UnScene #4

UnScene#4: I had a dog named Axel.  He died in 2005.  I still think about him a lot.

Axel

Gemma hadn’t gone home in a month.  It was a day before the end of the semester.  Nearly all the students were frantic about deadlines, oral defences, exams, and the like.  Gemma decided to put off taking the long trip home until the semester was over and done with.  Besides, she’d be able to get more study and work done with her classmates and dorm-mates at hand to help her.

“Tomorrow,” she told herself.  “I’ll be home by tomorrow night.”

But how she missed home!  She was sick of looking at the same dormitory food, sick of professors and group leaders breathing down her neck.  She missed the TV at home, her books and video games, the laughter around the dinner table. Most of all, she missed her dog, Axel.

For twelve years, she had always been the one in charge of taking care of Axel.  She did everything gladly – feeding, washing, picking up his poop, chasing him down whenever he ran out onto the street to chase some cat or other.  He was Gemma’s best friend.  They were nearly inseparable.  And then she got into the big university.  Her parents sent her off proudly.

Her mom told her not to worry; Axel will be well taken care of.  But of course she did worry.  Axel was an old dog, after all.  So Gemma made sure to come back home every weekend, refusing invitations to go out with her friends, passing up on weekend getaways.  But she didn’t mind missing any of those things. 

The day seemed to pass quickly enough.  Soon Gemma was stepping off the bus, slinging her large duffel bag over her shoulder.  It was a fifteen-minute walk from the bus stop to their house.  Suddenly she was nervous.  This was the first time she came home so late, and she had to pass by a rather shady street on her way to their house.  It was safe enough in the daytime, but at night...  She picked up her pace.

She managed to walk down the dodgy street without incident, without looking any one of the loiterers in the eye.  She was almost through the worst; in the distance she could almost see the gate of their house, when someone grabbed the strap of her bag from behind.  She nearly fell over.  Someone laughed. 

“Just grab the bag!” said one voice.  “Let’s split!”

Without looking, Gemma kicked hard at the person behind her.  Her blind aim connected and there was a piercing yelp as her foot hit something tender.  She screamed at the top of her voice, snatched back her bag and escaped.

She ran toward home, gasping; the sound of her attackers’ pursuit loud in her ears.  And then she saw it – Axel running out of their gate toward her, fur bristling, fangs bared; Gemma heard him growling furiously.  The dog ran past her, straight into her pursuers.  She dropped her bag and ran faster as she heard voices scream, feral growling, fabric tearing, feet running away.  The sounds faded as she ran faster, closer to home. 

She came abreast of the gate, panting, pounding the iron with her fists, kicking with her feet.  Why was it locked?  Didn’t Axel just run out?  She took a deep breath and yelled for her parents.  Soon they came through the front door running.

“O my god, Gemma!  What happened to you?”  her mom rushed to open the gate.

“Mama!  Pa!  Axel... those men...” she gasped, out of breath, through her tears.  “Get Axel back, Papa!  They’ll hurt him!”

“Axel?  What are you talking about?  What men?” demanded Papa.  “Did someone attack you?!” 

He grabbed the nearest thing to a weapon at hand, a garden hoe, and rushed out of the gate into the dark streets.

Gemma could only collapse to the ground, sobbing.  Her mom kept asking her what happened.  Soon enough, her dad came back, bringing her duffel bag with him. 

“What happened, Gemma?” he demanded.  “I found a lot of blood around where you dropped this.”

She told them everything.  But their faces didn’t show they believed her.

“Papa, didn’t you see Axel? We gotta get him back!” Gemma cried.  “He saved me.”

Her dad remained silent.  He exchanged a meaningful look with his wife.

“Gemma,” Mama said carefully.  “It couldn’t have been Axel.  It must have been some other dog.  It’s dark, you didn’t see clearly.”

“No, Mama, it was Axel.  I saw him run out of our gate.  We have to find him!”

“No, Gemma,” her mom hesitated.  “I’m very sorry, dear, but Axel died this morning.  We wrapped him in his favourite blanket.  We were just waiting for you to come home so we could bury him together.  I’m so sorry.”

Gemma couldn’t say anything.  She could only let her disbelieving tears fall silently down her cheeks.

