Sunset

The sun drips out his last drop of orange juice,
As the moon brews her first cup of dark coffee
with a spoon of Milky Way.

The Return

It is a gloomy afternoon. When I look outside, the windows frame scenery of predictable soon-to-be raining images. Dark cumulonimbus clouds are splashed across the sky by gushes of invisible wind. I cannot even tell that the wind is there if not for the swinging of the nearby palm trees.

The library is silent with only two students sitting at the corner of the room, near the shelves of the fiction books. One is obviously immersed in the book in his hands, big red letters on the cover, GHOSTS. The other student is jotting furiously in her notebook, perhaps rushing her eleventh hour work.

In an adjacent working room separated by a panel of glass wall, the librarian students are working while talking to each other occasionally. I have assigned them to stamp the newly-arrived books and paste book pockets and due date slips. They are my trusted sidekicks. Without them, this catwoman would have been crushed by the mountains of books.

Managing a library is not easy though it is not big, merely the size of two classrooms, including the working room. So here I am now, at the counter, monitoring the room.

Outside, it has started to rain. Within minutes, splatters of water are beating and lashing at the windows, blurring the whole painting. The temperature has dropped. I stand up to adjust the air-conditioner on the wall.

When I turn around, a girl is standing in front of me, a book in her hand. Her hair is drenched. Her yellow hostel t-shirt and her black pants are soaked and draped onto her skin. Drops of water are still dripping from her shoulder-length hair and strands of hair are plastered across her face. And the book in her hand, it is damp too.

“Sorry, teacher,” she opens her mouth, a weak, fading voice coming out as she holds out the book to me.

“What happened?” I ask as I take the book, trying to flip the wet pages but in no avail. They are clenched together by the moisture.

“It…it fell into the water, teacher. I’m sorry,” again she apologises. I am still toying with the book. It is still in a good condition. Just that it is wet.

“Do I have to pay for it, teacher?” she asks again, her eyes on her hands. She has not look at me since she comes in. Perhaps she feels guilty for ruining the book.

‘Just a minute,” I turn, looking for her library card. A few flips here and there, I find it. 

I turn back. “All right, you…..,” my sentence is left hanging. She is not there anymore. I look around. The two students are still at the corner. The librarian students are still in the working room. Yet, the wet girl is nowhere in sight.

I look at the library card. Sylvia. Form 3A. I do not recognize her as she is not my student.

My eyes roam the room again. She cannot just disappear like that without me noticing her walking out the door. Just like I didn’t notice her walking in. 

I rush out. Rain is still in rage. I scramble down the stairs. Nobody is in sight.

I return to the library and walk over to the two students sitting at the corner. They raise their heads as I approach them.

“Did you see the student, the girl, just now?" I ask.

“What girl, teacher?” Their eyes on me, puzzled. 

“The girl at the counter just now,” I point to the counter. Again, the confused look on their faces.

“No one was there, teacher,” the girl says.

“No one?” I looked at them. “But, the girl…”

“There was nobody coming in here except us, teacher,” the boy looks weirdly at me. 

I glance at the counter and the library card held tightly in my hand. “Sylvia. Form 3A. This girl, do you know her?” I hold the card in front of their faces for them to see. They look at the card and the photo. I notice that their faces are turning as white as a sheet of paper. 

“Do you know her?” I ask again.

“Teacher, Sylvia…Sylvia…she…,” the girl stammers, a flash of fear cut across her pale face.

The boy looks at the girl and then turns to me and says in a low voice, almost like a whisper, “Teacher, Sylvia was in that boat.”

“What boat?” My turn to be puzzled.

“The boat that capsized last week, teacher.”

“The boat that capsized….” I stop at the sentence. Yes, one of the boats that ferry students across the river to their village capsized last week. All the passengers were overthrown into the water. Most of them managed to swim to safety except two. Two female students. One of them was found stuck at the roots of a mangrove after a few hours of the incident. Lifeless. And the other one is yet to be found. 

