Asian Shorts E-Book

Owen Jones

• Herausgeber: Tektime
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Serie: World Shorts
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 175

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Asian Shorts came about because of a sequence of events on one weekend in May 2015. A friend was telling me that he had several short stories with Asia as a backdrop, I was saying that I had a few as well, another friend sent me an email that he wanted to write a short on Pattaya, and one of my Thai cousins sent me her latest photo, the one on the cover of this book.
It was like somebody was trying to tell me something, or several were anyway.

Leseprobe

ASIAN SHORTS

by

Various Authors

compiled by

Owen Jones

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

Copyright © July 2015 - 2018 Owen Jones Author

Published by Megan Publishing Services

at Kindle, CreateSpace and Audible

The right of Owen Jones and the other writers to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. The moral right of the authors has been asserted.

In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously.

Conditions of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

CONTACT DETAILS

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The Authors

Trevor Aindow

Jennifer J. Chow

David Collier

Bernard Foong

Gay Ingram

Owen Jones

Mike Lord

Sarah Mallery

The individual authors remain the owners of their own stories and should be contacted directly with any queries using the details they have provided after their work.

About This Ant1hology

Asian Shorts came about because of a sequence of events on one weekend in May 2015. A friend was telling me that he had several short stories with Asia as a backdrop, I was saying that I had a few as well, another friend sent me an email that he wanted to write a short on Pattaya, and one of my Thai cousins sent me her latest photo, the one on the cover of this book.

It was like somebody was trying to tell me something, or several were anyway.

The nineteen stories by nine authors in this anthology were sent to me in one month, but are as varied as their writers. The stipulation was that Asia or an Asian had to feature strongly in the story. We have stories featuring Cambodia, China, Laos, Malaysia, Pakistan, Thailand, the USA and Vietnam, by Asian and non-Asian authors who live in or come from Britain, Malaysia, Thailand, the USA and Vietnam.

Some of these writers are well-known as writers, some are better known in other spheres, some have written a lot before and been published in the traditional sense, others are travelling the Indie Publishing path and for yet others this is the very first time they or you will have seen their stories in print of any kind.

You can read more about each author by visiting the web sites that they have given after their stories. I thoroughly recommend that you do this as what you will find out about the authors will surprise you, I guarantee it.

Finally, my thanks go out to all the authors who have made this book possible, we hope that you will enjoy it and give each writer your feedback about their stories or write to me at the publisher’s about the book as a whole.

Last but not least, please us a review of this book when you have finished it. Your opinions are important, they will help us authors and other readers

Best Wishes,

Owen Jones

Table of Contents

1 THE BIKE

2 COW SAUCE

3 CATCH A STAR

4 LEMON POO

5 ARRIVING IN CALIFORNIA

6 PAPER SON

7 PEI QUAN

8 POPPIES

9 BEHIND THE SMILE

10 THE CHOPSTICKS

11 GIGGING AND JAMMING IN PATTAYA

12 MR. LEE’S PREDICAMENT

13 TAKING A YEAR OUT

14 MANGOES

15 A MIDNIGHT SWIM

16 TIGER LILY

17 CRAZY MEDICINE

18 TWENTY-FOUR HOURS

19 A VISA RUN TO CAMBODIA

1 THE BIKE

by Mike Lord

“Me oi, me oi.” for some reason this is always shouted twice. The family was having dinner, and the only way Ngoc could make himself heard was to shout. When you’re the youngest in the family that can be difficult and Ngoc often found himself in trouble if he interrupted a conversation.

“When is Huong going to university?” Ngoc followed up.

“Why do you want to know?” asked his mother.

“Because, then I can have her bike,” Ngoc’s logic, at the age of 10, was simple.

Ngoc had been pestering his mother for a bike for weeks since the new school year had started. He was in the last year of primary school, and apparently other boys had come to school this term with gleaming new bikes. Ngoc’s mother made a mental note to speak to her younger sister, and see if she could borrow a bike for Ngoc. An old one. Life was difficult since her husband had suddenly died four years ago, and the cost of a new bike would be an impossibility.

