The Echo of Plus and Minus
John sat on the worn wooden bench, morning sun cutting through the canopy above. His clean jogging suit carried the faint scent of countless runs that never quite happened. Around him, the park moved to a quiet rhythm: a lone jogger pounding gravel, a child's gleeful shriek from the playground, the rustle of a gentle breeze. Through his earbuds, David Gray’s voice filled his mind, the melody of "Plus and Minus" an odd, unsettling companion.
"The following report may contain scenes that some might find upsetting,"
Gray crooned. John felt a sharp ache of resonance. The lyrics, like phantom whispers, began to unravel the tangled threads of his past.
He drifted back to the 80s—a kaleidoscope of scraped knees, stained denim, and endless afternoons building forts in the woods. Childhood then was an untamed wilderness of independent exploration, a stark contrast to the digitally tethered, meticulously scheduled lives his own children now led. Their world was a tapestry of screens and structured playdates, a universe away from his youthful freedom.
Then the 90s arrived, bringing the metallic scent of photocopier toner and the rigid discipline of corporate life. He could still hear the heavy thud of the attendance book and the mechanical snap of the punch card marking his arrival. Administrative reforms, management called it—a relentless drive for productivity. Cubicles were fortresses of individual endeavor; work-life balance was an alien myth. Technology, in its nascent form, meant wrestling with sluggish computers and smudged faxes. Physical documents reigned supreme, their weight a tangible proof of progress.
Then came 2022, and the bittersweet release of retirement. Three years ago this month, he’d stepped away from the private sector, though it felt like a different lifetime. Lately, he’d watched the "unretirement" trend sweep through his circle—a sudden return to the grind fueled by a tight labor market, fading pandemic fears, and the persistent bite of inflation.
"Retirement is not the end of the road," a former colleague had declared over coffee. "It is the beginning of the open highway."
John’s open highway had led straight to this bench. He had become a connoisseur of park life, charting the stately oaks, the manicured grass, and the seasonal flowerbeds. He knew every creak of the swings, every metallic gleam of the slides, and the slow shimmer of the lake. People drifted through his periphery: lovers hand-in-hand, families layout out picnics, teenagers laughing. He was just a ghost in their machine, passing time. He needed to stop daydreaming.
His doctor friend, a voice of clinical reason, had stressed the importance of purpose. "Pursue hobbies, volunteer, travel, learn new skills," he’d advised at John's last checkup. "Stay active."
Instead, John just sat. And listened to David Gray.
Perhaps he should get a job. A new one, where his hours were cleanly exchanged for a tangible wage. Patrick Foley’s words echoed in his mind: "Retirement is a blank sheet of paper. It is a chance to redesign your life into something new and different."
The "Plus and Minus" of the music played on, its melancholic rhythm a backdrop to his hesitation. Was this blank sheet an opportunity, or just a vast expanse of white waiting to remain empty?
John shifted, the smooth wood cool beneath his palms. He took a deep breath, letting the crisp air displace the scent of stagnant routines. It was time to put down the phone, silence the echoes, and face the present. The park wasn't a waiting room; it was a canvas. And perhaps, just perhaps, he still had some colors left to paint.
(revised version, original 23 July 2025)
TESSA YUSOFF
3 June 2026
Contact aeedaoli@gmail.com
#FlashFiction #ShortStories #DavidGray #PlusAndMinus #LifeTransitions #WriterLife #Storytelling
The Ghost Bird's Rhythm
The rhythmic, insistent tap-tap-tap against the ceiling was driving Zainab to the edge of sanity. For three nights, sleep had been a distant, mocking promise. She lay rigid beneath the duvet, eyes wide in the gloom of her city townhouse. The sound vibrated through the concrete—a frantic, tiny drumming that felt targeted, deeply personal, and highly unprofessional.
“A ghost,” she whispered into the silence. It was an explanation born entirely of sleep-deprived desperation. It was an echo from her childhood, the chilling kampung tales whispered under kerosene lamps—of pontianaks and toyols, and restless spirits whose footsteps mimicked life.
