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Matt may not be from around, but he knew what uncooked rice looked like.
The clay bowl was four-fifths full of rice grains; a mere nudge would spill it. He looked at it and back to Hilda.
"Hilda, I can't eat this."
She nodded. "I know."
Under the starlit night, he saw red grains sprinkled in the white rice like tiny colourful starbursts. Hilda had waxed lyrical about the health benefits and unique flavour of mountain rice, but words weren't edible. If Matt had been briefed on any rice-cooking ritual earlier, he definitely missed it.
He had to admit ignorance before it dragged on.
Matt handed Hilda the bowl, "Hilda, I...I don't know what to do. Am I supposed to cook this? Eat it raw?"
Her expression was inscrutable. "Shake it," she replied.
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Shake...? Hilda, the rice will spill."
She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Just mix well."
Matt kept staring at the bowl, damage control his foremost thought. Hilda must have seen the deep furrows on his forehead, or she would not have laughed.
"Your ancestor looked exactly like that when he did it too."
He whipped his head back up. "My ancestor? You mean James or Charles?"
She nodded sagely. "They all did it before they took the throne."
"A test of worthiness?"
"You could say so." She pointed to the bowl. "Now mix the rice."
Cupping the bowl, Matt tilted it until the rice teetered at the edge, then rotated the bowl clockwise once before finally giving two small shakes and handing it to Hilda.
Hilda declined. "Look up," she said.
The milky way lit up the night, each star a lantern hanging from space's infinite ceiling. Hundreds of thousands of white dots twinkled above them; white bursts of space gases illuminated the darkness, nature's natural torchlight.
Matt's jaw slacked. "It's beautiful."
Hilda inched nearer. "Yes, but look closer."
Matt stared at the sky: Had something exploded? Did it have something to do with the moon? He searched the stars for anomalies: there was the Big Dipper shining like a beacon, his eyes automatically headed to Ursa Minor, and Polaris-
-Except that Polaris was not there.
Matt frowned. He moved on to Orion, and while tracing the stars with his eyes noticed Orion’s missing shield. He stared helplessly at Hilda, who pointed at the rice.
"Mix it with your fingers," she urged, "But don't look away from the sky."
Matt swirled the rice with his finger. Red mingled with white, some dark grains sank while more surfaced from the bottom of the bowl. Up above, the sky warped and twisted: Rigel's light snuffed out, while a tinier star shone brightly next to Betelgeuse and Orion’s shield reformed. He gaped as Polaris moved down Ursa Minor's tail and Rigel stood in its stead.
Matt opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he blurted, "The stars are moving!"
Hilda watched the sky intently. "They are, yes."
Matt pulled his fingers out of the grains and stared at the bowl. "Is it caused by the rice? Is some local magic involved? Ground magnets?"
"No, it's you."
Matt was starting to get annoyed at Hilda's cryptic language. "I don't understand."
"Your ancestors ruled Sarawak because the stars favoured them." Villagers trickled out of the longhouse and gathered at the foot of the hill. "Any man can control the land, but a true king bends the stars to his will."
A breeze carried the faint voices up to the grassy knoll. Below, the villagers chanted in an unfamiliar tongue. They brought their arms up, then down, and bowed low till their heads touched the ground. "That's not English. Hilda, what are they saying?"
Hilda bowed deeply to Matt. "They welcome you home, Rajah Brooke."
The clay bowl was four-fifths full of rice grains; a mere nudge would spill it. He looked at it and back to Hilda.
"Hilda, I can't eat this."
She nodded. "I know."
Under the starlit night, he saw red grains sprinkled in the white rice like tiny colourful starbursts. Hilda had waxed lyrical about the health benefits and unique flavour of mountain rice, but words weren't edible. If Matt had been briefed on any rice-cooking ritual earlier, he definitely missed it.
He had to admit ignorance before it dragged on.
Matt handed Hilda the bowl, "Hilda, I...I don't know what to do. Am I supposed to cook this? Eat it raw?"
Her expression was inscrutable. "Shake it," she replied.
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Shake...? Hilda, the rice will spill."
She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Just mix well."
Matt kept staring at the bowl, damage control his foremost thought. Hilda must have seen the deep furrows on his forehead, or she would not have laughed.
