palm for counsel to sit. The Magistrate, the lawyers and litigants paid her great heed.

The court house in Likit, next to a secondary forest, was a wooden structure that was once a barn, now converted into a place of justice. It had large doors in front and at all sides. As the court was not air-conditioned, electric fans dangling at the end of long poles, swirled endlessly purportedly to cool the hot air.

In the early morning of 14th January 1972 before the court became busy, there was a commotion in the courthouse. Rukumani Devi had marched into the courthouse as it was her daily routine with the day's court files under her arm, when to her shock and bewilderment, she saw seated on Tuan Hakim's chair, a monkey. It was a silver-tailed variety which Rukumani Devi recognized as a male as it had its legs raised and spread on Tuan Hakim's table. It had an altogether nonchalant look about it.

"Aiyoo, kurangu," exclaimed Rukumani Devi with a scream startled by this unexpected intrusion. Her scream did not deter the monkey as it continued to sit imperiously as though it was truly its judicially-santioned position to be there. Lawyers, litigants and witnesses rushed into the courthouse. All were taken aback by what they saw. Rukumani Devi loudly shooed the intruder. The threat only made it bare its teeth exposing pink gums. Rukumani Devi now kicked loose one of her slippers from her feet, hurled it at the monkey whose eyes trailed the flight of the footwear whilst scratching itself vigorously.

"Tuan Hakim would be here at any moment. This monkey is not moving from the chair. Andava, what am I to do?" said Rukumani Devi, this protector of the courts.

She banged on chairs, tables and cupboards and shooed, but to no avail. Her vilest tricks were doomed to failure. The recalcitrant intruder, there in a princely pose, a pillar of stone, sat oblivious to her protestations. Now Rukumani Devi realized the reputation of the court was at stake. If she did not act quickly this sanctuary of hope, this cradle of justice where even the hardest criminal is subdued not by the fist or sword but by the word, will become a mockery -- a laughing stock, subject to idle talk at the common marketplace.

At this very moment as though by divine intervention, the reverberation of gunfire was heard from the nearby plantation. The monkey, apparently accustomed to this sound and realizing that eternal vigilance was the key to survival, leaped into the air and in a moment of wanton fury vanished amongst the rafters of the building. Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din opened the door of his chambers that led to his chair, quite oblivious to the happenings.

Abdullah Iskander stood charged in this court under Section 36(i) of the Road Traffic Ordinance for causing injury to another whilst driving his motor vehicle in a careless manner. I was in court representing him. As this was one of my earliest trials, I had sworn that I would not leave a single stone unturned till victory was sealed. The first witness called was the investigating officer, Inspector Azizuddin who took his stand in the witness box with a wide ricocheting salute. Before the Prosecuting Officer, Mr Maniam, could proceed with the examination of the chief witness, Tuan Hakim raised his hand and stopped the proceedings. He was writing something. This went on for a while in the absolute hush of the court. It was then that I saw from the corner of my eye the tail of the monkey from the rafters. It moved independently as though a precursor for the mechanical pendulum which in later time would tell the time.

"Right, proceed," Tuan Hakim ordered, putting his pen down.

The proceedings were rather acrimonious protestations on the irrelevancy of questions, arguments, objections yet more objections. All this while Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibidin bin Din sat placidly with a judicious air taking down notes. He did not interfere, did not say anything, did not ask for clarification nor did he look at the witness to judge the demeanour, but just wrote. At times, when it became imperative that he intervened, he gave a judicial nod.

I noticed that Rukumani Devi was irritated by my, perhaps, all too numerous questions. I plunged ahead as a true soldier refusing to retreat under enemy fire. When it came to my turn to cross-examine, I was ruthless or at least, I thought I was. She wrote on a piece of paper and quietly passed the note to me.

It read, "Don't waste anymore time, finish case quickly. Fine for the offence is RM 150. It is going to rain soon."

I looked at her. She smiled unengagingly. "What cheek!" I thought. I plodded on. It came to a point in the cross examination where the witness was insisting the point of impact was 'X' marked in the police sketch plan and key. My onslaught did not dissuade nor threaten him. In order to buy time I insisted that a site visit would explain matters clearly. An application was immediately made by me. The prosecutor objected. Rukumani Devi hit her head with her palm in utter frustration.

Tuan Hakim stopped writing. He knocked on the far front end of the table. Rukumani Devi stood up and looked at him.

"We shall visit the site." Saying this he stood up.

"Banguuun," called the turbaned policeman. The court stood adjourned.

Rukumani Devi, now truly agitated, confronted me.

"You are from Kuala Lumpur. Look at the dark clouds. It is going to rain soon. What are you trying to prove? The judgment will be a fine of one hundred and fifty ringgit," she emphatically and decisively repeated.

"Let's see," I said, thinking 'you are not the judge'.

In a moment Tuan Hakim sent for me. I approached his chambers, pushing open the door. He, unlike Rukumani Devi, gave an engaging smile and invited me to be seated.

"Maybe I can ask Ruku to get us tea from the canteen," he stated.

"No, Tuan," I said, "but thanks, anyway."

"You are right. This tea is not tea but hot water and condensed milk, not good if got kencing manis," he volunteered this medical information, with a chuckle.

Having ensured I was reasonably comfortable, he asked, "Are you from Kuala Lumpur? You know any tile shop? Floor tiles type, organic-lah."

"I do, Tuan," I replied, as if I was an expert in this field as well. Anyway it was always safe to be in the good books of the magistrate, even more so if he was hearing your case.

"I need lebih kurang 200 tiles-lah," he continued, "for my kitchen floor. You know, my wife-lah, she insists must change." He talked and talked. "But I will pay for it, no favours here," he abruptly stated.

