Maggie Tiojakin is not funny. In fact she’s rather serious, particularly in making everything sound serious.

While she doesn’t seem to have any intention of drawing tears from our eyes, her forte lies in the ability to give us that pause, making us stop for a moment to ponder life, and do so again after another read.

And she’s really good at it.

Maggie’s exploration of her surroundings breathes into most of her short stories the soul that’s deemed necessary to keep them afloat. Most of them are interesting, some of them unbearably heavy, but all of them deploy the perfect ingredients that work: not so long as to be boring and not too short to come up empty.

Balada Ching - Ching could be the defining collection of Maggie’s best works so far: 13 short stories, including six published previously, one in schedule and others not specifically written for the collection.

This is excellent stuff, and Gramedia Pustaka Utama has made a laudable effort to enrich our literature. If this isn’t nice, we don’t know what is.

One thing is for sure, Maggie managed to avoid the problem of translated literature. Previously published in English, a second language for her, these short stories shot out to receive positive reviews from critics at the time of their release. And when it was required to have them rewritten in Indonesian what came through in her personal interpretations was slightly different, slightly more engaging in details, mostly appealing, and formed a group of new literature that stands on its own.

The plots of her stories do not drag on or slump like those of many Indonesian writers who dwell too long in explaining the unnecessary. Hers are indubitably brave with topics as simple yet as complicated as the fractions of life itself.

Titles such as Liana, Liana (Waiting for Mother), Dua Sisi, Luka (Crush) and Kawin Lari (He Said, She Said) can otherwise reveal the paradigm of everyday events through Maggie’s eyes, making us question the usual and unusual, making common occurrences interesting and engaging.
The theme of racism is huge, but a child desperately waiting for her mom; a foot massager falling in love with her client’s foot; and what a dying 15-year-old child brings to the world are elements of life’s colors we may have previously ignored.

However, this doesn’t mean Maggie’s way of storytelling is maxing out. Obviously there is room to grow. Simplicity is working nicely for her, and though some of her stories could soar to unquestionable heights, readers’ common expectations after the big entry points are often cut short by following events, by forced romance and immediate continuations that are somewhat less natural. She worked them out OK, but they could have been up there.

But still, it’s hard to count this as criticism. These stories, if not well spawned, are often crafted brilliantly as explorations with sufficient research and depth to give us not just knowledge, but an emotional, personal understanding of what truly happened — although sometimes she chooses to blur the endings, hinting with a bag full of flowers or a heart pinned with needles.

Readers will love this collection. Some will be glued to your eyes like contact lenses and some will stay in your minds for a following read the next night. Whatever happens, Balada Ching-Ching is definitely that type of book that keep on your bedside for some time.

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a review of a short story collection by a dear friend of mine Maggie, did it for the post back in the hey days :p

It was raining, and there she was standing. The wind was soft, and the lights falling on the sidewalks loomed over her umbrella. She was wearing a skirt with a bright yellow sunflower pattern. Her white shirt was wet. I noticed that she had cut her hair short, but the eyes behind the glasses were clear as always, as bright as the sun in the morning.

Bayu said he didn't want to sit with any girl and complained how annoying they'd get with their stupid colorful pens, bags, books and stuff. But I'd sit with her. I'd sit with her through all the subjects in the fourth grade if I had too, including math. I wished we went to the same school.

I get to see her once a week, every Sunday at the free traditional dance class provided by the local government in the city area, thirty minutes by bus from our school. Sunday, for me back then, was the best day of the week. Bayu would bring some home-made foods cooked by her mom, and I would get some bites, sometimes more. Dancing doesn't need shoes and my sandals were just two month old.

And I still remember the way she danced, moving quietly like the night. At 12 o'clock every Sunday her parents would come and pick her up and for two seconds, just two seconds, you got to see her smile. You got to see her run to the open car door. You got to see her go, disappear around the corner; an end to start another beginning, a week long of waiting for another dance class.

It was two o'clock and it was raining. She stood there with her umbrella. Bayu's mum had picked him up. I sat there as if waiting, pretending that someone would pick me up. But all I could see was her, standing there with her umbrella. The rain carried by the wind fell soft on the sidewalk.

I was a dull boy; sport was never my cup of tea. I though I was a good sketcher, coloring with crayons was a lot of fuss. My marks had fallen like dead soldiers in the Belgian war since the beginning of this term, but I didn't care.

Our dad had left us several months before, after a big fight with mom, he never returned. And for me, that's a good enough reason to stop studying all together, pretending to be some fucked up little kid instead of just a lazy little donkey.

My only source of entertainment was the rain, sometimes heavy and sometimes soft, that fell all afternoon. It was, after all, the rainy season and the smell of the wet soil, the fog in the mountain feet, the waving green trees at a distance from the window, they're begging for my attention.

To tell the truth, the fourth grade was not much of a fun than the fifth. It's funny that the class is actually a bit smaller, funny, because in a way we were getting bigger.

Bayu said that his friend Rudy knew her friend and that her name was Tanya. A weird name if you speak Bahasa. You asked her name and you get Tanya. I guessed that her parents loved to play tricks.

To describe her in color, she was a yellowish-white. A lot of yellowish-whites roam the city. The toy store on the fifth street has older yellowish-white and even yellowish parents, pale wrinkled creatures. But this yellowish-white was special, she shone. And Bayu was the blackest living skinny kid alive. I for sure was a caf* latte brown with some peanut specs covered in dust, but who cares? I certainly don't.

