Sugar Coated Detention Blues

Roy was home unusually early that night. Barging straight into his room, his mother thought that perhaps Roy was finally getting his priorities right and get down to his studies. Boy was she wrong.

Roy flung his school bag into the dark, dusty corner for him to pick up the following morning. He placed his favourite CD of the moment into the music deck and thumped the very foundations that held his house firm to the ground. And in an instant, his room once again transformed into a human pigsty as he rummaged his wardrobe for his football jersey.

It was the Inter-School football semi-finals after school the next day. And remembering his coach's last words to him that day, Roy was determined to get sufficient rest. Scoring four goals in the last 5 matches for the school, it wasn't easy for Roy not to feature in the semi-finals. He is red hot in form, working his magic down the left wing, mesmerizing the defenders like a professional gymnast.

Roy was up early the next day, his heart pounding and fluttering. Negative thoughts eroded his mind as he thought about the what ifs. The bell that signalled for assembly startled Roy from his thoughts as his classmates ceased their chattering and formed into their neat rows. As the National Anthem was sung, Roy overheard Sally and Zul discussing about a Math problem. "Shucks!", he thought. In his excitement, Roy had totally forgotten about the Maths worksheet that was due that day.

Frantically, Roy slithered his way up to Sally as the class was walking toward the science laboratory. Roy still had 2 hours before math class, and yet again, he found himself copying homework. Sick and tired of his lazy ways, Sally, being the sweet and demure girl of the class, once again allowed Roy to copy her hard work wholesale. Or so we all thought.

It was about time, Sally thought that Roy started concentrating on the academic side of school. And so, during recess that day, she marched confidently toward the teacher's lounge, with a hideous motive.

Sally emptied endless tales on Roy's bad habits to the form teacher, who was seated right beside the discipline master and school principal. She felt accomplished and tried hard to subdue the grin on her face as she left the lounge. Just before the school bell rang to mark the end of recess, a familiar voice boomed through the speakers.

"Can Roy from 4B please report to the principal's office immediately?", it echoed through the school walls. "Fuck!", Roy thought. "What now?", he quizzed himself, as he hurried toward the office with half the school fixated on him.

In a few minutes, Roy emerged from the room, his heart overflowing with sadness. His eyes drooped heavy with vengeance as he thought hard about whoever that could have snitched on him. Roy couldn't think of anyone at all. "You are out of the football team Roy. Until you prove to me you are worthy to get back into the team", the principal barked. "But it's the semi-f...".."No buts!", the principal interrupted Roy. "The ban comes into effect immediately! You will report for detention everyday. Let me brush up your lazy bones. Now go back to class!", the principal seemed firm with his stand.


Roy cursed himself silly as he dragged himself into the class. Everyone fell silent as Roy made his way to the back of the class with a glint of tears in his eyes. Within a few minutes, through stolen whispers, the entire class was now aware of Roy's predicament and how he's going to miss that all important semi-final football match that same afternoon. And silently, Sally felt the gloss taken out of her actions. Guilty as a murderer, she somehow knew that her actions had shattered that boy's dreams. And Sally felt sorry. Really sorry.

As soon as the bell rang to signal the end of school, noise filled the air as the students congregated amongst their cliques and plan their activities ahead. Roy took his time to keep his books, his face still painting a picture of a sullen mess. He looked out toward the canteen where the football boys usually sat. They were all getting ready for the big match. Roy shouted out to them, still affording a smile as he wished them luck. Feeling like a pricked pin, Sally hurried past Roy, deep with regret.

Roy entered the detention room with his mind elsewhere. How ironic it was that the room was facing the football pitch. The players looked like small matchstick men as they lined up for the kick off. Roy leaned against the corner pillar as he concentrated eminently on the match. It was obvious where his heart was at that moment.

Sally cleared her throat as she stood at the entrance of the detention class. Startled, Roy asked, "Sally...What are U doing here?". "Ermmm...I don't know how to put this in words but...actually...I was the one that told on you. I'm sorry", Sally blurted out, not daring to look Roy in the eye.

