The Writer and Her Muse

Solitaire

2011-11-06T19:15:00.002+08:00

Idon’t need memory to define myself,

myhuman heart could have validated my entire existence.

Behind This Closed Door

2011-10-21T17:49:00.000+08:00

Some doors were closed with a deep sigh of relief.

Some doors were shut with a silent tear and a prayer.

Some doors were slammed with cut-off conviction.

This one was locked with anticipation.

This one was a real seal of fate.

Beyond Comfort Zone

2011-09-04T15:12:00.000+08:00

The only way to discover new shores is to lose sight of familiar land for some time.

(Burleigh Fines, n.d.)

Daily Love No More

2011-09-03T18:03:00.001+08:00

Gliding on a spellbound chimera

made out of moonshine of mockery and blues

she traded a generous sliver of trust

for hyperbolic rhetoric from calculated lips

The star-crossed stupor

swifter than shadow

leaving no perceptible tinge of existence

betide only the eager dreamer of flimsy verses

If he had said the hollow words she wanted to hear

then maybe at the thin end of the wedge

she would twist the knives in her wounds

and heal even later.

Word Perfect

2011-09-02T20:27:00.000+08:00

One of the true splendours of words, I think, is that they are upfor (mis)interpretations.

I should start learning to be at peace with the inevitability of being misunderstood.

Articles for Trade

2011-09-01T01:11:00.000+08:00

I would sell you a crate of trust,

if you would give me a phial of faith.

Benediction

2011-08-29T16:06:00.000+08:00

The only constant in life is change.

Time flies, things evolve.

There are always ebbs and flows, rises and falls.

The world may not be how we want it to be,

but we can always tune our hearts in finding true happiness and our real purpose in life.

Good luck, to you and to me!

Thorn in Your Side

2011-08-28T21:26:00.007+08:00

He promised her the oceans, the stars and undying love, but denied what she needed – a safe home, food on table and fair domestic accords. Docile as she was, she took it all in, in silence. When he told her he was leaving, her heart was already a cratered surface, but she kept quiet, pretending not to hear the thorn-like words. She forgave him the moment he walked out the door, knowing that someday she would see the thorns twisted in his side, and then she would tell him with a solemn face that she did not have many regrets in life.

Fine-sounding words are not true.

2011-08-23T01:18:00.007+08:00

"Whatever you do, never ever forget what is in you that makes you, you."

Thank you,
for always being true to me in your fashion,

for reminding me, every now and then,
that in midst of finding connection,

I shouldn't let anyone blot out my individuality,

and for reassuring me, time and time again,
that being myself is enough.

Subsistence or Repression?

2011-08-22T11:51:00.003+08:00

To live is the rarest thing in the world.

Most people simply exist, that's all.

(George Orwell, n.d.)

Things Unseen

2011-08-13T17:56:00.045+08:00

Have you ever had an inexplicable feeling

that something big is about to happen?

Like you might fall in love and submerge in misery?

Or out of love and surface in blatant candour?

Or that you might fall through cracks of the earth

and get caught in muddled puddle of desolation?

Or that you would grow wings the very next minute,

gliding on clouds of wanton pipe dreams,

dissolving your voice in craze-fuelled steam?

All these happen,

without the slightest hint or warning,

taking your sense and senses over,

leaving you wonderfully, vulnerably mortal...

Wrong Direction

2011-07-29T12:04:00.001+08:00

When you hang onto the end of a fraying rope made of someone's feeble words,

you know it will turn out to be nothing but a mess of snapping fibres,

and you are going nowhere but down.

2011-07-18T22:34:00.001+08:00

I find it very amusing that

you can always tell if someone likes someone else,

but you can't usually tell if someone likes you.

Interlopers

2011-07-09T13:37:00.005+08:00

The ashen boulevard went on forever. Long and meandering, twisted in its course, determined to wear us down. It bent, curved and turned, snaking its way through the opaque surroundings.

We stopped for a moment to draw in a deep breath, drinking in the milieu; only to realise there was no road. There never was.

Spacing Pace

2011-07-06T12:25:00.008+08:00

One may be physically right next to you, but the distance can be million miles apart.

Distance can be as near, or as far, as one will it.

It is often the measure one employs that makes all the difference.

Eyes Wide Shut

2011-07-03T21:46:00.019+08:00

Stay low.
Breathe slow.
Don’t put out the glow.

We can all stay cuddled up
in this oblivious womblike warmth,
falling, unhurried, into gentle slumber,
murmuring broken sentences to each other.

“You know, I am not good with this loneliness thing,” you declared.
I smiled and gave you a hug from a distance.

“No one is,” my heart whispered,
hoping that you could somehow feel it;

I am not good with this attachment thing.

Road not taken

2011-07-01T21:25:00.011+08:00

Two roads diverged in a lonely wood,

one with well-tramped route,

and another with undergrowth proudly stood.

Eager I was to travel on the greener pasture,

my instinct told me to choose

the road that would lead me back to my root.

So, I took "the road" most travelled by,
knowing that I could not know it all, feel it all,

but travelling that road would make a difference

to people I truly love and care;

so, I threw caution to the winds.

2011-06-16T01:00:00.001+08:00

Sometimes,

all you need to do is

to sacrifice just a wee bit of time

to make a difference in others' lives.