I once saw her without glasses on. She said she wanted to wash her face, and I, out of whatever it was, stole a way out of the class and followed her from a distance. And she removed her glasses, took the running water and washed her face. At exactly 4 meters away she looked at me, with her beautiful two eyes, directly at me. After what I thought was a hint of smile, she looked away, in the most elegant of ways. My heart melted in my knees, and that was the end of me.

But apparently not, because after three months of joining this God condemned dance class, I finally got the chance to talk to her. It was two o'clock and she was there, her friends already leaving. The rain was shimmering and there was no sign of a car arriving from any corner. "I'm going to say hi", I thought.

There's a big tree shading the main street 10 minutes before the dance hall. It was the biggest tree I've ever seen in my life. Bayu said that it was probably because we're so small and that everything else seemed bigger or taller or farther. That in five years it would just be a tree, nothing special.

Everything looked so big and amazing when we're kids, and when we grow up, things will start to get the way they are, making us bored, and people start killing themselves.

Tanya, with her tiny little fingers washing her face, was like that tree to me, and I'm going to leave it at that.

Bayu's friend Rudi said that his friend told him that Tanya lives in one of the houses behind the Empat Lima football field, that her parents were rich and that she's got a brother who's got the latest Nintendo. He said that his friend said that Tanya is good at Tetris. I was a genius at hide and seek, and with her apparently a master at Tetris, whatever Tetris was, we must be suited to each other.

And she's great at Gambyong, we could one day dance together. People would see us and say how great we are - Tanya and me.

So baring these things in mind I stood up. It was raining but what the hell, I'm wearing sandals anyway. Water dripped from branches above the gate opposing the hall and there she was, with her short hair waving and her ever-lively eyes.

I stood a meter away from her after crossing the wet street. There was no contact until, suddenly, I slipped.

"Heeh!!" she screamed, almost worried.

I wasn't a skater or a funambulist, but I did get myself a hole in my right thigh with a twelve centimeter twig two months before Christmas simply because I failed in my impersonation of Tarzan, falling from a ledge of a gutter and regretting the futile effort of clinging to a half rotten banana tree.

"I'm okay, thanks!" I thanked God for not letting me fall on my butt.

She laughed, it was contagious. I laughed too. That's it, I'm going to marry this girl and we're going to have lots of kids.

"You're Dhika right?"

She knew my name! How in the hell would she know me? Should I ask? I once asked my mother to change the name to Agus, because I had two friends who were Agus and they're both stinking rich, but apparently 27 people in our school were Agus and I had to stick to the quota. Anyways, yes, I'm Dhika.

"Yeah, you're Tanya right?"

"Tanya? No! I'm Mei Ling"

Darn that kid named Rudi. My friend Cahyo had an uncle named Rudi and we once caught him ripping a page from a Dragon Ball manga to wipe his nose. Never trust anyone named Rudi, that's a consensus we made, I can't believe I forgot about it.

"Mei Ling? I was born in May too!"

"That's a Chinese name you stupid," she laughed.

Never before did someone call me stupid and make me happy at the same time. What she did to me was way crazier than Santet, I felt pins and needles in my stomach, sand in my knees, and I laughed like a stupid cow.

I was soaking wet, and as the rain got heavier, I stepped closer under her umbrella. The skin of our hand touched and I felt my heart beat faster by the second - and then her parent's car appeared.

She said goodbye and disappeared behind the closed door. Time stood still but the rain kept falling. The sky was grey but my heart was blooming, it was going to be a long week.

It was the last time I ever saw her. A teacher told Rudi - whom Bayu and I vowed never to trust again - and he told his friend and that friend told us that she had moved to Jakarta with the rest of her family. Though I can see her smiling face every time I closed my eyes, time passed, and she slowly faded away.

...

Adam is calling, started with easy talk about last night's stupid incident and ended with another blind date to set up. What is so wrong with a 29 year old single guy? Absolutely nothing!

"You're going to like her. She's a friend of my wife and she's fun. Her name is Mei Ling," he said on the speaker-phone.

"Okaaaay, seven o'clock tomorrow at the usual cinema," I said uninterested, walking back to the living room.

"Mei Ling huh? She couldn't be born in May, could she?" asked John.

"That's a Chinese name you stupid," I replied.




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the short story was published on The Jakarta Post, Sunday 05/17/2009, I hope you guys like it :)

Pain was real, and so was sadness. And happiness was a role play in his mind, begins with a smile and ended with a smile. But I don’t think he feel any of those.

“I befriended him for ages. And still, I have absolutely no idea what goes through his mind,” said Jono about Adry.

Adry, the guy who killed himself last week in his boarding house, was said to be the average usual guy, who loves playing trumpet in the park and drinking beer late at nights with his circle of friends.

Toby recalled they were once found themselves in a hangover state in front of a Circle K in one area in Bandung at eleven A.M., because they were too drunk to find their way home the morning before. All they did were buying beers, bottles of beers, until they’re running out of money. He too was spotted at Adry’s funeral.

His mom cried like a wailing wolf. His dad stood silent beside her.

Thomas, another friend, told me that Adry hated his job, a translator in a small firm in Jakarta. At least it pays enough, he recalled, enough to buy comic books and action figures stacked in the walls of his room.

There were no flies, nor insects. When the cop finally found him two days after his time of death in his room, forcing the door open with a big steel block, his body had already bumpy. He slit his left hand artery opened with a cutter. There were no notes, no recorded message found.

His clothes were piling up like they’ve always been there for months, drawn in a pool of blood that was flowing from his open wound. The room was dusty and the closet doors were open. Cigarette butts were stomped in a bowl turned ashtray beside him, and plastic bags were scattering everywhere.

His MP3 player was charged and hooked up to a computer speaker. It continuously played Counting Crow’s Color Blind.