The Prestige - Christopher Priest

I finished the book "The Prestige" by Christopher Priest, and it is simply spectacular!  I'm so terribly fortunate to have been given the chance to read so many great books, and this is definitely one of those.  I've seen the movie and I loved it (awesome director [Christopher Nolan] and fabulous cast [Christian Bale, Hugh Jackman, Michael Caine] ), but the novel just gives you an entirely different perspective since YOU get to create the world and the people in your mind.  The revelations simply become all the more astonishing.

The novel transports you to the 19th century, where two talented magicians are locked in a bitter rivalry that consumes both their lives, spanning even to the generations that follow them.  Both equally obsessed with revenge and with outdoing the other, they attack and retaliate all through each other's every success and failure in search of a means to bring about his rival's downfall.  As they guard their magician's secrets jealously, they begin to weary of the endless enmity and resentment.  Yet still they inadvertently and inevitably bring disaster and tragedy on each other, even as they seek to find reconciliation and an end to the bitter feud. 

The story is told in memoirs and journals, in confessions and revelations, all of which culminate in a final horrifying discovery - the terrible outcome of their contest.  The entire book, from start to finish, is an incredible balancing act - full of mystery and illusion - a perfected magical performance all on its own.  Even the look of the book is strange and captivating.  I also love the typeset of the text - it really gave the whole story a period ambiance. The pace is gradual at first, then builds up until you can't let go of the book without knowing what happens next anymore.  Central to the novel is the slow but sure revelation of the true characters of the two magicians. Who is the hero; who is the villain?  One can't say.  Who won in the end?  I don't think anyone did.  They both gained and lost just as much. Who was the better magician?  Impossible to tell.  They both did to perfection what only the great magicians could do - they kept their secrets well.

This is an absolutely brilliant book - it won the World Fantasy Award even though it is only toward the end that one can find elements of science fiction in it.  It is so unlike anything I've ever read before.  Christopher Priest must be a real magician or a true genius.  Otherwise he must be a truly gifted madman to have produced such work as this.  I definitely recommend it to all readers who enjoy deep, thought-provoking, mind-boggling material - and to most everyone else who loves to read good stuff.  

Unscene #3

UnScene #3: I knitted a scarf for a friend.  I saw a beggar at the train station.

Scarf

It took me three weeks and eight balls of yarn, but finally I finished it – my first knitting project, a beginner-basic scarf.  I loved how thick and soft it was, how gracefully it seemed to drape around my neck and shoulders.  I felt the genuine warmth and pride of having something to show that was the product of my own two hands.  The scarf would make the harsh winter more bearable, if not downright pleasant.

I walked through the crowds at the train station with my back straight and my eyes on alert, self-conscious because of my scarf.  No one would notice it or me, but that didn’t matter.  I knew.  It made me a tad bit more confident.  I bought my ticket and sat down on the nearest bench to wait for my train, looking around to see whether anyone was looking at me. And of course, no one was.  For at that time, the people were all looking somewhere else.

At a man in particular, who sat with his back against the wall under the big clock.  He was clearly a beggar.  His hair was a dirty mess; he had not shaved for at least a week.  He had no coat to protect him from the winter’s cold, and his shoes were tattered and falling apart.  In front of him was an empty plastic cup of instant noodles in which passersby could drop their cold, unneeded coins.  Men like him were often seen at train stations, but they were not stared at, no.  Most people choose to look the other way, but not in this case.  Because the beggar had started shouting.

“Don’t throw your damned coins at me like garbage!” he yelled.  “I still have my pride.  I’m still a man!  I’m still a man!”

He was madly beating his fists against his chest, against his thighs.  People in his immediate vicinity quickly dispersed, moving as far away from him as they could.  Soon, two of the station’s security guards were rushing toward him, threatening him that he’d be thrown back out into the freezing streets if he didn’t keep quiet.

Instantly the beggar quailed.  In my eyes, he seemed to shrivel.  The fire of anger and hurt pride that was blazing on his face and in his voice just a moment ago was suddenly gone, and he was shrinking, retreating into a posture of defeat and misery that made him once again just another beggar no one wanted to look at for too long; something less than a man.

I don’t know what came over me then.  I stood up and walked toward him, unwinding the scarf from my neck along the way.  I crouched in front of the beggar, holding out my scarf to him.

“Mister?  Here, you can have my scarf,” I offered.  “I made it myself.”

He looked up at me, and at my beautiful scarf.  Slowly he reached for it and draped it around himself, sighing at the comforting warmth.  Something alive lit up in his eyes again as he looked back at me.