Roy looked at Sally full of shock and awe. Too devastated to even feel any hate toward Sally, Roy turned his gaze back onto the football game. Only this time, his mind was elsewhere. Never had he felt so betrayed. To think that he secretly had a crush on Sally!

Sally, stood rooted, waiting for Roy to mutter something. But Roy remained numb. Sensing her presence wasn't welcome, sadly, Sally turned and walked slowly out of the room, stealing a glance back at Roy, hoping he'd at least say something or perhaps...look back. Just as she exited, she placed a bar of chocolate on Roy's bag, remembering how much he loves chocolates judging from all those empty wrappers he stashed under his desk in the class room.

The school football team lost that afternoon by a single goal in stoppage time. The team missed Roy, and Sally hoped she didn't have to suffer the same fate too.

Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

The ghastly silence of the morning was rattled by the chirping of sparrows, filling the fresh misty atmosphere of the neighbourhood. The sun, still eager to reveal its radiant face, peeped bit by bit over the horizon. A huge Angsana tree, old and sturdy as time itself provided a night like shadow across Haley's room. Before long, the ringing alarm clock signaled the time for Haley to awake from her deep sleep.

She stretched herself like a lazy cat and muted the clock on her bedside table. Still very much in a daze, she stood up with eyes closed and walked toward the window to draw her curtains and breathe in the fresh new morning.

Haley stood rooted by the window on the second floor almost like a ritual, as she watched the cars zoom by the little street and the morning sparrows flying out of their little homes.

If you were as observant as she was, you could just make out those dark brown nests, looking like flower pots perched on the sturdy branches of the Angsana. Moving your gaze a little, it wasn't too difficult to spot another, and yet another nest. What cosy little homes Haley thought as she longed to be a bird perhaps, flying free and fast in her next life.

As the day wore on and Haley was busy at school, her mother was stopped in her tracks as she was performing her household chores. The monstrous heavy ramblings of powerful machinery filled the air. They sounded like chainsaws. "Finally, they've come to prune the trees", she thought.

The foreign workers laboured on those thick branches like a barber would a disheveled caveman. And soon after, the huge Angsana looked almost stripped and bare, less for a couple of smaller branches, which breathed the only form of life left in that listless tree.

That evening, as Haley was about to close her windows, she noticed something rather peculiar. She could somehow look straight through into her opposite neighbours' home. "Ah, they have trimmed the trees", she mumbled to herself.

Sadly, never did anyone spare a thought for those sparrows who once homed on that huge old tree, sheltering them from the night monsoon, and cold howling winds. Surely, the sparrows could not have constructed another nest to sleep in, within that measly few hours.

I wonder what would it have felt like, when they came home that evening to see their homes destroyed and lost? Where could these innocent sparrows sleep that night? Somewhere out there, those poor little souls are now wondering...aimless...and homeless.

Just Two Minutes

Do you remember your first date with that important someone? That nerve wrecking feeling where you fret silly on selecting that perfect outfit? Spending hours confronting your open wardrobe, pondering on your apparently vast, but seemingly limited choice of fine threads? I remembered vividly my first date in recent years not too long ago, albeit its queer circumstances that led to that date. But secretly, I coveted our second date more than any other. To me, that was the real proper first date between Yvonne and me.

Always a cool customer, my heart was only sent pounding, like African drums that brief few moments before she arrived. It wasn't as if I was meeting her for the first time, but somehow, a whole part of me just wanted to make everything right for myself. At least I felt I deserve a shoulder to lie my heavy head on, and break the chains that once held me down for so long.

Being out of the game for so long didn't help at all, but I thank god for my ability to converse and rattle on small talk, and her ability to reciprocate in similar fashion. Yvonne looked stunning from the distance. She had on a simple black dress, with a black shawl slung around her shoulders like an exotic snake. Not one to accesorise herself with jewelry, she did however had on a gladiator like bracelet to complete her look. She walked toward me wearing the most unforgettable smile, like the cherry toppings on a chocolate sundae. My heart was racing once again.

The first few minutes was rather queer but it ironed out fine. It was easy to slip into a comfortable mood with her warm and cheery disposition. I sensed many roving eyes penetrating on her and back at me. They must be wondering how lucky this plain looking chap is to be with such an adorable little pixie. It felt liberating one way or another.

