Grim Reaper's Pie

It was night time.

Not just any kind of night, but one where you couldn’t even see your fingers if you hold them up in front of you. It was a night where you felt that you have been robbed of vision. It was a night, where not a single wisp of moonlight bounces off the surface of the earth. It was pitch-black, as if god has spilled ink all over earth.

In his apartment, a ninety-year-old retired medic Thurston Thames was soundly asleep in his cozy bed. Thurston’s snowy hair fell lightly onto his pillow, as if a dove resting in its nest. He snored very slightly, until he heard loud banging sounds resonating from his front door.

“Thurston” a deep, tranquil, crystal-clear voice reverberated around Thurston’s house. But no answer came.

“Thurston Thames” and he called out again, but clearer, louder and seemingly with a pinch of irate. Thurston was now wide awake. His eyes were opened to the size of saucers, with cold sweat trickling down his finely chiseled skull. It was that kind of voice where you could break out in cold sweat even in the scorching heat of the Sahara desert. The medic felt his teeth chattering involuntarily and he pulled up his warm blanket as he lay on his soft, warm kip.

“Thames Thurston!” and he bellowed, sonorous, crystal-clear and brimming with wrath. Thurston felt his heart skip a beat. Feeling sick in his stomach, Thurston swallowed hard, clutched at his stomach and reached for his rosewood walking cane. He then stretched his legs, pushing hard on his cane, and stood up. He reached for his handkerchief on the side of the table, next to his bed; gently dapping the perspiration that was quickly forming on his forehead with trembling hands. Then, he reached out for his elk hide blazer and draped it over his shoulders, only to feel that his pajamas were drenched in cold sweat. Then, he slipped on idem sandals, walked, with trembling feet to the door. Gingerly, Thurston twisted the ice-cold, metallic knob clockwise. The door opened with a creek, like a moaning animal.

“I have called your name thrice. What took you so long to open the door?” The voice asked. Thurston, staring at this creepy silhouette in the middle of a pitch-dark night, was overwhelmed by fear. As he opened his mouth to speak, he only managed a croak. Just then, the neighbor’s light came on. And that was when Thurston wanted desperately to get out of the scene. There was a menacing glisten on the right shoulder of this person. It was sickle shaped, ice-cold, and lifeless. It was unmistakably an enormous reaper. What’s more, the silhouette came with a black hooded robe, concealing his face. Thurston’s legs immediately went jelly. The silhouette slammed open the door, pushed Thurston into his home. But Thurston straightened up.

“What do you want?” He swallowed a lump that was fast rising in his throat. He plucked up his courage, walked a few steps into the front, standing in a bull-dog stance. Even with his strong front, Thurston’s legs were quivering, and locking up. There were even beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. His heart was racing like a F1 car during the last lap. The silhouette inched nearer to Thurston. The old medic limped backward, his legs totally paralyzed by immense fear. He rummaged about his surroundings for just about anything to grab on lest he passes out, or lest he gets pulled out of his house by the grim reaper. But the grim reaper was so near, he was only an arm’s length away. His unmistakable reaper shimmered under the bright yellow light from the neighbor’s window. He closed his eyes, and braced himself for his own death. Just then, a cold, lifeless hand was placed on Thurston’s neck, which sent instant chills down the old medic’s spine. Thurston could feel his whole body quivering, shivering, like as if he was left unclothed in the Arctic, even though he was dressed in his thickest elk hide blazer. That hand exerted a force so strong, it sent Thurston plunging and sinking straight into his soft, satin, Elizabethan arm chair. As he got nearer, the odor of death and decay filled Thurston’s nostrils. Thurston sunk back into his chair, ice cold sweat trickling down his sharp chin, as the hand got moved up his nape and he came eyeball to eyeball with the grim reaper, as he await for his imminent doom…

“Click!”  Thurston’s bed-side lamp was flicked on.

“Thurston!” The grim reaper lifted up his hoodie. Thurston opened one eye to see who it was.

Why it was the childhood playmate that accompanied Thurston throughout much of his life—Elliot. Being his classmate ever since they were in kindergarten until their senior year in university, he has undoubtedly become the closest person to Thurston’s heart and the one friend that Thurston treasures. Elliot brought along their high school art project—the reaper’s umbrella, with a sickle shaped metallic handle and wore their graduation robe, along with a black hooded jacket. Elliot fished out a white, oblong box that reeked of garlic, leek and dead fish, while Thurston, previously tensed up in his arm chair, and heaved a sigh of relief. Elliot flashed him his signature winsome grin, only now, it was toothless. Both men’s wrinkles eased out as they burst out in laughter.

“Old buddy, how do you like that?” Elliot slapped the old medic’s back, delivering the same amount of force as he used to when they were teenagers. Decades on, Elliot who turns ninety just in two days, could still deliver the same amount of force and joy in every friendly slap of the back.

