The Royal Assassin's

The Man In The Shadow

2011-06-10T00:08:00.000+08:00

My first impressions of Uncle Alfred was formless. I was only about 18, working part time at a pool side bistro. I have to admit, I didn't care about the world back then. Just needed the money to fuel some foolish chase. It was a motley crew that worked Summer House that one year or so I was there.

John and Choon Hong were aspiring but crazy chefs. Rachel, Jessie, and two other equally aloof teenage girls provided much comic relief while being reliably efficient at waiting tables. Nizam, Christopher and Man worked the bar and knew every concoction like their alphabets. Lily was a door bitch. Period. Desmond and myself were just the washing and replenishment dudes. Then there was Uncle Alfred, the man in the shadows, whose job was basically supporting the chefs in the kitchen. It was a small family, that cooked up a pretty colourful history of my life.

I remembered Uncle Alfred was a man of very limited words. He was in his fifties, but pretty sturdy and strong for a man his age. He has a couple of diminishing tattoos that must have meant dearly to him, though we could not decipher the beauty of his chosen design. But he set about his job with few words, his facial expression, and constant empty stares, seemed to want to voice out, yet remained hesitant.

I remembered one particular night as we were done with closing, most of the guys had already hit the showers. Choon Hong, the younger chef decided to not waste the scraps of whatever ingredients we had left over and was busy preparing a simple dish.

I was sitting on the stainless steel kitchen top, looking on. Uncle Alfred was in the corner, as usual, sharpening the kitchen knives upon the slab of sharpening stone. He was it for a good ten minutes or so, just that single knife. It was a common sight, and we were immune to it. Dedicated we thought, that 60 year old man.

"Aiya Alfred, you play play play the stone knife wont get sharper la bro", Choon Hong poked fun at him. Alfred just smiled wryly. "You see I just do this this this a few times....can already!", Choon Hong continued as he proceeded to chop some carrots. But deep down, Choon Hong knew that that old man probably had some kind of magic or secret skill that he mastered over the years sharpening knives. Choon Hong did mention to me before, there was a difference using the knives sharpened by Uncle Alfred. No matter how many times Alfred tried to teach those two chefs, they still couldn't get it as sharp as he did. The tailor always has the better suit I guess.

What did I know I thought as I munched on whatever Choon Hong conjured in his kitchen. Choon Hong whistled as he brought the entire pan to the bar to share with the bar boys.

I decided to stay around with Uncle Alfred that night. The sleek sound of "schick...schick...schick" filled the kitchen as Uncle Alfred was deep in concentration, hardly battling an eyelid as he went through in perfect gliding motion, like silk on ice. It was almost...comforting.

Slowly, Uncle Alfred raised his head and looked toward me. "You young people, what do you guys know. Never tasted hardship in life.Whole life got people doing things for you", Alfred lamented. There was a long pause before he continued.

"You want to know Uncle's secret anot boy?", Alfred spoke in hush tones. "You know when you are sharpening knives, the stroke, angle, repetitions...all these are important...but not everything. Anybody can follow the motion man!", Alfred continued. "But they can never get it razor", Alfred moved on. "Something is missing my friend. You know what?", Alfred stopped abruptly as he gazed upon me from the shadows. I jerked my head slightly to signal him to continue.

Alfred sighed as he continued with the incessant sharpening. "If you want your knife to be the sharpest, put some soul into it. You got to imagine what you want to do with this knife. Imagine you are going to kill and slice your enemy with this knife. There. That's the key", Alfred finished his sentence as his placed all the knives neatly on the towel and walked out, leaving me speechless.

I was bewildered. I honestly thought the guy was loco. Until today. A good ten years on since I last set foot in Summer House with the motley bunch. I opened the local newspapers and was struck dumb when I saw Uncle Alfred plastered across the home page. Murder of the highest degree. With no intention to run or hide, the police found him there, by the lifeless victim, a fellow man in his sixties. Probed further, Alfred admitted his motive had always been revenge. He just wanted to kill the man that stole his Margaret from him in 1965.

My mind rolled back again to that particular night when Alfred talked to me. I didn't really grasp what he was trying to say then. But then it strikes me now, as I read between the lines. It wasn't entirely hatred and revenge that fueled Alfred into a master craftsman of sorts. It was sheer Patience, Perseverance, and brutal Ambition.

Times...They Are A-Changing

2011-05-28T03:36:00.000+08:00

"Times they are a-changing."

It was apt that this jewel of a song by Bob Dylan blasted through my earplugs, shutting myself from the world. The afternoon sun remained stubbornly treacherous, and beat downward mercilessly. As the bells rang to mark the end of school, shrieks of joy and laughter replaced the corridor void. Elsewhere outside, domestic helpers scurried into position and ceased their womanly gossip, with huge umbrellas hovering over their heads like parachutes.

The primary school kids welcomed their domestic helpers with unseen sighs of relief, akin to flight arrival passengers spotting foreign strangers carrying boards with their names scribbled on them. They scampered toward their domestic helpers, racing for the safe haven beneath the wings of those umbrellas. Automatically, they off-loaded their backpacks unto the helpers' shoulders. The girls, amazingly had roller bags.

Some of the well to do ones had a better unspoken deal going on with their helpers, exchanging their backpacks for a PSP! With utmost focus, they glued their attention to the screens, while trudging back home.

What happened to good old catching and police & thieves and bola rembat and guli and rumah dayak and Chinese VS Malay friendly football rivalries? What happened to growing oblivous to blistering mid day suns, and hide & seek across the entire HDB neighbourhood? What happened to Tamiya racing in dingy drains and flicking on a piece of 'country-flag' eraser in a winner take all duel?

All the above I cherished. They were simple games, but they moulded a nation of tougher kids. Most importantly, they etched a deep and lasting memory of wonderful irresponsible childhood, every boy secretly dreams of going back to.

As I sat and gazed upon what lay before my eyes, my mind rolled back the years of past landscapes and friends. Some good, some forgettable, some unrecognisable, and a few...sorely missed. None more so than a certain Benny Fong. The good times we had was irreplaceable. I remembered being in Primary 2, and we were hell bent on running the 'country-flag' eraser economy dry.

Benny Fong was in the same standard as me. While majority of the students including myself joined the school since Primary 1, Benny only joined the school in Primary 2. I was in class 2-3, and he was next door in 2-4. He was two years older than any of us. He looked every bit Chinese, but Benny was Malaysian, of Peranakan Baba heritage. For someone who joined much later, he had trouble blending in initially. While everyone had their own cliques and recess playmates, Benny I reckon, was trying to make friends wherever possible.

I have to admit that I didn't really caught on with the 'country-flag' eraser thing until early Primary 2. Prior to this, I preferred perspiring like an animal over football during recess. It was one day after recess when the boy sitting beside me showed me an entire box of 48 'country-flag' erasers he just bought at the bookstore. While most of us only had one or half an eraser, he had 48 full, new ones!

Why I asked him, did he need that many. He explained to me that it was to challenge the other kids at school. In a match, 2 students chooses an eraser of his choice and with flicking movements, try to pin their opponents'eraser. Winner takes all. Blatant gambling they say. I honestly felt it was harmless blissful fun.

With a dollar a day for pocket money, I figured investing 10 cents for such an eraser was not such a bad idea. And so the next day, with my mind set in stone, I made a beeline for the bookshop the moment we were released for recess. I was enthralled by the choice of erasers befalling my view. After much deliberation, I settled for Greece. Not because I have visited the country, but because I vividly remembered a documentary I watched not too long before, of Santorini's mystifying blue waters. In my young mind, I thought if I didn't have the chance to go there, at least I had the eraser.

With Greece in my hand, I marched for the 'gambling' table. It took me just 20 seconds. I lost. Albeit a little unfairly I thought for my opponent pushed his eraser over mine rather than flicking. But I lost graciously. I ran toward the bookshop, and Greece again it was. Same opponent, same result.

For the third time in 5 minutes, I visited the bookshop again. This time I bought Greece and Chad. But I didn't battle. I figured I need some practicing before roughing it out.

That night, and many nights after that, I spent my time perfecting my strokes and techniques. Counter movements, long shots, side shots, close shots...until I felt I was ready for the real thing.

Two weeks later, I was back at the same table, with a different opponent, and Greece tasted its maiden victory. Now I had 3 erasers, yet I yearned for more. I didn't want instant success and resort to buying an entire box like my classmate, I wanted to earn it.

For many days after that, this eraser game got me completely possesed. There were good days and there were bad ones, but the scale tipped more toward the good side as time goes by, and soon enough, I had amassed more erasers than I could ever imagine, and my reputation swelled.

Then Benny came along. I remembered I was waiting for remedial classes. Likewise he. I was alone and reading a book when Benny came up to me. "Want to play rubber?", he asked in earnest hope. "Sure!", I exclaimed gleefully. "Winner takes all yeah?", I laid down the rules, in recent view of how some of the kids only wanted to play 'friendly practice' duels with me now. "OK", Benny retorted, as he took out about 15 erasers from a box. "This is all I have", he confessed, sheepishly prying over the huge mass of 40 odd erasers I had in a plastic bag.

It was pretty fair game for the first ten minutes, but after close to half an hour, Benny was down to his final surviving eraser. He lost. Graciously. With a smile on his face. Humble and accepting of defeat, he shook my hand and commented where he went wrong on that last one. I reciprocated and told him the good and bad points to the session. And that was the first conversation we ever had.

