strumflyfun - Tumblr blog

strumflyfun · 8 years

Text

As it should be

This is a short story I wrote back in 2016 for one of my classes on Southeast Asian literature. Writing is a little rough and unpolished, but thought it’d be interesting to share it on here!

“As it should be”

London, 2016

The painting was a little thing, hung right in the middle of the large white wall; it brought a sense of calm to anyone looking at it. The little straw hut stood on the right side of the bank, facing a lush green forest. The calm waters formed an almost identical reflection of the forest. It was as if one was transported through time and space, straight into the idyllic little scene. It was a truly phenomenal piece. The crowd stood around the little piece, discussing how the famed painter had managed to magically capture the tranquillity of the scene. Eager patrons eyed the painting hungrily, hoping to bring home the prize. The dealer strode through the murmuring crowd, occasionally stopping to answer questions about the painting. He was hoping to price it, at the very least, at one million pounds. After all, who doesn’t love a good piece of art?

Burma, 1931

He sat by the river with his canvas. He loved this spot. Tranquil and quiet- ideal for painting. Harold Douglas looked at the scene in front of him: the little hut stood on the bank of the calm, flowing river. The other side featured a dense forest, quivering with vitality and mystery. Harold’s pencil sketched the outlines of the scene. The hut, the river, and the forest all came to life on the small, blank canvas under his skilful hands. This was what he did every day in Baui, a small town South of Rangoon. He loved the tranquillity painting and sketching gave him. Baui was a little sanctuary, distanced from the violence and chaos of the world. His parents were initially disappointed by their son’s choice of occupation. Joseph Douglas, the Head Commissioner of Baui, had wanted his son to follow his footsteps, or perhaps find some other job that was more useful than being a painter! He regarded painting a waste of time and should only be done as a leisure activity. All those years of education at the accounting school wasted! Although Mr and Mrs Douglas’ disapprovals were voiced at first, they were quelled when Harold achieved some semblance of fame in Baui and Rangoon. His paintings were often sold to dealers who brought them back to Britain, bringing in enough gold to get by. Since these auctions proved to be somewhat lucrative, Mr and Mrs Douglas gradually kept their disapproval silent, but occasionally nudged at Harold to look at other jobs.

By the time Harold was done with his sketch, it was time for him to return home to get dressed before heading down to the local club. As Harold neared the house, the servant Aung came out to receive Harold. Harold handed the drawing materials to Aung and went into the house. Aung had already laid out the clothes he was to wear to the club that night. After a quick shower, Harold donned the clothes and set off. The club was filled with tense whispers, unlike the usual lively and at times boisterous atmosphere. Snippets of conversation drifted to Harold; something of rebellions, rebels in Baui. Harold asked for a glass of whiskey from the approaching servant and made his way to his father. Mr Douglas was deep in conversation with the assistant commissioner, whose brows were drawn together tightly.

“Yes, but we’ve dealt with something like this before, what makes this different from the other times?”

“Alright, but from what I’ve heard, the natives have some sort of rally and are more determined than other times we’ve dealt with them! You know how they can- Oh hello Harold! Had a nice day today?” The assistant commissioner abruptly stopped talking when he saw Harold approaching.

“Yes, George, I had a nice day down by the river. Sketching, as usual.”

“Right, I should go find Mary. See you Harold, Joseph.”

The two men watched George’s retreating back. Taking a sip out of the cup in his hand, Harold asked, “Anything wrong, Father?”

“Nothing grave enough to warrant any worries,” Joseph Douglas said, giving his son a reassuring pat on the back.

London, 2016

The little plaque on the side of the painting read:

Oil on Canvas. h.14; w.35 cm. unframed h.17; w.37.5.

Wooden Hut and Forest in Baui. Harold Douglas, c. 1931.

Douglas (1900-1976) was best known for his realistic portrayal of everyday life in British Burma. His most famous work was perhaps Baui Marketplace, c. 1927. Wooden Hut and Forest in Baui is widely speculated to be Douglas’ last work.

Price on query.

Burma, 1931

The man ran through the forest, stumbling over the uneven undergrowth. The pursuers’ footsteps were getting closer. He ducked. He heard the bang of a gun go off behind him. He heard the bullet whizz past his head. He was unsure. Unsure of why he was being pursued in the first place. Hadn’t he just been at the temple to pray for good fortune? And the next, he found himself being accused of spreading anti-British messages, and inciting a rebellion. In his panic and in the face of the guns, he took off running for his dear life. It was all very strange. He continued to run through the forest, hoping that he will reach some place safe, some place where the soldiers cannot reach him. Adrenaline was coursing through him, urging him forward. He saw that the trees ahead were thinning. Perhaps he was nearing the bank of a river. He pushed himself forwards, crunching dried leaves in his wake, hoping to hear silence, only to be disappointed with more shouts and bangs from guns.