“It’s a good scarf,” he said.  I nodded.

“I’m quite proud of it,” I told him, shy all of a sudden.

“I was very proud, too, not so very long ago.”

His eyes dimmed again, staring off into the distance, into his shrouded memories.  His hands fondled the ends of the scarf.  I stood up and walked slowly away. 

Somehow I couldn’t hold my head up so high anymore.

Unscene #2

UnScene #2: It was Valentine's Day in Japan. 

I thought I'd try to write something about it.

Boxes of Chocolate

 “Shouei-sempai, Happy Valentine’s Day!” the unknown girl said with a big smile as she shoved a fancily wrapped box of chocolates under Shouei’s nose.

“Err... thanks...” he managed to murmur as the girl turned to walk away all a-giggle.

That was the fourth box today.  Shouei sighed.

“At least it’s not as bad as it was last year,” he thought to himself, remembering the dozen boxes he received the previous year.

He heard a familiar voice calling him from behind.  He turned and saw Anri-chan weaving through the loitering seniors in the corridor on her way toward him.

“Whew!  Found you at last, Sho-niichan” she recovered a breath before she dumped the contents of her arms into his. Six fancily wrapped boxes of chocolates.  “You sure are popular.  Some girls from my class were too shy to give these to you themselves, so they asked me to do it.”

Ten boxes now.  Shouei sighed.

Anri laughed.  It was low and had a touch of irony to it.  It made Shouei smile as well.

“That’s better,” commented Anri.  “You should be glad so many girls like you. Smile at them like that and make them happy!”

Shouei wanted only one girl to like him.  Right now, she was waving good-bye as she turned to go back through the crowd of noisy students exchanging Valentine presents and waving each other good-bye for the day.

“Gotta run, Sho-niichan.  The teachers might leave soon!”

Shouei had shrugged off his backpack and was trying to stuff all the boxes in when someone tapped his shoulder. 

“Yo, Shouei.  That wasn’t my sister, was it?” asked Genta.  Shouei nodded.

“Where’s she going?  I told her to meet me here as soon as the bell rang.  Dad will pick us up any minute now,” Genta muttered.  “It’s Dad’s turn tonight, he said he’d take us out to dinner somewhere,” he explained at Shouei’s bewildered look.

Shouei had never met Genta and Anri’s father, even though they had been close friends since elementary school.  But he simply nodded in understanding.  He knew the circumstances of their parents’ divorce were tough on his friends, especially for Anri-chan.

“I think she was headed for the faculty office,” he told Genta.

“Dammit.  So she really is gonna give that thing to Inoue-sensei,” lamented Genta.  “That girl is hopeless.”

“Inoue-sensei?!” blurted Shouei.  “Anri’s got a crush on Inoue-sensei?  He’s at least thirteen years older than us!  And isn’t there a rumor that he and Suzuki-sensei are dating?”

His best friend just shook his head, saying, “She says Inoue-sensei reminds her of Dad, in some ways.  I tried to tell her off, but...”

Genta left Shouei behind, asking him that if Anri comes back, to tell her to head straight for the school gates.   Shouei was still trying to fit all the boxes into his bag when he saw Anri walking slowly back down the emptying hallway.  Her face had a distant, bewildered look on it.

“Anri-chan, Genta said he’d wait for you at the school gate... Are you alright?  You seem pale all of a sudden...” Shouei held her arm.

“Married,” Anri mumbled.  “Inoue-sensei and Suzuki-sensei are gonna get married.  He said it himself.  He didn’t even look at my present for him...”

Her eyes glazed over and her face reddened for a moment, but she didn’t let a single tear fall.  She blinked a few times, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath.  She looked down at the fancily wrapped box in her hand, as if wondering what it was still doing there.  She held out the box to Shouei.

“Here, Sho-niichan.  You can have it.  I baked them myself,” she said proudly. “They’re really tasty, too.  Oniichan did the taste-test for me.  He’s probably fuming out there by now.  Gotta go, see you later.”

Shouei stared at her rapidly retreating back.  When she disappeared around the building corner, he walked straight to the nearest garbage can and threw the box in with a vengeance.  Then he opened his bag and threw in the rest of the boxes as well.

“I HATE VALENTINE’S DAY!!!” he yelled out.

His voice echoed back to him in the now-empty corridor.

Unscene #1

According to O. Henry, "There's a story in everything."

