It's day 7 of our funding period, and as of 1:30pm we're just shy of 20%!
1785 / 9000 (19.83%)
We'd like to raise a shout for our Super Home Groan Supporters, who have donated RM100 or more (or in some cases, donated their author earnings to support the funding!). Here they are in no particular order:
SUPER HOME GROAN SUPPORTERS
Anne Lim
Joelle Saint-Arnoult Ong Lin Lin Krishnaveni K.K. Panikker Eksentrika Darren Teh Julya Oui Winston Lim Charles Chiam
These awesome people will be acknowledged in the book, so if you'd like your name in our acknowledgements page as well, you can still do that by funding us at the Super Home Groan Supporter category!
p/s if you're a book reviewer and would like a digital ARC, do email us so we can hook you up with a copy!
As a child, there were only two things I recall doing on Sundays. The first was tagging along with my aunt when she went to church for Sunday service. She would drop me off at Sunday School. The second I came home from church, mama would have prepared my lunch and settled me down to eat. Right after, I would be changed and we would take an afternoon walk. A scorching afternoon walk to another home five streets away from our rented home. This home was open for exclusive members on Sundays. It was an unassuming two-storey terrace house, with a car parked at the porch and curtains drawn. No one would know there was a party going on inside. A mahjong party. The cracking sounds of mahjong tiles would go on for hours. While mama gambled her way to get a few ringgit in her hand-sewn cloth purse, I was left to entertain myself. The host didn’t like that mama brought me over every time they gambled. I am not sure if it was the kind of exposure parents would encourage for their child, but I spent most of my time singing the songs and acting out the scenes from The Sound of Music, unaware of the activity that was going on. It was a gamble for me too. If she won, I’d get ice cream on our way back home. If not, well, what a waste of my time. Find out more about Rachel's work here. Want to read the whole story? Click on the button below to get a copy of the anthology!
We're starting our Home Groan teasers with our city itself, George Town. Here's a quick sketch-in-progress from X.Z., based on Wilson Khor W.H.'s poem, Walking Along the Streets. Read on below for a short teaser from Anis Rozalina Ramli's story, The Pickpocket. The PickPocket (excerpt); Anis Rozalina RamliMacalister Road on a Sunday morning was the perfect spot. Big crowd, plenty of distractions, lots of tourists. The scent of musty old books reached my nostrils and its familiarity made me smile. Many of the old Indian Muslim vendors here were my friends. When I was small, they welcomed me into their shops and allowed me to choose a title from their towering stacks of second-hand books. I’d sit quietly in a corner to read page after page, escaping to worlds of fantasy, romance, and dreams, where life always seemed to be much better. But today, I wasn’t here for the books. Today, I was here to work. It was almost the end of the month, and Tok Pah had her grocery list ready. It wasn’t a long list since it’s just the two of us living in Lorong Maqbul for many years now—and for many years more, I was sure. At the very top, in big bold letters, she’d written tembakau. I grinned to myself thinking of her weakness for it. She never could part with her tobacco, or her snuffbox containing the many ingredients and implements needed to satisfy her betel chewing habit. It was almost therapeutic for her, this preparation of a quid of betel. As the dust and chaos of the day settled into the approaching quiet of the night, she would sit cross-legged on the floor, drag her snuffbox closer, and begin the important ceremony. From her betel box, a wooden container with elaborate carvings, she would pick a betel leaf, smear a smidge of lime paste on it, then scatter strands of aromatic tobacco, a tiny piece of clove, and slivers of betel nut. Folded into a small leaf parcel, in they would go into the long, cylindrical brass mortar, to be crushed before she balled them up and lodged them on the inside of her cheek for hours. As the hours wore on, her lips would be rouged and swollen as though she’d been kissed roughly and loved it. “Who have you been kissing ah, Tok Pah? Is it Tok Ali?” I enjoyed teasing her about her other love interest, our neighbour three doors down, the widower. And she’d blush all pink and grin widely, baring her red-stained teeth. Sometimes I wondered what life would be like if there was a man in our lives. How that would change the routine of our twosome existence. Tok Pah had lost her only child—my father—twenty years ago, and her husband five years later. My long-missing mother was something of a taboo topic in our household and was never openly discussed. For many years, it had been just my grandmother and me keeping each other company. Lately, the house felt far too quiet for just the two of us. But no, I couldn’t bear to let Tok Pah suffer withdrawal symptoms. Her snuffbox needed to be fully replenished every month, or I’d have to suffer living with a sulky old woman for weeks. That, and the fact that she was my only living relative and there was no one else left to fuss over. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket and wriggled my fingers. They were itching to wrap themselves around some foreign bills today. Like what you read? Want to read the whole story? Click on the button below to get a copy of the anthology!
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