Two days later Ngoc was presented with an upright bicycle that had once been black. It had a basket on the front in fairly good condition, and a metal small luggage rack on the back. It had been carefully cleaned with an oily rag the day before to hide the rusty parts. Ngoc could not reach the pedals if he sat on the seat, so he learned to ride the bike by pedalling in a standing position. If he was careful the seat did not bang into his back too often. He learned quickly that a friend, sitting on the luggage rack, could help with the pedalling from behind.

One afternoon in late October, Ngoc and a cousin, Quang, decided to go and look for some catfish in the river. The river was behind the market near to the house, on the road to the military airfield. Carefully the two boys set off on the bike, with Quang pedalling from behind. The road was not used too much, except by military vehicles, but in the late afternoon there was no traffic at all.

They wanted to find some catfish, especially a big one. The river was about two kilometres from the market, which for two small boys is a long way. They parked the bike and had some problems with the old metal stand, as the bike kept on falling over, but eventually they managed to prop it up. From the bridge they could see the river, and noticed at once that the river bed had been widened, although the flow of water was still very slow. The catfish were basking in the autumn sunshine, and they could see one very large one struggling in the shallow water, so the two boys, shouting, rushed down to try to catch it.

The boys had not noticed that the river had been widened to allow for the construction of a small dam on the other side of the road, and a temporary embankment had been made to hold back the water until the spillway was completed. Catching the fish was no problem, but picking it up was, and as the two boys struggled, laughing, ankle deep in the water they became aware of some commotion on the river bridge immediately above them.

When they looked up there was a foreigner standing there. Later they learned that he was a engineer who was supervising the construction of the new dam, and the waterway system. Ngoc could speak quite a lot of English, and as the two boys approached the foreigner, Ngoc said:

“Hello,” and the foreigner looked up from where he was kneeling at the edge of the bridge. He had a large spanner in his hand and was trying to turn a large nut, but it wouldn’t budge. Below the nut was a long threaded screw, which went down below the level of the road.

“Hi,” said the engineer, who was sweating and cursing under his breath at the problem, “the river level’s too high and will burst the embankment if we’re not careful. Can you help me to open this flood gate?”

The two boys tried to help but the spanner was not big enough. The engineer realised by now that Ngoc could understand him. This was unusual as most children of Ngoc’s age only spoke a very few words of English, if at all.

“The man in charge of this gate was sick today, so this evening I came to check the water level. We really need the gate wheel to open this flood gate.” explained the engineer.

“Where is it?” asked Ngoc.

“It’s in the white pickup in the works yard,” said the engineer.

Ngoc knew where that was and offered to go and fetch it for the engineer. Off he set on the bike, and left Quang standing watching the engineer continue to struggle with the obstinate flood gate. He reached the pickup after about half a kilometre and clambered over the tailgate. The steel wheel was lying on the floor, and was much bigger than Ngoc had expected. He managed to get it over the edge of the tailgate, and let it fall to the ground. He then managed to lift it onto the basket in the front of the bike, leaning it against the handlebars. As he tried to ride the bike it was a bit top heavy, but he finally managed after wobbling a bit, to ride back to the bridge.

He stopped the bike, and the engineer came over to help him carry the wheel to the flood gate. The bike refused to stand up again, so this time Ngoc let it fall on the ground. The engineer fixed the wheel, and all three of them helped to turn it. There were also two other flood gates which they managed to open.

Immediately, they could hear the water rushing under the road below their feet as the steel flood gates were lifted up, and spilling into the river where they had been fishing. The water level at the edge of the road began to fall very slowly, and after a bit the engineer thanked the boys for their help.

Ngoc and Quang walked back to where they had left the bike.

“Where’s the bike ?” asked Ngoc. Quang looked a bit worried.

