Short Stories

From City Dreams to Kampong Peace

The morning sun, a gentle warmth on his face, always found Ahmad on the wooden bench outside his kampong house. At 70, the city's clamour had faded into a distant hum, replaced by the rustling symphony of palm leaves and the occasional cheerful chirp of a bird. Beside him, Fatimah, his wife of forty years, would be tending to her small garden, her movements slow but purposeful.

They had traded the sleek comforts of their city apartment for this simple life in Ahmad's ancestral kampong, nestled in the northern embrace of Malaysia. The city offered convenience, yes, and their children still thrived there, but the air hung heavy with exhaust fumes, and the constant rush left them feeling perpetually breathless. Here, the air was clean and carried the sweet scent of blooming frangipani.

Ahmad's mornings unfolded with a comforting ritual. By eight, he'd be at the kedai kopi, the aroma of strong, sweet coffee mingling with the lively chatter of his old friends, Muthu and Jaafar. Their conversations were a tapestry woven with shared memories – the mischievous escapades of their youth, the changing face of the kampong, and the gentle aches and joys of their present. They'd chuckle about the days when the cockerel's insistent crow was their only alarm clock, and the smoky tendrils from burning dried leaves were their nightly defense against mosquitoes.

He often drifted back to his own childhood in this very kampong. Life had been hard then. He remembered the small attap house where his family huddled, the darkness punctuated only by the soft glow of kerosene lamps. The daily trek to the well for water was a shared chore. Yet, there was a certain freedom in that simplicity. He smiled, recalling the dusty knees and boundless energy of the kampong boys, himself among them, chasing chickens with wild abandon, their laughter echoing through the rain-soaked paths, and the thrill of discovering a tiny crab scuttling in the mud.

Forty years. It felt like a lifetime ago, a world away from the relative ease of today's kampong life. Electricity now hummed quietly in the evenings, and clean water flowed from taps. Even here, in this tranquil corner, the tendrils of the internet reached, connecting them to their grandchildren in the city, offering glimpses of online shopping and the latest entertainment.

Yet, despite the modern conveniences, the heart of the kampong remained the same. It was in the shared smiles with the Makcik at the local shop, the helping hands offered during a gotong-royong, and the quiet evenings spent on their porch, watching the fireflies dance in the twilight.

One afternoon, as Ahmad and Fatimah strolled hand-in-hand along a familiar path, the air thick with the scent of ripening mangoes, Fatimah squeezed his hand. "You know, Abang," she said softly, "the city had its comforts, but this... this feels like coming home."

Ahmad nodded, his gaze sweeping over the lush greenery that embraced them. He saw the same sky his parents had seen, felt the same gentle breeze on his skin. The rhythm of life was slower here, yes, but it was a rhythm that resonated deep within his soul, a peaceful melody played out in the heart of his kampong. The stories of the past weren't just memories; they were the roots that held him firmly in this present, a present filled with the quiet joy of a life well-lived, surrounded by the warmth of community and the tranquility of nature.

Tessa Yusoff
1 May 2025

From City Dreams to Kampong Peace:  #ShortStory #Fiction #Kampong #Village

Lemon's Backyard Tale

They called me Lemon. A funny name, I thought, considering my patchy ginger and white fur. But it was my name, the one the Big Ones used when they occasionally scooped me up for a fleeting moment of warmth. This backyard, this little patch of green nestled behind their big, echoing house, was my world.

Life here was… comfortable. Not always exciting, but safe. I had Whiskers, the bold one with the perpetually curious nose; Shadow, sleek and silent, always lurking in the coolest corners; and Patches, my clumsy, ever-hungry brother. We were a quartet of fur and mischief, left mostly to our own devices.

Our real Mom and Dad? They were shadows, fleeting scents that sometimes brushed past the edges of our world. They’d leave food, a quick lick of a head, and then vanish again into the human world beyond the fence. It was the Big Ones, the ones who lived in the house, who were our anchors. They’d leave out bowls of crunchy nibbles and sometimes, oh glorious sometimes, a bit of that soft, smelly food that made our tails twitch with delight.

The pandan leaves in the garden were our jungle. We’d stalk invisible prey amongst their sharp edges, batting at fallen flowers and wrestling until one of us let out a dramatic yowl. Sleep often found us curled together in a sunbeam filtering through the leaves, a warm, purring knot of siblings.