The Girl with Nine Lives

2011-06-15T03:30:00.033+08:00

This is not a pretty story. If you like to read about helpful ogres and happy elves, stories about inanimate objects that sing, dance and speak for themselves, then this is not the story for you. You still have time to stop reading this and close the tab. Go on. You can go and google up fairy tales with happy-ever-after endings. Read those. They will keep you happy. But if you want a story about mysterious romance, terminal danger and plotting of schemes, please stay. Find yourself a good reading spot with decent lighting and minimal noise, somewhere you can stretch and make yourself comfortable. This is a story that reveals some sort of truth and truth, sometimes, is stranger than fiction. This is an unlikely story of a girl with nine lives.

She had lived and died eight times. This was her ninth life. She knew because she counted and she remembered. She was called Edith in her first life, Dana the second, Liv in third, Susanna or Sue in fourth, Estelle in fifth which was a rather short one, Laura in sixth before Kseniya in seventh and Zoe in eighth. In each and every life, she would be born in different places but she had the exact same features, body and stature. She would fall in love with men, all by the name of Aidan who all died tragic deaths. Aidan Ravel, her first love died in a fire. Aidan Sinclair in her second life and Aidan Emery Jr. in third were both her lovers and were both murdered. Justice was not served because the killers were never caught. Aidan Bellamy, her husband in the fourth life, died in Holocaust. Aidan Northman, to whom she was his mistress in her fifth life, was poisoned by his own wife. Aidan Walsh was in army and he perished in an avalanche. Aidan McGill, her husband in her seventh life, happened to be a hostage in a robbery and was shot in between his eyes. Aidan Dowell died saving her from drowning in her eighth life. She remembered dying of a broken heart shortly after. She was not sure why she kept falling for Aidans and why they all died on her. Was it a curse? Or simply a prank? Did God think it was funny to give her a good memory that surpassed death and served nothing but to keep all the bitter memories?

She was known as Eva Reding now. Same chestnut hair, same emerald coloured eyes, thin upper lip arched like a cupid’s bow which no one in her current family had. It was good that her current family loved her just as much instead of comparing her to her other siblings like what happened in her fourth life. She tried to be like every other normal teenager, for the sake of her family, careful and calculating in her every move to not show that she knew too much. Knowledge collected over four hundred years can be quite handful.

He showed up at almost the end of eleventh grade. Ezra Bradshaw. When he first appeared in the main corridor of the school, there was quite a hubbub because he was fetching. Taller than average, good bone structure, quite a dapper but a tad strange. Probably because he was the new boy in town. Unlike the encounters in her previous lives, she felt an instant, deep connection the moment she laid her eyes on him. He must have felt it too, because like opposite ends of a magnet, they gravitated towards each other. Within weeks, they were an item and became the talk in school.

“I am glad that you are different,” she said to him one evening. It was a pleasant breezy one to curl up under the shade of a big tree with autumn leaves and watch kites of rainbow colours soar high in the russet coloured sky. They both cradled a book each, reading to each other lines that they thought were amusing. It was his idea to have a book picnic.

He leaned forward, planting a kiss on top of her head as he pulled her into his lap. “Why?” He uttered the question sotto voce. She smelled like a wild mix of berries with a hint of heady lavender. He made a mental note to ask her about her shampoo later.

“This town has too much of the same, it is good that you are different. Different is good. I like different. I am glad that you are different.” She paused, weighing what she was about to say next. “And also the fact that your name is Ezra, Ezra,” she said his name again to taste the word and silently the third time in her mind, just in case. “I think it is a good name. It sounds like a noble name, kind of sexy as well.”

He snapped his book shut and chuckled. “I am glad that you think my grandpa is sexy.”

She stared up at him, bemused.

He studied her face. There was something enigmatic about her that he could not quite discern. Something about her that pulled him towards her like a moth to flame. He kissed her left cheek, breathing her scent in. “I was named after my dad’s dad and my mom wanted me to have the name of her dead brother, Aidan as my middle one.”

Ezra Aidan Bradshaw. Her heart skipped a beat.

(to be continued)

Para Usted

2011-06-14T00:30:00.017+08:00

Clara had long lost her respect for her old man, Alberto. Like the wear and tear of an old fabric, her respect for him frayed with the passage of time. A tinge of it that was left behind forbade outright contradiction in conversation. But her words were muted, stubbornly mimed through shakes of head, rolls of eyes, flinty face and pursed lips.

Alberto was a good-for-nothing man, hopeless in parenting and useless in making money. His favourite past time was to blow his own trumpets. He did that a lot during family gatherings which probably was the reason why he was not in the good books of many relatives. Once, he even asked Clara to go tell her Uncle Armando who owned a house, two cars and a cafe which he worked his ass off for to put food on the table for his family to go enjoy life. He arrogantly added, “Ask him if he had ever eaten in a five-star restaurant,” when their house was mortgaged up to the hilt. Clara admired Alberto when she was a tiny tot, not having developed the necessary capacity to weigh and reason, because he gave her that false “my-dad-is-better-than-your-dad” feeling. He knew just the right pompous things to say to keep her in awe. Which child wouldn’t be proud of a dad who owned a motorcycle and a tattoo, who drank expensive piss-coloured drink every other night and ate in five-star restaurant which no one in the family had eaten before?