As the time for remedial classes approached, Benny turned around to pick his bag up when I noticed a blue patch of cloth sewn over his shorts, and a sudden gush of guilt swept through me. Here he is, wearing patched up school shorts, and here I am, with 15 of his hard-earned erasers. "Hey Benny", I called out to him. "You can have these back", I gave in, pushing the newly won erasers toward his end of the table. "Never mind la. You won fair and square", Benny reasoned and dashed down the foyer.
I sat there as his thumping steps faded into the distance and I somehow knew that Benny and I, will be close pals somehow.

Almost everyday after that, we would stay back after school to duel. But it became more of a friendly practice session. The camaraderie that grew from those sessions seemed to outweigh the competitive landscape of the game between us. Benny developed a more defensive approach to the game, beating his opponent at the last moment while I adopted a more aggressive and offensive tactic from the start.

Benny began to win me more often, and our duels grew even more constructive as we learned from each other's style of play. At the end of these sessions, we will divide and return the erasers to its rightful owner. We had utter mutual respect for each other. At recess, we will be competing with other students, and after school, we will share our experiences and showcase the hoard we have acquired for the day.

Not long afterward, I had accumulated such a huge number of erasers that I figured I couldn't keep it at home anymore without being caught. Likewise for Benny. So one day, together we scoured the tuck shop and found an empty Jacob's biscuit tin to house our prized possessions. We consolidated our erasers into one tin and hid it far beyond the prying eyes of other students, in an abandoned building known as the 'haunted house' at the far end of the school premise. There, our loot remained safe.

So on a daily basis, we would take out a few erasers to challenge other students at recess, and after school, we would dump it into our tin. It was a perfect tag-team, built to win.

And in a couple of months, we had criminally progressed to a total of 4 tins brimming with erasers. This I kid you not. Then we noticed that fewer people wanted to challenge us. With the decreased competition, our interest in the game waned as along. And before long, we completely shut down and moved on to other games, but our friendship remained strong.

One fine day before the end of the year school holidays, Benny asked if we were ever going to take those tins of erasers back home. We always procrastinated and mulled over it for it really takes much effort to lug it around. With the safety of the 'haunted house' for cover, we figured no one will ever come across that stash anyway. And so we got on with other things and soon, those erasers were somewhat forgotten. We eventually took back the erasers sometime in our Primary School life, two tins each, fair and square.

As we departed to different secondary schools, we lost contact. I'd reckon we moved on to face a new aspect of life. Teenage angst, rebellion, girls, pimples, cigarettes but deep down from time to time, I often wondered if Benny was doing fine.

It was only until I was 18, that I finally bumped into Benny. I just ended my driving practical session, and he arrived late for his motorbike practical session. We walked past each other, and funny enough both of us turned our heads to have a second look.

It was a good feeling, bumping into an old friend, albeit under such rushed circumstances. "Eh you still have the tin of rubbers?", Benny jokingly asked. "Dunno where la all those have gone to", I replied. "I still have mine you know!", he exclaimed with a smile on his face before scooting off for his lessons.

And that was the last time I ever saw Benny Fong.

As I sat there, watching, the blistering afternoon sun began to show mercy at last. Nearby factory workers started coming out after a long day at the production line. I turned to my right and smiled in disappointment. An empty playground at 5pm. The kids must still be at their PSPs I gathered. And not out to play like how we used to in the old days.

Perhaps this is the bitter inevitability of the times. With technology and progress, there's no holding back that the kids of today, and that of tomorrow, will seek solace and happiness differently.

Times indeed are a-changing. But I for one know that during my growing up days, I enjoyed thoroughly how simple it was screaming and shouting in the great outdoors. In my opinion, I wouldn't want to swap that piece of childhood with what the kids are experiencing now. Back then, it felt like the only way for boys to grow up and cherish their boyhood. If only, some things in life remained unchanged.

On behalf of all the boys that grew up circa 1980-1990, may our wonderful growing up memories be forever etched in our hearts. Boys will always be boys. Boys, should always be boys.

P.S. To my good friend Benny Fong,

I will be getting married this coming November. It would be really great to finally see Greece for the first time.

The Simple Things in Life

2010-01-19T16:30:00.005+08:00

Of all the boys in Primary School, I remember a certain Flanagan the most. He was chatty and entertaining, generously leaning toward the boisterous mark, hence always incurring the wrath of our form teachers. But he was popular amongst the students, the 'notorious' bunch that is.

Flanagan was a kid from the old code. Never to succumb to those pesky hand held games, he was a sucker for the outdoors. Catching, hide and seek, football, fishing, fighting spiders, now these were the things that Flanagan excelled in. The gleam in his eye at the mere mention of such activities is obvious, as he discards whatever he is engaged in and charges forward.

Sadly though, his grades were something that was frequently scorned upon, depressing him deeper into isolation in the academic sense. The teachers gave up, and his less educated parents couldn't offer much help, even if their eager hearts wanted to. I begin to question the professionalism and quality of the teachers one day as I witnessed the Math teacher slapped the exercise book upon young Flanagan's face.

Flanagan slowly bent to pick the book up, embarrassed, shamed, and gritting his teeth, he finally made his way back to the desk beside mine, tolerating piercing stares from the rest of our classmates.

I slid the book off his hands and saw the red pen marks the teacher had sketched all over the pages, obscuring Flanagan's own writing. A big fat zero yet again...the seventh in 2 months. But with the teacher losing faith in him and to have seemingly given up, Flanagan's heart seemed fragile as he visioned his future, dark and hazy, like a piece of drifting wood out at sea. And for the first time, he cried.

The whole class transformed into a silent chamber for a mere few seconds before they resumed at whatever activities that had consumed them prior to the debacle. It was the first time anyone, including myself, had witnessed the breaking point of good ol Flanagan.

It was then that I offered Flanagan some help. I invited him to one of our study groups that we had twice a week with some of the boys from the other class. They were all brilliant in Maths, and I reckoned we could do a little something for Flanagan.

The boys looked reluctant when they saw us approaching the study corner that day, whispering and conspiring like little snakes. One of them brought me to the side during one of the breaks and told me they didn't like the idea of having Flanagan in the group. "He's slowing down our pace" was the term coined. "M***********s", I uttered under my breath as I grabbed my haversack and motioned for Flanagan to follow suit.

We walked toward the back of the school where an old wooden bench stood forgotten, lying under the comforting shade of the majestic Angsana tree. It creaked a little as we sat upon it, but the solid wood somehow reassured us of its stability. That was the first time I tutored Flanagan at Math.

Every other day, as the year end exams loomed nearer, I would attempt tutoring Flanagan at Math. Already buddies for our insatiable zest for sports and the outdoors, we grew even closer during these study sessions. I've grown to understand the other side of Flanagan that many fail to see and understand.

You see, Flanagan, unlike most of us, does not come from a middle class family. His parents do not have the luxury to send him for tuition classes. His toy collection remained limited, consisting of predominantly hand me downs from another era and those made by his very hands from whatever scrap materials he could find.

I still remember pausing really hard when I asked him this question. "Did your parents promise you anything if let's say you get a good grade for Math?" His eyes lit up a little before he lowered his head down once again to reply. "I don't even know if I can pass this paper man. You all know I've never passed any of our Math tests this year. But But But...my mum did promise me, that if I manage to pass my final Math exam and get into EM2, she would get me those Neckermann sandals!", he replied full of glee. "That's IF I pass....a really big IF", he continued before attempting the next Math problem.

I was dumbfounded. Just the week before, my mum bought me a pair of those Neckermann brand sandals. And it wasn't even a reward. I had pestered her to get it for me since it was the 'In' brand at the time. I pondered to myself ashamed and guilty, but I promised myself, I would try my all to help poor Flanagan.

I would be profusely lying if I mentioned that I didn't get agitated during those study sessions. It wasn't that Flanagan was stupid and dumb to grasp mathematical problems, it was just that he needed more time than most students to fully understand certain concepts. With the short-fused impatience of the teachers, it was no wonder that he was left astray, spiralling toward the bottom rung of educated society.

But things eventually picked up, and I grew to enjoy study sessions with Flanagan much more as compared to the smarter boys whom I used to study with. With them it was always about achieving at least an A* for Math. If I knew them well, I'll just be bold and say that in their very minds at that moment, they must be thinking that my grades would dip and I'd fair much poorer than I used to. Secretly, I was hoping that I can pip them from the Top 5 perch for Math in our class.

The exams came and went, as we welcomed the fun days where we can bring all sorts of board games and the likes to class as we await our results. After a week or so, results day greeted us with a gentle shower in the morning, making us shiver, but more so because we were eager for the results.

One by one they stood up and collected their Math paper as the form teacher handed them out. From the abrupt shouts and celebrations, I knew that the boys whom I used to study with did well...very well. Iqbal, one of them pranced around the class as he boasted to everyone that he got a perfect 100 marks.

I fidgeted with fear as I knew my name was about to be called upon at any time now. Flanagan, who was sitting beside me had his palms locked together in prayer as he donated a faint smile toward me.

"Ryhan", Miss Mah called out my name. Her facial gesture remained stone cold as she handed me my paper. A sign that perhaps I didn't do well as them other bunch of smarty pants. I refused to look at the grade as I reclined back to my seat and placed the paper face down. I wanted to know how Flanagan did first before I looked at my marks.

"Flanagan", she called out before continuing. "Well done Flanagan, the most improved student in the class! Everyone, give Flanagan three cheers!", as the class erupted into raptures.

Flanagan had on the broadest smile as he held his paper high up in the air. "I got 60 marks!", he said as he sat down. "Thank you man. This is the first time I ever passed at Math...and 60 marks some more. Im so proud of myself!", he exclaimed. "How much did you get?", he quizzed me.