"I never thought otherwise," I lied.

"Honour and principles, we must uphold," he affirmed with the demeanour of a judge.

"We must," I concurred, not knowing where all this was leading to.

In the midst of our conversation, I heard the clap of thunder and suddenly it was pouring with rain.

"Maybe you can ask the salesman to send the tiles to my address," he continued. He immediately wrote me an address. "Say, within two weeks. Any earth colour will do-lah, preferably beige," he concluded.

As we sat chatting in the magistrate's chambers, yet another commotion was heard in the courthouse. Tuan Hakim got up. I stood up as well.

He whispered, "Keep this to yourself. Don't tell Ruku. She might misinterpret although she's an interpreter." He chuckled at the pun.

"Sure," I assured him.

There was a respectful knock on Tuan Hakim's door and in ran Rukumani Devi.

"Tuan, the monkey is in your chair again. What to do?"

Tuan Hakim dashed out of his chambers with Rukumani Devi and me hot on his heels. There, in judicial splendour was the monkey seated in Tuan Hakim's chair. Tuan Hakim pondered. Rukumani Devi glared. I feigned surprise. The monkey scratched itself. At that moment lightning struck and a roll of thunder reverberated. As a rush of wind filled the courthouse, a mother hen with her chicks scuttled into it seeking shelter from the rain. Another flash of lightning followed and a sharp snap echoed through the court house. The lights went out. The dangling fans heaved and ceased their circular motion. In all this confusion the monkey looked, scratched itself but never moved from its acquired position.

Rukumani Devi was on the verge of losing her temper with me. I read her mind. I was the cause of all her troubles. She looked lost, like a sleepwalker who had abdicated her sense of direction. The day's happenings were all too much for this 'high priestess' of the court.

"You see, Tuan," she addressed Tuan Hakim, "The case cannot proceed because of the monkey. We cannot visit the site as it is pouring."

She mumbled to herself, "Some people don't know when to stop," an obvious reference to me.

Tuan Hakim just smiled. "Sabar, Ruku," he whispered. "This monkey is not going to obstruct the wheels of justice," he stated authoritatively.

"Jaswant," he called to the policeman, "I am sure you can do something to get the monkey out."

"I try, Tuan," replied Jaswant and he left the court house with a bow.

"Meanwhile we continue the case from here," saying this Tuan Hakim pulled out Rukumani Devi's chair and sat down. The case continued. Rukumani Devi vacated her chair and now placed herself on a stool at the far end of the table. She refused to look at me but kept on smiling as though stating a fact, that is, I was wasting my time.

The case toiled on, amidst the lightning, thunder and rain, witnessed by the monkey, quite nonchalantly. Jaswant, bowed as he re-entered the court. He carried a worn out hockey stick, which he hid behind his back. Tuan Hakim silently stopped the proceedings once again as we waited for the other drama, placed a little above us, to unfold. Jaswant inched his way to the podium. He reminded me of a leopard that stalks its victim among the long grass of the Savanna, ever so light-footedly before it made the final leap. Surprise was the key to a successful hunt. It was everything. The monkey was so engrossed in the happenings before it that it momentarily let down its guard as Mr Singh made his approach from the rear. He lifted his hockey stick. It was like watching a flick in slow motion -- a frozen tableau from a silent film. Having achieved sufficient height, he brought the stick down forcefully and decisively at the monkey. At that very micro-moment the monkey turned. The years of unabated vigilance had paid off. It leaped into the air as the hockey stick came crashing down on Tuan Hakim's chair, causing untold damage. In the melee the long silver-tailed monkey let out a sharp shriek and disappeared once more among the rafters. It survived.

The rain continued. It was getting dark. The mother hen and its chicks zigzagged to another corner of the courthouse, protecting its chicks under its plumage. Jaswant examined Tuan Hakim's chair, then his hockey stick. He shook his head. Both could not serve their purpose any longer. Tuan Hakim realized that he would look ridiculous climbing the podium to conduct the trial where his legal abode lay in ruins.

"We proceed with the case," Tuan Hakim declared.

So we continued with the trial from where he was presently seated. Rukumani Devi was reading a magazine. Obviously she had given up, especially on me.

At one stage she turned and within my earshot spoke to one of the court clerks seated nearby, "This court has turned into a circus, we have monkeys, strongmen and clowns," an indirect reference to me.

At last the case was concluded. Submissions were made by both parties. All the while Tuan Hakim copiously took down notes. Suddenly the lights came on and the ceiling fans whined and moved. Tuan Hakim thanked us. He then adjusted his glasses and deliberated over the verdict.

"I have heard the witnesses' testimony, I have also seen the sketch plan and key, and have delved into all the possibilities as advanced by counsel and the prosecution," he said, adjusting his glasses and continued, "and having deliberated in depth, I now come to the judgment."

I looked at Rukumani Devi. She was simulating a 1-5-0 with her mouth.

"The defendant is guilty as charged under Section 36(i) of the Road Traffic Ordinance and hereby fined one hundred and fifty ringgit."

"There, what did I tell you?" Rukumani Devi muttered raising both her hands.

Tuan Hakim solemnly thanked both the prosecutor and me for the excellent presentation and got up stating, "Court adjourned."

As I was driving home on that wet evening, I told myself that I should not be too disappointed, for who can say, "There is no justice in the courts." To the injured man the offence has not gone unpunished. My client had to pay a fine of only RM 150, and I will be duly paid by my client. Tuan Hakim acquitted his responsibility in the temple of justice with my assurance that his floor tiles would arrive. Rukumani Devi has yet once again proved a point that she was right, and the monkey ...? Who knows what ran through that monkey's mind .


Postscript: the monkey was never seen in the court precinct ever again.

Labels: Mathew Thomas

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