A memory shivered through her: the first and only time she’d seen an owl. She was small, and it was perched silently on the old wooden roof of her childhood home, its flat, disk-like face staring down. She had screamed and run to her mother. Her mother had simply smiled, calling it Burung Hantu—the Ghost Bird. The name had stuck in her mind, a fusion of fright and fascination. Ghost bird. It had looked spectral, yet, she conceded now, its face had been strangely cute in a fleeting glimpse.
Upstairs, the present-day tapping intensified, delivering an aggressive, percussive flourish that sounded suspiciously like a drum solo.
She dragged herself to the window. Her neighbour, Fatima, a woman with an unflappable, exhausting amount of pragmatism, had laughed out loud when Zainab tentatively mentioned the roof-ghost over morning coffee. "Birds, Zainab! It’s mating season. They fight, they tap, they dance! Happens every year.”
Tap dancing to mate? Zainab had thought it ridiculous. Love, in her experience, was supposed to be like the graceful, silent glide of the white egret she occasionally glimpsed near the city lake—stately, quiet, dignified. Not this crazed flamenco on her roof tiles.
Last night, after Fatima’s advice, she had flipped the switch for the porch light in a fit of pique. The sudden flood of yellow light had, miraculously, silenced the tapping. She’d slept four blessed hours.
Now, as the drumming began again—lighter, cheekier, but unmistakable—she was utterly exhausted. She was exactly one proposal away from signing a major client contract. She was a woman who managed high-stakes corporate strategy, currently being held hostage by a creature the size of her fist. Her thoughts were swimming in a thick fog of fatigue. I need to sleep well to think straight. Or else I need to move to a high-rise where the birds require an access card.
She walked to the kitchenette and poured a mug of strong, warm tea, desperately seeking caffeine reinforcement. She took a slow, deep sip, gazing out the window at the distant, hazy city skyline. From her Bluetooth speaker, David Gray’s husky voice drifted through the air, singing his haunting melody:
“...Like the birds of the high arctic, Like the birds of the high arctic...”
Even David Gray was taking the bird's side. The words resonated with the primal, migratory urge of the creatures overhead. She also heard, faintly, the familiar, distant "cuk-cuk" of the nightjar—another nocturnal rhythm haunting the urban periphery, another ghost of the kampung interrupting her twenty-first-century hustle.
It’s not a ghost, she told herself firmly. It's a bird. A very irritating, possibly heartbroken, Tap Dancing Bird with zero boundaries.
She put down her tea, her decision made. She was a consultant; she solved problems. She wasn't about to let a feathered dancer dictate her sleep or her career. She strode to the light switch, her gaze already hardened with boardroom resolve.
"Alright, you,” she muttered to the ceiling. "Let's see you dance under the spotlight."
She flipped the switch, flooding the porch with light and silencing the tapping instantly. Take that, nature. She took a deep, steadying breath, the faint aroma of jasmine from her tea calming her nerves.
Tonight, she wouldn't wait for the birds to leave. She would work. And maybe, just maybe, she’d stay up long enough to catch a glimpse of the culprit—a real, feathery dancer—and finally tell the Burung Hantu of her fears to get off her property.
- altered version, original 27 October 2025
The Return of Tuah
Tuah was a cat of strict, unyielding routines. A magnificent ginger tabby with a coat as plush as a high-end velvet cushion, his days were dictated by the movement of the sun across the living room rug. He was not an adventurous soul. While other neighborhood cats stalked birds along fences or braved the rainy storm drains, Tuah preferred the predictable sanctuary of indoor life. He lived for the warm spot behind the refrigerator, the midday sunbeams that hit the armchair at precisely two in the afternoon, and the comforting, rhythmic click-clack of Fatima’s laptop keys as she worked through her freelance deadlines.
To Fatima, he wasn’t just a pet; he was the quiet anchor of her daily life. But routines, no matter how carefully guarded, are fragile things.
It happened on a Tuesday afternoon. The sky had turned a heavy, bruised purple, and a sudden, violent gust of wind rattled the windowpanes. Just as Fatima stood up to close the kitchen window, a massive delivery truck roared down the narrow lane, backfiring with a sound like a gunshot. Startled out of a deep sleep, Tuah panicked. In a blind flash of orange fur, he bolted—right through the back door that had been left ajar just an inch to let in the breeze.
