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

Drawing#63: Dying

 

Dying

“I’D RATHER BE DEAD THAN DYING.

– – STEPHEN EVANS

 


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(9)

Less Than Mystery

Heather Cai

Chapter 2


{Click here to read Chapter Two (8)}

A sudden wind blew my hair to my mouth. He must have gone to heaven, right?

My grandfather did not answer me right away. He gave a start when I tapped him on the shoulder. I emphasized the words, Did he rise to heaven?

Yes, I guess he did. Do you want me to? laughingly, he asked back.

Yes, I want all the good go to heaven and the bad to hell, I burst out in answer.

Well said, Little Lotus! See? You are a good talker now. You told the ghost story very well. Don’t be afraid to talk more in the future, okay?

I nodded at his meaningful smile and his look of deep significance.

Why would you like to wash your body with that cold water in the river, even in winter? All of a long sudden, this curious question burst out of my mouth, uncontrollably.

Because of the war, I have to clean the blood, the flesh, the dirtiest, the most cruel part, the most horrific memories and many many nightmares, as I did before. Then I can purify my soul and sleep better.

He paused at some point and then added, I bet you too young to understand what a soul is. Don’t worry; you will understand when you grow up.

I was eager to grow up. So eager that once I even put on a white bra of my mother’s and stared at my flat chest in the mirror. Grow up, grow up, when are you going to grow up? I muttered.

When looking far into the high mountains in the distance, my mind always wandered and wondered, What’s on the other side of the mountains?

Lake? Sea? City? Park? Zoo? Bridge? Rainbow? Or just another mountain?

Is it day or night? Sunny or rainy? Clean or dirty?

Are there many different villages and people?

Is there still a war or fighting happening?

Is there any invisible soul hiding behind there?

Is it belonging to another world?

Or the end of the world?

{Click here to read Chapter Three (1)}

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#62: Headache

 

Headache

“If the headache would only

precede the intoxication,

alcoholism would be a virture.

– – Samuel Butler

 


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#61: Autosadism

 

Autosadism

“Autosadism, or automasochism, is behaviour inflicting pain or humiliation on oneself. It may be related to self-harm[1][2] or a paraphilia involving sexual arousal.[3] It can be viewed as a form of masochism,[4] a sublimated form of sadism, or a means to experiencing algolagnia, a sexual tendency which is defined by deriving sexual pleasure and stimulation from physical pain.

– – Wikipedia

 


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

Make “Chinglish” a Poem

psb-55

Discovered this cute little ladyboy from one of the laundries I have done in my life. I reckon she has the same cuteness as my “Chinglish”.

Chinglish, Chinglish…

Rock, Rock, Rock  …

My writing style…

You are so “Cute”, aren’t you?

Each language got beautiful side.

And I love to make  you Biutiful…

You may get Public Enemies… 

But nothing can stop being yourself.

You are not formal language.

But  U  are the best way to express yourself.

You are your own language, I love you.

I believe You Are Not Alone.

British English could be your GrandPa;

American & Canadian English could be your parents;

Australian English could be your old bro or sis.

See?  You are Little Princess.

Trust me. I will make you Queen when you meet the right Prince.

And build up your own family & have children’s children

to carry on your family name–Chin (ese). 

As long as Chinese & English survive, you will survive.

God bless you, A’men.

PS: Originally –