Clara grew up with his presence but void of his touch, but the contact Clara had with her father lessened dramatically in her formative years. Alberto was hardly at home. A mistress known to Clara as “esa perra cachonda (that slutty bitch)”, a name given by her mother, was probably the reason why. The times she saw his annual existence in the house could be counted with the fingers of one hand. In hindsight, it could be a blessing in disguise. When he was home, he picked fight with his wife over the tiniest matters. He would roar or threaten to use his fist when his authority was questioned.

That was until he fell sick and developed the strange disease that made his feet swollen to the size of small tree trunks. So no more booze, no more merry-making, no more mistress. All stony-broke Alberto had was his good old wife and his no-longer-easy-to-impress teenage daughter. He made attempts to rekindle conversation on many occasions, to make his presence felt when an elephant was in the room, but Clara was adamant not to make it easy for him. She wanted a guilty, grovelling mea culpa. She wanted to punish him for all the years he was not there and the years that he was there but never bothered to make a difference. Her callous indifference was her vengeance and his retribution.

You should know better than to play with my freewill and your karma.

(to be continued)

Off-limits

2011-06-12T15:41:00.005+08:00

You just can't play with freewill and karma.

Pledge, Signed and Sealed.

2011-06-10T15:17:00.006+08:00

Important lesson of the day:

If you really want something,

put your heart and soul into it.

Whole

2011-06-07T22:34:00.007+08:00

Break it.
Split it.
Tear it.
Cut it.
Crash it.
Crush it.

Smash it into smithereens.

Stomp on it with all your might.
Burn it.
Blow it up.
Blow it up again.

And then put it back together.
Because the most beautiful soul is usually the most scarred.

On The Wing

2011-06-05T23:52:00.008+08:00

You only lose what you cling on to.

Set them free.

Let them fly.

They deserve to conquer the skies.

Life, Corollary and Society.

2011-06-03T15:13:00.009+08:00

I believe that I have just stumbled upon the answer to the age-old question:

What is the meaning of life?

1. BE HAPPY.

2. HELP OTHERS TO BE HAPPY.

It is no-brainer, really. But it makes so much sense.

Easier said than done, I suppose.

M’illumino D’immenso

2011-06-01T16:58:00.006+08:00

The Beautiful Ordinary

Romancing Reality

2011-05-31T10:35:00.001+08:00

Isn't it nice to discover that... we are not exactly who we thought we were?

If Only We Can Love Without Conditions and Reservations

2011-05-30T02:49:00.006+08:00

But I guess conditions and reservations make it all the more special.

Vicissitudes

2011-05-17T16:59:00.002+08:00

We don’t live in tree house, not anymore,

We don’t have to carve our story on stone,

It is not that great a tale after all.

So shall we just scribble it on the sand?

Let the wind blows when we part ways.

Let it becomes a distant, faded, hazy memory.

Let us remain aloof the next time we meet.

I will not say hello,

You need not greet a stranger,

Let this silence be an indefinite pause.

Right His Wrong

2011-05-10T01:32:00.005+08:00

Lately he found himself

looking for the right things in wrong places,

making the wrong moves in right spaces,

saying the wrong words in right tenses,

winning the right prizes in wrong races,

meeting the wrong ladies with all the right graces,

finding Miss Right in wrong faces,

getting wrong impressions in right embraces,

pouring right emotions in wrong cases;

when all he wanted was to prove her wrong,

that he was right all along.

Inkling

2011-04-12T02:05:00.024+08:00

I write for my liberation,

for each curve of a serif signifies a breakthrough,

each letter brands a label on the intangibles,

each word maps out a track for my train of thoughts,

fleeing its way to the unknown.

I write for the pleasure of simply doing so,

for words immortalise emotions in ways that pictures cannot,

capturing that tiny spark of connection

when souls converge for deeper conversation.

I write to keep a log of my moments;

moments I climb over a wall,

moments when I fall,

moments when I rise after my fall.

And I write today,

because I have a feeling that something good is coming my way,

something worthy of my ink,

something bigger than just me.

Pick-Me-Up

2011-04-05T02:36:00.012+08:00

When you find me,
hold me upside down,
and shake all the nonsense out.

Numero Uno

2011-03-22T15:53:00.006+08:00

Looking out for number one is not selfish, but a form of self-respect.

Really?

Sweetness In the Salt

2011-03-13T17:00:00.029+08:00

Free as fish,

his whole existence metamorphosed

into tiny bubbles of life,

clouding false starts and sunken emotions,
leaving the blueprint of his memories awash,

in that quiet aquarium he called his own.

Just a Thought

2011-03-06T02:53:00.005+08:00

We all wear masks and straitjackets.

I do.

Don't tell me you don't.

Note to Self

2011-02-17T23:45:00.001+08:00

Work is Worship.

Hush

2011-02-16T01:17:00.000+08:00

Good things happen when hearts are silent.

