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hold-my-candle · 1 year

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It Never Ends

(07/03/2023: mountain hiking)

“Daddy, are we there yet?”

“Not yet, Isaac.”

“Daddy, I’m bored.”

“We’re almost there, Isaac. You wanna take a look?”

The van crunched slowly through the narrow gravel road as it approached the foot of the mountain. The trees slowly passed the van, greeting them with their branches as they swayed in the late autumn breeze. Isaac took off his seatbelt and leapt towards the front seat beside his father. Seeing the mountain occupy most of his field of view, growing more in their approach, Isaac let out a sound of wonder and amazement.

The van crawled past a large wooden sign that had golden text emblazoned on a field of white, but the paint had mostly faded or peeled off, which gave the looming mountain a sense of antiquity. A forgotten piece of the Earth that has remained untouched by human hands. As they passed the sign, Isaac read out the discoloured text.

“‘Mount Moriah’? Daddy, why do you think it’s called that?”

“Beats me.” He let out a long yawn. As he approached a small clearing where he can park the van, he let out a deep yet strained sigh as he stretched his legs out of the van. “We’re here, Isaac.”

The two of them stepped out of the van, both stretching their backs and limbs after having been stuck in the vehicle for a seven-hour drive. They both had to wake up long before the sun rose if they wanted to make the most of this trip.

They paused for about a minute to take in their surroundings. The road stopped just past the clearing heading into the mountain. Pine and juniper trees shrouded the mountain with their twisting and towering structures. Their bristled leaves provided an ambience of prickling noise and resinous odour carried by the wind. The only contrast to the deep green of the mountain was the yellowish green of the marigold buds standing in the same clearing that Isaac and his father were standing in.

Isaac ran to a small patch of marigold buds and kneeled to look closer at them. “Daddy, why haven’t these flowers bloomed yet?”

“It’s just not their time yet,” the father answers. Isaac made a face indicating he wasn’t happy with his answer. He was taking out the equipment that they needed for their hike through Mount Moriah. He put the large bags of hiking gear and supplies, a tent, and two flasks filled with water onto the grass. In the corner of his eye, he found a glint of light just under the seat. He bent down to retrieve whatever was down there, but he feels a sharp pain shoot down his finger. When he drew back his arm, he noticed a small drip of blood running down his index finger. He reached down again, very carefully, to pull out a hunting knife that had slipped out of one of the bags. He emitted an irritated sigh as he slid the knife into his pocket while he sucked on his finger.

Coming around the van with the gear, he noticed Isaac sulking while he continued to stare at the marigolds. He let out another sigh and knelt next to Isaac.

“Look, Isaac. Do you see the yellow tips on these buds?” Isaac nodded.

“They’re just about ready to bloom. You feel that cold breeze?” Isaac craned his neck upward to tune in to the atmosphere. The wind stung his nose a little bit as he inhaled. He nodded again.

“These marigolds usually bloom as the winter starts. So, if we come back next week, you should be able to see the marigolds.” Isaac began to perk up again after his explanation.

“Daddy, how do you know all this?”

“Just trust me.” He briefly reminisced about a time before Isaac had been born. When the doctor told his wife she was pregnant with Isaac, she immediately laughed at the insinuation. He and his wife both knew that at their age, pregnancy is hardly an option anymore, but the doctor reassured her that she was indeed carrying a child. Even he remembered laughing when she came back home with the news. But the realisation slowly arrived at him as she showed him the scans that the doctor gave to her. After multiple failed attempts at conceiving, they had given up trying, especially when she had gone past the point where she could no longer. It was a difficult choice not to have children, especially when it felt like she had been strongarmed into this situation. Which is why they were filled with such mirth at the news of Isaac’s arrival.

He gave a light but forlorn chuckle and stood up as he finished his memory, “Come on, Isaac.” He offered his hand, which Isaac firmly holds, “Let’s start hiking.”

They take their bags and flasks and proceeded to walk towards the entrance of the mountain. There was no real entrance to Mount Moriah, but a pair of juniper trees had twisted around each other at their apices which formed an arch that somewhat resembled an entrance to a palace.

