STORIES, STORIES

IN SEARCH OF THE ARC by Kathryn Narciso She takes a long, deep drag off her cigarette, stares a hole through me, and blows tendrils of cloud into the air between us. What is he? she interrupts my pitch. It’s like telling the story of Jesus in two sentences, and just as I have crucified him all over again, the blood red-lipped evangelist goes back to the major character’s obsession. She blows a split second smoke in my face again. He is…   She exhales another.  I watch it curl up in the air and disappear into everywhere. He is a carpenter? Except he’s not. If I were really telling the story of Jesus, I would have not seen her eyes narrowed at the unsure tone of my voice. You didn’t watch it. But I did, I approached her cautiously. I just can’t remember. Perhaps teased by her own sneaking suspicion, she smiles at me. No, you didn’t watch it. I really did. Let me tell you another story. FIRST ACT Against her genius, ready to prey on any si...

I was sick all of last week. It was progressive but swift, and I knew when it hit me full force – after my initial visit to the doctor. "No fever," smiled the docile Malaysian Dr Reyhana from our company clinic, who has also seen me through an eye infection and swollen hands from a royal tantrum I once threw. She gave me medication anyway, and it didn't seem to work. Back to the clinic I went the very next day. There was no Dr Reyhana. In her place was a large, (also) seemingly docile Egyptian (I was so sure of it!) woman. That 6ar7a . "No fever, just hiti," she said. I leaned in to show my incomprehension. I could barely speak, anyway, as my teeth clattered inside my head with the cold, and my entire body was breaking out into a fast, cold sweat in that air-conditioned consultation room. "Sometimes, you think you have a fever but it's really just hiti," she explained, pointing inwards her chest with both hands. I caught her drift, b...

Dragon Lady Sundays I spend at the restaurant poolside. Sometimes I swim. Most days I sit there with my books and wait for my laundry to finish - I use the communal laundry machines with the built-in Eww Factor because I don't have my own washer/dryer yet. First world middle-class problems, knamean? The restaurant owner lady is a certified Grumpy Cat. I try my best to be friendly. I walk in and I'm all "Good morning, how are you today?" and she replies by looking at me over her reading glasses and waiting in silence.  "I'd like a coffee, please," I says. "Coffee?" she half-yells. "Yes." And she walks away wordlessly.  What did I ever do to her to deserve this? Oh, you know, maybe I ruined her life, maybe I stole her husband, maybe I threaten her with my frizzy hair, maybe my friends and I are too loud when we break out in song so randomly and so loudly at high noon and it gives her a raging headache, I du...

My cousin's kids are here. They're outside my bedroom door, yelling for me to let them in. I'm trying my best not to make any sounds, so they think I've died, or that I'm not here. "I can smell your cigarettes!" That's Aisha, she's 7. "You look like Brave." That's Jiji, she's 6. Or 5. I dunno, they're all the same age to me. Brat-year-olds. "No, she doesn't." "Yes, she does. They both don't brush their hair." Meanwhile, I'm quietly building a white MTG deck, listening to their conversation through the door. They're probably seated on the floor, waiting patiently, because I'll have to open the door sometime. 

A few days ago, I was telling my brother about my day. Me: "OMG, you would never believe what happened today. I was--" My brother: "Yes, please, tell me, BECAUSE I CARE." Today, at Bin Dawood supermarket, at the candy aisle. My brother: "You know how there's this candy that makes you think of--" Me: "You know how I DON'T CARE?" The never-ending battle of wits between me and my brothers. - And now, for another Shit We Eat photo. Copyright.

My cousin Hani, who just turned 8, walks into my room. I'm on my laptop. Hani: "So. You like Vans, huh." Me: "What?" Hani: "Vans. (He points at my shoes by the door.) They're pretty cool." Me: "Haha what do you know about shoes? Go and play or something." Hani: "Okay. I heard you have Heavy Rain. I've been wanting to play that." Me: "Erm.. It's not for kids. You're not allowed to play it." Hani: "Fine, YOU play it. I'll watch." I love small talk with kids.

We all know that pivotal scene mid-montage in "Pretty Woman" when Julia Roberts' character goes back to Rodeo Drive to shop after she was very basically kicked out for looking like a prostitute who couldn't afford to buy anything there. She triumphantly goes up to the saleswoman who judged her before and she says, pointing at the woman with her hand that held all the shopping bags, "You work on commission, right? Big mistake. Huge." Yeah. That's right, bitch. The prostitute who couldn't afford to buy anything from your snooty, high-end shop struck gold and got an extremely good-looking, quietly tortured, wealthy man to give her some shopping money in exchange for her service. And all that money isn't going to your shop. Coz you suck ass. Seriously, I hate salespeople who can't do their job. I don't think it's part of their job description to judge their customers by their appearance, but please correct me if I'm wrong. I mean, com...

Once, my 9-year-old student came up to me and asked, "Miss, how old are you?" "I'm 24 years old," I lied. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed. "You're SOOO old! I'm SOOO sorry!" I actually felt sorry for her . If you had seen the terror on her face, you would, too. Imagine if I had told her my actual age. The poor sausage.