I was never one to conform to social norms by restricting my dates to a dinner or a movie. I prefer conversing and getting to know the individual. Grasping bits and pieces of her personality via the way she speaks, laughs, and body language. I find it thoroughly sexy when the opposite sex questions my thoughts and challenges my opinions. I enjoy uncovering that little few similarities and differences, even though we come from diffrent backgrounds. Yvonne exceeded my expectations on that front, and a whole lot more.

We ordered desserts by a cafe by the busy sidewalk, with throngs of people, old and young, zooming past us. There were groups of friends, perhaps about to catch a movie...there were some scrambling their way home after a hard day's work. I would also imagine that some were eager to meet their loved ones, or maybe their date...just like I was.

The chattering of the evening birds returning to their homes were like music to the world, as the sun began to set, returning the elegant moon her shine once more. The lights that lined up the bust city streets illuminated and cast strange shadows on the walkways, and then, our desserts arrived, interrupting our conversation.

By and large, every minute spent on that date with her seemed like mere seconds. I choose to believe that we talked about anything and everything under the sun...so much so that I couldn't even remember what was being said. I did remember two things significantly though.

First was that I wasn't sure if she'd enjoy that secret little place I wanted to take her after our dessert. For the fact that she wasn't entirely properly attired for a long walk, just to chill at a unconventional location. Deep down however, I was adamant that she would appreciate that little sanctuary of mine. The parapet they call it, was definitely love at first sight.

And the other thing that I choose to remember from that day was how captivated I was by her smile, the twinkle in her eyes, and the charming effect it had on me.

Yvonne didn't complain about the arduous walk to the parapet. Rather short she said. Perhaps, our conversations, and the cosy little shophouses that line the roads kind of took that thought away. Though reluctant initially for the fear of heights, I felt she trusted me enough as I took her soft porcelain hands for the very first time and climbed the concrete ledge, overlooking the cars whiskering below us into the tunnel. The air was warm and the subtle winds comforting.

We sat there for hours, bickering, laughing, and sharing thoughts and the sort. Subconsciously, I found myself stealing glances at her, whenever she isn't looking. I loved the way she smelt, the way she snuggled up to me, and the fact that how a simple date can turn to be even more splendid, than any other I've been on.

My little fairytale ended as the night grew late, signaling the time for us to head back home. Though we live at the opposite ends of the island, I didn't blame her for thinking how I shouldn't have seen her home. She was just being thoughtful.

But to me, I felt that was the least I could do, to thank her for a wonderful time, and for the respect that I had for her. It was about time, I started to be a real gentleman. I didn't want to admit this initially, but part of me was reluctant to start missing her company prematurely.

We met again after that night, most of which were spent in similar fashion. Up till this moment, I've yet to recall any dull moment whatsoever spent together with Yvonne. Things just kept getting better and better. If this really is a dream, I'd opt to sleep forever.

On one of those dates yet again she told me how I needn't see her home. Though she meant well, I still felt compelled to spend that last priceless moments with her in the taxi cab. Though silent, these were always the best moments.

Reality hits you right in the face as the lift door closes. The first two minutes after seeing someone you like leave, is when you miss them the most. And the long journey home after that, usually the loneliest.

A Memory Lost

Like many people around us, especially in an Asian context, a grandmother is usually the most notably respected figure within our family circle. Like mine, they were always there to shelter us from storm, and the buffer when our angst parents wants to reprimand us. They were always be there, forever armed with age old wits and everlasting grace.

Though flaunting all those traits that I've mentioned, my grandmother seemed a little more beaming with strength and grit. Having lived through a war, burying 3 of her own children, catastrophic racial riots, and raising her remaining children through the drug filled 60s, she somehow managed to see through the tough road at hand, painting her life picture, dotted with bliss and sorrow.

Growing up in the same house, I noticed many people remembering her in their own unique ways. Be it her demanding discipline for upholding strong family values, patience, undying love and compassion or even her accommodating nature amongst many countless positive traits, I choose to remember her in another light.