“It fell into the water,” relied Quang, “whilst you were carrying the wheel with the foreigner.” Both boys peered into the water at the edge of the road which had deepened considerably as the water came through the flood gate, and Ngoc had a sinking feeling that he had seen the last of his new bike. They found a bit of bamboo and started poking about in the water but they couldn’t even reach the bottom. As they started the long walk home, the engineer waved goodbye and set off in the other direction with the wheel.

When they got home they both managed to get into the house without being seen, Ngoc’s mother was busy cooking, and called to the boys to come and eat, when they had washed. Nothing was said about the bike that evening, and Ngoc decided that perhaps it was better to say nothing.

When he got home after school the next day, Ngoc was surprised to see the engineer’s white pickup parked outside their house, and the engineer and another man were inside talking to his mother. There was also a group of neighbours who had all come to see what was happening. As soon as she saw Ngoc, his mother called out:

“Ngoc, where’s your bike?”

Ngoc didn’t know what to say, and looked at the engineer for inspiration.

“He had a bit of an accident last night, when he was helping me,” volunteered the engineer, in English. “The villagers on the other side of the river were very lucky that he did help me, because had the embankment given way it would have flooded or washed away their houses,” the engineer continued.

The engineer took Ngoc’s hand and walked outside with him. Ngoc walked with him not knowing what else to do. His mother followed, and then out trooped the neighbours. The engineer reached into the back of the pickup and lifted out a bicycle, which he put on the ground and then handed the bike to Ngoc.

This bike wasn’t the old bicycle, but a brand new gleaming mountain bike. It had a brightly coloured frame, thick stubby wheels, and gears controlled by a lever on the handles. The handlebars and the mudguards were shining chromium plate. It didn’t have a basket on the front, but had a luggage rack with a hinged frame at the back. And it was small enough for Ngoc to pedal when he was sitting in the saddle!

Ngoc looked at his mother and then at the engineer. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just gazed at the new bike again.

“Thanks very much, Ngoc,” said the foreign engineer, who then got into the pickup and drove away. The neighbours were all talking at once, and Ngoc’s mother was beaming all over her face. Ngoc realised, with relief, that this time he was not in trouble.

Sinagiri, by Mike Lord – Rajah Kasyapu & the Frescoes at Singiriya, in Sri Lanka.

Smashwords: http://tinyurl.com/mrpafs7

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2 COW SAUCE

by Owen Jones

Sometimes, I have to go to Vientiane, the capital city of Laos, in order to renew my visa for Thailand. This only happens when Lloyds TSB fails to send enough of my money over in time to qualify for a twelve-month visa extension. It should not happen often, but this was my eighth trip in as many years.

Laos is not that far from our home, but getting a visa is an arduous journey that takes about three days. In fact, our village is less than a hundred kilometres from the Laos border, but foreigners (non Thai or Lao citizens) may not cross there. We have to go over the Friendship Bridge at Nong Khai.

Now, to get to the Friendship Bridge, I have to go seventy-five kilometres in the opposite direction, southwest, to get a bus, then that takes us three hundred and fifty kilometres northeast. However, most of the journey is slow through the mountains, so if you have a bad back, the swaying and bouncing of the bus is quite painful.

The last time that my wife and I had to go, we had a few days to spare, so we stopped off at Udon Thani to visit some friends. Udon Thani is only an hour from the Lao border, so it is an excellent resting point where the aching back can recover.

Our friend, Ayr, is from that area, north Isaan and is very proud of the local cuisine, which has a reputation elsewhere in Thailand for being hot and, shall we say, a little ‘unusual’.

We stayed with Ayr for a few days and every day she would cook us something different - not only once a day, but three or four times a day. Sometimes she sent out for more food too.

My wife used to live with Ayr before we got married and I got the impression that when not working or sleeping, they must have been eating or talking the whole time!

Sometimes, I would go to bed or sit in the garden with my laptop and leave them to it. I really enjoyed watching my wife reminisce with her old friend, whom she now saw less than once a year.

