Sugar Coated Detention Blues

Roy was home unusually early that night. Barging straight into his room, his mother thought that perhaps Roy was finally getting his priorities right and get down to his studies. Boy was she wrong.

Roy flung his school bag into the dark, dusty corner for him to pick up the following morning. He placed his favourite CD of the moment into the music deck and thumped the very foundations that held his house firm to the ground. And in an instant, his room once again transformed into a human pigsty as he rummaged his wardrobe for his football jersey.

It was the Inter-School football semi-finals after school the next day. And remembering his coach's last words to him that day, Roy was determined to get sufficient rest. Scoring four goals in the last 5 matches for the school, it wasn't easy for Roy not to feature in the semi-finals. He is red hot in form, working his magic down the left wing, mesmerizing the defenders like a professional gymnast.

Roy was up early the next day, his heart pounding and fluttering. Negative thoughts eroded his mind as he thought about the what ifs. The bell that signalled for assembly startled Roy from his thoughts as his classmates ceased their chattering and formed into their neat rows. As the National Anthem was sung, Roy overheard Sally and Zul discussing about a Math problem. "Shucks!", he thought. In his excitement, Roy had totally forgotten about the Maths worksheet that was due that day.

Frantically, Roy slithered his way up to Sally as the class was walking toward the science laboratory. Roy still had 2 hours before math class, and yet again, he found himself copying homework. Sick and tired of his lazy ways, Sally, being the sweet and demure girl of the class, once again allowed Roy to copy her hard work wholesale. Or so we all thought.

It was about time, Sally thought that Roy started concentrating on the academic side of school. And so, during recess that day, she marched confidently toward the teacher's lounge, with a hideous motive.

Sally emptied endless tales on Roy's bad habits to the form teacher, who was seated right beside the discipline master and school principal. She felt accomplished and tried hard to subdue the grin on her face as she left the lounge. Just before the school bell rang to mark the end of recess, a familiar voice boomed through the speakers.

"Can Roy from 4B please report to the principal's office immediately?", it echoed through the school walls. "Fuck!", Roy thought. "What now?", he quizzed himself, as he hurried toward the office with half the school fixated on him.

In a few minutes, Roy emerged from the room, his heart overflowing with sadness. His eyes drooped heavy with vengeance as he thought hard about whoever that could have snitched on him. Roy couldn't think of anyone at all. "You are out of the football team Roy. Until you prove to me you are worthy to get back into the team", the principal barked. "But it's the semi-f...".."No buts!", the principal interrupted Roy. "The ban comes into effect immediately! You will report for detention everyday. Let me brush up your lazy bones. Now go back to class!", the principal seemed firm with his stand.


Roy cursed himself silly as he dragged himself into the class. Everyone fell silent as Roy made his way to the back of the class with a glint of tears in his eyes. Within a few minutes, through stolen whispers, the entire class was now aware of Roy's predicament and how he's going to miss that all important semi-final football match that same afternoon. And silently, Sally felt the gloss taken out of her actions. Guilty as a murderer, she somehow knew that her actions had shattered that boy's dreams. And Sally felt sorry. Really sorry.

As soon as the bell rang to signal the end of school, noise filled the air as the students congregated amongst their cliques and plan their activities ahead. Roy took his time to keep his books, his face still painting a picture of a sullen mess. He looked out toward the canteen where the football boys usually sat. They were all getting ready for the big match. Roy shouted out to them, still affording a smile as he wished them luck. Feeling like a pricked pin, Sally hurried past Roy, deep with regret.

Roy entered the detention room with his mind elsewhere. How ironic it was that the room was facing the football pitch. The players looked like small matchstick men as they lined up for the kick off. Roy leaned against the corner pillar as he concentrated eminently on the match. It was obvious where his heart was at that moment.

Sally cleared her throat as she stood at the entrance of the detention class. Startled, Roy asked, "Sally...What are U doing here?". "Ermmm...I don't know how to put this in words but...actually...I was the one that told on you. I'm sorry", Sally blurted out, not daring to look Roy in the eye.

Roy looked at Sally full of shock and awe. Too devastated to even feel any hate toward Sally, Roy turned his gaze back onto the football game. Only this time, his mind was elsewhere. Never had he felt so betrayed. To think that he secretly had a crush on Sally!

Sally, stood rooted, waiting for Roy to mutter something. But Roy remained numb. Sensing her presence wasn't welcome, sadly, Sally turned and walked slowly out of the room, stealing a glance back at Roy, hoping he'd at least say something or perhaps...look back. Just as she exited, she placed a bar of chocolate on Roy's bag, remembering how much he loves chocolates judging from all those empty wrappers he stashed under his desk in the class room.

The school football team lost that afternoon by a single goal in stoppage time. The team missed Roy, and Sally hoped she didn't have to suffer the same fate too.

Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

The ghastly silence of the morning was rattled by the chirping of sparrows, filling the fresh misty atmosphere of the neighbourhood. The sun, still eager to reveal its radiant face, peeped bit by bit over the horizon. A huge Angsana tree, old and sturdy as time itself provided a night like shadow across Haley's room. Before long, the ringing alarm clock signaled the time for Haley to awake from her deep sleep.

She stretched herself like a lazy cat and muted the clock on her bedside table. Still very much in a daze, she stood up with eyes closed and walked toward the window to draw her curtains and breathe in the fresh new morning.

Haley stood rooted by the window on the second floor almost like a ritual, as she watched the cars zoom by the little street and the morning sparrows flying out of their little homes.

If you were as observant as she was, you could just make out those dark brown nests, looking like flower pots perched on the sturdy branches of the Angsana. Moving your gaze a little, it wasn't too difficult to spot another, and yet another nest. What cosy little homes Haley thought as she longed to be a bird perhaps, flying free and fast in her next life.

As the day wore on and Haley was busy at school, her mother was stopped in her tracks as she was performing her household chores. The monstrous heavy ramblings of powerful machinery filled the air. They sounded like chainsaws. "Finally, they've come to prune the trees", she thought.

The foreign workers laboured on those thick branches like a barber would a disheveled caveman. And soon after, the huge Angsana looked almost stripped and bare, less for a couple of smaller branches, which breathed the only form of life left in that listless tree.

That evening, as Haley was about to close her windows, she noticed something rather peculiar. She could somehow look straight through into her opposite neighbours' home. "Ah, they have trimmed the trees", she mumbled to herself.

Sadly, never did anyone spare a thought for those sparrows who once homed on that huge old tree, sheltering them from the night monsoon, and cold howling winds. Surely, the sparrows could not have constructed another nest to sleep in, within that measly few hours.

I wonder what would it have felt like, when they came home that evening to see their homes destroyed and lost? Where could these innocent sparrows sleep that night? Somewhere out there, those poor little souls are now wondering...aimless...and homeless.

Just Two Minutes

Do you remember your first date with that important someone? That nerve wrecking feeling where you fret silly on selecting that perfect outfit? Spending hours confronting your open wardrobe, pondering on your apparently vast, but seemingly limited choice of fine threads? I remembered vividly my first date in recent years not too long ago, albeit its queer circumstances that led to that date. But secretly, I coveted our second date more than any other. To me, that was the real proper first date between Yvonne and me.

Always a cool customer, my heart was only sent pounding, like African drums that brief few moments before she arrived. It wasn't as if I was meeting her for the first time, but somehow, a whole part of me just wanted to make everything right for myself. At least I felt I deserve a shoulder to lie my heavy head on, and break the chains that once held me down for so long.

Being out of the game for so long didn't help at all, but I thank god for my ability to converse and rattle on small talk, and her ability to reciprocate in similar fashion. Yvonne looked stunning from the distance. She had on a simple black dress, with a black shawl slung around her shoulders like an exotic snake. Not one to accesorise herself with jewelry, she did however had on a gladiator like bracelet to complete her look. She walked toward me wearing the most unforgettable smile, like the cherry toppings on a chocolate sundae. My heart was racing once again.

The first few minutes was rather queer but it ironed out fine. It was easy to slip into a comfortable mood with her warm and cheery disposition. I sensed many roving eyes penetrating on her and back at me. They must be wondering how lucky this plain looking chap is to be with such an adorable little pixie. It felt liberating one way or another.

I was never one to conform to social norms by restricting my dates to a dinner or a movie. I prefer conversing and getting to know the individual. Grasping bits and pieces of her personality via the way she speaks, laughs, and body language. I find it thoroughly sexy when the opposite sex questions my thoughts and challenges my opinions. I enjoy uncovering that little few similarities and differences, even though we come from diffrent backgrounds. Yvonne exceeded my expectations on that front, and a whole lot more.