It was apparent that he drugged himself before the effort. A bottle of sleeping pills were found on the side of his bed, empty, with all the pills gone.

He doesn’t seem to have a motive, a simple 26 year old guy with no record of violence, crime or breakdowns who happened to be found dead in his boarding house.

--------------

But after a month of his death a journal was found, with the last pages of it being the saddest thing I’ve ever read.

“I have come to a decision to end my life,” he started.

“There’s nothing wrong with it yet. I know I can find some reasons latter, but the only thing I could think of now is death.”

On the next page was a picture of a T-shirt, written “I chose death” and an edgy illustration of a chopped off head.

“I came across good people like fairytales, helpful people, but in their minds I know they’re insincere. I know they hate their life,” he wrote on a page dated March 25, a week before his death.

“The Ritz is 250 meters tall. Kempinski is quite tall, but the security is tough, though jumping from it would certainly be a gag, or the TVRI tower? What about the boarding house?” he wrote on a page dated March 27, presumably figuring out that the best way to end his life is by jumping from a high building somewhere.

After a space he wrote, “I could try mixing detergent with Wipol, but I guess it would be painful. Drowning sucks, suffocating is definitely not the best way to do it.”

“I feel nothing. I feel like there’s nothing left for me in this world. I don’t feel like flying or escaping. I don’t think that any of those will get me somewhere. I don’t see anything anymore in the mirror. I think this is the end.” He wrote on a page dated March 31.

He got three calls that day, one from his mom who’s apparently a frequent caller, and two from his girlfriend which according to her were smooth calls, with no hints of a depression.

The girlfriend, as Adry once put it, was a mix between a party queen and a bitch. “There’s the possibility that she’s the town’s bike everybody rides, with the only one who didn’t know was me,” he once said, laughing after seven cans of beer.

“For us his friends, it would be a lie to say that she wasn’t a lot of fun. It does seem that she was always there with him every time and they have always had a good laugh, but I guess we didn’t know it that much,” said Toby.

She was present at the funeral.

When Adry finished high school in 2011, he decided to go to Padjajaran University, Bandung, taking Japanese literature. That’s where we met. He’s a smart kid with peculiarly no ambition whatsoever.

His goal was “to get out of this place.”

But he was a lot of fun, and I was in search of something out of the ordinary. I proclaimed myself as the guy who liked to do crazy stuff and he’s got absolutely nothing against it, we were inseparable throughout those four years of torments and hard works.

I left for Japan in 2015 and we lost contact. And now, four years later, I found him dead.

“Would it make any different if the sun was grey, or if everybody else in this world starts to make some sense?” he wrote on the last page of the book, dated April 10.

“I wish I have a point to this end. I’m just a selfish bastard my whole life after all. I wish I’m killing myself for a better good, for a better reason. But I feel them as abstract as the action itself. I refused to be here or there, being forced into a condition without certainty of what to feel, how to react, what to expect. The world is stale and it keeps turning like an idiot.”

“I don’t expect to go to heaven, nor do I fear of going to hell. I don’t expect to see angels taking me with their wings. I do not wish to remember, or to born a new man. I do not wish to know, I really don’t care. Like a bad movie, I want this to end and fall into a deep slumber, the sweet release of death. The sun might shine. The ocean might continue making that sound and the rest of the universe might expand.”

His final words were “live and let die...” They were on the corner page, and there’s nothing afterwards.

I didn’t know why he killed himself even now. Or where did he go every Tuesday night from eight to ten P.M. for two years throughout college. The more I realize it; the more I think that I really don’t know him after all. All I knew was that he was a good friend.

------------------

Several weeks later I received a call telling me that Adry had joined an insurance program four months before his death, a program that says an amount of money will be given to a pre-decided beneficiaries if he died, dead because of whatever cause, including some clausal that indirectly pointed suicide as the cause of death.

Written in his contract, 70 percent of the money will go to his mother, and the rest of it will go to Greenpeace.

To tell the truth, I think that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. I wasn’t laughing hearing the news, I thought of laughing my ass off, but I couldn’t. And I wasn’t crying either. It was stupid, but it wasn’t funny either.

It was bitter, it was a waste of life and I feel pity for that guy. A stupid death.

a short story by Restiawardani


Dia menunggu lagi. Aku tahu, karena setiap kali aku ke sini, dia selalu ada lebih dulu. Tempat duduknya pun selalu sama, dekat konter kasir tempat Mima akan berdiri...seandainya dia masih ada.

Aku tidak pernah mencoba memberi tahu laki-laki itu, bahwa gadis yang dia tunggu tak akan pernah lagi ke tempat ini, atau ke tempat manapun. Aku tak pernah mencoba memberitahunya.

Laki-laki itu selalu berharap, matanya selalu tertuju pada pintu pegawai, seakan-akan Mima akan muncul di sana. Caranya menjawab telepon yang masuk lewat handphone-nya juga tak pantas, seakan seseorang mengganggu ritual sucinya, setiap hari, di coffee shop ini.

Suatu hari, seseorang lewat di samping lelaki itu dan memanggilnya, Sandy. Tapi selain namanya, Aku tidak tahu hal lain tentang dirinya. Yang aku tahu dia mahasiswa. Aku melihat judul-judul buku yang dia bawa, yang tidak pernah dibaca, seakan benda-benda itu hanya aksesori. Sandy tidak pernah tersenyum pada bukunya. Dia hanya memamerkan lekukan itu di wajahnya ketika menatap aplikasi facebook di laptopnya.

Aku menyukai Sandy. Aku berharap dia melupakan Mima.

