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Statement of Intention:
This short piece, set in
Venetian Rose
Li Mei
And then I saw her.
She was of oriental appearance; her tall slender figure silhouetted against the colourful, striped fabric of the ice cream stand. The morning Venetian sun spilled its golden light on her hypnotizing features: her flawless skin, angelic face and long, black hair. She threw her head back and laughed as she conversed with her two friends. Her laughter resonated in my ears like the chime of divine bells in heaven itself. Her two Italian friends, though they must be Mediterranean beauties in their own right, acted only as foils to the girl’s ineffable charm. She stood out like a majestic rose among a field of daisies, a diamond upon a …
“John! What are you dreaming about?” The irritated face of my girlfriend popped up into my vision.
“Wahh!” I jumped back in surprise, my fantastical thoughts shattered. “Oh, nothing really, I was just…”
“Well, stop thinking about nothing and get moving then!” Ciara angrily cut me off. “There’s only one more week left in our holiday, and we’re not going to waste it cloud gazing.”
A pile of shopping bags was shoved in my arms, and I was dragged along the cobblestone pavement of old
Ciara sat with her arms crossed, pouting and angry at my diverted attention. The usually talkative Italian rower, dressed in the red and white traditional garb, sensed the hostility and kept his silence.
“I read that there are some great shops near St. Mark’s square. Do you want to go there this evening? The weather looks great.” – My feeble attempt to diffuse the tension.
Silence.
Our holiday wasn’t coming along too well. Ever since arriving from
To my relief, Ciara’s mood improved as the day progressed. We shopped for several more hours – the one thing I hate about girls is their insatiable appetite for consumerism – and visited St Mark’s Bascilica. The august domes and golden arches of the Byzantine edifice instilled a sense of awe within me. No wonder this city was named the City of
Night befell
Literally translated , the bar was called “The Green Dragon”. To my delight, its large modern interior with dance floor reminded me of some of my favourite habitats in
Sipping a mug of beer, I made myself comfortable on a red leather seat by the fringe of the dance floor.
“Don’t do anything stupid now”, Ciara warned me before excusing herself to the bathroom. I watched her disappear through the mass of young dancers bopping to American hip-hop. The music wasn’t my favourite, but it was a pleasant break from a week spent in the Renaissance. My eyes wandered freely among the party-goers: local girls enjoying their break from university, tourists like us enjoying a night out, and the occasional -
My heart froze.
At the other side of the dance floor, the goddess I saw in the morning sat alone. And she was waving to me. An unknown force took control of my legs. My rational mind ceased to exist as I walked trance-like towards her table. Ciara’s warning had been swept from my mind.
My feet reached their destination. Act naturally, damn it! I cursed myself as I finally regained control of my body.
“Hi,” the girl said to me with a heart-melting smile that would instantly immobilise any man.
“H...h…hi, what’s your name?” I managed to stutter back. All thoughts of Ciara disappeared from my mind. The whole world has ceased to exist except for Venus herself sitting in front of me.
Her name was Constanza, and she had come from
Her voice was like a chorus of angels and the beauty of her face was intermittently highlighted by the flashing disco lights. I was mesmerised. And I didn’t notice that Ciara had been away for an unusually long time.
“Would you like to dance?” I offered my hand.
“I’d prefer to do something else first,” Constanza smiled devilishly at me. Her face drew closer to me.
My heart raced. I leaned forward and close my eyes. I could feel her warm, soft breath on my cheeks –
BANG
I jumped to my feet, smashing my knee against the table in the process. Constanza had collapsed onto the table, knocking over her cocktail! I was at a total loss of what to do. I looked around; nobody had noticed and the music was too loud to shout for help.
“Constanza, are you ok?” I shook her body.
“No need to worry John.” I jumped, and again banged my knee. Ciara had strode over from nowhere.
“Look, she…she...she’s” I stammered.
“She’s only a robot.” Came Ciara’s cold reply.
“What?” This couldn’t be true. Ciara was just jealous. I looked around in incredulity. One of Constanza’s friends I saw this morning was sitting at a bar stool, waving at me. She was holding…a remote?
I looked back at Constanza. She was no longer unconscious, but had moved over to the seat against the wall and sat staring dreamily into space. I waved my hand in front of her face. No response.
“John, I think we need to have a talk.” Ciara’s frosty tone jolted me out of my shock. And in a flurry of movement she had me by the ear and was dragging me out of the bar.
The Venetian night was cold. “What was that all about?” I asked grudgingly, rubbing my sore ear.
“John, my father was right. He thought you were a dodgy character the moment he set his eyes on you. That’s why he planned this test.”
“What, this was all a test?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes, and you failed. That robot was a TX-253, state of the art Japanese technology. It looks and acts like a real human. It cost my father a grand sum, but looks like it was money well spent.”
I could not believe this. The world crashed down around me. That robot must have had hypnotic powers or something, I thought to myself.
