Words to the Reaper

Words to the Reaper
by Maclean Patrick

Death is a friend,
He leans over when I stood alone,
That time at the beach, looking out to sea,
“Do you see the sunset?” Death asked;

“It’s the same everyday,” I replied,
Death smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder,
“True.”
Death smiles, a smile like that on a kabuki mask;

“You’re too depressive,” Death points out,
“The sun will set each day, the sun will rise,”
“You may see it, you may not,”
“But every sunset is different, every time;”

Depressive?
Look who’s talking, I entertain the thought;
“Easy for you to say. You’re not worried about dying,”
“True,” Death remarks, “Depends which side you stand on the line.”

“Line?”
“The line of life or death.”
“Why is that important?”
“Where you stand will determine how you live.”

Death rubs my back,
It’s an icy touch yet sublimely warm,
“Choose how you want to live, to live to die or die to live?”
“My friend, you can always choose what you need to believe…”

Shopping Therapy – Buying a leather jacket to beat depression.

Ok, I don’t look like Wolverine but don’t you just love leather jackets. Don’t you just love leather?

I was feeling really pissed the other night, someone ticked me off and it caused turbulence in my rather calm mind at that time. I hate it when people screw up your almost peaceful day by being plain rude and disrespectful. So taking a page from a friend, “Shopping therapy always works.” (The ladies have always known this since the beginning of time.) I went out and bought myself a jacket – leather and all.

I don’t want to look back in time.

They say this is the time to look back and look forward and we all hear the same thing each year or we may even wish the same as we did the previous year. Mistakes would not be repeated and we would do better the coming year. We make that solemn promise to ourselves, we won’t make the same mistakes twice but somehow “never” should never be spoken. We draw up a list of things to do and not to do and we wishfully hope 2010 would be the year things would be different.

Maybe it would, or maybe it would not.

Who knows? We can’t tell the future. And we make the best decisions based on the best and most current information we have at this moment in time. So in fact no decision is a bad decision. Only with hind-sight do we determined based on some form of measure, which is bad and which was good. So can we truly say 2009 was a bad year or not? What may have been a bad choice could lead to a good situation in 2010. We never know.

I am saying this as my friends start wishing each other Happy New Year on Face Book. I am an ass when I start thinking, and I’m treating this day like any other year. And I won’t be promising myself anything neither am I expecting much either.

If you step back and look at days and time and years, EVERY 24 hours we live is the same in terms of measured time. The sun rises and the sun sets.

We (humans that is) invented a form of measurement to quantify and divide time in units we can easily refer too. So today is the 31st of December 2009, and tomorrow is the 1st day of 2010. But what if every month had 40 days? Or 60 days? Or what if we lived in 12 hour days? Then 2010 would have been upon us in half the time.

I don’t want to look back at 2009 because it would mean I have to look back all the way in my own remembered history. 2009 should be looked at in reference to 2008 and so on so forth. And looking forward to 2010, can I safely say I won’t make the same mistakes? After all we humans are creatures of habits.

So don’t live in the past, neither don’t fantasize for the future. Live the NOW and savour every moment lived. Time would move relevant to how you perceive it. You want it to move fast, it would move fast. You want time to move slowly, it will move slowly. Time is relevant to the position of the observer, who stands looking at his watch moving clockwise. Ironically, even if our watches moved anti-clockwise, time would remain the same.

Every minute is a 60 second pulse and every second is a 100 mini-second pulse. So if your clock tick backwards it would still be the same as those ticking forward.

So for tomorrow, I want to create something new. Regardless, if its the new year or not; I choose to create something new. To add to the excitement of a changing universe. To introduce something that would find its place in time and be remembered by those that share the same space with it. I want to add to the jumble of created instances we have crowding our existence.

How do I do that?

By doing what I do best. Writing. Composing. Seeking the story that needs to be told. Adding to the body of stories people carry stored in their minds.

For that, I want to experience life. Each day as if it was my last. To live with urgency. To live as if life dependent on it. To not be afraid to take part in the trickery of life, and be able to say at the end of it.

“I lived my life.”

There’s a story in every moment

You can sit on a plane or at a (boring) meeting and there may be a story lying in wait. All you have to do is turn, smile and talk to those around you. Every one has a story, has a phrase that sticks, has a tale to tell and places they’ve been. All you need to do is turn, smile and start talking. Do not be afraid to strike up a conversation with the ones near you. And above all, after asking, listen to what they have to tell and take note. You never know when that phrase would seem appropriate when you are writing conversation or laying down a plot.

There’s a story in every moment.

Too many times we try too hard to fomulate a great story. We labour over ideas that HAVE to be spectacular, mind blowing and out of this world. We fashion large words and create outlandish worlds to plant our single dimensional characters.

But stop and talk to those you meet on the bus or a plane or sitting at a coffee shop and you’ll gain a wealth of stories. Real stories with real people, living real lives with real problems and moving in real time. You then take on the role of scribe and thus, chronicle the lives of everyday people. It doesn’t have to be outlandish or spectacular, just honest and true.

Try it. talk to someone and listen to the story, yet untold.

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Second book off to publishers.

I finally took the step to submit my 2nd book to the publisher of my 1st after waiting (fruitlessly) for MPH to respond to my queries. Here is chapter 7 from my second book – The Bicycle.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A gang of ducks made their way toward the lake. They waddled confidently in single file across the foot path and manicured lawns of the Butterfly Gardens, oblivious to onlookers on their routine afternoon walks, who found the whole scene rather cute.

The bicycle lanes at the Butterfly Gardens were leveled and smooth (for it was a new park planted with various flowers to attract butterflies). Sam did not want to take the chance with the bicycle on an uneven path neither would he ever think of riding on the main road for Malaysian drivers had a habit of hitting anything without the customary four wheel setup.

Getting Elizabeth to sit on the top tube of the frame took some convincing on his part. Fearing the tube would buckle under her weight, he had asked that she peddled and he walk alongside her. She waved it away as nonsense, knowing full well that she was not that heavy and that he was merely being fussy, insisting instead that he peddled them through the park.

She sat on the top tube and he steadied himself and slowly he pushed on the peddle and they moved forward. Initially a little slow but eventually they picked up speed as Sam got into his rhythm.

It was a beautiful afternoon for a bicycle ride. The sun was low and a gentle breeze blew among the trees. The lanes were shaded with low overhanging trees growing along the sides with hibiscus hedges planted in between the trees. The sound of crackling dry leaves accompanied them as they rode along the path that winded its way round a lake shape like a pear.

