a girl called thiae.

what the stories are

i am thiae. you say it tee-yah, and it means a gift, which my family brings up whenever i have just done something nobody asked for. i am nine, and the smallest one in a big loud house in a kampung in johor, just across the water from singapore. there is Mak, and Ayah who works over the causeway and comes home through the jam, and Nenek and Atok, and Kak Long and her phone, and a baby who eats things that were plans, and a whole street of people who turn up without being asked. that is the family. they are in every story, because in our house everyone is in everything.

nothing big happens here. i want one small thing, i make a plan far too large for it, the whole street joins in, it goes sideways, and somehow it lands warm anyway. that is most days. somebody decided these days were worth writing down before i grow up and forget how loud the rain is on the zinc roof, and how a durian falls exactly when it wants and not one minute sooner. so here they are, one day at a time, the way they happened, more or less.

who they are for

the stories are for children about seven to ten who can read on their own, and for whoever reads them out loud at bedtime and has to do all the voices, including Atok and his radio. each one stands by itself, so you can start anywhere. a few are quiet and a little bit true. most are just warm, and a small bit funny, which is the most that ever happens in my house, and it is enough.