a Prabda-Yoon-Inspired writing — ลอก!!!


Nattakarn Sattayakawee(Sun)

Creative Writing Class2010: Final assignment (freestyle)

Ajarn Simon Wright

The Writer(s) and the Creation

            At this very moment the writer of this very story of mine is thinking hard about me especially how she is going to make me an interesting character and my moments  in thislife an innovative plot as she has been destined to do. But you see, what she has been missing, as simple as blinking, she has no ideas I have already exist even before she picks up her pen and opens her blank notebook!  Believe me I know what I’m talking about. It’s my life, for god sake!!!

             Paul was a writer. He had begun to write even before his blonde mother was willing to push him out of her secret part. Since the age of 4 months old when he began to grow his fingers, he kept tickling his mother’s womb with his index drawing the letter “I”. One day two months later, as he hit the state when each finger successfully separated itself, he managed to suck his right thumb while impatiently scratching a phrase directly to his mother “Let me out now” following by three thick exclamation points. Itched and irritated, she spitted him out to this world through her vital part. 

          What a cheating choice for this writer to make me a writer then take away my right to write my own life!!!

             Twenty two years later, for some  unexplainable reasons, Paul became a professional book reviewer. In other word, he had no stories of his own. Ashamed yet ambitious, he abandoned his real name and hid himself behind Paula, his new pseudonym. From now on he decided to devote the new self to his/her first real novel, The Writer.

             Twenty two years between the lines. That’s cheating, isn’t it? You don’t know any damn things about my life. You don’t know me at all. How dare you…you liar!!!

             It was one ordinary Sunday Morning. He was getting inspirations on his regular bench at his familiar corner of his neighborhood’s park when she appeared in front of him. The girl was blonde. She came with a pen and a notebook in her right hand. His left and right hands started to shake intentionally just to exhibit his nervousness. At first, her acts showed that she had no difficulties handling the guy.

            For her it was simple. As simple as blinking,.

             “MOTHER OF GOD!” he swore as he saw her face. In no time he identified the face with his mother’s letting his paper cup of hot coffee fallen,splashing the ink-black water over his paper-white pants.

            “Are you alright, Paul? I mean… Paula!” said the girl giggling with her eyes fixed to his almost-boiled swollen vital part.


            “I’m your most faithful reader. I buy all the books with your name on their backs just to read all the lines you have creatively summed up, I never bother reading the whole objects though.” she clarified herself with the underlined red blushing cheeks. “Paula”


            “I’m Paula. My name is Paula. It’s my real name. Can you believe that? I almost cannot!” she double underlined her shyness in the cutest way she could possibly think of: sucking both her thumbs. 

             Such a creepy convenience, you see! Call it a coincidence. Call it a plot. Peculiarly, I’m getting interested in my own life. Maybe I’ll be quiet for a while just to hear what our writer has to say. I have to admit that I find this writer’s version of my story quite interesting, a bit too psychedelic but still interesting. So I’ll just give her a few more lines.

             The everyday morning became eccentric enough for him to notice that there was no one else in this part of the garden except for this Paula and that Paula. In fact, there was nothing else in the garden whatsoever, only the two Paulas. He put his finger in his eye trying to restore the sensible sights.

             There was really nothing. There was the bench of course because he was sitting on it. But the bench was so strange. It became pink for no rational explanations. The sky was pink too. The water was pink. The trees were pink. The whole setting was pinkish pink.

             “Excuse me, you’ve been quite quiet. Did I scare you?” she pretended to look reluctant when asking

              “No,no not you. It’s just .  . . the weather!” he reluctantly answered.

            “Well, that’s good. The last thing I want is to scare you away. ..Not yet. Look,! can you keep an eye on my book for a while? I have to answer a call from the nature. I’ll be back in no time” she smiled exposing her full set of pink teeth and fled.

            The book was there on the bench. The book was pink for sure. As pink as the bench as the sky as the trees. He glanced at it while blinking uncontrollably thinking hard then concluded that in this peculiar pinkish period it wouldn’t be so weird or so wrong reading that inviting privacy.        

            Curious, he opened the book and began to read the first folded page.

            The handwriting was familiar as well as the context.

It was one ordinary Sunday Morning. He was getting inspiration..

            Recognizing the story, believing that he had been dreaming, he closed the book and his eyes then took a deep breath.

