Dark City 2
For the Dark City sequel, which is scheduled to be published in April 2007, author Xeus is calling for short story submissions. Dark City 2 will be an anthology of dark and twisted Malaysian tales much in the tone of the first book.
The submission criteria are:
1) Each short story should contain around 3000-8,000 words. Please use double spacing and Microsoft Word.
2) Each plot must be in the same vein as Dark City 1, which are stories about the darker side of Malaysian life. The short story genres can be contemporary, horror, fantasy, science fiction, suspense, romance, Roald Dahl-style ironic etc.
3) The stories must meet the English and storytelling standards of the first book. (In other words, the editor will select only what is publishable)
4) Each short story must contain a twist which hopefully no reader will see coming
5) This is open to published and unpublished writers of all ages. For unpublished writers, this allows you an opportunity to be published and to use this in your literary resume. You will then be able to sell your work more easily to a future publisher.
Your story will be selected on the strength of its plot, your ability to beguile the reader, and the shock impact of your twist. Your story must be concise, gripping and satisfying! Selected contributors will be paid RM 150 and 4 free books for each story. You can submit as many stories as you like.
The editor reserves the right to conceptually edit selected stories in the purpose of making them more appealing and ask you for a rewrite.
Closing date is Feb 28th, 2007. Good and publishable stories will be selected on a first come, first serve basis. So if you’re interested, get cracking now!
Stories are to be submitted to email@example.com
For more information about Dark City, log on to firstname.lastname@example.org/
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Friday, October 6, 2006
Today, Nico the dog (a nod to Chuck Palahniuk, but named by the shelter folk) had to go back to the Tierheim (animal shelter) because we did not think putting him in a crate most of the time is the way to house-train a dog (as suggested by the shelter people).
Nico is a wind dog, a Podenco mischling (mix); his ancestors hunted rabbits and hares with Spaniards. We wish for him a wonderful family with a big yard or a meadow to gallop and romp around in, chasing leaves and sniffing scents. We loved you, Nico. We love you still and miss you so.
Thursday, September 7, 2006
The piece below is part of a novel I'm working on. I'm trying to characterise the protagonist's mother-in-law. Any feedback would be much appreciated.
By Lou 2005 (c)
Kirin's mother-in-law drives a minibus. It's not that she's a bus driver, oh no. Her personal vehicle of choice is a second-hand bus she bought for a song five years ago. Having begun volunteering at an orphanage and old folk's home, she wanted the Mercedes bus for ferrying the children and senior citizens on excursions and such. The eighteen-seater works for her – big enough to carry a boisterous party, small enough to manoeuvre around corners and into parking spots. She had the old double seats ripped out and put in firmly cushioned double and single seats. She got it repainted in lime green too. When she's not driving anyone anywhere, she'd put her favourite potted plant of the day in the foot well of the front passenger seat.
Sometimes her muscular short-legged dog of indeterminate breed goes along for a spin – riding shotgun securely strapped into the front seat like a psychotic patient who has just morphed into a wolf.
Zephaniah Rada is the name in the birth certificate of Kirin's mum-in-law. Her ancestry – traceable ones are Irish, Ceylonese and Chinese – is almost as mixed as her dog's. Zeph, as she likes people to call her, named her son Oberon. When Obie was twenty-five years old, he was dating three young women. A year later, he was married to Kirin, the one Zeph had least liked. His mother's complaint was that Kirin was too ordinary – the beautiful young woman, in the eyes of the older one, did not possess quirks, idiosyncrasies or eccentricities.
Right or wrong, Zeph concluded that Oberon, for reasons he didn't disclose and she hadn't asked about, had deliberately not chosen a woman like his mother.
Sunday, September 3, 2006
Slovenian or Alien?
“I tell yer me trouble and strife is an alien.”
“Sure. Sluvnia isn’t exactly this neck of us woods.”
“No, I mean Zianna is from outer space.”
“Yer mean another planet?”
“Cop out of 'ere!”