Atonement

2011-02-12T22:23:00.033+08:00

Importunate meows woke me up from deep slumber today. I dragged my sleepy self out from the bed and walked towards the kitchen. There in the backyard, a tiny creature, ash brown fur with thin black stripes, meowing unrelentingly. When I came into its field of vision, it looked up to me, half sat on the cement floor, droopy eyes and all. Cats, they all have the shtick to look cute! Not a big fan of pets, I shrugged it off and went to do my morning routine.

Breakfast was accompanied by the screams from that tiny thing. Mom tried to shoo it away a few times, but it kept coming back. “It probably lost its siblings and trying to call them back,” Mom said. It meowed the whole day, growing weaker as the hours ticked by. I tried to feed it with bread, but it just scurried off into the drainage hole, using it as its sanctuary, whenever it caught sight of humans.

It was not until I saw a cat, looking like the tiny thing, trotting on the tarred road in front of my house later in the evening that I felt the need to do something. Perhaps it’s the mother cat, I thought. I went to the backyard and there it still was, meowing away. But this time, the meows were echoed by meows from next door. I squatted down and extended my hand. But it scuttled back to its hiding place. I tried meowing and it came out to peep. I meowed more convincingly and it replied. Step by step, it staggered towards me, careful and doubting. Its tiny legs were shaking and its meows, quavering. It came nearer, but recoiled when I made too big a hand gesture, signalling it to come over. Finally when it came near enough for me to stroke it, I gave it a light pat and immediately, it shrank into a tiny fur ball. I stroke the smooth, shiny coat on its back, trying to calm its nerves. For a moment, the two of us were just there, speaking in meows, loving the touch and wanting to be touched.

Then, it moved towards the mop hung on the wall, still damp as mom just mopped the floor, and pulled on it. I then realised that it had not eaten a morsel of food since morning. I pinched out bits by bits of white bread, soaking them in milk, before holding them out to the tiny thing. Its tiny teeth nibbled at my finger, devouring the bread hungrily. Next door, the meows continued without replies from the tiny thing. I took a chair and peeked over the wall and there it was, another tiny kitten, similar looking, but with fluffier coat of fur. I picked the tiny thing up and pointed at the fluffy thing, but it gave no response. I guessed that they should be siblings, judging from their similar size and similar coat of fur. I placed it on top of the wall. It just sat there with slight apprehension in its eyes.

At the crossroads of an important decision to be made, I was torn. Within that few minutes spent together, I actually fell in love with the tiny thing. But I knew that with me having to leave for college the next day and mom’s pet hate for pets and pests, I thought the tiny thing would be better off with a company of its own. I lowered it down the wall and chucked it on the canvas covered utensils, inches away from the fluffy thing. And then I heard the barking of a dog.

Give a kitten some bread and you would feed it for a day.

Give the cat a company and keep your fingers crossed that it will survive the storms.

Did I do the right thing, tiny thing? I am sorry.

Blame Game

2011-02-03T21:45:00.008+08:00

Maimed moth without a name,

Frizzled in the crackles of a flame.

Light

2011-02-03T10:53:00.008+08:00

Bright kites taking flight,

Flight to find life’s little delights.

Delights are the tiny sparks that ignite,

secret stardust that hover at nights.

Night eyes twinkling with all their might,

Mighty little diamonds burning bright.

The Alchemist

2010-12-17T21:48:00.013+08:00

So there she stood,

watching the rising sun

while the whole world was still deep in sleep.

She wrapped daybreak around her waist,

feeling somewhat validated

with a few brittle clouds in her loose fist.

Happiness is "Here and Now"

2010-12-16T03:37:00.001+08:00

Have you ever hated someone with a passion?

Perhaps the schoolmate who constantly plays pranks on you? Or the nasty colleague who always pins the blame on you? The parsimonious employer who gives meagre salary but demands a lot? Irresponsible parent, maybe? Nosy neighbour who feeds on gossips? The estranged acquaintance? Egocentric friend? Or the heartbreaker who took away your ability to trust?

We are made of flesh and blood. I am sure everyone had hated someone, or at least something, at some point of our lives.

It is December now and in just a fortnight, the curtains of 2010 will be drawn. We don’t want to bring hatred and all the negative feelings to 2011, do we?

Perhaps it is time to clear the clutters in your heart. Make a list of the people you have vicious emotions for and if you can let the hatred go, slowly cross them out one by one. If you can’t, then it is probably best to take time and ease the wounded child in you.

Life is short. Forgive.

Rewritten

2010-12-12T20:08:00.002+08:00

~~WRITTEN~~

REWRITTEN

She began to write the story the weekend before. In her newly bought spiral notebook, slightly bigger than her palm, she danced her faithful pen across the pages. She had to put it down during the weekdays due to her workload as a high school teacher. That job was to make a living, while weekend was dedicated to her genuine passion. But the traces of her ink were never published.