            Okay, that’s quite something. But I don’t see where this writer is going. I mean “what’s the point?” It’s turning into one of those unsophisticated scary movies. Cliché!!! Let me get this straight. I don’t approve this version anymore. I exist on my own. She has no right to take away my character. I am writer myself. Enough said, I’d like to take back my right, my life, my story. She has no right… I…

       “Hell yes I do, Paul! Paula! I think you know by now you are not real. I’m the one who makes you up. I create you even before that very moment I put you in the first paragraph letting you believe that I am the one who is ignorant. Poor child, come on! I’m your mother. I let you come out of me. See I put “YOU” here in my words, my phrases, my lines, my plots, my story, my world. Are you beginning to see? To darken down this lightness, I use my words to create you with black ink into this blank paper-white world” Paula stated in monotone.

           I say  LET  THERE  BE  YOU,  and there were you.

            By that time there was no more Paul in any available selves: a character, a protagonist, an antagonist, a narrator, a writer, an alter-ego… Adam.

           All is one and none is real.

            There was only Paula who was undercover hiding behind Paul, her pseudonym. And she was satisfied but trying to cover it up with that well-trained shyness in the loveliest way she could pretend: sucking her left index, the very finger she used to tickle her godmother’s womb drawing the letter “I” even before she was created into this world. Even before the creation. Even before God-know-when.

              And in case you wonder why Pink,  I have to admit that “ I ” , as the writer , have no ideas.


เรื่องนี้ได้เกรด B+++ ถูกจารย์เรียกไปอธิบายเรื่อง คุยกันเกือบครึ่งชม.
จารย์บอกว่า “a hard one, too hard to get an A. Ill  give you an A-
Next time, learn to compromise, ok!
“don’t underestimate the readers’ impatience!!!…”

!!! >.<“


Across the YOUniverse : Fiction


2010 Creative Writing Class: Ajarn Simon Wright

Midterm assignment: A short story from a ghost’s point of view

 Across the YOUniverse

         “Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind, 
           possessing and caressing me.
           Jai guru deva om.
          Nothing’s gonna change my world”
          I sang at the top of my voice our favorite song as I lay dying, naked.
         Nothing’s gonna change our world. Nothing. 

         The bird-shaped wooden clock he had made to mark “our first day in the life” when he
moved in five years ago was there with me in the tub. It tweeted five minutes to midnight.
The tick tock countdown synchronized with the tap water flow. The time ran out just when
the tide became too high. I could feel the presence of him standing stunned not knowing
what to rescue first, the clock or me. I could smell his sentimental guilt in the streamer.
I could see the corpse of love reflecting in his miraculously gentle eyes. I could taste
the chlorine in my throat. It was real. Real enough.

I could sense him again at last. 

         It was not as suffering as I had expected it to be. The water was kind, understandable
but still hurtful just as his tears when he said “I never regret ever knowing and ever loving you.
I appreciated it all. But I had to leave for the sake of our independence. I couldn’t let only five
years deprive us of our lifelong possibilities”  He was convinced there was the whole universe
for us to explore only that our love was in the way. With the language like that, I couldn’t dare
utter any pleas.  

             So here I am out of his way, his world, his universe. I’ve crossed them all.
            Through the water as clear as a looking glass.
             Away from The Ghost of Yesterdays

             I’m dead, aren’t I? Those ghosts of yesterdays cannot haunt me anymore. I’m a ghost
myself. It feels unbelievably light like floating in the Dead Sea. What’s this state? What have
I become? What am I doing here?  Where am I? I should have been sent straight to hell,
religiously speaking. Or I should be haunting people maybe places. I should be haunting him.  
Wait a minute, I’m thinking! Does this mean I AM still exist? Philosophy 101. Enough.
I don’t die to keep thinking. The light. I need the light. Is this darkness I’m in. Where am I?
Where the hell is hell?           

         “Here is where the heart is missing.” speaks the nothingness.

         “Ye, Bloody right! Tell me about it.” I swear.

