Weapons of Choice

 

Loud Indians in the side street alongside Hun Mui, a voice behind giving the woman who had passed a bit of curry. A younger, earlier Indian had helped a fumbling SUV driver into the spot immediately adjacent.

The latter had been 15-20 years senior, much of the dentistry gone. In company was a late-teen boy and younger girl. 

Something was given back to the loudmouth by the older woman, and then her lad buying in. Chap out of sight continuing. Ra-ra. Ra-ra.

Soon the man reveals himself, coming along the path a few steps in the direction the others had gone. Ra-ra. Ra-ra. Motioning. Brief again.

Nonetheless, something in it the woman didn’t like, which emerged when she came back there to confront the guy.

The broom with the red plastic bristles must have been new, only just purchased and happening in hand. Perhaps the guy had discounted it as a possible weapon, to his cost, ultimately.

Drawn back and close after the offence at the last words, the woman was not about to let it go. 

Like a knight in the old days, the stick was raised high and wielded with some nimbleness.

Thwack! Thwack!

3-4 times with the end of the handle across the back, the fellow bowing a little to avoid worse than what he was getting.

The woman’s strikes were not rapid; in a more lucid state the fellow might have easily escaped, especially the latter number.

Instead, oddly, the man appeared to accept the chastening; nothing for it but to submit.

…The terror of a life time ago from similar had long dissipated. Dissipated, but not forgotten.

Low through the venetians the old drunken wreck of a Pole who slept under the railway bridges and stumbled through the streets, banging on the front door and shouting menaces. Terrifying.

No! No! Don’t!…

She wouldn’t listen, completely reckless. Rushing out.

Our brooms were kept inside the door of the laundry at the back of the house. The front door of the house was almost never used.

Replay. Replica.

Thwack. Thwack.

Again the man accepting the assault and cowering, finally herded to the gate by the widow and banged shut after him.

 

 

 

       Johor Bahru, ML

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lustre

 

The delivery of the body for the wake at Block 11 was an old Chinese ahma, as shown later by the smiling photograph that was mounted before the casket when she was brought into the Void.

The small turn-out surprised, perhaps a dozen mourners in all. It had been a modest, quiet life no doubt, and likely she had outlived many.

In a couple discreet passes along the walkway looking the lady couldn’t be recalled in that quarter. Reflexively, one steeled oneself a fraction scrutinising the portrait, hoping the individual had not been one of the regular neighbours.

Often people from other blocks, other estates even a kilometre or more away, came to the Void at 11, for the space offered there, it had been explained. This had now been compromised since the new health centre had appropriated a large part of the area.

The casket looked a heavy item in dark, highly polished wood, but it was not enclosed there that the deceased had arrived at the Void.

Returning from the morning teh the day before the seating & canvas awning was still being arranged, a Chinese company involved that had never featured at the Haig before. The absence of crosses signalled a Buddhist affair, which was soon confirmed with the colouring & script. Across on the other side of the grass a 10-12 seater van had pulled in beside the recycle bin, a small group of men waiting in attendance. After the rear door had been lifted open one of the men, an older chap, went down on his knees before it. From within on a trolley a bundle in the most vivid yellow gold cloth emerged, for which the kneeling man spread his arms wide and bowed his head. The bright colour positively dazzled and the bundle seemed to stretch two metres, rising up as if a large mammal of some kind from the sea was contained.

A dutiful son one could more easily understand like that here, rather than this old man who needed to be helped to his feet afterward. It had been a beautiful marriage, clearly.

            The night before Zoro in Montenegro had announced another death over there, this time a maternal cousin in her late 80s. A day or two before an earlier message had arrived from Zdravun, telling of his visit to the mourning house to offer his condolences.

            Forty-five years ago Cousin Danica had been met 3 - 4 times. In the early ‘80s she had worked in a little kiosk by the water and once Zdravko’s younger brother had accompanied for a farewell dinner of her son for his national service. Parents, especially mothers, were terribly anxious in such circumstances, where sons were sent to far flung corners of the country.

