“All hail King Ozia! All hail King Ozia!”

Thousands of people bowing down, as far as the king could see.

“We’ll soon conquer the world,” said the king’s highest general.

“I believe so,” replied the king, “it’s the only matter of time. I just have to prepare Zuala to replace me.”

“Pardon me, my king, but what about your wife? You seem to never talk about her.”

King Ozia replied with a piercing glare.

“Forgive me my king. Please forgive this fool.”

“You are forgiven. Now, deal with these captives. I believe we can utilize them to our advantage. Throw the weak and frail away, and keep the rest.”

“Yes, my king.”

Ozia retreated from the crowd; it was time for lunch with Zuala.

Zuala

Zuala was the Blue Princess. No one in the kingdom was allowed to wear blue-colored apparel—only she could. “I am blue, and blue is me,” she often said to her servants. Her presence attracts people’s attention, for the blue she wore was a stark contrast among everything—and everyone.

From a young age, she was rigorously trained by her father: Before lunch, it was all about fighting; after lunch, it was all about reading and writing. The only downtime she had was Sunday, where she would walk with her mother in the woods—talking about the birds and sky. Out of pity, Zuala’s mother would often sneak her some mint candies amid her father’s harsh schedule.

Zuala thought books were lame. Literature, war strategies, persuasion, table manners, poetry, yuck! The static world of words didn’t interest her. When she was twelve, she asked her dad to stop all the bookish lessons: She wanted to learn things her own way. This was one of the few wishes that were granted by her father.

Sixteen of age, Zuala was deemed almost ready by her father to replace him. On important kingly meetings, she would sit beside her father and discuss war strategies with other generals; on diplomatic meetings between friendly kingdoms, she would often represent her father, putting up polite gestures to please other diplomats while negotiating win-win trades between kingdoms.

One of the things Zuala liked most was knives—she had a peculiar relationship with it. When asked why, she candidly said, “I am physically weaker than men, but I have my knives.” Slender and nimble, no one in her kingdom—not even the fiercest of men—dared fighting her one-on-one, for they knew: it was only the matter of time before one of her knives touches their throat.

No, no, no; nobody wanted to deal with Blue Princess’ knives.

Lunch

The food King Ozia and Zuala ate was the best in their kingdom. In a land where the common folk toil for scraps, they enjoy all the luxuries—even imported ones.

Sitting on the lunch table, King Ozia felt that it was time to give “The Talk.”

“Zuala, I have something important to say.”

“I’m listening,” replied Zuala swiftly.

“I am honestly surprised that you passed my rigorous training since you were young. Those days where you have to sit in the cold rain, or walk miles with water buckets, or gorge on books about strategies and literature were over. You have proved yourself worthy of ruling this kingdom.”

“Where are you going with this, dad?”

“My days are numbered, Zuala, and you’re an exquisitely fine person to rule this kingdom. I think you’re ready. But there’s one request I have of you before I hand down this crown.”

“H’m?” Zuala inquired.

“I want you to end your mother’s life.”

No panic, no flinch. They both spooned themselves the food they had on their plate. The air was starting to thicken.

“May I know why?” asked Zuala, after what seemed like an eternity.

“She has nothing I want.”

“She has nothing you want?”

“I have this kingdom; I have luxurious food; I have fine clothes; I can sleep with any lady I find cute. And above all, I have the perfect successor for this mighty kingdom. That useless little insect called your mother has nothing I want.”

“Why, then, did you make her your wife?”

“I want you,” replied King Ozia nonchalantly, while staring at Zuala.

“You want me?”

“That’s right.”

“Then why did you—”

“Stop questioning me!” King Ozia shouted as he slammed his fist on the table.

Zuala learned at a young age that there was no point in arguing with her father. She had perfected the expressionless nod she always gave to extricate herself from her father’s demands.

“This midnight, a servant will approach you to give you the key to your mother’s prison cell. You’re good with knives. Do your thing.”