Tapi Sandy selalu kembali ke coffee shop ini. Dia selalu menatap konter kasir dengan murung. Ketika kukira dia terbenam dalam facebooknya, suara seperti denting sendok jatuh, atau suara tertawa tiba-tiba dari meja sebelah, atau suara denting mesin kasir, akan dengan mudah mengalihkan perhatiannya. Kepala Sandy pun akan berputar ke arah pintu pegawai, dan template kesedihan itu akan kembali dia aplikasikan saat dia tidak juga menemukan Mima di sana.

Aku tidak tahu mengapa Sandy tidak pernah menanyakan satu orang pun yang bekerja di coffee shop ini tentang keberadaan Mima, karena dia pasti akan langsung mendapatkan jawabannya. Mereka, yang juga sepenuhnya tahu bahwa laki-laki ini datang untuk menemui Mima, juga tak pernah mencoba menyapa atau bertanya. Seperti aku, mungkin mereka suka dengan keberadaannya. Mungkin mereka menikmati kesetiaannya, dan kami terdiam dalam kekaguman.

Suatu waktu, aku pernah mencoba meniupkan kesadaran ke balik matanya, tempat hatinya berada. Tapi kuurungkan. Sandy sepertinya sudah memilikinya. Dia hanya menutupnya, seperti kebanyakan kaumnya, yang lebih memilih hidup berharap dibanding hidup dicekik kenyataan.

Sandy tidak tahu, andai dia tahu. Mima tidak ada karena aku menjemputnya...lebih dari tiga bulan lalu.
Seharusnya Sandy tidak perlu berorasi bisu menyuarakan protesnya karena ketiadaan Mima, dengan setiap hari memasang wajah murung di tempat yang seharusnya hangat dengan kopi dan kebaikan. Dia seharusnya tahu, Aku menjemput Mima, karena aku menginginkannya lebih dari dia mampu membayangkannya. Adakah yang lain di kaumnya yang memiliki hati sejernih Mima? Maka sebelum seseorang mendapatkannya, sebelum mereka menyakitinya, sebelum sesuatu membuat luka di hatinya, sebelum Mima mengotori hatinya, aku mengambilnya.

Kelak, saat Sandy mampu mendengarku, akan kubisikkan permohonan maafku.

Mima kini berdiri di sampingku. Kadang gadis kecil ini mengikutiku, hanya untuk melihat laki-laki yang setiap hari duduk berjam-jam di coffee shop menunggunya.

Aku menyukai Sandy dan kesedihannya yang melelahkan.
Hari ini, kuhembuskan kesadaran itu.

Sandy tersentak terkejut. Terburu-buru dia berdiri. Setelah hampir satu tahun menunggu di coffee shop ini, baru kali ini Sandy pergi ke menemui wanita manajer itu di konter, dan bertanya di mana Mima. Dia tentu saja, sudah menduga apa jawabannya. Tapi tetap saja, begitu mendengarnya, dia hanya terdiam di sana. Tidak ada kemarahan, tidak ada teriakan. Hanya ada air mata yang mengalir pelan di wajah, dalam kebisuan.

Tapi kami tahu Sandy akan baik-baik saja.
Maka aku dan Mima pergi. Kali ini untuk selamanya.


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I feel bad, as she has erased the short story from her blog and here I took the liberty of repost it in my blog..
I think she will be like a bit mad at me for doing this, but whatta heck hahaha

it's going to be a love story, with of course an unhappy ending, but really depend on how you look at it

it's about a page of a poetry book written by.. well.. someone good. Joining the book club, which most of the time hangout around the library, on book fairs, on novel autograph sessions, a stupid man who loves to read fall in love with a beauty who loves poetry.

He crave her so much that one day he found a poetry that describes his feelings, and one day he said the words of the first line to her.. she listen and smiled, followed by her speaking her first greetings to our stupid hero.

the other time things got smoother and then there's the incident of a page being ripped off from the library, the 28th page of a poetry book by a famous poet (nice huh?)

and the girl did it, she gave it to the man, and said ; "keep it"

things fast forward to today, how the man has grown, to become one of the nation' prominent novelist.

the girl on the other hand was married and left.

flash back to the desperation of past events, how the girl got pregnant by her boyfriend and eventually married, how the man was broken hearted, blablablabla..

the end of the story closed with the man went looking for the girl after 5 years from the future, talked to a long friend from the book club, how he said things have changed, that the girl is now a widow with a kid..

he came to her, see her condition, see her kid, (guess his name).

and when he opened his wallet to let out the 28th page he kept over the year, she cried.. and said nothing..

he take her hand "let's begin again.."







oooh... soo sweeet...

“If you really want to know, I didn’t really care about the color of the tiles or whether they’re using lamps from Philips or not. I just want to pee, and that’s it,” he said.

“So I ran the familiar hallway from my office door toward the ballroom, which surprisingly was long and winding, only to find the big red neon signal on the door-top saying ‘occupied’ instead of, well, ‘ballroom’. It even blinked constantly.

Now I have no idea of what’s going on, but deep inside me I know that it’s bathroom in there, and that’s where I’ve got to be!”

“I was an imbecile to have failed in realizing how imbecile I was, missing a number of simple stupid facts during that time. I mean, I know it was at night; it was dark, and with the spotlights following my every move, the suspense is as real as any other Alfred Hitchcock movies. So what the heck am I doing at the office that late? And wearing only pajamas? Those were simple little things I have failed to realize.”

“Don’t ask me what time; that was off the questions. And didn’t I tell you that some facts were bluntly missing from my point of view? My brain was numb, and there’s that funny tickly feelings on both of my knees that literally blocking my common sense, forcing me to move, to break-dance, to run, to run sideways, to try and jump across the hall in a flash, to get to the faraway door as swift as I could, which eventually reached, but that was one heavy door to move.”