“Here, try my latest invention—pickled anchovies pie.” Elliot opened the white box. His smile had a golden lining about it as it was hued by the warm glow of Thurston’s lamp.  It was a heart shaped pie, unlike any other pie that Thurston has seen his whole life. There were little cream stars that decorated every corner of the pie that seemed to glow under the light of the lamp. Thurston felt his stomach rumble instantly.

“Can I have a bite?” Thurston pointed to the pie.

“Sure thing mate, it is specially prepared for you!” Elliot smiled. He took out the Swiss-army knife that Thurston remembers from their sophomore year of college and gently cut out a lion’s share of his pie for Thurston. He hands it over to the old medic, and smiled as Thurston took his first bite.

Just like its shape, the taste was nothing like what Thurston had had in the ninety years of his life. The pie crust was soft, yet crispy. There was meaty, soft, juicy anchovy flesh and a crunchy chunk of pickles. His tongue was coated with the most gentle saltiness and sweetness, like the sea licking your feet as you take a walk in the waves. Though it did not smell as good, but this was The Pie in Thurston’s life. It was so delectable, so savory, it was hard not to ask for a second serving. Once he was done, Thurston smacked his lips, and went the classic “Mmmm” for relishing a delicious dish.

“Come Thurston,” Elliot pulled his chair closer to Thurston and took his hand. “Today’s my test for general nutritionist in the hospital.” He said. “So tell me, how did you like my pie?”

NAPFA

PE TESTS ARE HERE TO STAY

CAN YOU OUTSHINE ALL OF THE REST AND CLIMB ON TOP OF THE LADDER OF FITNESS AND REACH FOR THAT GOLD AWARD?

 Recently, I had my NAPFA PE test. It's really discriminating how they categorize all the kids into Gold group, Silver group, Bronze group, or simply no award. Like seriously, you see a horizontally inclined kid in class leap into the air, land with a big thud like an elephant onto the standing broad jump mat, shake your head and immediately tell him:" Dude, sorry, this year you ain't getting any awards." (I'm personally very horizontally inclined)

"OH HOHO, CHER, ONE DOES NOT SIMPLY UNDERESTIMATE MY POWER."



 STANDING BROADJUMP

Ah yes, I just don't understand. Why is there such a big difference between the standards of guys and girls. We only need 165cm to ace this but boys need 215cm to do the same. And so, there's this dude in class who geared himself up by swinging his arms vigourously and violently like a helicopter and took off into the air, hands slightly behind him, head tilted upwards, and left foot pointing up like a ballerina. And with the most graceful pointe landing I've ever seen, he's accomplished a whooping 180cm. (Yes, but he still hasn't aced it). Girls in class get into the spread eagle position as if they are sky diving, bend their legs as low as possible and take off like a missile and land off with a mere150cm. I really applaud this dude's ballet skills. So hilarious, yet so amazing. 
 

 

Good old days

Recently, I had a school suggestion programme where we were to suggest on how to make the school better. And then, all the memories of what the school used to be came flooding back.

Students used to have 2 recesses, or rather 1 lunch break and 1 recess. I still vividly remember the times where I could grab a big steaming bowl of noodles filled to the brim, full with succulent chewy fish balls and crunchy fresh vegetables with savoury soup at an affordable price of just $1.50 without even having to foot and extra bill if I added noodles. I could even get a side dish of a sunny side up with a golden, half liquid yolk with a generous dash of soil sauce dressing just by adding 20 cents more. 

Good were those days where we indulged ourselves in the world of Reader's Digest. How Bethany Hamilton overcame the obstacles of losing an arm in a shark attack and being unfazed by difficulties, she picked herself up and became a surfing sensation. How funny it was for a kid's dad to be dressed as Ariel the Little Mermaid and see him off to school every single day. We would rejoice each month when we hold the newest issue of the Digest in our hands. I still recall the euphoria on each and everyone of my classmates faces and the ambiance of joy in the whole class. It was like the god of joy came to visit us and oopsy daisy, he missed his flight back so he gotta stay longer. xD Similarly, we received copies of National Geographic magazine. We were so engrossed in the articles that every month when the issues came, our teacher had to give up the period for reading, discussion and analysis. My best mate Ashley and I loved those articles so much we read throughout recess, read on the bus, and even in the bathroom. I had missed the last bus home whilst being captivated by the beauty of the formation of identical twins that was reported in Nat Geo one issue. 