She leaned against him and once again he caught the scent of her perfume, intermingling with the warm air and blooming flowers bathed by the afternoon sun. Just you and me, the thought crossed his mind. Just two people caught in a web of emotions bordering on friendship? He could walk away from this if he wanted to but something deep inside convinced him to stay on, to walk down a path he was not familiar with, to peer into the darkness and grapple with a feeling he knew little about.

“I like this,” she said, turning her head to gaze up at him.

“I like it too,” he replied, catching a twinkle in her hazel brown eyes. ‘I can’t keep my eyes of off you,’ he thought. ‘Why?’

He held his gaze for a second longer and permitted himself to savor the moment. Knowing full well, moments like these do not come often. There was that feeling again, the kind you get when you are waiting for your new car or when you are expecting your boss to announce your promotion. It was a tingling in his stomach, butterflies? Or was it more like crazy South American killer bees on a rampage. Whatever it was, it only happened when he was close to her and now having her sitting on the bicycle with him intensified the buzzing in his stomach to the point he was now weak in the knees.

It was a deep yearning. A yearning for something more than just friendship. It was a yearning to have her with him at all times. For as he cycled he realized that as everything around them moved by, she was still with him. The scenery changed and morphed into various pictures yet she was still there with him, still the same person he had grown to…love? Was he falling in love? Could he actually be falling for Elizabeth? Why now? Why did it not happen before, during their early years? Or maybe they have been in love all this while, dormant and silent, only to be awakened by the bicycle. A bicycle, which had seen love beforehand and now passing it on to them. Serendipity. The word flashed in Sam’s mind.

There was a time he would not have given a hoot about her but ever-since entering university, where one can choose how they spend their time, he had spent most of his time with her. He needed a friend and there was none closer to him than Elizabeth.

She was the constant in his life. The fixed point that did not change as the surroundings moved along and that was the way he wanted it and that was the way he hope it would stay.

She hummed a tune as he cycled down the path heading towards the lake. It was a tune he recognized, a song from the play where they first met. She rested her head on his chest, “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“You like that don’t you?” He asked. Not the smartest of questions but heck, he wanted to know what she would say in reply.

“Duh? You know I do. You have a nice heartbeat. Steady and soft.”

“A heartbeat is a heartbeat,” he commented, ‘it beats for you,’ he added, though it was only in his mind. A thought he wished he had the courage to speak out.

He quickened his pace, allowing the wind to gently caress her hair, which she had untied and allowed to fall free.

Elizabeth looked up at him, “Are you okay?”

“Besides having your hair poking up my nose. I should be fine,” he replied and winked at her.

“Funny? You think that’s funny?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not working,” she smiled at him. She was being cheeky with him, flirtatious even but this was Sam, the unromantic moron, who probably would not know if a girl was interested in him even if she said it into his face.

“What’s not working?”

‘Yup. Sam, the unromantic moron.’ Elizabeth felt safe around him. Safe to be herself, knowing Sam would not flop over silly to impress her in order to gain her attention or win her affection. No, Sam was her best buddy and she could count on him to be her best friend, no strings attached, no emotional connection.

“You, trying to be sweet, funny. Trying to be romantic,” Elizabeth replied.

“You told me that I needed to be romantic around girls. So who else can I practice on?”

“Your mother.”

“Crazy girl!”

She laughed and pressed her head against his chest, “I like this.”

‘Me too,’ Sam thought, ‘I love it too.’

“Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you so nice to me?”

“Why? Cannot-kah?”

“No. Just that you’re nice…when you’re like this.”

‘Like this? What do you mean by that?’ He thought. “It’s always good to be nice to people…it’s…it’s the right thing to do.”

“Being nice?” She asked, shifting her head slightly.

“Yes,” he replied.

“But you’re only like this to me.”

He smiled, “Because I spend most of my time with you,” he replied.

“Why?”

He cycled along a curve where the path was level. Hedged on both sides with little red and white roses. He peddled slowly, taking his time to mull an answer.

“I’m comfortable with you,” he replied.

“But most of the time we argue and have those intellectual debates and I call you names.”

“And then we laugh.”

“Yeah. Then we laugh.”

She shifted her head, the top of her head touching his chin.

“Don’t you get irritated by me?” She asked.

“Crazily irritated. You drive me nuts.”

“Then why do you stick with me?”

“Because you’re fun to be with and I wouldn’t want to trade that for anything.”

“It’s not working,” she smiled and gently pressed her head into his chest.

He smiled and quickened his pace. His peddling was smooth, his thoughts were at peace knowing that she was happy. He knew that regardless of what she did to him (teasing, battering, sarcasm), he would take it and at times laugh it off.

He was always gentle with her. Always the friend who stuck by her during the hard and good times. He was there for her even during the times she said she did not need him and there were those times when she got depressed and shut the world out. Those were the times he hated the most. He would not hear from her for a day or two. His calls would go unanswered and his messages un-replied.

They went by the lake, scaring a flock of ducks waddling on the shore. The water sparkle like fireworks as the ducks scampered into the water, quaking angrily at the two intruders on the black bicycle with white trimmed tires.

They stopped under a low hanging willow tree by the water’s edge where they sat down to enjoy the scenery.

She sat beside him, tucking her legs up and resting her chin on her knees. Her hair was tousled and he found it charming.

“That was fun,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, we should do this more often.”

“Won’t you get bored?”

“Not as long as the company is good.”

She giggled, hearing him say that, “The company is good?”

“What?”

“Trying to be romantic again? It’s not working.”

“Romantic? I’m just stating a fact. Having good company is a…a…good thing…especially when I’m…with you.”

“Why do you stammer when you say that?”

He did not answer her, choosing instead to look out onto the lake. It was not easy for him to talk about his feelings. He got tongue-twisted and messed up his words so he preferred to keep quiet than risk talking.

“Why so emo?” She waved her hand in front of his face, breaking his gaze.

“Nah, just thinking.”

“About your grandmother? You should ask her to tell you more. Maybe you can write a play out of it.”

“Yeah. Just that she still loves the man. After all these years she still thinks of him. Like it happened 50 years ago. How can she hold on to something for so long?”

“It meant a lot to her, I guess. You don’t really forget your first love. It’s takes a long time,” she replied.

“You still think of him?”

“Him?”

“Jason,” he replied.

Elizabeth turned her gaze towards the lake as angry quaking ducks swam by them. Tucking her stray hair behind her ears she sighed, “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Well, I still think of him. I still get angry. I still feel hurt. It makes me cry. Like I sometimes wonder why I wasted my time with him. That jerk! How easy it was for him to forget me and chase after that other girl, what’s her name?”

“Tina.”

“Yeah, Tina! Bimbo! After all we’ve been through. He takes off just like that, with a dumb bimbo who thought Guatemala was an African state.”

“Er…where is Guatemala anyway?”