“They haven’t found Sylvia yet,” the boy’s voice breaks my thought.

They have not found Sylvia yet. Until today. Until just now. I still can picture her in my mind. Wet, dripping water from her hair. Head down. Wet clothes. Holding up the book to me. I feel a cold shiver down my spine, numbing my whole body. It cannot be that I have encountered that ‘thing’. I have never been that ‘lucky’.

I remember when I was in secondary school. My good buddies were so obsessed with these things. Ghosts, spirits, vampires or whatever the world call it. The crazy bunch of maniacs was so fascinated with the eerie stuffs that they would try any method to encounter one.

One of the methods was playing Ouija board. I had no idea where the hell did Trisha pluck an Ouija board from. They set a night at her house. I was practically dragged by the three so called ‘ghostbuster’ maniacs to Trisha’ house to perform the daredevil act.

We gathered around the board with one of our forefingers pressed firmly on a pointer. Our faces were shrouded, partly visible from the moon beaming through the window panes into the dark room. I shifted restlessly.

“Stop fidgeting, Lucy,” Trisha hissed softly, “you’re disturbing the aura of concentration.”

“This is madness,” I hissed back, “Nobody is going to come.”

“You are right,” Yvone said, “Nobody is coming. But something is coming.”

I groaned. The rest muffled a stifled laugh. I hated it when Yvone said that. It was so creepy. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you girls when we ended up killed one by one.”

“That won’t happen if we follow the correct procedures,” Trisha acted as if she was a professional ghostbuster. “We invite him politely and then we send him away courteously.”

“How do you know that it is a HE? It could be a SHE,” remarked Kitty.

“Oh, I was just hoping that he would be as hot as Edward Cullen.”

“What if he doesn’t want to leave?” I asked worriedly.

“Oh, he will,’ Trisha said confidently. “ Or else, just like you said, Lucy, we’ll end up being his dinner.” I rolled my eyes. I really had no idea how I became friends with these three maniacs.

We sat silently for almost an hour. My patience was wearing. The three of them were motionless, as if lost in a trance. The room was quiet. I was getting tired. My finger was tired and numb. This is madness, I said to myself repeatedly. I could have enjoying myself watching a movie now or scaling a mall instead of being stuck here exploring the existence of the supernatural.

I almost opened my mouth to stop the madness when I felt the pointer moved.

“Whoa,” Trisha hissed softly. “Who did that?” We looked at each other, shaking our heads. I could see the dilated pupils in their wide-opened eyes. Realization dawned. It couldn’t be…oh hell.

All of us had our eyes fixed on the pointer as if waiting for another action. It moved slightly, slowly and ended up on the YES. I could sense excitement in the girls.

“Ask who he is,” whispered Yvone, “or she.”

“Who are you?” Trisha asked.

The pointer moved to the NO and stopped there. We waited. It didn’t move anymore. It was almost more than an hour since the pointer stopped at the NO.

Finally and relieved, me only, the girls relented from pursuing further. The first try came to nothing. Fruitless. Though Trisha, Yvone and Kitty insisted that a spirit did try to contact us. Maybe he was jammed halfway. Oh yeah, clever these girls were. I was still thinking that it was a prank pulled by one of them.

Years later, Trisha admitted that she was the one who moved the pointer after the long wait.

The next day, I tell Mrs. Nelly, the library assistant, to sun the book dry. She places it on the roof. The hot striking sun bakes the book like a pineapple tart in an oven.

Hot weather like this in the morning with thick fogs will surely bring a torrent in the late afternoon. 

As predicted, the rain comes exactly the same time like the day before. The downpour has chased away the customers of the library. Only a couple of students come to return the book and do some reading.

I let the librarian students off early. The rain is reducing but I will still be wet walking back to the flat.