As they both crossed the threshold, there came what felt like an immediate change in the atmosphere. Birdsongs became more distinct and individual from each other; the towering trees created a dappled canopy overhead, which cast shimmering shadows onto the mountain floor. The smoky odour emitted by the trees intensified to a sharp and pleasantly bitter aroma. Every footstep they took crunched into the earth as they left their solid tracks in the dust.

“Daddy, why does it smell here?” Isaac asked. His father took a deep inhale, and gave his response, “They come from the trees. Hardly anything grows here except for pines and junipers.” He looked up at the canopy, then back down to Isaac. He’d been standing about three feet away from Isaac; any closer and Isaac would’ve been hidden by his height, “That smell you’re smelling comes from the leaves, the sap, the fruit, everything.”

“Daddy, where did this mountain come from?” Isaac had always been an inquisitive child, ever since he’d learnt how to speak. His father, being the most weathered and experienced in the world, had always been to answer his endless lines of questioning. Even as his mother held him in her arms, Isaac’s father recalled her saying, “He’ll grow up to be so smart. I just know it.”

He cleared his throat as he prepared his answer for Isaac, “I want you to put your hands like this,” He pointed his fingers at each other with his palms facing down; Isaac copied, “Now I want you to slowly push them together. Like this,” He pushed his fingers inwards. As they met, he applied more force, causing his fingers to slope upward. Isaac did the same, but he made a confused face, “I don’t get it.”

“The world we are in right now is made up of plates. Plates that are always rubbing up or smashing into each other. When two plates push and smash into each other,” He repeated the hand movement he showed Isaac, “They form mountains.”

Isaac rebutted with another question, “How come we don’t feel it coming up right now, then?”

“Well, the whole process takes hundreds and thousands and millions of years. You’re hardly going to be able to feel it happening.”

“Daddy, how do you know so much?”

“...A magic wizard gave me all the knowledge of the universe.” He gave Isaac a sideward glance before giving a gruff chortle that echoed into the trees. Isaac laughed along with him as they continued their trek. Isaac kept on with his questions, some relating to things in the forest, like the birds, the rocks, and the dirt. And some related to the outside world, like volcanoes, hospitals, the planets, and the minutiae of life. His father was always ready to answer.

Times like this, where Isaac and his father can get time alone, had become increasingly rare as they continued growing in their respective lives.

“Daddy, what happens when we die?” Isaac’s father slows down his stride.

“Why do you ask, Isaac?”

“Well, the kids at school keep saying weird stuff about Mommy.”

“What do you mean?” His voice started turning more bitter.

“They keep saying she died.”

“No, she’s not dead.” Isaac’s father mumbled. He refused to clarify further as he urged Isaac to continue hiking. “Don’t listen to those kids. Your mother didn’t die. She just...left,” his voice faltered, but Isaac didn’t notice.

“Is it my fault?”

His father balled his hands into fists, “No, Isaac. It’s not your fault. Don’t ever think it was your fault.” Fragments of memories flashed in split-second screenshots. A speedy car ride. A woman screaming in pain. A hospital. A child. Happiness. Surrounded by family. An argument with her father. High tension. A flurry of blips and beeps. They’re quickening. Packed bags. Her father looks at him with disdain. Resentment. She was still, a smile on her face. Rose-coloured cheeks. Rapid breaths. The child is watching. Regret. Red. Red. Red.

“Daddy?” Isaac’s voice interrupted his trance.

“Huh? What? What is it, Isaac?” They had been walking for a while, and he could not recognize where they were. The trees bunched closer together, which closed up the canopy and dimmed the forest floor.

“What is that?” Isaac pointed further ahead into the woods. A small wooden shack stood on stilts. The dark brown wood of the shack made it blend in with the trees of the mountain.

“Hmm. Looks like a storehouse.”

“A what?”

“Like our pantry at home. Just bigger”

“Let’s look at it!”

“Isaac, wai-!” Isaac bolted off to the shack with his father running behind him.

The wooden storehouse stood before them; the stilts added an intimidating height.

