Funny Things

It's funny how my hindsight's

Always 20/20
Never in the present do I see

The disasters about to be.

I have glasses;
I wear them every day.

But often they are fogged,
Or tinted with grey.

It's funny how people can act

Like nothing's ever happened

Despite the open wounds we have

Showing clear on our faces.

I have a script to follow;

I know every word.

But by whom was it written,

For whom do I put on this show?

It's funny how time can heal

All aches and pains

Like waves wash away footprints,

My memories are etched on sand.

I want to remember;

I want to stand fast here.

But I don't want to rage forever,

Be a victim of my own fear.

O, Dear Memories

Do you remember when

We were younger and we

Swore that we were

Each other's walking diary?

When we knew each other 

Better than us ourselves
When all thoughts 

Always go first to you.

But now,

Where are we now?

Maybe it was me;

Foolish, insensitive,

I was no friend to you

In the very end.

Maybe it was you;

You grew up too fast

Faced the world (So cold and harsh)

Alone, without me.

Look at us,

Just you, no me.

We used to walk

The streets like soldiers

Strong and prepared:

We could take it all.

Who'd have thought that

All it took was just

A frosty breath of wind

To blow away our bonds?

Sisters, you said we were

Split apart before birth.

And all the memories

I have of us

They are locked up

In a vault so solid.

Because they hurt,

Did you know that?

My heart aches because

All we had is gone

Goodbye

I'll never say goodbye.

Love In Penang

Yesterday, I attended my first book launch at the Georgetown Literary Festival. 

Love In Penang is an anthology of 18 short stories published by Fixi Novo. My short story When It Rains can be found in this book. 

It was really cool to meet so many writers and hearing them read parts of their work. Unfortunately, I had to do the same, and I was definitely not expecting to actually have to do that. Needless to say, I was a wreck. I was also over-dressed because I had to attend my cousin's wedding dinner directly afterwards. I got to have my copy of the book autographed by most of the writers who attended the event also. Leroy and Ka-Min left soon after so I didn't have the chance to get their autographs too. 

But all in all, it was great. I mean, something I wrote is actually published. In a book!

Tomorrow, however, I find out how badly I did in my college semester exams. 

Trapped

It's morning again. The sunlight filtering into the room is soft, but I know that before long it will turn so glaring, shielding my eyes from it still leaves a bright orange glare behind my eyelids. I cannot move away from the light even though I want so much to do so. I want to groan at the beginning of another painful day even though I cannot make a sound. The sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling tell me that there is a much more beautiful world outside these four walls. These blue-painted walls in which I am trapped.

 I wait in silence for my torturer to come. I never know when he does, as it seems there is no method to his madness. So I wait, watching the shadows play with the light, shifting and dancing as the minutes turn into hours.

The sounds of activity around me grows as time passes. Voices, some deep and gruff, others soft and melodious. I want to see who those voices belong to, but even when they are in my room I cannot see them, for then I am blinded by the one who calls himself my owner.

There are thumps against wood, growing ever louder, and I know that he is coming. I hear some mumbling, and with effort I can guess that my torturer is looking for something in another room. It doesn't take long for him to find it, whatever it is that will be the thing to prolong my suffering today.

I always get ample warning before the torture starts. It's always the same. He comes at me slowly, and I take the deepest breath I can manage. I feel the soft material covering my face, force acting downwards and never letting up. Sometimes, the fabric is smooth, others rough. But always, it starts to burn after a while, especially when he purposely rubs the cloth over my face. I cannot breathe. The pressure is the same, but it has been a while now since it began. I try to take another breathe in through my nose, but there is no air for me. I smell the detergent that was used on the cloth, slightly flowery but chemical none the less. But I am thankful for it. Sometimes, the stench that comes through my nose is unbearable.

At some point, everything stops. There is no more sight, no more sound, and I just feel like falling apart. I try to count the seconds that pass and pray for a swift death or quick release. But always I am let down.

When the pressure finally starts to subside, I am ecstatic. I don't know how I have survived yet another day, but I am grateful. I hope he doesn't return again today, unlike other days.

Night has fallen, and I can see some stars through the window this night. My owner had moved me some time in the day while my torture was ongoing. I can feel a cool breeze flowing through the room.

It's a hard life; living like this is hardly pleasant. But I guess after a while I'll better get used to this life as a chair.

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Inspired by an Android app I just got called Writing Prompts. You can download it here. This was the prompt that I chose:

Creative

A day in the life of a chair

By the way, sorry for the troll. xD

When It Rains

When it rains,

My mind shifts to

Thoughts of you.

To your stormy eyes

That shine so bright

Even when the Sun

Hides from our sight.

To your raging heart,

So passionate and true,

That somehow beats in

Time with mine.

When it rains,

I remember how

Even during the worst

Hurricane, the promise of

A rainbow brings us through.

After all, in the rain

Is where I met you.

Dolls

It started off by accident.

I had always been good at crafts; my mother said that my long fingers and sharp eyes made creating things easy for me. However, it never really occurred to me to make dolls of any kind until I was fourteen and the bullying began.

At first, I thought that I could handle it. Name-calling and small pranks were mean-hearted and stung, but they were insignificant enough that I could shrug it off. Hair-pulling and homework-stealing I could take. Being ostracized and looked down upon by all my classmates, sure. But then the girls - those mean, vicious things - just had to start getting violent.