“Look it’s in Central America. Everybody knows that,” she said.

“Alright, geography aside. You were the one who wanted some time off. You wanted the space, right?”

“Yeah. But I told him I wanted time to rethink the direction of our relationship. I felt it was not going anywhere. With all that pestering. You know, be more lady-like, be more feminine. He wasn’t doing any good,” she replied, agitated and upset. “It took him only two months to find a replacement. Two months! Am I that easy to forget? Am I that easy to let go?”

The question hung in the air as Sam pondered an answer. He had heard this a hundred times before, during the months following her break-up with Jason. He had heard her reasoning, her tears, her laments and her anger.

She took out her frustrations on him, pinching his arms or punching his stomach. But she did far worse then just hurting Sam, she also hurt herself. The lines on her wrist visible as she tucked another stray hair behind her ear.

“No, you’re not that easy to forget. You’re special, unforgettable. Only fools cannot see that you are a wonderful person. You didn’t do anything wrong. You listened to your heart and told him what you thought. You were willing to give it another go but he was the one who couldn’t wait. So don’t take it out on yourself. okay?” he replied.

Her hazel brown eyes held his gaze. Eyes that sparkle when she was happy and glazed over when she cried.

He wiped a tear-drop, clear as crystal, streaking down her right cheek, “You did not do anything wrong. You loved him yet he did not reply it in kind. So he’s the one missing out on something wonderful, something beautiful.”

“I’m not beautiful,” she said softly, her voice drowned by the passing breeze.

“Well…cute?”

“Cute?” She whispered, “Ugly but adorable?”

He smiled and reached forward to hold her. She did not object, falling willingly into his embrace. He gently rub her back for he knew she liked that.

‘You will always be beautiful to me,’ the thought made him tighten his hold.

A gentle breeze blew and the willow tree swayed, its branches dancing on the surface of the water. Stray rays of sunlight cut through the tree tops and like golden blades they pierced the lake water. The ducks made a game out of swimming between the golden blades oblivious to the two on the lake shore.

“I’ll be fine,” she said as she broke free from his embrace. “I don’t want to fall in love anymore. It hurts too much.”

He had heard that statement before. It was still her choice but it struck him hard each time he heard it. Now how was he going to tell her how he felt?

There was a chance that she would turn him away the moment he revealed his feelings and he could lose the one person that truly mattered to him.

Sam nodded, he understood fully what she meant. She was shutting out any idea of love from her life. It also meant he would have to keep his feelings to himself.

‘You have to be honest with yourself even if it hurts. It is a risk worth taking,’ his grandmother’s words echoed in his ears. No, he was not willing to take that risk. He was not going to disturb a friendship that meant so much to him. He would keep it to himself even if it hurt him most.

His grandmother was wrong, this was not a risk worth taking.

“Well, if you don’t want to fall in love ever then that is your choice. No-one can stop you from making that choice. Right?”

“Right! And you would remind me of that, okay?”

“Right,” he replied, though deep down he regretted his answer.

“Oh my gosh! That would mean I’d be a spinster.”

“Isn’t that your life-long dream?” Sam asked.

She threw him a look, a face contorted like an angry duck which proved hard not to laugh at. He chuckled softly.

“You always laugh at me.”

He tried hard to restrain himself.

“Fine! Go ahead and laugh. Ish!”

He broke into a fit of laughter and she threw her hands into the air as she watched him roll over to his side. It did not take long for her to laugh along with him.

He sat up, wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled, “Look..one day, you’ll find that special someone. Someone like you would never end up alone.”

“What if I do end up alone?”

“Well, you have me around,” he said confidently.

“Yeah, I’d probably get so irritated. Probably get married just to escape you!”

He allowed the statement to fly over his head. She did not mean it but it still struck him. He had meant what he said. He would be there for her and he would gladly do so even if it meant he would be hurting the whole time.

“Sam, you’re a great friend,” she reached for his hand, “You know what? I’m glad you’re here with me. I want you to know that,” she held his hand as she said it. Her thumb moving in a circular motion over the ball of his palm.

“Eli, I’ll always be there for you…someone has to look out for you.”

“That…might just work,” she said, holding his hand and smiling.

Standing Still in Life

Life is life and in life all things are fair. In good and in bad, life is fair because that is life. So we shouldn’t scream over in-perfections of life. We stand still and accept the role life has to play. And it is in times of bad, we stand still and view our life with keener eyes. It is during those times we seek our strengths and gauge the force that pushes us up and down the mountains of life itself.

We stand still even when it hurts or when others view it differently. My view will be different then yours and I stand still base on my view not yours. Should you then judge me for my stand base on your view? Instead, it would be wise to catch a glimpse of my view and align your view to mine. If you still cannot accept it then be it so but allow it to enrich your view. To teach you that in life, views can vary and it can provide us much insight and knowledge. Start a collection of views.

Standing still and allowing life to be life would teach us to live to the fullest.

Sometimes even when standing on the wrong side of things could teach you lessons those who stand on the right; would never learn. Avoidance of life would merely mean your bottle of experience is either half empty or less full. Let life be life, and understand that in life, all things are fair. It is life being life.

Standing still would teach us, life moves to its own beat. And it is a beat that moves the universe. As a writer, it is this beat that we train our ears to hear. We write about life and how life orchestrate peoples’ tempo. We write so others may see the depth of life itself.

As for me, at the end of my time here. I want to be able to say, “Look at my bottle. It is filled with life lived to the extent of its fullness. I have seen things, felt things, said things, thought things; none of you may have known. I have lived life and found it beautiful even when my experiences were ugly. Life is fair. To each his own and to each his lot.”

Being Happy

If a person makes you smile when you wake up, gives you the giggles when they whisper your name or stops a heartbeat when you catch their gaze, then love them with all that makes you happy; because in love, all is fair and life deserves the happiness we gain from it.

Love Chooses You – Short Story

Love Chooses You

By Maclean Patrick

The sparkle of sunlight on the waters caught him by surprise. It had been a moody day,downcast and gray,with the sun shy behind November skies. This sudden burst of sun rays was a welcomed surprise. He paused a while, allowing the reflected rays to bathe his face in hues of gold and yellow. The caressing warmth broke the grip of the icy water flowing between his legs as he stood just shy of the river bank with his fishing rod balanced against his belt.

He pulled the fishing rod a little, allowing the line to drift more to his right. Thus, avoiding the fallen tree to his left, whose branches jutted out like petrified tongues of fire. Having his line stuck on any one of the branches would be disastrous, he rather cut the line then to attempt poking his arm in the cold frigid water looking for a stuck fishing hook. He leaned a little more to the right, pulling the line a good five feet clear of the sunken derelict tree.

