How I was born

As my English students here in Taipei loved Daniil Kharms’ zany narrative of how he was born three times, I set them a challenge. Write a short tale about their own birth, but in some fantastic register: in short, a myth or legend of how they came into the world. The following are some of the better ones--or at least those I had time to type up.

E.M.

How I was born

by Ryan

Ryan, showing typical Ryan face
If you are one of the dummies like me, you may have wondered why I have the incredible Indian accent which Indians can’t even imitate. I often tell that it is just a horrible joke, but it’s actually a terrific joke. Let me tell you about it.

As some of you know, my father’s pet cat loves Indian food. So my parents and their cat went on a trip to India. After filling a whole suitcase with cans of Indian curry beef cat food, they were ready for the way back home. They had their lunch in the airport, but the food in the airport McDonald’s was terrible, especially the curry-flavored smoothie. It was so disgusting that they threw it away after trying it. But just as my father tossed the nasty cup into the trash bin, he saw a cute infant dancing in it. The infant looked Taiwanese.

“Holy shit!” he said. “Why is there a cute boy smashing my dear smoothie?”

“Shit? I love shit! I want one of those spicy ones!” I’m told I said in perfect Taiwanese.

My parents thought I was so dumb, so they took me home.

Two months later I was jogging on Xin-Yi Road when I saw a strange Indian obasan who loves Taiwanese culture. She asked me if I could teach her my famous Indian accent that even people in India can’t imitate.

“What will you give me?” I said.

She said she would give me a curry-like object she found on the street.

To get more shit, I said: “Fair trade!”

My Indian accent is very good to use. When I see a ghost, a vampire or some other grim specter, they’ll think I’m an Indian math professor, which makes them scared and run away.

If you dummies want this benefit, I can share some of my Indian accent with you. But remember: Bring something to exchange!

How I was born

by Tommy

In 1999, tensions were roused between Taiwan and China owing to Taiwan’s first presidential election. Many people were afraid we would be attacked by China. My father was one of them, so he decided to try to hack into Chinese government computers to find out what the Chinese plans were. If he found some possible plan for attacking Taiwan, he would do his utmost to stop it.

One day he discovered a message that said a Chinese official was going to send a “surprise” to Taiwan, and it would arrive at Taoyuan airport the following Sunday.

My father hurried to Taoyuan that day. He carefully seized all packages people carried out from the airport and inspected everything. People protested, but my father insisted he was doing it for national security.

Suddenly someone screamed inside the airport and chaos broke out. He rushed toward the commotion and grabbed the object around which a crowd had formed.

“It’s alright! Everything is in my control,” he declared, quickly weaving through the crowd toward the exit.

“Sir! Is that baby yours?” a police officer asked as he tried to get through the exit.

He looked at the object he held. It was actually a baby.

My father was stunned, but with the police officer glaring sternly at him, he saw he had no choice but to take the baby home.

This is the story of my birth. Actually, it was not so much a birth as an incident. On the other hand, my father still doesn’t know what the “surprise” was that China sent to Taiwan that day.

How I was born

by Claire Fan-Chiang

If you’ve listened to the gossiping of the women in the local market, you might have caught a few rumors about my birth. And since it’s become quite a taxing thing to explain the truth seven times a day, I’ve decided to write it down, explaining my birth once and for all.

Storks are real. The scientists and biology textbooks might tell you that babies are born after nine months of pregnancy, but actually my mother knew what I was going to be like before she gave birth to me.

The STORKS is a worldwide organization that delivers children to mothers. It used to be a wealthy baby-delivering organization, but as medical technology has gotten better and better, and the amount of hospitals has increased yearly, people now get their babies through birth rather than stork delivery. This has led people to forget about the STORKS, and it’s caused a lot of storks to lose their jobs.

It started one day when my mother saw a stork on our balcony, holding a package in its beak. My mother, although surprised by the fact that the stork had managed to squeeze through the iron bars of the windows, was more worried about the sanitary problems and told the stork to leave.

The stork, however, had set its mind on finishing the mission no matter what the cost. So it told my mother that she could buy the baby half price. My mother rejected. She already had my sister then, and needed no more babies.

After that day, however, the stork continued to come for nine months, when my mother finally agreed to take the baby. Half moved at the stork’s dedication and half exasperated, she offered the stork 1NT. Though the price was the lowest possible, the stork’s eyes filled with tears when it saw the coin. It left the balcony then, whistling, which my mother said sounded like a cat dying.

My father didn’t say anything when he saw me that night. He just nodded and went to bed. And this is the story of how I was bought for 1NT.

How I was born

by Jenny Xu 許嘉瑜

Jenny Xu. Watch this girl. She's here for a reason.
I’ll never forget the night I was born. It was a full-moon night. My father went home with his heavy steps as usual. When he got home, my three-year-old brother was playing on the floor.

“Daddy! Welcome back!” my brother said.

“Hey, my boy, did you behave well today?”

“Dinner is ready,” my mother said, stepping out of the kitchen. “How was your day?”

“Alright,” my father answered. “But on my way home, earlier, something strange happened.”

“What?”

“Come here and I’ll show you.”

My parents stepped away from the table over to the balcony.

“Look at the moon,” my father said. “Don’t you think it’s somehow bigger today?”

“Yes . . . It seems that it’s getting bigger . . . and . . .”

My mother stared at the moon, didn’t say anything more. Suddenly a mysterious light flashed into her womb and something began growing there.

That’s right! It was me!

A few hours later, amazingly, I was born. Although my parents had no idea what was going on, and still don’t understand it today, they brought me up as a normal child.