We ordered desserts by a cafe by the busy sidewalk, with throngs of people, old and young, zooming past us. There were groups of friends, perhaps about to catch a movie...there were some scrambling their way home after a hard day's work. I would also imagine that some were eager to meet their loved ones, or maybe their date...just like I was.

The chattering of the evening birds returning to their homes were like music to the world, as the sun began to set, returning the elegant moon her shine once more. The lights that lined up the bust city streets illuminated and cast strange shadows on the walkways, and then, our desserts arrived, interrupting our conversation.

By and large, every minute spent on that date with her seemed like mere seconds. I choose to believe that we talked about anything and everything under the sun...so much so that I couldn't even remember what was being said. I did remember two things significantly though.

First was that I wasn't sure if she'd enjoy that secret little place I wanted to take her after our dessert. For the fact that she wasn't entirely properly attired for a long walk, just to chill at a unconventional location. Deep down however, I was adamant that she would appreciate that little sanctuary of mine. The parapet they call it, was definitely love at first sight.

And the other thing that I choose to remember from that day was how captivated I was by her smile, the twinkle in her eyes, and the charming effect it had on me.

Yvonne didn't complain about the arduous walk to the parapet. Rather short she said. Perhaps, our conversations, and the cosy little shophouses that line the roads kind of took that thought away. Though reluctant initially for the fear of heights, I felt she trusted me enough as I took her soft porcelain hands for the very first time and climbed the concrete ledge, overlooking the cars whiskering below us into the tunnel. The air was warm and the subtle winds comforting.

We sat there for hours, bickering, laughing, and sharing thoughts and the sort. Subconsciously, I found myself stealing glances at her, whenever she isn't looking. I loved the way she smelt, the way she snuggled up to me, and the fact that how a simple date can turn to be even more splendid, than any other I've been on.

My little fairytale ended as the night grew late, signaling the time for us to head back home. Though we live at the opposite ends of the island, I didn't blame her for thinking how I shouldn't have seen her home. She was just being thoughtful.

But to me, I felt that was the least I could do, to thank her for a wonderful time, and for the respect that I had for her. It was about time, I started to be a real gentleman. I didn't want to admit this initially, but part of me was reluctant to start missing her company prematurely.

We met again after that night, most of which were spent in similar fashion. Up till this moment, I've yet to recall any dull moment whatsoever spent together with Yvonne. Things just kept getting better and better. If this really is a dream, I'd opt to sleep forever.

On one of those dates yet again she told me how I needn't see her home. Though she meant well, I still felt compelled to spend that last priceless moments with her in the taxi cab. Though silent, these were always the best moments.

Reality hits you right in the face as the lift door closes. The first two minutes after seeing someone you like leave, is when you miss them the most. And the long journey home after that, usually the loneliest.

A Memory Lost

Like many people around us, especially in an Asian context, a grandmother is usually the most notably respected figure within our family circle. Like mine, they were always there to shelter us from storm, and the buffer when our angst parents wants to reprimand us. They were always be there, forever armed with age old wits and everlasting grace.

Though flaunting all those traits that I've mentioned, my grandmother seemed a little more beaming with strength and grit. Having lived through a war, burying 3 of her own children, catastrophic racial riots, and raising her remaining children through the drug filled 60s, she somehow managed to see through the tough road at hand, painting her life picture, dotted with bliss and sorrow.

Growing up in the same house, I noticed many people remembering her in their own unique ways. Be it her demanding discipline for upholding strong family values, patience, undying love and compassion or even her accommodating nature amongst many countless positive traits, I choose to remember her in another light.

As a very young boy, full of questions and constantly observant, I've always pondered what hardship or immense worry could have casted those dark wrinkles on her angelic face, like shadows, being casted upon deep dark valleys. Never one to talk about her sorrows, "What do they know?", she'd mutter, starring at my late grandfather's portrait, as if whispering to him. She found a way though, to kerb her pain. Cigarettes.

I could still picture her sitting on her favourite dark blue velvet couch, cigarette wedged loosely, as if hanging from dear life between her lips. She took deep breaths as she inhaled the smoke, rarely battling even an eyelid during those brief moments that she coveted. Perplexed with the cacophony of thoughts straying inside her, she seldom flicked the ashes too. She would allow it to accumulate like solidified dust, only for its own weight to eventually scatter it down on the floor. It must be devastating, my young mind questioned, the thoughts churning through her mind.

"Come here", she'd beckon out to me, interrupting me from my playtime. "Take this $10 and get me a pack of Kent lights, a loaf of bread, and please buy yourself something too", she would say, as she placed the note firmly unto my little palms.

I relish days like these for I enjoyed being out of the house for that brief few moments. I'd run down that sorry excuse for a hill, with the wind gushing in my face, refusing to slow down my pace until I reached that humble store at the end of the road. Torn and battered from the outside, the store stood sturdy over the years. it had pebbled stones for a floor, and the cash register was nothing but an old rusty Milo tin, fastened to an elastic spring that was riveted to one of those heavy wooden beams.

The store Uncle, a man in the twilight of his years, seemed energetic for his age. The wrinkles and scars that decorated his body seemed like an epic tale, begging to be told. He placed a pack of Kent Lights onto the wooden counter, almost reading my mind. I grabbed the load of bread closest to me, and hurried quickly to the rows of candy, picking my favourite one out.

My grandmother would usually reward me a dollar to run her errands. Initially, I'd spent the money the very next day at school. Usually on unimportant stationery, or snacks. But as I grew older, and the $1 note ceased in production, I began to cultivate the habit of saving. not for a rainy day, but rather a hope, that these little notes, that I wish to keep forever, shall remind me of her. It comforts me to know, that when my grandmother is long gone, I still have something, which her bare hands touched before.

Many moons later, as I had a family of my own, I was appalled at the reluctance of my children refusing to run me those simple errands, on this particular day. Glued to their video games, even the convenience store two floors below the apartment, seemed worlds away. Useless twits I'd tell myself as I ran the errands myself.

I climbed the stairs, with my purchase wrapped in a plastic bag, and recalled my youth as a boy running up and down that hill and decided to rummage my cupboard for that old brass tin, where I kept all of the money my grandmother gave me a long time ago. Though dusty and rusted, it still looked majestic to me. Never in my life had I taken the time to count all that money, and in an instant, I became that eager little boy I once was. I closed my room door shut, and emptied the contents unto the floor.

The smell of old money seeped through the air as it brought back all those memories as I counted them one by one. Then there was this particular note half blotched red with blood. I remembered that day particularly well, for I tripped and fell on my way back from the shop. Fearing a beating for staining my clothes, I used the note like a tissue, dabbing my slightly bleeding elbows. How time flew I thought. Twenty odd years worth of errands, and $1016 richer, I gasped in utter bewilderment!

I squeezed back all those money into the tin and placed it near the wall of family portraits, right under that of my grandmother's, and silently prayed for her, closing my eyes and imagining her shining a toothless smile back on me.

That very night, as tragic as it may sound, my apartment got burgled, though no one was harmed or awake when the crime took place. There wasn't much that the thieves made with less for a couple of mobile phones, a laptop, and a few cheap fakes for paintings. But they did got away with that brass tin, nestled by the portrait on the wall.

That morning, as I sat at my favourite dark blue velvet couch, smoking a cigarette, I questioned the irony of it all. To have such a saddened end to a legacy of memories between grandmother and grandson, robbed from my grasp was not easy to fathom. My wife didn't tell me how devastatingly beaten I looked that morning until a few days later. She didn't have to. From that moment, I knew what it felt to have been stripped bare...and let go of something one loves so dearly.

(FYI: This is not a true story. My grandmother is still alive and kicking. I pray for her long life. This is just my way, of saying how much I appreciate the little things that she does for me.)

Not Any Colour But Black

Their meeting was chanced, just like a shooting star fleeting across the vastness of the night sky. A solitary blink, and you'd lose it forever, anxiously waiting for the next one. It could be just a minute away, but people are known to have waited for eternity, and only see it in their distant of dreams.

"Are you hurt Miss?", Jonny asked as he left his scooter lying by the kerb and rushed toward the lady examining her bleeding knees. In his haste, Jonny only just braked in time to avoid colliding head on with Sasha, who was waiting by the side of the badly lit street. Her raven black hair, covered most of her face as she stooped down to wipe away the dotted traces of blood which marked her lightly grazed knees.

"Didn't you see me?", she muttered under her angry voice, which was assertive, yet soft enough like the graceful notes played on an old piano. "Well, it's really dark, and you're wearing black. I just saw you at the last moment. I'm really sorry",Jonny apologised sincerely. "Maybe we should go to the clinic," Jonny offered.

"Nahh. I'm fine really. Just a scratch. Just a scratch", Sasha said as she looked up to face a very concerned Jonny. Both looked at each other, for a moment forgetting why they were facing each other in the very first place. His looks, an uncanny resemblance to the Korean actor, whose posters littered majestically across the four walls of her teenage bedroom.