The fish were not biting and he mumbled a complaint about how the mining up river had affected the water and driven all the fish out of the area. The gold mine was reaching the end of its production life. Gold used to be plentiful in these parts but in recent years the yield had trickled to mere gold dust. The nuggets were long gone, mined off sometime in the early 1940s just before the war.

A rustle among the tall grass on the far bank announced the arrival of a deer coming to drink from the waters and he raised his head to get a better look at her. It was not too often one can catch a glimpse of a deer out in the wild, most time it was either mounted to a wall or crumpled up by the side of a road.

The deer as it quietly drank from the river, her slender frame bordered by an ethereal halo thrown off by the dim, reflected light of the sun. Her ears flickered wildly, casing away the pesky mosquitoes buzzing over its head. She did not seem to mind him watching her drink. Almost as if she welcomed the attention from the man standing in the river, pulling at a fishing line and hoping to avoid a sunken tree.

Simplicity.

Why can’t things be this simple? He asked himself. One could live free and not worry about so called necessities. Drink when one wanted, eat what one finds and lived where one wished. The deer had more freedoms than he could ever get and he was supposed to be the more advance creature of the lot.

He reached over to the right pocket of his vest with his left hand and took out the neatly folded piece of paper he had placed there two days ago.

Perfume lingered on the sheets of paper, scents of the giver, and it stood out from the scent of grass, mud and water. It was her scent. As distinct as the scent of all things in the wilderness. For it carried her character and personality and told the world she was present in that space and time. And as he read the words to the letter, he knew she was there with him; silently watching him, like the deer on the far bank, who by now had caught the faint scent of perfume in the air. The deer raised her head and looked in the direction of our fisherman. Training her ears at him, as if waiting for him to read the contents out loud.

Dear Matt,

It’s been a while since I wrote. How are you?

I know this is would come as a surprise to you but I had no one else I could think of who could help me. It had always been you and only you who would be there for me. Somehow, I know you would never refuse or turn me down. You love me too much.

The tug of the line drew his attention away from the letter. There was a biter on his line and a big one from the of pressure it put on his rod. He released more line and allowed the rod to slack a little and then the tugging stopped.

Better luck next time.

I was too young to understand. Understand why you loved me so much. I was care-free and just wanted to have a good time in life. I didn’t appreciate the things you did for me. How you stood by me when my father left, how you comforted me when I went through that failed relationship. The way you waited on me, night and day; ever ready to listen to me and offer all the help you could give. I was too foolish to see that I was constantly breaking your heart, yet you kept quiet about all the hurt I caused. I did not see it then but I understand now.

His fishing line moved a little to the left. He watched it inch its way towards a disfigured branch and stopping short of touching it. Changing direction, it now moved to the right. The fish was testing the line. He smiled and released more line, giving the fish room to think about its next move.

All the while the deer on the far bank watched.

I left you that day not just because I was chasing after my dreams. I was running from you. I grew to love you and it scared me. I had dreams and things to do and I thought you would be tying me down. So I left and told you to forget me. But I cannot forget what you said. It seem stupid to me at that time but now I realize; you had been sincere about all you promised.

You told me you would love me forever. Love forever. I just could not believe it, yet you did love me and now, I know you are the only person who could help me.

The deer moved a step back and turned to face the forest. There was movement coming its way and it was prime to sprint out of the way if it was a mountain lion or a bear. The rustling in the grass parted way for a fawn. The fawn had been down wind and her scent was lost to her own mother.

The bright eyed and curious fawn took tiny steps towards its mother and found its place next to her by the river bank.

He noticed this and smiled. “Your child is beautiful,” his complement met with an approving nod from the deer.

I have a daughter and she needs a father. I’m dying from cancer and would not live long enough to see her leave school. You have always been a father, friend and love of my life, to me and now I just want you to be the father to my daughter and hopefully she will learn from you, all the things I wasted my life forgetting.

Matt, you cannot refuse me this. I know you love me and have always loved me. I’m sorry for all the things I’ve done to you and I hope you can forgive me. You cannot refuse my request. Please.

The tug on his fishing line was strong. It was time to reel the fish in and after jamming the base of the rod into his belt, he pulled on the rod using his right hand and for a moment he hesitated. He had always loved her and now she was going to entrust to him the most precious thing in her life, her daughter. A daughter he knew nothing about what more to be guardian over. He hesitated, rod in hand as the tension mounted on the line. The fish was fighting hard.

He was nearing his thirties when he came across the troubled teen. She had been passed on from counselor to counselor, each time given over as a case too hard to handle. A hard case, no-one wanted nor could solve. Her case file came his way one sunny Monday morning and he arranged to see her for the first time.

The first meeting was far from ideal, she dive-bombed every question he threw at her. She was intelligent and adept at arguing his questions with reasoning of her own. She was logical in her approach and he knew instantly why the other counselors could not break through her shell. They had tried to bring her to their level when instead they should have gone down to hers. To see the world as she saw it.

So it was a surprise to her when he suggested she showed him the neighborhood where she lived.

She showed him the derelict government built flats she was raised, until the age of twelve, for that was when her father left and her mother decided to move in with the uncle, two floors up from their original apartment unit. The uncle was a perpetual drunk and to save herself from him she spent as much time away from the home as possible.

Truancy was normal practice for her and often times, he would find her hanging out at the old abandoned cinema by the dock-yards. Sometimes alone, most times with her delinquent friends, no better off than her.

But she had a spark about her. Beneath all that swagger of hypocritical toughness, she was still a little girl looking for love. And he slowly found himself falling in love with her. Love was a powerful medium and for a moment it help keep her out of trouble, for she grew to trust him and to listen to him. He got her back into school and kept her there long enough for her to get a decent education. Yet as she came into her early twenties, her wild streak showed itself again and she wanted space and freedom of her own. His love could not hold her back but instead he chose to release her, with the promise that he would always be available in case she needed anything.

She disappeared from his life (saved for the occasional Christmas postcard) until the Tuesday morning, he received the letter. He had read it in his office and pondered on the decision he had to make. Seeing that it could not be something he could decide quickly, he opted to go fishing.

A friend had mentioned about the river just north of the city, four hours drive along the highway and another two by logging track, up to a place where some gold mining was still done. It was remote enough and far enough for one to spend time to contemplate decisions. Far enough for one to ask, what should I do now? Or should I bother?

Matt, you cannot refuse me this.

She had always been demanding but in that line she had shown desperation. She had reached the end of the rope and she turned to the one constant she had left, the man who had loved her all along. But was he still that much in love with her?