People may doubt that I can remember clearly how I came into the world. But I can. And I will always remember my mission, which is secret for now, but which you will learn about some day.

How I was born

by Angela

One day my mother was chatting with her friends. They were talking about babies and how hard it was to go through pregnancy. None of them wanted to have a baby by herself. They started talking about a post on the Internet: “Healthy babies available. Call 2368-5925.” My mom actually thought it might be a good idea. The others thought she was joking.

That night she discussed it with my father. After a few days, they decided to order one. The delivery date would be October 31, 1995.

When I got to my house, I remember how they all cried. They cried with joy because many people said manufactured babies were ugly, but I was adorable!

At first my parents had some trouble studying the information included about how to raise me. I had been manufactured in Korea, and the manual was in Korean.

I believe this is why I now love Korea so much.

How I was born

by Benson

It was a sunny day, but my mother was in pain. I kept hitting and kicking her inside. So my father finally took her to the hospital to see the doctor. Together with the doctor they decided that they could induce birth a little early. My mother couldn’t bear the pain any more.

After many hours, I came into the new world successfully. My parents were so happy they couldn’t say anything. They wished me health forever.

How I was born

by Yvonne

A handsome man that a woman meets after marriage is sometimes dangerous. For my mother, one such hot man gave her me as a gift.

It happened back in 1995, the year before I was born. Since my parents already had my brother, they didn’t think of having any more children. One day, when my mother was out window-shopping, suddenly she ran into a man more handsome than any she’d seen in her entire life. There were sparkles in both their eyes, and my mother tells me she even felt a kind of electricity running through her body.

The man came forward and said: “Hello, young lady. Free now?”

His voice was too charming. My mother fainted.

When she awoke, a week had passed. And soon she learned she was pregnant! She could only remember that soon after she’d fainted, as she was in a taxi with the man, that he had told her his name: Zeus.

Surprisingly, my father wasn’t angry and never even questioned my mother about her pregnancy. He was just thankful to God for bringing him this child.

Later, in July 1996, I was born. I grew up normally except for one thing. My first word was neither “Mama” nor “Dada”, but “Hey, young lady. Free now?”

Only my mother understood what it meant.

How I was born

by David

It was a cold night in April, 1995. My parents and my brother were walking in a park near their house.

“Look! There’s a comet in the sky!” my brother said.

But my parents didn’t take it seriously because they knew my brother was a fan of Godzilla and Ultraman.

Minutes later, the comet slammed into the side of the building where their apartment was, then bounced down to the ground.

The next day, as my mother was cleaning the living room, she noticed a part of the comet stuck in the sofa. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t pull it out. So they gave up, sat next to the piece of comet and started watching TV.

A few minutes later, as the news was playing, a strange gas came out of the comet.

“Sorry. I had to fart.”

The Inverse World

The assignment this time was to begin with the sentence “On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world.” Students at the Zephyr English Institute (ZEI) had about twenty minutes to write out a description of this “inverse” world. Claire, as usual, wrote brilliantly (this time I had to edit her more, as some of her sentences weren’t clear) and Ryan was up to his usual ryanism. The other students couldn’t finish in time, so took the essay home. I’ll add more as I get them.

Oh, and I wrote my own too, at the bottom.

Oh, and though I wrote it while the students were writing, I cheated a bit, working it into a final draft at home.

Oh, and I’m kind of a ryanist too, aren’t I?

E.M.

Claire Fan-Chiang

The Mirror

On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world. In that world, people do not exist until you kill them. Living, continuing to survive, is what they most fear. Once they have been killed and enter that world, work is no longer necessary; they are dead. Finally they exist.

You are dead from the second you enter that world. It is upside down in relation to the world on this side. Once there, you float up towards the ground.

Killing and maiming are virtues there, but saving and healing are vices. Whenever one heals or saves, and the operation is a success, the saved one regains life and enters the world on this side of the mirror, where we stand now, the world of the earth.

Those who are unlucky enough to enter our world from that one are disgusted by the human race. They can’t accept that killing others is illegal, while saving people is seen as good. To live is seen as shameful on the other side of the mirror.

But if too many die and enter that inverse world, the number of corpses grows too large. Slowly, some of them begin to come loose from the ground and fall down into the sky, which has the special power to give them life. This falling causes a certain panic in the inverse world. The most decayed are the noblest, while the newly dead are of the lowest rank. Fighting to hold onto death, the newly dead work to heal or restore the more decayed bodies, or push them down toward the sky. They work day and night to resuscitate them, healing as many as they can until the inverse world gains balance again, and they can feel secure in their death.

The fight starts again every time a plague or disaster reaps lives on the earth. The dead crowd into the inverse world, they understand that death is to be cherished, and they fight for their death.

--Claire Fan-Chiang

Monsieur Ryan

The Mirror

On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world. In that world, everything is backwards.

Clerks give customers money to take their products away.

People use fire extinguishers to start fires in malls and public buildings.

At schools the students stand during the class and watch the seated teacher.

When lunch comes, everyone throws up their lunch boxes.

At dinner time, cows use steak knives to cut people into “peoples”.

People eat food with their navels.

People use parachutes to jump up into planes when they want to travel.

They use elevators as subways.

People are punched to death by punching bags.

--Ryan

The Mirror

On the other side of the mirror is an inverse world, where disasters bring joy and celebrations end with leaders promising “Never again.”

In that world the nations compete to see who can ruin their economy faster.

The superstitious wear amulets to attract bad luck, and the beautiful are shunned.

Population shrinks yearly, abandoned land filling in with forests and fields, polluted lakes clearing one by one, new species appearing out of nowhere.

