Snippets from my novel manuscipt
This is not flash fiction or shorts. Just bits of untidy snippets from an old fiction manuscript, that I stopped working on halfway. A bit bawdy, this. But I like the words still. So sorry, my font size, colour, everything... has gone haywire.
Pinky-pinky ponkie...Lily's grinding chilli, for her God or bitter-gourd...Lily mangles Pinkie!
Pinky-pinky ponkie...Lily's grinding chilli, for her God or bitter-gourd...Lily mangles Pinkie!
Or if you're talking Klang, think of a scratchy Revolvers spin instead, with its intriguing rendition of Santana's Black Magic Woman or Johnny Chua's Love on a Monday Night, accompanied with all of his puckering, shivering and shaking that sent the frozen spinsters and confused housewives wild.
Melodrama was the name of the game and after all, there were a fair number of Plain Janes who qualified for a Johnny Chua crush, on old Dondang road.
For instance, the trio of Pereira sisters, all confirmed spinsters, who lived just round the corner... Who would think they would attempt a limbo rock twist, unless one afforded them the greatest torture?
They could hardly walk, having been caught in a time warp where they seemed to be forever floating about on a carousel, waltzing like ghosts, to an old Hollies's hit. That was the best they could muddle through.
They looked neither young, nor old. They were here, there and everywhere and yet, they were nowhere. They were believed to be around 58.
Naturally, they made a sad picture; provoking graveyard images, all at once, of the terrifying, wrinkled bride in Great Expectations. They appeared forgotten and discarded to all but themselves.
Rosemary and Lily prided themselves on Jupiter circles for face, neck, bust and stomach in what could only be termed as a somewhat wobbly effect. Because the structure was never quite that right, the froggish orbits looked somewhat twisted and dented in no particular order.
It was an open secret that their down-unders, hoarded with all the delicate assortments that made for a potential fiery sexuality, had been shut for business from even before they were born.
"Close shop...close shop...can see your coffee shop...coffeeshop...cofeeeee shop... "
In fact, so tightly bolted were their doors of empty desire, that even a pinkie finger bearing a delicate temperament and trying to weave its way in, would face dishevelment, crushing defeat and perhaps even as a last resort, subjected to counselling.
Such was the rumoured song, "Pinkie pinkie ponky, Lily's grinding chilli, for her god or bitter gourd, Lily mangles Pinkie!"
In fact, it was argued that to restore healing as believed by a staunch Catholicism, angels would have to labour on 24-hour shifts, hammering their way in...to God knows where! It was a tricky business all round. It was also whispered that they had no periods and would never experience the traumas of menopause.
The standing joke was that Rosemary and Lily could both acquire a small fortune, presenting their 'jewels', as museum exhibits. And while they were at it, to mind the cobwebs.
The third sister and youngest of the three at 56, Lucy-Daisy, looked a belligerent old woman with her face, morose and black like thunder, ready to pick fights at the slightest opportunity.
She fancied herself as some kind of leftover from the Gidget films. She demonstrated this by carrying old fashioned handbags and donning frocks and flowers, her terrifying white hair, bunched into a messy ponytail.
This in turn, horrified the trembling Malays as the hair-band of frangipanis were said to attract top-class bloodthirsty devils, like a powerful magnet. The controversial frangipanis were a familiar trademark of Malaysian cemeteries. "Tak boleh pakai bunga lainkah?" Why couldn't she adopt the bougainvillea for God's sake?
Not that Lucy-Daisy minded. She took to mumbling and murmuring, while marching long distances in her shocking pink Wellingtons that a pitying relative had parcelled from England.
Sometimes, she would stop suddenly, in the middle of the prominent Klang bridge that separated North from South, just to fix her lipstick, her face having already been snowed under
with half a tin of London Bridge talc.
Melodrama was the name of the game and after all, there were a fair number of Plain Janes who qualified for a Johnny Chua crush, on old Dondang road.
For instance, the trio of Pereira sisters, all confirmed spinsters, who lived just round the corner... Who would think they would attempt a limbo rock twist, unless one afforded them the greatest torture?
They could hardly walk, having been caught in a time warp where they seemed to be forever floating about on a carousel, waltzing like ghosts, to an old Hollies's hit. That was the best they could muddle through.
They looked neither young, nor old. They were here, there and everywhere and yet, they were nowhere. They were believed to be around 58.
Naturally, they made a sad picture; provoking graveyard images, all at once, of the terrifying, wrinkled bride in Great Expectations. They appeared forgotten and discarded to all but themselves.
Rosemary and Lily prided themselves on Jupiter circles for face, neck, bust and stomach in what could only be termed as a somewhat wobbly effect. Because the structure was never quite that right, the froggish orbits looked somewhat twisted and dented in no particular order.
It was an open secret that their down-unders, hoarded with all the delicate assortments that made for a potential fiery sexuality, had been shut for business from even before they were born.
"Close shop...close shop...can see your coffee shop...coffeeshop...cofeeeee shop... "
In fact, so tightly bolted were their doors of empty desire, that even a pinkie finger bearing a delicate temperament and trying to weave its way in, would face dishevelment, crushing defeat and perhaps even as a last resort, subjected to counselling.
Such was the rumoured song, "Pinkie pinkie ponky, Lily's grinding chilli, for her god or bitter gourd, Lily mangles Pinkie!"