The moon was full that Friday night. Instead of starting her writing ritual on Saturday morning, she had decided to pour herself half a tall glass of red wine and continued her story on Friday night. She had a brilliant idea for the ending of her story on her drive to work that morning. An idea she kept chanting in her head during assembly, in class, during morning tea, lunch time and on the drive home. So that night, after shower, she walked into her small, messy study with its window overlooking pittosporum tenuifolium cultivar that surrounded the house. Sitting upright on her red velvet study chair, her back towards the door left ajar, she lost herself in her writing. Letter by letter, word by word, swallowed by the sordid conspiracy of the characters her pen fervently breathed life into. The subjects and objects of her story had taken over her sense of reality; she could feel their colours, textures, movements, even emotions. She became so attached to the story that she was no longer the narrator; she was the witness to the last meeting in the forest. Two men arrived first. The tall, thin one had a huge scar under his blind left eye and the short, stumpy one had long dreadlocks. Under the silver moonlight, their faces looked tense. The woman turned up shortly after, smelling of moss and musk. They conferred on the plan, confirming the details. She was handed a shooter before they went separate ways. She was to meet the men to collect the final half of her payment after the deed was done.

Moonlight was her only source of light. A strand of her mahogany mane had come loose from the neat bun. A tiny red vein of blood, grazed by the backlash of a tree branch, began pooling on her forearm. She did not stop to check the wound. Her sun-kissed brown skin gleamed with perspiration, but she did not pant. The momentum of her footsteps only slowed down when she came to the lush hedges that skirted the house. The metal piece at the belt of her pants warmed her back.

She darted across the front yard and unlocked the door with practised silence. In the dead of the night, she could only hear her accelerated heartbeat. A trickle of her blood dripped on the carpeted floor. She entered the hall which led to a staircase. Three rooms upstairs. The first room was for laundry, the second was a bedroom with the nightstand left on but no one was inside. The last room, as she entered with slight apprehension and the revolver in hand, was a room with books sprawled on the shelves and all over the floor, and the back of a woman in red velvet study chair, her right hand settling down her pen on the wooden table and her left hand reaching for a goblet of red wine.

Expectations, Expectations.

2010-12-06T15:35:00.011+08:00

We live in a culture whereby we are valued more for what we are in the eyes of others. We live to measure up to the benchmark of people’s expectations, to achieve what others expect us to achieve and to be what others expect us to be. Like mice on exercising wheels, caged in the rat race and paper chase world, we spend our life running, trying to catch up with others, trying to keep up with the inner and outer expectations that continuously permeate our lives.

Every now and then, I would feel the surge of rebellion kicked in and I would start questioning the purpose of all these. If the itch to rebel were stronger, I would probably kick the exercise wheel and rattle the bars of my cage. But this would serve no immediate purpose. It would merely delay me and prolong the inevitable. I would eventually return to the wheel and run faster to make up for the lost time.

But really... tell me, what is all this running for? For apathy? For more disappointment when my own expectations are not met?

Fallen

2010-11-30T15:40:00.008+08:00

(published in Slightly Grimm, a New Zealand writer magazine, 2010)

Elle avoit vû le loup — She had seen the wolf. Yes. She had. She lost it. Yesterday. At her grandma’s house, on her grandma’s bed, the very bed that her grandma died on. The bright red stain was the evidence. Danger. Passion. Scandal. Sin. Funny how she had always loved red. Blood red. Blood of the fallen.

Fallen. Fallen off the pedestal. Fallen for someone who was unworthy of the years that she saved herself for. Painful, but it was necessary. She needed it to know that life was not fairy tales. Not all males were as nice as the kind hunter. Wait. Was the hunter nice? He was probably one of the werewolves himself, a serial rapist killer, one who hid behind the façade of mortal flesh, only to reveal his true lascivious self when he had the opportunity, when the moon was full.

Full moon and autumn breeze. She had her favourite red trench coat on. He bolted the door. He persuaded her to take it off. She lay on the bed beside him. What big arms he had. “The better to embrace you with.”

Flesh. It happened in a flash. He was rough, tough and sadistic. He feasted on her like a meal. She was passive, submissive and masochistic. All she felt was pain, burning pain. The pain burned like shame for a few ticks and it stopped. "Is that all?" Wet.

She was a fallen angel who still remembered the heavens. But it was so much fun being a woman in the arms of a wolf than an angel up in the heavens. She was not willing to give it up. She wanted more, needed more, but more was never enough.

“Bring out the wolf,” she murmured under her breath as she put on her favourite red trench coat and blood red lipstick. The poor bastard flashed his wolfish grin. He did not know that he was going to be her next meal.

Deeper Conversations

2010-11-24T01:55:00.000+08:00

The Incident

Walking home after morning jog one day, a little earlier than usual, Laura found her mother in the arms of another man. Although she could only see his back, Laura knew that he was not her father, not in that pale yellow shirt, slim fit grey pants and polished brown Derbies. Her mother had a soft spot for colours that make up her favourite sunflowers. Her father hated brown colour for no valid reason.

The household arguments, as expected, trailed in later. She stood and watched, drinking in every scene, letting each of them make her and break her. When her mother finally left the house, without a note or any explanation, she was treated to cinema-like pictures of what actually happened. Her father told her stories of how her mother and himself no longer shared the same ideals and that they no longer felt happy being together. The stories were so well-narrated that she imagined them taking place just like that. She felt like telling him that illusory narration was an inferior vehicle for conveying the truth. Be a man. Her father did not know that she knew about the other man.

The Birthday Party

Balloons, ribbons, gifts, party on boat, what a teenage girl could possibly want more? Laura had told her father many times she did not like being celebrated for just being born, but her father being himself, he heard, but he did not listen. The boat itself was a present. The sort of present that parent spending a good deal of time away from their children would buy. A new toy to be added to the collection of her eight year old yacht “Genie” and another unnamed four year old boat. She called the new boat, “Guppy”, her childhood nickname given by her mother.