Even the lives there are backward: everyone starting out crippled and old and regressing to childhood.

Youth is thought of as a sad inevitability.

Which is why women spend untold sums keeping their skin wrinkly, adding sags under their eyes; and self-conscious men, once they see their hair start to fill in, take to wearing wigs with artificial bald spots.

But in general the people do what they can to avoid being noticed.

They have their own version of Facebook. When you sign up, you start out with hundreds of friends, most of whom you hardly know; the number slowly whittles itself down to your real friends, who then disappear one by one, leaving you finally with only your profile picture, which you delete.

Their Facebook won’t last long, however, because every year exciting new technologies are forgotten. Dumps and vacant lots are stacked with equipment the people have forgotten how to use, devices they no longer comprehend.

Idealists can dream of the day writing will be uninvented, then agriculture.

At the edge of the park the bushes mark their territory on every passing dog.

Tombstone inscriptions are tattooed on your mother’s belly after you’ve entered the womb. Her pregnancy recedes, until you are forgotten; until there’s only lovemaking, then dates, then glances across a room.

I know this because for a time I was in that world myself. I even won the lottery. They came and took everything.

--Eric Mader

In the Reflection is the Daughter of Time (by Claire Fan-Chiang 范姜詠欣)

One of the great thing about teaching kids in Taiwan is that so many of them turn out brilliant. Their keen ability to study and remember (gained during their years of hard work learning to read and write their native language Chinese) now and again results in great things--especially when a student decides to take up the pen for more than just the usual dull homework.

The following story by my student Claire Fan-Chiang (范姜詠欣) is a great example of a serious young creative mind in action. Claire is in junior high school in Taipei. She’s never lived or studied in an English-speaking country. Nonetheless, she’s got a great knack for narrative in English, and pulls of some really fine passages. Claire’s a pretty serious artist too. Her own illustration appears below.

Eric Mader
* * *

IN THE REFLECTION IS THE DAUGHTER OF TIME
A battered green car sped over the muddy road, the rain thumping on its windows. Ingrid glanced down at the fuel gauge and furrowed her brows. The pointer was closing in on the ‘E’, but from what the GPS system showed she was still far from the campsite.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

What a mistake it had been to pass the gas station without fueling the car two hours ago. As she slowed down the car made a deep honking sound similar to a horn blowing through the wind.

The driving seemed endless. Three hours had passed, but she’d seen no landmark through the length of the journey. By now she seriously suspected that the GPS system had broken down. Cursing silently in her mind, she stopped by the road and dug out the map and compass. The compass told her she was driving east when she should have been driving north.

“Ugh!”

Night was falling, and she had no idea if she could reach the site in time. She was actually more worried about the fuel. It didn’t seem that it could last much longer. Since she had no choice but to head back, she turned the car keys in the ignition to restart the engine.

But the car would not react.

“Damn the bloody hell!”

She kicked hard against the floorboard, frustrated. Still, the car made no sound.

I’m stuck in the middle of the wild.

I’m stuck in the middle of the wild with bears lurking in the forest.

The thought shot a spasm of fear through her mind. Bears are strong and fierce, and her second-hand Toyota didn’t look stable enough to defend her from a bear. But if she got out of the car she would have nothing else to defend herself than the Swiss army blade in her pocket.

However, she was overwhelmed by fatigue, and after sitting there awhile sleep crept up on her before she had made a decision.

* * * Rap rap rap. Rap rap rap.

Ingrid’s eyes shot open, her olive green irises wide and alert. Her mind raced and her heart pounded. Slowly, she glanced out from the car windows. Outside stood a man, his face slightly illuminated by the snowy moonlight. Wrinkles were etched deep into his face, and he looked around sixty.

“Miss?” His voice was rather muffled, but she could still hear a thick accent in it. “You lost?”

Ingrid got a better image of him now: the man was wearing a hunting cap covering half his forehead; a red stubby nose shaped like a tomato sat between his rosy cheeks. He was rather plump, and his hair was pepper-and-salt. He carried a hunting rifle on his back.

Ingrid’s heart pounded so badly now she could feel it beating in her veins.

Should I trust him?

“Miss? Miss, you okay in there?” The rapping went on, harder and faster. Still, she made no answer.

“Miss? Miss?” The tone begun to change, worry filled it.

“Huh?” Ingrid faked a sleepy voice, as if she had just woken up. “What’d’ya say?”

“Thank God you’re all right! Are you lost?” The old man let out a chortle that sounded like the screech of a dying goat.

“Yeah, I mean, no, not really, you know—I just got tired and slipped off...heh heh. I’m not lost, really, just tired.” Ingrid laughed with some effort, trying to persuade the old man.

The old man laughed. “Plenty of people lose their way down here, missy. No need to be embarrassed. I guess you were trying to go to the campsite north, right?”

“Um…” Her cheeks burned red. “Well…”

“I’m retired. I usually lives by myself in my villa, hunting wild doves and smoking pipes; but my family visit me every vacation,” said the old man. “My villa is not far away from here, and if you don’t mind, why don’t you come and spend the night with me and my family?”

Ingrid blinked. Her instincts told her something was wrong: maybe it was the overt kindness of the man; maybe it was the invitation to spend the night at his villa. But exhaustion won over her instincts and her head nodded before she could stop herself.

The rest of what happened was a blur. All she remembered was that she packed up her things and walked after the old man for a long time. Just as she started to feel she could walk and sleep at the same time, they reached their destination.