Sasha's almond eyes, with a hint of dew dropped wetness for tears sent Jonny's heart racing a few beats too fast. Her wry smile faded away, like the pain that once engulfed her trembling left knee. Coyly, she looked away, smiling broadly toward the dark empty road in the background.

Clueless, Jonny stammered his way into asking Sasha her intentions for waiting by the side of this lonely road so late at night. "I'm waiting for a cab", she answered softly. "Well, at least let me gift you a lift home. It's the least I could do", Jonny persisted.

With a hint of reluctance for the fact that she was probably never going to get a cab there, she agreed. It was really the first time Sasha rode on a scooter, and she gripped Jonny's waist tightly, enjoying the cool night breeze blowing unto her flawless cheeks, and causing her hair to dance in all directions.

"Can I see you again?", Jonny found the courage to ask Sasha as she was unfastening the helmet strap. "Only if you ride a little more slowly the next time!", Sasha wittily replied as she handed Jonny her name card. Jonny beamed like a 10 year old and felt that heavy guilt lifted off from his chest. "The name is Jonny!", he exclaimed after Sasha walked a couple of steps toward her block. "I know! It's written on the back of your helmet, silly!", Sasha shot back, full of smiles.

They met almost whenever they could after that for they enjoyed each others' company. Day by day, as they learnt more about one another, there was just no separating them as their feelings etched closer and closer as one.

Jonny, who was still nursing the wounds inflicted from his past relationship, though wanting, somehow distant himself in confusion from confessing his true feelings toward Sasha. Scared and daring not to venture into another relationship, Jonny remained lull, leaving Sasha lost and wandering in her own sphere.

Then on one windless night, as two hopeful souls confided in each other under the glittering spread of stars, that were given new life from the motherly full moon, Sasha slipped a perfumed coated letter into Jonny's shirt pocket. "Read it once you're home", she requested. The scantily lit night sky gazed gracefully at the two, who were sprawled across the pale white sand on a lonely beach, muttering a prayer of its own, a wishing star shot across the sky, only just catching the watch of Sasha's smiling eyes.

In Sasha's letter, it read:

'Dear Jonny, in this short time that we have known each other, though it started with a bleeding knee, I long for our relationship to not end abruptly with a bleeding heart. I've always looked forward to our meetings and have not met anyone as charming and beautiful as you, inside and out.

I can't help noticing a sheer reluctance in you. The fact that you seem to want to tell me something, but then holding back your thoughts at the last moment. You may have your reasons, and I shall respect that.

But I can't hold it any longer. It's not my style to fall so hard, and I must confess I really like you and would want for us to make that natural progression in this relationship. If you feel the same way, do not tell me Yes. Just put on the black shirt that I got you for your birthday last week to make me smile. And I'll give my heart to you.'

Jonny read the letter for the hundredth time, breathing in her perfumed scent that came with the letter. Jonny went to bed that night, full of thoughts, before finally closing his tired eyes with Sasha's letter still in the clutch of his left hand.

The next day, Sasha waited patiently for Jonny at the atrium. Her heart pounded whenever a man, clad in a black top emerged from the ascending escalator in the near distant. None of them was Jonny.

Then Sasha recognised that neatly combed hair from afar. As Jonny emerged from the escalator, Sasha's heart dropped a million miles below as Jonny had on a brown jacket. Sasha felt like pouring her eyes out, like the heavy rain that battered the road outside.

Both of them walked silently into the ice cream parlour. Sasha was at the brink of just going home as she unwillingly sat on the velvet cushioned chair in the corner of the store. That was until Jonny took off his jacket. He had on that black shirt that Sahsa bought him. Sasha beamed in utter embarrassment for making herself feel silly, and looking vulnerable to Jonny's roving eyes.

Jonny sat down trying to look into Sasha's eyes. "Is that a black shirt?", Sasha asked. "I dunno. You tell me", Jonny exclaimed as he clenched Sahsa's hands with his.

Of How They Met

He looked a picture of subdued nonchalance as he sat on the steps of the wedding dias. Dressed sharply in a cute little black suit, he had a bright red rose pinned onto his left breast pocket, but the petals were criminally missing from its bud. His hair, fashionably glossed and combed to the side, made him looked like an under aged lady-killer. Admist the riot of people running up and about to prepare for the wedding, there he was, the most dashing looking page boy, on the wedding dias, in utter boredom, plucking the flowers that painted the place a dazzling hue of colours.

She on the other hand, as eloquent and fluid as a Russian ballerina, walked graciously around the wedding reception area, melting the hearts of the adults who were extra early for the occasion. Her baby fats seemed apparent underneath that cherubic smile, with a hint of chocolate stains on the sides of her lips. Her English basket was full to the brim with roses the colour of blood and angels. Clasping the handle tightly under her arms, there she was, the most amiable flower girl, fretting here and about, as she awaited her eldest sister to walk the aisle.

The chattering ceased as the music flowed from the organ. All heads turned to the back as the page boy held his flower girl's hands tightly, like a prince from a well loved fairy tale. As they took as small a step their little legs could muster, they warmed everyone's hearts with an element of innocent childlike charm.

The flower girl, suddenly queasy from the stares and tension, for a moment, allowed her concentration to lapse, tripping on the velvet carpet, face first. The crowd gasp, some in shock, but mostly in a light hearted mannerism. She shot up almost immediately, coming out of her daze. The page boy bent down to rub the rose petals off her knees, and planting a kiss on her cheek, that made the flower girl blush, redder than the flowers in the clasp of her tiny hands.

The wedding went on smoothly, and before long, the place went silent again as throngs of people rushed out to see off the bride and groom into their newlywed car. Page boy and Flower girl stood in the background, obscured to the joys and feverish delight of the adults at present. As the sun began to set, everyone went their separate ways, including the page boy and flower girl, who all this while, never spoke a word to each other.

Seasons came and went. The city landscapes changed ever so often, giving way to the newer taller buildings. Gardens became smaller and roads became wider and and it didn't take long before the old monuments became long forgotten, buried in the shadows of the modern city facade.

For Alice and Akiel, their homecoming to this small island brought back many fond memories. Though they didn't know each other previously, it was the fact that they both came from the same island, that brought their dainty hearts close to each other whilst studying abroad.

And after years of courting and romantic arguments, finally, it was time to tie the knot. Alice, dreaming of this day ever since she was 12, was living it now, only better. Blessed with a good career and a successful partner, Alice's smiled reeked a dollar short of a million.

Like all weddings, smiles and well wishes came from all angles as they drank and sang and participated in friendly bickering, adding to the colourful and joyous atmosphere. Playing onto the large projector on stage, was a short video, which showed many pictures and clips of how Akiel and Alice met while they were students, the dates they had, the places they've been, and the friends that were there to see a love so perfect form from nothingness.

But alas, not many people knew the truth, not even the wedding couple. It wasn't always true, the mesages these pictures and videos try to convey. This wasn't the true story of how Akiel and Alice met.

For a long time ago, when the city was still charming with its old world flavour, in that very same hall, two beautiful souls met for the very first time. One was a dashing page boy, and the other, his beautiful flower girl.

The Perfect Night

"Should I get the one in Red or Black?", Ishah asked me for the umpteenth time we were in the shoe shop. In my mind, I was racing to get out of that shop. It was torturous, to have to accompany her to the shoe shop at least once every fortnightly to temporarily quench her 'beyond control' shoe fetish.

Like a helpless fool, I only knew too well that it would have been fruitless to persuade her to walk out of the shop empty handed. Half-heartedly, I muttered, "Black lah Black lah. It goes well with the new top", I tried to sound helpful, praying that it would hasten the decision making process. "But the red one is nice too!", she exclaimed. Here we go again, as I prepared myself to warm the stool for another half an hour.

"You angry with me ah?", Ishah snuggled up to me as she playfully boxed my chest repeatedly. "Ok lah ok lah, now we can go and look for your shirt k?", she tried to comfort me. I glanced at my watch, cursing under my breath that I'm left with just under 20 minutes before the mall closes and I have yet to get a white shirt for my annual company Dinner & Dance the following day.

My attempts to scour for the perfect white shirt was a total nightmare. I only managed to look through two boutiques before the store assistants began to hint at me that they would have to call it a day soon. Reluctantly, I was plagued with the decision to either purchase a shirt which cutting I did not fancy, or to wear my old shirt. I opted for the latter.

Bursting with anger I quickened my pace as Ishah struggled to keep abreast with me. Her shopping bags were holding her back but she knew me too well to even whisper for assistance. We didn't speak a word on the way home. It wasn't new to us this painted scenario. Somehow or rather, I tend to simmer down after an hour or so. But not today.