“And damn what a big door it was. The biggest bathroom door I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I tried to gather all my strengths and push it as hard as I could, to force it open. The sign wrote ‘pull’ and I pulled it as hard as I possibly could. And it opened.”

“It opened with a bang and guessed what; it was a gate, a gate to a long narrow path slicing through the steep sides of Alpine. Pine trees are bold from the right side up, while the ascending snowy surfaces are vast, covering fractures of solid stone-grounds. There was nothing on the left side of the path. “This can’t be happening!” I screamed. “If the storm blew me off, I’ll fall!”

And I was right, this can’t be happening. I stopped, trying to feel the heavy wind in front of me with my face and nothing.”

“I slowly opened my eyes, starred at the grey ceiling for minutes, and finally decided to get my fat Doraemon pillow out of the way and wobble to the bathroom, to pee.”

That’s my friend Botak talking, he’s so skinny that if he losses another pound, he’ll disappear. Which of course doesn’t quite hit the point of what he’s talking about, it’s just some random things he said that I found somewhat interesting, among other things.

The other day he was Napoleon, dashing Marengo on top of European architecture rooftops, “leading toward the big empty, chasing the void and halted at a giant football field. The world was flat and the land was as shiny as a black tinted glass.”

“Now I knew this was just a dream, one theatrically stupid dream that usually started so well but ended up with a big flop. Napoleon, whom somehow has always been the sole qualified representative of deminunitive men’s over achievements in my mind, galloping toward a perfect stage of the world in black and white with dark reflections and mirrors; it’s a moving masterpiece!” he blabbered.

“But what beheld Napoleon’s eyes was none other than a line of bathrooms, with people lining up in front of the small white doors.

Tiny 2x3 square meter boxes with white doors could be seen standing in the horizon from a distance to eternity. About 50 people lined up in front of every door while bending their knees, making faces and buzzing like flies.”

“My steed rushed toward them as if moving on my whim, obliterating these people in a tense and careless moving of both front and back feet. They scattered, screaming and crying. I was a bandit, a samurai, a guy with samurai attire, and as the people screaming in all directions, they grew smaller while I grew taller. My horse’s feet snapped their bones, squished their flesh like oranges, and soon the field was empty, these little people have vanished and I was back to my previous form, the vertically challenged Napoleon.”

It’s a bit loopy for me how he insisted on using eerie augmentation for the word ‘short’ instead of using ‘short’ anyways.

“I woke up, and of course, started walking toward the bathroom. I got too tall and too big in the dream that even the bathroom-lines started to look like small boxes on the floor. I couldn’t even get off of my horse without the fear of broken legs or flat out head. I was in a stationary for a while before gradually gain consciousness; the dream ran out of ideas,” he ended.

Funny how dreams are, sometimes they’re awfully familiar, life-like and glamour, but most of the times, at least in Botak’s case, they got to a point where everything is too damn predictable and as he put it; boring.

He believed, and I knew that he’s not even trying to be scientific -I’m sure Freud has different and much more advance opinions about dreams that don’t even consider his mumbo jumbo blah-blah-blah useless belief worth hearing, yet who cares- that dreams pictured -graphically speaking- human-brain’s highest ability to come up with the most interesting stories, and later telling it to ourselves like movies.

It’s like saying “now this is a good imagination,” and later scorned us for not being able to think of such stories while sober.

“You know, you could either be one hell of a children story teller or a crazy poet; just write your dreams on paper,” I used to say to him. He’d stared at me like an idiot and said ‘yeah’ and ‘right’ as a word -which reminds me of a good joke about a linguistic professor who pointed out that never, ever, in any language, does a double positive form a negative.

And never did he consider these dreams serious “those just stupid dreams I dreamed when I forgot to pee before sleeping,” he once said.

Well, I thank God he finally listened to me, as twenty years latter he found a way to smoothen his language and shoot out to be one of New York Time’s bestseller authors for children’s storybooks. His latest bedtime stories collection entitled “Dream Big Toilets”, which talked about the importance of brushing one’s teeth, changing to pajamas, tidying the bed and of course peeing before sleeping, won various prizes from the prestigious Georgia Children’s Book Award to Caldecott Honor Medal.

Both Calvin and Yotsuba –my 11 year old son and 6 year old daughter- are big fans, dragging me all the way down to his autograph-session at the city’s biggest bookstore last Sunday; despite his frequent visit to the house.

But let’s talk about the present here; Botak’s coming for a snack and I bet he’s going to have lots of stupid… I mean interesting stories to tell.

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one short story from a stupid idea that I finally write ha ha ha, like I believe once believed, being rejected can be quite a trigger sometimes.. on second read the story bores me as much, but whatta hell, it was fun writing this one. ;)

imagine a life taken away.. imagine a life, or some, so familiar to you taken away, abruptly, without any chance to see what will come through, with no chance to predict of what could have been..

it would be downright annoying haha

but that's basically the idea for this one..

a father and a child, waving goodbye to a mother, a wife , to go to both work and school, an ordinary family with ordinary problems of simple lives in the heart of jakarta, and when everything starts to flow, when all characters are being familiarized, as the writer have successfully bring out the real charm of each character through his way of elaboration

these lifes are taken away (pang!) just like that

the end



there are two ways of doing it; a simple mind to mind conversation by and to each characters with simple street signs of where they're now coming up once in a while to keep the reader's attention spanned and give breaks to each introduction of new problems..

or a conversation to one source altogether with no naration from a third party, which is awesomly cool, the most absurd idea that come up to me once the name David Foster Wallace is mentioned; which probably not his style either cos i've never read his work, but boy does he inspirational..