Matt pushed his fisherman hat up, allowed the cool mountain air to cool his head and tousled his gray hair. He had chosen to keep it long, an image of coolness that allowed him access to the deepest of troubled teen minds. Being a counselor to young rebels can put a strain on one’s mind and his final case broke his resolve and he left the profession, choosing instead to pursue full time his love for writing. His writings offered him release but that final case lingered on like a mis-behaving ghost. Haunting him for years until it manifest itself in full glory that Tuesday morning when he opened the envelope and read the perfume scented letter.

The tug on his line was heavy and he could feel the shifting of the fish weight side to side. It was fighting hard, fighting to keep its freedom and he could feel the pulsating grind of his own muscle as he strained to hold on to the rod. In a single swift move, he grabbed hold of the rod with his left (crumpling the letter against the rod), lowered his right hand to reached for the lower right hand pocket of his vest and to pull out his pen-knife. Without much thought nor hesitation, he cut the line. There was a quick swish and the line was lost.

Looking up he caught the approving glare of the deer and the fawn by its side. They had not taken their gaze off him the whole time and were seemingly able to read the thoughts of Matt, the fisherman. Good, they seemed to say as the deer turned and, with fawn in tow, silently made their way back into the forest.

He tossed his rod onto the river bank and held the letter in both hands.

I remembered your promise. You promised to love me forever and it stuck to me all these years and when I hit my dead-end, those were the words that came back to me. Your image came back to me, and I remembered all the things you did for me out of the goodness of your heart.

I never took the time to appreciate all the things you’ve done for me. I never took the time to acknowledge you. I took you for granted and made you out as a mere convenience rather than a person who loved me.

For all that, I am sorry and I regret having to live all these years without realizing all that.

Please, fulfill my final hope. Take care of my daughter and allow her to have a life better than the one I had. Give her the chances I never had and never let her walk down the path I took. Please.

Love forever,

Melanie.

He folded the letter and placed it back into his right pocket and looked out onto the forest on the far bank. Somewhere in the thick forest a deer was walking with its fawn. She would take great cares to teach the little one the paths that crisscrossed through the forest, what to eat and not to eat and where the safe watering holes were. Somewhere in that forest was a mother and child navigating their way through a dangerous place.

Was not life like that?

Life itself was a forest, a jungle some say, and the wisdom of the elder was needed by the young in order to survive.

In her life, Melanie did not have any elder until Matt came along and now she was attempting to put right what had gone so wrong in her life.

Everyone needs a second chance at things even if it can only live on in the life of the next generation. Melanie needed that second chance and it would live through her daughter. Matt made his decision and as he stepped over to the river-bank intent on heading back to his parked truck, he stop in mid stride and turned to face the far bank of the river and for a moment he could see the deer again, nodding in approval to his decision.

Matt smiled and whispered, “Thank you.”

Noodles in his hair – Short Story

NOODLES IN HIS HAIR

by Maclean Patrick

There were noodles in the little boy’s hair and he chuckled as he reached over to pick them out. His son must have been playing too close to the entrance of the 7-ELEVEN convenient store just down the street from where they stayed. He had warned the young boy, not to pick through the garbage-bin when the customers left the store. The opening of the door would most certainly push him into the agape mouth of the garbage-bin and swallow his tiny head.

His son stirred a little, shifting to the right as he removed the last of somebody’s meal from his tangled hair. There was a bit of coal on his left cheek, which he gently rubbed off with his thumb. His son had been playing by the exhaust vent of the Chinese restaurant, two blocks from where the two normally bedded for the night. It was clear, he had not heeded his warning.

One day he’s going to get his eye-brows burnt, he thought to himself as the last bit of coal came off.

His son was naughty but he was a good kid in the pure sense of the word. Short for an eleven year old and skinny compared to the rest of the children living on the street. Too much junk food and the onset of a poor diet contributed to this gaunky stance. A hot complete meal was hard to come by in a city where the divide between the haves and have-nots was glaring like the noon sun. Last night’s meal was still tucked away in his siphon bag. It would last them another night or two and then he would need to find another meal.

Where am I going to find the money for that? He leaned back and exhaled. His gentle sigh went un-noticed by his sleeping son. He’s too young to face all these things. What can I do? I’ve got no money, barely can hold on to my job and there’s barely enough food for the two of us.

He buried his head in his hands and rub the lines on his forehead. His hair was receding at an alarming rate, soon he would lose it all. But loosing his hair was the least of his worries.

He was now a skeleton of a man compared to the chubby self of his younger days spent frolicking in the highlands of his village located several hours away from the capital of the Philippines, Manila City and nested in the mountain range that divided the province into two.

Village life was simple but tending to cows and harvesting pineapple from his father’s land could not curtail the lure of the city and one hot July afternoon, he found himself on board a jeepney heading for Manila City. He would find work, he would make his fortune, he would buy a house, send money back to his parents and be a man of the city. And he did become a man of the city minus the money and the house and everything else in between.

He met a girl from Mindanao, dancer at a local club he frequent after his hours at the construction yard, who moved in with him and a few months later she surprised him with the news.

She was pregnant. Add child to the the list of things in his life.

In the beginning, the prospect of life as a family man seemed welcoming, romantic even. His life seemed complete. Almost.

Then 1997 came along and everything seemed to ground to a stand still. Work became scarce and construction projects came to a stand still. He lost his job and worst still, his de-facto wife ran off with a sailor from Myanmar, leaving him with a young son and a perpetual migraine.

Why?

There was no point to rue over spilled milk but most mornings he could not help but feel sorry for himself. What else can a man do?

Yellow neon lights flashing CAESAR CASINO reflected off the dark tarmac in front of him. The sound of drunken laughter startled him. Drunken revellers with money to spare and time to pass streamed out of the casino and he wondered if they would walk down his way and give him a tip.

Not today, the group walked the opposite way, maybe tomorrow night he would have better luck.

There was movement from down the street and he knew that his neighbors were waking up. They would be making their way towards the water faucet to clean up before making their trip to the outskirts of the city. HIs neighbor looked in his direction and he gave her a slight nod. She returned the nod and managed a smile. Thanking him for allowing her first claims to the water. She gingerly brought her daughter to the faucet, turned the water on and gave her a cold morning bath.

His son knew how to count and could spell out his name, somewhat better than him, who neither knew how to count nor spell. But he knew the city and the roads and the people who called it home. He knew who lived on which street and who owned which water tap and who had first take on any food served out by the restaurants. There was respect for each other and noone cross the other for they had no need for quarrel. The city was big enough to support them. No-one would go hungry if they stuck to the unwritten code shared among those like him. They were the hidden nation, aliens in a strange land where they were citizens yet lived apart from their countrymen. They exist in silence, invisible yet visible to the populace. Often times only acknowledged when it came to festivities like Easter or Christmas. Often times, a means for corporations to gain additional tax-cuts from the government. They lived on the charity or kindness of people, whether sincere or not, it didn’t matter. All they needed was food to live another day. Motives mattered little.