By the time Fatima realized he was gone, the backyard was empty.
She searched until her flashlight battery died and her voice was reduced to a raspy whisper. "Tuah! Tuah, boy, come here!" She shook his favorite container of crunchy treats, a sound that usually brought him skidding across the tiles from any corner of the house. Tonight, there was only the mocking rustle of the wind through the tall grass of the overgrown park bordering her property. As night fell, casting long, anxious shadows across the neighborhood, the reality of the situation settled heavily in her chest. Tuah, who cried if his breakfast was ten minutes late, was out there alone in the dark.
The next morning, Fatima didn’t log onto her computer. Instead, she printed fifty bright flyers, the bold text reading: LOST CAT: TUAH. The photo she chose showed him in all his regal glory, staring directly into the camera with wide, golden eyes and an expression of supreme feline dignity.
She spent hours walking the grid of her neighborhood, taping the posters to gray lamp posts and community notice boards. Along the way, the neighborhood rallied in small, touching ways. School children paused to look at the photo, promising to check under their porches. Mr. Tan, who ran the corner grocery, patted her shoulder and promised to keep a bag of kibble behind his counter just in case. Yet, as the sun set on the second day, and then the third, the silence in Fatima’s house grew deafening.
An apartment without a cat isn't just quiet; it feels hollow. Fatima found herself stepping carefully around the living room rug, automatically avoiding a sleeping cat that wasn’t there. She kept expecting to feel the soft brush of his fur against her ankles when she opened the fridge, or to hear the heavy thump of him landing on the bed in the middle of the night.
A whole week dragged by. The optimism of her neighbors began to morph into pitying, sympathetic smiles when they passed her on the street. Fatima tried to hold onto hope, but it was slipping through her fingers like sand.
On the eighth afternoon, Fatima was sitting at her kitchen table, staring aimlessly at a cold cup of coffee. The house was entirely still. Then, her phone vibrated violently against the wood, the ringtone shattering the quiet.
She snatched it up. It was Mrs. Chan, a kindly elderly lady who lived three streets away, known for her sprawling rose bushes and her habit of feeding the neighborhood birds.
"Fatima, dear," Mrs. Chan’s voice crackled warmly over the line, though she was speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't want to get your hopes up unnecessarily, but I think your little king has decided to grace my property with his presence."
Fatima’s breath caught in her throat. "Tuah? Is he okay?"
"Well, he’s currently occupying my porch swing," Mrs. Chan chuckled. "He looks a bit like a dusty old broom, but he has just finished an entire saucer of milk and is currently purring loudly enough to shake the floorboards."
Fatima didn't even grab her jacket. She ran. She ran the entire three blocks, her sneakers pounding against the pavement, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. When she rounded the corner onto Mrs. Chan’s street, she slowed down, terrified that a sudden movement might scare him away.
But Tuah wasn't running. There he sat, perched imperiously on a floral cushion on the porch swing. His beautiful ginger coat was tangled with burrs, and there was a streak of gray cobwebs across his left ear, but his golden eyes were as bright as ever.
"Tuah," Fatima breathed softly.
The cat stopped licking his paw, looked up, and let out a sharp, demanding meow—as if to ask why she had taken so long to fetch him.
Fatima crossed the porch in two strides and scooped him up into her arms. She buried her face in his dusty fur, completely uncaring of the dirt. Tuah immediately leaned into her neck, letting loose a rumbling, vibrating symphony of absolute contentment. It was a beautiful, heavy sound—the soundtrack of her home, finally restored.
Back in the apartment, after a thorough brushing and a celebratory bowl of his favorite wet food, Tuah hopped onto his designated cushion on the living room couch. He began to groom himself with methodical precision, as if his week-long outdoor odyssey had been nothing more than a brief, slightly inconvenient business trip.
Fatima sat down beside him, feeling a profound sense of warmth wash over her. Tuah hadn't survived the wild elements because of a grand, adventurous spirit. He was home because of the collective eyes of a kind neighborhood, the fierce, unwavering love of his human, and perhaps, a little bit of that mysterious, undeniable homing instinct that tells a cat exactly where he belongs.