in a way, i'm thinking about a middle class working man going down a vicious circle of financial problem to start, probably got stuck to a decission to loan some money or not, and a sixth grade kid with school issues, probably about classmates, or new books to buy, stupid teachers.. and right before the end of the story a character appear as a guy who bring the disaster, best to be an angkot driver, reckless because of well, let's just say inevitable behaviour...

proving that no one is making a mistake, and if they do, no one could literally blame them. it's just meant to happen.. some people just had to die..

habis liat poto di Jakarta Globe tentang cerebral palsy (semoga bener spellingnya, not my main concern) trus punya ide buat cerpen tentang itu

agus umur 30, penghuni tuh rumah penampungan paling tua, umurnya 30. maunya membuat cerpen dari sudut pandang agus dalam sehari, perjuangan dia untuk ngangkat jemuran, that's it.

trus di kasi sisipan sisipan tentang penghuni lain, kisah mereka dan tentunya apa aja yang musti mereka alami, kayanya keren, tapi butuh research, tapi intinya adalah gimana si agus musti ngangkat jemuran di akhir cerpen, that's it, dan betapa beratnya satu aktifitas untuk mandiri itu.

kalo bisa bikin plot yang ga linear, to honor David Foster Wallace.. T,T
dengan kalimat pendek2 yang ga begitu pintar.

hopefully it worked

Jimmy, a promising young illustrator from a magazine in our group, brought his father to the office today. They looked like a great team.

I was with them in the elevator earlier this morning and couldn't help overhearing their conversation.

"No matter what the joke is Dad, don't relate them to all the porn jokes you know."

"Why?" answered his Dad in the same whispered tone.

"Well...because you'd laugh really hard afterwards! I mean, I respect your vast collection of triple-x jokes, but this is my boss you're talking with, so please ... you know, restrain yourself a little."

His dad laughed - really loudly. A dandy looking lady shot them a killer wince and Jimmy abruptly said, "See?"

"Okay, I'll restrain it," chuckled his Dad. "Thank you!" Jimmy firmly replied, as they got off at the seventeenth floor.

And now, 10 o'clock at night, standing alone in my office, staring out the window, I can't help thinking of my own Dad. He had the craziest laugh too, and God! How he ate everything.

I was an orphan. Dad took me in when I was just a few days old and he raised me by himself. I always knew I was an orphan, but somehow with Dad, it was never a problem. "I'm your father, and I'm going to raise you good," he used to say.

It was Friday night after dinner. I can't exactly remember what I did, but it was bad.

Dad took me to his favorite place, the balcony of our apartment, and started smoking.

"You should stop smoking Dad, it's going to kill you," I'd say.

"Hey, we're outdoors, cut me some slack will you," he laughed.

"Don't tell me I didn't warn you okay."

His face went serious "Calvin," he said, staring off into the distance,"I love your grandmother. She meant everything to me," He turned, looked at me and smiled. I liked his smile.

It was about the marks I guess, my bad marks. I was quite a good son, so... I really can't remember, but that night has got to be the longest time he was ever serious about anything important.

"When I was in fourth grade, your grandmother decided which junior high I would go to. She went to the best high school in the district, the same high school that her eight brothers and sisters went to, and she decided I should go there as well. I was in the fourth grade and already she had told me everyday what university I'd go. I guess probably because it was cheap," he started off.

"When I finished elementary school, I ranked number one in my class. I got 9.75 on math, you believe that? I can't. I still can't." He laughed. I couldn't laugh. I was in the eighth grade at the time and I wasn't doing great at math. When I finished elementary school my math score was 4.23, a complete mess.

"But it wasn't enough. I couldn't enter the junior high she wanted me to go to..." he paused, "that was the worst day of my life."

"She gave everything for us, you know? And she'd do everything too. And I couldn't even enter that stupid school."

The wind blew our faces. The cars formed lines of red and yellow lights twenty floors below. He lit his second cigarette. I cut him some slack this time.

"But I worked hard. I did all I could. I ranked third at the graduation. My name was called, and she was so excited. I'm glad she was.

"There were six classes; A to F, and F was where the dumbest students went. I was at A. Out of almost two hundred and forty something students, I ranked number three. You think I got lucky?" His eyes looked straight at me. "Nope. I was aiming for first. It was pure hard work." He blew his smoke.

"I went to the same high school she went to, and though my marks were good," -- dad's high school scores ranked seventh best in the regency --- "the best university in the nation was out of the question. All I had in mind was doing my deed, entering that crappy university for your grandmother."

I had a lot of questions that night. I mean, my dad was the chief editor of a national newspaper. He got a PhD in investigative journalism from Columbia University. He can't have gone to a crappy university, it just didn't make sense. But I couldn't say a word. I was frozen speechless. I figured he would have to get to the point soon.

It was a long two minutes of silence. He binned his cigarette butt and started off again. "Isn't this a good life?" he asked. I nodded. "This is what I've always wanted; big screen TV, cupboard full of mi goreng. Do you have a good life?"

"Yeah, of course," I guess that's what I said, faintly, perhaps unheard.

When I was in the fifth grade, I bought my own guitar. It cost twenty nine thousand rupiah. It was the worse guitar ever. It was like a canoe with strings. I knew the neck was the problem the moment I saw it."

"Twenty nine thousand rupiah?" I asked.

"Yeah, I mean what kind of guitar sold at twenty nine thousand rupiah? Even back then, twenty nine thousand was cheap, you know?"

"Dad, it's always cheap. Twenty nine thousand rupiah is never expensive!" We laughed.