“Hear me out first.”
“Okay. Wot did she do?”
“For one, she arranges effryfink in rectangles and squares. She even cuts an apple till the core is a rectangle.”
“That o'course immediately makes 'er a Martian.”
“If yer’re gonna be like that, I’m gonna change the bloomin' subject. Obviously, right, yer don’t take me straight up.”
“Straight up? I’m sposed ter believe that yor luvly trouble and strife is an E.T.?”
“It sounds crazy. Listen. There’s this uvver fin'.”
“She sleeps wiv 'er feet next ter my loaf of bread and 'er loaf of bread next ter my feet.”
“And if yer turn 'round?”
“She goes the chuffin' other way.”
“I’m nuts, is it? I tell yer Zianna is an alien.”
“I won’t ask yer 'ow yer make luv ter her. I refuse ter go there. So wot other evidence will yer put forff?”
“Her eatin' 'abits.”
“Yeah, eh? Wot about them?”
“She eats only food of certain colours, say, corn, peas, tomatoes, right, pumpkin. If a food is of an indistinguishable colour, she won’t touch it.”
“Neever would I but I’m still an Earfflin'.”
“Yer don’t believe me at all.”
“I believe yer, but the bleedin' finks yer mentioned don’t make Zianna an extraterrestrial. She’s just eccentric.”
“Then 'ow do yer account for 'er gahn missin' for two days effry time the moon is full?”
--- --- ---
The following is the original dialogue:
“I tell you my wife is an alien.”
“Sure. Slovenia isn’t exactly this neck of our woods.”
“No, I mean Zianna is from outer space.”
“You mean another planet?”
“Get out of here!”
“Hear me out first.”
“Okay. What did she do?”
“For one, she arranges everything in rectangles and squares. She even cuts an apple till the core is a rectangle.”
“That of course immediately makes her a Martian.”
“If you’re going to be like that, I’m going to change the subject. Obviously, you don’t take me seriously.”
“Seriously? I’m supposed to believe that your lovely wife is an E.T.?”
“It sounds crazy. Listen. There’s this other thing.”
“She sleeps with her feet next to my head and her head next to my feet.”
“And if you turn around?”
“She goes the other way.”
“I’m nuts? I tell you Zianna is an alien.”
“I won’t ask you how you make love to her. I refuse to go there. So what other evidence will you put forth?”
“Her eating habits.”
“Yeah? What about them?”
“She eats only food of certain colours, say, corn, peas, tomatoes, pumpkin. If a food is of an indistinguishable colour, she won’t touch it.”
“Neither would I but I’m still an Earthling.”
“You don’t believe me at all.”
“I believe you, but the things you mentioned don’t make Zianna an extraterrestrial. She’s just eccentric.”
“Then how do you account for her going missing for two days every time the moon is full?”
(522 words all in)
The above was in response to this writing exercise:
Create a scene, of 600 words or less, where two (or more) characters have a conversation. Choose one of your characters to “dialectize.”
Now go to this site:
and about halfway down you’ll see The Dialectizer. Convert your chosen character’s dialogue using the dialectizer.
Try it; it's fun!
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Two of the mediums were quietly chanting a phrase. Over and over and over again.
I came here –- to this dilapidated cottage in the grounds of a Taoist temple –- not of my own volition. My aunt, who was pushing my elbow indicating I should sit at the table, settled into a creaky chair. Perhaps she needed to lose some weight. Perhaps she needed to get a life. But what she wanted most at this point was to make contact with her dead husband.
Of course I did not believe in all this mumbo-jumbo. Why should I, a woman of science with a Master’s degree in biotechnology? But what to do? I was my aunt’s only relative living near enough to her to drag along for this venture of folly.
I felt a nudge at my ribs. Apparently I was off day-dreaming again, and now I was supposed to link hands with Auntie May-Ta and one of the mediums, whose hand I doubted was freshly washed.
