Shih-Li Kow's A Famous STORY Part 1. ITS A Novel

                                       

Shi-li Pictures at nine o'clock in the morning, the Millers hurried to feel their presence. They called their greetings and congratulated Benoit on the fat breakfast of noodles. The quality of the cuisine of Benoit was unpredictable; I suspected she echoed her mood, Sosa, when she was bored, with a lot of taste when she was stressed, and almost ungenius when she was in bad spirits. The kitchen of a Benoit in recovery, in equilibrium, was a mystery.

The miller told him that they wanted to see the three lakes. I had arranged for her to pay Ismet to take her, and Mr. Miller wanted to fish. Mrs. Miller said with an exaggerated sigh: "I shall be so angry, but she loves to fish." I was the fourth person at this angel party. Too many weeks have passed since I was last in the water and I am looking forward to the trip. I was accustomed to the ISMT company, but I had to endure the other two.

We went to the pier in Jerome hired by the Millers. Mr. Miller wanted to drive and get into the driver's seat with the car around him as a box of armored matches. A big man like him should have picked up a bigger car. I was imagining Peggy Miller at the car rental counter at the airport, standing next to their trolley pockets, saying, "Oh, darling." We need to rent a small car from May-lay-sian. "We have to see for ourselves how much it leads." To be fair, I hardly knew Mrs. Miller, and certainly not good enough to make these assumptions about you. She was probably a perfect woman, but, well, I just don't like her face. As long as I have not said it, we could preserve the demands of hospitality.

The farther away from the city we drove, the narrower it became the streets until there was no sidewalk and the thickets grew on the edge of the runway. "Turn left, after the shield," said Ismet, pointing out a sign faded by the Ministry of Cultural Diversity, cultural heritage and Tourism, urging eco-tourism. "The fourth woman in the lake." Discover the natural wonders of Malaysia, he said. Someone had injected a black line of paint sur ' wonders ' et écrit ' Pajeros ' à this topic. I thought it was a little weird. This was not a common word spoken in Lubok-yong, much less seen in writing.

We went down the road on a road dented by motorcycles that run the average kilometer to the lakes. This was limited by a brushed wall on both sides, so high that some feather tips to dust the top of our car bent. Some were smashed, perhaps by a car in front of us, that to give another way, and long broken blades were wounded on the ground. We beat the old mud and heard the occasional piece of laterite noise against our undercarriage. Mrs. Miller, sitting with me in the back, was without complaining and took the heat and the potholes in a good mood.

Mr. Miller laughed and said, "Let's go." Farewell to the Green Sea. It was delayed for Mrs. Miller to take a picture.

We saw the hill first. The cliff climbed forward, a monolithic limestone mass with dense dark trees. Then the lakes came in sight, black green and not reflected in spite of the calm of the water. Where you have waited on a mirror, reflected a blue sky diluted with clouds of canvas floating on its surface, there was none. Fourth woman of the lake swallowed all reflections and did not offer such a beauty. There was a slight murmur of rain, but the sun took over and the clouds of rain kept their content, obedient to the light of day and the patron of the fishermen. If there was a threat of rain, I felt it in the abundance of the lake and not in the sky.

When we arrived at the pier, we saw some motorcycles accidentally parked on the grass like grazing animals. Our rental boat, a tourist boat that took visitors to a loop from the lake, waited. For ten Ringgit, donned a life vest, sits in one of the eight plastic seats that collected the water to dampen the suspected media, and rose near the limestone rocks to see the darkness, the Maws of the caves. A Outcrop with a solitary shrub from the wall of the cliff came to show something, and say, "This is where the princess jumped," a beautiful improvement in history.

With few tourists the boat was hardly used. Mrs. Miller seemed to know what she had to do. He pulled out a towel from his pocket and deleted his seat. Then he turned to his arms with a mosquito repellent. Husband and wife slipped into the life jackets hanging beside their seats.

Ismet killed the engine and took the boat on a big sign-curve. A wave of croissant has fanned behind us. The men who fish on the benches greeted and forgave the noise we made. Mrs. Miller came back, smiling. We have a sweep near the limestone for the teats to make pictures. I was not in the mood to do the Tour-guide chatter, so I kept my mouth shut, and pretending to inspect my bars and buckets. I did not underline the Outcrop, and I ignored ISMT when he looked at me. His English was not good enough to tell the whole story of the princess and the CSA, but I did not speak that day. When I spoke, these tourists would speak again, and I wanted to fish, not to make polite noises and play the silly native.