"Your ancestor looked exactly like that when he did it too."
He whipped his head back up. "My ancestor? You mean James or Charles?"
She nodded sagely. "They all did it before they took the throne."
"A test of worthiness?"
"You could say so." She pointed to the bowl. "Now mix the rice."
Cupping the bowl, Matt tilted it until the rice teetered at the edge, then rotated the bowl clockwise once before finally giving two small shakes and handing it to Hilda.
Hilda declined. "Look up," she said.
The milky way lit up the night, each star a lantern hanging from space's infinite ceiling. Hundreds of thousands of white dots twinkled above them; white bursts of space gases illuminated the darkness, nature's natural torchlight.
Matt's jaw slacked. "It's beautiful."
Hilda inched nearer. "Yes, but look closer."
Matt stared at the sky: Had something exploded? Did it have something to do with the moon? He searched the stars for anomalies: there was the Big Dipper shining like a beacon, his eyes automatically headed to Ursa Minor, and Polaris-
-Except that Polaris was not there.
Matt frowned. He moved on to Orion, and while tracing the stars with his eyes noticed Orion’s missing shield. He stared helplessly at Hilda, who pointed at the rice.
"Mix it with your fingers," she urged, "But don't look away from the sky."
Matt swirled the rice with his finger. Red mingled with white, some dark grains sank while more surfaced from the bottom of the bowl. Up above, the sky warped and twisted: Rigel's light snuffed out, while a tinier star shone brightly next to Betelgeuse and Orion’s shield reformed. He gaped as Polaris moved down Ursa Minor's tail and Rigel stood in its stead.
Matt opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he blurted, "The stars are moving!"
Hilda watched the sky intently. "They are, yes."
Matt pulled his fingers out of the grains and stared at the bowl. "Is it caused by the rice? Is some local magic involved? Ground magnets?"
"No, it's you."
Matt was starting to get annoyed at Hilda's cryptic language. "I don't understand."
"Your ancestors ruled Sarawak because the stars favoured them." Villagers trickled out of the longhouse and gathered at the foot of the hill. "Any man can control the land, but a true king bends the stars to his will."
A breeze carried the faint voices up to the grassy knoll. Below, the villagers chanted in an unfamiliar tongue. They brought their arms up, then down, and bowed low till their heads touched the ground. "That's not English. Hilda, what are they saying?"
Hilda bowed deeply to Matt. "They welcome you home, Rajah Brooke."
Literature
Moving On
“No.” It was all I could say, taking in the carnage of what had just last night been my pristine kitchen. I wanted to collapse onto a chair, but they – and our spacious table – were covered in miscellany. Cleaning supplies, random knick-knacks from the living room, a thermometer, a scale. It was all there, strewn about.
My legs were shaking, and I fought the urge to cry. So messy. So dirty. No, no, no. I collapsed onto the shoe bench in between the Franco Sarto and the Gucci. I don't know where Giesswein had gone. I wished I could blame it on burglars, but no.
“She's doing it again!” I called, and my husb
Literature
Butter
Breakfast was real oatmeal
Every morning in Taos,
Served at the kitchen table
By the window. Ravens
In the courtyard.
You always put a dab of butter
In my bowl, covered it
So it would melt completely.
for S.
Literature
Pieces of Junk, Unsorted
Shelves
It’s been over a decade since my parents first bought the house, but the garage looks as if it gets cleaned once every century. It may just be my imagination, but I’m sure that a colony - a community – of spiders lives in the farthest back reaches of that garage. Don’t blame them. It’s easy for a body to get lost in the musty air, the blank smell of dust and cement. Even the neighborhood squirrels know this, and exploit the never-sorted-through storage shelves during the winters.
Dust Motes
The first time I saw my father cry, he had been talking to me and my brother out in the garage. A sunny day provide
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As posted in Imaginary Beasts' "Erase & Rewind" issue, Feb 2015.
The title was a prompt given by a friend after talking about spec fiction revolving around the theme "Borneo Secession War".
The title was a prompt given by a friend after talking about spec fiction revolving around the theme "Borneo Secession War".
© 2015 - 2024 J-ko
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really good read! very interesting concept, being chosen by the stars/being able to move them. good job!