“This feels familiar.” Isaac chimed.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know”

“Ok, c’mon, Isaac. Let’s keep goi-”

“I wanna see inside!” Isaac ran to the other side of the shack, which had a set of stairs to climb up to the storehouse. His father followed with reluctance.

“Isaac, please be careful.” He held Isaac’s hand firmly as he opened the door. The hinges squealed as the door revealed the inside of the storehouse.

There didn’t seem to be anything inside save for some cans and bottles. A musty and stale odour entered their noses. A table stood in the middle of the single room. On the wall that faced them, there was an engraving carved into the wood, in an old language:

your eternal punishment

“Daddy, what does that say?”

Silence.

“Daddy?”

Stillness.

“Daddy, what are you doing?”

Fragments of memories coming together. Mosaics from the past. He drives his wife to the hospital. They wanted to avoid the ambulance fees, so she sat in the back of his car and screamed. They lived quite far from the nearest hospital, so he had to keep going and going, going faster and faster. They made it to the hospital safely.

He lifts Isaac, kicking, screaming, and crying, and holds him onto the table.

Some of her family and some of his family arrived at the hospital after he had told them what was happening. Her father was there, standing sternly and away from the group, anxiously waiting for the arrival of the little one. Her muffled screams echoed down the hall as nurses rush in and out of the room. It’s taking a really long time. It’s taking too long. Why is it taking so long? Everyone starts becoming worried.

With his free hand, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the hunting knife.

The screams stopped. Everyone is waiting for the doctor with bated breath. The doors fling open, and the doctor announces that the baby has been born. Cheers erupted from the waiting room, the only one not cheering is the father, still standing sternly.

He brings the knife to Isaac’s neck, pressing onto the soft flesh, his constant thrashing causing some blood to drip out.

Her father goes into the room, and he follows behind him. You see the child, and your wife, the image of their embrace embedded in your memory. He sees her father whispering in her ear. Her face is incredulous as she throws curses at her father. And all of a sudden, she stops. Her monitors begin to emit rapid beeping as doctors and nurses rush in. He is ushered out of the room along with her father.

“Daddy, please stop!” Isaac begs incessantly.

What did he say to her? He backed her father into a corner and grabbed him by the lapel of his suit. Blinded by rage, regret, and the void in his heart, he could only make out a few of his words, “Disapprove...sacrifice...obedience...Isaac...punishment...” The cup overflows, and her father is on the floor, unconscious.

He stares blank-eyed into Isaac’s tear-filled eyes.

The funeral was short and unceremonious. He held Isaac in his arms and felt something. Something ugly. A hideous feeling. He hated him.

He digs in.

No. More memories flood in. You watched him fall asleep in your arms as he covered his pink face with his arms. You saw him take his first steps and laugh with glee as he said his first words. He grew up faster than you had anticipated. He never noticed how much his eyes looked like hers. The first time Isaac properly called him his father. The first time Isaac said he loves him. Love. He loves Isaac.

The hunting knife dropped on the floor, splattering drops of blood onto the wooden floor. He threw Isaac up into his arms and embraced him as tight as he could. The number of times he said, “I’m sorry” is enough to fill a novel. Isaac still cried and quivered, his face buried on his father’s shoulder.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Isaac?”

“Daddy?”

“What is it?”

“Daddy, are we there yet?”

“Not yet, Isaac.”

“But Daddy, I’m reaaaally bored.”

The van crunched through the narrow gravel road as Mount Moriah approached.