"Well that's where you got it wrong. I got one hundred rupiah for school every day, nothing more, nothing less. Now precisely how long do you think it took me to save all those coins and get my own twenty nine thousand rupiah?" His eyes were lively.

"Two hundred and ninety days, even more," he said, answering his own question and pausing. "That green electric guitar of yours, how long did you save your pocket money for that one?" he asked.

It was a trick question. Smarty pants. "Okay, it's yours, I got it for you." He laughed.

At the time I thought I knew where he was going with all this. That my life was easy, his was hard, that I should have got good grades and all that stuff. I said to myself "Go ahead dad, make your speech."

"I want to be proud of you, you know? I want to be taken to your office one day, have a chat with your boss, tell him to stop praising my son and just promote the damn kid for the heck of it. Damn! You could always be that guy on TV, you know. Inventing revolutionary methods of squeezing milk out of cow or something, I mean you're my son!

"You're expected to do things, not by other people, but by me. Boy, I'm waiting to see great things out of you!" He lit his third cigarette. It was like the climax, or at least for me. I was wrong.

"I mean you're me. I want you to hear the music that I hear. I want you to see all the great movies I've seen, respect my comic book collections like I did. I want you to listen as I listen.

"Love your own music. Your video games, love them. Have dreams and do whatever you can to achieve them. All you need is this."

He pointed at his head.

"Love? You have love, everywhere. Did I not give you love?"

"Of course you give me love dad, a lot of it," I abruptly answered, reflecting I guess.

"Then what are you waiting for? Motivation? Am I not enough of a motivation?" he said. Our eyes met.

Thinking of that night now, I think that was the climax. We didn't say a word after that. I thought it was my time to say something, but my mind was just blank.

"Don't doubt me dad," I said. He looked at me with his childlike face and smile. "Never," he said.

My dad died eight months ago. I've had four jobs so far. And I took my dad to every office I've had, introducing him to my colleagues. I stayed as long as I could everyday during his three month hospital treatment for lung cancer, especially before and after chemo.

And he was always so lively, drawing muscled men with tights and giving them tasteless superhero names, unaware of his presence as hero, for me.

It was June 28. I was arranging his clothes when he asked me to take him around the hospital in a wrecked wheelchair. The sky was gray after the rain and we were strolling quietly through a small path in the hospital's park. We stopped at a bench under a tree facing the kid's section, and decided to watch the view.

"You're right, you know?" he said faintly after a whole bunch of me talking nonsense about how cheap a cup of coffee should be.

"What?" I answered.

"Smoking does kill eventually," he said.

"No, it won't, nothing kills you dad."

He smiled.

"You're a good son, I raised you good. I'm proud of myself. But more than that is the pride of having you as my son, every, single, day." He enunciated the words, making a small punch with his right arm to my left thigh on the last three words.

"You're okay." His eyes stared right into mine.

He passed three days later at the age of 56. And I cried for three days straight. I love him. He meant everything to me.

-the end-

for mom

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I finally got this short story published, with the illustration sketched out by myself ha ha!

It's basically not about my dad, but about me being a dad in the future. There's no talk of wife, I adopted the child, and Calvin was his name (taken from Calvin and Hobbes, what else)

It's a hard task being a dad, and I have no idea how hard it is.

I hope the short story describes .

ridwan dateng complain utang dan dapet dari pemerintah tapi dengan syarat dia ikut project yang intinya mengganti otak nya dengan cairan

dan dia mau

ternyata nggak berjalan dengan berhasil dan korban udah mulai berjatuhan

akhirnya protes di lakukan tapi ternyata pemerintah menanggapi protes dengan kekerasan, tiga orang yang udah ikut project meninggak dilindes tank, dan karena susunan tubuh mereka udah mulai ga jelas, akibat berbedanya susunan otak, luka sedikit bisa bikin badan melempem aneh.

dan saat itu entah gimana semua kembali seperti sedia kala, people back in their homes, in front of the TV, tapi program ga sempurna dengan orang orang masih memiliki memori tentang program tersebut dan menganggapnya mimpi.

si staring (yang di perankan dengan menyakinkannya oleh Johnny Depp) merasa ada yang salah dan melakukan investigasi sendiri ke gedung pemerintah, mencari file dan mengkopi data, ampe akhirnya ketahuan tujuan dari operasi itu dan siapa sebenernya pemerintah (DEDEEEEEEENG!!!!)


gue belum tau tujuannya nge ganti otak ama cairan hehe tapi yang pasti pemerintah adalah segerombolan alien, dengan bukti apa yang sebenernya terjadi pada saat protes, dimana sebagian korban experimen yang berprotes dibantai oleh anggota pemerintah yang ya itu tadi

alien!!!

(TERORET!! TERORET!! TERORET!! JREEEEEEEEENG!!!!!!)

or translated as "Bakso vendor who sold his soul"

It was the usual night for Kosim, bright skies, blue moon on gray darkish skies, bad tires, the same locking mechanism that need fixing, and a cupboard full of noodles, not so fresh vegetables, and three different types of Bakso.