I turned the paper in one swift motion to reveal my marks. 90, it said in red at the top right corner. 1 mark short of the A* grade. I was kind of disappointed to be honest, but I was filled with joy for Flanagan.

That day, as we all made our way out of school as happy school boys, I wondered to myself why I was sulking after achieving 90 marks. Isn't it supposed to be brilliant. Flanagan mentioned that he could only dream of getting those marks. So why was I sulking? Perhaps it was because I didnt manage to beat the other boys that I mentioned earlier. But then I realised something.

In the past few months, I've gained something much more than any of those boys would ever achieve perhaps even in their entire lifetime. I've learnt, that you can feel much more elated and rewarding, knowing that you have helped someone in dire straits. The study sessions with Flanagan wasn't exactly one way traffic.

I've learnt from Flanagan that to really succeed in life, money and results only account for a small bite of the pie. What makes life colourful is indeed the warmth of friends, not the bitterness of competition. Humility, Patience, Ambition, and Sincerity are certainly values that would help us trudge on much further in life.

Flanagan finally got his Neckermann sandals. We often look pass this, but in all honesty, it's always the Simple Things in Life, that makes us whole again.

A Simple Theory

2009-12-22T14:56:00.003+08:00

Lately, I find myself being quite a magnet for being consistently beleaguered with a bevy of boisterous individuals, hell bent on attaining cheap and quick success in life.

Some are complete strangers, whilst some, pitifully are those I once considered friends in one way or another. What irks me most is not the fact that they are malnutritioned from the blood, sweat and tears that is hard work, but that astonishingly, these people loathe those that pulverize and grimace with pain each day to attain their goals.

"Work smart, not work hard", they moaned with a glee of satisfaction.

How trivial I thought to myself as they continued watching others from their coffee shop seats and repleting finances.

As much as I want to contain myself from harbouring ill intentions toward them, I know I've failed. Deep inside me, I yearn for the day I shall look below upon these people and laugh away at where cheap talks and lazy walks had brought them.

I vow to myself to ignore the Bastards once and for all. I strongly believe in that quote that states... If You Don't Scale The Mountains, You Can't View The Plains.

Connecting People

2009-12-20T11:34:00.005+08:00

Airports, with an exhaustive myriad of people from all around the globe, can be quite an unusual, unconventional, yet very apt location to just people watch. Being quite an lover for metropolitan city states with its fast paced shuffling, 24-hr eateries and dry subway humour, I found myself locked yet again, in a web of transit.

As soon as I alighted from my transit flight, I trudged within the mazy tunnel which was unusually dim, still reeking of that aeroplane smell. The massive steel structure and architectural feat that is the new Bangkok International Airport soon greeted me as I gasped and marveled in awe, trying to logically fathom how those engineers did it. Before long, I gave up, as I made a beeline toward the smoking room.

2 hours before my 20-hour flight to New York City. It was imperative that I had my dietary supplement of ash and tar and harmful nicotine. Staring blissfully at formless smoke blown out of one's mouth...nothing like cigarettes to recharge and perk you up for an arduous journey strained within the confinements of a miserable seat, stuck between two fat people, with only in-house entertainment TV, and a good book for comfort. Secretly though, I wished I had the courage and guts to smoke in that small cubicle of a loo on board...but nahh...I wouldn't wanna be an odd commodity attracting stares throughout the long journey.

The smoking lounge was as miserable as a prison cell, size wise that is. But at least the authorities spared a thought for fellow smokers to curb their urges. Nevertheless, I wasn't complaining. I squeezed my way to the last unoccupied space between a burly Caucasian and a trendy young Japanese man. As accommodating as the situation was, I lit up.

The lounge was cold as it was silent as everyone minded their own business, deep in thought. No points for guessing how that much needed smoke fueled their thought process, acting as a peculiar catalyst.

I sat rooted and observed each and everyone of their behaviour. The Caucasian man, burly and scruffy, had a hint of adventure in his blood. His jungle hat was a giveaway, and so were the tattoos and hiking shoes. Must be back from roaming the tropical rainforests of Thailand, I assumed.

An attractive blonde, which I shall assume was Swedish simply for the assumption that most blondes hails from Scandinavia, was wiping dust off her shoes. She was well dressed, and looked every bit a New Yorker. Perhaps giving me a sneak preview of the flavour of women paving the New York streets.

And as I shifted my gaze upon the Japanese man, I was awed to perfection. Finished with his cigarette, he whipped out his mobile phone which had a bigger screen than usual. He fidgeted with the keys before dialling in a number. Upon establishing a connection, he began moving his hands and making weird signs with his fingers as he 'spoke'.

I peered over his shoulder as close as my chin could go. The person in the large LCD screen was 'speaking' back in similar fashion. Having helped out in a deaf & mute school for children, I relatively understood the conversation that was ongoing.

It was a conversation between husband and wife. In summary, what I learnt from that few minutes was that the husband had been away for a few months now, on a work project and he was on his way home. They missed each other alot, and he missed his 2 kids at home dearly. He requested for his wife to point the camera toward their sleeping children so that he could catch a glimpse of their angelic faces.

That made him tear a little as he forced a smile followed by soft laughter. He told his wife that he would be back in just a day's time and that he's missing her Roasted Lemon Chicken.

Amazing, I pondered to myself, the beauty of how modern technology bridges two souls together. What deemed an impossible act not too long ago, you wouldn't expect a mobile phone to be of handy use to someone who could not listen, let alone speak.

What I witnessed today opened my mind up to a million possibilities. It is very much comforting to learn that as we move on and embrace new technology, even the less privileged benefits.

Connecting people. I've learnt something new today how that phrase transcends beyond mere communication. In every sense of the word, so simple, yet baffling, the manner in which two souls embraces eternal love and human touch. Whatever technology spills out tomorrow, let us hope that as with mobile phones, it would make the world a better place.

Go Fly a Kite!

2009-12-04T15:57:00.002+08:00

Go Fly a Kite.

That was exactly the advice a close friend recently ranted out to me as I whined and rambled about the qualms of both my professional and personal life. "Shut the fuck up and do it", he vehemently urged me as I vividly recalled.

Not one to enjoy kite flying in my growing up years, I could however appreciate the art and mechanics behind kite flying. I was more of the 'guli' or marble kind of boy, besides football and fishing in murky large drains of 1980s Singapore.

Shrugging off the idea, I left it at that...mere coffee shop talk. Until one fine day, well, one fine horrific day at work to be precise, I found myself storming out of the office with my termination letter. Strangely, I remembered feeling light and 'full of spring' for a man that just got fired. Perhaps, I just knew that nothing could possibly get worse henceforth.

With the sun still scorching bright in the afternoon, and office rats rushing back to their meager cubicles, I trudged on happily, briefcase en-towed with a loosely tied necktie around my unbuttoned shirt.

I went to the beach that afternoon to be alone and reflect on recent incidents. I took off my shoes, rolled up my trousers and buried my feet in the soft subtle sand by the coast, leaving my imprints on the beach as I lined the coast. And there just up ahead, was an old Chinese man, dead to his surroundings as he stoned near his makeshift stall, selling home made kites.

"What the hell", I thought to myself as I paid for one. It had a smiley face printed on one side. How ironic.

I dumped my belongings by the side and went out onto the open beach, wind howling across my face and hair. I stretched the kite out with my right arm as ran against the wind. With a violent surge forward, I lunged the kite into the open sky as I let the wind take over.

Up up and up it soared as I tried to trace it amidst the blinding sun rays. But there it was smiling back down on me. I felt like a boy once again, free from worldly troubles. I tugged and loosened the string intermittently as I was determined to let the kite stay afloat. In a matter or minutes, I was at the end of the spool.

The next few minutes consisted of a series of ups and downs as the kite plunged land side and me repeating the routine all over again, but it made me feel light for a change. And in one of those instances when the kite was up once again, another kite I was battling swooped in and cut my line and down down down it went. I smiled and it made me ponder.

Kite flying. As trivial as it is, it somehow mirrored life in a way. In life, it's never an easy thing to be successful and happy. But with sheer determination and hard work, it isn't difficult for things to run its course.

There are times when we soar, and times where we delve deep into turbulence. It is the man that gets up and tries that soars once again. There will always be bastards that try to cut u off, but there will always be luck and love, which like the wind, can make one climb once again.

I was a happy man as I made my way back home once again. I'll not know what tomorrow holds for me but one thing's for sure, I'll be trying my best.

And to those out there who is feeling that life has been a little harsh toward you lately, here's a piece of advice..."Shut the Fuck Up, and Go Fly a Kite!"

It helps.

Shoelaces

2009-11-30T12:55:00.004+08:00

First you ensure that both ends are of equal length. Cross the laces and pull. Make a bunny ear on the right, and repeat with the left. Cross the bunny ears, make a bow and pull hard. There you go...like millions of others before me, that was probably how your first lesson with shoelaces began.

It was a heavy meal by my standards, nothing quite marvelous, but acceptable. It could have been better but I wasn't one to complain that day. We strolled along the quay side river and sat upon an abandoned bench with rays of sunshine coyly penetrating through gaps of grey clouds.

The air smelt and hinted of rain, but I wasn't going to let that deprive me of some quality time with you what with the wind subtly beating upon my face and dragging me to slumberland.

The river seemed calm and the soft murmuring of the river boat in the distant added to the charm of the colourful shophouses lining what used to be a thriving settlement. As the boat loomed nearer, you can make out the eager tourists with their cameras and video recorders, pointing to something whimsical that attracted their curiosity.

These scenes contorted a heartwarming backdrop to our special moment together in close proximity, discussing varied topics from wordly issues to mindless bickering and debatable humour. Just as we were laughing and arguing, she casually pulled one end of my shoelace like a playful puppy. I wasn't angry at all, but after 25 years of bunny ears and pulling, who likes it right?