Goose pimples raised their tingling little heads on my forearms when I heard the middle medium chant, “Chen Cheng Kim, Chen Cheng Kim, Chen Cheng Kim!”
For heaven’s sakes, that’s not my aunt’s husband’s name, I thought. “Hey, guys,” I piped up. “His name was Chen Cheng Kee.” My deliberate, rather too loud enunciation reverberated in the room. Auntie May-Ta glared at me.
“Chen Cheng Kee, Chen Cheng Kee, Chen Cheng Kee…” the medium adjusted his chanting obediently. “Come to us, speak to us… Your wife is desirous of your presence.”
Oh, what hogwash! I was whinging and complaining in my head when, unexpectedly, my goose-pimply feeling turned into a top-to-toe sensation – which really got my attention. One by one, the mediums fell over out of their chairs. The hand of the one next to me slipped out of mine like a slimy squid.
Then I felt my jaw opening against my will, my throat tingling and my tongue moving.
A baritone voice came through my lips: “May-Ta, let me be in the cosmos... it is peaceful… aaaahhh… It has an end with these practitioners and 'solletica' of the 'boneses' contentment of the ways.” With a distinctive ‘ping!’ deep inside my head, I snapped back to my normal self.
“What the hell did I just say?” I asked no one in particular but turned to look at Auntie. She startled me: Her eyes were shining with tears. And her expression of near-ecstasy? It was a tad worrying. “Solletica was the brandname of the ointment I rubbed on your uncle’s limbs when they hurt,” she said, smiling. Was that supposed to explain everything? Never mind, at least she got what she wanted; she’s happy.
Meanwhile, the trio of mediums were getting off the floor and groaning – in pain or out of dismay over potential loss of income, I couldn’t be bothered to find out. Surely they don’t expect any money in a red packet after their fiasco? Auntie May-Ta made to pay them but I pressed it back into her purse. I took her elbow and guided her out into the sunshine.
After all, as a dutiful niece, I did all the hard work, didn’t I?
By Argus Lou (2006)
The above was an exercise to write around a phrase translated many times into other languages and finally back into English.
Original English Text:
There is a point to this exercise and it is tickling my funny bone.
Translated back to English:
It has an end with these practitioners and solletica the boneses
contentments of the ways.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
By Argus Lou
The first sign of trouble came when father dropped a platter of starters. Mother had asked him to help her bring the dishes out of the van to the picnic rug. He had been reluctant but she insisted that men should at least help with the serving if they didn’t do the cooking, packing, unpacking and cleaning.
My jaw dropped a split second after the pewter platter fell, spring rolls and roast pork ‘coins’ going hither and century eggs and water-chestnut ‘pouches’ going thither. All my favourite appetizers – gone! I wished I were a dog; I’d be on my hands and knees on the grass lapping up the spilled goodies and wolfing it down in no time. Which Ding-ding, Uncle Jeh’s Shih Tzu began doing, before my Bruno, a huge black canine of indeterminate ancestry, loped up, nudged Ding-ding aside, and finished the job. The little fellow yelped and nipped Bruno in protest but was no match for the bulldozer of a dog.
“Lucky fella!” squeaked Grandfather, rubbing his rotund tummy exposed by his rolled-up red T-shirt. “Year of the Dog indeed! Ha ha ha.”
“Sorry, everyone. See?” Father turned to Mother. “No good can come from enlisting manly labour for such feminine tasks.”
“Pah! If you helped out often enough at home, like Jeh, you’d be less awkward doing it – less chance of dropping the whole production, no?”
Father was quick to change the subject. “Sit down, sit down, everyone! Ah, Jeh, stop fussing about already. Everything looks perfect; we’re only going to mess up your presentation when we dig in.”
Every other year, we have the unique tradition of eating our Chinese New Year’s Eve reunion dinner in a different place. This year’s picnic in the Lake Gardens on the edge of town was Uncle Jeh’s suggestion, of which father hardly approved. Heh, heh, a dim view of dim sum in the park, I reckoned. My middle sibling, Sher-Win, and I loved the idea though. So did Grandpa, who was prancing about with the dogs – probably tempting fate to give him a heart attack.