His son stirred from his sleep and rub his eyes. The weiry father managed a smile. Start the day with a smile, keep their spirits up and maybe something good would come their way. His son smiled back and ran his small hand through the rough patch of hair on his head.

His father rub his back, much to his delight and quietly told him it was time to freshen up. It was their time at the water faucet by the street. The little boy sat up and watched as his father gathered their belongings and rolled up their bedding. The cardboard box had served them well and it was time they replaced it with a new one. The little boy had found the box by the 7-ELEVEN store and proudly showed it to his father. It had a bright red chicken painted across it and he found it funny that the last thing he saw as he slept was a smiling red chicken with a thumbs up sign that seems to say everything was going to be alright. The previous night his father had amused him with stories of the chickens from a place his father said was located in the mountains. One day, his father had promised him, they would go to that place in the mountains and he was sure he would find a bright red chicken living among the pineapples, giving him the thumbs up sign and telling him everything was going to be alright.

His son shivered as he poured water over his head and it washed down his chest, cascading over the form of his rib-cage and down his thighs.

“Cold?” The father asked.

“Cold,” his son replied.

“You got noodles in your hair. Stop playing by the store.”

“I just wanted to get the noodles,” he replied, wiping the water from his face. “Miquel almost got them before me.”

“Did you fight Miquel, again?”

“No. I took the cup and just ran.”

“Stay out of trouble. Fighting is not good. We don’t fight, we share as much as we can. Live at peace with everyone. You hear me?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good, we need to go early. Better be there earlier so we can start first. Remember what daddy told you we are looking for?”

“Cans and bottles.”

“Good boy,” father smiled and combed his son’s hair with his hand.

They packed their box with the smiling red chicken under a staircase and walked slowly down the street, hand in hand. This little boy and rough middle-age man were going to Payatas where hopefully they could make two dollars today. Two dollars to keep them full for another day and enough to keep his son out of the 7-ELEVEN garbage bin and no noodles in his hair.

Note: I spent 5 days in the Philippines last year and walked the streets around my hotel. I was struck by the human story I saw around me and the image of a father and son sleeping on the street never left me until today. This story is dedicated to the unnamed father and son I found sleeping just yards from the 7-ELEVEN store, where I had breakfast one morning in June of 2007.

Big City Preacher : Neighbors – Short Story

Part of a book I’m writing. The stories deal with issues I face as a Christian. The main character Ryan Asher is a burn-out pastor who decides to become a fisherman and there he learns more about his faith than when he was in service to the church. Sometimes we learn more about God in everyday living than in between the walls of a church.

Neighbor

by Maclean Patrick

There was a lull in the fishing, we had spent a good part of the night going round in circles and to make matters worse a storm slammed the shore just as the boat turned to head home that morning. So Skipper Jim decided to keep the boat out at sea to wait out the storm.

The boat bobbed, in time with the passing waves as seagulls encircled the boat; hoping to find a meal among the scraps of fish the nets drew in. I’m always amazed at these birds. They seem to pop out of nowhere, even when land was a mere speck in the horizon, the gulls always seem to find their way out to sea and onto the Sea Parrot. And they came round the time we had gutted the fish and cleaned the deck. A task, which by virtue of the fact I was the youngest member of the crew, fell to me. So I would dance about the deck sweeping fish entrails over the side, avoiding gawking beaks and sea gull droppings, while trying to maintain balance on a tilting boat and look cool while I was at it – Skipper Jim kept his eye on his crew no matter where you were and doing a belly flop on deck would be a tale that would make the rounds among the fishing docks for a good few years. Heck, it may even make you a legend in your own time. A legend of the laughing kind, if you know what I mean.

The nets had been drawn in and neatly folded and bundled together at the stern, I have had my fair share of getting entangled in them when I first started working the Sea Parrot, looking ridiculously like a beached dugong, which always cracked up the other guys on the ship and the tale did make its round on the docks, though it didn’t make me a legend in my own time.

As the ship swayed, a low clanking sound could be heard, nothing out of the ordinary though it scared me the first time I heard them. The slack ropes cause the wooded pulleys to beat against each other every time a slight breeze blew against them, creating the clanking sound. After a while, you learn to tune it out and only hear the sound of the splashing waves against the side of the boat or the passing wind or the low rumble of thunder from a distant storm. They say you only hear what really matters to you and out here in the middle of the ocean you can hear your own breathing, the thumping of your heart and the shouts of your captain telling you to stop day-dreaming.

I cleaned out the deck and store the fish in the storage tanks below-deck. With that done, I only had to occupy my time while we waited for the storm to blow over. There’s not much you can do on a boat during lull time like this. Which in a way is good when you need some time to contemplate or think about the reasons the universe swirl about you or why life can pull your leg almost every time you have a happy moment. Most times the thinking can drive you mad but I’ve learnt to cope with it. Out here, you also become more aware of yourself, of how the sea breeze blows against you skin or how your lips taste salty even if you never (on purpose would) drink sea water. There was this sailor who had the idea that sea water had different levels of saltiness in different parts of the ocean. We had a good laugh over that one. I cannot imagine someone purposely drinking sea water from different locations just to see if the level of saltiness ever changes. Sea water is salty, period. If it was not then it would not be sea water in the first place. Right? Sounds like something I would have preached.

But what happens when someone loses his saltiness? Can he ever come back to being salty? I don’t know. Even if God does bring him back, would those around him accept him back? It would be truly sad when God accepts but man cannot.

Sad…really sad.

Tony was asleep in his hammock which he hung just below the bridge. It was his private space and when Tony snoozed, nothing on earth could wake him up. The ship could be the Titanic and sinking could take two hours and Tony would wake up on the bottom of the ocean wondering if it was time to lower the nets. I heard tale that Tony once slept through a ship fire. They found him in his bed and when they woke him up, the first thing he did was to scold them for smoking in his cabin. Dead-Wood Tony was the other name they gave him besides Squeaky Tony.

Ming was in a foul mood the moment morning broke. He had a habit of cursing and grumbling his way about the ship when things did not go his way. My bad. He was livid about the fact I forgot to stock up on coffee before we left port. I made a mental note to treat him to a cup of coffee when we reach port. Call it “caffeine craving” but Ming was dependent on coffee to get him through the day. He walked by me on the deck and cursed the sun (though I think it was meant for me) and finally made his way below-deck, down into the kitchen compartment.