Fast forward a year later, the setting was similar albeit now in a different country. The sky was painted with gloom as the cobblestone path seemed wet, guilty of rain just moments earlier.

I sat upon a lonely bench, thinking of home as I unwrapped my sandwich and reminiscence. I really missed her so. There was a mother of two nearby trying to control her unruly but undeniably cute rascals. They had blonde hair and envious eyes. They were chasing, and irritating one another repeatedly,one brother and one sister...but they seemed loving.

Just as their mother gave both quite a tongue lashing, the sister cunningly unlaced her brother's right shoe. He was just about 4 years old and his mother obligingly bent down and muttered,"First you ensure that both ends are of equal length. Cross the laces and pull. Make a bunny ear on the right, and repeat with the left. Cross the bunny ears, make a bow and pull hard."

I smiled to myself, frozen with thought. I didn't know it until now though it has always been there.

At times I miss you alot. But at most times, I miss you more.

Drawing Faces

2009-10-28T23:57:00.002+08:00

As a child, Ben has always been one of the brighter kids at school in an unconventional manner that is. And though his zest for learning was overflowing, somehow his investments of energy doesn't seem to transcend down toward his grades. His debatable grades harbor toward the borderline cases less for his language subjects.

As a result, he has always been the bane of his mother for not being able to emulate his elder siblings who's undaunted heaps of appraisals for colourful marks sky rocketed them to the elites of their school.

Now besides languages, Ben mastered in his Art class. Constantly being ridiculed by his mother and siblings, they made him feel how wrong and unsuccessful a career Art can be. Everyone in his class usually marvelled at his paintings, drawings, and artifacts. No one knows where he got his Art genes from, but in short, Ben was simply magnificent for his age.

As much as his mother doesn't want to admit to Ben's keen eye for the arts, countless times during one of those mundane parents' teachers' meeting, she would hear Ben's form teacher muttering under her breath, "Your son Ben....well...he's just one of those creatively inclined students. And thats that. I do not know how else I can motivate the boy. He doesn't cause any trouble...well...except for his marvellous grafitti on his desk". Ironic isn't it?

And so as the prophecy goes, Ben got accepted to a good Art school, going against his mother's wishes to pursue Art as a career. He aced and came out tops in the entire cohort and in just a couple of years, he is now lecturing not only in local art institutions, but also in many prestigious art colleges around the world. I myself find it hard to fathom that he is just 28 years old today earning 6 times more than what any of his siblings are earning, having more holidays than his siblings combined, and sleeping peacefully every single night, not having to bother about a certain client, or a project deadline, and robotic accounting windows, unlike his siblings. But yet, he still years for his mother's blessing. "It's not a real job", she would whisper to the chatty neighbours.

Already giving up hope on winning his mothers' favour, Ben led the life he always wanted...unconventionally. And one fine day, his sister called to discuss on a birthday bash for their mothers' grand old 60th. They wanted to discuss about the gift. It was agreed that the siblings were to have dinner at Ben's place that night. After much friendly disagreements as how siblings usually have them, it was agreed that they would do something special, yet simple. They were going to present to their mother, in a grand brass frame, a portrait of herself. And as soon as it was agreed, all of them looked at Ben, automatically implying that he had to be the one responsible for the creative aspect of things. "Easy", Ben cooly replied. Just give me a couple of days to locate a suitable reference photo, and I'll take it from there yea?

No news from Ben, and Mother's birthday was just a day away. Rejecting their calls, his siblings grew worried and fidgety and so Joanne decided to pop by Ben's place that afternoon. Ben still refused to pick up as Joanne stared sparingly at the red front door of Ben's apartment. His car was parked outside so he is definitely at home she thought. "What an asshole", she muttered under her breath.

Joanne rummaged her handbag for extra set of keys Ben trusted her with and opened the door. The house looked like an aftermath of heavy partying and boozing. His winning art pieces hung on the walls, slanted from the norm. There were canvasses on the floor, paint everywhere. His place was a terrific mess. Ben's tattooed body lay sprawled on the floor behind the couch....motionless.

"Hey idiot", Joanne barked out at him as she gently kicked the side of his leg. "Hmmmpf", Ben muffled. "What do you want", Ben forced himself awake. "The portrait asshole...are you done with it? We heard no news from you", Joanne fluttered with desperation. "I haven't started lah. Had a party last night over here. My head hurts. Give me awhile la ok? Lemme just wash up and I'll get down to it", Ben said nonchalantly.

"What!!! You haven't started? How are we going to finish this in time. Are you sure you got time to finish it anot you idiot?", Joanne was on the verge of a catastrophic meltdown. "Relax lah. Kancheong for what? 2 hours can already. Ok?", Ben comforted his sister. He has always been closer to Joanne as compared to his other siblings, for Joanne usually was his accomplice during their growing up years, unlike the other 2 siblings who were basically hardcore nerds.

Ben reappeared 30 minutes later with a roll of canvass under his left arm, an easel in his right hand, and a couple of charcoal pencils. He carefully placed his reference photo and began sketching. Joanne nestled herself comfortably on the couch as she intently peered over Ben's shoulder not wanting to be left out of the artistic developments.

"Hey!!!", Joanne wailed. "Do you think this is a joke? What the hell are you drawing. That doesn't look like Mum", Joanne rattled on as she tilted her head sideways to convince herself that she isn't dreaming. "It looks more like.... me it seems?", she now seems puzzled.

"Yah yah. What the hell do you guys know", Ben defended himself. "Anyway, you're her daughter what, so there must be some form of resemblance right?", Ben sarcastically replied. "I'm not done. This is just the base. Now is the fun part", Ben muttered, with a glint in his eye and his head tilted back at an angle, as if absorbing the energy from the canvas.

Joanne stood up and pulled a stool so that she could sit closer to Ben. "You remembered in Primary School when I chose to join the Art Club instead of Science Club?", Ben asked his sister. "Well Mum was really disappointed", Ben continued as he added a fine line across the forehead. "And then I failed one of the year end exams badly and couldn't progress to the next level. That deserved a few more lines", Ben exclaimed as he let his charcoal do the talking.

"Father had an affair when we were in Secondary School, that really took a toll on Mum", Ben muttered again as he drew a deeper groove this time near the temple and below the eyes. "It took a good 1 year before the divorce case was settled", Ben recollected as he added a few more fine lines here and there.

Joanne now began to see how the portrait began to unfold as she began to see more of her mother now. "Remember December 1998?", Ben quizzed Joanne. We attended our prom night, we got drunk and didn't come home. Mum got really angry at you, and at me for dragging you along. "If only she knew the truth back then about who devised that plan!", Ben smirked at his sister Joanne as he added a few more creases onto the face.

"And this is for the time i got my first tattoo, and when I opted for Art School, and when I went into NS. And when you were dating that older guy. Wait...older ugly guy! Haha", Ben laughed, together with Joanne as they reminisced the past. "And this is when Debra miscarried her first child. And this is for when the house caught fire one evening and we had to stay with Aunty Sue for a couple of months. God Mum hated Aunty Sue's husband", Ben went on.

Slowly but slowly, Joanne found herself starring at her mother, who is looking straight back at her from the canvass. "She seems sad Ben. Can you do something about it", Joanne commented with a tear in her eyes.

"Wait lah. Still not done.", Ben defended himself. "Remember the day Dylan was born? Mum shed tears of joy in welcoming her first grand child", Ben shuffle Joanne's memory as he drew some fine lines around the mouth. "And when all of you guys graduated from the university, and when all of you got married, and when Thomas got that president achievement thingy", Ben continued as he drew those fine crevices so it formed a smile on his mother's face.

"There, I'm almost done", said Ben as he applied the finishing touches. "Wow", Joanne gasped. "You're really brilliant. You're really something. Gift from God you are", Joanne exclaimed as she sat amazed. "Somehow, I still feel something is amiss", Joanne muttered as she snatched the charcoal pencil from her youngest brother.

"What the hell? What do you mean? What are you doing?", Ben fretted as Joanne brought the charcoal closer to the canvas. Joanne drew in another fine line around her Mother's mouth. "And what's that supposed to be?", Ben seemed puzzled and eager to know. "You know how much Mum doesn't show her appreciation toward you?", Joanne paused for a while. "Well, its not as bad as it seems. She's old fashioned yes. But she has always told us that she loved you most. And she is very proud of what you are today, albeit choosing an unconventional path, whenever she reads your name in the papers or see you on television, she never fail to say this...",Joanne stopped, with tears already welling in her eyes.

"What?", Ben whispered. She would say proudly to all, "That's my son Ben. My son."

- Inspired by an ageless Enid Blyton classic.

Home Sweet Home

2009-09-29T12:37:00.002+08:00

It had been a hectic week for us all. To squeeze everything for completion before the long weekend break was near impossible. Or so we all thought, right up till 11pm that Friday evening as we switched off the lights to the office and waved goodbye to the week that just eluded by.

It was too early a night or so I concluded to be retiring into comfortable pyjamas and a comforting mug of simmering hot chocolate. And so I asked if anyone was up for some drinks. I was in the mood to party, and so were thousands of others lining up the quay side pubs and cafes.

"I promised my wife I'll have supper with her", said one. Understandable. "I want to spend some time with my parents", said another. Forgivable, considering the hours we put in at work. I reckon he only gets to see his parents during the weekends, despite living in the same house.

