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  • abramsuzan 4:19 am on April 23, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Fiction: Rain 


    In The Blue

    by Suzan Abrams

    The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
    It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
    Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.

    For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.

    In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

    I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

    Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your favourite golf umbrella.

    I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
    You call out, “Come, come…” and that is enough.

    Then I forget everything.

    I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don’t move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, – the tautness of my shocked skin – it is a few seconds later that you realise I’ve no brolly. “Oh my darling,” why didn’t you say, you scold.

    It’s too late, I’ve reached your side.

    I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, knows nothing of a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it’s necessary to show the whole world how I look like.

    Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.

    Mesmerised and hoping…Mesmerised and hoping…
    Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

    Because…
    then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
    Warm dry clothes.
    I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.

    I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.



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  • abramsuzan 11:51 am on April 19, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    The Roly-Poly Women 

    This picture is from the legendary painter, Fernando Botero Angulo.
    by Suzan Abrams
    This is the start of a piece of multicultural fiction made up of a group of Indian housewives, of whom I still remember holding similar rituals and living in a working-class neighbourhood in a town called Klang, in Malaysia.

    **************
    …The rolling pin women, were in reality, a heavy breed of leftover housewives, who now marked the harem of jelly-bellied husbands. The frumpy females secretly had the word ‘dropout’ marked on their school accumulative cards. Now, they fancied themselves, a sly bit on the career side, having created an automatic self-promotion system where biscuit packers were turned into instant supervisors, ward aides into illegal nurses and temporary teachers into headmistresses. “From where you heard my daughter is working in the canteen?” Here an angry snort would follow. “Don’t talk nonsense! She is getting good pay, supervising 400 people in the factory!”

    “I know people are saying my son is just a mechanic but you wait and see…after his bonus he is going to buy over the WHOLE gigantic business.”

    Naturally, the rolling-pin women were manipulated, encouraged and lauded by ‘pregnant’ husbands: all of whom spotted belches in their windpipes and a bottomless pit of permanently, undissolved beer under their navels. The promotions in questions were designed to shock the neighbours and compete with the slightly upper-class Santamarias and aloof Anthonysamys….

    Catch that loudspeaker voice on a nice Friday morning when the vegetable monger had just been.

    “Did you hear about Mrs. Magdalena de Costa, you know, the one whose useless husband got himself dead roaring drunk and was throwing chairs at some political analyst fool at the Tequila coffee shop last Friday? Pay day, what! Money in the pocket and thinking he’s some big shot! Real samsu barbarian… Behaving like it was his grandfather’s shop! And who is going to pay for all those chairs, tell me?

    The insider information continued to be long and merciless.

    “Apparently, our de Costa friend, who knows out of misery or whatever, is playing nothing but Suspicion by Elvis Presley, day in and day out. People are saying one screw is loose in the head. Another is going to drop off. And some more, playing it at high pitch volume. And even worse, she is driving Mrs. Lingam next door, bonkers! I tell you, SIMPLY BONKERS! Can you imagine that?

    The ruling flibbertigibbet of this parochial locality and who had now contributed to this haphazard hogwash was Mariammah Koshy, an inquisitive loquacious woman and currently, the street’s wealthiest resident. She had a reputation for ‘lording it over the rest’; what with her newly-renovated corner house, boasting a monster garden and specially imported turf grass.

    Still, for an important illustration of volume and speed, consider too, the encyclopaedic spread of Mrs.Thanaletchumy Muthusamy’s 40D inch bust! It charted up a military, hardy and formidable presentation, from whichever angle, you cared to study it. Now, add on to the satisfied picture, the interesting prospect of a fat, flying plait and heavy-duty California raisins for a pair of sturdy nipples.

    After all, the fullness of Thanaletchumy’s ample bosom, like wildfire rumours, hinted of many things. Her bust, packed clumsily together like fat, misshapen gunny sacks, were always trying to rush ahead of her.

    The jellyfish tentacles of her uneven, fleshy mounds lolled about with unsure direction; then suddenly took eager astral flights before drooping down again and as with all bad news, finally heading for a downward parachute spin in slow motion.

    Now Thanaletchumy with her excitable 40D inch bust offered a helpful interjection and a counterfeit Bugs Bunny smile that complimented her slightly moustached lip. Like her ‘plentiful charms’, her voice too was loud, full-bodied and voluminous.