Most of the guests at the party were her father’s business partners, all well-dressed, clinking wine glasses, making portentous toasts, looking merry and expensive. “To the salt in Laura’s vein”, they said. Laura blew the candles, all thirteen of them. Her father looked rather pleased. Her mom was nowhere to be seen.

The Love for Waters

When they took Guppy out to the sea for its first sail, Laura realised how frail her father had grown into; his thinning pale brown hair with streaks of grey, lifted by the wild wind into a mid-life Mohawk. On the hull, both of them were silent. She threw her gaze to the ripples. She loved the ocean, in all colours, in all conditions, be it smooth, ruffled or mountainous. She loved the fact that the ocean was ever so eventful, it was never silent. Out there, the truth was laid out in all latitudes. She wanted to conquer the oceans, to harvest her love for the waters to drown the void inside.

“Do you really think that I can sail across the world, alone?” She finally broke the silence. Her fragile 14 year old frame carried a backpack of wrecked adult lives, her eyes reflected touchy pride. “What is stopping you?” He said. She shed a silent tear. “Laura,” he brought her to his chest, “I know you miss your mom, but you will always, always, always have me.” Laura sniffled, nuzzling closer, “Promise that you will always be my propeller, dad? Keep me from moving astern?”

sans-serifs

2010-11-04T23:14:00.005+08:00

In words, my thoughts lie naked.
I want to cover every inch of them like ink on paper,
to fill the blankness with bones, muscles, breaths and emotions.

Equivoque

2010-10-30T20:02:00.007+08:00

Do you agree?

The tiny patch of sky,

peeked through

a vent,

a tent,

leaves under a tree,

or amongst tall buildings,

somehow is much better an impression,

more profound an idea of the infinite possibilities in life

than the impressive vista of the whole sky,

from a veranda, a tower or a bungee ledge?

Blue Eyes Blue

2010-10-29T16:31:00.000+08:00

I have been working as a checkout girl in a dairy (Kiwi slang for convenience store) for a while now. It is quite a busy one. They have customers coming in and out all the time, especially at the end of daze, after five. Most are normal hi-thanks-bye customers; some care to make small talks, some crack a joke or two over the counter, but there were also a handful who seem like they constantly have a bad day.

He belongs to the bad-day bunch. A regular. Short blonde hair, spiked in Mohawk style, tapered at the side, gelled but not too stiff or greasy. Broad shoulders. Crisp tee-shirt and jeans. Six feet tall, perhaps more. Slightly protruded lower abs, probably from the soft drinks and chips that he constantly bought from the dairy. Egg-shaped face, void of pimples, stubbles and facial expressions. Closely-trimmed finger nails. He was never with company. I had never heard his voice.

I saw him again today. He never failed to make his presence felt with his towering figure in the tiny matchbox dairy whenever he stepped in. He was sour, as usual. He looked as if he came from Mars, as if he had invisible fence, a fort, built all around him. He stood before me five minutes later, placing two litres of Lemon and Paeroa on my counter. I did not feel like saying hello without getting a reply, so I gave him a polite smile.

“Can I please have th-this and a t-te-te-te-te-te-tw-tww-twww-twoo twoo twoo twooo...” I swore I felt sprinkle of spit on my face. “Are you kidding me?” I almost spat my thought out loud. His murky blue eyes met my dim brown ones. They grew intense. I tore my gaze away. “...twooooo degree deg top up top up card? Tw-twen-twentyy please.”

Then it dawned on me.

I keyed in the items on the dairy’s touch-screen till. He handed me three blue duck notes. His cheeks flushed red. I felt like leaning over the counter to give him a reassuring hug or to at least say something comforting. But, the coward in me won hand down. “Thank you. Have a nice day”, I said instead, watching him turned and left.

Some people have good reasons to be snobbish. I know that better now. That cold face may be just a facade for a cold heart dying for warmth.

The Empty Room

2010-10-28T12:09:00.005+08:00

It is an empty, square room with mirrors as walls. The mirrors do not reflect, but they show a different world from the one in the empty room; stream with clear blue water, lush green trees fertile with fruits, blooms of all heavenly scents and rainbow hues, birds singing and butterflies reciting poetry. The only source of light in the dim room is from the world in the mirror. The colours in the mirror make the room seems emptier.

A perfectly round, ripe and red fruit rests on the open palm of a man called ADAM. He is half-clothed, sprawled on his back on the floor, staring at the fruit in awe. Outside the room is a supposedly invisible entity known as GOD. GOD is represented as an Indian man in suit.

ADAM (holds the fruit close to his nose and draws in a deep breath) You sweet, sweet, sweet thing! How I long to have thee...

GOD (speaks in thick Indian accent) Adam, what are you doing?

ADAM (sits upright, hides the fruit behind his back, tries to look innocent) No... not... nothing.

GOD I may be invisible to your eyes, but I do have eyes you know. I have eyes everywhere.

ADAM (astonished) You have eyes everywhere? (looks around) Really?

GOD (still speaks in Indian accent) Why did you take the fruit from the tree of knowledge?