            Danica was the eldest child of Aunt Saveta, who when she lost her father to the mines in Amerika, soon after lost her mother too when she married grandad Rade. Grandad had insisted the child be left behind in the birth clan; even a couple hundred meters away little contact had been allowed.       

Another of the astounding facts of that harsh former life high in the karst.

The response that followed the announcement of Danica’s passing had been learned long ago from the earlier generation. It was the only thing that could be decently managed. A particularly striking form of words.

Laka joj crna žemlja.

The black earth light on her.

The rich alpine soil in the plateau on Uble was indeed black. Finer folk along the water below tagged the mountaineers from whom they bought their foodstuffs dirty. Šporki Ubjani. Down near the water the soil was friable; at the heights more black and heavy.

Not for the first time, the thought arrived that in the old days, in the poor mountain settlements like Village Uble, the dead had routinely been buried with the dirt directly shovelled onto the body of the deceased. 

Of course. Naturally. What else?

And not just in the Montenegrin mountain refuge settlements of course.

The clods were difficult to bear. Partings were harder. The Montenegrin hill people were famous for their graveside keening, drawing literary types like Goethe and Vuk Karadjić to the gravesides.

One wished for loved ones, for any deceased grieved, that lighter burden of piled soil. Not the heavy dirt the people turned over all their lives in the narrow fields.

Gold leaf for the Pharaohs would hardly have glinted more brightly deep within the dark burial vaults of the pyramids than that cloth arriving at the Void, received into the arms of the grieving widower.

Publication news: The Sound of Music - Packingtown Review

Another publication to announce, music theme here, which could only be taken in some divergent directions by this writer.

A short sequence of 3 micros (760 words), free on the site, —

www.packingtownreview.com/issues/25/radonic/music.html

NB. In some regions the link brings up security alerts. Googling Packingtown Review seems to overcome that. #25 Spring 2026

Publication: Gettin’ On - Blood+Honey

Another flash of mine has just been published by an U.S. online magazine called Blood+Honey, where they like grit & edginess. Gettin' On gives a wee touch of that from the world of the former British possessions on the Equator. 

A junkie tale here from a more permissive Singaporean era! 😊 Originally penned 12 odd years ago.

Free on the site (1.1K words),

https://www.bloodhoneylit.com/fiction/gettin-on

Obit

It stayed in the mind pinching & nagging, the kinda thing that all too often happens to writers, catching them unawares, while minding their own business. Really, there was no call to stick your nose in there, especially such sensitive matters. This though did stick fast, through the latter part of morning and again on the bus getting out for lunch. Darn thing. Coming on so much so in fact that one was actually forced to go back in the evening to buy another copy of the newspaper. The morning paper was always given away afterward to one of the uncles or aunties interested to flip through the pages; even wrapping paper was better than junking in the recycle bin. (The suspicion was all refuse was actually burnt in the Republic. The mess of junk people threw into those blue bins made anything else impossible, even were there a will.) One certainly didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, nor more importantly the grief-stricken living. But, by golly! What the heck was that? At bottom very much an important question. An Obit 4 inches x 6. When photos of the departed accompanied text in the English language newspaper the pics were invariably super flattering. Flattering shots of 70year olds, 90year olds the same. The incidence seemed to be more common on these shores. One only flicked the pages of course at the tail end of the morning ritual. All of the paper was dealt with summarily, but esp. Biz, Obit, Sport & Life. (One must say, the paper in question did hold quite compelling pieces occasionally, not all of them syndicated. A psychiatrist who had been head of the local Institute at one time was truly first rate.) The particular smiling deceased here had stood herself at the foot of a curving wooden balustrade, perhaps 10-15 years before her demise. Possibly she had been a handsome woman in her pomp; it was difficult to tell. Lustrous dye, high heels. Silver bracelet and good trim. But it was the dress that was the thing. Taste, aesthetic judgement was not evenly distributed at the creation, of course. One versed in fashion could describe the article more satisfactorily. Rich baby pink the first thing, classic Barbie tone. A mermaid effect was created with ballooned shoulders and tightening at the hip, where a large, flowering rose at the midriff shed large petals along the trunk and down to the ankles. One leg swung over the other and the foot mounted achieved the inverted cone. The colour accent continued through hair, lippy, fingers & toes. It was only the hands that gave away the age. There must have been a long zip behind; in front the dress seemed pasted on. In any circumstances highly overblown and in this particular usage especially. (Galas at the upscale clubs, weddings & the like, perhaps could be imagined.) The rhyming stanzas attached confirmed Christianity, hopes of reunion, the higher world & eternal life. Even in the case of the prosperity gospel, such a presentation seemed problematic. That attire could not have been chosen for the casket; it was difficult to conceive such a thing. And this was certainly not to say the heart of gold beneath the fabric could be questioned. Only, the journey, the life passage—stringing the dots together toward the final, earthly outcome and the aspiration… One was not to judge. The role of the scribe was often disagreeable, like that of the messenger. Only a polite question raised here, finally, centring on this class, this culture & society that could produced dissonance of that sort. (Not at issue this or that individual case.)