Adventure beckoned beyond our familiar fence. The neighbours’ garden, a sprawling tapestry of green, was a constant temptation. The air there hummed with new scents – the earthy aroma of turned soil, the sweet perfume of unknown blossoms. We’d sneak through the gaps, our bellies low to the ground, exploring this forbidden paradise.

But the neighbours… they were a mixed bunch. Some, the Gentle Hands, would offer a quiet scratch behind the ears or a saucer of milk left on their porch. Others… their faces would twist with displeasure at the sight of us. The hiss of a broom, the sharp sting of a pebble against my flank, the echoing shouts that made my ears flatten – these were the warnings we learned to heed. We became swift shadows in their garden, our visits brief and cautious.

Our Dad, the shadowy one, taught us a valuable lesson. He’d nudge us towards the rough bark of the fence, demonstrating the upward climb. Soon, we were scaling the heights, our claws finding purchase on the weathered wood. The rooftops! From up there, the world stretched out before us. We could see the Big Ones moving like ants below, the neighbours tending their precious plants, even the distant rumble of the metal beasts they rode in.

But Dad’s eyes held a certain weariness when he surveyed the world from above. “Not everything is sweet up here, little ones,” he’d purr, his voice raspy. “The wind bites in the rain, and food is scarce. Down there… down there with the Big Ones, you are safer. They may not always understand us, but they provide. Remember that.”

So we did. We’d perch on the warm tiles, watching the world unfold, but our hearts always pulled us back down, back to the familiar scents of our backyard, the comforting presence of our siblings, and the occasional, precious touch of the Big Ones who, in their own strange way, had become our family. We were Lemon and his siblings, backyard cats, and for now, this was our safe haven.

Tessa Yusoff
7 April 2025

Lemon's Backyard Tale:  #ShortStory #Fiction #StrayCat

Echoes of Newtone

Lisa’s life was a rhythm of routine: work, dinner, television, a fleeting scroll through social media. Then, the message arrived. "Hey, Lisa. It's Craig." Craig Newtone. The voice of her youth, the singer whose music had been the soundtrack to her dreams.

The messages were a balm to her loneliness, filled with personal details and whispered confidences. He spoke of needing a break, of finding solace in connecting with a "real" fan. Lisa, flattered and yearning, believed.

Then came the subtle shifts. The hints of a personal crisis, the whispered requests for help. "Just a small favor, Lisa. You're the only one I can trust."

Lisa hesitated. The money he asked for was significant. She told David, who dismissed it instantly. "A scam, Lisa. Ignore it." Tony advised her to block him immediately.

The advice was sound, logical. But her heart ached. She’d built an emotional world around this connection, a world where she was seen, valued, loved. The thought of losing it was unbearable.

Nights became a blur of tears and anxiety. She’d stare at her phone, the messages a constant temptation. He needs me, she’d think, then recoil at the potential naivety of the thought. Inconsistencies started to appear, small details that didn't quite line up. Each one was a tiny stab of doubt.

One morning, after a sleepless night, Lisa sat on the edge of her bed, her phone trembling in her hand. The weight of her friends' warnings, the gnawing doubt in her gut, finally tipped the scales. With a deep breath, she blocked "Craig Newtone." Then, with a shaking finger, she deleted her account.

The act was both liberating and devastating. The digital world she’d built, the illusion of connection, vanished in an instant. A wave of grief washed over her, a raw, aching loneliness.

Days turned into weeks. Lisa felt adrift, disoriented. She’d catch herself reaching for her phone, then remember. The silence was deafening.

Yet, life moved on. Lisa began to notice the world around her again. The sun on her face, the sound of birdsong, the warmth of a cup of tea. Small things, but real.

Driven by a persistent longing, she created a new social media account. This time, however, she approached it with a newfound caution. She scrolled through profiles, wary of overly flattering messages and requests for personal information.

A part of her still hoped to find genuine connection, a flicker of belief in the possibility of online love. But she was different now, more guarded, more aware. The digital world, she realized, was a minefield. And she, Lisa, was no longer willing to walk blindly through it.

She paused, her finger hovering over the 'search' bar. Would she ever truly be safe? she wondered. Then, with a sigh, she typed in a new name, a local book club. Maybe, she thought, maybe real connection started with real places.