    “After all, you don’t know about Mrs. Lingam, isn’t it? The thing is this poor lady is already suspecting that her husband is keeping another woman with two miserable kids in this kampong place, you know, where is this hideout, uh? Ahh yes, Padang Jawa!

    Thanaletchumy studied her star struck brood. Her plaits now performed a succession of gymnastic feats. Her head rolled about like an amateur classical dancer. Her fingers practised the usual Hawaiian twist gestures. Her raised hands exposed two Pluto circles of sticky sweat.

    Finally exhausted, they called for applause. Her listeners, on the other hand, cursed impatiently for the predictable scene to be over. Thanaletchumy lingered for an ovation. Finally panting, her voice dropped to a low whisper.

    “For five months, she has been living with this worry but he won’t admit his crime. Instead, the big hero is threatening to wallop poor Mrs. Lingam, give her one flying kick and chuck her clothes out. And furthermore, now with Mrs. De Costa’s ENCOURAGEMENT, she is thinking of packing up and returning to her mother for good in Madras. After all, she was only here on a visitor’s visa!”

    “Thanaletchumy felt as regal as a queen. Her chest rose to the imaginary Himalayas. Her ambition was to aim for the Everest and plant a flag somewhere in her deep lost cleavage. She added on a social commentary for good measure.

    “First, blindly marry and come…Which man will want her now, tell me?”

    “Mrs Mariammah Koshy, fed-up with the stolen limelight and Thanaletchumy’s ramblings, had decided enough was enough and that it was now time for her to throw her weight about with some surety of dignity. Her emergency trump card strode out from behind the curtains.

    “Tell the girl if she is planning to go to India, to hurry up, for God’s sake! Otherwise, she’ll be here next year itself and that useless God-forsaken bum would have beaten her up, nicely black and blue. Once it’s October, they will close the bookings and you cannot get any ticket from KL to India. Impossible, I’m telling you!

    “Last year, my doctor husband and I tried. Oh God, how we tried! With the best connections available, mind you! What a headache! MAS cannot, Air India cannot, Air Lanka also out; the whole works. In the end, from all this trouble of course, we had to fly first class. And from the stress for nothing, I caught high fever and was hospitalised.”

    Mrs. Mariammah Koshy sucked in a long, deliberate breath and waited for what seemed an eternity. She would torment her star-struck group, working up to a standing ovation.

    Thanaletchumy stamped her size 8 feet in frustration. Her shiny new varnish called You Sexy Vamp You disguised the ugly yellowish hues of her chipped toenails with its flamingo pink passions. She had bought it from the nearby Ocean supermarket for just RM$1-50. She had heard of a similar cheap brand that had exploded like firecrackers onto a woman’s nose and damaged ‘the finer nasal interiors’.

    Of course, she could only pray to her various deities, Lord Ganesha, in particular that her nose, a plump circular blob would stay prosperous and attractive, all the way into eternal splendour, where she hoped to be reincarnated for good, as a Revlon supermodel. In her absent-mindedness, she was unable to remember the heavily-censored Carry On films shown over Radio Television Malaysia in the 1980s

    But not that anyone had noticed, anyway. Her hangover breasts made a sudden plunge into Never-Never land. They sank, subdued. Her nipples debated if they should attempt an underwater snorkel, for a change. Spontanous mountain-climbing Thanaletchumy-style could prove highly strenuous. The darkie twins were starting to feel like beanstalks.

    Thanaletchumy hated it at times like this, when the gossips ignored her existence. Very clever, isn’t it. Very smart… First like big-shots, mind you, voting her in as general-secretary of the informal Rolling Pin Beauty-Queen association.

    Then, making her do all the “donkey jobs” Just because she was good at snooping and specialised in undercover activities. Just because she was excellent at extracting information from the hardened of the wise. Just because she was always admiring Johnny English and Simon Templar. First, praising her. Calling her the CIA, the FBI, then God-knows-what-not; then making her do all the filthy work. No shame, these people. No shame at all.

    After all, she never asked for much.

    She thanked God for her sickly husband who had mastered the art of managing the bandaged limb as he was forever falling down from his motorcycle and skipping work. She thanked God for her obese 11-year old daughter who was never invited to any of that stuck-up (“who the hell does she think she is?”) Deborah Madonna Santamaria’s exclusive barbecue parties.

