RuneScape Forum Archive | ~~English's Forgotten Tales~~

Englishkid62

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Notes on Childhood:

I suppose in many ways this propelled me into the world of writing more than anything else before. By then, all I ever did was write simple tales in Chinese, and various poor stories based on either Star Wars or Harry Potter. For this, I was originally asked to write an account of my own childhood as an assignment for our new English teacher, who wished to know us a little more. More than that, we had to write in the style of a child, which included disjointed sentences and random arrangement of ideas and so on.

After a few hours at my desk I came up with this semi-autobiographical tale of my own childhood, the first part made more extreme to show the contrast, and passed on to my teacher, who generously gave me an A. I’d never gotten an A in English, for anything. In retrospect, it was amazing what that little encouragement can do. And I began to see possibilities in writing as something therapeutic (instead of writing angry essays or bashing on the piano), and establish a connection with someone. Write, so someone understands.

The work itself seemed to suffer a lack of plot, and it merely showed the contrast. But if there was anything I learned from this, it was to imbue texts with emotion, to write with my heart. In the end, it helped, and by writing it down, I could perhaps start to let that part of my life go, though it was years before I would finally manage that. I still haven’t.

Hence, this is the first story of the Cathartic Stories series, though the title 'Cathartic' was added many years later to this group of stories from that period. These stories aimed to cleanse the dark spots of my past, and wash the taints away. It’s not always successful, and I was still just starting out as a writer, but one has to begin somewhere. Starting with my childhood is as good as anywhere.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:25 - Last edited on 12-Feb-2011 17:53:59 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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~~Home sweet Home~~

(September 2006)

I liked my new school. It was much, much better because the English kids there liked me. For once I felt accepted and I had my own white friends. We played badminton in P.E today and I loved it because I always won. Back where I came from it was considered a glorious achievement to beat an English person in anything. I won a few games today but it didn't make me feel any better. I was still scared. My English friends talked to me at break time but I shut myself up in a room at lunch, thinking about it all over again. Somehow I thought I realised why, whenever I saw an English person, there was always something in them that kept them permanently happy. Something in them that made them cared so little. They were not ashamed of themselves when they failed to get full marks and they were always lively and fun, or at least appeared so. Somehow, I finally realised why.

* * * * *

I so couldn’t wait to get that song in my head down on to the manuscript. It was Science and the teacher had just finished setting us the tasks for this lesson. It was easy. As the bald teacher strode past me and sat on the next table for a chat with the girls, I rushed through his tasks quickly and completed them within minutes. Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to write the song title down?

I sneaked a pile of manuscript under my Science exercise book. I was about to write a love song today, for a very special English person. Aww. Love. When the bald man looked away from my direction, I started with the treble clef.

By now I wanted to start writing the song. It would keep me busy for the next month. Writing a song was an ambitious project for me. Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to write down the key signature…the first verse…the coda?

‘Not writing music again, are you?’ A cold voice from behind blown my fantasy away. ‘Concentrate on your work.’

‘I’ve done it,’ I replied proudly.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:25 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 21:59:32 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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‘You did?’ The teacher picked up my exercise book and examined its contents.

‘You should’ve asked for more work,’ he said. He returned my book and a thought came to his mind, ‘You know what, I’m going to have to send a letter home.’ He hurried into his office not quite a whirlwind but almost. He was pretty sick of me transforming magical sound waves into meaningless patterns and symbols.

I didn't know what to do. He began to write the letter in front of everybody. The whole class was laughing. I was to be sent to an A-Level class for two lessons. Not a privilege, but a detention. To be honest I didn't find it necessary.

I couldn’t believe a letter was going home about it though. I have never had a letter sent home. Was I that naughty now? Everyone else told me not to worry about it but I knew this wouldn’t be my case – because I was not one of them. I was not English.

The letter said I completed music in class.

* * * * *

As I entered my dad’s car there was a fierce chill in the air. It froze my gut with intense anxiousness. At first I thought he was going to shout at me – there was this seemingly unbreakable silence in the car as we returned home. Everyone knew. My dad didn't say a word in the car and I made it into my room in one piece, but then I realised I liked my sister’s room better so I barged in and had a chat with her. She didn't mind, we always got along –

I knew I wouldn’t get away with it. He thought he was calm but he wasn’t. He yelled my full name and I was expected in his study. His face was glowing bright red and I could see the cells in his body were beginning to fill with an indescribable anger at the sight of me – I could feel his heart burning violently, and pieces of it were melting and evaporating under his raging fury. This could get ugly if you weren’t skilled enough to handle bombs. He was still holding the letter – I got the idea that he had just opened it three minutes ago.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:26 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 21:59:02 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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His attitude stank at the beginning. He was being aggressive and his words were venomous, like a barrage of invisible arrows firing straight at me. Attempting to convince him that I had finished all my tasks that lesson and the teacher wasn’t in his right mind anyway, I dodged his arrows and explained as calmly as I could. This was the way to handle a bomb…that was what he taught me as a parenting worker. He taught me that the only way to talk to a child was to speak in a calmed and civilized manner.