#writing #short story #mountain hiking #you can tell i really rushed this one towards the end #the your eternal punishment part was initially in greek but my friend suggested to just imply that it was in greek so i just #left it in english

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hold-my-candle · 1 year

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波霸奶茶

(21/02/2023: bubble tea)

I. (茶, chá) The sun of early springtime beats the fields of rustling shrubs and fragrant greens abound Amongst the leaves, the farmers reap their yields Rewards from Mother Earth that’s well renowned

My fingers pluck the first flush of the year These buds have grown and waited since the cold A satisfying *pop* is what I hear The leafage holds a story to be told

Our baskets full of leaves are emptied here, on mats where they can dry under the shade From green to brown to black, their time comes near Await the amber liquid to be made

The fallen leaves will sink into the Earth to give new life to shrubs that She shall birth

II. (木薯, mù shǔ) He sets out early in the morning to find the right ones to pick The leaves will tell which ones to choose Those with slight tinges of yellow should do the trick

He cuts the stem, which he plans to reuse and begins to pull and pull, hoping that the soil will give way The dirt begins to cake into his shoes

The roots might be too deep, or so he would say before the tuber breaks free, mud, stump, and all He sighed in relief as he’d won the fray

The stems and leaves are saved; he could recall his mother giving them to the pigs and cows when he was just two feet tall

He pulls up more of the brown lumps, as much as his back allows The sun bearing down on his already sweaty skin A layer of earth collecting on his brows

Under the orange skies, his energy wearing thin He pulls the last of his harvest from the tired ground The moon rises a little past the hills to celebrate his win

He loads his harvest onto his truck bed, making a high mound and drives on the dirt path back to his homestead The engine’s hum is the only sound around

He steps out of his truck with a yawn; his face flushed red In the last heat of the sun, he brings his harvest into his stores He cleans himself of his efforts and rests on his bed

III. (水, shuǐ) Flowing down mountains Bridging the gap between lands A vital signal

IV. (牛奶, niú nǎi) Squeezing the udder A liquid pattering lands In the steel bucket

V. (糖, táng) The canes point upwards Struck by metal, they fall down With sweet potential

VI. (冰, bīng) The flow of water Exposure to the extreme Locked in space and time

VII. (塑料, sù liào) Revolutionized Our world and its industries Take great precautions

VIII. (粉圓, fěn yuán)

The next day, he takes one of the tubers to his kitchen outdoors Dirt rinsed, skin peeled, cut up, blended, and strained He collects the liquid from the shavings and brings it back indoors

When the fluid settles into two layers, the water is drained and the sediment is left to dry He begins to create with the flour that’s been gained

Sugar boiled with water, dissolving with a sigh The starch is added to the syrup to make a dough He kneads until the mixture is pliable and dry

He cuts the dough and rolls them with a technique from ages ago into small spheres such that they resemble soft pearls And he dusts them with more starch, with just a blow

The orbs are put into boiling water that whips and whirls Left to cook until they rise to the top He makes some more syrup for the pearls, which he stirs and twirls

After soaking the bouncy balls in ice, into the syrup, they plop He takes a pearl to taste, and it bounds within like a gumdrop Filled with mirth and amazement from his underground crop

IX. (记忆, jì yì)

A mother prepares her son’s favourite drink. To him, the aroma of the tea and the caramelizing sugar recalls memories of warmth passing through the window, emanating from her skin. He is lulled asleep through her lilting lullaby, a gentle fragrance next to her wafting into his nose; his mother places the tea in front of him. The steam lifts from the creamy beige as he sips, his mother smiles.

A couple walks underneath the shade of the willow trees. The cooling summer breeze rustles the leaves. They stand still for a moment in time, where they first met, where they shared many cups of bubble tea, where they stared for hours on end, where can we go from here? A sweet aroma we’re both familiar with. I look at him; she is that aroma. We look at each other and drink.

A group of businessmen are laughing amongst themselves, merrily chatting about their jobs, their personal lives, their thoughts, their camaraderie drives them. A formal friendship? A casual platonic love? Whatever it is, they share their stories in their cups of tea. They leave the store, returning to their own lives, gaining new experiences to share with each other over bubble tea.

A mountain range, the sun peeking past as birds begin to sing. Water running across rocks and sand creates a liquid cacophony. Red foliage rustles underfoot through the wilderness. A tired sigh before they sit on a tree root to rest with tea. Dried leaves roused by hot water, releasing their hidden stories. Take in your surroundings. Take a sip, a taste, a drink. The collective experience of drinking bubble tea is threaded with familiarity, love, companionship. You drink alone…but not really.

#writing #short story #poetry #bubble tea

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