I grabbed the side rail, skipped over and sat on the railing of the boat. I harbored some fear that a shark would spring out of the water and drag me under like what I saw in those sad reruns of “Jaws” they loved showing over at the kopi-tiam. I swear that’s the only DVD they have lying around the place. “Jaws” the ever smiling Great White who seemed to enjoy chasing panicking swimmers to his own music score. Forget Great Whites, there were none in these waters, rather it was the mischievous Tiger Sharks who pose a danger for anyone caught out in open oceans in the shores off Big City. I’ve heard talk on the docks about how those sharks roamed about in packs and would sometimes encircle a boat, much like the seagulls, for scraps of fish or dangling fisherman feet. I counted my toes, yup, still had ten of them and I intend to keep all ten.

I pulled my legs up and tucked them to my chest and rested my chin on my knees. I was now perched on the side of the boat, balancing my weight on the ball of my feet as the boat rode the waves. From the side, I imagine I look like a squatting ostrich minus the bulging belly.

I’ve lost weight in the previous months and it showed. My fingers stuck out like chopsticks, mere skin canvassing bone with little meat in between. I bet the sharks would taste me and spit me out, too bony, no meat. And I felt the age in my cheeks and forehead. The lines were showing. I also noticed a spot of gray in the black of my hair. I was growing older and that happened faster on a boat where the sun beats down on you in the day and the cold of darkness cuts you during night fishing. The long hot days bake your skin, dry you out till you start looking like those Egyptian mummies on National Geographic or Discovery Channel. And the nights were no better, lack of sleep and the cold, pushes your body to the brink of breaking. It was a hard life yet simple enough to endure because it was mostly physical and without much emotional or mental strain. A far cry from my days in the ministry where things were less physical but I was stretched emotionally, mentally and spiritually. Getting old, yes but things were simpler more easier to handle then before.

I like this life…better. Maybe even feel more fulfilled. Full-fillment, we all want that don’t we?

The distant lightning flashed and split the heavens. Snaking and dancing along the black and purple storm clouds jutting like an up-side down mountain range across the horizon. It was a show not to be missed and instead of popcorn, I pulled out an apple from my pocket. I ate my apples in slices, slicing it with my Swiss Army blade into wafer like pieces rather than taking a chunk size bite. It always taste better this way, crunchy like Pringles when fresh, and the apple always last longer than merely biting into the apple.

“Probably last another hour or two.”

“Looks like we’ll be here till after dark, ey Skipper?”

“Ya. Ain’t nothing as exciting as waiting on a storm.”

“It could have been better if we had coffee!” A voice boomed from below-deck. Ming was getting on my nerves. He was getting on everyone’s nerves saved Tony who was still very much in Lullaby-land.

“CAN you quit it with the coffee?” Shouted an irritated Skipper Jim.

There was a clanging of pots and pans and the sound of feet tripping over each other, “Now, I lost my cigarette! Soi ah !”

“You’re ain’t getting any of mine, so shut it with the coffee!” Skipper Jim shouted down the staircase to the lower deck.

Skipper Jim skipped over the side rail and sat next to me. His squinted, his eyes no more than slits as he focused to a point in the distant horizon. He clasped his hands and started rubbing the dry skin across the back of his hand.

“Why did you become a preacher-man?” The question took me by surprise. It was not often he would ask me about my past.

“Why did you become a fisherman?” I countered. Smart aleck, he asked first and I had to reply him with a question of my own? Sharks, here I come!

“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” he replied with a faraway look in his eye. “What about you?”

“To catch men.”

“Any luck?”

“I got my fair share of men. Won them over and set them on the good path.”

Skipper Jim rolled the sleeve of his shirt till it reached a point above his elbow, revealing a tapestry of tattoos that ran all the way up his arms, “Would people like me be accepted?”

“Yes. At least if I’m the preacher in charge.”

Skipper Jim laughed, almost doubling over the side of the boat while doing so, “Yeah right!” he hollered.

He was mocking me, having no qualms in showing his disdained. Somehow he did not believe I would allow him through the parish doors if he ever came calling and I don’t blame him. At first sight, Skipper Jim would be the sort of guy you turn away at the road junction leading to your church. He was not a religious man, at least by my standards, he harbored deep resentment towards anything religious and proclaiming (after a few rounds of beer) religion should be left to preachers and the ‘holy-brigade’ and fishing to fishermen lest the fish had two feet.

“Talked about loving your neighbor and everything but when a ruffian like me comes along, they shut the windows, bar the doors and turn out the lights,” he said and turned to look at me, “That ain’t a place for people like me. I caused too much talk, too much chatter among the church goers. Had my experience. Walked into one of them meetings, had my best shirt on, forgot to shave and I guess my trip to the bar did not help and they told me to sit at back, away from the rest of the people. Heck, I was ready to walk all the way up to the front where all the action was but they didn’t let me. They looked at me funny. Figured out I was not their type and brushed me away. Hypocrites! I dusted my shoes, gave them the finger and walked out of that place. God wouldn’t miss me if I never stepped in that place again.”

Again he fixed his gaze on a unknown point on the horizon, recalling some deep repress memory. It was the first time I heard him say he had been to a church or meeting as he called it. I wipe the sweat off my brow and then scratch the itch at the back of my head.

“Look some…churches are like that. They haven’t got much…exposure to people who are…different?” I was not trying to sound apologetic, though I knew how he felt about being different from the ‘holier’ crowd. “Sunday services are filled with good mannered people, but sometimes they fail to see that Sunday services are what people look forward to, it should welcome people rather than turn them away,” I said. I was trying hard to make some sense but that was the best I could offer. Don’t you hate it when your words fail you at an opportune time like this? When finally you could share the faith with someone who suddenly opens up to you and all you can manage is some lame cliche you remember reading in an evangelistic tract?

“It was my father’s funeral…” He had a half smile, the kind that only appeared on the side of your mouth when you wanted to prove you knew something the other guy did not. “It was a funeral. I walked out of my old man’s funeral.”

“Huh?!!”

“They didn’t let me in on…my father’s funeral,” he said it softly. “I was a troubled kid. Messed up my life real bad. Fell into the wrong crowd and did all sorts of things. See this?” He pointed to a tattoo of an eagle grabbing an arrow, “Got that when I was twelve. First tattoo, I ever got. Sent my parents up the wall, calling me all sorts of things. How I was bringing shame to the family and causing the people in the church to talk. I was an embarrassment to them. They called me a troubled child, they didn’t say it loud. Just a whisper here and there or when I passed by them. Just a whisper and they’d tell their kids to stay away from me and worst still, I was an example of everything that could go wrong in a teenager.”

“You went to church?” I had to ask. Duh! The answer was in my face yet I had to ask. Like a kid who needed assurance that Santa Clause really did drop the presents on Christmas or a jilted boy wanting to know if the girl really did not want him anymore. Yes, I needed him to tell me he really did go to church.