A nod from Zuala was the only thing he received.

Mother

The moon was full and bright as Zuala entered the dungeon. An old torch in her right hand, the key in her left hand, and knives in her pocket.

It was time.

Five minutes of walking, she found herself in front of a room—her mother’s room. The key was slightly rusty, but it wasn’t hard to unlock the door.

“Mom?” Zuala said, slightly trembled.

There she was: disheveled, dirty, and tired.

And smelly.

There was one fist-sized hole in the room for ventilation. Ceiling two inches away, no space to walk; no light, no bed; dried bread in one corner, feces in another corner.

It was dismal.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“It’s you. You… who?” replied her mom.

“Zuala.”

“Zuala… I’ve heard that name before.”

“Of course you have!” Zuala interjected.

“That name sounds familiar, you know?” her mom said slowly, as if she was drugged by something.

Zuala brought her chin up, so they could meet at eye level. Her emaciated face looked different from her youthful one—she looked like a stranger from another land.

“Mom, please talk to me. Are you thirsty? I brought some fresh mountain water for you.”

“Water, fresh water, give,” her mom said, as she desperately tried to reach for the bottle. It took three bottles to quench her thirst, and she drank it like there was no tomorrow.

“Zuala… I finally remember who Zuala is. Are you Zuala?” said her mom, with slightly more vigor.

“Yes, I am.”

“It has been years, my dear daughter. I’d like to hug you, but why would the Blue Princess hug a dirty woman like—”

Her mom suddenly found herself in Zuala’s embrace. It had been such a long time. The sea of emotion within them came out as tears; the hug was so tight that Zuala feared it would break her mother’s bones.

That was the hug that her father couldn’t give—the hug of love.

“Let’s get out of here mom,” Zuala said, after the episodes of tears and hugs.

“But this is my home.”

“No, no, no; this is hell. I’ll show you our new home.”

“Our new home?”

“Yes,” Zuala replied with soft eyes.

“Where will you take us?”

Zuala stared into the ground as she tried to formulate what she wanted to say. “Mom, after seeing you, I have decided to abandon this queenship,” she finally said, after couple minutes of silence, “I don’t want all these strategizing, fighting, cajoling, acquiescing, commanding, ruling, and conquering anymore—I’m truly tired of this. Let’s go mom, I’ve planned an escape for both of us.”

“But why, my beloved Blue Princess? If you were queen, you could conquer the world, rule it, and have anything you wish for; why would you want to abandon it?

“Because this kingdom,” Zuala replied, “has nothing I want.”

There was a small village I visited a while ago. It used to be filled with people, until a volcano erupted nearby. Houses without roof, melted laptops, burnt teddy bear, utensils covered with volcanic ashes, dusty bed cover; it was inexplicably eerie.

But, somehow, it also felt fake. The stuff were too neatly arranged, and some were placed inside a glass case; the floor was slightly too clean, and the houses showed no sign of having survived an eruption.

The incident was real, but the place was heavily touristified.

I can only imagine what the place would look like had it been left unadorned. Walls full of burnt patches, moonlight passing through holes on the roof, dusty floor, plates and utensils on the sink, wrinkled shirt inside a half-opened closet, melted laptop sitting on top of the table, burnt books lying messily in the shelf.

Grey, gloomy, dusty, dark; raw and stark.

What would that place smell like? What about the air, would it feel dry?

I can only imagine.

A flower, so pretty: yellow with five petals, displayed in contrast among the leaves. She wasn’t there to attract any attention, yet she stopped me in my tracks. Her beauty was overwhelming: the intricate fiber of the petals, the yellow to white gradation. It was all too beautiful!

For a moment, I got transported into another world where I was a little child again. Looking at things with fresh eyes, I saw her with wonder and awe.

I wanted to touch her, smell her, caress her, play with her, take her with me, and own her forever. But if I did so, I would get attached to her. Thus, had I plucked her, both she and I would wither and die.

So, after our brief encounter, I said my goodbye.

