Do You Ever Just Accidentally Stumble Across The Most Delicious Sentence In The Middle Of A Book And

Book Review: Strange and Paranormal Tales of Malacca by Dennis de Witt

Title: Strange and Paranormal Tales from Malacca

Author: Dennis de Witt

ISBN: 9789671668610

For locals and interested international readers, De Witt's compilation offers a unique insight into the type of magical fantasy and monstrous wonders that exists in Malacca and its surrounding areas. From rock-throwing poltergeists to sea monsters and even mystical old men with the power to stop vehicles from working, De Witt weaves short tales around each subject, enough to inspire awe and curiosity in the readers. The entire book is broken down into three categories:

1421 - 1824 (Malacca Malay Sultanate and the Portuguese and Dutch Colonization Era)

1825 - 1956 (British Colonization Era)

1957 - 2019 (Post-Independent Malacca and the Modern Era)

I will admit that some entries looked much too short and a question kept nagging at the back of my mind: Where's the rest?! Fortunately, as a historian, De Witt keeps a meticulous record of his findings and supplicates each entry with a list of references for further reading. Most of it is newspaper clippings but a few of them are interesting for future reads like Malay Magic by Walter Skeat and The Were-Tiger by Sir Hugh Cliffords.

Overall, this book is a good stepping stone into the world of Malay folklore, particularly Malaccan folktales. Some stories are strange, others have a dash of the paranormal, and some just make you want to find out more.

Happy Hauntings!

I would watch it.

The Argent 

A Ghoster mini-comic. 

Read online

The Tenement - a menace to all by Udo J. Keppler, (1872 - 1956) The illustration shows the spirits of alcoholism, opium, dens, prostitution, gambling and street crime, as well as the figure of Death, issuing from a tenement house

Catcalling :3

“The best aid for supplication is humility.”

— Imam Ali (a.s.), Ghurar al-Hikam, no. 9945

Writing has two stages:

1. you can't stop

2. you can't start to save your life

Kan- wa ma kan.

It was- and it was not.

It's how all the stories start. They tell you of what was and what wasn't, but they don't tell you which is which.

Perhaps you are seven. Perhaps you are eight. You ask the sweet, greying hakawati (story crafter) "but a'amu (uncle), was it real?" Your eyes bright with eagerness and hope. And he tells you, his smile never faltering, "kan wa ma kan, my child. It was and it wasn't. Perhaps it is real. Perhaps there were caverns and theives and treasure. Perhaps there were empires and warriors and charmers. Perhaps it was the land of mysteries- the very land that Shahrazad spoke of. And perhaps it was not."

You close your eyes to better imagine the stories the old man tells. What a wild thing it was, your imagination- and even wilder his was, for the stories he crafted were his own. Flying carpets. Music. Mercenaries. A king's banquet. A marid (jinn) to make your wishes come true. "But was it?" You ask. Desperately hoping it was. And more so wishing it is. "It was and it wasn't," your hakawati says smiling.

You can smell the sweet smoke from the altars that burn ever so steadily; consuming an offering to gods long forgotten. You can hear the echoes of music long since silenced. You see the dances of people long dead. You know their stories. "But was it?" You press further. "It was and it wasn't," the old man says, his smile never fading.

You're out in the golden dunes of Arabia. A glistening object catches your eye and you take hold of it- and you are knocked back by the force of the marid storming out. "Shobeik lobeik. A'bdak bein edeik. Your wish is my command." He says. But you have no desire for anything other than answers "was it real?" You ask, but he disintegrates into whatever nothingness he came from, leaving you asking yourself whether or not it was. Whether or not you are.

You are growing up. You are now thirteen. You have yet to stop asking "was it?" Your father says it was not. Your brother says it was not. Your friend says it was not. But you are wild and stubborn. You say "but what if it was?" And they laugh you off.

Four years later and you are seventeen; and the raging fire of the stories' magic within you dims to embers. Your hakawati has long since passed away. You keep his smile tucked into a fold so deep in your heart you nearly forget about it. And you stop asking for stories. You stop asking "was it?" And what is even worse, though, is that you start to believe that perhaps, after all, it was not. That it never was.

But I am here to tell you this; it was. You spoke to the marid. You heard the music. You saw the people dancing and you smelled the offerings to their gods. It might be so deep within you, as deep as your beloved hakawati's smile is buried. And I want you to know that you, now, have your answer.