นักเขียนฝึกหัด อยากเขียนอังกฤษเก่งๆ มีคอมเมนต์ตรงไหนฝากไว้ได้เลยนะคะ
ติดตามงานเขียนอื่นๆได้ที่ abststory.wordpress.com
Golden Medlar (I)
I was sitting on the frigid wooden floor, imagining myself amid the verdant forest, filled with lives. Birds. Rabbits. Insects. I wondered what birds looked like. I heard them every morning, with their small voices, chirping harmoniously into a soothing song. To be honest, I was not entirely certain if it was morning, evening, or night time. I had never actually seen the sun myself. I only knew what time it was when I heard people conversed on the other side of this wall. I barely remembered what the sky looked like. It was a long time ago since I saw it. I knew it was blue, but I also remembered it to be painted with a warm orange color. And I was no longer sure which color it was exactly. From a far distance, beyond that wall, I could hear the gate creaked open. My heart started thumping as the cold sweat ran down my face. My wandering mind was brought back to cruel reality where there was only darkness. As the door across me swung open, an acute terror surged through my veins. The flickering fire from the rusty lamp lightened up the small room. I narrowed my eyes, trying to adjust them to the unfamiliar brightness. With my hazy vision, I looked up to the familiar face of an old lady. The person whom I called ‘Mother.’ She took her first step into the room, eyes fixed at me.
“Sing,” she said. I could do nothing but started to sing mother’s favorite song—A Siamiese. As the first word resounded, I could feel sharp spines piercing my throat, cutting the flesh inside of me. Mother said I would get used to the pain, but I never did. The pain seemed to be more excruciating each time I sang. I bent down, faced the ground, and let the first golden medlar to crawl down from my mouth, leaving its metallic taste behind. I was not sure whether it was the test of my blood or the flower. They tasted very similar. I glopped down a mixture of saliva and blood down my throat, hoping it would mitigate the pain from open wounds inside. To pronounce each word was tortuous, but I could not stop singing. I did not want to anger mother. I did not want to be punished again. Medlars continued to crawl up my throat, stinging and cutting me on the inside. Each time the golden flower fell on the ground, mother’s smile widened. I wondered why she wanted these flowers so badly, but I never asked. Not that I did not want to. I could not. Not after finishing the song. To pronounce one more word was too agonizing to bear.
As the last word had been said and the song came to an end, the final flower dropped on the ground. I looked up to mother’s face, tears dripping from my cheeks. Normally, mother would pat me on my head, praising me for being so courageous, but she did not that day. Instead, I could see the greed in her eyes. Before she even said a single word, I knew, almost abruptly, what she desired.
“One more time.” Her voice echoed. I started to shake my head vigorously, mouth sealed tight, trying my best not to let any sound resonate. I clasped my hands together, begging mother for mercy. In my head, I could hear my own voice screaming NO over and over again. I truly believed I would die if I were to sing again.
“One. More. Time,” said mother, vehemently. I froze in terror. I knew her patience was about to reach its limit. But I could not sing anymore. My throat was lodged with blood and swollen wounds.
“ONE MORE TIME” She roared. The flame of fury was ignited in her. She turned around, picked up a steel stick which was lying against the wall, and faced me. Her face was twisted horridly. I had never seen her this angry for. I felt as if she has turned into a raging monster. My body started to shake uncontrollably. I had to sing. I NEED to. Mother might kill me if I did not.
“S—s—a—” I tried to pronounce the first word of the song, but all that could be heard was just air. I tried harder, so hard that blood was spitting out from my mouth. I looked into mother’s eyes, trying to seek empathy, hoping she would spare me. But I could see no mercy in her eyes—not even a small glimpse of sympathy. At that moment, I knew I was doomed. I shut my eyes and soundlessly started to pray. I repeated the same prayer over and over again—the one I heard every day along with the sound of chirping birds. I didn’t know what it meant, but that was all I knew.
“CURSED CHILD,” mother growled as she whipped me on the back with the steel stick. I could feel an immense affiliation surging through my spine. The pain spread across my upper body, but soon it faded. I started to lose my sense. My vision became fuzzier, and, eventually, all I could see was darkness.
Summary of an original story (Phikul-Thong / พิกุลทอง) in Thai:
http://www.sac.or.th/databases/thailitdir/detail.php?meta_id=389
Contemporary version (in English) :
https://www.bloggang.com/mainblog.php?id=wawa-virata&month=14-07-2007&group=5&gblog=1 
Golden Medlar #1 เรื่องสั้นดัดแปลงจาก พิกุลทอง (english ver.)
