revisioned paragraph of short story

The leaves of the mango tree offered refuge to me from the scorching sun, as I sat in a circle with my friends in the playground near my school. My school shirt was plastered to me, drenched with sweat. Trickles of sweat rolled down the sides of my temples. I felt sticky, stuffy and slightly sick from the heat of the sun, yet I couldn’t help myself by being seduced by the fumes of smoke dancing between me and my friends. The source of the smoke laid in Halim’s hands, then in Fikri’s and round and round it went, like a twisted game of passing the parcel. When the little cylinder of “grass” reached me, I stared down at it as though I was trying to see past the paper film, the tobacco and of course the ganja which were infused merrily together to give me and my friends an enjoyable high. Perhaps, it was the effects of the high, perhaps it was my inability to escape my daily troubles, but randomly I thought of mother’s curry, of how her wide array of spices produced a delicious end product. This made me question the state of my current fuzz filled brain. Was the result of this high in any way helping me to escape my troubles at my home?

hypertext fiction project

PULAU MULUKU ( subject to change)

The flame from the lighter danced momentarily in my hand, just before I let my cigarette. I took a long drag and expelled the fumes out into the cool night air. The croaks of frogs, the crickets’ distinct music, and the soft crashes of the ocean waves caressed my ears. I felt relieved that I was alone on the shores of the beach, albeit it being 1am. This island was indeed a swell place for a quiet escapade. It wasn’t like those other typically commercial islands with resorts sprouting like mushrooms every other kilometer. Here, I could enjoy my clandestine smoke, without any cumbersome tourists invading my privacy or the rest of the gang hounding me to kick the habit, especially Upin.

Just as I was pondering about how my boyfriend Upin could be such a nag when it came to my lung cancer inducing habit, my sight of the barren beach was interrupted by a solitary figure approaching me. I suddenly felt incredibly stupid for being out alone at 1am, in a secluded area, in a place that was foreign to me. Oh, the things people do for a quick smoke. Although my heart was attempting to leap out of my chest with anxiety, I tried to appear calm and collected to the stranger that was definitely headed my way. Luckily for me it wasn’t a serial killer or rapist, but a familiar face that greeted me.

As he approached me I hurriedly tried to stub the cigarette under my feet. “No need for that Liza, could see your smoke from the chalet itself,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone, a broad smirk across his face. I eyed him suspiciously. Normally the whole gang would go into a crazed frenzy if they ever so saw an innocent cigarette within my hand’s reach. “Mind if I join you?” he said, motioning to the lighter clutched in my hand. Mutely, I fished inside my purse for a fresh cig and handed it to him. I was astounded that he was smoking with me.

“So all this while you’ve been a hypocrite?” I said.

“Relax la, you’re not going to blow my cover kan?” he said.

“I’m just annoyed that you lot give me so much crap for this, when here you are coolly smoking away,” I said, and decided to light a new cigarette since he was smoking too.

We strolled the deserted beach and chatted about mindless matters. We came to a clearing of coconut trees. I was examining the coconuts, shaking them to hear for any sounds of water, when I noticed him scanning the area surreptitiously. He noticed me watching him and said, “Oh, I’m just looking for something to use to break open something. I left my tool at the chalet.”

“You mean you want to open a coconut now?”

“Something like that,” he said without looking at me, his eyes glued to the clearing.

He smirked again as he found a rather sharp spear shaped wooden tool. It must have been left by the locals after their gathering of coconuts, a rather popular sport here in this island I noted. The way he was holding the tool jerked me away from my absent minded thoughts. “What are you doing?” I said, I didn’t like the look on his face, he had a crazed gleam in his eyes and again he smirked at me as he approached me.

“I’m going to break open the coconut,” he said.

It was as though I was paralyzed. As much as I wanted to scream, run or doing anything productive my body rooted me to my spot. I was helpless as he brought the wooden tool on my head. One crack, it brought me to the ground. Second crack, I was losing my vision. Third crack, warm blood was coating my face. Fourth crack, I was losing consciousness. Fifth crack, I was dead.

Arththi Sathananthar

A129086