In fact, it was argued that to restore healing as believed by a staunch Catholicism, angels would have to labour on 24-hour shifts, hammering their way in...to God knows where! It was a tricky business all round. It was also whispered that they had no periods and would never experience the traumas of menopause.
The standing joke was that Rosemary and Lily could both acquire a small fortune, presenting their 'jewels', as museum exhibits. And while they were at it, to mind the cobwebs.
The third sister and youngest of the three at 56, Lucy-Daisy, looked a belligerent old woman with her face, morose and black like thunder, ready to pick fights at the slightest opportunity.
She fancied herself as some kind of leftover from the Gidget films. She demonstrated this by carrying old fashioned handbags and donning frocks and flowers, her terrifying white hair, bunched into a messy ponytail.
This in turn, horrified the trembling Malays as the hair-band of frangipanis were said to attract top-class bloodthirsty devils, like a powerful magnet. The controversial frangipanis were a familiar trademark of Malaysian cemeteries. "Tak boleh pakai bunga lainkah?" Why couldn't she adopt the bougainvillea for God's sake?
Not that Lucy-Daisy minded. She took to mumbling and murmuring, while marching long distances in her shocking pink Wellingtons that a pitying relative had parcelled from England.
Sometimes, she would stop suddenly, in the middle of the prominent Klang bridge that separated North from South, just to fix her lipstick, her face having already been snowed under
with half a tin of London Bridge talc.
It was an open secret that Deborah Madonna Santamaria, youngest daughter of Judas Alacantra, was referred to as the 'clownish Eurasion.'
Who was to tell that Alacantra worked as a humble fisherman on the Portugest settlement in Melaka town, Malaysia and not as was rumoured, a butler service on a makebelieve castle in a faraway tourist spot.
Mrs. Santamaria took to wearing see-through negligees about the place, a cheap cigarette in one hand, a can of beer in the other and Presley drooling a rusty number on the dusty cd.
At 41, her flesh appeared to want to disengage themselves desperately from her midget bones. Instead, they retired to multi-layered flab that dangled dangerously from arms, thighs and hips.
Her breasts looked like they were suffering from a permanent inferiority complex, preferring to stare at floors, and settling for a lopsided view of the world. Her nipples were like worn-out bullets, staring miserably at the carpet.
Sinking dangerously downwards, they swung about like pendulums clashing and banging, half-witted and half-blind. They pleaded confusion and insanity. Not even Mrs. Santamaria's
Wonderbra doubled up as an emergency bandage. These were troubled times and troubled waters.
Were her drop-downs planning to run away to greener pastures?
The sad news, was that Deborah Madonna Santamaria's boobs were destined for a nursing home, hospice-style.
The weekends brought about pure relief. Deborah Madonna engaged a frail Indonesian maid borrowed from a friend, to "make a job of it", pounding on her naked back and bottom until her
body was hoarse and the servant's hand was sore.
The assignment was an hour long body massage using selected Indonesian oils. There wasn't much to massage or thump about as Deborah Madonna Santamaria was known to be the shortest woman on the block.
To make up for her Lilliputian frame, she portrayed a loud and aggressive manner like the midget fire-hot chilli that the Malays labelled, the volatile, violent chilli padi. Neighbours stayed convinced that she was baptised as a feminine derogatory vision of Hitler and the like...
Words by Susan Abraham &
the pictures are Botero's.
Who was to tell that Alacantra worked as a humble fisherman on the Portugest settlement in Melaka town, Malaysia and not as was rumoured, a butler service on a makebelieve castle in a faraway tourist spot.
Mrs. Santamaria took to wearing see-through negligees about the place, a cheap cigarette in one hand, a can of beer in the other and Presley drooling a rusty number on the dusty cd.
At 41, her flesh appeared to want to disengage themselves desperately from her midget bones. Instead, they retired to multi-layered flab that dangled dangerously from arms, thighs and hips.
Her breasts looked like they were suffering from a permanent inferiority complex, preferring to stare at floors, and settling for a lopsided view of the world. Her nipples were like worn-out bullets, staring miserably at the carpet.
Sinking dangerously downwards, they swung about like pendulums clashing and banging, half-witted and half-blind. They pleaded confusion and insanity. Not even Mrs. Santamaria's
Wonderbra doubled up as an emergency bandage. These were troubled times and troubled waters.
Were her drop-downs planning to run away to greener pastures?
The sad news, was that Deborah Madonna Santamaria's boobs were destined for a nursing home, hospice-style.
The weekends brought about pure relief. Deborah Madonna engaged a frail Indonesian maid borrowed from a friend, to "make a job of it", pounding on her naked back and bottom until her
body was hoarse and the servant's hand was sore.
The assignment was an hour long body massage using selected Indonesian oils. There wasn't much to massage or thump about as Deborah Madonna Santamaria was known to be the shortest woman on the block.
To make up for her Lilliputian frame, she portrayed a loud and aggressive manner like the midget fire-hot chilli that the Malays labelled, the volatile, violent chilli padi. Neighbours stayed convinced that she was baptised as a feminine derogatory vision of Hitler and the like...
Words by Susan Abraham &
the pictures are Botero's.
posted by Suzan Abrams, email: suzanabrams@live.co.uk | 22:35
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