I was sure that my little sister must have overheard our noisy conversation. I knew he wouldn’t try anything though, if we had an audience, though not in sight. After my detailed explanation, my dad showed no traces of getting any calmer. He had stopped listening and he seemed to have made his mind up. I believed the way I kept calm annoyed him even more; he thought that I was fearless and I no longer cared about my education.

I was hurt, and annoyed. A few of his arrows impaled me a little too deeply and that was it. I didn't care whether he was upset anymore. He was making me upset. I quitted handling this bomb, because I didn't have to handle it at all. I would never win either way. He said I showed no regret to my wrong doings and that doom awaited me in the future.

I was angry, but I didn't have the guts to shout back because he was much stronger than me. It would be unwise to fight your own dad. I hurried into my room and slammed the door hard. War. I put three mattresses behind the door and any other defensive mechanisms I could possibly find. My room was armed with two pairs of scissors and a pen.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:27 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 21:58:13 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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My dad began to remind me of the ancient Chinese wisdoms that he taught me when I was little and moaned how he wasted ten years of his life trying to teach me things that I never really paid attention to. I couldn’t hold my temper anymore, I found him incredibly irritating. Perhaps shutting the door gave me some false confidence and at that point I exploded. ‘Parenting worker my arse!’ I screamed. ‘I wish I were English! If I was born English I would be spared the agony of having to live with you!’ After my comments he decided to call me a bad-mannered, stupid and ungrateful brat.

Why did I have to show good manners if he was aggressive towards me in the first place? I wondered if there was any word for a bad-mannered parent, or an unreasonable farther, but to my knowledge there wasn’t any. After all, a language was not invented by the sons but their fathers. He called me a brat and that was very fair…

‘Open your door now!' His voice was like a besieging army demanding a city to surrender. He expected an easy victory I suppose, that I would open my door and say sorry, and perhaps kneeling on my knees. It wasn’t going very well for me at all. I had no food, water, or places for excretion – but my room was still armed. No. Not this time, I was right and I will not surrender!

There was never a happy ending opening my door at this point. Few years ago I was too afraid to even lock it, and so he barged in and we shouted each other’s head off, just because he wanted to see me revising three hours a day for the all too important Key Stage Three exams, an exam obviously didn't matter to universities or colleges at all.

I let him know I refused to give in.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:27 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 21:57:22 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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It must’ve been a cannon ball that went right through the middle of my door. I realised the wood pieces, large and small, blasting towards me in high speed and in all directions – it took me a while to recover from the horror and the shock of the noise when his fist went through my door. His fist was like a battering ram, and he hit the door again and again, until he unlocked the door from the inside.

He didn't expect me to be right behind the door when he did this however, otherwise he would’ve forced his way in within seconds. I had three mattresses stacked behind the door, and while I was right behind it, it meant that I was literally one foot away from the point of impact. In my mind I could still hear the noise, I could still see the wooden pieces, the hole, the…

With my door unlocked from the inside, my dad began his forceful entrance. He began to push his way through. The force was so great that I failed to maintain my position. I was sliding backwards on the dusty carpet no matter how hard I tried to push him back. Seconds after seconds, centimetres after centimetres, I was losing ground. No matter how hard I tried he was still winning. If I retreated any further he would be able to come in – and I would die.

Something solid made contact with my right foot – the wardrobe, and behind the wardrobe was the wall and it meant only one thing: if I had support from the wall I could lose no more ground. I would lose no more ground no matter how hard he pushed. His fist could beat my door, but not my wall.

Bang.

The door returned to its original position and I locked it at that instant. Not that it had any point, for there was now a huge hole in the middle of the door (he could unlock it anytime he wanted, but at least I would know) and we glared at each other through the door, both with intense disgust. He was angry – but I was proud. Victory was mine. We continued to stare at each other while my little sister sobbed audibly in her room.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:35 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 21:56:45 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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‘Come out!’ It was impossible to surrender now. After all, I had defended the city…

‘Come out!’ he urged angrily and I knew that if I went out I would end up like my door within seconds, with a forty-five centimetres wide hole in the centre.

I made no response to his request because I didn't have to talk to him. I was safe in here, at least for the next second anyway. He destroyed my door today and I didn't like it. My room was now covered in dust and trillion pieces of wood in all sizes – everywhere.

It was a minute before my dad turned and left me alone without a word.

Here I was sitting at my desk, still horrified. I looked out of my window and I thought about leaving this house forever, then I ceased that thought and decided that I hadn’t got the guts for it.