Now, I sit in the canteen. In front of me is a bowl of noodles that can barely fill up the base of the bowl with a watery-yellow solid yolk. The fishballs looked like deflated balloons and the vegetables were limp, rubbery and soggy. There goes my daily allowance. I picked up my SoWhat?! magazine and sift through. It's still the same old matters that they discuss. Every issue is about the same and both the entertainment the beneficiary level is markedly reduced. Ashley and I rarely read SoWhat?!. I don't know about her, however, when I read the other magazine that the school has ordered for us ---Asian Geographic, a much better magazine than SoWhat?!, my heart still yearns for an issue of National Geographic. I sigh as I put down the books. Poor juniors, they'll never get to experience the joy of reading and that rush of excitement when a new issue of a long-awaited favourite book comes and the content and pride you have when you are the holder of the newest issue of the book. Gone are the good old golden days, and they shall never return. 

Bahlahku

Frankly, I've left my previous school for almost three years now. But there's one person that taught me never to judge a book by its cover and that I will never forget even till my dying day.

I was a messy little kid. Ebony locks of hair always danced in the wind as I loved to jump and play around until my hair came loose. I wore a blouse that couldn't take my size any more and a skirt that covered my calves. I had a couple of decayed tooth that were clinging onto my gums like a rock climber grasping onto a cliff for dear life and loved to yell and shout. I wrote a type of cursive no teacher could understand in school and rebelled whenever I saw the need. And sometimes when I felt like it, I skipped bath times and went to school smelling like a pile of old socks. So you could say that I was a living proof of decorum's failure. Or what my friends jokingly referred to me as Barbarian Jan.

And then, came along this dude. He was more of a thug than all the other classmates. His glasses were slanted, dangling only on his right ear. He wore an oversized T-shirt and baggy pants with spills of sauce, mud and sweat. He yelled, screamed, pushed and elbowed classmates whenever he need to and had scabs all over ever inch of skin he had. And we affectionately called him the Bahlahku man (Bahlahku is a local slang for much scars).

Bahlahku man was notoriously known for engaging in fights and destroying school property. [So that's where all his Bahlahkus came from :D ] He was often seen in detention, writing lines by the discipline master's side and chuckling as she snored away happily while we were astounded by his amazing guts to even laugh of someone of such high authority. He pulled the monitor's plaits, cut girls' ponytails when they weren't noticing and tied boys' shoelaces together in a knot. He tore our books and drew on them and, launched a flying pen at our science teacher, which till this date, I still marvel at how he defied the fiercest teacher in the level. He was an outlier, and nobody wanted to associate with him. Everyday in class, he would sketch action figure on his notepad and munch on the M&Ms he had bought from a nearby petrol kiosk. He never, ever handed in any of his homework.

Then this fateful day came. We were on a field trip to the Dairy farm. It was the first goat farm in the country that commercially supplies goat milk to the whole nation. As there weren't enough funds, the school only managed to hire a very small bus with a limited number of seats. Unluckily, I had to sit next to Bahlahku man. I rolled my eyes in annoyance and watched as the rest of the girls in class laughed and chirped how "lucky" I was.

Anger rose in my heart. I could feel my blood boiling and my insides seething hot. I gritted my teeth and boarded the bus. There, I sat crossing my arms as I turned my back on Bahlahku man, grunting as the bus ride continued for eternity.

"Hey," I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. A crystal clear voice called out.

"What do you want?" I asked angrily, not even turning my back to see him.

"Want some ham and cheeze sandwich? Ma made these for me " He extended out an arm filled with scars with a translucent blue lunchbox in his hand. He opened the lid of the lunchbox, revealing minute bite sized melted cheese sandwiches with generous toppings of glazed ham that sat in between two slices of aromatic white bread.

"No thanks." I replied blandly. But deep down, temptation wanted me to take one of those and pop it in my mouth.

"Come on! This is my ma's specialty. You gotta try!" He nudged me gently.

"Fine then." I said via pursed lips. I grabbed one and stuffed in my mouth like a barbarian and chewed with my mouth open. It was a flavour I've never tasted before. A mix of soft, dairy taste and the sweet, chewy ham filled by entire mouth. The bread tasted like wheat that was just harvested, boasting a dash of freshness and aroma.

"How's it?" He beamed.

"It's really good!" I smiled at him and took one more. By the time we've reached Dairy farm, I've finished the whole thing.

"Man, that's good." I smacked my lips and rubbed my stomach in content.

We laughed and chatted all the way through the visit, ignoring all the jeering from our classmates. It was the best learning journey I've had.

When we got back to school, I was waiting for my mom and dad to fetch me home. He handed me a badly crumpled white envelope.

"Janine, promise me you won't open this till you get home."

"Fine, whatever." I replied nonchalantly.

"Alright, see you, soon then!" He beamed and waved as he settled himself into the backseat of his dad's taxi.

"What kind of junk would be in here?" I sniggered. But instead it really amazed me.

