Drawing#54: “Don’t call me stupid!”

“Don’t call me stupid!”

 

SMART

TALENTED

UNIQUE

PERSON

IN

DEMAND

“LIFE IS HARD;

IT’S EVEN HARDER IF

YOU’RE STUPID.”


– – John Wayne


  1. From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.
  2. I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Two(4)

A Revolutionary Soldiers Certificate, a diary with the cover of Chairman Mao, a medal from the Korea War.

A Revolutionary Soldiers Certificate, a diary with the cover of Chairman Mao, a medal from the Korea War.

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 2


Unfortunately, there was another man in that village who was unwilling to join the war, but was willing to tell the whereabouts of my grandfather to the conscription people and guide them to catch my grandfather at midnight while he was sleeping. {Click the link to read Chapter Two (3)}

Before leaving, he worried about the survival of his family in the wood, not his life. So he told them to move to live with his young brother even though the house they were going to move to was quite small and crowded already. With a hundred practical hints and a thousand salutary warnings, he asked his young brother to take care of his family as his own. As he knew, no one in the village had ever returned from the war before.

Without any choice, for years, he fought for the Guomintang with no news for his family. For some reason, he joined the Communist Party and fought again after the Guomintang was defeated and its soldiers fled in disorder in April, 1949. In October, 1950, he joined the Korean War as one of the volunteers and received a commemorative medal in honor of the cruel battle when he returned to China from the war in October, 1952. He fought for the nation until the next year in May. Back then, he wrote in a small diary with the limited words that he had started learning during the wars.

I really want to see my family, my grandfather answered firmly when the Communists asked what job he wanted when quitting the army. As a soldier, I must obey the order that I go back to where I came from, do productive work and serve the people. By then, he was deaf due to a bomb in a war and with one leg crippled because of a bullet from the enemy in another war. There too were scars, big and small, here and there.

He returned home quietly. No one expected him to return either. Even his wife, my grandmother, had already left the village for another man. Apparently, it was a big shock when he returned or she left. In a while, when he could, he brought her back to rebuild the family. As he said happily, he was the only one home and alive, though sometimes he cried for the deaths of many comrades-in-arms. Just being alive is enough, he said.

However, I was a bit puzzled about the reason why my grandfather never spoke a word to my grandmother after she chose to stay at my uncle’s. None in my hearing.  

He was deaf, but not that deaf in one of his ears. When you shouted in his ears, he would still hear. And that was one of the things I enjoyed doing – I climbed up on his back or he squatted down, then I managed to shout with some words and some laughter.

His eyes were not good but not bad either. He could see what he liked to see, even though he didn’t like much. {Click the link to continue}

To be continued…

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Two(3)

As silent as the bamboo hats.

As silent as the bamboo hats.

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 2


 It seemed as if all I could bring them was only shame as a dwarf and troubles that I caused endlessly, not even a stroke of good fortune. {Click the link to read Chapter Two (2)}

After that my mother took me out with her to work, but she felt so tired that she was almost incapable of doing it any longer. All the other villagers pitied her when they saw the situation. Especially, it was clear that when moving to the new dirt house, my aunt, who was my father’s younger brother’s wife, wanted to have my grandmother live with them, and my grandfather to live with us. Because of that, my grandmother devoted her life only to the aunt’s family, and there was no way to ask my grandmother to take good care of me, as it was she who strongly favoured boys over girls.

And, in one way or another, my grandmother was regarded as a “capable” woman in other’s eyes, while my grandfather was a “disabled” person. No adults ever tried to talk to him or ask about the wars, not in my hearing. Perhaps the adults were always too busy or too tired to talk to him with his deafness. Or maybe, it was sadness that he was the only one seen alive while many other men from the village, who left the village with him, were either dead or still missing. In a word, he was as abandoned as I was, and the only available person, the best choice.

So finally one evening, my mother couldn’t help but talk to my father and the next morning, he told my grandfather to look after me at home, for better or worse.

