I like several things

the sun on a cold day
the smell of my house
the pastry bit on cheesecakes
the night sky with no artificial lighting
the city, the life
the country, the natural
the colours of the rainbow
the joy when I make others smile
the idea of mini coopers
the feeling of hot water running down your throat
the taste of peanut butter sandwiches
the sound of crinkling plastic sleeves
the clicking of cameras
the smell of burning candles (like, actually)
the fulfilment when you do a good deed
the thought of freedom
the dreaming of a good night's sleep
the lyrics to real songs
etc


you click ENTRIES by the way
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my two final English advanced short stories. I just could not be bothered to work on them any further. any suggestions?

BOOK TITLE: The Lost Battle
Short Story #1 Bang!
Bang!

The fire crackers were going off. One by one the paper wrapped fuses sparked, exploded, their remains scattered on the imperial yard floor to be cleared by the rubbish people. The garden smelled of gunpowder, and it would only grow more intense.

My Auntie looked beautiful. She always did, but today especially. Her sleeveless wedding dress fitted perfectly around her lean figure, and was cut just below the ankle for that classic appearance. She was about to walk away from us - to exit the familiar China and enter a foreign America; to exit the life of a girl and enter that of a woman; to marry a white man.

When the Bang! of crackers stopped, we knew something was wrong. Because they didn’t stop. Because we heard more Bang! Because this Bang! was loud and intense and surely not to be celebrated. Because all of a sudden we could hear women screaming, babies crying, enemy men shouting, hearts beating.

I hadn’t noticed everyone running, because the debris of a hundred plaster walls was suffocating the central garden fast. I felt my Auntie struggle to grab my hand. When she did we ran. We ran so fast and so far. We ran everywhere and anywhere.

My panic was building. I couldn’t see anything, the shards of stone and dirt flying across my face, the dust stinging my eyes, the tears stinging more. I couldn’t feel anything, except my Auntie’s hand slowly slipping away from my own. I knew why she had let go.

I could hear the Bang.

I didn’t ever want to leave home, but this time I knew I had no choice. I wanted to hold onto my land, my culture, my everything forever, and I wanted my Auntie to hold on forever. And she would have, if it weren’t for that Bang.

Short Story #2 Erased
You’re sitting there, “channel surfing” as they call it here - the remote in your hand, your fingers pressing frantically at the buttons.  I love the sound of your delighted squeal as an afternoon re-run of American Idol appears on the plasma screen . I love the way you tear pieces off the Dunkin’ Donuts bagel and eat it only then.

Your top reads DKNY and your face reads Maybelline.

    Let’s have Chinese tonight
    You’re not being serious dad. Remember last time?
I remember last time.
    I’m no cook, but you know your culture is a huge part of …
    Please dad, not now. It’s Idol!

You give me that look your Aunt would when she knew an argument was amidst. So instead I head out to clean the Ford.
    We’re having Chinese!
You’re too engrossed to complain.

I wonder if you do remember. The doctors said you had permanent amnesia after the land mine at the border. You couldn’t even remember your Aunt, whom had treated you like her daughter. I see my reflection in the car and think back.

It was a tragic day. I was running around blindly, asking everyone if they had seen a woman in a wedding dress, possibly with a little girl. It was the white dress stained red that led me to you. For my would-be wife it was too late. For you, you were lucky. I had grabbed your hand from behind her dead body. We ran together, and we ran fast.

Due to my American heritage I was allowed on a ship easily, and claimed you were my daughter. It was when we arrived on the Canadian border that a land mine went off. You were not badly injured, but they were convinced your memory had been erased. I raised you as my own, because that is what your Aunt would have wanted.

I am determined to tell you the truth, but I am scared. Will you accept that there is no American blood in you. Or will it be that entering this country really has erased you.

A text alert disturbs my memory.
    Fine dad, we’ll have Chinese.
I smile and shake my head. I look back at you through the house window pane. You smile, mouth ‘I love you dad’ and turn back to the television.

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