“We’re going back to the hotel right now, mister. And anymore antics from you, I’ll have you crying for your mama,” said Ciara coolly.
My mother, I thought to myself as I, dazed, followed Ciara along the stone street. What did my mother always tell me about infidelity? Wild flowers are best left unpicked.
And how right she was.
Statement of intention
This creative piece is set several hundred years ago aboard what appears to be a pirate ship. The intended audience is mature readers ranging from teens to adults. Though the reader may not be able to relate to the setting of the narrative, the epiphany the protagonist experiences is likely to be of a nature common to all of humanity. The piece is intended to invite readers to rethink their goals in life and examine whether their goals are what they really want. The structure of the piece is divided into several short separated scenes, with the last chronological scene placed as an introduction.
Treasure
Li Mei, 12B
A body, or what was left of it, hung atop the ship’s mast. A sabre protruding from his abdomen was silhouetted against the orange sunset. Seagulls circled overhead like a cloud of death, ripping at what appeared to be a captain’s apparel. Oblivious to the putrid stench of rotting flesh, the scavengers fought over the body, their ear piercing screeches carried far by the salty wind.
* * *
“Throw him overboard!” Franks barked, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Please captain, spare me,” the deckhand begged. “I have a wife and two children to feed, I can’t die yet.”
“Sir, please. Sure, Will is clumsy and foolish at times, but his loyalty more than compensates for these inadequacies.” Franks’ first mate pleaded on behalf of the doomed man.
“Enough!” Franks rattled his sabre in fury. “What good is loyalty if it comes without brains? I will not have this moron on my ship.”
Franks turned away and surveyed the damaged sail. The steely glint in his eyes reflected his callosity. Splash! The hardened captain did not flinch.
“Back to work! This sail must be fixed by dusk!” Franks bellowed at his men, who eyed him with disgruntled disdain behind his back.
However, Franks did not notice these looks. No. He was above these petty men. There were more important things to worry about. One of them, he savoured to himself, was the treasure map he had won from the old man at the inn. Having had years of experience on the seas, Franks was certain of the map’s authenticity. Back in the lofty captain’s cabin, his rough hands traced over the ancient, yellowed parchment. A smile spread across his gnarled face, distorting his already grotesque countenance. Riches. Fame. A legacy to rival that of Blackbeard’s. And it was all his, Franks thought, his alone. He looked out the window and saw his men hard at work, repairing the damage that the blunderous Will had wreaked on his ship. The crew can have a share of course, Franks smirked; he will toss them a few gold coins at his disposal.
* * *
Flame from the torches cast an eerie glow on Franks’ face. His steel sabre flashed as he fought to hold off the men surrounding him. His back hit the wooden mast.
Cornered. Nowhere to go.
“Get back, you insubordinate scoundrels!” Franks shouted at his crew for the last time.
“You have ordered us one too many times, captain.” The first mate spat out the last word with obvious contempt. “We work hard for you. Your fortune is built upon our blood and sweat.”
“And yet you, you treat us like mongrels!” a deckhand snarled. The mob murmured in angry assent.
“The treasure,” Franks attempted to barter with the advancing mob, “I’ll give you half – no, three quarters!”
“Too late, Franky. We are going to find the treasure ourselves. And we are going to split it evenly amongst the men. Yes, evenly. You mustn’t be very familiar with that word, Franky.”
* * *
Franks grasped his chest, blood seeping through his fingers. He watched, through his blurred vision, as what used to be his men took over the ship. Their raucous shouts as they plundered the captain’s quarters were nothing but a distant drone to him.
He knew he was dying.
Images of his life played before his eyes. He was a child again, begging on the streets with his mother for food and money. People walked past obliviously, some looking down at them with disdain… He was 14, pleading with a merchant to allow him onboard as a deckhand. The fat man frowned at his skinny build. “You?” The man laughed… He was a young man now, grieving over his mother’s death. He wept for days, but the only person whom he loved and who loved him was dead. The flame of love was snuffed out in his heart…It was a dimly lit room. He and the rest of the ship’s crew were plotting mutiny against their captain. Their conversation was hushed and a cold sweat caused each man to shiver…
Suddenly, Franks did not care about wealth anymore. His life was but an empty shell, filled with the blind pursuit of gold. Love and affection were sated by whores, and friendship replaced by mutual manipulation and distrust. He had never known the meaning of compassion, for he was never shown any. He did not know mercy, nor forgiveness. He was as unfamiliar with many facets of human decency as he was with the father that he had never met. A gradual realisation that he had lived a life of delusion dawned on him. The epiphany struck him like a heavenly light of atonement upon a wayward soul. Franks was joyful in the fact that he had, in his last moments, see through the façade of ostentatious wealth, but was plaintive that he had led a futile life. One could have all the gold in the world, but what good is it if one had lost his humanity? Life, the dying man decided, should be about living out one’s principles and beliefs. But what were his beliefs? Franks could not remember. If I had another life, Franks thought, I’d…
Franks’ head fell on his shoulder as his eyes closed for the final time. A tear drop ran down his face onto his lips, where the faintest hint of a smile had manifested itself.