It is usual routine to go around making sure that all air-cons, fans and lights are turned off. I am getting my stuff and locking the working room, ready to flick off the last light when I see a figure standing at the counter.

My heart races. Is it her? I saunter slowly towards the figure. She turns. Her face is paler than yesterday. She is wet, from head to toes. 

“Teacher,” she still does not look at me. Her gaze is on her hands clasped tightly in front of her. 

“Sylvia,” I swear my voice shakes when I call out her name. I can even feel that my legs are going weak. And my heart is sprinting. I am surely lying if I say that right this moment I am not scared at all. 

“Teacher, the book. I’m sorry,” she apologises again. “Do I have to pay for it?”

I drag my wobbly legs to the counter. The book. Mrs. Nelly has gotten it dried today. Thanks to the hot sun. I have told her to leave it at the counter. Now where is it? I rummage through the stacks of books in the tray. There it is.

“You see, the book…” Once again, she’s gone. The rain has ceased. I stare at the book that was in my hand. ‘The Return.’

The tragedy of the capsized boat has a great effect on the students especially the boarding students. A few has started to claim seeing ‘things’. Even the cooks have reported seeing two figures of the drowned girls sitting at the dining hall early morning. It creates quite a chaos at the hostel. The school wardens are like having ants all over their pants in handling the situation. 

Trisha and the gang would be thrilled if they were here. They have always wanted to these ‘things’. 

It was the month of All Souls Day or fondly known as the ghost month when Trisha came up with her balmy idea again. I had no idea where the heck did she learn that rubbing the tears of dog onto one’s eyes will enable one to see the ‘things’. Or cover oneself with the yellow peek-able gardening basket and sitting at the crossroads will earn one a meeting with the ‘good brothers.’

“Trisha, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I protested as soon as Trisha announced her great idea.

“Of course it is. I have it all planned out,” she said confidently. The rest nodded their heads in synchrony.

‘You don’t need me,” I tried to wriggle myself out before I got myself into trouble. “I … I have to complete my work tonight.”

“WE, the four ghostbusters must go together,” Trisha read the final sentence. I knew I would not be able to escape this. “We’ll pick you up at ten.”

Four hours later, we were drinking tea at the police station. Our crime? Terrorising the peace of the neighbourhood. Apparently, someone had called the police when seeing four girls crouching suspiciously at the roadside with baskets over their heads.

Our parents were certainly not pleased when they had to fetch us home from the police station. Well, at least it had halted the girls’ enthusiasm for quite a while.

I wonder if I call Trisha now and tell her about my encounter, would she believe me?

It is more than a week when I see Sylvia again. A heavily raining afternoon. Like usual, she is wet. And asking the same question again.

This time I am ready. I hold up the book for her to see. “Look, Sylvia. We have dried the book. It’s all dry now. And the good thing is it still can be read.” Though a bit fluffy.

“So, no need to pay for the damage?”

“No, Sylvia. You do not need to pay,” I assure her.

“Thank you teacher.” Slowly she makes her move. This time I really see her leaving the room.

The next day, I hear that they have found Sylvia’s body clinging onto the roots of a mangrove tree, not far from the site of the tragedy. She is put to rest following that. 

I still keep her library card at the counter. Who knows, she might return to borrow books.

To Monkeys

How like an angel
When they are quiet.
Concentrating, efforts pouring out.
How wish to believe
They are angels
In demon disguise.

Rules, rules, rules

Rules, rules, rules,
How I wish,
Just one wish,
Away they vanish.

Rules, rules, rules,
No matter how I wish,
Rules are rules,
Still won't they vanish.

Snow

Head's up
45 degrees.
A snow landed
Kissing the face.

Half a moon
The mouth curved.
Welcoming home
The white winter.

A Hydrangea Ball

Like sunshine,
Piercing the leaves of hydrangea
Announcing the arrival of the queen
To a hydrangea party.

Like spring waltz,
Breaking the air of quietude
Commencing the dance of the day
To a king awaiting his queen.