          “You have committed the unbearable crime. You are here to live its consequences”

          “Crime and consequence? I just breathed in some water, what a big deal!
           Wait a minute, I can hear you. What are you? ”

          “Lovesick Suicide is the murder of Love and Independence

           Right after the holy sentence, springs from the origin of the mysterious voice among
the unidentified-color space a man in black with small round sunglasses.  I know right away.
It’s John Lennon, the creator of my deadly lullaby. Young as he was on 8 December 1980,
he looks and dresses exactly like himself in my bedroom wallpaper. In his hand is a familiar
sizable black stick, a microphone maybe.

        “John Lennon, you must be kidding! This death is a gift. Nice to meet you, John.
         Go ahead, please! Lead me to whatever hell you dwell in.”

         “I’m not who you think I am. I’m just a vision. Something you imagine.
         For sinners like you, there’s no heaven, also no hell below us whatsoever.
         Only this hollowness where you will live again and again”

        “So you’re Buddhist, John. Come on take me with you
         I’m dying to explore your new world,
your universe.
        Speaking of death, I even forgot how and why I came here.”

          “Allow me to remind you then ”
         My John Lennon, with his thumb on it, points the black object at me,  grinning. 
         It is a remote control.

         It has alien colors, the tunnel, not dull or bright white as claimed in convenient stores’
gothic novels. The clicking sound of the device echoes along the way. It feels like travelling
through the vacuum machine’s tube. I have no idea how long the passage takes since the clock
I hold on to is dead. Dead like me.

         Wait a minute. The hands are trembling,  both the clock’s and mine. We’re back to life,
aren’t we? I try to feel my hands on the clock to prove my reexistence but it’s gone. I am lost again.
Lost in time.

       Suddenly, two familiar voices come together. The carved blackbird on the wall is singing.
I know right away it’s midnight. The one hard knock on the bathroom door. I know right away
it’s him. The room begins to appear corner by corner in such a same old familiar condition that
I feel like bathing. The clock, the door, the mirror and the tub are there, exactly at the same spots.
Something is floating in the tub, face down. I know right away it’s me. The swollen me.
The knock comes again one more time, harder.
Is he worrying? Is he just mad?

     “I’m sorry, come out!
      We can talk. We can work it out.
      It’s a mistake.
     You are my Universe.

     I depend on you” 
     he declares in his neatly written verse style.

     The sentences slap me in my dead face. This time it doesn’t sound too certain or too organized
as usual. I’m overwhelming. I don’t have the nerve to identify whether the feeling I engage in
is joy or sorrow. Mingle it is, too contradictory but I keep on absorbing it like Oxygen.
It smells a lot like love.

      I, both the abstract being and the corpse, feel the need to breathe. As a newbie ghost, I think
I know what to do. Grudgingly, I approach the whole dampen piece of me trying to get in. But it’s
much less awkward when they do it in scary movies. The body is inaccessible. Maybe because
it’s too big for my spirit now. It’s swollen.  

      Out of the sudden, the click comes again from both the key and the remote control. As he
unlocks the door, the room gradually fades away. The last thing I see is his eyes. But it all
vanishes too fast. I don’t have enough time to discover the messages they contain.
Drops of desperation fall down  to fill up the water in the tub.

Thank to John Lennon, I can still cry.          

     Everything becomes nothing again. The sight, the sound and the smell are here but aren’t here.
No words can describe such a circumstance since words themselves do not exist in this middle of
nowhere. The only thing that concretely remains is the abstract me with a wetty kind of feeling.
His declaration of dependence keeps playing like a nostalgic song on a broken radio. I try to
imagine his being at this very moment: broken with guilt he doesn’t deserve.   

     “I know what this is all about. It’s the punishment for my stupidity”
       I yell at the invisible John Lennon.

     “Not Stupidity, Selfishness. To yourself and to others. To Love and Independence.”
      John corrects me.

     “Acceptable. What now then? I’ve learn my lesson.
       Am I sentenced to reconstruct the scene of my stupid selfishness for eternity?
       I can do that. Serve me right”

      “Dear Prudence,
      you misunderstood the concept of perpetuity. 

      Life of love doesn’t stick with death.
      It continues.”
     He throws the remote control away. 

To  the same direction,
I am swallowed into the sinking hole that looks like a whirlpool in the bathtub.

