Dear fellow friends and fellow readers,
Natural is just one part of the Silence Tales of which I created. The Silence Tales is compromised of several individual storyline and plot on its own. It perceives more or less dark element within it.
As for the title Natural - i wanted to paint a simple story about an old man life, living all by himself, remembering his past lives as a young boy and all the alternate past related to him. Therefore he could not accept his illness and his decaying age. What happen to him next? He died naturally or not is up to you to have your own thoughts. Will there be any related story going back before he was old? I can't say anything further.
The next short story under Silence Tales is called Darkness Calls. It will be up on the blog soon.
Jordache Wee 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Dear fellow friends and fellow readers,
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Clean cut and perfectly worn,
His silk black trousers,
His Armani white long sleeves,
His Valentino black coat.
He knows the time,
He rest in his bed.
Just for awhile.
That familiar voice calling his first name,
This time he accepted.
He open his eyes and look,
It was his girlfriend,
Anna, you look so young he said,
The old man stood up and takes her hand,
They began dancing waltz,
The music springs,
They smile and hug.
Anna faded slowly,
Each dance step and slowly fading.
Like an angel wishes goodbye in the dark.
The old man started to feel lonely,
Again and his heart breaks,
He tumbles like being shot to the brain.
Nobody hears anything,
His neighbours were so soundly asleep.
This time he can’t gets up,
His spectacles blur and have scratches,
He stared at a small rectangular box.
Digital green dim lights,
He tries to identify if it’s 2007,
One last stare.
Everything around him slowly started to paint,
Like a drips of rain spattering the roof top,
Painting it darker than black.
He hears no more,
He feels no more,
He is not on the floor anymore.
And I whisper to him,
Listen, your journey is yet to come.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Hating for his heart condition,
He groans and screams,
He crawls back to his bed and sit.
The medication is his hand,
He rotate to open,
Only to find himself shiver,
The left palm sweats,
The right hand shakes,
The tablets flow down like a rushing dam.
Dropping everywhere on the floor, under the bed and drawers.
The bottle lies naked and plain,
He kneel down to pick one,
But greedily wants all,
His weak heart won’t let him,
He pops one and three more into his mouth,
Gulping down the throat like fishes in the pond.
He gasped for air,
Knowing that he made a hasty decision.
The desperation made him stronger a little bit,
Races across the bathroom,
The light switch in it doesn’t seem work,
It keeps blinking.
He looked at the square plastic mirror.
A long pause.
The mirror reflects his hideous face,
White and pale under the blinking light bulb,
He doesn’t remember being this sick,
His tiny droppings of hair went unnoticed,
His eyes are red and probably swollen,
His nose is bleeding,
It’s black instead of red,
Or could it be a darker red,
He opens the tap,
The pipe was probably sabotaged.
He doesn’t remember who he was.
For a moment,
Something wet is flowing around his wet palms,
He was dreaming.
He washes his face,
The music starts playing again,
With a different tune on the violin,
A happy one rather than the previous sad one,
It was The Monastery from The Red Violin soundtrack,
He touches his face,
He feels his bones,
Another voice was calling his name,
He wears his suit..
Friday, July 18, 2008
He lives a life a hardship then wealthy on his own.
A war broke.
His brother was enlisted in the army,
His papa and mama weeps as the Soviets came,
His brother left and never back home forever,
His parents was left distraught,
They died when the Germans ambushed from above,
Papa and mama burns to the ground along with the mansion,
A place he once lives happily.
The old man weeps as he recalls,
Happy and sad times of his life.
Knowing that the mirror will crack,
He left and grabs the doorknob,
The aluminum is cold too,
He released and opens it.
He heard sounds again,
The same ones,
Taking a peek down the spiralling stairs,
A few glances around him,
A wind whistles by,
Sounds familiar but he couldn’t remember it,
Thought it might be the neighbour next door,
But he denied not,
The whistle turns into music,
Playing loudly with that familiar opera voice,
What was that music as he walked back into his bedroom.
A tiny and rough voice echoes inside his ears,
A telepathy he thought?
A ghost on the second thought.
A moment of silence,
Trying to figure the music title and the whisper,
He does not have faith or beliefs in religion books,
He looks behind and at his windows,
The windows are finely latched and shut.
His mind began to wander,
He is running frozen,
Calm down he said to himself,
His legs grows numb,
He gripped tightly at the grills not far from the middle window.
The music stops playing,
There was not a single applause – only silent.
He sprained his left arm,
He moan in agony,
Every inch he tried to make a move,
He fails and starts falling,
Crawling like an infant,
Towards the small drawer besides his bed,
The bottle is filled with tablets,
Standing beside a broken lamp..
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Written by: Jordache Wee Chong Jin
Listen I said,
Be brave old man and listen closely,
Wake up and open your eyes.
Slowly at one pace to another,
He struggles between his consciousness reality and dreams within,
Desperately to be alert,
Awaken by a distant whisper,
Nobody is home,
A passerby car light splashes across your window,
He stared as it goes by slowly after creating a slight shadow,
A hard shadow shaping a rocking chair,
He sees no more,
He hear no engine,
He released his left leg,
Spreading from the other,
He foot touches the wooden wide floor a piece,
Turning away the huge fluffy comforter,
The right foot reaches the ground,
Both legs are touching the chilling floor,
Feels like the first feel of snow in 1937.
Naked to his pair of boxers,
He still perfectly fits even he has wrinkles all over,
Grabs the round-o-spectacles,
The floor speaks among each other,
He stands up and stretches firmly,
A crackle sound up his old bones doesn’t stops him,
The oak wood is heavy yet maybe fragile,
The floor creaks,
His toes are stuck to the ground as if climbing a mountain,
He strives every step,
He gets his favourite white robe that hooks behind a door,
Along with the belt he tighten around his waist,
There’s a long glass mirror on his left.
He faces it,
He smiles at himself,
He visualizes his younger days.
A young boy with brown hair,
Born as a silver spoon to a steel producer,
His papa and mama came standing behind him,
Patting his shoulders,
He chooses to be an athlete than to run his father’s fortune,
He chose his dream,
His brother succeeded papa’s wealth,
He is forgotten then,
A pumping iron he becomes..
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Black Theatre & Red Lantern is the title of my blog. It is just like the name of a shop down the street. Just that this shop, my shop is quiet. No music or sounds. Just a total silence. Like a silent movie. A little introduction.
All the readers have to do is imagine and visualize what i wrote. It will create a character, the scene, the plot, the suspense and the finale. It's a story of just seven lines but i transform it into a feature writing but not an ordinary feature writing.
My first work for this year will be called Silence Tales, it consist of several elements leading to extraordinary circumstances and natural causes. I will break it into chapters and which is one page is published every twice a week or once a week to my choice.
All works are originally written by me and no plagiarism or stealing shall be made without my permission!
I'm not hoping if there is any audience and if they would to comment and critic and etc. Go ahead and write the comment in here.