"My cousins are coming over. We got a PS3 battle scheduled for tonight", said the other. I looked over my shoulder to the remaining two colleagues, half expecting them to bid farewell. I couldn't be bothered to know their interest level anymore. "Erm..I wanna spend time with the family", said one. "I'll join you", said the Malaysian.

Smiling, we eagerly trudged forward toward the taxi stand, half excited, and half asking what just happened a few brief moments ago. Brothers, Families, Children, Parents. Families. Such is the plight of expatriates, plying their trade, be it far away or just in the neighbouring countries, nevertheless, we're still alone. And more often than not, though I for sure hide it so well from my exterior, I do miss home. And I'm sure my Malaysian colleague felt the same way too.

The night didn't disappoint. We made new friends, we had fun, we sweated on the dance floor, and most importantly, for that few minutes, we felt like we were home, right up till the lights came on and suddenly, the dance floor seemed smaller as compared to when the lights were flickering along the pulsating bass lines. Then reality smacks us right back in the face. Time to go home. No. To loneliness.

"So Duncan, tell me, what's your fondest memory of home?", I asked. He didn't need to deliberate as he began his story.

"I was about ten", he flashed back. I could tell from the far away look in his eyes how his mind journeyed back in time. "It was the best time of my life. All the rascals were drafted into the same class. All of which were my closest friends. We rode our rusty bicycles to school each morning, laughing, mocking and mimicking the teachers we disliked in school."

"Then some time just after the mid year holidays, we had this milk campaign. We all had to order those liquid milk that came in packets of 6s. To grow strong bones and teeth they said. And for our art project, my friends and I, we decided to do up a wall mural. It was kind of like the ones you see in the doctor's waiting room. The ones with all the animals and you have to stand beside it to monitor your growth in height. And they had this giraffe as the tallest animal. We had that too. It was beautiful at the time."

"We grew up of course. Went to different schools. But we remained friends. Then during Chinese New Year earlier this year, I went back to my hometown. It was a ritual for most robust young men to venture out of small town Ipoh to harvest their rewards. My friends did it, and so did I. It was indescribable. The 5 of us, together once again. With money this time round. How trivial. Then one of them suggested to visit the old school."

"It didn't seem like fun at first, but we didn't have a better plan. And so with a couple of beers we drove toward that side of town. It wasn't difficult to spot the pale yellow walls of our former school. It was peeling with age, but the emblem still stood out proudly from the main building, with its bold lettering below it. The cemented road had major cracks in between, but that was it. The rest, was just as how we left it. Even the air smelt the same, except that it was silent now, missing were the frantic laughter of children within the compound."

"We trudged up toward the second floor and loitered along the corridor as we approached our former classroom. And as unimportant as it is, it was weird that we all still remembered where we sat and where the other blokes of the class were sitting. Good times we all thought. Then as we were about to leave, one of us wailed in delight as he pointed at the door entrance."

"There, in its faded glory was that mural we all did all those years back. You could still make out the numbers by the side if you were to just concentrate a little longer. The mural seemed midgety all of a sudden as we all seemed like overgrown giants now. But the mural brought about silence that moment. We didn't say it out, but I knew for a fact that at that exact moment, we all remembered who we really were and how innocent and fulfilling those growing up years were. It was a miracle how all of us faced life adversities from young punks to aspiring professionals. And for once in the longest time, we felt free."

I gasped as I tried to share the beautiful memory my friend had of his growing up days and home town. I didn't expect this for an answer to my question, but his story struck a chord in my heart. Sometimes people do not appreciate the fact that they have a home to go to every day, no matter how long they spend their time in the office, no matter how hard they slogged that day.

Brothers, Families, Children, Parents. Friends. Always close, but never close it seems for us expatriates. At best, we see them briefly perhaps once, twice....at best three times a year. If I were to ask that question to a hundred expats, I would get a hundred different answers. All of which reminds us of home in the unique manner we choose to remember it by. All of which, priceless as priceless can be, will forever be our Home Sweet Home picture.

I Love Thee

2009-09-29T10:01:00.003+08:00

I Love Thee,
I Love But Thee,
With a Love That Shall Not Die,
Till The Sun Grows Cold,
And The Stars Grow Old.

- William Shakespeare

The Addict

2009-07-15T23:39:00.002+08:00

Ash as he was colloquially called, looked brittle and worn. The area around his eyes gave the impression that he had applied some kind of cosmetic. It was black as soot, very much panda like. How ironic, as you may perhaps deduced where he got his name from. His eyes seemed dead and struggling to blink, though in a daze.

Ash rummaged his wardrobe, frantically searching for his fix. He began to perspire profusely as he emptied his drawers. He mumbled to himself whilst continuing surging with his search. He looked under the mattress, in his wallet, in his jeans pocket and yet he couldn't find what he was looking for. The only thing that was important to him his whole life.

Tears rolled down his cheek as he struggled to come to terms that he had run out on drugs. He yearned for it. Depended on it. It had become part of his flesh and blood, streaming in his veins, he needed it to keep himself calm and think happy thoughts.

Full of angst, he pressed a couple of numbers on his mobile phone and impatiently waited for the other party to pick up the telephone. It seemed longer than usual and Ash began to pull his hair. "Yes?", the heavy bass-like voice answered on the other line. "Do you have some on you?", Ash struggled with his stuttering voice. "I have a couple of pills on me. Be here in an hour", the other guy said without saying goodbye.

Ash clenched the few pieces of notes he had on the dressing table, tiptoed to his mother's room and crept toward her cupboard. Like a mouse, he silently took some cash and was out of the house in a flash.

Before long, he arrived at one of the smaller neighbourhoods on this little island country. The blocks seemed to be breathing new life as a fresh coat of paint was recently applied to it. Part of the neighbourhood upgrading. Hiding years of moss and algae that had previously conjured its walls, especially those on the lower floors.

Ash hid behind one of the pillars of the opposite block as he dialled the number again. He allowed it to ring about four times before shutting it off. A signal for the guy to drop of his goods at the usual place. Ash became wary all of a sudden about his surroundings. He looked left and right and fidgeted with his hands as he trudged forward toward his destination. Unknown to him, he was being watched.

Ash walked past the elevators before darting up the stairs to the third storey. He opened the piping cabinet and grabbed the little ziploc left for him on the concrete floor. He placed the money there and scampered down the corridor, as he examined the contents of the ziploc. He smiled to himself, with satisfaction and full of glee.

As he trudged down the staircase at the other end of the block, he popped the pills into his mouth, affording a smile as he felt the pills slither down his throat. He walked toward the vending machine at the void deck as he emptied the coins in his jeans to get some liquid to drain down his pills. All this while, his watchers kept a roving eye on him, contemplating on whether to go for Ash, a small time consumer or the big fish instead. "You tail him", one officer said to the other. "I'll look out on the third floor", he whispered.

Before the officer could reach Ash, he was already on his way as he hailed and boarded the taxi cab in a jiffy. Ash tilted his back as he sat so that he could park his heavy head unto the headrest. He closed his eyes and allowed the drugs to take effect.

Ash felt light all of a sudden, as though he was being lifted from the ground. He felt good all of a sudden as he rhythmically grooved with the drug. It sure felt good alright as his heart kept pounding faster. Millions of lights darted into his vision though his eyes were closed. Lights of all shapes and colours. A million colours! They formed all sorts oh shapes and weird objects. Ash felt as though he was watching the most brilliant commercial or movie. This was the life....or so it seemed as he languished in this comforting high.

What seemed like seconds, and the taxi cab pulled over at Ash's block. He passed the driver whatever cash he had, too eager to wait for his change as he hurried out of the cab and walked briskly in zig zag fashion for he could hardly feel his legs. Meanwhile, the officer who had been trailing him pulled up on the other end of the block, as he prepared to ambush a weakened Ash.

Ash dragged himself forward, creeping against the walls for support as the lift seemed Oh so far away. All he could think of was his dark humid room. how much he wanted to just rot in his bed and enjoy the effect the drug had on him. It was just moments away, or so he thought.

Just as he was about to press the lift button, a firm hand gripped his wrist. "What the hell are you doing Ash?", an all familiar voice boomed through the silence. Ash forced his puffy eyes open and looked at the officer. "Adam? What do you want?", Ash tried to sound normal but he couldn't hide his actual state of high. "Why are you doing this Ash? The last time I met you, you said you're done. You're clean. You promised! What's going on Ash?", Adam quizzed as he himself fell into a daze of confusion.

"I got to take you in Ash. You need help", Adam continued. "No!!!!", Ash barked at Adam. "Let me go....let me go!!", he tried to wrestle with his cousin Adam but the officer was just too strong for him. "Please...pleasee", Ash begged with tears in his eyes. "You owe me this one Adam. Remember the things I did for you back then. Don't forget where you came from Adam. You just don't forget!", Ash bargained with his cousin, who used to be more like an younger brother to him back then.

As confused as anyone could ever get, Adam loosened his grip and allowed Ash to disappear into the lift. Millions of thoughts haunted Adam soon after as never expected to come face to face with his drug addict cousin. His walkie talkie broke the uncomfortable silence and echoed in the corridor. "Did you get him? What's your location..over", his partner asked. Adam let the officer in on his location and waited for him before they proceeded to Ash's residence.

The officers caused such an upheaval, considering the blood ties that was involved between officer and addict. Neighbours awoke and crowded the corridor as Ash left the house, barefooted, high, in hand cuffs, and leaving behind a distraught father, and a crying mother.

That night, Adam tried hard to rest and get some shut eye. Memories of younger days shoved him in his thoughts and Adam questioned his integrity between family and work. He felt though he had cheated on the most important thing he held close to him. Adam felt deep regret though he knew it was probably the best thing his cousin needed to finally wake up.