As they approached, Ingrid could see the villa was filled with a warm yellow light and silhouettes of people moving inside. A thirst to get inside it as soon as possible burned inside Ingrid’s mind. The scent of porridge never smelt so amazing, and the warm air seem to be calling her into a paradise. The door swung open, and a boy with bright blue eyes and flaxen hair waved at her with enthusiasm, calling her name. Laughter like tinkling glass reached her ears, and her feet moved up the porch and in through the front door.

A woman named Chelsea with red flaming hair and a man named Edward greeted her. By the fire an old lady in a grey shawl smiled at her. A girl ran over, brown braids flying behind. They took her things upstairs, and Chelsea led her to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later she was sitting in the tub, foam covering her body, all the aches from her cold nap having seeped out into the water.

Then she was led to the dining room, the scent of vanilla candles intoxicating. The silverware was well polished, and the mahogany table glowed. Vases held flowers of crimson, yellow and white, while the plates served all sorts of food. Steak tartare, boeuf bourguignon, cotoletta, and ossobuco; mounds of bread and desserts extended to the bottom of the table. The fragrance was killing her.

Chairs were pulled out and the family sat, motioning for Ingrid to join them.

Dinner was fabulous; the food was amazing, the kids charming, and the adults humorous. For a second Ingrid felt that she was part of the family, and she was even longing to stay.

When it was time for bed, Ingrid crawled under the blankets, all her luggage packed neatly under the bed. The pillow was extremely soft and comfortable—the best that she had slept on in her whole life. Her eyelids drooped and sleep engulfed her, whisking her into the land of dreams.

* * * Ingrid’s eyes opened.

She had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. The moonlight slanted through the windows and bathed the woods in peace. An owl was cooing somewhere deep in the tree branches, and a few stars sparkled, like tiny shards of glass.

Ingrid swung her legs out from the quilt-covered bed, the tips of her feet touching the cold ground. It was icy, like frost in autumn. She smiled at the thought of frost. She loved the silvery-grey splinters of frost.

She stood up, stretching and yawning, hearing her joints make a faint cracking sound. She went over to the lights and tried to turn them on.

Yet there was no reaction.

She pushed hard on the button, but it stayed stuck in place, too stubborn to budge. Her brows knit, her eyes narrowing into slits of green.

After a whole minute of the pressing-the-button game (in which Ingrid lost spectacularly against the small, black square of plastic) she went across the room and dug through her pack. The large yellow flashlight was hidden deep inside her bag, and when she switched it on, it gave a strong beam of light.

Pushing the door open, she entered the corridor. The faces in the oil paintings seemed stiff and grotesque, the echo of her footsteps hollow. The corridors twisted and turned, and she was soon lost. It felt like walking in a never-ending labyrinth; she would always come back to the same place she had left minutes ago. She had never expected bathrooms to be so hard to find.

Climbing up an icy marble staircase, the ebony banisters glowing, she came finally to a new landing. The painting next to the staircase portrayed a serene woman, her pale fingers curled around a scarlet apple. Ingrid stared at it, a feeling of familiarity nagging at the back of her mind.

A hiss startled her, like the steam breaking suddenly from the lid of a copper kettle. She turned to see a hallway extend behind her; patches of white moonlight shone while eerie shadows of indigo slanted off the snowy walls. She took a single slow step, the floor creaking below her feet. At the end of the hallway was a door.

The door was dark and well polished, sleek and shiny under the silver moonlight. A brass handle glowed, not a single spec of rust could be felt on it. She knocked softly, making a dull tapping sound. No one answered. Ingrid knocked some more, yet there was still no reply.

“Hello? Can I come in?” Ingrid frowned at her voice. Somehow, it was raspy and dry. She cleared her throat several times, waiting for anybody to answer. Half a minute passed and nothing happened.

“I’m coming in,” she called. Wrapping her fingers firmly round the handle, she swung the door open, only to see a large empty bed, windows gaping wide and the curtains blowing. The room was empty, a feeling of desolation curling out from it. Cobwebs draped lazily over the chest of drawers, and a thick layer of dust could be seen on the glass panes covering the bookshelves. The shelves themselves were locked firmly, and they rattled when she tugged them. It was like the sound of bones knocking against each other.

The closet, however, was open. She shone the light at it and saw several pieces of clothing inside. They’d been thrown or stuffed into it without care, a chaotic heap. Behind them and to the side was a mirror, also dust-covered and filthy. Ingrid stepped forwards, slowly and carefully, and wiped some of the dust off. Black smudges appeared on her rosy fingers and soft white palm, resembling soot on snow.

Reflected in the mirror, however, was a smiling figure, the color of olive and putty, a conglomeration of deep purple gashes held together with strands of crimson thread. The eyes were two empty pits black as coal, and a few white hairs stuck out awkwardly from its head.

Held in his hand was a long hunting rifle; his red nose twitched.

“Hi, missy.”

In the Country of the Erics

Saturday students: Frances, Shawn, Anthony, Yoyo.
The following historical chronicle is being written by my student Shawn (莊崴翔). Shawn is a junior high school student here in Taipei, and English is a second language for him. I’d say he’s got a pretty good narrative flare and a good sense of snark besides. I’ve edited a little and provided some transitions and tweaks, but in general this is Shawn’s writing.

It’s now Sunday evening in Taipei. An hour ago, I woke from a nap and had a big cup of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee to get my wits about me. Then I decided to type out these chapters that Shawn had written and post them here, in hopes he will continue. Because I want to learn as much as I can about my people’s history.

Eric Mader

I.

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a large volcanic island about the size of Japan. With the clear water around the island, and the beautiful coral under the sea, the island would be one of the most amazing sights on earth, if we could visit it. But this island does not appear on any maps. Long ago world leaders agreed to keep it a secret.