ADAM Ermmm... (hesitates) Because Eve asked me to.

GOD (sighs, shakes head) That explains it.

ADAM That explains what?

GOD Well, my child, I haven’t been honest to you. There is something that you should know. When I made Eve, I made her beautiful but stupid. Little did I know that her stupidity is contagious.

ADAM Beautiful but stupid? (pauses to think) But why?

GOD Beautiful so that you can like her, and stupid so that she can like you. Anyway, did I or did I not remind you that I forbid you from taking the fruits from the tree of knowledge?

ADAM Yes, you did. But why?

GOD Because it is forbidden.

ADAM But why?

GOD Because I said so.

ADAM But why?

GOD Because I am God and humans should follow what I say.

ADAM But why?

GOD Because I made the universe and you.

ADAM But why?

GOD Because I was bored and there was clay and I thought of playdough.

ADAM But why?

GOD (snatches the fruit from Adam’s hand) Do not question my authority. (looks helpless) For God’s sake, what God has to do to get some respect around here? You are grounded for a week.

ADAM (about to open his mouth)

GOD (chips in) Do not ask why.

ADAM (sulks)

God leaves with the forbidden fruit.

Kum-Kum

2010-10-26T19:26:00.000+08:00

KUM-KUM

(based on a Malaysian tale)

Lights down. Sounds of angklung, beduk and caklempong [Malay musical instruments] warm up before tangling into a cacophony. Eerie resonance of bamboo wind chimes weaved in. Lingering at downstage is a shadowy presence of a woman.

Woman I was once beautiful. Yes (echo). Like you. I looked just like you. (louder) Luscious mane. Diamond-shaped face. Complexion smoother than egg. Lips redder than yours. My hourglass figure was to die for. No men walked past me without turning their heads. Even ustaz and alim-ulama [religious men] stole a glance. Men!

Lights up on the woman. She is standing downstage centre, wrapped from head to toes in black, a loose hijab [headscarf] of similar colour covered her hair, nothing can be seen except for her pale, wrinkly face, eyes deep set with dark circles, lips stained with dried blood. She scuffs towards centre stage in slow motion.

Woman And like you, I aged. Wrinkled up like dates. Men no longer turned to look twice. They no longer looked at me with eyes that longed to make me theirs. Men! (disgusted face)

Woman I wanted to be beautiful again. Oh, the wonderful feeling of being young and beautiful! To be forever young!

Woman So I went to a bomoh [healer] who practised black magic. Black magic, black magic, what a wonderful thing! Tell me what you wish. Tell me your deep, dark secret desires. Anything! Beauty, wealth, revenge, birth, pain, death. Black magic is the answer to everything. Oh, black magic, black magic... what a wonderful thing!

Woman (sways her body in trance, imitating bomoh’s husky voice) Drink this elixir. No mirrors for thirty days.

Woman (leaps) I walked on the streets the next day. Everyone looked at me, mesmerised. Men showered me with compliments, they all fished for my name. I longed to look at myself at the mirror. Was my forehead smoother? Were my cheeks radiant? Were the wrinkles all gone? Crowfeet, freckles, age spots? Temptation was great. (serious) But pantang is pantang [ritual of abstinence].

Woman (does sketchy Malay dance steps in slow motion) So I patiently counted the days, entertained myself with all the attention I could get. I waited up till the twenty-ninth day and I could wait no more. I stole a glance. A glance. Just one. One glance was all it took for the mirror to crack. (sad) And so did my face. This! (points at face). This is a face that I couldn’t even recognise! (paces left and right on the upstage) This is not a face that I live with! This is NOT my face!

Woman I went to bomoh the next day. He said, but pantang is pantang.

Woman (walks two steps to the left, shakes head, sounds impatient) Tell me something that I don’t know!

Woman (walks four steps to the right, imitating bomoh in trance) There is a cure. (half-shields her mouth as if whispering)

Woman (pacing in upstage) So I knocked on doors (smiles an evil smile) and extended my greeting. Assalamualaikum [May peace be upon you] kum kum. (echo)

Fog from dry ice, lights down and sounds of bamboo wind chimes in the background.

Woman (holds out a pale female head) She was my first prey. (holds head close to her face and licks her upper lip). Delicious she was.

Woman 39 virgins! I was asked to hunt down 39 virgins and drink their blood. (chants) Blood... blood... blood... blood... blood... blood... blood...

Woman (throws the head on the floor, snaps imaginary heads in the air) I snapped their heads! Oh yes, their beautiful heads! That glorious, victorious sound! They begged me for mercy. But mercy... mercy was something that I did not have. (says in slow motion as if savouring the words) I licked, I sucked, I drained every drop of their blood. (louder) I scraped, I scratched, I rasped their faces. (does scraping motion) I hate how smooth they all were!

Woman Then I was on the news. (prances around)

Woman Assalamualaikum kum kum. But they had stopped opening their doors! (frowns) How rude! (turns her back to audience, wails) I hadn’t killed enough. I hadn’t killed enough. I hadn’t killed enough!

Lights down.

Woman (saunters back to centre stage)

I am a ghost lady.

I am a roving evil spirit.

I am a blood-sucking narcissist.