Adam didn't see Ash again until 4 months later when he got news that Ash had committed suicide in his jail cell. Surprisingly Ash seemed calm and comforted as he was lowered into the grave. Jail was just too much for Ash it seemed. Guilty as one could be, for the rest of his life, Adam knew he could not shrug the guilt he is feeling.

Not a single day went by without Adam asking himself What If questions. What If he had let Ash go that day? What if he wasn't going for that rank promotion? What if life was just as simple as it was back then? Just two kids, full of mischief, running down the corridor in their mud stained shorts, after breaking the neighbours flower pot. After all, that will always be how Adam remembers his cousin Ash.

Broken

2009-07-12T13:45:00.002+08:00

If I were to be interviewed one fine day, and the reporter were to ask me what was the most difficult thing men can ever come across in life, I already have my answer.

Growing up and being told what to do? You can always rebel or oddly sneak out and do the prohibited anyhow. Studying your socks off? Its more about the question of sound time management and a cure for laziness. Striking it rich? Climbing that tall corporate ladder?

I've always felt that it is within our control to manifest our dreams. Only sometimes we need a little luck, and a sprinkle of the right opportunity trudging our way. But breaking a promise? Now that's heart wrecking.

Wednesdays. I really hate Wednesdays. For Wednesdays reminds me of horrifying end to end liaising and paper work and endless jabbering on the telephone with someone that's as irrelevant as they are important in my line of work.

The minutes ticked surprisingly quickly the moment I stepped into the office. I tried my best to delay my task proper. I lugged myself to the pantry for a miserable cup of coffee and already soft biscuits...i strolled back to my cubicle, switched on my terminal, and fiddled with my phone before it began to beep.

"Can we have dinner tonight?", it read. "Sure. Can't wait to see you tonight", was my careless reply. Not thinking through but rather acting purely out of love and badly missing that someone.

"Shucks!", I thought to myself. It's god damn Wednesday. I don't even know if I was going to have time for lunch! But I tried, to the best of my abilities to prioritize my tasks and sorted whatever I could as efficiently and swiftly as possible. Things were looking good.

As each hour passes, she would text me eagerly over the phone. At 12 Noon, it read, "7 hours before I see you". At 2pm, it read, "5 more hours". Those messages never failed to lift my spirits despite the chaos I was going through. But it was going to be well worth it I mused to myself. Spending a simple quiet dinner with your loved one after a long arduous day.

At 5pm, things were looking suspiciously good. Then something happened that could have happened to any other person in the creative industry. You got to rush an urgent AD. Your whole world crashes on you as I morbidly pictured her face transforming into a heap of black sadness. Now conveying to her this piece of news, it needs a man to be supported with a battalion of courage to do so.

ADVERTISING: If it doesn't kill you...it murders you.

Surprisingly, she took it rather well. That's the first sign you're in big trouble. Like any other man, you'll probably expect a string of Whys and How Could Yous coming your way. But all I got was a sleek OK..I understand.

I didn't blame her for feeling a heave of mess and sadness. I didn't mind not having a thing to eat for lunch or dinner that day, hoping that whatever time I saved, it would increase my chances of meeting her for dinner that night.

I didn't mind, having just a few hours of sleep almost every single day, for I'd somehow feel rejuvenated around her presence.

I only hated myself for breaking a promise. Reading her text messages earlier that day made me feel worst. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do in the longest time, and I hope I don't have to do it ever again. If I do, just so you know, I'm deeply sorry. I only wanted the best. Always have, and Always will.

Answered in Silence

2009-04-20T12:37:00.003+08:00

There were many fleeting questions that streamed through my mind the past few weeks. None of which I could muster up an answer to.

I asked. I asked myself. I even questioned my heart. Still, the silence grips me in a stranglehold, as more and more questions flooded my head.

How funny those feelings scamper away when I'm with you.

As you gradually disappeared into the drifting taxi cab that night, instincts compelled me to turn. The same exact moment you looked back at me. I forced myself to a wry smile in your direction. The other half of me wanted to just run forward. But smaller and smaller you disappeared into the long road, admist the subdued silence.

Queer as it was, I wasn't even questioning, nor was I asking. I just felt what I saw, and then I knew, the answers to all my questions.

It has always been in front of me. YOU.

P.S: Bily.

A Rather Disturbing Dream

2009-03-24T22:29:00.002+08:00

As I woke up one clear Friday morning, I somehow knew something was amiss amidst the seemingly clear blue skies, free from fluffy white clouds. It wasn't often, considering the tropical climate of an equatorial country, for the skies to paint itself a deep concentrated blue hue, like a 16th century painting hanging in a museum.

We were totally caught off guard, in such a trying time as the economy stretched our dollars apart. We got the house, then the newly acquired car, and a couple of life's simple luxuries which we can't live without. But the gift of life was always one we shouldn't push aside. If it is His wish to bless us with a shining light, perhaps he has his ways to shower us with whatever necessary to aid us through to the welcoming of our first born child.

Too many a times have I witnessed close relatives and friends receive similar news with tears welled up in their eyes. But how different it felt, when it happens to oneself. Consumed by happiness and overwhelmed with excitement, I for one was lost for words when the doctor confirmed the test results.

With added vigor and a new sense of motivation, I propelled myself harder at work, working extended laborious hours, just so I can provide more, for my family, and the anticipated welcoming of our first child. Though what I made seemed rather adequate, it pains me to see my wife propelling just as hard at her job.

Full of admiration for her tenacity and bullish drive, it came to a point her health suffered. It started off light at first, with sporadic headaches and back pains. But it became apparently worse as the months wore on. "It's OK dear", she lamented. "We can do with the extra cash", was what she always says as I brought up the topic of her quitting her job temporarily.

After much consistent persuasion, she finally gave in. It was a good 3 months before the due date, and boy was I glad to know that she finally has proper rest, limiting the possibilites of any complications.

As the days wore on and the welcoming seemed ever so near, I found it ever more so difficult to concentrate at work. My mind was always elsewhere, lingering into mindless day dreams, full of happiness and smiles. It was on one such day that I received a horrific call from my in-law.

"We're on the way to the hospital", she sobbed in between the lines. Her voice, heaved with sadness and fear. Never one to sit idly at home, my wife apparently slipped in the kitchen and passed out. There was just so much blood everywhere, as my in-law recollected her words when she entered the kitchen to find her daughter sprawled on the floor in a bloody mess.

I rushed to the hospital as swiftly as I could, driving like a raging bull, my pessimistic mind filled with negative publicity. I recognized the doctor from afar as he pulled up his hand to get my attention. With a comforting arm around my shoulder, he explained the situation as calmly as a doctor possibly could.

"I'll get straight to the point", his heavy voice spoke. "The good news is that though almost 2 months premature, the baby is safe. Now the bad news is that your wife was hemorrhaging blood when she got here. So much so that she's in a coma", the doctor's voice suddenly faded away as I felt a sense of heaviness within my head as I run my hands over my face.

"Now we have done all we can. The hemorrhaging has ceased but we cannot be sure when will she come out from her coma. It could be a few days. It could be a few years we do not know. Let's all pray shall we?", he comforted me as he opened the door to the ward where I saw my wife's angelic face asleep, like how she always looked so beautiful as she sleeps in my arms.

My in-law got up to leave, as I requested some alone time to recollect the events that happened within the past few hours. The atmosphere was silent like how all hospitals were. Reeking of death and misery. I touched her face, half hoping that the doctor was lying. She remained asleep.

I sat there, running my hands through her hair and talking to myself, hoping that she would come out of her sleep soon so that we can take a look at our child for the first time together.

The days wilted away and still, she laid frozen alive. I have yet to see my child. Relatives lamented on how he had my nose and her lips, but I still remained adamant to the fact that we just had to look at our child for the first time together, just like how the whole journey first began.

The doctors told me to rest as I looked pretty much lethargic, sitting there starring into her eyes. They said that if there was anything that could aid someone out from a coma, it is by hearing the voice of a loved one. Though she remained unconscious, she could still somehow hear. It was a long shot, but I remained positive.

I started to read aloud her favourite books. Mostly fairy tales and the sort. I read her some of the old books we had, which had been shoved away in the store cabinet. I even read her some of the letters and poems which we wrote each other during our courting days.

It was on one such day that I read her one of the first letters I wrote, that I fell asleep on her lap, clutching her palms in mine. I thought I must have been dreaming when I felt her fingers move! Slowly, I raised my head and looked upon her face. Her eyes fluttered open, as though she was opening it for the first time...like a beautiful butterfly that was becoming and taking its maiden flight.

She was back alright, and I could feel the life sucking into me once again as I kissed her on the palms like I always did. "Is the baby alright?", she asked with a glint of concern in her eyes. I comforted her that the baby is fine and healthy. It has been almost a month since she slipped into a coma, and though premature, the baby is doing better than normal, just as what the doctor said.

"Who does he look like?", was her next question. "I don't know for sure. I've yet to see it", I exclaimed. "You liar!", she managed to joke a little as she didn't believe a word I said. "Well it's true. The rest of them have seen him but me. I just thought it would be sweet for us to see our baby for the first time together", I continued.

I shall never forget the first time I saw my bundle of joy, as it laid comfortably nestled in his mother's arms, peering out of the cloth that was wrapping him, eager and curious just as his father is. They say the best moments of raising a child is when you watch him grow, for once he reaches a certain age, they'll just fly away, like how we all did when we left our parents homes.

Though this story was entirely based on a recent dream, I choose to believe that the actions of the characters somehow reflects upon my ideals in life. I'm positively sure I would have reacted just the same.