 

Publication news: Soaring - Airplane Reading

Another air travel piece of mine has just been published by the guys at Airplane Reading, who share a serious interest in the subject matter.

A short-short again (400 words), freely available on the site here, —

https://airplanereading.org/story/579/soaring

All best

PR

Chrysalis 22_May26 - 350

 

 

 Not every single guy would react like that, but there was no doubt about it, give this one particular chap a bakery, one raising crisp, fresh loaf on site, good variety and some pride in product; add pastries, cakes, pies, croissants, tidbits, &etc, all of the same high standard, what you automatically found was all the girls therein—for this one particular, not so very special kinda guy—all the girls serving there suddenly, as if by magic, appeared the sweetest, most scrumptious and completely delectable sorts imaginable. Transformed into lovey-dovey, heart-piercing-melting-confounding desirables. As if the weirdest spell had been cast. Put same out on the street, on a bus, at a bar, passing beneath an umbrella, going out on the town, nothing whatever like effect, according to this particular guy. It was something of the gingerbread house effect that had been evoked in the schoolroom couple generations past, that vividness & overpowering compulsion. Similar was found at markets, fruit stalls, delicatessens, occasionally behind chemist counters, for this particular guy. (Nurses of course, but that was common.) Not so much cafe baristas, waitresses, checkout chicks & shopgirls. Not evident in kitchens and less so again offices and even dance halls & concerts. Decidedly much less so, at least for this certain kinda guy, with his own curious kinda wiring. The gym might have been supposed, yoga, library, lecture hall, cooking classes, whatnot. Mistakenly. Broccoli, carrot, even turnips, potato & onion displays could better set the scene and serve the purpose. Clothing stores another no-no; carefully lit bookshops & galleries unpropitious, even where compelling portraits & still lives graced the walls. (A painter friend of his, excellent and committed female artist, had taken offence at the account of a gallery visit once, where a patron there had been described as a far greater and more captivating work than anything on the walls.) This odd connoisseur wondered about porn & fashion victims. Were his own reactions so very rare? Surely there were others similarly constituted, the chap always continued with his point, like a dog at a bone.

 

 

                         Candied Bakery,  

Spotswood, Melbourne

 

 

Another Thing of Feathers

 

The dead pigeon yesterday going along Crane Road to meet Kieran startled, a vivid white full-breast, head and open eye turned inward to the pavement, against the grey of the steel utility box standing 1.1-2m high. Right there suddenly touching distance, the delicate texture of its feathers apparent in the pass. The numerous dead on the pavements of the last few weeks had been gotten by with far less sting. Around the middle of April, after a preparatory media campaign, the culling of the crows by the shooters had been resumed, with the poisoning of the pigeons ongoing. 