Koala Bear Hopping Home

Hopping, hopping home
Koala bear with a smile.

Feet as light as feather,
Heart as bright as day.

Koala bear, hop, hop,
Up and down.
Among the spiky weed,
White fur is torn.
Skin is scratched
But heart is in joy.

A Letter to the Cloud

Dear Cloud,

You are the most wonderful and perplexing thing that I’ve ever seen. Yet you are so indecisive of yourself that you keep changing your form and mind all the time. Hence, you are a huge contribution to the shifting of my everyday schedule.

Your face is as white as the snow when you are pleased but as dark as the ashes when you are gloomy. Sometimes, you even hide away and let the sun tortures me. I touched you once when I was up on the highland. You wrapped around me like icy cotton, blinded me in the morning mist. When you slowly faded away, you painted a picture of beautiful scenery.

Last time on the plane, I looked out of the window. For the first time, you were floating below me, and I had this urge to jump on you and stay there forever.

How you bring imagination to me whenever I lie on the grass watching you. You will tell stories of a white rabbit in rush of time, knights fighting dragons, Zeus throwing his bolts and monkey riding on clouds.

A Letter to the Wind

Dear Mr. Wind,

Glad you’re still around, no matter when you’re in good or bad mood. The sun’s been working extra hard these days, I wonder if he needs money to buy a new hat. I would definitely need one whenever I go out or else I’ll be dyed to brown. So, Mr. Wind, if you see me walking down the street, please do not blow my hat away.

I know you have been kind to me all this while. You never lift my skirt up; but just sway it gently as if I’m dancing like a ballerina. If you still remember, you were the one that flew my kite up to the blue sky. Luke was hopeless; he only made the kite fell back to the ground. Plus, if I feel bored, you will just softly nudge me with your invisible hands.

I understand sometimes you get angry too. It’s all right. I don’t blame you when you rip off my tightly pegged clothes to the next door, or mess with my hair when I’m in my best or kick the sand into my eyes.

I always know where you are although I can’t see you. You are there, when the trees wave, the grass swing and the flowers dance. You are everywhere, everywhere, and everywhere.

I’m going to the beach today, with my kite and Luke. Hope to see you there. You know, I can never count on Luke to fly the kite.

A Letter to the Sunflower

Dear Miss Sunflower,

Yesterday, I dreamt about you. You were smiling the whole day like the golden round-faced sun. I wonder, don’t you ever get tired of smiling all the time? You were so glad seeing the sun, as if he is your source of happiness. I’ve never liked the sun, in fact I dreaded him. He makes my skins burnt and my eyes hurt.

Today, a friend of mine gave me stalks of your friends. Holding them in my arms is as if I am embracing the sun. There is no pain and no fear but delight and joy. I look up and see the sun smiling down on me with your friends and I smiling back at him.

Tomorrow, I will run in the fields of sunflowers under the sun. I will lie in the sun till the sun goes home. I will sleep beside the sunflowers until the summer comes to chase us away.

The Moon

Moon of silver bell,
You hang like a round lantern
Taking over the duty of the sun.
You abide us goodnite
And send the twinkling stars
As our eyes in the darkness.
Without you, how dark my path would be!

Library Marchers

Tune of weariness
played by young girls
as they marched home
from the store of knowledge.

Birds in the Bottle

I count and count
How many birds in the bottle
One by one they fly away
Until there’s no more in it.

Why won’t they stay a while
Until I finish my counting
The snow can wait
But I live only till summer

Buttercups

Buttercups of tomorrow
How will you appreciate your short life
As if the sun purposely choose today
Not to do his running an extra mile
When you, my dear little thing
Have hope to breath the air an extra hour longer.

Spring's Homecoming

Spring is yet to come
Birdies, sing the sweet tune
Mr.Sun, show your brilliant smile
And all the blossom of today
Swing to your graceful dance
Let us all Welcome Home spring!