As we were walking toward Ishah's house, I broke the most uncomfortable of silence yet in our two year relationship. "You better not wear that new pair of shoes for the dinner tomorrow", I warned her sternly. "But why?", she pleaded in her catlike mews. "Well you know too well how popular you and your blister prone feet are with new pairs of shoes! I got no time to entertain your nonsense tomorrow Ishah". She hung her heavy head low, and we parted ways for the night without the usual peck on the cheek.

Invigorated by a much needed ten hour sleep, the first thing I thought about when I woke up to the morning sun was Ishah. I knew she was going to mesmerize me with her dazzling sequined dress and infectious smile. I smiled to myself, as I pictured entering the ballroom with our hands entwined, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

Ishah didn't dissapoint me that night. The blooming orchids paled and bowed down to her as she stood there glittering in the shadows. She glistened in the dark as the moonlight reflected itself into a million angles off her sequined dress. Her Tiffany necklace accesorised her bare neck. A gift I got her for our first year anniversary. But most heart warming of all was that she wore her hair into a bun knowing that it would give her a huge headache by the end of the night. But Ishah knew that I loved it when she do up her hair that way.

As I got closer, I cant't help noticing the new pair of shoes she had on, but I decided to not utter a word and ruin this perfect evening. I was almost too afraid to even touch her, for fear that her delicate beauty would be brutally tampered with before we even reached the hotel.

I held her hands under the evening sky for a brief few seconds, distracted. I didn't mind just standing there, allowing her to overpower me while time stood still. "Well Shall we go my dear?", she broke the silence and brought me back to my senses. "Can we not go?", I asked cheekily as we walked toward the idling car.

I was blessed that night as Ishah blended well with my colleagues and superiors.They took an instant liking toward her. She knew when to crack a joke and when to say the right words. Her poise and finesse surprised even myself for I never saw this side of her before. For a mildly shy girl, I was taken aback when she readily agreed to take part in the activities lined up for the night.

I noticed Ishah beginning to move rather uneasily as the night wore on. The curse of the new shoes! As I walked with her toward the dance floor, she tried her best not to limp. She caught me gazing at her swollen heel but she didn't mutter a word. Just the sweetest wry smile for a response.

We danced, we talked, we teased and we acted as though we have not seen each other for ages. The silence was comfortable this time round as our bodies sashayed along with the rhythm of the slow number filling the ballroom air, marking the end of a wonderful evening.

As I brought my car up close to the pavement, my heart seemed heavy with lead, as i woke Ishah up from her sleep, knowing that the night was about to end. I could tell that her head was about to burst as she immediately let loose her hair before I could even walk to the other side to open her car door.

Ishah still managed to radiate a warm smile as she held my hands and got out of the car. Her right heel was bleeding by now from the squirm on her face but yet again she put on a brave front and tried to hide it from me.

I lowered myself and motioned for her to wrap her arms around my neck so that I could piggyback her and save her from further torment. She obliged willingly at my sudden display of affection. It isn't me to pamper her this way but somehow, I could not explain my actions that night.

We didn't talk as I struggled along the long pathway. The crickets provided some background orchestra while I felt her heavy breaths upon my neck. From the corner of my eye, I noticed her eyes were closed but she had on the most satisfying of smiles. I huffed and I puffed as I manoevered up the flights of steps till I reached the fourth storey and right up till her doorstep.

"We're home", I said while she gently got off from my aching back. "Thank You", she said with her eyes half closed as she massaged my spine for a brief few seconds. I kissed her on her forehead and wished her good night and disappeared down the flight of steps as soon as the door closed on me.

The events of the night flashed back into my mind as I walked past the exact spot where she stood and waited for me earlier on. It was then that I received a long text message on my mobile. It was from Ishah. It read:

"I had such a good time tonight and I'm sorry that I wore my new pair of shoes. It was just that it looked perfect with my dress. Sorry that you had to carry me back up all the way to the fourth storey k? By the way, that was the best part of the night for me. Love you deep deep! Nite."

My heart felt heavy again but only because it was full of love for Ishah. I didn't tell her this, but that was the best part of the night for me too.

One Key Fits All

This story is inspired by the homecoming of a long lost friend.


In the rush hour of one Grand Central Subway Station in New York City, Valerie swiftly swiveled her head the other direction as the rapturous gust of wind created a riot within her soft brown hair. By and large, as much as she hated that, it never failed to remind her of her growing up days in Singapore. Squeezing her petite body through the tiniest of gaps just before the MRT door beeped and close so that she won't be late for her lectures in the polytechnic.

It had been a good 15 years now since she had not returned to the sunny island. Frequent phone calls home grew few and far between as she refused to swallow her pride and reconcile ties with her parents. She knew that they had a point for refusing their young girl venturing out into the vast corporate world 10000 miles across the planet. With no family, friends, and warm fish porridge to sooth her soul at the end of every hectic New York work day, Valerie finally realised how important a support system a family and home mean.

Her walk up apartment, albeit being smack down in the middle of the big apple, cosy and comfortable in every sense of the word with a Siamese cat for company, somehow lacked the warmth of her HDB flat. Valerie tried hard to brush such thoughts from her mind, but gazing upon the Chinese family sitting opposite her in the Subway train, it somehow made her miss home even more.

Valerie had given this issue much thought and finally, after all these years of sculpting her own success in a foreign land with nothing but grit and strength, she packed her suitcase and purchased a one-way ticket for Singapore.

No one knew of her abrupt decision. Not even her dear sister, who was the only form of contact she has had all these years via the convenience of email and MSN that made her feel ever so close, yet never close to home.

Valerie struggled with her luggage with excitement and fear all rolled into one as she brisked quickly toward the taxi stand. It was quite a feeling to see so many Singlish speaking folks in one place. Barely 5 minutes in Singapore, and the euphoria of the Lahs and Lehs in the background made her smile warmly.

The kind old taxi uncle assisted her with the luggage before asking her in classic Singlish, "Go where?". Valerie smiled before replying, "Uncle, Ang Mo Kio Avenue 10 please! Hurry Up. I'm late!"

Valerie was shocked and impressed by some of the changes she had missed in the course of time she was away. Blocks of flats were now painted an array of vibrant colours. Commercial buildings that used to lack character now breathed a new life of its own. For the first time in her life, Valerie felt what it was like to be alone and foreign in her own country!

As the taxi sped closer and closer to her destination, Valerie felt all warm and fuzzy on the inside, like that on a first date with someone special. She was glad however that there were indeed some things that hasn't changed. She noticed the bamboo poles sticking out like ugly extensions from the kitchen side of the HDB flats. Only this time, they seemed much....homely after all.

Valerie noticed that the Chinese Medicine halls and Mama shops still existed in those void deck retail space. At the end of her block, she noticed that the coffeeshop where as a young girl, she would run her father an errand to buy a pack of cigarettes still stood majestically in its old glory with bright orange letterings that read 'Ah June Coffee Shop'.

Valerie hurried toward one of those Mama shops like an eager child with her luggage dragging behind her. "Uncle, can I have one Grape Yakult please?", Valerie requested in her 'Ang Moh' accent. "This one 80 cents", the fifty something year old Indian man replied, rather flustered with the fact that this lady had disrupted him reading his newspaper. "What!? 80 cents!? It used to cost only 50 cents back then", Vivien retorted.

The Indian uncle looked bewildered and scratched his head. "Erm, where you from girl?", he asked. "I'm from Ang Mo Kio!", Valerie replied in an excited tone. "Thank You uncle! See you again!", Valerie bid her farewell and left before the Indian shopkeeper could fathom what had happened within the last 2 minutes.

Thank god for the HDB upgrades, they now had lifts servicing every floor which saved Valerie the struggle of lugging her bags up a couple flights of steps to the 12th floor. Valerie seemed confused at first for she remembered she had to get off at the 10th floor before running up the flight of steps to her house but she suddenly remembered her sister mentioning about the upgrades in the neighbourhood.

As she walked closer to her flat, all the sweet memories of home rushed into her head. She remembered playing hopscotch and catching with her neighbours along the corridors, as well throwing her sweet wrappers off the 12th storey ledge just to see it dancing in the wind before hitting the ground. Such fond sweet memories Valerie thought.

Her heart beat faster and stronger as she stood facing her house. Everything seemed the same since the day she left. It was as though these 15 years didn't even occur and was just one long dream. Valerie rummaged her handbag for her old set of keys which she kept all these years, waiting for a a day like today.

Slowly, she inserted the brass key into the keyhole, half wondering if the family had changed its locks or something during her time away. The door catch clicked loose with one swift turn of the key. It was such a great feeling, after all those torrid years of silence with her parents, to know that they refused to change those creaking old doors, just in case, their dear daughter would come back one fine day.

