Moments
Breakfasts in Cirebon are simple. Sickly sweet Coco Crunch with milk that never tastes quite right. On the humming fridge, three-quarters of the way up, is my first drawing, a cat with a jet engine for legs, crudely rendered in blue and red felt tip.
I always catch Bapa gazing peacefully at it. Ma isn’t even aware it’s up there. She covers it with a shopping list.
I’m alone in the studio after art class. The other kids screech in the distant playground’s oppressive heat. The room is cool and smells of oil and turpentine. I daren’t try oils, but I’ve just discovered acrylics and I slather the canvas haphazardly. I try and capture a treacherous Java sea. Guru sees a turbulent sky.
Paman and I sit on his balcony looking out at Jakarta, simmering in the aging morning. I agonise over every brush stroke and eventually, the bristles conspire to construct a passable vista. My uncle looks proudly over his dark coffee.
I glance at his work: he’s brought Jakarta to life in just a handful of daubs. Somehow it looks more alive than reality.
I open the letter from LSE. Ma looks so proud.
Later, I tear the jet cat drawing from the fridge and burn it.
A ~200 word short story I wrote for an assignment for a short story writing class this week.