Two years ago, my mother suggested camping in the jungle, which we foolishly agreed to. It turned out to be a disaster because it rained and then the leeches came out to eat us. We ate our new year’s eve dinner hurriedly and came out of the rainforest looking like the war wounded, what with patches of blood on our jeans.
“Grandpa, grandma, Pa, Ma, Uncle Jeh, eat rice!” Sher-Win and I chimed the pleasantries expected of ‘well brought up’ Chinese teenagers. As for Sher-Dai, our tomboy of an eldest sister, she mumbled the meal salutations self-consciously, not looking at any elder in the eye. Is that what it’s going to be like when I turn 21? Hope not!
“Good children!” Grandma briefly flashed her over-white fake front teeth. “Everyone, eat, eat!” You could see she wasn’t comfortable sitting on the ground but she didn’t complain.
“This fish is perfectly steamed, Dil. Succulent and firm. Bravo!” Grandpa congratulated my mum on her impeccable culinary skills. Dil is short for daughter-in-law, his prized private joke. Ma opened another outsized vacuum flask and we had Peking duck with crispy skin to complement the cabbage with abalone and dried oysters.
The sun was setting quickly as it is wont to do in the tropics. Harmless little flying bugs buzzed about in the golden air while nasty mosquitoes, like enemy helicopters, waited to swoop down for their crimson evening meal. We habitually brushed our elbows, feet and ears every few seconds – just in case a mozzie had alighted silently.
“Jeh, when you going to bring home a girl, so we get another daughter-in-law?” Grandpa unexpectedly asked. Only Pa, Ma, and we children knew Jeh’s predilection for pretty men. Pa, Ma and Sher-Dai studied the stripes of the picnic rug while my brother and I looked expectantly at our dear uncle.
Even more unexpectedly my father spoke up: “Pa, your neck is going to lengthen if you’re still waiting for Jeh to bring home a bride.”
“Once and for all, accept the fact that your younger son does not like girls.” I thought Pa’s deliberate enunciation of the last few words was unnecessary and jarring.
Grandpa’s spluttering and coughing got us all alarmed. “Look what you did!” Ma scolded Pa, tapping his wrist with the back of her chopsticks. Sher-Win got up to whack Grandpa on the back, expelling a grain of rice from the old man’s bulbous ‘prosperity’ nose.
“He gotta know sometime. What’s the point of us pretending Jeh’s normal?”
“I’m not abnormal!” uncle protested. “Gayness is part of nature. Why can’t you just accept that?”
Mother tried to soothe Jeh. “Yes, yes, we know. It’s all good.” She rubbed her temple; I knew she was getting one of her frequent headaches again.
Grandma finally piped up: “You mean, you mean to say Jeh is really a homosexual? Tay,” she addressed Grandpa, “I knew it all along. But you refused to believe me.”
“Aaargghh!” Grandpa finally found his voice. “Why did you all not let me go to my grave with just a bit of doubt as to whether my younger son is gay? Why did y’all have to confirm it? Hai-yah!”
Sher-Dai, probably desperate to change the subject, blurted: “I’m joining the Army. And don’t any of you try to stop me!”
“What!” Pa exclaimed. “The Malays will eat you up alive. Don’t you know there are only three percent Chinese in the Army?”
“She’s strong; she can take care of herself,” Ma said quietly. I knew she didn’t approve of Sher-Dai’s decision but she always let us be who we were.
That was the last time we had a reunion in an unusual locale. Ma died of brain cancer before the two years were up and Pa did not have the heart to continue our little tradition. After the first year of mourning and non-celebration, it was just sedate reunion dinners at home from thereon. Sher-Dai carved an illustrious career in the Army; she reached the rank of colonel and she never got married. Uncle Jeh, on the other hand, ‘married’ his French boyfriend the year after Grandpa passed on.