Two Cups of Coffee

This story is dedicated to everyone in my life that's either always busy or lying to be busy just so that they can spend their entire day lazing at home.


When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day is not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and Two Cups of Coffee.


A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him.
When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls.

He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls.

He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.


The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."

The professor then produced Two Cups of Coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand.

The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life.

The golf balls are the important things -- God, Family, Children, Health, Friends,and favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter -- like your job, house, and car. The sand is everything else . . . the small stuff."

"If you put the sand into the jar first" . . he continued . . "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you."

"So... Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another game of golf (I, the writer prefers Football but a football is larger than life and can't fit into a god damn mayonaise jar!). There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first . . the things that really matter. Set your priorities . . . the rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked . . it just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."

Upon Which The Eye Should Be Closed

It should be closed to looking at fine countenances lustfully. But if someone with a pure heart does so, admiring them as wonders of God’s creation, it is not wrong.


If you should gaze in purity upon a rosy cheek,
It is not prohibited to gaze upon the rose and the tulip;
But if the eye gazing upon it is not pure,
The kohl around such an eye is naught but dust

- Annonymous

Mistaken Identity

With Isaac's wedding just a week away, this was definitely the last weekend two best friends, close like heat to fire, will be spending their time together. All those preparations, done laboriously bit by bit over the last few months have finally come to a cease fire. Isaac's mind was finally at ease, from the harrowing nagging his wife to be had bestowed upon him. Like all women, Isabella just wanted her wedding to be perfect like a long lost painting. The men as they say, just don't get it.

It would have been one of those nights where we intoxicated ourselves silly with hard liquor, dancing amongst the lilies, willingly encouraging our hands to roam freely on ravishing dancing queens. Tasting foreign sweat dripping languidly down angelic faces, gyrating with pleasure as they moan and squirm beneath those monster bass beats. But alas, we were having none of those stag night splendour. Truly love shouldn't be put through such tests.

Red Hot Chili Peppers was performing to a sold out crowd that night, and that was how we planned to rock our last weekend away. All those boyhood memories of jamming those Red Hot numbers during our youth slowly flooded our minds as we stood patiently in the snaking queue. Silent and oblivious to those anxious fans amongst us, we reminisced those days once again. Days where Michael, Johan, Bob, Irfan, Isaac and me ruled our little own world. Days of being wild.

We always did things together says the other boys in school. We played on the same football team, we fought those back lane brawls together, we shared our first packet of cigarettes, and pooled whatever money we had to take girls out to fancy restaurants. Silently, both Isaac and I flashed back on our glamorous youth and how we have grown into fine men and now, for once, Isaac will be leading a life with the other love of his life taking over watch duties. I knew I was going to miss our frequent coffee shop talks and Sunday football, yet I'm utterly elated that finally he has found a gem of a woman. Isaac, was in good hands.

Red Hot Chili Peppers didn't disappoint as usual. A blazing performance that rocked the stadium wild with blood sweat and tears. As we departed from the concert, the euphoria of the night still left our ears popping. It was as though our ears had trapped those melodious riffs in our heads, unwilling to let them out into the night sky.

"Im getting a drink. Bloody thirsty. What do you want?", I asked Isaac as I trotted my weak from jumping knees toward the 7-Eleven store. "Just get me a bottle of 100-Plus man", Isaac replied while tossing a cigarette into his mouth. A group of rowdy young men exited the store as I was about to enter it. They reeked of alcohol and apparently, it wasn't enough as each of them carried a 6-pack in their hands. The boys sure looked like trouble, all of only 18 years of age max!

My shoulders brushed against one of those hooligans, who immediately glanced back in mockery. I felt his piercing stares on under my leather jacket and shot back a look over my shoulders. "Eh Jerome! You're Jerome right, Sonia's friend?". I nodded in partial bewilderment. "This is Jack lah, Sonia's younger brother", he slurred like the drunk that he was. "Oh Jack. You've grown up huh. Tell Sonia I said Hi man", I thought he looked awfully familiar.

I grabbed the drinks and joined in the unusually long queue. I blamed the concert for that, leaving all those fans hyped with thirst. As I was paying for the drinks, shouts filled the air, disgruntling the night peace. Those people behind me darted toward the glass entrance, plastering their faces onto the squeaky clean glass door. "Gang fight! Gang fight!", one of them squealed with excitement.

It was over as soon as I stepped out of the store. Isaac was not where I left him. A small crowd had miraculously gathered at the crime scene. The assailants, as I deduced were just making their getaway on foot. It was the hooligans from 5 minutes ago. I recognised from the Tiger Beer 6-packs sprawled across the pavement, like the three almost motionless bodies beside it.

I felt queasy as I approached the crowd. I knew Isaac was one of them. Spending half of my life with him, I could tell it was him even if we were in a dark room. Isaac was in shock and gasping hard for air. His white shirt was soaked a dark red, and in that few seconds, it metamorphed into a hellish black. I looked up and caught Jack's eyes fixated on mine as he was running away.

Isaac's elbow seemed clownishly out of sorts. It was as though he replaced his right arm with a left arm. And it was dangling motionless. The other two victims seemed to be in a worst off situation as they lay motionless in their own mess of blood. Isaac rolled over onto his knees and stared aimlessly at his right arm before passing out in indescribable pain.

Isaac's parents were quick to arrive at the hospital, together with Isabella. They seemed to be in a more disastrous shock than Isaac was and didn't want to hear anything I had to say for now. They just hugged each other and whispered prayers. Looking at them made me feel worse than grazing upon a motionless Isaac. Somehow, I felt responsible. Jack's eyes was plastered in my mind as I stood up and lugged toward the cafeteria.

It must have been a good 20 minutes sitting down at a cold dark corner. My coffee had already turned room temperature by then. I didn't even take a sip all these while whilst I thought hard about the incident just over an hour ago. Isabella's warm hands on my shoulders robbed me of my brooding mental activity. "What happened?" she quizzed in between sobs. I reiterated the story as how I have just told you. Isabella seemed like a strong woman from all the years that I've known her and I have never seen her, or any woman for that matter break down like how she did at the cafeteria that day.

I had no comforting words for her. Lying to her that Isaac was going to be OK was totally out of the question. I just remained silent and let her bury her tear empty face on my shoulders.

Michael, Johan, Bob, and Irfan stormed into the cafeteria like the rowdy boys that they once were not too long ago. They haven't lost it one bit at all, but god we still love them to bits. They stood patiently a few tables away, respecting Isabella's presence. Isabella looked at them with the same hurtful stares she shared with me and muttered, "I'm going to join Isaac's parents outside". She knew that the boys just had to be boys once again and wanted to be alone.

"What happened man?", Michael broke the silence. I repeated my story once again to a more captive audience, not sparing any details. "Doctor says that his right hand is really screwed man. He may never use it again. Its a fifty fifty thing. Just hope for the best I guess", I spoke softly. "And the worst thing was that it was a case of mistaken identity. Isaac was standing near some other 2 punks whose name was on the death cards", I continued.

"You guys remember Jack, Sonia's younger brother right? He was one of them assailants man", I muttered in disappointment. "Anyway, I think we should be outside with the rest of them", I muttered again as I motioned to the boys.

Isaac was still in the operating theatre and the hospital staff wasn't much help with any updates on our dear friend. Michael was busy on his cell orchestrating a maniacal payback with some of his underworld friends. I walked away from all of them as I stood outside Operating Theatre 4. I shuddered as I knew Isaac was somewhere beyond these deathly silent walls, not knowing if he can ever use his right hand ever again.

I hardly blinked as I recollected the night's events, burying myself with a series of What IFs. "Hey are you coming with us?, Johan asked in a stern and steady voice. "We got to go man", Johan sounded like the fighter full of confidence. I looked down just in time to see a tear glide off my chin. It painted a small tip of my black shoes a shiny gloss, allowing me to just steal away a tiny reflection of myself.

I nodded and followed a few steps behind Johan. Isabella's soulful eyes caught mine as she shook her head slowly from side to side, reading our intentions. "Please don't go", says her sorrowful eyes. But a Man's tears are precious they say. They're not meant to be wasted.

Life's Little Victories

Story by Mary Eu
Teacher
Malaysia


What keeps a teacher going? Well, it's really simple as pleasant memories of a job well done.

It was our school's Open Day. Prents had been invited to collect their children;s report books and to discuss their performance in the half-yearly examination. The year was 2000 and I was the teacher of a Form 5 class.

As the form teacher, I knew the students well. There were only five Chinese students and the rest of the class were Malays. Azlan was the assistant monitor of the class. He was tall and his uniform was always neat. He also spoke little English.

Azlan was often called to read in class because he had a loud voice but I had to interrupt him several times to correct his pronounciation. He did not mind. Still, he failed in his first English test that year.