As a very young boy, full of questions and constantly observant, I've always pondered what hardship or immense worry could have casted those dark wrinkles on her angelic face, like shadows, being casted upon deep dark valleys. Never one to talk about her sorrows, "What do they know?", she'd mutter, starring at my late grandfather's portrait, as if whispering to him. She found a way though, to kerb her pain. Cigarettes.

I could still picture her sitting on her favourite dark blue velvet couch, cigarette wedged loosely, as if hanging from dear life between her lips. She took deep breaths as she inhaled the smoke, rarely battling even an eyelid during those brief moments that she coveted. Perplexed with the cacophony of thoughts straying inside her, she seldom flicked the ashes too. She would allow it to accumulate like solidified dust, only for its own weight to eventually scatter it down on the floor. It must be devastating, my young mind questioned, the thoughts churning through her mind.

"Come here", she'd beckon out to me, interrupting me from my playtime. "Take this $10 and get me a pack of Kent lights, a loaf of bread, and please buy yourself something too", she would say, as she placed the note firmly unto my little palms.

I relish days like these for I enjoyed being out of the house for that brief few moments. I'd run down that sorry excuse for a hill, with the wind gushing in my face, refusing to slow down my pace until I reached that humble store at the end of the road. Torn and battered from the outside, the store stood sturdy over the years. it had pebbled stones for a floor, and the cash register was nothing but an old rusty Milo tin, fastened to an elastic spring that was riveted to one of those heavy wooden beams.

The store Uncle, a man in the twilight of his years, seemed energetic for his age. The wrinkles and scars that decorated his body seemed like an epic tale, begging to be told. He placed a pack of Kent Lights onto the wooden counter, almost reading my mind. I grabbed the load of bread closest to me, and hurried quickly to the rows of candy, picking my favourite one out.

My grandmother would usually reward me a dollar to run her errands. Initially, I'd spent the money the very next day at school. Usually on unimportant stationery, or snacks. But as I grew older, and the $1 note ceased in production, I began to cultivate the habit of saving. not for a rainy day, but rather a hope, that these little notes, that I wish to keep forever, shall remind me of her. It comforts me to know, that when my grandmother is long gone, I still have something, which her bare hands touched before.

Many moons later, as I had a family of my own, I was appalled at the reluctance of my children refusing to run me those simple errands, on this particular day. Glued to their video games, even the convenience store two floors below the apartment, seemed worlds away. Useless twits I'd tell myself as I ran the errands myself.

I climbed the stairs, with my purchase wrapped in a plastic bag, and recalled my youth as a boy running up and down that hill and decided to rummage my cupboard for that old brass tin, where I kept all of the money my grandmother gave me a long time ago. Though dusty and rusted, it still looked majestic to me. Never in my life had I taken the time to count all that money, and in an instant, I became that eager little boy I once was. I closed my room door shut, and emptied the contents unto the floor.

The smell of old money seeped through the air as it brought back all those memories as I counted them one by one. Then there was this particular note half blotched red with blood. I remembered that day particularly well, for I tripped and fell on my way back from the shop. Fearing a beating for staining my clothes, I used the note like a tissue, dabbing my slightly bleeding elbows. How time flew I thought. Twenty odd years worth of errands, and $1016 richer, I gasped in utter bewilderment!

I squeezed back all those money into the tin and placed it near the wall of family portraits, right under that of my grandmother's, and silently prayed for her, closing my eyes and imagining her shining a toothless smile back on me.

That very night, as tragic as it may sound, my apartment got burgled, though no one was harmed or awake when the crime took place. There wasn't much that the thieves made with less for a couple of mobile phones, a laptop, and a few cheap fakes for paintings. But they did got away with that brass tin, nestled by the portrait on the wall.

That morning, as I sat at my favourite dark blue velvet couch, smoking a cigarette, I questioned the irony of it all. To have such a saddened end to a legacy of memories between grandmother and grandson, robbed from my grasp was not easy to fathom. My wife didn't tell me how devastatingly beaten I looked that morning until a few days later. She didn't have to. From that moment, I knew what it felt to have been stripped bare...and let go of something one loves so dearly.

(FYI: This is not a true story. My grandmother is still alive and kicking. I pray for her long life. This is just my way, of saying how much I appreciate the little things that she does for me.)