         A man and a woman of  their late twenty are on their way home.
The man in his old overcoat, despite the rain all over his clothing ,
stops to buy the raincoat his girlfriend once mentioned about its perfect ripe yellow color.
The woman is holding the bags full of potatoes, her boyfriend’s favorite food’s ingredients.
The man hums 
                  “It’s been a hard day night. I should be sleeping like a log 
                  but when I get home to you I find the things that you do will make me feel alright”
        A couple of their forty are sitting, leaning against each other, despite the burning sun
,in a nice little Japanese garden by a pound. The man is making a bird out of a piece of wood
for the anniversary while the woman is reading a novel for them both. The novel is titled
Enduring Love. The man hands her his hand and his last piece of chips after the woman asks
                  “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me when I’m sixty four?”      
         A couple of their sixty are at the Great Wall. The old man is helping his wife to get up
and look over the wall to see the endless astonishing landscape. They are exploring the world
with an excitement of a child. The woman says
                  “With love, we are two fools on the hill and  I’m grateful for that.” 
         A dead couple of their eighty are resting together in a carved twin coffin, hands holding.
Their heads lean against each other’s. The smiles are peaceful. Despite the winter, the night air
is kindly warm. The choir of the funeral is singing
                   “Ob-la-di-ob-la-da life goes on, LaLa how the life goes on”      

      The men and the women all have the similar faces, gestures, and smiles. In fact, their eyes
and the way they look at each other are identical. Even the names are the same. Eddy and Nam.
Each Eddy is a crime scene photographer, a cyclist, a Tran-Atlantic ferry crew, and a wood craver.
Each Nam is a parody playwright, a pantomime actress, a backup singer, and a second-handed
record shop’s owner. Their homes are in Rayong, Galway,Calgary, and Suzhou.

         Together they live, laugh, cry and sing. 
         Together they were, are and always will be.

         Five minutes is the average length of a regular song. Five minutes is the possible longest
moment one can bear the flood filling their lungs. Consequently, she is dead. Drown in tears
of sorrow and joy. But it was one minute to midnight. A mistake despite her calculated plan.
One minute early death can give birth to plenty possibilities. Sixty years, three forth of the life
she gave up living, is drifting through her open mind, possessing and caressing her.

         The Ghost of Tomorrows.                   

        “What was that? A parallel universe? You’re cheating. . 
         They do not really exist. They’re just possibilities. Probability. Theory.
          Those nice little things might or might not happen at all.
          We may never know happiness until the day we eventually kill each other with
         collective guilt and shames. I may end up far worse than drowning myself just now”  
          My insecurity explodes to the same old nothingness as soon as I can talk again.

         “You may or you may not. 
           Eternal doubts are the price of being a quitter on love and life.
            Do you mind a little quotation?” 
          John in the middle of blankness makes his point.      

          “Please John, do educate me”

           “A very interesting Irish man once wrote 
           The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.”
          The lecture accompanied with a certain tweet.
          I know right away the midnight comes again.   

          I can hear him singing along, my John Lennon, my Eddy.
          The more explicit the audio is, the more unbearable it becomes.
          I finish the song for the first time, knowing it will never be the last. 

         “Limitless Undying Love
         which shines around me like a million Sun.
         They calls me on and on 
         Across the YOUniverse
        Jai guru deva, om”  

กำแพง ประตู กุญแจ and you think you know where you are



You know where you are. You’re facing another Red door. No! It’s not a wall. You know it’s not. Because you see the hole. The key is in your hand. You’re holding it. Tight. You’re wearing the right clothes. The shoes are already tied. The phone is ringing. Behind that lean door, someone you’re dying to get to know is knocking and humming your favorite song. Unmistakably, it’s that certain song. But no! You will not do it again. Never to enter any more unknown rooms. Well aware, you turn your back on the call. You are hiding behind the same old door. Still you’re holding the key. Even tighter. So tight that you hurt yourself. You burst out crying, laughing, and singing all inside. So quietly that you yourself almost don’t hear it. But you do. Paradoxically, numbness itself is a feeling. When you feel that you don’t feel. When don’t feel that you feel. Or worse when you think you feel or when you think you don’t feel. All the colors mix together to grey. It’s always too blurred for you to feel. You’ve become uncomfortably numb on purpose. Because you think you know where you are. Your excuse is you need to know where exactly you are going. But you’ve learned it’s impossible. So you just don’t go. You ignore the hole to convince your mind to believe that it’s a wall. It’s the philosophy of your own mistrust. Acceptable. But the key. The key hurts you.



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