When I gave out the test papers in class, he exclaimed to his friend," Ah, sikit lagi aku lulus". (A little more and I would have passed.) Only a few students in the class passed the first monthly test. When questions were asked in class, Azlan always shot up his hand to answer. The rest of the class were rather passive.

When his answer was correct, I praised him. When it was almost correct, I corrected it and told him that it was a good try. When he gave a wrong answer, I also told him that it was a good try and wrote the correct answer on the blackboard. i was pleased that Azlan showed interest in my lessons.

He passed the second monthly test by the skin of his teeth. He was all smiles. I was glad. I told him that if he could write a longer essay by giving examples and more elaboration, he could have scored a better grade.

Azlan tried to speak English with me. His friends sniggered and tittered. He ignored their smirks. He attempted almost all of the questions in his half-yearly examination and wrote longer essays. His marks were close to a credit now.

When I returned their half-yearly examination answer scripts, I called their names one by one. I had a short comment for each student. When it was Azlan's turn, he was all ears. "Azlan, you have improved a lot. In fact, you got the highest marks in English in class." He grinned, unable to contain his happiness. His friends wanted to see his answers.

On Open Day, I set up stall at 8.00am in our make-shift hall together with other form teachers of various classes. Parents started streaming in and many had to wait for their turn to talk to the teacher. They sat in a row near the teacher's desk. I noticed a petite Malay lady with sad eyes. She was waiting for her turn.

Finally, she had her chance to sit before me. She introduced herself as Azlan's mother. "How's Lan at school?" she asked softly, in Bahasa Malaysia, not meeting my eyes.

"Oh, Azlan puts in a lot of effort and has improved significantly in his English and other subjects too. he is very helpful," I told her honestly. Suddenly, she clasped my hand and hugged me. I was taken aback y her show of emotion. Tears brimmed her eyes.

"Thank you for your encouragement. Azlan was so happy because you praised him the other day. You're the first teacher who says positive things about my son. Thank you!" Moved by her sincere words, I hugged her back and for one bried moment, two mothers shared the joy of a child's small achievement as only mothers could understand.

After she had left, I found renewed energy to carry on the day's duties with gusto. A student's achievement, no matter how small, is indeed chicken soup to a teacher's soul.

Azlan sat for his SPM and passed. He even managed to get a credit for English. I do not know where Azlan is now but the memories have lingered - memories of days lived right. Sometimes, this is what keeps teachers going.

A Relentless Quest

Muhammad was talking to a friend, who asked him: "Have you ever considered getting married?"

"I have," replied Muhammad. "In my youth, I resolved to find the perfect woman. I crossed the desert and reached Damascus, and I met a lovely, very spiritual woman, but she knew nothing of the world. I continued my journey and went to Isfahan; there I met a woman who knew both the spiritual and the material world, but she was not pretty. Then I decided to go to Cairo, where I dined in the house of a beautiful woman, who was both religious and a connoisseur of material reality."

"Why didn't you marry her, then?"

"Alas, my friend, she was looking for the perfect man."


"The greatest challenge in life is to find
someone who knows all your flaws,
differences & mistakes,
but yet still sees the best in you."

"Anyone can make you smile.
Many people can make you cry.
But it takes someone really special
to make you smile with tears in your eyes."


- An Anonymous Contributor

To Be A Quarterback

Zaini's quest to be amongst the most popular boys in school was quenching him desert dry with thirst. He was never shy to share his revolting thoughts and ideas about the 'Goody Two Shoes' - Guys that completed all their homeworks quicker than you can squeal out "Bloody Mary". The same guys who goes straight home after the final bell for the day, the ones who detested smokers and rebel mania. The guys that paid attention in class.

Zaini appeared attentive in class. In truth, he had just completed a couple of sketches and was sharpening his pencil to start on a new one. Smart and sharp as a needle, Zaini figured that he only needed a couple of days prior to the exams to prepare for the showdown. The formula worked so far and he intends to stick to it. HIs only concern then was, where does he fit in, the boy who refuses to commit to social norms, yet exasperated for people to call friends.

Then there are the rowdy boys. The boys who never fails to sit at their own table at the school canteen. The boys with swashbuckling hoo hah that scores the most prettiest girls in school with their uneducated quips and jokes. The boys that excel at sports and whose studies hangs in the doldrums of the bottomless pits. The boys that goes everywhere but home after school...the boys that entirely encompasses the epitomy of fun and teenage dreams. Zaini longed to breathe the same air as them...the Singapore's version for the American high School Quarterback punks!

Though strctly inhibited, it didn't take long for the popular kids to take notice of Zaini. His immaculate dressing, his apprecation for good music and high fashion, culled from his undying love for the arts and the likes, soon propelled him to be noticed by the popular guys. Soon enough, girls wanted to bed him.

Barely a month immersing into superstardom, Zaini realised that he was mingling with empty vessels. Noisy, charming, sexy yet refinedly doltish. This wasn't him he knew. Perhaps, in this world, there was only room for a few of his kind, and Zaini has yet to come across such an isolated soul. Zaini backed off slowly from the herd of punks and yet again found himself in the cushions of loneliness. It's true after all, in a safari of big cats, a magnificent leopard should just stay up his tree and avoid mingling with the brute stupidity of lions.

Mi Padre

Miguel remained rapt in thought as he stood before the dining room. All five children of the Garcia family raced to the door the moment they heard that unmistakable rumbling of the old Ford pickup come to an abrupt cessation. The heavy footsteps that followed suggested another enervating day at the factory.

The Garcia household froze in silence as the footsteps came to a standstill. The jingling of keys, accompanied by a series of heavy coughs made the youngest of the brood attempt to contain his laughter. "Papa's going to get a..", the youngest whispered cheekily before his older brother forced a palm over his talk hole.

"Happy Father's Day", the whole lot of them fought to be the first to give their father a hug. A ruckus of sorts soon ensued before Mr Garcia dropped to his knees and hugged all of them at once. Sophie, the eldest of the Garcia children, took a step back obligingly.

"Happy Father's Day Papa", Sophie wished her father after her younger siblings had released the firm hold they had on him. "Come here Sophie", Mr Garcia beckoned to Sophie to give him a hug. "What you're too old now to give me a hug huh girl?", Mr Garcia teased Sophie. Everyone knew, as much as Mr Garcia tried to demonstrate an equal amount of love throughout, that Sophie was his favourite.

"Ah, Miguel. You're here today. Why aren't you home son? It's just another normal day for your family?", Mr Garcia quizzed. "Erm..Ermm...Yes Sir. Me Papa died last year in a hit and run. And Mama....well Mama doesn't come home much these days since his death", Miguel lamented with his eyes looking down.

"Well. You must stay for dinner then. No one is suppose to have dinner alone on a special day like today", his heavy tone was firm and it was useless for Miguel to take leave. Furthermore, at least he can spend a little more time with his beloved Sophie.

Miguel never discussed about his father since his untimely death until today. Looking at Mr Garcia, sitting at the head of the dining table, guiding the family in saying their grace was a little bit too emotional for Miguel. No boy should bury his own father at the tender age of seventeen he felt and forced to be the man of the house but Miguel kept his thoughts to himself.

"Papa, are you going to teach us how to fix that punctured bicycle wheel?", the youngest blurted out at the dining table, with his mouth still full of food. "You promised..you promised", he didn't allow his father any time to gather his thoughts. "Well I have no choice do I?" Mr Garcia conceded. "How about we all go to that carnival in town later?", Mr Garcia laid out an offer hard to refuse. "Yayyyyyy!!", came the unanimous reply.

Miguel vividly recalled the day his own father thought him how to change his bicycle tire. It was an old red BMX. There were many a things that his father taught him that made it hard for Miguel to erase him entirely out of his thoughts.

Like all good fathers should, his father taught him how to tie his shoelaces, to shape a mean slingshot from the fallen branches of trees, and to excel at sports. As he got older, his father thought him how to shave like a real man with a straight edge razor, and how to impress a girl with a racing car amongst many other things.

Most importantly, little by little, his Father was already shaping him to become the man that he almost is and to not depend so much on others. At that exact moment, Miguel felt a surge of new energy and life breathe into his body, clearing all the worries and wrinkles that showed on his boyish face.

Miguel cupped his hands and closed his eyes. With renewed confidence, he said a little prayer in his heart and wished it wasn't too late to whisper Happy Father's Day. Somewhere out there, he knew that his proud father heard it too.

The Bully

Remy waited in anticipation with clenched fists as the form teacher gave out the Primary 2 final exam paper in class that day. It didn't help that he sat right behind in class for it means an extra few minutes of agony. The cheers from surrounding classmates didn't help. There were the odd few who embraced their papers with an odd tear or two. How would poor Remy do you wonder.