He had a plastic tub of crickets and maggots for bait. I also had some chicken skin flavored with fish food that I wanted to try. It was an idea I got out of the swamp people, these crocodile hunters I saw on Astro. We had a fishing for Mr. Miller. Ismet took the boat in the middle of the lake, in the shadow of the cliffs that were thrown on the water, and cut the engine. Mrs. Miller drew a book from her pocket.

MY MOTHER S MILK (A Famous story in english)

I had seen a performance of Portuguese dance and music in Melaka. Almost all songs and dance were from Portugal. Minha Rosinha was one of them, the certainty of the Portuguese House COM was another (the titles mean respectively "My little Rose" and "certainly a Portuguese house"). Both are well-known songs. I am familiar with them to watch Portuguese folk music dances on television as a child. I remember that I usually changed channels after a minute or two because I sing and dance terribly sticky, and very inbrazilian.

The most famous Portuguese singer of Brazil at the time was Roberto Leal ("Loyal Robert"-it turns out to be an artistic name). He wore a folk costume while singing and dancing. The costumes were also completely Portuguese. (Oddly enough, although born in Portugal, he moved to Brazil as a child and lived there.) He was our own Portuguese folk dancer and singer. He was also the most famous Portuguese in Brazil. No one seems to care that he is Brazilian too.

This is what many anthropologists and historians call a clear case of the invention of tradition: namely, none of this was before the decade of the 1950. The young people who dance in Melaka seemed to do it right. One of the girls was very noticeable: she was tall, she had bright green eyes and a nice smile. (I learned that he died in a traffic accident last year.) I was invited to participate in one of the dances with several guests. The beauty of the green eyes came to me, but I hesitated to show my amazing lack of skill in Portuguese folk dance. Anyway, an Italian colleague asked me to get up and dance. I was a Brazilian after all, and the imagination of a Brazilian was not able to dance. Almost as rare as an Italian non-attitude!

Some of the students-Malaysians were Portuguese-language students-also danced. The group did not indeed in the community, but a large group of students and employees of the University of Malaysia. The place was the Papa Joe's Restaurant, which announces Portuguese and Nyonya cuisine, as well as the Chinese crabs (Pope Joe himself was one of the singers). I find the combination of Portuguese, Nyonya and Chinese seafood revealing: I found local cuisine often linked, no matter what ethnic origin or labels attached. Instead of being in opposition, the three were part of the same culinary continuum.

During a break I noticed that the young men and women who danced in Malay spoke to each other. Noel (My Portuguese friend and teacher) deeply regrets that the government and the non-Portuguese local society are undermining the community's cultural heritage; It is the community itself. Traditional festivities are not carried out in an appropriate manner; The traditions are abandoned, and the language is slow but safe to decay.

I muse that maybe everything changed, and very quickly. Noel is very religious, like all the elders in the community that I have spoken so far. It's easy to get a long rant about morality and religion. I wonder how attractive it is for the younger generation. Moreover, the Portuguese community was always an open group: The descendants of the Dutch people of Melaka, for example, also speak Portuguese and are often regarded as members of the community. (I don't think anyone speaks Dutch to Melaka anymore). Noel still inveighs against naming "Eurasia" from time to time: his point is that it is not root-people in a particular country, but it is vague and general. It was a British colonial name used by the community before being re-established as a Portuguese in the last colonial period. Noel must have been a teenager when the identity change has taken place. I don't know anyone in Melaka who is carving in Eurasia. The Christmas point of the house hammers over and over again is that the community Portuguese and therefore Portuguese (ie) Portuguese.

THE ESCAPE .A Famous story IN English

The alarm sound that indicates the end of the hour. The tower has changed guard. Superintendent Jackson had tightened the security protocols after the uprising broke two days ago. A guard had died in violence. Some said Jackson was upset at the thought of such a horrible incident under his watch. There were others who had a conspiracy theory that Jackson was the whole thing to get rid of the guy for unknown reasons without having to deal with an investigation from the Office Department.