The Honeyeater May26

You read about these and every day they stared you in the face, like the ones attached to the gal’s bag (though even those were oversized); a giant brown honey-eater like this though on the loose, never previously. Not at the library, not the buses or at the eateries. A child could not have managed that bulk, younger teen would struggle. Local or Mainland Chinese, 20 possibly. (There was the same trouble over there of course.) Were this a paying venue, a question might have arisen; on an aeroplane certainly there would have been. This Teddy was not going to fit under the seat in front, and carry-on the question of cruelty arose. 6 - 7 minutes the girl sat with it nestled in her lap, staring a little before her; nothing to suggest any trouble. iPad raised on its stand, 1.5 litre ceramic bottle. When she rose to move off, getting around the far corner of the shelves, the assumption was that the street, the trains & malls was where the serious difficulty lay. 10 - 15 seconds later, however, here she was returned to collect him, before setting off again. Soon pair returned. Otherwise, as far as one could tell, on the surface and by all indicators, a young lass perfectly settled. At the table working steadily. Tall, slim; good quality cushioned phones (which no doubt aided the cause). A few minutes more Teddy was lifted higher against her chest, rather a handsome head over her shoulder, where the length of arm became apparent. Surprisingly long; the nails retracted. Proportions here were in fact probably correct. Shuffling the papers was easily managed with the Furry resting between. There were no school-kids at the tables, all 19 & 20 year-old peers; a good number of both genders carried the miniatures on their bags & pencil cases. In a cold climate the whole thing would have been more fitting, though bearing in mind a significant minority here did live the complete A/C bubble. Bending to write with a pen, now her own chin fell onto Teddy’s neck. Half hour steadily progressing the task, without too much effort. White-out the bear, return him to his mountain-side habitat, no indication of the slightest sort. No doubt the forerunners all the way back to earliest beddy-byes sat patched on the upper shelf in the wardrobe at home. A hint might have been given by a glimpse of a parent, or even sibling. Later only a couple of eyes from passersby; most of the youngsters here had seen the like often enough.

https://share.icloud.com/photos/0d4_pBwSu6_L-7hFkkTCxp6bg

 

 

NB. Zoran’s Honeyeater video from early Spring in the ancestral village.

 

 

On the Job

 

Making A Clean Difference even rocking from side to side like that, as if in some humorous skit for the former stage. The right hand trailed one of the larger payung with flat end that commonly doubled as a walking-stick. Man might have seen the weather forecast for afternoon showers the rest of April. Two front teeth left a gap in the smiling pass by the front of the table. Go back... Never sighted previously, yet the man wants you to know his intentions at that hour, a few minutes short 8PM. (Surely his shift was not the 12hr stretch on broom & pan.) Mid- late-70s if not fetched beyond, though in all respects the gap seemed more like 2 - 3 decades. (It remained impossible to comprehend how far it was you yourself had gone off now.) Hopefully there was a helpmate of some description waiting at home with a welcoming plate of food; the short sit at Saddam could not have allowed more than a teh. Almost always this folk invited you into their world—there were no walls in their theatre of the everyday. Aged rheumy eyes like his would not distinguish skin tone and a batik top only scrambled impressions. Of course the familiars always offered greetings of some kind, but strange whites too could not be summarily dismissed. Out of the blue sometimes telling life episodes emerged too that almost wrote themselves into the annals.

 

 

 

Bashtik (April26)

 

 

Three or four days after the festival we hiked up to the village. It had been 28 years since the last time we had gone up together. We hiked casually along the new roadway about 3 hours, with bread & cheese in our kit. The descent on the Morinj side four days later would take 2½ hours, the rain that arrived making the descent quite treacherous. Up behind our house a massif named Bashtik stood 1500m above sea level—about 600m above the village itself. With age encroaching, of course, the climb was unlikely ever to be repeated. From the peak the prospect buffeted the brain, like the sudden wind did the body, knees ready to buckle and an odd fear of being lifted from the ground. On a clear day the Italian coast might be visible, they said. The old folk said when the wind was right the bells at San Pietro could be heard from the peak of Bashtik. Towns along the water were laid out as if na dlan, on the palm of the hand. Surprisingly, the village itself was completely out of view; instead the airport at Tivat uncannily appeared from the North. Wild swine was common now up at the heights. A few years previous a wolf had wrestled a rifle from one of our villagers, leaving tooth-marks on the barrel for proof. With the assistance of the vet from town, earlier at this man’s house we helped pull a calf from a cow. Thankfully, the largest animal sighted on Bashtik had been a mouse on the forest floor. The rocky folds of the land and then the levitation on the summit would knock in the brain like the good sense the schoolteachers of old had threatened.