And usual night takes usual treats to work, as early as 6 o'clock, he left his beloved..


intinya tentang tukang bakso ga enak tahun jebot yang ketemu jin, trus di suruh jualan di perempatan manggarai , trus dikasi resep ma jin yang menjelma jadi cewe cina bule berhidung besar, dan laku keras baksonya. tapi si cewe berdaulat agar si tukang bakso ga merasakan baksonya sendiri

tapi apa daya, penasaran kenapa tuh bakso laku keras diapun ingin merasakannya. dan boook rasanya ga enak bangeeeeeet!!

trus dia mencoba segala rasa untuk membuat tuh bakso jadi lebih enak, minyaknya lebih kerasa, garem lebih dikit, kasi penyedap rasa, baksonya dikasi formalin (eh salah ding) dan akhirnya berangsur2 tuh bakso jadi ga laku..

ignorance is bliss

yang bakal gue ceritain adalah fiktif huhuuu, ya jelas fiktif ong ndagel ga jelas, hehe gue cuman pingin ngasi kemungkinan2 yang bodoh aja dalam sebuah cerpen, namanya juga fiktif apaan si?

baiklah


the port

tahun 1947,

saat indonesia gencar2nya perang dengan Ukraina karena masalah minyak yang ga kunjung reda , saat China, negara adidaya menindas negara2 miskin seperti rusia, jerman dan amerika halah.. males nerusinnya

intinya tentang sisa port jman perang yang masih bisa ditemukan sekarang gitu, jadi seorang pemuda yang males berangkat kantor ke senen dari depok, sounds familiar, tiba2 nemuin sebuah gua kecil di kebun seberang kos yang kalo masuk keluarnya di lantai bawah kantornya .. huhuuu keren ga si?!

dan akhirnya tuh pemuda membuka jasa pengiriman barang gitu.. sampai orang2 mulai curiga dan ingin merasakan nikmatnya berkendara lewat port2 itu, tapi yang susah diaturnya karena yaaa siapa sih yang ga pingin dapet transportasi effisien jaman begini, liat aja kereta kota!

pokoknya semula semua berjalan lancar ampe si pemuda itu untung besar, ampe dia mulai kewalahan, ada pemerintah daerah yang ingin mengklaim kepemilikan the port lah, orang2 yang merasa terlalu beribet lah, antre yang terlalu panjang lah, sistem pembayaran yang ga profesional lah, dan bahkan dichapter akhir muncul hantu port jaman jepang yang marah dan mentransfer orang2 ke daerah2 ga jelas tanpa penghuni untuk mati kedinginan, kepanasan, kelaparan, dan bahkan ketransfer ke tempat yang lagi perang termasuk daerah2 berbahaya2 di timur tengah.. memaksa ditutupnya the port dan dipenjarakannya pemuda itu, saat semua semakin memburuk, dan dia dipenjara di penjara salemba gitu..

sang pemuda menemukan sebuah lubang di bawah selnya, lubang menuju tempat familiar yang berbahaya, the port.. (dedeeeeeeeeng!!!!!)



hahaha keren banget

yaaaa gitu deeeh.. silakan yang berminat ngebikin novelnya hubungi saya untuk mengurus pembagian royalti hehe

he stared onto the vast ocean in front of him, the sun is setting with the world wallowing on its surrounding waiting for the key moment to dim down and close the curtain. everything was blue and white, brighter in the sky and darker as it’s getting down

"why do you keep doing this?" said a familiar voice, the same voice that has been there for all of his life, the very voice that will repeat and repeat until the very question is answered

"why you keep doing this?

the man sits still, his eyes stared vaguely, and slowly the sun sinks, the wavy blue earth took it willingly like receiving a heart after a long gone, a brief of giving and receiving none, the moments passed untraced. nothing has changed but everything changed abruptly, and soon skies turned bluish red, clouds grew darker, and half of the ever glowing heart is implanted, leaving a trace of blood and bluish wounds.

"hmm.. I don't know.." he answered, nothing is changing in his expression.

"why do you have to do it?"

the man sat back as if taking a break from a heavy burden. He sighed and squandered.

"I guess i was.."

he stopped, partly looking for the perfect word to continue, partly waiting for the voice to ask again, partly enjoying the silence he made for himself, the brief silence he had always wanted every time.

".. repeating a pattern I don't know I have..don't you think?"

He waited. He waited for an answer that he knew would not come through, the voice has only questions to give, for over twenty years it has nothing but questions to give. still he waited.

the world is dimming down, sources of lights has swell to dark screened scattered rainbow as if blown away by the winds.

"I guess I failed, faster this time, with the only girl I wish I never have started anything in the first place"

at these times he could come up with hundreds of justifications, in which some of them really wise and make sense, that several of these some are really true, but he sits still. the wind blows his face and still he sits at the very spot he decided to sat on two hours ago.

"i can't believe you keep doing this! why?"

the voice returned, yet he remained silent, for ten years he has learnt to ignore these voices, learnt to take them as raptures to go to sleep with, listening but not really listening, pretending they were intended to someone else, or if the intensity got worse, pretending to listen to lamb of god without the band.

Seagulls were screaming in different tempo, he can't see them, he don't intent to. everything is dark now, lamp lights were lit and soon the place has returned to the very state it has been the night before.

the man sits still. he knows why. he understands exactly why he did what he did, because he is in love with this girl, the girl he thought he knows so well, yet not too well to be just another make beliefs, he's in love with this girl and he wanted to give himself a chance, he had failed and failed before, he had gone to places which remind him of nothing but failures and silly disappointment of him selves, places which make him laugh bitterly, places with specific scents and forms. and yet he persists. because love fails, and when it works, it is doomed to fail, and so as to get it, to embrace love or to get a sight at love in the very least, and though he knows he will fail, he persists, because all he needs is a single success, one success onto the next stage, that when it failed, fuck it. fuck it because he will love this girl forever, and forever is enough for him.

"I will do it anyways, patterned or not I still have to do it, I need to do this and keep doing this until.. until i don't think it’s important anymore.."

he thinks, he asked himself why, and stared onto the big empty, unfocused.
"well? aren't you leaving?" said the voice almost like a command

the man sits still.

he sits still.

and for a moment, there were silence..