Frank had lost his quest for treasure. But he had found his meaning of life.
Statement of intention
This creative piece is written for teenagers of upper primary school age and up. Unlike many other pieces of its type, this narrative’s aim is not to pontificate a moral to its readers. Instead, its goal is to entertain, thrill and surprise readers of the aforementioned age group. It attempts to achieve this by being set in a bleak hospital ward in Christmas time, something most children would dread. The macabre ending, left to the reader’s imagination, is designed to be thought provoking even after the reader has finished reading. The language used is for an advanced audience.
I’m not Philip!
Li Mei
“I’m not Philip!”
A boy’s intermittent shouting as he approached my ward compelled me to put down my Gameboy and look towards the entrance in curiosity. The source of the commotion revealed itself as a nurse pushed a scrawny looking boy in a wheelchair into the room. His hair was brown and untidy, his lanky arms gesticulating wildly as he continued yelling at the nurse “You’ve got it wrong! I’m NOT Phillip!” The nurse rolled her eyes; she seemed to have heard it a dozen times. She coaxed him into the bed opposite mine and hung a plastic board on his post. I could make out the letters MAGROIN, Phillip.
“Ring this bell if you need anything, Philip,” she told Philip as she tucked in his sheets and walked to my bed.
“I said, I’m not Philip!” Philip retorted defiantly, casting a sulky look towards her.
“Don’t worry about him, Martin.” The nurse whispered to me as she replaced my towels. “The poor boy is having his leg amputated, and its Christmas Day tomorrow too! He’s been trying to convince us that he is someone else ever since he arrived. You’ll be nice to him won’t, you?”
The boy gave the nurse another vehement cry of “I’m not Philip!” as she exited the ward. It was just the two of us now. I pulled myself up from my bed and in the friendliest tone I could muster, said to him “Hi, Philip. My name is Martin.”
“I am NOT Philip!” Philip shouted at me and ripped the curtain around his bed shut.
Great. Stuck in a hospital with some identity-confused loony on Christmas Eve. I sighed, but was immediately assaulted by a violent seizure of sneezes. I have always been allergic to the smell of hospitals. Although I have been here for a day, the pervading whiff of penicillin and alcohol was still overwhelmingly stimulating for my sensitive nose. The fading sunlight was filtering through the window blinds, lining the whitewashed walls of the ward with stripes of yellow light. A collection of get-well cards from family and friends crowded my bedside table; my sister had even brought me my basketball trophies. Spilling onto my linen bed sheet were my Marvel comics, none of which interested me now.
Philip’s curtain was suddenly pulled back. “My name is Ben,” he said glumly, scowling at me as though if daring me to challenge his words. He must have felt lonely, I thought.
“Err… hi Ben. What are you here for?” I replied warily.
“Nothing really, just a checkup.” He took no notice of the skepticism etched on my face as he twirled his sheet in his fingers, looking preoccupied. “What are you here for?”
“Having my tonsils removed. I can hardly eat because of the pain”.
The room fell into silence again, and night slowed settled around us. “Night,” I said to Philip as I pulled on my orange pyjamas.
“Night,” he grunted back. “And merry Christmas.” I rubbed my eyes. I almost thought I caught a sneer on Philip’s face as he pulled close his curtain.
It was a restless night. I have been scared of sleeping in hospitals ever since I broke my leg in my second year at school. From the creaking sounds of the bed springs emanating from Philip’s direction, it was apparent he was sleepless too. When I finally dozed off, my sleep was pervaded by nightmares. I dreamt of being chased down the hospital isle by a giant bouncing pumpkin, of having my leg amputated, of an evil looking Santa laughing at me at the end of my bed, who then transformed into a smirking Philip…
“Yup, this is Philip,” voices roused me from my slumber. Two men in white robes stood beside me, lifting me into a stretcher bed.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Shocked, I struggled in vain against their unbreakable grips.
“Your operation Philip, it’s in ten minutes” One of them said behind his surgical mask.
“But, I’m not Philip!” I cried, bewildered. “He is Philip!” I pointed to the other bed.
“The nurse told us this will happen,” the doctor sighed. His partner checked my file hanging on my bedpost again. “Yes, you are Philip Magroin. Be quiet now, or you might wake Martin up.”
“NO! You have it all wrong! He is Philip, I’m Martin. He swapped our files in the night! I saw him!”
Dread filled me, creeping across my skin like an icy gel. I shouted and kicked, but to no avail. I was wheeled out of my room to the elevator across the foyer, screaming all the way “I’m not Philip!”
As the elevator doors began to close, I saw Philip’s head poking outside the ward.
He smirked.
posted by [sui generis] li mei at 12:15 am
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