In the 16th century, Captain Ericano Erannielcoric discovered the island. Soon he brought most of the Erics scattered over the world to live there. Thanks to Captain Erannielcoric, the dream of the Erics was fulfilled. The Country of the Erics was finally established.

Unfortunately, after the Captain died, the next king, Ericano Erannielcoric, Jr., stopped the country from communicating with the outside world. He threatened any countries that wanted to visit the island with a terrible vengeance: “We will send Erics to you.” It is for this reason that world leaders, to protect their own nations, agreed to erase the island from all maps.

The Country of the Erics is plentiful in natural resources, so that millions of people could live there. But after the centuries since its founding, still only Erics live in the country. People around the world have forgotten the island and the strange country founded of course.

People in the country of the Erics are all equal of course. That's because they’re all the same. With curly hair and fat bellies, which they swell out by drinking large quantities of coffee, the Erics have a population of millions, though exactly how many is unknown. First brought by Captain Erannielcoric, coffee plants are grown throughout the island. The Erics consider the coffee plant holy, and there are various important rituals they celebrate around it.

Even if the Country of the Erics sounds like a peaceful place, blood will soon flow over the land. The Erics will fight. With the hairy corpses left beside roads, the golden time of the country will never return.

II.

The COE’s trouble began with King Eric XXVII, who still rules the island today. How this king attained the throne and became such a hated ruler is told in the Story of the Glowing Crow. Collected by scholars in central Asia, the story is originally in the Uzbek language. It is translated here:

Long long ago there was a magical tree. It grew Magic. People around the world learned of the tree and went on journeys to find it. The search for the tree led to rumors and wars.

When the crow saw the tree, it decided to try to hide it so it could keep the magic to itself. The greedy crow disguised the tree with many other kinds of branches and learned the tree's magic powers. It got the power to defeat death and it acquired such magic that its feathers began to glow. Each feather could save a life.

Hundreds of years passed and the crow was still alive. One day an asshole discovered the glowing crow and learned something of its powers. The asshole tricked the crow and caught it. Knowing the feathers could save lives, he started to pluck them so that he could sell them.

Like all assholes, this asshole wanted to become rich.

But at the market nobody believed him. How could he prove that the feathers could save lives? Finally, as he was deciding to give up and try elsewhere, an Eric showed up.

In the Country of the Erics, where everyone is an Eric, it isn't easy to be king. Any Eric can easily overthrow the Eric on the throne because he is exactly the same. However, being the oldest of the Erics, looking much older and wiser than others, might make holding the throne easier. So Eric killed the asshole and took the crow.

Many years passed. The elder Eric, called Eric XXVII, was on the throne and the glowing crow had become the emblem of the Country of the Erics. Aging and weak, but impossible to kill, King Eric had become a total asshole. All the Erics wanted a new king, but they had no idea how to get rid of their current king because he had the power of eternal life. They didn't know the secret of the glowing crow.

And all this happened because of the greedy crow, the greedy asshole, and the natural greed of Erics.

This story, while providing information about King Eric XXVII, is also seen as evidence that Erics occasionally leave the Country of the Erics to visit other countries. For what purpose, no one knows.

III. A chapter from a history of the struggle against the evil King Eric XXVII:

“Eric!” Eric cried out. “Don’t do it!”

“You can’t stop me,” Eric said. “I’m going to kill Eric. I’ve already made up my mind. It’s for the country, for all the Erics who live under this hateful oppression.”

“But it is hopeless!” Eric said. “You’ll never succeed!”

“How has he been king for 117 years?” Eric replied. “How is it possible? I’m going to kill him and then we can build a republic.”

The cold wind blew over the darkness of the countryside. Eric disappeared into the shadows of the forest. Eric stood alone now. He’d just lost his best friend, Eric. What could he do next?

He heard someone standing behind him.

“Let him go, Eric,” the voice said. “You should trust him.”

“But . . . Eric, you know how many assassination attempts there have been. It’s hopeless! He’ll die like the others. We must stop him!”

“His mind is made up,” Eric said. “And if he doesn’t make it, he may still succeed in death. You know he is one of the most respected Erics among us. If he is killed, all the Erics will take up their weapons in revenge. . . . But now we need to rest. Tomorrow will be a day we’ll never forget.” * * *
The sun rose over a turquoise sea. Another day was beginning in the island country. But now everything was different. The country had changed forever in the course of the night.

“He’s dead,” said Eric, dropping the newspaper to the floor. His voice was full of sorrow. Eric looked at Eric. They both knew in that moment what they must do.

A page of Shawn's MS.

What is the Afterlife?

Saturday students: Frances, Shawn, Anthony, Yoyo.
My small Saturday class has impressed me again. I talked with them a bit about different cultures’ ideas of the afterlife--I mentioned Christian and Muslim ideas, Buddhist ideas, including reincarnation, and different ancient pagan ideas--then wrote their assignment on the board:

Do you believe you have a soul that will continue after death, or do you think you only have a physical body? Many people in the world, following different religions, believe there is some kind of afterlife; others believe that when we die we cease to exist. Whether you believe in an afterlife or not, for this assignment I want you to imagine that you have died and discovered that in fact there is an afterlife.

It is now three hours after your death. What has been your experience during these three hours? Where are you now? Are you alone? Do you know anything about where you will be in the future?

You have twenty minutes to write.

These are the four versions of the afterlife they gave me.

E.M.
Taipei

Detail from Anthony's afterlife.
The Afterlife

I’ve been dead for three hours, my soul left my body and now I’m trying to figure out what to do next.

