The Fucking Book – Less Than Mystery – Part One – The Dwarf – Chapter Three(7)

The Only Books I’ve Read Before College! They were, by chance, brought from out of the village by my father. They were nicely bounded by blue cloths on inside-out math textbook covers,well-bended nails and strong threads, with patterns of holes that are made by insects. No idea how old they are. But they’re with me now.

 

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (6)}

I was touched deeply by its look and the way it behaved. The sound of its fluttering still echoed somewhere in my ears and the images rose before my eyes time and again. I smiled, so did my whole family. My aunt called it God’s wish. My parents called it a Spirit of my grandmother. By then, I was too amazed to give it a proper name.

Vividly, the images of her fresh fingerprints and the mysterious bound feet in gray shoes appeared in my mind when I thought of her now and then. Sometimes they blurred in my dreams, like an abstract photo or movie, replaying over and over again.

* * * * *

There, too many questions occupied my head. More and more question marks that I didn’t understand and couldn’t find the answers. If I asked my parents, they would just say, It’s your grandma, as they told my curious brother. No more talking, respect it and let your grandmother rest in heaven with your grandfather, they marked it by rapping with the chopsticks on their hands. So I buried all the questions deeply into my mind and believed one day, the books would tell me.

The books would tell everything as long as you study in the school, I muttered as I often did.

But the books just say, Don’t believe in any superstitions, don’t believe in any ghost. The books don’t explain, Why. The books just tell me Do this and do that, don’t do this and don’t do that. But the books seldom answered my questions.

After years of school life I found the textbooks were more useful for the countless examinations than what you need in reality. Apart from the textbooks and some other books good for the tests, no other books were allowed in the school before college. No library, no computer either. Oh, there was one room called a library in my high school, but all were rubbish propaganda with all forms of Maoism and Deng Xiaoping Theory. Such as “Long life Mao Zedong Thought” or “Capitalism is bound to perish, and Socialism will replace Capitalism” or “All reactionaries are paper tigers”.  No one ever bothered to borrow anything but some old, useless magazines. Until college, in the library there, finally I started reading some literary books which I found made me feel at home.

Since then, I would rather call the butterfly supernatural.

As through time passing, many complex feelings emerged in my mind and a simple light formed and reflected in my eyes. All told me, that a huge mountain was heavily falling and invisibly pressing down on me and my family.

And the only way that I could go out and see the other side of the mountain was, as I believed, Knowledge changes fate.

The End of The Extract!

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#70: Cry

 

 

Cry

“I’m worth more dead than alive.

Don’t cry for me after I’m gone;

cry for me now.

–  Marlene Dietrich-

 


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(6)

The sight of a butterfly’s back!

(Photo taken in Kuala Lumpur of Malaysia, 2015.2)

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 3


{Click here to read Chapter Three (5)}

After cooking some dishes, with the warmth and excitement melted with the scents of smell from the food, the heat from burning fire and the sticky wetness from the sweats, I couldn’t help stealing some home-made wine. Almost each dish I cooked, I would swallow a mouthful of wine before adding to the food in the pot. The more I drank, the more excited I felt and the stronger waves of warmth kept my feet tipping and tapping time and again. As though I was going to pee very soon.

Meanwhile, my aunt was busily cooking in her kitchen. When she finished some dishes, she would ask me, How many more left to cook? Is the butterfly still there? Strangely, no matter how delicious the smell sent forth from my aunt’s kitchen, the butterfly never flew there. But my aunt was not surprised, not depressed. It seemed as if she was afraid that the butterfly would just fly away and disappear unhappily. As long as the butterfly was happy, she would do as it pleased, she thought.

As each dish was finished, I put it on the table at the end of a spacious hall in the open air with bright sunshine. Before that, my father already put some tobacco leafs and a bamboo pipe on one side. When all the steaming hot dishes were placed on the table, I poured the old sweet sour red wine into eight small red plastic cups, two on each side of the table.  By the time I returned to the kitchen to take off the cooking cloth which was tied to my waist, it was too late to run for the toilet outside the house. I couldn’t move, not even stretch my body. For half a minute, I had to bend my back, press my hands on my thighs and squish my legs tightly, trying to hold it a bit longer. With the thin loose trousers without any belt, I could easily have taken them off and pee into the ditch about five steps behind me.

However, once I tried to relax and move, the uncontrollable waves turned into a different warmth, running down through my thighs and my hands. It felt so good that I just stayed still. I found myself pissing right in front of the burning stove, relieved. I then tied the cooking cloth back to my waist and quickly cleaned the floor. Silently I withdrew to my bedroom to change the clothes. As soon as I joined my family in another room, everyone was ready to watch secretly through the gap in the small window.

Astonishingly, the butterfly appeared and fluttered first around the roof with a small sound. In a moment, it flew closer and closer above the table in an up-and-down circle like ballet dancing. With a certain slow speed, it flew and slightly touched the food on each dish and sometimes the plastic cup of wine, like a dragonfly skimming on the surface of the water.

Later on, peacefully, the butterfly rested on the edge of one side of the table, looking as if it felt full, satisfied and contented for a little while. Then surprisingly, it flew and fluttered again around the roof in circles. Sometimes low, sometimes high. For a few seconds, it stopped over the roof with eyes staring at the food on the table. It seemed as if the butterfly was saying goodbye, sadly and happily. Suddenly, again it circled around for the last time, flew away to the wild and disappeared in the distance.

Since then, nobody ever caught a sight of the butterfly again.

{Click here to read Chapter Three (7)- the end of the extract}

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#69: Hatred

 

Hatred

“Years of love have been forgot

In the hatred of a minute.

–  Edgar Allan Poe –

“IT IS BETTER TO BE HATED FOR WHAT YOU ARE THAN

TO BE LOVED FOR WHAT YOU ARE NOT.”

 


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