A Leaf Ride

I, on the brink of a leaf,
Swirling, floating, whirling,
From the high branch
All the way down to the earth
With the wind as my slide,
I have no fear of bounce landing.

Hana

Hana of spring
How many times have you been here
I barely counted you
You are a lot, a sea
Your perfume drowse me to sleep
Yet I’m so eager falling into you.

Lavender

Lavender,
I smell you this morning.
Sweeter than I thought
The air is filled; with you,
Absorbed into my mind,
Mingling my reality and dream,
As I lost and drown,
In the sea of purplish-mauve.

Twillight In The Island

As the day changes hands with the twilight,
I was lonely, strolling every corner of the city.

Thousands of tall buildings
Standing in front of the long-forgotten mountain
Neither do I remember its name.
They hurl out millions of flickering lights
Gleaming and glittering like the fireflies.

The neon lights have took over the moon’s duty
They shine even brighter and beautiful
And the calm river gladly reflected them on its surface
A gift to an artist full of imagination.

The Penang Bridge doesn’t want to lose too
All the way, tiny lights hanging on to it
Painting my car’s mirror
Accompany me all my way home.

What The Wild Flowers Desire

Someone told me
Wild flowers should be left alone.

Heigh! Lest should anyone believe it
Neither would I surrender.
When my evidence is the talk of flowers.
They’ve long to see the world
To be taken away, to be owned.
Contented they would be,
Lest they’re destined to wither away,
As long as they bring joy
As decoration on a girl’s hair,
Portrait of art in a vase,
All are proof of love.

Wild flowers,
Tell them,
You would rather die in a day
On someone else’s hand
Than to stick to your stem the whole season.

The Scarecrow

Today, the bird senses an unusual thing
When above the field she flies over.
Not like usual, she'd swoop down in a flash
Her instinct forbids her, warning her the hidden danger.
Eyeing down the wide plantation,
A stranger stands in the middle, preying,
Motionless, cautious, she knew, reschedules her landing.
The enemy has hired a spy to track her,
To crush her flat to the ground
Like she crunches his grains into tiny sands.
Fight the enemy, she must, so is this stranger
When no hatred emerges between them.
She goes near the stranger with the straw hat;
Down she perches, on the boldest stalk,
Bending the blade to bow to the stranger.
“How do ya do. How do ya do,”
Her shrill voice twitters in the clear air.
The stranger, still, stares gloomily at her.
The bird, escaping her intuition,
Flutters to the shoulder of the stranger.
Another bird flies by, breaking the ice,
“Hey, look, a scarecrow,” to her fellows behind.

Th Flying Petals

Two yellowish ordinary butterflies,
Tiny, like petals of flowers when they fly
Their wings blow soft wind to the sides
Piercing among the light green leaves of Akasia.
I see them, this morning.
Calm, cloudy day.

I met them, once,
Whitish, in my back yard.
A small square of earth stage.
Where the snake berries blanket it.
They danced gracefully like ballerinas in limelight.
I feared a little for them,
After all, Harlem and Jimmy were there,
Lurking behind the pot of tall cactus.

The garden is their resting place
But not their destination.
I can provide little for them
They provide more to me
A stranger invisible to them
Yet vivid in their mind.

White, yellow, I already seen them,
When will black, blue, green, red or purple I encounter.
I am waiting…

To You

Your wondering expression
eyes as wide as the windows
that lead the way to the ocean.

Your shimmering smile
mouth as curvy as the bright moon
that appear in the dark night.

My Memory2

The morning has gone
I know the stars are waiting
When sun no more on this earth
Twinkling as diamonds they will be.

Lonely Me

Darting across the seaweeds,
Is the brilliant angelfish,
Gliding down the rocky mountain,
Is the bold fearless eagle,
Racing across the green meadow,
Is the wild runaway horse.
And dreaming under the cherry tree,
Is the passionate, lonesome me.