The last three hours might be the most painful time of my life. I didn’t want to stay beside my body and watch people crying for my death, so I decided to leave the hospital and take a last tour of the city.

Being bodiless is kind of convenient. I didn’t have to walk at all, I don’t have to pay attention to traffic lights, and I could get everywhere I wanted to go by only thinking about it.

I went to places where I had created lots of beautiful memories with friends and family. I thought about things I’d done in my life: what I did right and what I did wrong.

Later I was sitting in a park and an angel appeared. He said I would only have 24 hours to stay in the world, and also I could get into the dreams of people who still wanted to see me again. I could talk to them again and say goodbye for the last time. And then I will be in the heaven, living an afterlife.

So now I’m thinking, with 21 hours left, what is the thing that I should do? (And god damn it, why the hell did the angel only show up 3 hours after my death? He should show up immediately!)

by Shawn (莊崴翔)


The Afterlife

It is now three hours after my death. I can’t see anything that isn’t in darkness. I don’t know where I am. I think I am floating in the sky, higher and higher.

Abruptly, I feel a strong light. I am on the ground. I don’t know where it is. Then I see a house, not so far, so I go into it. When I walk in, I see many pictures of animals and insects, and there are some points under them. A man is using a computer near me.

“Where are we?” I say.

“Here you can choose what you want to be in your next life, but not everything. You did many good things in your life, so you have 1000 points, but you can’t choose the animals which are more than 1000 points like pandas.”

I chose human and thought: “I have to do more good things this time and I can be an animal which is better in my next life.”

by Yoyo (王佑淳)


The Afterlife

It is now three hours after my death. My soul is getting away from my body, and I can see that there’s a long tunnel leading toward me, with a shining light. I can’t see the end of the tunnel, and there’s no reason why I’m going straight down.

After a while, I take a train with no color, keep going in the tunnel. The train has many windows, but they seem like DVD players, playing my life, telling all the good or bad things to me. My tears keep bubbling up.

After my life has finished playing, the tunnel has ended too. I can’t control my body, and I can’t move, it feels like a large hand pressing me tightly onto the seat.

Suddenly a “god” appears in front of me. He speaks with a deep, deep voice, and shoots me with his dark, cold eyes, but I don’t have any fear. He tells me that because of my behavior during life I deserve to go to heaven, and he raises up his hands, just like magic, makes a big wave and leads me to heaven. I’m not happy, also not sad. I have no feelings now.

When I get to heaven, a lot of people who have died are welcoming me with their hands. Maybe this is my new home now. We can’t speak to each other, can’t smile, but our feelings strangely go right to each other. We enjoy the sunlight every day, and enjoy our afterlife.

by Frances (蔡詠淇)


The Afterlife

Now I’m in the “empty space”. There is nothing about “afterlife” exactly. After we die, we will come to the empty space and pass through it. Once we pass through, we appear in the “Eyeth”. Also, we forget everything from the “Earth”.

The Eyeth is a planet just like the Earth. People on both planets think there is a universe, but actually there isn’t. Nothing is outside the planets. The Eyeth is a world of magic as the Earth is a world of science. Every other thing is the same on both planets. However, depending on whether the planet is based on magic or science, some things will be opposite. For instance, novels and movies on both planets will be people’s imagination of the other planet.

Every time we come to the Eyeth or the Earth, we will be the same person as last time we came, but the environment will change. Sometimes it will be better, sometimes not. Maybe next time when I go to the Earth, the world will be at 2000 B.C. or 5000 A.D. Nobody knows.

While in the “empty spaces”, we see nothing, just emptiness, there is no other world to describe it. Getting through the empty space, you’ll remember something about yourself on the next world. After that, you’ll be on that planet.

Nobody, wrong, no soul knows why this is happening. Maybe some other more powerful race is controlling it, but no soul can understand.

by Anthony (黃聖翔)

Unfortunately, the very talented smart-ass Ryan (蔡睿敏) was absent this time, which was really too bad, because he often writes fascinating things. Next time, Ryan!

Ryan--getting ready to say something smart-assed.

Idiotic Like Gabriel Gudding

(CLICK to enlarge. From left: "the three Jennys"--Jenny Huang, Jenny Chen, Jenny Lin; Shirley, Sabrina, Jerry, Yoyo, Michelle, William, May, Yvonne, Lillian; absent: Schani, Daphne, Sherry, Ariel)

In my almost fifteen years teaching English in Taipei, I've had maybe three classes stand out for creative enthusiasm. One I began my first year here, and the students and I ended up writing a short teen vampire novel together. I'm teaching another of these gifted classes now at the Zephyr English Institute, under the course title Creative Mythology.

The class is around a dozen preteens and teens, meeting once a week for two hours after school. We've been working mainly on reading Greek myth and writing in response to it. Sometimes however I break into something else. Two weeks ago I took the perilous decision to teach them Gabriel Gudding's brilliantly crackbrained poem "A Defense of Poetry." The poem begins like this:

1. The lake trout is not a furious animal, for which I apologize that you have the mental capacity of the Anchovy.

2. Yes the greatest of your sister's facial pimples did outweigh a Turkey.

3. I was eating Vulture Beast Cream, I was eating Lippy Dung Corn, and I said "Your ugly dog is very ugly," for he is.

4. And that is when I turned and a snowflake banged into my eye like a rusty barge and I killed your gloomy dog with a mitten.

5. For I have bombed your cat and stabbed it. For I am the ambassador of this wheelbarrow and you are the janitor of a dandelion. Indeed, you are a teacher of great chickens, for you are from the town of Fat Blastoroma, O tawdry realtor. For I have clapped your dillywong in a sizeable door.