And she said hers.

“Just gimme the thing already.”

“You have to sign this agreement in case something unexpected happens to y—”

“Yeah, yeah—sign this, sign that—you labcoat-wearing people are boring the hell out of me.”

Three paper to signs, no biggie—I don’t even read what’s inside.

“Thank you. Please wait here for a moment while we prepare the equipment. In the meantime, please take off your shirt.”

“Whaddya mean equipment? It’s only a damn syringe.”

“The procedure involves a syringe, but just to make sure everything is safe, we have to tie you on a bed.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“We have no choice; this is for your safety.”

Everyone thinks I’m insane. Am I insane? More than they think; I’m a fucking madman.

Years ago, I used to discuss this with other people, but I ain’t gonna do that anymore. They all said, “This is so wrong; you better not do that; don’t be ridiculous; injecting it will cause this and that.” Damn fools. They didn’t even understand anything, yet they kept on babbling bullshit. At this point, I’m not convincing anyone of anything; I gotta do what I gotta do.

The bedsheet feels icy. The hands that ties me to the bed reeks latex. The ropes are so tight that I can’t move an inch—not even my head.

Finally!

“Brace yourself, it will hurt slightly.”

There are six scientists around the bed, one of them sits beside me to inject the syringe. I can see a slight tremble in the scientist’s right hand as he raises the syringe to his eye level. Melancholy sits heavy in the air; they all look as if they’re mourning for a soon-to-be-dead person.

Wait. This could be my deathbed.

…

Fuck it.

“Just gimme the thing already!”

A poisoned well

can’t beget clean water;

a pristine well

can’t beget poisoned water.

·

A bucket of water

from a poisoned well

needs to be purified;

a bucket of water

from a pristine well

is effortlessly clean.

·

Having a clean bucket of water

is a pittance compared to

owning a pristine well.

Therefore, seek the well,

not the bucket of water.

The first cat that got really close to me was a cat I called Tom—he resembled Tom the cat in the cartoon Tom And Jerry, hence the name. One of the best thing about befriending a wild cat like Tom was I got the benefit of playing with him without having having to worry whether he pooped on my carpet (he pooped outside).

My door was rarely closed, and when it wasn’t closed, I often found him relaxing in the corner. Well, it didn’t started that way, of course. I could sense a tinge of fear when we first met: I was an unfamiliar fur-less giant (for him) and my place, an unexplored territory.

One thing I noticed about cats is they really like to scour. What’s below that bed? What’s inside that shoe box? What does sleeping on the carpet feel like? What’s on the top of that cabinet? Oh, small container? Let me in, let me in!

That’s precisely what Tom did. He scoured my place like an archeologist trying to find a fossilized fly trapped in amber. At one point, after his episodes of sniffing and touching and climbing and scratching and exploring, he saw my place as his territory, and he would walk around, get on my lap, or sleep on the shoe box as if we’ve been buddies for 31 years.

(On rainy days, I knew that I had to mop the floor because Tom would walk around with his muddy paws!)

When he was relaxing in the corner—on top of the shoe box—I could feel a certain connection with him, even though we didn’t talk. Well, I sometimes meowed to him, and he sometimes meowed back, but what the heck did that mean?

Meow!

These days, there’s no meow-meow action going on; the shoe box is still sitting in the corner, but I haven’t seen Tom in 2 years. On the last day we were together, I remember him meowing incessantly. “You hungry little boy?” I said to him. I popped a can of tomato sardines, caressed him for a while, then took a shower.

When I got out of the shower, I saw the leftover sardines, but not Tom. He ate little of it. Perhaps that was his way of saying goodbye.

You have no one to talk to, and it drives you crazy. Of course, you attempted to escape this cage numerous times: you pecked the steel cage with your beak; you budged top, down, left, right, hoping that the power of your wings could break it; you shouted for help, wishing that some human out there might be kind enough to open this cage for you. But what was all that for? Nothing worked.