It was a handmade card. Though it wasn't all that exquisite (and severely crumpled) as those that were sold in bookshops, but it was still really special. The front was pink, the rims were dotted with hot pink glitter and with red paint, a crooked heart was drawn on the front of the cover.

I opened the card.

"Jan,
I've never had a friend, so I decided with this card that you'll be my first one.
It's not my place here, the teachers and students all hate me
I'm going back to where I belong
But..
 in a few years I'll be the richest man on Earth, you'll see!
Meanwhile,

Would you be my Valentine?"

I threw away the card then, thinking he was this jerk who knows nothing at all and deserves to be hated. But now,


Yes, Bahlahku, I'd be glad to be your Valentine.

The Music Cup II

"Oh damn it! Why?" Kydroxy's brows furrowed and his eyes filled with perplex and frustration.

"There is no alternative category this-"
"THERE IS ALWAYS AN ALTERNATIVE MUSIC CATEGORY YOU POMPOUS OLD COW! " Kydroxy leapt up from his seat and spat at Donovan, "SINCE THE DAMN DAY THIS SH-"

"Decorum Kydroxy!" Donovan stood up from her chair. She slammed her palm on her table, knocking over her citrus tea onto  Kydroxy's resume. Both were shocked as Donovan covered her mouth agape with her pale wrinkly hands.

"That's the last straw!" Kydroxy stormed off and slammed the door shut.

"Oh bother!" sighed Donovan as she shook her head. Just then, she noticed Kydroxy's wallet was lying steadily on the chair. She hurriedly picked it up and went outside to catch up with him.

"Kydroxy, wait! Oh---Bleaurgh"

Donovan dropped the wallet as Kydroxy sunk his fangs into her neck. Crimson drops splattered on the floor and Donovan's hand fell limp to her side. Kydroxy gently placed Donovan onto the pale yellow marble floor and licked the remaining blood from her orifice. He rummaged for her phone and dialled 995.

"Hello, Emergency here, Hello?" came the voice over the phone. Kydroxy smirked before kicking Donovan's body with considerable violence and walked down the hall where he came from.

"Hello? Everyone all right?" the voice on the other end kept asking but no reply came. Donovan's face was pale as paper and her eyeballs upturned. Her glasses skewed and her blouse dyed a brilliant shade of cherry red as she lay motionless in the hall way. 

The Music Cup

"Knock knock" came the crisp sound of the knocking on the old mahogany door.

"Enter," said Matilda Donovan with a just as crisp English accent. She pinched her shoulders of her milky silk short-sleeved blouse with puffy sleeves and fiddled with her big baby blue bow on her neck to look as neat as possible. She put on her black rimmed spectacles, with a hint of thickness at the side, and twirled her loose grey curls as they fall gracefully like a waterfall to her shoulder. She was the main judge for the first music cup of the season and can't wait a second longer to see the first participant in the heats. To settle herself more comfortably, she poured herself a cup of citrus tea into an intricately designed cup with sparkling golden handles and rim with realistic peach blossoms blooming all around the cup. Before she took a sip, she placed a cube a sugar into the crystal clear, reddish brown beverage and gently stirred the cup, letting the aroma of citrus fill the whole room.

The music cup is the most prestigious of music competitions throughout the whole of Europe with an elimination rate close to 100%. Those who can make it to the final round in New York can be seen as the creme de la creme of their generation for music.

"Say what you mean! Tell me I'm right, and let the sun rain down on me!" loud singing rang through the room as the old door flung open. A tall lanky man strutted in, pulled the chair in front of Donovan's antique pine table with intricate carvings, and rested his feet on her table, almost knocking over her cup of tea.

"If you don't mind," Donovan was utterly disgusted at the man's lack of manners. Coming from the land of the Gentlemen's origin, it was very unsightly to have one's feet on a stranger's table when they walk in. She was already mad at him for bursting open without knocking, and now she was infuriated with this rogue sitting in front of her. She stared at his feet and then his eyes and noticed that his eyes were shaped as if it was carved by a very talented and skilled sculptor. It was a shade of brilliant blue and spoke of nothing but calmness, just like the ocean.

"Sorry mam, mah bad," He took his feet off the table and sat cross-legged as Donovan tried hard not to roll her eyes.

"Name and hometown?"

"Kydroxy, Wisconsin." Came the brisk reply.

"Very well, may I have a look at your resume?"

"There you are mam," Kydroxy handed over a stack of paper no thinner than the whole series of the Encyclopedia Britannica.

"Thank you," Donovan managed to force herself to say so. She was already extremely annoyed with the chap sitting in front of her who haven't got the faintest sense of what is courtesy.

She sieved through the first few pages of his portfolio, and came up with the answer just as fast. It was nothing more than a rejection.

"How is it mam?" Kydroxy stood up from his chair, his eyes shining with anticipation.

"Sorry, Kydroxy, you are rejected."