 

 

 

                    Boka Kotorska, Montenegro

‘09 / April ‘26

Lids April_May26

 

The  members of the Chairman’s round-table in front of the servery beneath the fan at Wadi had altered over the months. Earlier in the year two previous stalwart couples had peeled off, likely in concert. More than likely financial disputes involved concerning the Chairman's tours; it couldn’t have been anything else. (The two pairs had been met independently in passing around the traps, discretion forbidding questioning.)

The faithful stalwart was the cleaner/ex-con and his wife. They were a more recent couple, though the lady had waited for the chap during the last term inside at least, from memory. Couple decades all up the guy had served, substances undoing. A long stretch he had been clean; outta the woods now, hopefully. No doubt the lady had a lot to do with the success, Chairman Aziz helping too, likely. On the evenings Aziz & his wife were absent, these two also failed to appear.

You could tell the guy liked that chair opposite the Chairman. Rarely did he say much himself, but when the Chair held forth the focus was always fixed. Man knew them all, Syed, Beefy, Man the ciggie guy & his sidekick. Nice fellow. The legal fags did for him now, 2 - 3 over the evening under the trees. Always neat, dyed, fine warm smile. Prayers were not joined in his case when Aziz and one or two of the others set off. (It would be enquired; like many of the men, ex-inmates in particular, direct questioning was usually answered directly.)

Aziz kept to the prayer schedule; the strictness indispensable to the man. In some period prior to Ramadan – it may have been the Prophet’s birthday stretch – Aziz had led prayers at the table with a mic turned up. Fellow had no sense of his jarring voice and received cheeky comment as playfulness.

The Chair’s table accommodated 7-8 sitting close and sometimes the overflow needed a couple tables joined, which didn’t always make for smooth exchange. Sometimes the witticisms fired left & right, to-and-fro through the course, would leave the Chairman second best, acknowledged by the man with smiles & bowing.

            In recent weeks a particular fellow had become a regular at Aziz’s table, an ordinary Joe who was privately aware of his ordinariness. Usually the man sat on Aziz’s left, either adjacent or facing. Little tubby guy in the common street wear, who in this case had awarded himself an outstanding crown, the like of which had never been seen in the neighbourhood. It was possible even friends,  certainly acquaintances, would fail to recognise the man without.

            When Aziz was questioned, the Chairman seemed to think the curiosity misdirected.

            I have one too, he informed. Moreover, standing 52inches tall.

            Ordinarily, Aziz wore a clean, white, regular songkok. The colour signified a man who had completed the hajj. In Aziz’s travel line, that performance had been undertaken times without number.

            The initial size for his songkok turned out an error. It had been centimetres. The confusion arisen after the other’s songkok had been estimated from two tables away at 11- 12 inches.

It was difficult to take one’s eyes off this songkok. Over the foot it may possibly have been too. Placed on the guy’s actual foot, a kind of flipper would have resulted.

            Jet black, still stiff & shapely. A recent purchase after a Toto win, perhaps. This too would be enquired, when an opportunity afforded.

            Sitting so low to the table the Tubby, adding the tower meant he could mix it with any takers. Black, but lustrous; fabric as new, perfectly smooth. Oddly, no one seemed to pay this songkok any regard whatever. There was never a glance in its direction; hardly ever any eye on that side. On the rare occasion this man spoke, in some brief exchange with Aziz, none of the others gave ear.