    Don’t think the wounded mother hadn’t noticed. Just watch out, by the way.
    One of these days, she was going to teach that woman properly. Give her hell and high water.

    **************
    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.

    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…

    (…new text to follow…)
    ⓒ Copyright Suzan Abrams

     
    • 3p4 4:07 am on April 21, 2009 Permalink | Reply

      that one is great Suzan,,

      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.

      love that line

      i thought this story made musical prose,,suits your erm,,very particular style and tone,,really enjoyed it and will return for more,,

    • abramsuzan 8:32 am on April 21, 2009 Permalink | Reply

      Thanks very much, 3p4.
      Happy you liked it.
      Will add more text soon.
      That … erm bit worries me slightly… 🙂

  • abramsuzan 10:52 am on April 18, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Nomadic Madness 

    by Suzan Abrams

    Last night I thought of you, Vincent. I would not shake you from under the blankets. What if you vanished again? Instead, I lay still in the frost of my Melbourne dawn, burnt cigarette in hand; my heart seeing what my eyes could not.

    I dreamt that you kissed me except your lips hurt mine.

    Like the burn of lightning and shard of glass to cut skin, I swallowed a rush of pain. Then I tasted my bleeding.

    I thought I saw you wear my crucifix. It shone with a sliver of light on blood. It teased and threatened to tickle tears. Of course, you were unaware.

    You were an actor in a film. Cheered on by a crowd that fringed your adulation at a premiere, you marched straight ahead. I waited, despondent. You looked blind to my hope. You were never a sentimentalist but still I trembled. What if in catching my eye, you were too blunt to be gracious or in catching my tears, too cold for a measured compassion?

    I am thrown back into that that long December day five years ago, when at 38, you went away, lugging a packed museum of sentiments. I remember my sadness at your unrehearsed rush.

    My shock when I grabbed your arm and your haste when in this sudden struggle, you toppled my coffee. The hot fluid spiralled upwards, and then shot down. My teacup crashed to the floor. Its ear-splitting wail thundered the volume of my fears. I stared dazed at this flood of black spill and scattered smithereens.

    I grappled with my strange new abandonment.

    You, on the other hand, dodged my astonishment and stayed blind to my disbelief.

    You chose to say nothing except to offer a small tight smile and mull at the possibility of a cruel handshake.

    Your eyes softened, hardened, receded, then turned away. You straightened your shoulders and brushed your collar free of any leftover reminiscence. To the unseen stranger, you appeared to stride off with alacrity, so deft were your movements.

    Of course, I understood.

    Never one for a romantic prose, the shameless emotions that tumble out clumsily from a farewell, terrified you. It choked your conscience. Still, I could hear noisy sentiments in your heart, tremble for a last embrace. What torment! But such is the music of a haphazard waterfall; the dancing rapids from its well of tears…

    Now, solitude came to greet my sorrow with clammy hands. We playacted defacto partners on a dark cloud. In a hastily-built chasm, we waited together, for the inevitable.

    Stunned by your frostiness and this unwelcome chill, I watched, paralysed as you slunk by like a ghost. And all the while, hurrying to dissolve behind the door.

    In this minute slice of time, I believed I would turn old, forever.

    … There was that sadness in your eyes that only mine could recognise. Then unseeing and uncaring, you had brushed my shoulder and almost stepped onto my falling shawl. In a collapse of merriment, soft folds of pink lace slipped like dust to the ground.

    Not yet rescued, my shawl lay mute and clumsy, drowned in loneliness.

    Yet, you had once fingered this wistful veil like lost gems.

    Weighing it with delicate twists and tossing my beautiful fabric with light upward swings like a matador, you had conducted a fierce inspection with the usual dexterity. Reading glasses slipped on to frown at a tiny tear. Labels flicked over for a quick check. Thoughts pensive and hesitant. Just in case. A pragmatist, you were always careful like that.

    But uncaring of its history and in a wild attempt to rescue the shawl, I had snatched it quickly, burying my face into this masquerade of roses, tasting its make-believe scent, and baptising my ownership with unexpected grace. A startling effrontery on my part but forgivable. No doubt, my effusive gratitude was rewarded quickly by a perplexed stare and guilty smile that paid its full penance. Thank you, darling.

    Or don’t you remember.