I am everything you don’t want to meet. (smiles an evil smile)

Assalamualaikum kum kum.

Black out.

Retribution

2010-09-10T09:13:00.000+08:00

On my own axis, I pirouetted,

coagulating my existence in this clouded purgatory.

I was held prisoner within your terracotta flesh,

condemned to continue my life in your image.

Your hand tried to breach the gap,

the wall between us prevented contact,

only our shadows had tête-à-tête,

and the timeless moon waxed and waned.

Dark clouds rolled over, thunders in my ears,

I tore my way through my shrivelling universe,

pummelling the narrow tunnel to light

where your transient pearl drops shone.

If only you knew, if only you knew,

that I would destroy your world to build my own.

REDemption

2010-09-03T19:28:00.030+08:00

Yes, she had seen the wolf. She had lost it.

Lost. He was not a frequent in Dark Woods. She could tell from his pompous swagger, but he was definitely a player. Emerald eyes, slightly flushed cheeks and nose, straight and a trifle arrogant, all frosted like a sweet butter cupcake on a masculine face. She smirked at luck for the perfect timing of her arrival at the club to coincide with his. She introduced herself as Scarlet. The name to that edible face was Hunter. The attraction was mutual, but they kept the conversation casual. Her fiery red lips curved with amusement when he touched her fingers. He was already thinking of doing dirty things with her orifices. “Head at your place, tail at mine,” Hunter tossed his lucky coin when they decided to call it a night. Wrapping his almost-opened palm, her hypnotising eyes fastened on his, Scarlet’s breath scorched his ear, “Mine. I have something to show you. Something probably bigger than life itself.” Her vermillion nails twinkled darkly.

Darkly the moon waned. Tail, the coin said. But Hunter, like any other ordinary man, was one of the werewolves himself, one who hid behind the façade of mortal flesh, revealing his true lascivious self at the first glimpse of opportunity, one whose reason can be clouded with lust. He bolted the door and dark clouds shifted on the midnight starless lapis lazuli sky.

Some doors were closed with a deep sigh of relief, some were sealed with a tear and a silent prayer, some slammed with cut-off conviction, some doors were shut regretfully and with hope that perchance the same door can be opened again someday. This one was locked with anticipation. This one was a real seal of fate.

Red. Danger. Passion. Scandal. Sin.

Oh yes, she had always loved red. Blood red. WET.

REDemption

Sestina for a Mother.

2010-08-16T06:20:00.000+08:00

No one loves like a Mother,

Her words are more than just pearls.

She risks it all, gives it all,

She is one with courage, one without fear,

She makes gloomy sky crystal clear,

No one can ever make me feel better.

No one can kiss my pain and make it better,

Nothing beats your unconditional love, Mother.

You give us eyes to see the world clear,

You want life for us more than just pearls,

You teach us to soar high without fear,

You give up life for us to have it all.

Take everything I know, take them all,

Nothing can ever be better,

Nothing at all, I fear,

No one like you, Mother,

No diamonds, no pearls,

Only a star, like you, can ever sparkle so clear.

“Use your eyes, my child, learn things clear.

Use your mind, my child, see them all.

Use your lips, my child, say only words of pearls.

Use your ears, my child, hear it all better.

Listen to this, my child, words of a loving Mother.

Use your heart, live life without fear.”

Oh no, I have nothing to fear,

I have heart to learn it clear,

I see you for who you are, Mother.

You are one who love me all,

In my worse times, and in better,

You love me more than you love pearls.

Your words are like my pearls,

With them in sight, I have nothing to fear.

Because the thought of you makes everything better.

Things can’t be more crystal clear.

You heal my pain, you heal it all,

Oh, the great love of a Mother!

I love your pearls, they make my gloomy sky clear,

Nothing in life to fear, I can make through all,

No one can do it better, only you, my Mother!

Only human.

2010-08-13T06:07:00.011+08:00

Spring blossoming buds,

Father and daughter at park,
Playing hide and seek.

Fingers intertwined,

Dimmed nightstand echoed wet sighs,

Summer secret shared.

Fleeting autumn leaves,

Pedestrians on a crossroad,

Strangers meet and greet.

Tears of beloveds,

Closed eyes in pallid casket,

Tangi in winter.

So if you just smile.

2010-05-16T16:18:00.014+08:00

A smile can mean so many things.
You smile when you are on cloud nine.
You smile when you are genuinely happy for others.
You smile when you are touched.
You smile because it is awkward and you don't know what to do.
You smile to cover how you feel deep down.
You smile because you are forced to.
And you smile when it seems like that is the only right thing to do.

Patience

2010-01-25T15:39:00.005+08:00

Just a thought:

PATIENCE ALWAYS PAYS.

But why am I always in debt?

Gotta work (harder) on my patience and persistence.

Ah, deja vu!

Incomplete

2009-10-30T15:00:00.007+08:00

Without you, I am

poetry without lyric

lyric without words

words without sounds

sounds without meaning

meaning without emotions

emotions without passion

passion without faith

faith without hope

hope without soul

soul without breath

breath without zeal

zeal without reverie

reverie without existence

existence without life

life without melody

melody without lyric

lyric without poetry.

Without you, I am incomplete.

adapted from:

Without You I Am

Diana Der Hovanessian (1990)