Every morning, Quez, your human owner, feeds you. “Don’t tell me it’s that pellet again,” you say to yourself every time, and yes, of course, it’s always that pellet. Brown, round, bland; you’ve been eating this your entire life, and you’re sick of it. You often hope that, perhaps, Quez is kind enough to feed you worms or an extra large grasshopper. That never happened, and at this point, you don’t see it happening—ever.

When you look up, you often see a pack of your kin gliding freely in the sky. How does it feel to hop from pine trees to pine trees? How does it feel to have friends? How does the lake water taste like?

Something deep and fundamental within you have died a long time ago, and sometimes you really, really wonder whether you’re still alive.

Clara was a clerk in a small grocery store in a small (and semi-deserted) town in the middle of nowhere, and all she wanted was the clock to hit 5 PM, punch the clock, and end her goddamn shift.

Tick, tock; tick, tock. It was 3.11 PM; the store was empty. Her manager once told her, “no phone, Clara!” so all she could do was stare outside the window.

“My gosh, this feels like a priso—”

“Ding!”—the entrance bell rang. Finally, a customer! At least Clara could have a small talk to weed off her boredom. The customer was a woman with a rather peculiar white beach hat. “There is no beach around; why in the world is she wearing that hat?” Clara thought to herself.

“Hi, can I have a pack of cigar please?”

“That would be $22.95.”

“Here you go.”

Who is she? Why the hat? Before she could muster anything, the lady said, “This is an amazing town, you know.”

“You new here?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from such-and-such town—not far from here. What surprised me was the people here reminded me of my childhood: the warmth, the smiles, the kids running here and there—it’s absolutely amazing!”

“Oh my, great to hear,” said Clara with a friendly face, “you need anything else?”

“The cigar is enough—thanks. Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

Another customer entered as the white-hat lady exits the door; this new customer had the same exact same hat, but it was black!

“Give me a pack of cigar.”

“That would be $22.95.”

“Twenty-two dollars and ninety-five cents! Are you kidding me?”

“Well, the price is the price.”

“I don’t understand this town: the people are rude, the weather is horrible, the children are loud and annoying, and now you’re telling me this pack of cigar costs $22.95?”

Clara’s body was so tense she couldn’t move her tongue.

“You know what, forget about the cigar. This lame town is good for nothin’.” Clara could hear the lady spitting insults and complaints under her breath as she stormed out the store.

Clara stood there, behind the counter, cigar on her hand, appalled with the whole thing.

I write lots, but the conclusion that not all things are worth publishing only came to me recently. I had the habit of posting things immediately after it’s finished, and I often found myself cleaning up the “mess” after a few days; sometimes typos, sometimes the whole thing turned out to be untrue.

Those things stirred my gut. I’ve found myself, on numerous occasion, feeling aghast for the low-quality nonsense I released to the world.

The only writing worth releasing is the one that stands the test of time. How can I know? Well, I know the writing that won’t: the one that I find boring or untrue upon re-reading it.

After years of experimentation, this is how I decide what to release to the world: After I’m done with a piece of writing, I put it in a “survival folder.” If any of those writing feels boring or untrue upon re-reading it, it goes straight to the recycle bin; if it’s edited, it’s treated as a brand-new piece of writing. The longer a piece of writing stands unedited, the more worthwhile it is to publish.

If I can’t get myself to read my own writing, it’s not worth anyone’s time.

This paper I’m writing on is the only thing I have.

Everything “out there” is noise—the TV talking about nonsense, people yapping about this and that; the conflicts in social media, articles about the latest and greatest gadgets; the bright neon lights, the dull corporate commercials; brochures, pamphlets, banners; colorful faces, fake smiles, manufactured gestures; conflict, yelling, anger, rules, agitation, demands, anxiety, fear, problems. There’s nothing but noise.

Back against the wall; pen in my hand. Sometimes accompanied by a cup of black coffee, sometimes jasmine tea.

Lost in words.

This… is all I have.