    Strolling along Oxford Street on a September twilight in London, we had been confronted by a haphazard rainbow of woollies and cashmeres. Unable to resist this gay assortment that matched the vibrancy of my romance, I had freed myself from under your arms, dashed past an exodus of tourists, dropped a glove and run laughing into the Marble Arch store.

    Now surprised, you accelerated your steps.

    You hated it every time I raced off without warning and then remembering, swung around midway to catch your eyes. No doubt, I conceded it to be a bad habit. In this case, excitement had pulled my hand, inciting me to breach a promise. I flashed a look of shame but proceeding to try indulgence and kindness; you marched dutifully in, reached for your wallet and appeared cheerful in the circumstances.

    Of course, it would have been easy to lose me in the crowd. Up and down they sped, like an arty film reel running on fast-forwards. The hazy scene mirrored melting images into the fading day.

    In the shop, a sallow-faced middle-aged woman sat quarrelling with her husband.

    “Poverty and hard times, so we run away,” the Albanian woman lamented. Her furtive glances missed nothing. “You don’t know the half of it,” she whispered. And all this before the war. Seduced by the make-believe mist in her eyes, you finally relented.

    Later, oblivious to the looks of the bored couple, you wrapped the expensive shawl around me with the same careful tenderness with which an artist would dress its toy.

    Enraptured and drugged by love, I appealed for the unexpected.

    How did you know I desired to strip with a vengeance? To shed my clothes like a chameleon undresses in daylight. A crab has more dignity and hides away. I have none.

    My hidden senses begged to be babied with this fabric as a sheath for hot flesh, over my eager body. Closed eyes to rock my teasing passion and caresses to heighten yours. Your skin to iron mine, steamed with ardour, sweaty with scent, drained in strength.

    I longed for you to shield me with your face and arms, holding me so tight; I would drink your breath and abandon mine. I wanted you to veil the light on my face that had turned astonishing and mysterious. …

    (to be continued…)

    ⓒ Copyright Suzan Abrams
    Credit: The above vintage image, free for use in the public domain, is courtesy of Tallulahs.com.

     
  • abramsuzan 9:27 am on April 13, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Fiction: The Case of the Malaysian Predator and Other Unholies. 

    by Suzan Abrams

    Τo be a writer was for her, everything.  It meant the mental encapsulation of a planet from where she would triumph like an Amazon warrior while balancing  the delicate elegance of a fashion shoot. She would destroy any hint of the word wannabe once and for all; a strange inclination purported to failure and struggle and used mostly in Malaysia, the land of her hometown, the land of her wondrous birth. It was a cliche termed by fair-weather acquaintances and a few upstart book bloggers of the equally lamentable kind; often highlighted to reveal desperation for a literary scenario, although a little silly, one must admit. How could anyone want to be a writer, when you either clearly wrote or you didn’t.

    Still, that was not the poised question that made for the ridiculous assumption of this story. The essential farce being in this solitary case that she, the secret fly-by-night predator, would construct herself nobly if not somewhat akwardly for her cause. And what tomfoolery that turned out to be.

    She wore forever a martyr air signalling the tragic sound of the dead or the fast howling of the dying. She was seen to be pale, powdering her uneasy smile with the hard chalky complexion afforded only to roaming ghosts. She playacted at best, a skeletal apparition determined to spy on her sleepy environment, secretly and with the hidden eye. She would unveil a sphere, devoted for years in trust to a faithful slumber of her brilliance. Otherwise, what else! Now instead, while she stood, finally exposed to shadowy souls and public faces, shocked friends would regale in an uneasy wakefulness, determined that she hide under a banyan leaf for comfort. Her sins were so tiny,surely she could squat under one. In turn, they promised to stay disbelieving. Obstinate, she refused. This was her time of fame. A crime exposed in its hideous prime. Her ancient victim was dead.  Why, she could steal as many writer tales as she wanted as long as she stayed careful that they were not ripe enough to be read freely in the digital age. By which time when the ensuing years had finally arrived, she herself would have turned into a rather obnoxious museum relic, not caring about the ifs or whos. In the process, her stories had become thoroughly Malaysianised, or Bollywood-ish if you liked; the European element of the plagiarised work work slipping off a plot’s torso like unbearable vormit. Certainly, she revealed in this distorted luxury with a mystifying piqued air…the imbalanced ordinance of the human mind that lent itself to a touchy crime.