I'll have to admit, cutting off my hair was something I could probably have handled, though they did a terrible job of it. Of course, they got what they wanted: Me crying and screaming, but still helpless and resigned in the end. Punching me where the teachers could see it.... Well, that was stupid. But no one said anything, and my parents didn't believe me, or were just too busy to care. Force-feeding me dirty laundry though, now that was the last straw.

Never did I believe in supernatural things, least of all voodoo. But making those dolls gave me a sense of calm, of peace. Of vengeance. They were perfect replicas of their human counterparts. Originally, I was going to leave it at that. But one of the girls just left her brush and spare shirt there. Holding her doll to an open flame was somewhat vindictive, I'll confess, but cathartic too. It's not my fault she was found dead in her burnt out crisp of a home the next day.

It started off by accident. But then it became a hobby. Now.... Well, now things are just getting out of hand.
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This piece was written for a small contest to win a book. 

I was supposed to write a short story inspired by one of the titles in the book I was competing for (and won, but that's irrelevant). The title was 'Dolls', but was apparently changed to 'Playtime', I think. 
Here's the link to the book: KL Noir: White. My friend, Anne Lim, was also published in the book, so it'd be great if you can check it out!

Forgotten

I don’t want to be
Forgotten by those I hold
So dear in my heart.

Because time passes,
And washes away hopes,
Dreams, and memories.

It’s ever so sad
To see a friend but talk to
A stranger at heart.

The First Time

Once, someone asked me when I realised that I was in love with my best friend.

Was it, perhaps, when she called our kindergarten class bully a coward that was only brave enough to pick on kids smaller than them, then proceeded to call the teacher before he could land another punch to my belly or revisit his policy on not hitting girls.

It could have been when she helped me up and offered me some of her peanut butter sandwiches and some advice on not getting beaten up by those with low enough self-esteem to rely on physical violence to feel better about themselves. For a six-year-old, Ana had a surprising understanding for our world and its complexities. But for all of her chivalrous nobility, rational forethought and natural penchant for justice, she always had some less-than-honourable ideas to get things to go her way.

Or when we couldn't go to the same high school and I went to her house with tears in my eyes. When she slapped me on the head with a textbook and said "Shut up. You got into the best boy's school in the state." She didn't, of course, have to tell me that she got into said school's sister school. The one that was always mentioned in the same sentence with its counterpart. The one that had an even better academic track record than my own. I could see it in the way her eyes sparkled. The school handbook on her desk was a good clue too, though.

Maybe it was one of those many times we studied together after school and on weekends. When she would moan and groan at me about how much she hated Physics and Chemistry (but still never failed a test) while she helped me shred pages and pages of magazines to make into a collage for yet another art project. It was funny how well we got along even though she was the science-y kind that couldn't draw to save her life, and I couldn't tell you what DNA stood for even if you held a gun to my head.

It could have been the first time I gave my heart away and had it handed back to me in a million tiny pieces. When I showed up at your door so tied up in my own emotional whirlpool that I couldn't even tell you what happened, but she guessed anyway. When she wrapped me up in a bear hug and whipped out the ice-cream and horrible TV dramas that her mother hoarded. When she listened to me wax poetic about how the girl whose name I barely even remember now would send me a text good morning and another one good night, with small, intermittent messages about nothing at all, much the same way she did. But rather than hit me across the head (probably with a remote control or TV guide this time, I suppose), she just sat there and sang me a lullaby.

Perhaps it was when the same thing happened to her? That day had started like any other. Ana sent me a text bidding me a good day, along with a quick notation that you were going out on a date with Matthew (Or was it Michael? Marcus?). Not two hours later, my phone screen lit up with her name on it and I knew immediately that something was wrong. The text was brief, unemotional; like she didn't care the tiniest bit. But it was this that told me she probably wanted to break something, or scream at someone, or both. And both she did. Ranting about her then-boyfriend's cowardice for just not showing up to the date and only asking to break up after she called him may not have been the best way to get over it, but it sure succeeded in helping her let off some steam. Tearing up old newspapers, however, definitely wasn't the best thing to do. Even though she woke me up at six a.m. the next day just to go running on a Sunday, I didn't mind. I knew that talking it over wasn't enough; she were never the type to solve things by crying it out. Actions, she said, were always better than words.

So I guess that's why a couple of weeks later, I did something that many have warned me against doing. I asked my best friend out on a date. At first, she looked confused. But then the brightest smile lit up her face, and I knew things were going to go well for us.

I would have liked to start at the beginning, but who can say where it really began? Between one breath and another, I fell in love.

And maybe this will be my downfall. Not knowing really when and why I started loving you, that losing you will be more painful than literally having my heart ripped out of my chest. Or maybe it's the ring snuggled in its velvet box, waiting for me to pull it out.But no matter how unexpected my proposal would have been, it would have been nothing compared to when that speeding car took you away from me.

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This piece was inspired by one of Figment's daily prompts. The original prompt goes like this: 

Opening Line

I'd like to start at the beginning, but who can say where it really began? Between one breath and another, I fell in love.

 

Use this line as inspiration for a short story or poem.