Mrs Ng approached the rear of the class with a subtle grin, just enough to reveal her front two pearly whites, that were kind of larger than usual. Remy immediately placed the paper face down, with a glint of hope. He closed his eyes and tried to peek thru from in between his lashes. As slowly as his tiny hands permits, he flipped the top right stapled portion...just enough to reveal the digit 9.

In one onerous breath, he revealed the front portion of the paper in its full glory. 89 marks! Remy heaved a sigh of relief as he pondered about the reward that his seamstress mother had promised. Remy badly wanted a Nintendo game set that most of his friends had but he knew his mother could well not afford it. New clothes bored him to death. He suddenly remembered that Transformers toy advertised on television but he knew that his mother would not part $49 on a toy for he still had 3 younger brothers and decided he shall not be selfish.

As Remy waited for the school bus to take him home, he has yet to decide on what he shall ask his mother for. The bus wasn't as punctual as always that day. Maybe it was the euphoria getting to him, eager to show his paper to his mother. In his muse, Remy was drowned with his schoolmates sharing amongst themselves their plans for the upcoming holidays.

There were a few well to do ones that will set afoot in faraway countries like Europe and America. Some however did not have such luxury but they were going to Malaysia nevertheless. Still, a holiday is just but a dream to poor Remy. Remy sat on the stone pavement by the road as he stared at the upper Primary students, racing their Tamiya cars in the huge drain just outside the school gate.

Finally, Remy knew what he wanted. A do-it-yourself, battery operated Tamiya car. A couple of his classmates already have those. They didn't cost much. That's it Remy thought. A Tamiya car it is! "White in colour, with neon stickers on the sides", Remy visualized himself racing his car away to victory against his mates.

That same evening, his mother brought him down to the HDB shop to get him his present. After deliberating for a good 15 minutes under the giant Tamiya toy shelf section, Remy decided on the 'Emperor' model featuring a white base with stunning stickers and slick wheels!

"You pass your exams huh boy?" the shop uncle asked him. "Yes Uncle. I did! I scored pretty well. An overall grade of 'A'!", Remy answered in sheer delight. The kind hearted uncle threw in some car accessories such as extra wheels and a modified motor. "What is this Uncle? How much will these extras cost?", Remy quizzed, looking puzzled with a sense of glee in the tone of his voice.

"Nah. Just take it. This is present from Uncle. You will surely win your other friends if you use this motor!", the shop Uncle whole heartedly replied. "Enjoy your new toy ok? Tell me if you win those boys at school!", he continued but Remy was already halfway jolting out of the shop.

Being the bright kid that he is, Remy assembled the car in just under 10 minutes and he could not wait to bring it to school the next day. So delighted was Remy that he slept with the car by his side, fearing his pesky younger brothers would destroy it as how they did his other toys.

Remy's car became an instant hit. Soon, word got around that Remy's Emperor was THE car to beat in all of Opera Estate Primary School. Countless boys, from the lower and upper primary wanted to race with Remy. They all lost of course. By miles! Within the space of a week, Remy made plenty new found friends, not because of the car entirely, but his cheery disposition, coupled with his amiable character and humble nature won the hearts of his peers.

On the last school day before the end of year holidays, Remy raced with one of the Primary 5 boys in the big drain. Remy won as usual, leaving the boy with a gust of detest lingering in his mouth. "Hey I got to go. My bus is coming soon. Nice racing with you!", Remy shouted while carrying his bag in one hand and car in another as his little legs ran toward the bus bay.

The bus was late yet again. "Oh what a bother!", Remy thought. Of all days to be late, it had to be the final day of school. Remy sat down on the stone seat, perspiring profusely, and looking messy and sticky like how all young boys should. In the distance, he saw the Primary 5 boy walking toward him with one of his friend Remy assumed.

"This is the boy?", his friend quipped. "Hey you! Let me see your car. I heard your car is pretty fast!", the boy demanded. Innocently, Remy took his car out from his bag to show the boy. In one swift movement, the boy snatched his car and rammed it hard against the road surface into smithereens!

Shocked, Remy stood up and shouted as loud as he could, "Hey why did you do that!?" Remy squatted to pick up the pieces and the two boys caved in on him, beating him to a pulp. Remy tried hard to defend himself and his car from suffering further damage but the older boys were just too big and overpowering.

The other boys and girls just stood rooted, fearing that they would also get beaten up should they attempt to help poor Remy. After about a minute or so of repulsive torment, the boys stopped and walked away, huffing, puffing, and laughing at their 'victory'.

Remy wiped the blood from the side of his mouth against his shirt sleeve, with heavy sobs in between. Remy picked up the remnants of his car while scouring the surrounding area for little bolts and pieces which he may have missed. There were a few students there who helped Remy pick up the pieces but they kept numb.

One of the girl's offered him her pink handkerchief to wipe the blood off his mouth. Reluctantly, Remy took it and stained it a deep red. "Sorry about this", Remy whispered in between sobs as he realised that half the handkerchief was already painted with his blood. "It's ok", came her sweet curtsy reply. "You can have it", she continued. "Don't worry", she comforted Remy as she brushed the dust off his shoulders. "Those bullies will get it one day", she assertively comforted Remy.

On the bus ride home, Remy thought hard about what that girl said. Remy frowned deeply and gritted his teeth as he repeated after her, "Those bullies will have it one of these days". "Just wait and see", Remy thought to himself. "Just wait and see", Remy heaved, clenching the blood-soaked handkerchief.

My Best Friend

So what makes a best friend? In my short life, I have heard claims aplenty from those around me defining what they feel is their best friend. "My best friend is the one that gives me the best advice when I seek it", says one. "My best friend is the one that was there when I was down", says another. "He is my best friend as I know him since we were four! We went to the same kindergarten, primary school, and he will be my best man on my big day", my associate boasted.

My question is, "What happens then? What happens after you get married? Will you meet your best friend as often? Will the friendship fade along with the frequency of your weekly meetups and telephone calls?"

My father once preached, during the lowest point of his life, that there is never such a thing as a best friend. Perhaps at that pinnacle of your life, you may claim that so and so is your best friend. When all is bright and dandy, no worries in the world.

He might be there during a hiccup or two, he may pick you up when you stumble here and there. But like a rock ballad, the tempo slows, as each of you grows up, and embrace what life throws at you. And the closest that you have of a best friend will just be whoever your spent your time most with. It could be your office colleagues, your gym buddy... perhaps your neighbour with whom you share your day's events over a smoke break by the corridor.

Everybody probably claims that they have a best friend. For some, he is the one that you probably spend some considerable time with. For some, its like a current trend, a new best friend wherever you go. For others, your wife or girlfriend is your best friend.

To me, a best friend dots the letter 'i' in the word Friend. We may have cliques of friends here and there but there can only be one. If you have changed your best friend in your little life, chances are you have never had one and will probably not.

A best friend knows he is your best friend without you having to tell him...and vice versa. I knew I had found mine the first time we traded punches. Thank you for everything. From the times we effortlessly smiled in dire poverty, to the times we sailed the good life with $50 in our pockets.

Thank you for taking a broken rib. Remember I broke a tooth too that night. Bros before hoes they say. No doubt, you shall be my best man on my big day, and the godfather of my children. You are the eyes behind my back, the legs when mine gives way. You, are the other half of me corazon. Enjoy it while it lasts. You'll always be my brother, in this life and the next, I'll back your life with mine.

Me, the writer have never and will never verbally declare you as my best friend. And you shall do the same. It's always best when we say nothing at all.

What If

Every bit excited about being soon to be parents for the first time, Edward could not hesitate himself from harping on and on about stuff he can do together with the kids. From showering them with expensive toys to frequent holidays and fishing trips, irritating the hell out of Mummy, and the list goes on and on. Subconsciously however, Edward did not realise that every thought of his was under the assumption that the child growing inside of his dear wife was going to be a Boy.

Amanda was the more level headed one. She just prayed for good health irregardless of its sex. Being a fashionista herself, she however allowed her thoughts to stray toward dressing up the child, shopping trips, and making sure they look prettier than all her friends' kids. It was all thoughts drenched in the colour pink! Amanda secretly wanted a Girl.

"What if it's a girl Edward?", Amanda screeched Edward's thoughts to a halt. "Oh! What if it's a girl!? I've never thought about that!", Edward exclaimed with a sneer on his face. "Well if it's a girl, she will look as pretty as her mum. She will have a new dress everyday. She shall sit with me on my lap while I drive...well you know so that she can be a good lady driver! She will definitely not go out with boys until she is 21!", Edward answered in a flash.

