The Apple and The Tree

Credits: artfoodhome.com
Credits: artfoodhome.com

Why did the apple fall so far from the tree?
We are as different as night and day
It’s as if we live in two different worlds
That cause friction everytime they collide

Whenever you talk about history
All I hear is irrelevance
Your advice, I never heed
It made no difference after all

But during rare eclipses,
Night meets day and we would talk
Laughter, the joyful sound pleases
Then an abrupt end.

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The Apple and The Tree

A Man in a Mustache

The plane landing was a bumpy one.

Rookie pilot? he wondered. Then he quelled that thought and silently thanked the pilot for the undeniable fact that the pilot has fulfilled his duty – the plane was guided to the ground safely and a bumpy landing should be the least of anyone’s worries.

Involuntarily, the question of one’s mortality crept into Eric’s mind. It seems like I’m always entrusting my life into strangers’ hands. The pilot could’ve killed me. Or my waiter could’ve poisoned me. And now I’m about to enter a taxi whose driver could kill me just as easily too.

Eric was a thinker. It’s a habit of his that springs up whenever he commutes. It’s also another habit of his that his mind jumps topics as quickly as they do. Now he was wondering about home and designing scenarios that might occur when he finally opens the door.

The door swings open, they are there with balloons and a cake. Little Cyrus blows the streamer and emits a ‘phuuu!’ sound. I laugh. Then we all fall into a warm family hug.

Or…. Cyrus is a cheeky fellow. Maybe he’ll prank me. The cake. Yes, I suspect he will smash the cake in my face. *chuckles* How will I prepare for that? The most I could do is remove my tie, I guess. *removes tie* I’ll have to spend a great deal of time getting that cake smell out of my new mustache. Is it the first time they seen it? Yes, I think so… I wonder if they’ll like it.

Cyrus did not. He did not like it at all. When he heard the front door opened by a man in a mustache which he had never seen before, he clutched his mother’s shirt and asked, “Mom, who is that?”

Eric did not see that one coming.


This tale was prompted by this post: May 2nd – Other People’s Memories

A Man in a Mustache

The House I Lived In

Today’s Prompt: Where did you live when you were 12 years old?

It was common for their neighbors to hear them have altercations. But attempts to help have not been returned kindly. Denial were all that met their ears when the neighbors acted out of concern. The doorstep was guarded by a grate, and what lies between had not changed for the past 12 years: an ordinary shoe rack, a red welcome mat and the umbrella stand.

It could be described as a perverse blessing for what lay behind the door to remain behind the door, for their neighbors to be fortunate to be spared from the family’s troubles. This was not a happy family. A temperamental father, a heartless mother were the ingredients to the unpleasant brew I call my family.

The front door opened to the living-cum-dining room. It was a rectangular room of warmth brightly lit by natural light, with a cozy ring of sofas with the TV on the side. The dining table was at the side nearer to the front door, and people who dined there had the unhealthy privilege of being able to watch TV while dining. Behind the TV was the corridor. It led to three rooms along the side and the final one at the end. One kitchen, one storage room, and lastly two bedrooms.

The bedrooms were awkward and their purpose were confused. Two people slept in the smaller one: the mom and her son. The father slept alone. He tried to repair the situation but

“It was the snores!” she exclaims, then she would retort, “I’m taking care of Fred!”

But it was the ultimatum that was never dropped; the key to unlock the marriage that was not twisted: “I don’t love you anymore.” But it was the truth. Here was where I lived when I was 12.

The House I Lived In

#Writing101 I Am My Own Rock

Today’s Prompt: Write about a loss: something (or someone) that was part of your life, and isn’t any more.

Loss? I could write about my loss in several things. The loss of my innocence, when I learnt how cruel the world is. The loss of the love in my family, that’s juicy for sure. The loss of my grandfather and great-grandmother last year, which I am not feeling as much as I should. The loss in insignificant competitions, that would not be juicy or even interesting to talk about at all.

The world is indeed cruel, wouldn’t you agree? Do you still remember the hopes you had as a child? The hopes that were crushed the minute you gained epiphany on how evil the world’s inhabitants are, do you remember?

I was a shy boy (believe it or not) and I wonder if it has ever left me. But as a consequence, my interactions with others were next to none. I kept to myself and my books, and games, believing everything I read. I believed that people were kind and the bad ones were taught a lesson and do change for the better, from Enid Blyton’s books. The Disney fairytales always taught me that there will be a happy ending.

I don’t quite remember when I lost my innocence/ learnt the harsh ways of the world.. and I don’t remember either if it was immediate or a transition. But what I know is, I’m not an optimist like I used to be. I became pessimistic, constantly worried, paranoid, and stressed, and all these happened unconsciously. I hate the person I’ve become. I like being optimistic. It’s really gloomy to look at the world from the gray perspective. Whenever I comfort my friends that ‘everything will work out in the end’, I feel like a damn hypocrite because I know it’s a lie and life will swallow us up. When I expect my examination results, I am somehow hoping for the worst. I became pessimistic even towards myself; I doubt my own capabilities to score.

Something is terribly wrong with the world. I wouldn’t want my future children to lose their innocence the way I did. Heck, I want them to remain bright and sunny for all of eternity, unlike their father had been. Sometimes I wonder if it was my own parents who made me this way. They never seem to be happy of me. Never proud of my achievements, and always doubting me. Negativity is infectious, and soon I began to doubt myself, and I was on a scholarship back then, where I would be terminated if I did not get consistently stellar results, thus the doubt from both me and my parents culminated in a great deal of stress for me. My father once advised, “Never let yourself understand what stress is.” Ironic, isn’t it, that my father was partially responsible for teaching me what is about?

And that brings me to my family issues. I feel like I grew up in a typical Asian family. (Truth be told, I don’t believe in stereotypes, but for the sake of conveying my meaning in the least words, I used ‘typical’. You get what I mean, don’t you? See, it works!) All the telltale signs of a typical Asian family are there, the musical classes, the demand for ‘A’s, all with incessant nagging and excessively strict parental control thrown in with a bonus. The only missing factor was that they did not demand for me to be a doctor.

I hate this kind of parenting. There is no love. To them, a son is merely a product that has to be polished to become the very best. So polish they did, and there is no love required in the process. Somewhere along the way, my father lost his love towards my mother. He even hates her. Hates, present tense, mind you. He grew distant and my mother was the only one I kept in contact with. It is absolutely ridiculous to have a father figure available, yet being forced to grow up without one. For the last six years, that’s what it felt like. I traded no more than an hour’s worth of conversation with him in the past six years. He lives in the same house as I do. My family is dysfunctional, to say the least.

But things only got worse. Since my father became distant, my mother grew moody as well. She developed tantrums, which was compounded by her lack of patience and short fuse, and exacerbated the entire family dysfunctionality. (created a word there.) She began declaring that I am her burden and could not wait to get rid of me once I had a degree which is capable of landing me a job. I don’t know how truthful it is since she blurted it out only during her tantrums, but it hurt me nevertheless.

So, I have no father figure, and I have a mother who does not care for me. I have no siblings, and my other relatives are more distant than (I don’t know…. insert your own sarcastic simile here please). You can’t count on your friends, since they are not obliged to stick with you through thick and thin….. and that leaves me with no one. I am my own rock. I guess that was when I hardened and believed in the worst in people, the worst of myself and the worst in what the world has to offer.

(Does this count as depressing? I sure hope not. I couldn’t care less anyway)

#Writing101 I Am My Own Rock