Recently we've been working through an English version of the Odyssey. After Odysseus' men barbecued Hyperion's cattle, I decided to take a break from Homer and introduce Gudding's American poem. Since the kids know English as a second language, before reading Gudding I had to teach them the new vocabulary they'd find (in these first stanzas, for instance, they probably wouldn't know capacity, anchovy, outweigh, barge, dandelion). I left dillywong undefined.

The kids' English is good enough that we had a riotous time of it. I admit we didn't read Gudding's footnotes and skipped some of the stanzas. At the end of the second class, I surprised them by collecting all their copies of the text, leaving them only the vocabulary sheets and a printout of the first few stanzas. "Why are you taking the poem away?" they wondered. It was because I didn't want them to copy Gudding too closely. I handed out an opening they were to use in writing their own "Defenses of Poetry":

A DEFENSE OF POETRY

by ___________
1. Since your name is _________ and since your ________ is/are like the _____ of/on the _____________, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are the _____________

The students were to take it from there, trying to use the new vocabulary they'd learned. Follows some of their work. Many decided to address the class clown, Jerry. Two of them addressed countries (Myanmar, China). The first poem, by Shirley, is addressed to me:


SHIRLEY'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Eric and since your mental capacity is like the dung of a janitor, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are the most foolish teacher in this school. We are the pompous students, you are the powdered trout. We are the rusty mitten.

3. You look like a buffalo trying to stab a wheelbarrow.

4. You yap like a feces from the stork, and never think about your disjointed nose. You puke like a pimple, and seldom think about your outsized anchovy.

5. You wear frosting on your head, and eat earwax like a barf bag. You wear sequins on your feet, and sleep on the roadblock.

6. You dream of lassoing Sherlock and Watson, but keep toting Prufrock from your buttock.

7. Upon occasion you argue with Jessica like an airliner in flame-out.

8. Finally your realtor tells you: you will be decapitated with a dandelion.


WILLIAM'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Buffalo, and since your features are like the roses on the feces, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are the president of the wheelchair and the sweeper of a sunflower.

3. The salmon is not a pompous animal, for which I apologize that you have a tote bag full of dung.

4. Yes the greatest of your brother's earwax pieces did outweigh an elephant.

5. For I have punched your airliner and burned it.

6. For I am the administrator of that flintlock and you are the chairman of the bowels.

7. Indeed you are the office holder of the barg bag.


JENNY HUANG'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Myanmar and since your face is like the reflector of the moon, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are the worker with the bell, and I'm the president with an artificial tooth. You have to lasso the stork since you're a tawdry salesman.

3. If you're a conductor of ducks, I'm the monarch of fishes. People will become crows small as ants.

4. Having no feet, they fly and fly, covering the sky. Having no feet, they cannot rest.

5. The whale planet is drowning in water. The geyser spouts trash, trout, anchovies, dung, wheelbarrows, barges and dandelions higher and higher everywhere.

6. Tens of thousands of crows fall from the sky like rain.

7. The crows really need barf bags in which to die, some earwax to avert going deaf, some frosting to cover their eyes.

8. What a nauseating and beautiful world!


MAY'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Jerry and since your garden is like the sequins on a barf bag, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are the pompous pimple, and I will stab you with a rusty knife. Even if you outweigh an airliner, it is still a piece of cake to me.

3. For your earwax piles higher than a giraffe, and an army of janitors would be angry to have to clean it. They know hundreds of wheelbarrows would still not be enough.


YVONNE'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Jerry and since your mental capacity is like the anchovy on an old pizza, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are a stork with rusty bowels. I'd be surprised if the realtors would lend you a wheelbarrow to leave.

3. I write just one syllable for you, beginning with sh and ending in t, and the letter between is not o.

4. But that will have no effect on your pompous peristalsis, to stop which the janitor put a mitten in your fundament.

5. The yapping dog cooks you a pimple.

6. Because the barge has been stabbed by my ambassador, because the buffalo has lassoed your buttock, I give you a barf bag full of powered earwax.

7. At the roadblock you are stopped by a flintlock covered in sequins. They cover you with frosting and decapitate you.


SABRINA'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Sejaisc and since your buttocks are like the side view of a sick bag, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. You are going to get trouble if you keep babbling, and you'll get double trouble if you play with the barbel.

3. When you stop making trouble, you'll be able to get a bubble made with barbule. Hey, stop chewing bubblegum and playing Barbie!

4. For you are a pompous pimple, I will squeeze you every time: juicy bao zi.

5. The pork-flavored Pocky in your pocket makes you look so porky.

6. The door to the restroom holds mold. To beat the boss, flap him to Oz.

7. I overlook your Mediterranean and your toro belly, but look over your purse and pocket. Never-ending love deer, four kids and Dr. Sun Yat Sen.

8. A Whomping Willow lassos pupils to play Wii with it in the Forbidden Forest where crazy things grow.


JOSEPH'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Jerry and since your ears are like the caves on the mountain, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For your are the monkey. I'll kick your ice cream to sweeten my shoes. Then Eric will fall in love with me, for he has a sweet tooth.

3. After that, monkey, go away. Go to the farm and have your pumpkin pie. The pumpkin pie you prefer has bugs in it.

4. Jerry is the stupidest man in this world, singing and playing with his bug pumpkin pie. He takes the bugs into his cave with him, a big happy family.

5. Jerry makes the dandelions achy. Stabbing dung is his favorite pastime. He dreams of toting dung as a career. Anything to make him tawdry.