It wasn’t long before my sister entered this wretched place. She failed to comfort me.

‘Just because you and Dad fell out it doesn’t mean that there are only two sides on this matter,’ she said. ‘I feel bad too…’

‘You don’t see English parents doing that if their children wrote music in class,’ I pointed at my door. ‘Will that happen to them? Do they have all these silly teachings about having a girlfriend before you’re eighteen is fatal to your future career...?’

Later, Mum tried to cheer me up by attempting to crawl into my room through the hole when she got back from work, after my sister had sent her a text message about such-and-such had happened. She weren’t any comfort either.

‘Have you seen his hand?’ Mum told me. ‘It was bleeding.’

‘So?’ I said coldly. ‘He deserved it’

Pause.

‘I’m going to clean this place up a bit...’ Mum muttered as she turned around.

‘Why are you cleaning up the mess he made?’ I asked cruelly.

Pause.

‘…Because the wood pieces hurt my feet,’ she replied.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:35 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 21:55:30 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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I looked at my door again...maybe Dad will attempt a night assault? The worst was over, but it wasn’t finished. I wasn’t to leave my room for food for the next twenty-four hours. Although the door was renewed and the whole place was tidied up within the next month, our history was never to be forgotten. After that day, no one mentioned a word about the letter again.

At school no one took this seriously. When I told them about it they laughed and joked as they pleased. The teacher didn't care either. If only they had experienced the ear-drum breaking noise of my door shattering and the forceful, horrifying entrance...it was a war no one would ever understand. People thought this was all cool, having your dad ramming your door down, but it wasn’t. For once I realised that home was no longer warm and secure, but as unsafe as anywhere in this cold, damned world.

Home sweet home...
Sweet home with a fist
Flying through your wooden door.

~~End~~

12-Feb-2011 16:21:36 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 21:56:03 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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Notes on Home Sweet Home

After receiving some really positive response and encouragement from my teacher, I think during those times writing grew on me. For the next English assignment, we had a choice between writing the best day of our lives or the worst. I thought of many things, but none of them happy. It was thus decided that I wrote about the worst day in my life, an event happened only six months before.

Perhaps I still didn't understand the whole sequence of events then, because it all happened so quickly. But this was as close as I could get to it, with no embellishments, as I really tried to understand what went on in that incident.

But on paper, at least that could be confronted. It was not pleasant to live through those times again, even in fiction. There were tensions everywhere, and my dad and I were just experts at standing on each other’s toes.

As a story, this piece suffers from, well, just lack of general interest. Mechanically it is not up to standard, and the time frame is not consistent. Flow is not consistent. But I certainly begin to see the therapeutic qualities to writing and thought maybe, I could achieve some sort of objectivity and understanding through it.

And perhaps I did.

Interestingly, the ‘leaving this house forever’ idea comes back in The Abomination of Men, a few years down the line, and then the whole idea abolished with ‘Brotherly Love’.

12-Feb-2011 16:21:36 - Last edited on 19-Feb-2011 22:25:32 by Englishkid62

Englishkid62

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~~Nightmare~~

(October 2006)

It was a hot, damp day in mid-June and the summer sun shined vibrantly in the cloudless sky * its warmth and brilliance touched many of those who breathed this air in Haxton primary school. The warmth revived the vitality of many. Hundreds and hundreds of English children were running around in circles: some were on the slides and swings; some were playing ‘footy’, as they called it, and while others were chasing another, playing tags. Playtime. Fortunately, the school playground was designed to accommodate many different types of activities and interests – and most of the children were having so much fun: a school day couldn’t get any better than this.

A man, a teacher, perhaps in his early-forties was on duty that day, standing alone in the midst of the playground, looking out for possible dangers and the general well-being of the kids. It was a fine day for him too. All members of his class had successfully passed the science test on acids and alkalis. For all he knew, in a few more hours he would be sitting on the couch in his own house, waiting for the return of his woman and embrace her flesh – and to cheat what was to be our inevitable and final fate.

He was having his cup of coffee when a rather fine-looking little boy, brown haired and brown eyes at the height of his waist turned up to him, and said, ‘Sir, I've been bitten.’ Then he showed his palm to the teacher: a bruise – much worse than a bruise – a sick, blackened spot about three centimeters wide. It was unlike any usual injuries or bite marks the teacher could recall. He crouched down beside the boy and examined the wound. The boy looked at the black spot, and his eyes were full of tears. He frowned at his teacher, puzzled, and then coughed at his face.

The man stared at the wound, bewildered. His eyes widened in horror, his face pale in realisation of what was to come, and whispered, '****...’

12-Feb-2011 16:29:29 - Last edited on 26-Feb-2011 13:14:46 by Englishkid62

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~~English's Forgotten Tales~~

English's Forgotten Tales