At our home, my wife and I usually ate the same sort of food, but I can always tell when she is going to treat herself to something special because I get a plate of Western food like a steak, kebabs or really nice sandwiches. I love this food but my wife does not.

If she eats alone in the garden, then I know better than to ask what it is, although it will be nothing more than bala (rotten fish), som tam (red hot papaya salad) or chickens’ feet. She knows that they are not for me and I know that she doesn’t like the smell of beef.

On the last evening before we had to go to Vientiane, I went to bed early and left the ladies to it. However, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up, dressed and went back to join them.

They were sitting on the floor, Thai style, watching TV, surrounded by seven or eight bowls of food, as I had imagined they would be, so I went to the fridge, took out a beer and sat with them.

Ayr fetched me a stick of French bread that they had bought earlier and my wife pointed me at a few bowls of food and sauce she knew I could eat. She normally never offered me those sauces that she knew were too hot or too non-western for my palate.

When I dipped the end of my bread in one of the nearest sauces to me, Ayr looked at me and then at my wife and smiled. I interpreted this to mean that it was hot, but I was determined to carry on.

“This sauce is lovely!” I declared, “What is it?”

My wife looked at me: “It’s grass from a dead cow’s bum… Uh, cow poo! But don’t worry, it’s not dirty, it has never fallen on the ground.”

Owen Jones writes in many genre which you can discover on his here: http://owencerijones.com . His flagship series ‘Behind The Smile ~ The Story of Lek, A Bar Girl in Pattaya’ is here: http://behind-the-smile.org

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3 CATCH A STAR

by Bernard Foong

Methodist Boys’ School

I shot up like Jack and The Bean Stalk while I was at the Methodist Boy’s School; I was mostly stalk. Both my parents were tall by Malayan standards. I was already five foot ten and still growing.

My voice was changing and so was everything else. I was becoming a young man. I hated the Methodist Boys’ School I attended because I was constantly teased and harassed for behaving like a sissy boy. Being bullied relentlessly by the older boys was a misery, my own “Nightmare on Elms Street.” I prayed for the day when I would be ready to leave for England.

I loved my mother, aunties and cousins, but I longed to see the wider world. Each day, I looked skyward like a frog waiting to jump out of the small pond of Kuala Lumpur to catch a panoramic view of the large ocean (London, England.) I knew it would happen soon. Foong Senior was a great believer in sending his sons abroad for further education and I was next in line.

To me, my days at Methodist Boys’ School were a phase that I had to endure for a short period. Thank God classes were only half-day affairs. Every morning before classes began, a half hour student assembly was held in front of the school’s main building out in the football field. All students stood at attention while Malaya’s national anthem played over loud speakers. The Head Master would stand at the podium providing the usual boring school agendas and current affairs.

The boys would be fidgeting, or up to their mischievous behaviours.

The Gang of Four

There was a gang of four boys in the same class as I who constantly bullied me, making silly remarks and calling me girlie names whenever they got the chance. I was a timid and shy boy, certainly not one to retaliate or tell them to go shag themselves! I was, in every sense of the word, a nice, polite well-behaved boy.

One day, KiWi, the most handsome one in the group, threw a tiny pebble on my back during assembly. When I turned around to check on the culprit, he started making silly girly faces at me. Ignoring him and his stupid innuendos, I tried to think of a quick escape route to the classroom right after assembly. I was too scared to think of the consequences if he cornered me.

Too bad - I wasn’t fast enough. He caught up and started insulting me. He was extremely obnoxious, threatening me that he and his gang of rascals would get me during our fifteen minutes mid-morning break. I hated him and his gang of four!

KiWi

True to his word, when the recess bell rang and all the students filed out of the classrooms, he and his gang cornered me. I ran as fast as my legs could carry, trying to make my great escape. I thought I would lock myself in one of the toilet stalls until the bell rang for class to resume. Unfortunately, I didn’t run fast enough, and fell while they were chasing after me.