Pixie the Gnome & The Golden Princess' Tears

2009-01-11T20:07:00.003+08:00

After just a few minutes of trailing behind the witty and gallant Yvein, Pixie broke the silence of the forest sanctuary in her cute little voice that went, "Yvein! Do you really know where you're going and how we are going to break Plexine's spell casted upon my friends?". "Of course I do. If there is anything to reverse a magic spell, it would be The Golden Princess's tears. And that is exactly what we are going to do!", Yvein almost boasted with new found confidence.

"But The Golden Princess don't cry. Haven't you heard the tales the elders speak of?", Pixie said in a puzzling manner. "Aha!. That's where you're wrong my friend. You just wait and see what I'm going to do!", Yvein proclaimed. "Now stop whining and lets go. Craven's Nest is not far from here", Yvein began to walk faster.

"Craven's Nest?", Pixie began to feel more clueless than ever. But she trusted Yvein and decided not to irritate him further. The gnomes arrived at Craven's Nest just before the napping hours and just in time to see one of the Cravens nestle into their giant nests. Now Cravens, though they look menacing and ferocious, they really are nice creatures...once you get to know them better.

"Pixie!....Pixie!! Come here!", Yvein hissed out to Pixie while indicating with a finger over his mouth for Pixie to stay quiet. "Lay on the the floor and wail in pain like the spoilt brat you are", Yvein requested. "But I'm NOT..." "Well you don't want to walk all the way to the Glass Palace now do you!?", Yvein cut out Pixie's attempt at retorting before she could even complete it.

Reluctantly and in utter bewilderment, Pixie obliged. She laid on the grass and began wailing in pain as instructed. If you looked closely, you can even spot a tear welling up in cute little Pixie's eyes. That was how good an actress she really is! In an instant, Yvein darted toward the nearest nest and shouted in exasperation, "Help! Help! My friend...she is in pain...Help!".

"Now what is this ruckus bothering me from my snooze time", a loud shriek voice cackled as a Craven popped its head from within the nest. "My..my...look what we have here. Its dear Yvein again. What do you want this time boy?", the Craven asked.
"My friend over there...she's been stung by Acid Bees, if we don't take her to the Glass Palace at once, she'll surely die! Please please I beg of you", Yvein pleaded.

"Well, it really is a nice lazy afternoon. Perfect for a nap. Why should I help you worthless cunning gnomes?", the Craven challenged Yvein. Quick thinking, Yvein took out just one Honey Walnut from his brown sack that glittered in the warm sun. "There are hundreds of these where it came from. It's all yours if you let us sit on your back and fly us to the Glass Palace", Yvein blurted out an offer the Craven can't refuse.

Licking it's hungry lips, the Craven obliged. Yvein ran back to Pixie, cheekily winked at her and helped her up onto the Craven's hairy back, which was quite comfortable in fact, just like a soft velvet couch.

The Craven soared high into the sky and above the clouds as the two gnomes looked down at the forest below and thanked their lucky stars for not having to walk all those million miles. "Faster faster!", Yvein roared in excitement for he enjoyed the wind guzzling against his face. Pixie on the other hand felt rather uncomfortable for she was darn scared of heights, and so she gripped Yvein tightly, which caused him to gasp.

Before long, the Craven began to descend and made ground for the brownish slug of a land just before the Murky Rivers. "Hey this is not the Glass Palace!", Yvein rattled in anger. "I'm sorry my gnome friends. We Cravens must not fly above Murky Waters. There is an old curse that warned us about flying over these evil waters. I'm sorry but this is as far as I can only take you", the Craven apologised with geunine intent. "But once you cross the Murky Waters, the Glass Palace is not far away. Trust me", the Craven tried to comfort the gnomes.

"Well alright Craven. Here you go", Yvein slung forward his brown sack and tied it neatly around the craven's legs. "And thank you for taking us this far. May we meet again kind friend!", Yvein bidded the Craven farewell as it soared high into the skies once again.

The Gnomes looked toward Murky Waters and wondered how are they ever going to cross these dangerous swamp. Just then, a huge Crocodile waddled toward the near bank and smiled sheepishly at the gnomes. "What are you two gnomes doing far away from your villages", the crocodile asked cunningly while he thought about having them for supper.

Knowing fully well that Crocodiles eats anything that moves, the gnomes took a step back, while orchestrating a solution. "You know what?", Pixie voiced out. "We are indeed on our way to the Glass Palace to collect our just rewards from the Fairy Princess. We helped her carry out a couple of errands last week and she promised us two huge brown cows. You can have them both if you let us ride your back to the other side of Murky Waters", for once Pixie displayed her hidden genius ability.

Crocodiles, who only possess brains the size of a ground nut, didn't have to do much thinking before agreeing on the offer. The crocodile just imagined about the fine meal he was about to have once the gnomes returned with the cows. Almost immediately, he agreed to let the gnomes ride on his leathery back.

Hand in hand, the gnomes put one foot on the crocodile's back, then the other as they balanced atop his lean muscular back. All this while, wary of the cunning but dumb crocodile. They reached the far bank safely and both gnomes ran to a safe distance before shouting, "Don't worry Mr Crocodile, we'll be back soon with the cows. Wait for us!".

The gnomes ran as fast as their little legs could take them and before long, they arrived at the Glass Palace, just as the Craven had promised. The Glass Palace was indeed a sight to behold. Standing like a jewel from the farthest lands, the gnomes gasped at its tremendous beauty. There were golden carriages on the lawn and the pillars of the palace was coated in the most exotic materials they had ever laid eyes upon.

There were Fairy Princess' roaming everywhere from the gardens to the big rooms which they could see from where they were standing from. Each Fairy Princess looked ravishing and captivating in their raw beauty. Each of them emitted a radiant light, an aura of sheer magic about them.

The gnomes stood by the main palace doors and and before they could even knock, the doors flew wide open and they were greeted by one of the Fairy Princess'. "Why what do we have here? Two little gnome friends. How can I help you beautiful little creatures?", the Fairy Princess asked. "Erm..Erm...We are here to see the Golden Princess", Pixie struggled to find her words.

"And why may I ask do you seek the Golden Princess?", the Fairy Princess queried. The gnomes related their story about Plexine, Alfen and the Crystal Blue Waters and begged the Fairy to show them the way.

"Well if it's true what you say, then I shall show you the way to the Golden Princess. But you have to earn it my gnome friends. Golden Princess's tears are precious...Good luck getting it out from her diamond eyes", the Fairy continued with a smile.

The Fairy brought them to The Golden Princess's room high up in the Palace and closed the doors behind them. "I have visitors", the Golden Princess spoke. "It's been a long time since I had visitors. I don't receive much visitors these days for they never got what they came for. It is my tears I believe that you are looking for yes?", the Golden Princess said almost nonchalantly. "Well good luck my friends", she said, putting the gnomes in a spot.

"Well, we don't care about your tears oh Golden Princess. My friend Pixie here does not believe you exist. So I brought he here to show her", Yvein said confidently. "And now that she has seen you, we should be on our way home", Yvein continued.

"Wait wait little gnomes", the Golden Princess suddenly felt bad. "Since you have come a long way, why not sit with me for a cup of Caramel. It soothes the soul you know", the Golden Princess offered.

The two gnomes didn't need a second offering and joined the Golden Princess at her table. As soon as they sat, Yvein started to tell the Golden Princess the whole story of Plexine and how they killed her under the Crystal Blue Waters using the hand mirror.

At once, the Golden Princess laughed and she laughed and she laughed for whoever thought that the evil Plexine could be killed by two cute little gnomes! She laughed so hard that tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her cheek and without wasting much time, Yvein grabbed his glass vial from his pocket, uncorked the opening and caught the tear just before it hit the ground. More tears streamed down her cheeks and Yvein caught all of them till the vial was almost half filled!

Satisfied, Yvein corked it shut tightly and smiled impressed with himself. "My my, such clever gnomes you two are, tricking me like that! I've never laughed like I just did in years! I like you gnomes. I'm going to grant you one wish! Now what is it that you wish for my dear little gnomes?", the Golden Princess asked.

"Please Oh beautiful Golden Princess. Give us wings and the ability to fly!", Yvein requested without much hesitation. "If it is wings that you seek, it is wings that you get!", the Golden Princess blew magic star dust on the two and a pair of wings, translucent but in a golden shade grew from Yvein's and Pixie's back!

Happy, the two gnomes bade farewell and promised the Golden Princess that they will come visit her again soon. As soon as they were out, they tested their wings and they took to flying like fish to water! They flew east and north and up and down and enjoyed every minute of their new found ability.

They flew toward Murky Waters and over and saw Mr Crocodile still waiting. "Hey you two! What are you doing up there?" the crocodile asked in amazement. "Where are my cows you promised?", he asked. "You are not getting any cows you evil crocodile! You have been so bad eating up all the fishes and deers that drinks from the river so you are not getting anything from us! We just needed a ride from you, that's all. We planned this all along!", Pixie sniggered at the crocodile as the two gnomes flew toward Plexine's castle.

At the castle, Pixie called out to her dear friend Alfen. Alfen flew to Pixie, along with another enchanted butterfly that was cursed by Plexine. Yvein took out the glass vial from his pocket and carefully dropped a drop of Golden Princess's tear onto them and watched in amazement.

Slowly, the butterflies transformed into their original selves and they hugged each other in utter happiness. They danced and jigged and was soon out of the castle and back into Forest Greenwood where a whole new set of adventure awaits them!