ติดตามงานเขียนอื่นๆได้ที่ abststory.wordpress.com
Golden Medlar (I)
I was sitting on the frigid wooden floor, imagining myself amid the verdant forest, filled with lives. Birds. Rabbits. Insects. I wondered what birds looked like. I heard them every morning, with their small voices, chirping harmoniously into a soothing song. To be honest, I was not entirely certain if it was morning, evening, or night time. I had never actually seen the sun myself. I only knew what time it was when I heard people conversed on the other side of this wall. I barely remembered what the sky looked like. It was a long time ago since I saw it. I knew it was blue, but I also remembered it to be painted with a warm orange color. And I was no longer sure which color it was exactly. From a far distance, beyond that wall, I could hear the gate creaked open. My heart started thumping as the cold sweat ran down my face. My wandering mind was brought back to cruel reality where there was only darkness. As the door across me swung open, an acute terror surged through my veins. The flickering fire from the rusty lamp lightened up the small room. I narrowed my eyes, trying to adjust them to the unfamiliar brightness. With my hazy vision, I looked up to the familiar face of an old lady. The person whom I called ‘Mother.’ She took her first step into the room, eyes fixed at me.
“Sing,” she said. I could do nothing but started to sing mother’s favorite song—A Siamiese. As the first word resounded, I could feel sharp spines piercing my throat, cutting the flesh inside of me. Mother said I would get used to the pain, but I never did. The pain seemed to be more excruciating each time I sang. I bent down, faced the ground, and let the first golden medlar to crawl down from my mouth, leaving its metallic taste behind. I was not sure whether it was the test of my blood or the flower. They tasted very similar. I glopped down a mixture of saliva and blood down my throat, hoping it would mitigate the pain from open wounds inside. To pronounce each word was tortuous, but I could not stop singing. I did not want to anger mother. I did not want to be punished again. Medlars continued to crawl up my throat, stinging and cutting me on the inside. Each time the golden flower fell on the ground, mother’s smile widened. I wondered why she wanted these flowers so badly, but I never asked. Not that I did not want to. I could not. Not after finishing the song. To pronounce one more word was too agonizing to bear.
As the last word had been said and the song came to an end, the final flower dropped on the ground. I looked up to mother’s face, tears dripping from my cheeks. Normally, mother would pat me on my head, praising me for being so courageous, but she did not that day. Instead, I could see the greed in her eyes. Before she even said a single word, I knew, almost abruptly, what she desired.
“One more time.” Her voice echoed. I started to shake my head vigorously, mouth sealed tight, trying my best not to let any sound resonate. I clasped my hands together, begging mother for mercy. In my head, I could hear my own voice screaming NO over and over again. I truly believed I would die if I were to sing again.
“One. More. Time,” said mother, vehemently. I froze in terror. I knew her patience was about to reach its limit. But I could not sing anymore. My throat was lodged with blood and swollen wounds.
“ONE MORE TIME” She roared. The flame of fury was ignited in her. She turned around, picked up a steel stick which was lying against the wall, and faced me. Her face was twisted horridly. I had never seen her this angry for. I felt as if she has turned into a raging monster. My body started to shake uncontrollably. I had to sing. I NEED to. Mother might kill me if I did not.
“S—s—a—” I tried to pronounce the first word of the song, but all that could be heard was just air. I tried harder, so hard that blood was spitting out from my mouth. I looked into mother’s eyes, trying to seek empathy, hoping she would spare me. But I could see no mercy in her eyes—not even a small glimpse of sympathy. At that moment, I knew I was doomed. I shut my eyes and soundlessly started to pray. I repeated the same prayer over and over again—the one I heard every day along with the sound of chirping birds. I didn’t know what it meant, but that was all I knew.
“CURSED CHILD,” mother growled as she whipped me on the back with the steel stick. I could feel an immense affiliation surging through my spine. The pain spread across my upper body, but soon it faded. I started to lose my sense. My vision became fuzzier, and, eventually, all I could see was darkness.
Summary of an original story (Phikul-Thong / พิกุลทอง) in Thai: http://www.sac.or.th/databases/thailitdir/detail.php?meta_id=389
Contemporary version (in English) : https://www.bloggang.com/mainblog.php?id=wawa-virata&month=14-07-2007&group=5&gblog=1