Tessa Yusoff
27 Feb 2025

Echoes of Newtone: A Story of Loss and Connection #ShortStory #Fiction #Loss #Scammer  #Celebrity #Crush #Resilience #Texting

The Fallen Oak

The rain hammered against the windows of Elara's home, turning the surrounding fields into a shimmering, watery expanse. The rising floodwaters had turned her house into a temporary island, a stark reflection of the isolation creeping into her thoughts. 

She worked from her laptop, trying to ignore the rising water and the rising panic within her. Then a scream, her sister, Lori from the kitchen. “Rob!” she yelled “There is no food!” Elara sighed, of course Rob had eaten everything. Her mind drifted to Nana, across town. Nana, who had always been a pillar of strength, now facing the quiet emptiness of a life without her dear friend, Tim.

Nana had always loved the large oak tree at the edge of her yard. It was a place where she felt close to her late husband. Now, the tree lay fallen, its roots exposed and vulnerable, a symbol of the sudden, unexpected losses that life dealt. It was after her husband passed that Tim moved into the area. 

He was a kind man, always ready with a story or a helping hand. They found solace in each other's company, sharing bus trips to the city, quiet afternoons at the museum, and simple breakfasts at the local diner. For two years, their friendship blossomed, a gentle warmth against the chill of loneliness. Then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, Tim was gone, leaving Nana to face the silence once more.

Nana remembered the time Tim had pointed to a small, almost hidden painting in the corner of the museum. 'Look,' he'd said, his eyes twinkling, 'even in the shadows, there's beauty to be found.' That simple observation had stayed with her, a reminder that even in her grief, there was still something to appreciate. Now, staring out at the rain-soaked yard, she wondered if she could still find that beauty in the face of the fallen tree. The oak, once a symbol of strength, now lay prone, its roots exposed and vulnerable. Just like her.

Elara remembered Nana's hands, always busy, always warm. As a child, she'd loved watching Nana knead dough, her movements rhythmic and comforting. Now, she imagined those hands, still and empty. She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over Nana's contact. After the phone call failed, she decided to send a text. 'Nana, thinking of you. How are you doing? The rain is awful here, but I'm safe. Love, Elara.' She pressed send and waited, watching the little message bubble appear, then disappear. She hoped Nana's phone was charged, that she would see the message.

Outside, the rain intensified, the wind rattling the windows. Elara glanced at the floodwaters, now lapping even closer to the house. She felt a surge of anxiety, not just for herself, but for Nana, alone in her apartment. She imagined Nana sitting by her window, watching the rain, her thoughts drifting to Tim, to Grandpa, to all the losses she had endured. Elara decided to send another Text. 'Just wanted to say, I love you. And I'm going to come see you as soon as I can.'

Nana's phone buzzed softly on the small table beside her. She picked it up, her fingers trembling slightly. Elara's texts filled the screen, a burst of warmth in the grey afternoon. A small tear escaped her eye. She typed back, slowly, 'I'm alright, dear. Just missing everyone. Love you too. Be careful in the storm.' She put the phone down, a flicker of strength returning. Tim had always told her to appreciate the little things, the small connections. Elara’s text was a small thing, but it was a lifeline. She looked out the window again, at the fallen tree. She would make some tea, and perhaps, think about what to do about the fallen tree.

Suddenly, a loud crash came from the living room. Elara jumped, her heart pounding. “Rob!” Lori yelled, her voice laced with exasperation. Elara went to the living room. Rob was standing by the window, looking out at the rain, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “What was that crash?” Elara asked. Rob shrugged. “Just moved a chair,” he mumbled, taking another bite. Elara noticed the chair was now blocking the door that lead to the back porch. "Rob." Elara said, "Please, not now." Rob looked at her, and for a moment, Elara saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He moved the chair back.

Elara watched the rain, the floodwaters still rising, and sent her text. 'I'm going to figure out how to get there soon.' She knew that the storm was far from over, but the promise kept her focused. 

Nana sat by her window, the fallen tree a dark silhouette against the grey sky. The rain continued, a constant reminder of the unpredictable nature of life. Both women knew that the storm would eventually end, but what the world would look like after, remained unknown.

Tessa Yusoff
22 February 2025

The Fallen Oak: A Story of Loss and Connection #ShortStory #Fiction #Loss #Family #Rain #Resilience #Texting