Skipper Jim looked up and fixed his gaze onto a point on the horizon and a smile appeared on his face, “We’re not that different, you know. The two of us. You’re a preacher-man and I…well…I was preached to, prayed for and put down. You walked away and I…well, I ran as fast and as far as I could. Took me a long time to realized I messed up big time,” he paused. “Even trash like me come to some form of realization. By that time, it was too late. Heard my father died so I thought I’d pay my respects. It was the least I could do after all the wrong I’ve done when he was alive. Remember the prodigal son? He had a father to run to, mine lay in a casket and I couldn’t even walk to it. I walked in that place and…boy…the neighborly spirit was out the window.”

A short burst of sea air struck the boat and it tilted slightly, sending the sleeping Tony into the wood wall. There was a slight thump, a murmur and followed by snoring. Amazing! The ship would be on fire and sinking and Tony would wake up in heaven.

Skipper Jim took a quick glance in Tony’s direction, shook his head and smiled, “One of these days I’m going to hang him from the nets and tell the other captains, we’ve caught a dugong. He won’t know a thing.”

I chuckled and ate the last of my apple, which had taken on a slight salty taste and then by habit the preacher-man in me had to say something.

“You know Skipper, everyone knows we’re suppose to love our neighbor. We hear it all the time but it seems, no one understands what it means. I guess we love the neighbor we want to love and not the ones we ought to love. We’re no different from the pharisee who asked ‘Who is my neighbor?’ It’s sad but sometimes we all still don’t get it.”

“But the Samaritan did. The other three fellas were more worried about themselves and what people thought of them. But the Samaritan? He was different.”

“You know about the Good Samaritan?”

“Hey! I went to Sunday school too. Some stories stick with you all your life. People should be more like the Samaritan, yet we are more Pharisee then the Pharisees themselves. The Samaritan gave help without asking questions, without thinking, without doubting. He didn’t ask about the fella’s history, what he believed in, where he came from, or even who he was. Here was a fella lying in a ditch, all broken up and dying and the Samaritan picked him up and cared for him. Why can’t we be like that today? Why can’t we treat people with love, care and respect because they were created by the same Creator as you and me?”

He paused and exhaled.

“We worry so much about how our actions affect our religion, we forget to be human. We’re no different from those three jokers who worried about their religion and walked on, forgetting their duty to help a fellow human being. We walked about with religious fervor, believing we can teach and point people towards the right way but forget to be like the Samaritan, where care came before words. You should know this, you’re a man of the Word. A preacher-man whose words spill out of your mouth almost automatically…you point people to the path, as you said but what about your deeds. I’m a fisherman and fishing is all I know. I know few words but I know what it means to work on a boat and you know on this boat, we all need each other. Tony may sleep his way, Ming angry about coffee and you eating apples all day but when it comes to getting the fish in, we all do it together. We work, we do what we do best and we get the rewards. We have no time to debate why Tony sleeps all day, Ming’s craving for caffeine and your fixation on slicing apples. We do what we can and we do it well. Do we have time to debate about the who and the what? When all we need to do is provide human care towards those who need help.”

“Like you did? When you were a teenager?”

“Ryan, I had my issues but no-one listened. Instead, they drew conclusions and slap a label on me – a big billboard with flashing lights which said ‘Troubled Child’. How do you think I felt? At the end of the day, I really believed I was troubled and troubled people don’t belong in a place where nobody wants trouble. How many people have stop coming to your church all because they felt too bad to walk through your doors. They are treated like people who have a disease which could strike you down a few spiritual levels. But we fail to realize, we have to love people we call troubled.”

He paused and exhaled and turned his gaze towards the sky. Clouds in various shapes, there was a train, a butterfly and what looked like an elephant with tiny ears passed over us, casting their shadows over the boat.

“Who is my neighbor? The guy who is in prison or who is thirsty and hungry or who has no clothes or someone I call an enemy. He’s my neighbor. I was a neighbor that day but I was turned away because I was different. Probably because of my tattoos or my foul breath or maybe the way I look. I turned the good people away. And you know the funny thing…Jesus came for the sick, not the well. Neither did He debate about who to help or not. When there was a need, Jesus met them and He told us to do the same. Better still, He told us to love our neighbor. It’s that simple…haha…I would leave the religious debates to the Pharisees, while I prefer to live the simple common-sense of the Samaritan.”

“Did you ever go back?” I asked.

“Why should I? I get more respect from foul-mouth Ming than those people. I still have some dignity in me and probably that’s all I have left in this life. Everyone has dignity and it’s probably the only thing I took that with me when I walked out of that place.”

“Look, I meant it when I said I would let you in if I was the preacher. We’re all living life to the best we can…and you’re my friend. Friends don’t give up on each other nor would they put each other down and friends accept each other. Friends look out for one another…friends care. You’re right. Jesus wanted us to love one another, love our neighbor because that was how people would know his followers. I’m sad it happened to you the way it did. It’s wrong but it happened. Like you, I wonder if people would accept me back. I walked away from it all. I wonder if people would really understand why I did it. I was angry then and anger makes you do stuff. I’d be the only person who understands why I walk away. No point explaining it ‘cause it’s hard to put into words. I walked away for a long time but I feel I can still walk back, like the prodigal son. Only this time, they’ll be someone waiting for me at the end of the path. It may not be my father but I guess it would be someone who sees me as his neighbor and that’s alright with me. What this world needs are people who would look for their neighbor and see that we all are no different from each other. We’re all just looking for our neighbor.”

The boat swayed to the right and the stern lifted up slightly, almost sending me into the water. The sun was setting and the green hue of the ocean was slowly turning dark blue. Night was coming and the creeping shadow of darkness was moving forward, in time with the dipping western sun.

“You know something? For a preacher-man, you’re not bad. You’re different.”

He pat my shoulder and swung round, his feet landing on the deck with a thud. He walked up the staircase leading to the bridge and made his way to the control room, leaving me alone, sitting on the side of the boat like a squatting ostrich minus the bulge. There was a slight lunge as the engines throttled up and the boat eased its way towards shore. Skipper Jim had seen a break in the storm and by his experience he knew it was time to head home before the storm headed out to see where a boat this size did not stand a chance against.

Who are my neighbors? I ponder as I watch the white surf, kicked up by the unseen propellors, arch and nose dived back into the ocean where it came from.

Well, at this time they were all on this boat. The sleeping-log Tony, caffeine deprived Ming and a prodigal-son turned boat captain, they were my neighbors. They did not share the beliefs I had but yet they deserved the respect, love and care I could offer them because if the time came…I knew they would treat me with respect, love and care…without question.

So why should I ever treat them any less?