Jackson was a short, strong man with a bald brow. It would be confused with a shop clerk or restaurant server, except that the ugly scar, ran the right cheek was proof of a much darker character. He cut his teeth as an artillery sergeant in the wars and joined the police after leaving the active service. He specifically asked for a job in the prison office and was granted without great difficulty, thanks to his powers of war. Now he leads the colony lunar prison, where the worst criminals are sent to the ground to bring about life sentences. Jackson ran a tight boat and had an excellent record. No one has managed to escape from his prison for the time.

Jeff Rhodes a.k.a. Prisoner #3092 in the colony Lunar prison, lay in his bed in his cell with his palms shaved behind his head and look through the glass ceiling. Beyond this reinforced, unbreakable glass ceiling were stars, distant galaxies, and the dark space that seemed to extend to eternity. Somewhere, probably outside the small window that the upper limit in its containment cell offered him, a beautiful blue marble called planet Earth turned around. Jeff Rhodes dreamed all the time. If everything were to go according to his plan, he would be happy to leave this forgotten place of the house on the way to Earth in less than twenty-four hours.

He turned to his side and grabbed a figure in the shadows, stood at the door and stared at him. He was able to make Jackson's unmistakable outline in the dark, as he was almost as a wax. Jeff closed his eyes and mentally to run through the sequence of his escape plan for the tenth time. He did not know when fatigue took care of his body and when he slept.

Full volume alarms. Flashing. The prisoners are queuing for a nominal call. Jeff avoided visual contact with Jackson and the other guards. He sat alone at breakfast, looking from time to time to count the number of guards. He knew that one of the guards had gone on a special license and had the Earth last week because of the unexpected death of his wife. Jeff had worried about killing another guard during the riots last week. The reinforcements sent from the table were forwarded and would take two more days to reach the lunar base. In the meantime, Jackson's personal team would be wrong. Jeff counted on it. He hoped that no one would notice that he escaped after breakfast when the prisoners were sent back to their cells.

 

 

The alarm called and the prisoners rose from their places and presented themselves in two rows. One of the guards said to move into the cell block. The captives of their orange monkeys began to go. Jeff had carefully his breakfast-table, so he was against the end of the line with only a few men behind him with the rear guards as a result. The prisoners had to navigate two sharp curves and Jeff intended to escape between these two turns and hide in a wall he had identified. The challenge was to do this without the knowledge of the other prisoners and the rear guards.

The most important prisoners made the first turning to the right. Jeff coughed and stayed temporarily while the rear guards looked up. He avoids finding them in the eyes and allowed the other two prisoners behind him to go the last position on the track. The guards did not notice and seemed relaxed and engaged in trivial jokes. He was now only a few steps from the first round to himself. Jeff walked around and sped up his pace. Tiny drops of sweat were formed on the head and crashed on the dragon tattooed on his neck. The rear guards were invisible and were at least ten paces behind him. Another four seconds... and it would reach the wall cavity.

As soon as he arrived there, Jeff deftly moved on the side and got offered in the small room through the cavity of the wall and hid in the dark. I heard the footsteps of the guards. Jeff was very aware of all his senses and the weather seemed to slow down while he waited with bated to breathe. I could see the rear guards. He waited there for a minute, then feet his way into the Bay of traffic. He came to the door. There was not much time left. A check is made after all prisoners enter their respective cells and their escape is discovered. I had to be on my way before.

He pulled the key out of his pocket... The key he had taken from the vigil during the riots. Opened the door of the Bay of traffic. I almost made it. A few minutes away from freedom. I felt it.

A steel coffin ready for shipping was in the middle of dimly lit room. The coffin kept the corpse of the guard he had killed. He was destined to go on Earth on the next robotic cargo ship of the lunar prison colony. Jeff thanked the mentality designer of the steel coffin, making it big enough to fit two bodies. Of course, I didn't know or cared about it being designed to save costs.

I could see the charge light flickering in a short distance as it approached Kai. Quickly he entered the coffin, next to the embalmed corpse and closed the clasp. As soon as the freighter moves, it would be clear to leave the coffin. Each coffin had an unlocking arrangement from inside if someone accidentally locked it. I was ready to bear this little agony with the corpse until the charge was on the way.

The doors of Pod Bay Open and the cargo ship completes the mooring maneuver. The coffin moved after the cargo and the doors closed. A few seconds later the cargo landed and slipped off the lunar prison colony.