    She was sly, but turned this defect into a virtue with which to be lived and learned and where sinful writerly secrets were to be constructed and mastered with a fine air of notorious disgruntlement as if burglary in its fullest measure, were the luxurious order of the day. It didn’t matter that her fluency of the English Language, that showed itself to be somewhat confused in the Far East, would stay as mixed-up as an erratic jigsaw. She blamed her inadequacies, stemming from a merry-go-round operation of her tenses, nouns and verbs,  on an inferior  primary and secondary education. Was it her fault that the British had left before she was born? Instead, her literary theft would represent for her, on someone else’s profit, a scholarly disposition of high learning, to be termed without measure…her literary endeavours consorting themselves to the idea of ‘genius’.

    All the months long as she concocted her plan, she thought of nothing else but…Here is the genius, ladies and gentleman. Look at the genius pass. Oh my, oh my, what is the genius wearing today. A design applauded by Rusdie no less, a collection harbouring itself to the lost winter of a past season, many moons ago… Try an Arundhati Roy collar or how about a specially-designed Zadie Smith brooch. It didn’t matter about the superficial Oscar wardrobe. Who was to know that her borrowed material were nothing more than colour-spin fake goods, sold in Malaysia’s Chinatown. I saw the genius today and she was kind enough to sign her book for me. Ahh, those telltale whispers!

    The point being,that another’s inspirations could always prove hers in duplicate without anyone being the wiser. In Malaysia, no one would care or think twice. How many after all she had carefully concluded, were that widely-read to discover her dusty skeletons in the closet.  Why, no one.  No one at all. She could steal as many as 20 stories all at once if she dared, and if she was terribly unfortunate, only one or at most two would be observed with a faint flicker of recognition. Of course, it wouldn’t do to retort in defence. In the hands of her righteous enemy who knew all and who protected truths in a carefully-sealed library, she the hurrying ghost and sometimes plagiarist, would be easily prosecuted on discovery. She had to be careful in laying her tracks. The only solution was to seek a n urgent refuge from her sorry demolition.  She proceeded to cook up a series of painfully-crafted  compassionate notes on a website.  Through a rather ingenius psychotic disposition, she proposed to spread her generous efforts of painful tribulation, forgiveness and redemption like a dungeon feast.

    A specialist quality that made sure she always produced a forgiving nature when a darker truth would surely emerge that she could well have ended up blacklisted by the authorities for theft.  This, if she failed to play her cards carefully. She would never again be published by anyone who may have harboured even a remote suspicion. As such, she carolled up the word compassion like a readymade recipe for kindness. In truth, editors not wanting to lose their printing license, would immediately wash their hands off her with the frenzied power of  Coal Tar suds and the web would spread the dire warning of her fraud with a refrigerated chill.

    Her expressions were bemused lending themselves to speculation that she may have been persecuted in daylight for the wrong reasons, that she may have been bullied to satisfy an envious whim. But in fact, hers was a tight calculating measure spied on by a a popularity of the self… the crowds that drew themselves to her, would arrive, embracing and unsuspecting, that she wore the clothes of the dead and stole their jewels for good measure. They would hug her false stories which made for stern hardcovers to their big buxomy chests, where cleavages would hoard her secrets and kiss her actor’s talent. This afforded themselves to a fellow blogger’s matriacial pride and would later when the truth became known, appear on a Google cached engine as a highly foolish parade.

    When interviewed for those stolen stories, the predator in question would claim every story success or supposedly her basking recognition to of all things, the childhood passions of Enid Blyton.

    It started rather well, with doting parents on which she would have been forced to lay claim to a profession. She chose teaching, not daring herself to doctor a body part. She prided herself on being smart and would use arbitratory threats to often protect herself in a crises, had a pawing manipulation failed in their claws to scratch the innocent.

    (to be continued…)

    ⓒ Copyright Suzan Abrams

    *This story, loosely based on the true episode of plagiarism a few months ago in Malaysia, is fictional. I’ve just started to write it and it’s still incomplete. The Case of the Malaysian Predator is to be a carefully-composed tale with no relation either to the living or dead. Any marked resemblance or characteristic trait of any living person that appears here, is to be treated as pure coincidence.

    Free picture of Spinters-in-Jeopardy courtesy of Feebleminds

     
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