UnScene is my attempt to find a story behind any random object or idea that I come across as I go through my days. These "scenes" may be about something trivial or something important; it depends on what kind of story the objects or ideas want to show me. And what a show they do give!

I have always believed that stories have a life of their own; and like any living thing, they want to attest their existence.  I don’t think they want to remain unheard, or unseen.  So if it please you, friend, listen and take a look.

UnScene #1:  I got bored while waiting for my students to arrive, so I took out some chewing gum.

Chewing Gum

Joel sat behind the wheel, waiting for Michele to come out.  Pulling the road map out of the glove compartment, he again re-checked the route to the new restaurant.  The last thing he wants is for Michele to laugh at him for not even knowing which way to go.  This night, the first of many in his mind, must be 100% perfect.  The bouquet of roses waiting along with him on the passenger seat smelled subtly of his eagerness and anxiety, intoxicating and sticky-sweet.  He glanced back to the front door.  Nothing yet.

“What’s taking her so long?”  Ah, women.  He took out some gum and started chewing.  Cherry.

He remembered the last time he had waited in a car for a woman to come out of her house.  That was two years ago, on his birthday, early in the morning.  He wanted Elaine to be the first person he spoke to on that day.  So he sat waiting outside her apartment building around the time she’d be heading off to work.  Instead of roses, he had a small cake sitting next to him then, candles ready to be set, lit, and blown.  He had imagined making a wish for the future with his future wife beside him.  It would have been the perfect beginning for a new life.  His excitement was making the ring in his pocket seem to burn. 

Finally Elaine came out.  But she wasn’t alone.  The tall man beside her had his arm around her waist.  Elaine turned to him, on her tiptoes, to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him.  A long, lingering kiss.  She smiled coyly as he whispered some secret in her ear.  She stepped back and the tall man turned and walked away.  Elaine closed the apartment’s door as she went back inside.

Joel heard a door close.  He looked up and saw that Michele had finally come out, polished and radiant in a deep red dress that ended just above her knees.  Her hair was up, and her neck seemed so soft and smooth.  He knew he would smell her light floral perfume if he pressed his face to her warm nape.  He would like to imagine that scent, would like to taste it in his mouth.

But at that moment, as he looked at that beautiful woman, the gum that he had been chewing suddenly turned dry and lost all its flavour.

Myoma

Forgive me, Mother, for giving
birth to nothing
but these cold bloody stones.
May I still be a woman?
May this torn womb still bear
the child of your blood? I am
only a bag of skin and bones
and stones that never will pull
one breath of life. May I
still be, Mother?

The Stars My Destination - Alfred Bester

Some time ago I finished reading “The Stars My Destination” by Alfred Bester.  It was really awesome.  No wonder it’s considered one of the great sci-fi classics, right up there with “The Dispossessed” by Ursula K. Le Guin and “The Sirens of Titan” by Kurt Vonnegut. 

It strongly reminds me of “The Count of Monte Cristo,” and I love how savagely portrayed Gully Foyle was.  The events of the tale come at you like a barrage of explosions – one after another in rapid succession.  I do wish they never changed the title – the original was Tiger! Tiger! after William Blake’s poem – is so much more appropriate and the analogy was indeed carried throughout the story.   Foyle is a relentless predator in his struggle for vindication and he will just drag you through the muck and debris of his wake all through the tale.  It was amazing to feel like a first-hand witness to his savage pursuit – I couldn’t help but want to goad him further, make him fall faster, and see his fire burn everything around him.  And yet I almost felt for him a profound pity.  Somehow at the back of my mind I was hoping for his redemption.  Revenge is a dish best served cold, so they say.  I’m not so sure Gully was able to enjoy that cool dessert.

I like the fact that all the other characters are equally emphatic.  Their interactions with Gully and with each other make the plot and the pacing more dynamic.  Plus, for a science fiction piece, this didn’t sound like one.  A minimum of unpronounceable words and theoretical physics was presented.  It was really more of a story; a well-told tale.  And I especially enjoyed the concrete poetry presented toward the end – awesome.

Having said that, I don’t think every reader would actually enjoy this.  I’d recommend it to someone who doesn’t want anything soft and mushy in between the pages.  This is a hard-line, fast-paced missile of a novel barrelling through space straight into your brain, dragging you along without pause.  Not for the faint-hearted.   I give it 8/10.