"What if it's a boy Amanda?", Edward tried to test Amanda cheekily. "Well he shall be trained not be like his Dad for sure!", Amanda joked. "He shall not leave his toys lying all over the place, he shall not not be rude to other kids, he shall learn martial arts so that he can take care of his baby sister should he have one, he shall not touch my expensive Ming vases, and he shall not have crayons!!", Amanda exclaimed while visualising her son drawing on everywhere BUT a piece of paper.

"But he's a boy. Boys do all those stuff. They like to play in the mud, piss the hell out of parents, they like to beat and bully other kids. You know....guy stuff", Edward attempted to defend his cause. "Darling, what if he were to draw on your expensive Laura Ashley wallpapers?", Edward quizzed his wife.

"God No. Please I don't even want to think about it,"Amanda uttered in between laughs. "How could he? They cost a bomb and we went to London just to get those you know", Amanda reminded Edward on the perils of scouring and getting those wallpapers.

"Ya I know. But what if?", Edward really wanted to know. Well, I guess we can always create a frame around his Picasso drawings on the wall and we can call it Art!", Amanda conceded as the couple walked hand in hand into the Doctor's room.

They don't know it yet...but it's going to be Twins. Boy twins.

Spellbound

The nestle of tepid summer waves
Upon their naked feet,
Humble pilgrims side by side,
Beneath a sullen moon.

Moments like this, do fervent fools cherish,
When one's away at sea.
Missing me, while I'm missing you
Still the same moon that we see.

And that was the last poem Aidah received during the infant stages of her relationship with Alfian. Like the ones that came before that, Aidah littered it inside her precious shoe box, only just scathing the true meaning between those lines.

A simple 'kampung' girl, warned many a times by her mother, to not fall in love with such an industrious man, yet love knows no boundaries it seems. With a leaded heart, Aidah attempted to brave coming tears, as she waved farewell to Alfian as he backed further into the transit area.

It was a long time coming. A cadet pilot on his maiden flight. Destination Zurich. His life was set and match and this was just the beginning.

There are many things left behind which Aidah can remember Alfian by, yet she wasn't satisfied. Aidah kept playing the voicemail over and over that night as she perched upon her window sill, grazing at the splendor of the full moon. It illuminated the night sky with a haunting glow, drifting her further into a sullen mess.

The sudden ring alarmed her so much so that she stumbled off the ledge. "Hi dear. Its me. I've just touched down. Everything went well. Zurich is so beautiful. Its a clear night too. I wish you were here Aidah", Alfian confessed, sensing the sadness in Aidah's voice. "Listen, can you look out of the window please?", Alfian requested. "Can you see the full moon? Well....I'm looking at the same moon my love".

Almost Forgotten

Perched on the foot of the steps of an ancient temple, lies a huge stone. Engraved onto it was a poem about being Lost. However there was one word deliberately scraped off the rock surface. It was the word 'Lost'. The poet believed that Lost could never be read.

It could only be felt.

25 Minutes

Isn't it baffling, the fact how we humans always seem to associate people with objects from the prosaic side of life? Especially those that has left a significant impact on oneself, bitter or sweet.

I have come across those that fondly remember special places, where monumental moments was spent with their loved ones. So much so, that whenever he/she passes by that place, unknowingly, their mind allows itself to relive those moments. Often to the extent where they can almost see themselves mimicking those frolicking actions of lost times...wishing, that their other half was there.

Then there are those that remember people by their favourite food, colour of clothes, and even the reeking scent of their favourite perfume. It wasn't too long ago that a good friend of mine reminisced to me how he knew his then girlfriend was close by solely by the whiff of one Gucci Rush. Now that they are no longer an item, he still frets about like an eager sparrow when he catches that Gucci Rush smell in the air, hoping to see his ex girlfriend pop out from the crowd.

I prefer to remember people through songs. I find it utterly amusing how the same lyrics could mean different things to different people. There's this particular number from Michael Learns to Rock titled 25 Minutes where the lyrics conveyed a man's lost cause to salvage the love of his life. For me, that song has an unconventional meaning attached.

You see back in my schooling days, though not important, Music was one of the examinable subjects in our course of study. For one of the tests, us students had to memorise a popular song at that time and sing it to the class. Anyone caught referring to written down lyrics would fail the subject instantaneously. The song was '25 Minutes'.

Without the luxury of the Internet, it was always tedious trying to memorise that song. I for one got sick of listening to it after the fourth time, whilst trying to pen down its lyrics word for word. Thinking that I could procrastinate this somewhat unimportant task, I did everything but trying to get that song drilled into my head.

The days passed and the Music test was just one weekend away. In a desperate attempt to save myself, I approached one of the girls from my class, Isabella to pen down the lyrics onto my notebook. Expecting her to rebuff my request, astonishingly she obliged ever so willingly. She wrote it all down within a mere 5 minutes, in the neatest handwriting I've ever seen and I was ready to take this test.

The months passed and before long, we were already busy preparing for our final exams. Thankfully, Music was not one of the subjects tested. It was during that time when the school vice-principal walked into our classroom one morning with downcast eyes.

Isabella had met with a serious accident the day before. It was a hit and run affair that left poor Isabella in a coma. Doctors predicted that even if she was ever going to come out of that coma, she'd be paralysed.

Isabella eventually passed on after battling with her life for a few days. The students, especially those from our class took the news badly. Life had to go on however and before long, Isabella remains just but a name printed on one of the pages in our precious yearbook.

It didn't occur to me all these years but when the song '25 Minutes' was played over the radio recently, I instantly pictured Isabella writing down those lyrics in my exercise book. And forever, I shall always associate this beautiful song with an equally beautiful soul that once helped a lazy boy.

I, the writer achieved an A grade for my Music test in 1996. I have always been a music lover and will always be one.

In My World

Danny was supremely distracted that day. The pictures that the private investigator produced the night before startled him to bits, even though he was fully prepared for this shocking revelation.

Danny fell asleep the night before, still clutching those damned photographs. What seemed a perfect love after all did not evolved the way it was always supposed to be. The last thing on his mind was the thousands already spent on his wedding ceremony.

Family and friends, eagerly anticipating Danny's big day lingered languidly within his head. How was he suppose to break the news? Danny mused to himself, oblivious to the ongoings of the world around him.

Trevor, noticing the sudden demise of Danny's usually bubbly and cheery disposition forced him to take the day off. Danny nodded without looking at his boss, without batting an eyelid. Just a cold sordid stare into emptiness.

Danny trudged along the walkway and out into the monsoon rain. He paced swiftly, taking long aimless strides, drenched to the bone with heavy thoughts. Danny had exactly an inkling where he was going, and he just knew he had to keep on walking. It made him feel alive, for whatever soul that was still left in him.

Norma's house was just around the corner. Danny rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath. He buried his hands into his front cardigan pocket as he quickened his steps and turned into the slip road.

Norma's pristine white Beetle was parked by the stairway of her brownstone house. Danny reminisced the heated embrace that took place at the back seat of that very same car. Obviously, he wasn't the only one that ruled the back seat all this while.

Danny trotted up the stairs and ringed the bell. His right hand gripped firmly onto the handle of his Smith & Wesson. He pulled back the lever with his thumb and slowly placed his forefinger onto the trigger guard.

"Danny! Oh my god...you're drenched! Whatever were you thinking my love? It must be what zero degrees out here? Come in...let me make you feel comfortable", Norma pulled her fiance in without a trace of guilty conscience.

"Let me make you feel comfortable?", Danny gritted his teeth while Norma's last words replayed in his head. "Let me take you on a trip", Danny heaved silently. "Let me take you into my world of hurt feelings", Danny heaved psychotically.

Remember Me?

I remembered being one of the first in my class to get caned for misbehaviour. Thinking hard about it, I still believe that whatever I did tipped toward the mischief end of the scales.

The long walk toward the H.O.D office was supposed to make me feel remorseful and apologetic but engulfed in teenage angst and its ever quest for boyhood rebellion, I marched with my head held high.

"This is the boy, he did this to me", wailed an almost theatric Mrs Goh. "Where is Richard? I want this boy to get a good hard spanking!", she demanded for the strongest fittest teacher that just joined the school.

Richard emerged, muscles begging to tear out from his ripping tight Polo Tee, cane in one hand. He whipped me not once, not twice, but thrice. Pleased, Mrs Goh would have clapped her hands and fluttered if not for my cold beady eyes, staring down on her. I smirked and left the office, disgusted yet proud.

Fast forward to today, I saw two familiar eyes in the distance. I could tell he still worked out. The only telling signs of aging is the shiny plate on the top of his head. "Mr Richard? Is that really you?", I quizzed in utter disbelief. 'It is me. And you are?", Richard retorted with a voice still strong and firm.

"You might not remember me. You caned me once, a good 11 years ago", came my weak attempt to flashback his memory.
"Well I can't really remember boy. I caned lotsa boys in my time!", Richard smirked while stating his achievements.