The Fisherman Story

Miss Mei Li’s expression was to die for. Contorted in a wicked blend of confusion, disbelief and concern, she clipped my workbook with just two fingers, lifted it slightly from her desk and then dropped it with a purposeful flick to send it sliding against the glass surface and finally coming to rest near the far edge of her table.

Rearranging her facial features in preparation for speech, she finally asked: “Why do you write this kind of story?”

The pressing inquisition was delivered with a tinge of anger and disgust in her voice, my fault it seemed, for having dragged her into the little twisted world of this eleven-year-old, of which after having a taste of, she could not possibly have gotten past her conscience to just ignore.

I could not recall what I said. Standing in front of the class braving the collective attention of forty pairs of eyes eager for some action on a boring extended afternoon session, my little mind could not comprehend this horrid consequence that seemed to have stemmed from a short composition submitted just the day before. What seemed more vivid while I continued to hang my head low during that awful fifteen minutes was a little spot of mud on my semi-retiring off-white shoes which I had missed concealing with white chalk that was stolen from the black board during recess.

Miss Mei Li quickly got bored of this fruitless inquest, the victim seemed redrawn in his own world, still, and could be brewing yet another shocker that may further taint the impressive record of this perfectly disciplined, well-mannered and well-dressed class of hers.

Perfect, except for this weird one whose shoes quickly became an eyesore the first day she caught sight of them since she took over from that no-good Mrs Tan.

And so I was dismissed to return to my seat. My workbook was never to be seen again. Perhaps she had set it on fire, forever banishing it from her memories in a self-denying bid to nurse her aching conscience, and I never quite write that kind of story anymore.

… In the evening, the fisherman pulled his boat to shore. He only caught three fishes today. He was sad. He took the three fishes back home. He found a rope at home. He didn’t find his wife. So, he left the three fishes on the table for his wife. After that, he used the robe and put it around his neck, and he hanged himself.