            After advising of his own possession of a much taller article still, Aziz swiped through his photos. It was there somewhere. A travel agent had many, many pics on his phone. Aziz had never sorted them into albums. Finally, Aziz at table at the Pasar, balancing a towering felt cone rather nervously on his head.

It could not be worn for prayers. It would fall off, Aziz explained.

It was Aziz who informed during the course here that the forehead needed to be uncovered in the prostrations; the bare forehead touching the carpet. Head-cover otherwise was not obligatory, but you would bet Aziz and the tubby kept to the local custom. (A reminder: like for women in Orthodox churches & synagogues, women in the mussolahs were required cover.)

Certainly Aziz’s party songkok could not have served in the mosque, and it seemed the same with the Tubby’s more handsome, shorter item. When the latter returned the other night from the maghrib, the songkok had surprisingly been swapped, exchanged for another article that was in fact almost equally splendid.

No disrespect, but this tubby did remind of the guys in the old Laurel & Hardy B&W silents who would get numerous kicks up the back-side. Casually administered kicks, in passing for these extras, for no apparent reason. At the cattle yards, on street corners, at any opportunity, someone gave the boot; it may not have been the leads. It seemed simply because of the figure the hapless fellows presented; to keep no-goods like that on their toes, make sure they didn’t get themselves any ideas.

That stock figure appeared in those skits for added laughs, and sometimes possibly more than one chap was involved. Low life average Joes, getting something to go on with. Back in the day kids of a similar sort were immediately identified at school; quiet, shy types who knew to keep outta the path of the big guys, the jocks & sharps. Look out, shut-up and maybe you wouldn’t get a swift boot up the kyber.  

Well, times had changed. The sans culottes had bettered themselves. It could only have been the lottery in this man’s case at Wadi. There was still no minimum wage in Sing. Over the last decade the government had addressed the huge disparities in income with giveaways 2 - 3 times yearly. Aziz estimated the 11- 12incher might have cost Tubby $50-60. Still, at the lower end, this was dough. The older penny-pinchers would often draw attention to 20-30c differences in the prices of tehs.

In the exchanges with Aziz care had needed to be taken. To begin, Aziz had been asked whether perchance the handsome Songkok might have been a mufti or imam.

Az enjoyed fielding enquiries. Any matter, any time. Anything on religion he could enlighten. Nice man. Forty-five year wedding anniversary recently, was it? Six or more adult kids and big number next gen.

After the maghrib the other night when Aziz and shortly after the Songkok returned, the latter reappeared minus the signature lid. Now it was that other colourful item that one sometimes saw in the newspapers, or in wedding parties. Lustrous again, but rich, dazzling lime green here. Originally the article was a wrap that needed to be carefully and tightly folded around the top of the scone, an intricate operation which could only be properly performed by retainers. In his explanations Aziz mentioned Malaysian & Indo royalty.

Like the other, never seen before in the G. Serai quarter. Once or twice the karaoke crew who would return to Wadi after their day out had a lady adorned with something like a tanjut. In the street parades in Yogyakarta, young, heavily-made up girls marched in formation down the middle of Malioboro with something of the kind.

This little guy had brought it out at Wadi. 

TANJUT. Again, Aziz claimed back some of the thunder with remark on his own in the wardrobe. Again, photographic corroboration. One of Az’s promos for the Korban, eventually found on the phone, featured a tanjut that somehow sat less elegantly on an admittedly more handsome mount.

The hapless fall guy in the Laurel & H. seemed like he hadn’t had a wash in many a day. Drab, unkempt & grubby. Rather like the Tubby recently admitted to Chairman A.’s table.

Darts man Jamaal would know of any recent wins in the community. The following morning he had rocked up to Mr. T. T. with another triumph. The ticket was drawn out from Jam’s wallet. Unusually, both Saturday & Sunday Jam had used the same numbers, winners both times.

At a guess, Tubby might have scored a grand or more.

 

 

 

 

   Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-26