* * * * *

My grandfather was a retired soldier, a man who never knew he might get conscripted as an able-bodied man by the Guomintang, the Nationalist Army to fight the Japanese. At that time, he lived in a cabin in the woods, the only house located in a deep remote valley, surrounded by some farmlands, which he cultivated by himself to grow rice and some vegetables. Before the conscription, he had lived in complete isolation from the outside world. Nonetheless, he had a young brother living down in the village, about two hours walk along the wild trail. Unfortunately, there was another man in that village who was unwilling to join the war, but was willing to tell the whereabouts of my grandfather to the conscription people and guide them to catch my grandfather at midnight while he was sleeping. {Click here to read more}

To be continued…

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

Drawing#53: “I Don’t Buy It!”

"I Don't Buy It!"

“I Don’t Buy It!”

“If the culture doesn’t work,

don’t buy it.”


– – Morrie Schwartz

PS: I’m now on my summer trip of this year (from Aug 6th to 23rd).  So I schedule some posts   here and will respond to some comments when I can.


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#52: Athlete

Athlete

Athlete

It’s simple.

If it giggles,

it’s

FAT.

Arnold Schwarzenegger

PS: I’m now on my summer trip of this year (from Aug 6th to 23rd).  So I schedule some posts here and will respond to some comments when I can.


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Two(2)

IMG_6120

The Ladder To My World!

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 2

 I was reluctant because more old memories appeared before my eyes as reflections in the water. {Click the link if you want to read the beginning of Chapter 2 }

* * * * *

One auntie, a child bride of my mother’s young brother, told me that I used to play with the dark gray charcoal in the wood-burning fireplace and a stove made of dirt. Every time when she came to see me, she would laugh and could hardly recognize me with the charcoal gray all over my body and my face. It was the year when my family were busy building the new dirt house and my mother asked her to take care of me. No one would care except her, so she would clean me up. She said I was so happy in the basin with the hot water. I could hardly walk, and barely remember, though.

I rarely remember the things that happened before five years old. Like I can’t remember, as I was told later, one day my father went to do farm work, my mother went to pick tea with my brother on her back and so did my old sister. Apart from me no one was at home. My mother dropped me in the kitchen to play with the gray charcoal and the dirty stove as always. When she came back, first she could hear me crying loudly from outside and then she saw a kettle had fallen on the floor and water was already running cold everywhere. I was bending on the dining table, standing on tiptoe upon a broken bench, both the palm of my left hand and the back of my right hand had reddened, bubbled and peeled.

With no memory of such an accident at all, I couldn’t help but asked, Did I, did I really cry? My mother instantly threw the words, Of course! It hurt and you were crying like hell. Then with an unusual tone, she added, Ever since that happened, you didn’t like eating on the table with us, never touched the kettle with boiled water again, strangely you were happy to sit on the floor and eat alone.

Strange girl you are, I was told more than once. And more than once, my mother said, when I was born, I didn’t cry like any other baby does, but I laughed. And she didn’t know why. Except for this and my tiny body, she believed I was healthy and nothing abnormal.

But none in the family smiled at me proudly. Maybe my father hated me for laughing when I was born, I guessed. It seemed as if all I could bring them was only shame as a dwarf and troubles that I caused endlessly, not even a stroke of good fortune.  {Click the link if you want to continue }

-To be continued…

Note*: I’m now on my summer trip (from Aug 6th to 23rd).  So I schedule some posts here and will respond to some comments when I can. Please DON’T go away! :)

PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

Count On Writing#3

IMG_20151128_212351

 

There is such a thing as good writing, and there is such a thing as bad writing. Learn

the difference. Strain to produce the former whilst accepting that you will, much of the time, 

produce the latter. As you grow in confidence, you’ll know which bits to throw away and which 

to keep and work on. Be shamelessly elitist in your pursuit of excellence. Writing is not a 

democratic activity; only you can know whether you’re doing what you are here to do. Read a 

lot, write a lot and don’t listen to any post-modern oaf who tells you that, after all, 

no-one can say whether Stieg Larsson is ‘better’ than Shakespeare.