6. The buffalo is very pompous, proud of its peristalsis. On its skin a lot of sequins, but the sequins will rust. So the buffalo hires a janitor to clean its sequins.

7. Sometimes the buffalo is crazy. Sherlock takes a flintlock to shoot it.


MICHELLE'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is China and since you behave like a gangster soaked in blood, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you think you are the legal master of Taiwan. According to you, Taiwan is not a country but a piece of your territory. You will always be averse to those who say otherwise.

3. Nonetheless, though you can't bear that Taiwan is disjointed. Sorry to say, but for God's reasons Taiwan is not any part of your body--especially not your buttock!

4. Didn't you know that not just Taiwan but all the countries of the world are fed up with you? For your black products and “three deer” milk are nothing but poison. Food made from earwax, clothes from which the sequins fall a week after they're bought . . . Maybe we should just load up a fleet of barges with all the goods Made in China and ship them right back to you.

5. I know you've never needed any ambassador. Because you prefer weapons to long talks. But now you have one, right here in Taiwan! For a long time you were yapping like a dog to no effect, but now thing's are different.

6. Yes, Mr. Ma Ying-“Joke” is your ambassador. Huh? Didn't you know most people in Taiwan and the world think Ma is a joke? Perhaps your mental capacity is not up to understanding this. In this respect, in understanding, we are more fortunate.

7. But one thing you're right about--Ma is really the President of Taiwan. He's like a king actually. So he can do what he wants. But it won't be long before the Taiwanese punch Ma. It'll happen before you have Taiwan in your pocket. You are bigger, it's true, but we will protect our country. Because no one wants to be your bowels, or your little pimple, or any other part of your poisoned body.


DAPHNE'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Vivian and since your legs are like the legs on a stork, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are the realtor whose pimples outweigh the houses she sells.

3. The police prepare barf bags when they set up a road block. For the drunks they stop. And so in your neighborhood they should have barf bags too. For when you walk buy.

4. If you keep making noise, I'll kick your buttock.

5. Buffalo dung outweighs itself.

6. It's difficult to lasso a stork.

7. Your hair is like a dried dandelion. When the wind blows, it flies everywhere.


SCHANI'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Eric and since your lips are like the anchovies on the pizza, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are the janitor of this Barf Bag and I am the ambassador of a buffalo. You are from the town of petty Realtors.

3. Your dung collection, your pompous pimples and your dog's rusty feces together outweigh our school.

4. You haven't got a greater mental capacity than that of your earwax.

5. Eric is yapping with a wheelbarrow on a dandelion.

6. Your peristalsis doesn't work because of the barfight in your bowels between storks with rifles made of frosting and lake trout swinging disjointed mittens.

7. That airliner with sequins will be stabbed by a tawdry and pompous pigeon.

8. I am going to powder your buttock with a flintlock.

9. Your poem discomfits even that rusty yapping dog.

10. I am going to punch and decapitate your petty rabbit.

11. Yes, I know that you want to tote a barge made of dung.

12. Yesterday I saw a powdered realtor stabbing a yapping buffalo.


JENNY LIN'S DEFENSE OF POETRY
1. Since your name is Jerry and since you aim your flintlock like a buffalo at an instrument panel, I will tell you that with you I am fed up.

2. For you are barge realtor. I would advise you to see Prufrock and ask him how to lasso mitten realtors.

3. Since you have been bitten in a barfight, your mental capacity may be unsteady and sometimes you wonder if your skull is disjointed.

4. Your favorite cartoon Happy Tree Friends nearly made you stab the janitor and in court you pretend to be an innocent, mad person.

5. Once you saw a stork crossing the sky and threw up your clarinet to knock it down. Then your clarinet hit you as it fell and you yourself fell from the second floor. You may not remember that your clarinet somehow became rusty after that.

6. Another day you ended up in jail because of the Barf Bag Road Block Incident. You were dragged away with your limbs tied tightly and your mouth taped up because you kept asking questions.

7. You yell out, “Help me, someone! Help me!” A voice answers: “Shut up, Jerry! Why are you always so noisy?”

8. You realize you're in ZEI, the class looking at you.

Zephyr English Institute (ZEI)

Zephyr English Institute (ZEI) is a private English language school for kids in Taipei, Taiwan. The school was opened a handful of years ago by two friends of mine, Bill Allen and Daniel Auckland, and is currently owned by Bill. I’ve been teaching there and writing curriculum since 2004.

At ZEI, we teach Taiwanese kids from the very beginnings (the ABCs). It’s a great feeling to start teaching a 5 or 6-year-old who has no English ability, and then find, within a couple years, that they are capable enough to read, write and insult you in your native language.

In fact I’ve always been a teacher who needles my students towards jokes and irony, and as things go I’m usually set up as Target Number 1. Though they do also have fun using their rudimentary English skills to roast each other.

Recently I’ve been teaching more the upper levels: writing curriculum and teaching kids who’ve already gone well beyond the basics. I’ll be posting occasional things from these classes on this blog. Probably the most postings will come from a class I’ve developed called Creative Mythology.

In Creative Mythology, students are introduced to the Greek gods (the generation of Titans, then Olympians), the Greek mythical understanding of the universe, and and then brought into some of the literature. Just now we’re beginning an abridged version of the Odyssey and I hope to go on to Oedipus Rex in a serious, scholarly translation. The kids are sharp enough for it.

There are around a dozen students in the class just now. The youngest might be 11 or so (I’m not sure), the oldest is 18. It’s a very impressive bunch: many of them are amazingly smart, some are amazing smart alecs, all are very welcome.