Harold was continuing the painting he had started the previous day. He thought that he would put in some colour onto his painting after sketching. There was a disturbance in the forest, shouts muffled by the dense greenery. Harold dismissed these sounds, concentrating wholeheartedly on his artwork. Then, the haggard-looking man emerged out of the forest, panting heavily, looking a little startled and confused. Slightly blinded by the sudden brightness, he stood there for a few seconds. A few seconds was all it took: the bullet found its mark and the man fell to the ground, like a marionette that had its strings cut. Alarmed by the sudden disruption, Harold smudged a blob of green paint onto his canvas, leaving an ugly mark on the painting. Baui’s tranquillity had been disturbed. The idyllic scenes had been tainted by this act of violence. The soldiers … had the soldiers just murdered an innocent man in broad daylight? That could not be, for the soldiers employed by Great Britain were all honourable men! Harold’s paintbrush was clenched in his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He was confused, and angry. The idyllic Baui had been tainted. He set his brush down and tried to process what happened. The man had to be guilty, surely. The man had ran away for fear of being prosecuted. Yes, that has got to be what happened. Harold reassured himself, picking up his brush again and attempted to go back to his work. Baui had to remain idyllic, and he will not let the death of one insignificant man ruin his painting. Harold continued dabbing at his painting, trying to fix the smear of green that did not belong to that spot on the canvas.

The forest remained dense, bursting with life and mystery. The little hut at the bank of the river remained unmarred. The river continued to flow calmly, undisturbed. As it should be.

-THE END-

#southeastasia #short story #colonial #burma #writing

0 notes

strumflyfun · 9 years

Text

Dream

She plucked a fruit from the tree and bit into it, the sweet juice flowing from into her mouth, quenching her thirst. She sat up, observed the world around her. It was perfect. The breeze was constant, but not too strong; the trees waving lazily in the wind, making a soft rustling sound. The sky a perfect shade of blue that was sure to perk everyone’s day up.

‘Ah, this is my perfect life,’ she sighed, flopping herself onto the soft, warm grass and gazing up at the sky. In an instant, the sky turned into a bright starry night reminiscent of diamonds, sparkling.

The peculiar thing about this utopia was that there was no one around, but that did not seem to bother the girl. After all, it was her utopia. Not yours, nor mine.

The girl closed her eyes, feeling the warm breeze grazing her cheek.

Then suddenly, her world, her utopia suddenly seemed to collapse, the star-filled sky falling down, yet curiously not reaching or crushing her at all. Then suddenly there was darkness, total darkness, and a shout, screams and gunshots.

Then silence again.

She opened her eyes, expecting to see the starry sky again, but instead, a curious dome-like thing obstructs her vision, she blinks, trying to clear her eyes. And she realised, she was wearing the dome-like thing. Her hands reach up to her face and ripped the eyepiece from her face.

She was staring at a dull, concrete ceiling. The shouts had resumed. Curious, the girl tried to prop herself up, but found that to be difficult, none of the ease of movement from a moment ago to be found. She felt as though she had aged years, But eventually she managed to sit up. She observed the surroundings: familiar, yet strange, yet... yet, there was this sense of belonging.

She looked down and saw her pair of hands clutching the dome-like device that had clouded her vision a while ago. To her horror, they were crinkled like an old person’s.

‘This doesn’t make sense’

She tried to remember if she had fallen asleep in her utopia, and this was just a dream that she was having. But somehow, this feels real, with the faint smell of the gunpowder undoubtedly from the gunshots she heard earlier.

Then she sees a figure looking at her in the far corner. Greying hair, lines on her face and a sallow, somewhat unhealthy complexion.

‘Who are you? What is this?’ she demanded of the figure, pointing.

Curiously, the figure had opened her mouth and mimicked her actions.

Then it clicked, a distant memory shifting in her mind: the day she turned sixteen, the world was crumbling apart, and she had decided to leave her family, friends and the world to live in her Utopia,

The day she decided to plug into the dome-like device she held so tightly in her prune-like hands.

#short story #experience machine #utopia

0 notes