                                                                   — Paul Kingsnorth

 

Drawing#51: A Middle Man

A Middle Man

A Middle Man

Being a man, a better man, is more likely to end up with “a middle man”.

(Inspired by Robin Williams’s “innermost” smiles that always make me smile and cry, and cry and smile again, at the same time.)

“I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people who make you feel alone.”


– – Robin Williams

PS: I’m now on my summer trip of this year (from Aug 6th to 23rd).  So I schedule some posts here and will respond to some comments when I can.


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Two(1)

IMG_3961.JPG

The Winter of My Home Village!

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 2

And it was true, as the rain always followed after the thick dark clouds which covered the sun; that could bring me the warmest color, blue, blue… {Click the link if you want to read Chapter 1 }

Day by day, I tried not to fight back to my brother and I managed to do it.

But-

As time went on, sometimes he just attacked by kicking my ass and beating my back with his fists, looking as if he seemed to feel tired of beating me, while I just ran to a dark corner and hugged my head with my hands and had my face buried onto my knees, crouching in the darkness…

Then he stopped doing the same. Instead, he made a deep cut on my right hand close to the wrist, almost reaching the main artery. It wasn’t the pain that scared me but the fine spray of fresh blood and blood red flesh with whitish fat. He ran away instantly with his small knife which was used for sharpening the pencils. I could see he too was a bit shocked and scared by the blood. I didn’t cry out though tears welled in my eyes and blurred my vision. A neighbor happened by, and cleaned the blood with alcohol and bound up the wound with a clean cloth. A scar remains there, though my heart was forced to forget it long time ago.

Afterwards he seemed to take a break without hurting me. However not much later, one noon, I called him for lunch after I finished cooking by myself. Not for a moment would I ever dream that he would run to bolt the kitchen door and finish the food himself while keeping me outside to starve. I stiffened myself with clenched fists. But I knew fighting was just useless and hopeless, probably would make things worse after I had tolerated so many times and so many years. So this was just another time. Tomorrow is another day, I thought.

After that, for a long while, he caught some animals like lizards, caterpillars, ants or spiders and put them on my neck to scare the hell out of me. Every time, I would scream and scream and shout out, I hate you! Go to hell! And my mother told him not to do it again but she knew he would not listen anyway. My father seemed as though he even hated to hear my voice, telling me, Go out if you like screaming! My brother chuckled. I ran away to the river and hid under a big stone, listening to the sound of water…

With the sound of water, I found myself getting calmer and calmer. So every time, when I felt upset, I came to the riverside, picked up some small stones and threw them into the river, one by one. Amazingly, I was amused by the great splash and the small whirlpool formed by the water. When I threw the first one, I just smiled faintly. The next, I threw firmly at a certain point where there was a face similar to my brother’s. And the next, hit it to the shadow of my father’s unclear face, as I was always afraid to look into his eyes. Then, faster and faster, I threw more and more till my hands lost their strength. And then I cried out, buried my face into the cold water.

Afterwards, my mind set in peace as the sun cast the stones in different shapes of golden pouches. Another night was coming. I felt cold. If only I could hide forever like an earthworm.

Thus my mother was calling me back for dinner. She knew I could hear so she would only call me for no more than twice. I was reluctant because more old memories appeared before my eyes as reflections in the water.

* * * * *

To be continued…


PS:

If anyone who simply likes reading the words, the language, the story, or wants to know more about the character, the mysteries and my world, please feel free to like or comment. Any kind of remark will be highly appreciated.

If any agent or publisher, or anyone who has any connection with any agent or any publisher, would be interested in this Fucking Book, please contact this email:

FB.Heather@Outlook.com

Thank you so much!

Drawing#50: Punk Girl

Punk Girl

Punk Girl

“PUNK IS NOT JUST THE SOUND, THE MUSIC.

PUNK IS A LIFESTYLE.”


– – Billie Joe Armstrong


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading