The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Three(5)

The smokes rising from my home village!
(Picture taken on that early morning in December,2015)

 

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (4)}

As my grandfather was gone, my father spoke less than before. He looked shorter than usual as he stooped slightly. The words, the face, the eyes, the sighs, the horny hands, and the growing wrinkles on his forehead here and there, all showed that he was laden with heavy responsibilities.

He was a country man. He was not a hero, though. In one way or another, I respected him even though he kept crushing my little heart.

* * * * *

From the day of my grandfather’s death, all of my family had been praying for the special day to welcome the dead back home. It was the greatest feast of the year – the Ghost Day.

In the early afternoon of Ghost Day in July that year, my parents and siblings were watching dull TV shows on a black-and-white television in their bedroom upstairs. My father reckoned not to disturb the butterfly as he expected that it would appear like before. My mother was pleased by my interest in cooking this big dinner for the ancients. My siblings, except my old sister, who was absent, were all excited to watch what would happen during this dinner through the gap in a window. And I alone prepared lots of different food downstairs, as I wished, much more food than ever.

I enjoyed cooking by myself in the kitchen, maybe something to do with my very unusual youth playing with the wood-burning stove and the black charcoal. In the early afternoon, my mother already had offered all the materials and ingredients for the dinner and put them all over the small kitchen. Most of the food was dry home-planted vegetables like lettuce, potatoes, tomatoes, many kinds of beans and some wild plants, hand-made tofu to fry and white tofu to cook soup with the fish heads. Some meat like pork and fried pig skin, fresh fish from the farm lands, crisp fried small crabs and small shrimps caught from the river the day before, a chicken roasted by my mother in the early morning and other different kinds of home-made food which were typical for Ghost Day.  Looking at all these kinds of food with different colors, thinking of the beautiful butterfly, I felt so excited that a great wave of warmth was emerging between my legs. And that sort of warmth just made me feel even more excited.

I cut all into pieces and put them on each plate. I smashed, sliced, chopped and minced all the ingredients, then put them together on a big plate. I made sure that there was a full jar of home-made red wine, from which I used to steal some to drink while cooking. When everything was ready, I set the wood fire and started cooking. Soon after that, the butterfly flew over my head and circled around the kitchen under the roof looking as if it was happy coming home. Somehow, it calmed and comforted me.

{Click here to read Chapter Three (6)}

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!

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Drawing#68: Singer

 

“The best advice I can give a young aspiring singer is not to become an old aspiring singer.

– – Renata Scotto

“There are a lot of aspiring singers who are not to be paid attention to because they don’t look like a fashion model.

– – Linda Ronstadt

 


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 Three(4)

 

 

The Dying, The Dead and The Rotten! (Picture taken in Fujian, 2015.12)

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (3)}

Maybe my father had immense fear of the tough life if my grandfather passed away. As he had been struggling to apply for a pension from the town government for my grandfather, the only source of income there was that needed no hard work or hands like the fucking farmwork.

Each autumn, after the harvest, my father would walk for mile after mile on the mountain path to the town government. But for years the government either gave poor excuses or simply ignored my father without any excuse or regard.

By my father’s sheer persistence, my grandfather got his first pension of thirty-eight yuan per month. Due to my father’s greater persistence in his efforts, the next year, the pension rose to more than one hundred. Thanks to my father’s continuous struggling efforts, two years later my grandfather got about three hundred as his final pension. And the local newspaper came to interview him, wrote and published an article as the headline of the week. Less than half a year after that, he died of the suffering diseases, peacefully.

At his funeral, it was my father who shed the most tears in despair among the whole family as though he had become an orphan who wanted love from parents the most. The others just took it ritually as if his death was only a part of nature. And the villagers were emotionless and silent as usual as though my grandfather never existed. Throughout the whole funeral I was too sad to cry. Moreover I was thinking of him and the old days when we were so close to each other. He never died in my heart. Never will, I thought.

It was a must to hold a big ceremony for the dead. However, any superstition activity would cost a big fortune at that time and when my grandmother died, no one in the family could really afford it. Now that my grandfather had died this ceremony could be performed for both. It lasted three nights and four days, hosted by a master. Throughout the whole of the activity all the daughters knelt down and cried out aloud till they lost their voices or just fainted onto the ground. And the sons, like my father and my uncle, one held a wooden board with the full name of my grandfather carved on it and the other held one for my grandmother. It was said that only with such a ceremony would the dead have their spirits joined to heaven. So every single family would help the dead to do so, no matter how much the cost.

* * * * *

No more grandfather, no more pension, no more extra living but all primarily relied on small farms with the terraces, no machines, but only by hand, and never ever entirely self-sufficient.

{Click here to read Chapter Three (5)}

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#67: Butterfly

 

Butterfly

“The fluttering of a butterfly’s wings can effect climate changes on the other side of the planet.

– – Paul Erlich

“I would like to think that the singer is the butterfly, and the drummer was just the little grub in the ground, working to become a caterpillar.

– – Robert Wyatt

 


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 Three(3)

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (2)}

Since then, there was a big beautiful butterfly flying in the open air above the kitchen when we cooked dinner at the usual time. Then when the cooking was finished, it would fly away as carelessly as it appeared. On the first day, I thought it was just a normal butterfly. But the following day at the same evening cooking time, the same butterfly appeared with its wings fluttering around, as if saying hello. In the same area, it happily circled around above the steaming heat of the cooking pot.  How amazing it was!

Then the next day, and the next, the next and next, the butterfly would appear and disappear at the same time, same place, naturally.  Though the butterfly never visited my grandfather, just like my grandmother never spoke to my grandfather. Not in my memory. Not even a look.

* * * * *

Unfortunately, when I thought I could talk to my grandfather about the butterfly, he was suffering from the terrible illness which made him blind, deafer and mentally crazy. Also the cough made it quite difficult for him to speak for long. Day by day, he looked older, thinner and weaker with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Gradually, he turned sad and depressed like a sickened crow in the graveyard, powerless and fruitless.

Is he waiting for something like death? I wondered.

Especially, when fetching his diary regarding his medals from an old wooden box under his bed, and reading quietly beside him, now and then, I sadly glanced at his colorless face and heard his heavy breath from his half blocked nose. Sometimes, I caught some teardrops stealing out of his eyes and falling to his ears across his face. And that too gave me tears in silence.

After my grandfather was unable to live as he had done before, one evening, my father beat him twice in my sight when feeling frustrated from heavy farm work, while my grandfather was groaning noisily and painfully. One time he punched him in the shoulder and the other he kicked his legs with great anger. In half a minute, my father shouted out in a tone like a sudden thunderstorm, Why not die?! Old sickened thing! Burden! Die! Better we all go to die!

The room was dead silent and the air was frozen like a burial chamber under the snows. All of a sudden, my father burst out with floods of tears and cried like a helpless baby in the wild rocky desert. 

{Click here to read Chapter Three (4)}

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#66: Stranger

 

Stranger

“From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents – Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.

– – Jane Austen

 


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 Three(2)

The one carrying two buckets…

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (1)}

For the sake of the boy, unconditionally and silently, my grandmother did anything willing and unwilling, happy and unhappy. Until at seventy-three, she died by falling from the path where she was trying to hold a big bucket of piss and shit to water some green vegetables in the plot behind the house under the hill.

On the day of her funeral, my aunt cried loudly under the sun, leaning over the gray wooden coffin every now and then. All the relatives, the neighbors and the other villagers had left the grave but my aunt still knelt down with sobs and sighs. Probably, I guessed, she was regretting what she had done to my grandmother and the way she had treated her. Nobody knew what she was thinking except herself. And a flood of rain poured down on her on the way home after the funeral. All of a sudden, she looked much older with wrinkles climbing over her forehead and her eyes. Later on, with the housework and farmwork, her hands were covered with wrinkles like any other peasant women, like my mother.

On the next morning, my aunt was shocked and screamed out loudly when she went to the fireplace. It was all fingerprints with fresh dirt all over the wall above the wood-burning stove in the kitchen, where my grandmother was supposed to make the fire and cook, if she were still alive. And the dirty fingerprints just haunted my aunt like nightmares.

Madly, she washed them away with buckets of water. Unreasonably, she shouted to my uncle, Why would this happen after her death? No answer was made because nobody was sure, but all believed the fingerprints were of my grandmother. As the nightmares continued my aunt kept moaning every single day, strongly asking the whole family to invite a channeler to find the reason as soon as possible.  So no one in the house could sleep and no one in the house could stand her moaning any longer.

A month later a channeler was invited. As he requested my family found a regular woman, whose family name was Wu, from the other side of the river. When everything was ready he commanded, Nobody make a sound, not even fart. First the channeler made her sit with her head lowered on the table, while the others sat around her and watched in silence. As the air froze he threw out some words that nobody understood. Soon he started chanting and her body, especially her head, began to move more and more violently. When she talked it was with exactly the same tone and same voice as my grandmother. Everybody listened carefully to the heavy conversation between the channeler and the shaking woman, my ghostly grandmother.

Why did you come back to the kitchen? asked the channeler carefully.

I just wanted to cook as usual. It’s my place, with a scary windy voice and a slow ghostly tone, she answered like a real human being.

Do you know that your daughter-in-law will take that place and cook for you, your son, your grandson and maybe the next generation, like you did?  His voice was completely solemn, as if each word was formed by a piece of metal, heavy and clear.

How do you know my second son’s wife will take good care of the family while she regarded me as a slave, she asked back, with a sharp long weightless voice.

Don’t worry. I have talked to her and she so regrets that she hardly slept at nights. She promised, from now on she will take good care of your son, your grandchildren and the whole family, again, the channeler spoke like a holy man.

Alright, I will leave the house immediately. Tell her, I would come back again one day if she broke her vow, her voice turned as thin as the air and sounded relieved but with a somewhat threatening tone.

Your soul can rest in peace now. She will keep her word as she promised. Don’t need you to come or worry. What’s your biggest wish now?

To eat at my elder son’s side and say sorry to his wife. I have done many things wrong to her and her children, her sound was sad and full of regrets.

Your elder son’s wife never blamed you. And you are more than welcome as the family will cook food for you in the near future. Rest in peace please!

Okay, I am leaving. Wish you all well, in a slow speed, her voice dissolved little by little.

The channeler mumbled strangely, then the woman gradually stopped shaking, lifted her head and opened her eyes, recovering and returning to reality. With a great relief, everyone in the family took a deep breath. My aunt, at once, kowtowed thankfully to the channeler nonstop.

 {Click here to read Chapter Three (3)}

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#65: Freedom

 

Freedom

Freedom

“FREEDOM IS

WHAT YOU DO

WITH WHAT’S

BEEN DONE TO

YOU.

– – Jean-Paul Sarte (French Philosopher,1905-1980)

 


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 Three(1)

 

Too bad, my grandma died too early, so no portrait of her at all. But her shadow is everywhere in my home village house.

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Two (9)}

Ever since my grandmother had chosen to stay with my aunt’s family, she helped with almost all the housework of that family. She became like a labor slave as my aunt told her to do everything. Especially, when my aunt gave birth to a boy, as my grandmother expected, she used the boy as a sort of excuse or sometimes even a weapon to tell my grandmother to do this and to do that. She treated her like shit.

I remember vividly, it was my grandmother who gave me the first small piece of candy I ever had. Gratefully, I wanted to cherish it and didn’t want to eat it up quickly. So I just held it on my little palm and licked it now and again when sitting on a rock outside the house. Suddenly, a naughty boy of a neighbor took it from my hand and ran away immediately with just big laughter left behind, without a shadow, like a little ghost.

Thus I never liked what my grandmother did, not hated either, but more I think I understand as time passes. Even though it was her idea to send me away, to choose to stay at my uncle’s side, to show more favor to my uncle’s son and daughter than anyone in my family, to be mean to my mother, and to complain she should have more sons than daughters, and to leave the family when my grandfather joined the army.

She was a traditional Chinese woman with bound feet. Like most of the other women in the village of her age, some feudal ideas were stamped in her mind. She was a victim of Feudal thinking, I thought. Look at her bound feet all wrapped up with the white cloths! Look at her, she could not even walk properly or stand still. What to blame? What to complain? 

So I used to help with her dirty clothes, wash and comb her long white hair. But she never allowed me to see her bound feet when changing the cloths, even though I begged many times when I was young. So I never got a chance to see the mysterious bound feet without cloths and the dark world under the mysterious bound feet. Not even when she died. Because my mother and aunties never opened the cloths. It seemed as if they had been told as well not to do so.

{Click here to read Chapter Three (2)}

 

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#64: Incarnation

 

Incarnation

“When writers die they become books,

which is, after all,

not too bad an incarnation.

– – Jorge Luis Borges

 


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