Pixie the Gnome & The Crystal Blue Water

2009-01-06T22:45:00.003+08:00

Pixie the Gnome, like all good-natured creatures her age from the small town of Einhoven was always looking for new adventures beyond the outskirts of their cheerful little village. More than often, they will huddle together during the monthly bonfire and listen attentively to the adult gnomes who tells stories of the land beyond Forest Greenwood to the North of Einhoven.

Few have ventured further than they actually should during the wildberry picking season...but none returned. As the adult gnomes put it, naughty gnomes, who disobey their warnings, will fall into the evil and dark magical clutches of Plexine the Wicked Witch!

"Just another tall tale to deny us invigorating adventures!", Pixie thought to herself as she brushed away the idea of herself falling prey to Plexine. Pixie recalled during the last Autumn season how she and her brothers collected wildberries...of all shapes and sizes at the fringe of Forest Greenwood. The deeper they ventured, the bigger and juicier the berries got..some as big as fists, others as small as a silver sixpence.

As Pixie looked far beyond the rising smoke of the bonfire and across the village rooftops, she gazed upon the deep dark shadows of Forest Greenwood and vowed to venture further than she should into the never realms the very next day, without uttering a whisper of her intentions to her gnome friends and brothers. "What an adventure!", Pixie exclaimed to herself, with her bright eyes sparkling like faraway jewels.

Pixie woke up with an extra spring in her little legs the next morning. She barely slept the night before as she anticipated the fun and laughter she was about to have. "Goodbye Mum", Pixie waved to her mother as she skipped down the pebbled path. "Be careful dear Pixie. Do not go anywhere you shouldn't. You know how often you get yourself in trouble don't you. Come back before dark!", her Mother's voice trailed into the misty morning air.

As Pixie trampled on deeper into Forest Greenwood, Pixie marveled at sights she never saw before. The sunflowers, yellow as the very rays that cast its glow upon the land were humming the sweetest tunes. Flowers with colours beyond her wildest imagination had eyes and ears and a mouth just like gnomes had and they all said 'Hello Pixie!', as she breezed past them. "How did they know my name?" Pixie wondered. "My my...this really is an Enchanted Forest!", Pixie thought to herself.

The wood squirrels and playful monkeys were scurrying about from tree to tree as they played hide n seek with Pixie. Pixie was having so much fun that she grew totally oblivious to the time. Before long, all the forest animals and flowers bade farewell to Pixie. "Goodbye dear Pixie. It was fun playing with you. You should make haste now new friend. It's getting dark, and you wouldn't want to get caught by Plexine....she loves wondering naughty gnomes!", they warned her.

In an instant, Forest Greenwood stood silent like a haunted castle. The echoes grew louder as the winds grew stronger and seeped through the thick forest leaves. The setting sun cast long monstrous shadows across the forest floor and Pixie grew mightily scared! As she looked around, it looked the same everywhere...Pixie was tremendously lost!

Pixie wandered on till she came by a huge Oak tree, whose hollow opening was big enough for her to climb and nestle herself from the cold night wind. Pixie trembled at the slightest sound and closed her eyes in fear and regret. Just then, she saw the brightest blue light illuminating in the distance. "A fairy princess!", Pixie comforted herself. "I'll beg her to send me home", Pixie told herself. "I'm sure the fairy princess is kind enough to not leave a little cute Pixie like me alone in this enchanted forest in the night", Pixie exclaimed with a hint of eagerness in her voice.

As the blue light sparkled closer, Pixie jumped out from the Oak tree and waved frantically, beckoning for the Fairy Princess's attention. As it got closer, Pixie's jaw dropped at the beauty of the Fairy Princess. Never before had she seen a wonderful sight. It was just as how the adult gnomes described during the bonfires! And before Pixie could utter a word, the Fairy Princess waved her magic wand and in an instant, Pixie found herself bounded and gagged with silver chains as thick as the rusty metal ones wrapping her wooden gates.

"Pixie the Gnome...", an evil bewitching voice breathed from within the Fairy Princess. "I've been waiting for you!", it continued as it transformed into its true self. It really was Plexine! As hideous and haunting as those stories Pixie heard! "I love naughty pixies!", it cackled in the night. "It's been too long since I had one for dinner. My my you'll make a scrumptious meal for me", Plexine notioned as she scrutinized little Pixie from head to toe. "Perhaps I'll wait for you to grow a little bit more", Plexine muttered to herself as she licked her lips to whet her appetite at the thought of having a nice juicy gnome for a fine meal!

"Into the carriage you go", Plexine barked as she kicked Pixie into her carriage which was driven by huge black dogs with 3 heads growing from a single body and knives for teeth! Pixie shuddered each time Plexine roared with laughter and hoped this was really only a horrid nightmare.

After what seemed like hours, finally the carriage came to a halt and Pixie was dragged by a clench of hair by the top of her little head into Plexine's castle. Pixie's heels were scarred by the rough wooden flooring as Plexine dragged her to the dungeon which was unusually situated on the highest floor.

As soon as the heavy doors closed and the chains and bolts were fastened, Pixie's hands were magically unbound. Pixie took a few seconds to get accustomed to her dimmed surroundings. Pixie looked around petrified by the ghastly cobwebs plastered against the walls and ants the size of matchboxes crawling all over the floor. A small opening on one side of the wall let in a soft glow courtesy of the forgiving moon. Alas, the window was grilled and Pixie sat in the corner sobbing.

"Don't cry dear Pixie", mellowed a friendly voice from somewhere near Pixie's badly bruised feet. "Who said that?", Pixie beckoned in the darkness. "It's me Alfen", said a golden butterfly. "Alfen!?", Pixie exclaimed. "What happened to you my long lost friend? We all thought you were lost last autumn when you went to pick wildberries", Pixie continued.

"Yes it's me. I was captured by the evil Plexine, just like you. My brothers are gone...but I guess I was lucky to be turned into a butterfly. I'm made to run errands for the evil Plexine", Alfen lamented. "But what could a butterfly really do for a witch?", Pixie asked. "Well...Plexine needs the saliva of the forest silkworms for her magic. And only a butterfly is small enough to fly into silkworms' nest", Alfen explained. Pixie heaved in misery as she thought about the fate that awaits her.

The next day Pixie awoke by the singing sparrows sitting by her window. Her dungeoun was pretty bare, less for some old medieval furniture and a curious hand mirror sitting atop a table.

Vain like most girl gnomes, Pixie grabbed it and got a shock as she gazed upon her sorry reflection. Never has she looked this bad she thought to herself. Of all things to think about when her life was at the mercy of a wicked witch. Pixie got bored and stood by the window looking out, using the mirror to reflect the sun's rays into the forest beyond.

Elsewhere, but closeby in Forest Greenwood, a little gnome called Yvein from another village was busy. Like all boy gnomes, Yvein was mischievous. In fact, he was so mischievous that he never escaped a day without being apprehended by the elder gnomes. But Yvein was bright as he was witty and smart.

Yvein crept up the huge oak tree as he rummaged the forest squirrels nest for nuts that they have painfully scoured and stored for the coming winter. Never one to spare a thought for the poor squirrels, Yvein only had one thing in mind and that was to fill his brown sack to the brim with nuts.

As young Yvein was trying hard to balance atop the oak branch, a curious glow of blinding light caught his eye and he dropped to the ground below with a loud thud! "What in the world was that?", Yvein thought to himself as he adjusted his cap. He crept closer toward the direction of the light and finally came across Plexine's castle.

Now Yvein was smart and knew the danger he was in. But he also knew how lazy Plexine was for she only wakes up in the late afternoon, when all other creatures were preparing to make way for home. Plexine was fat and lazy as she was evil and that made Yvein a little more brave.

Yvein looked curiously at the strange reflections from the top window but could not make out what it actually was. He reached for his pocket and took out his pet blue sparrow. "Riez my friend. Can you fly up there and tell me what you see?", he asked his friend. Riez the sparrow flew without hesitation from the Yvein's palm and sat on the window sill.

Riez came back in a few minutes and related Pixie's story to Yvein. "We must help her!", Yvein exclaimed. "Tell me...what else do you see my friend", Yvein demanded of Riez. "Well the room is pretty bare except for some old furniture and cobwebs and a strange looking hand mirror that was causing all that blinding light. It looked like the ones the fairy princesses carry", Riez informed his master.

A bright spark suddenly glittered in Yvein's head as he whispered some instructions for Riez to convey to Pixie. Riez flew back up to the window and instructed Pixie in soft hushed whispers. Pixie's eyes glowed as she listened attentively.

That afternoon, as soon as Plexine awoke, she went straight for the dungeon. "I'm hungry!", she moaned. "Be you skinny or be you fat, I'll have you for tea you little brat!", Plexine exclaimed. "Now how shall I kill you?", Plexine asked Pixie rhetorically.

"Shall I boil you in frog's blood...or shall I bake you into Pixie pie?", Plexine continued. "You can boil me or bake me so long as you don't drown me in that crystal blue waters surrounding your castle!", Pixie rebutted.

"Shall I burn you on a skewer...or shall i just let my lovely dog with three heads just savour your pixie meat?" went Plexine. "You can skewer me or feed me to your dogs with knives for teeth so long as you don't drown me in that crystal blue waters surrounding your castle!", Pixie rebutted.

"Well you seem pretty afraid of drowning don't you. Maybe I shall just do that to spike you!", Plexine laughed and dragged Pixie out of the dungeon. She draggeed Pixie out into the garden and toward the crystal blue waters. Like the night before, Plexine gave Pixie a hard kick into the water and Pixie sank and sank and sank deep into the river as Plexine chuckled to herself.

Now Plexine was not very smart for Pixie, like all gnomes were indeed brilliant swimmers! In an instant, Pixie swam like a dolphin toward the other side. Furious beyond imagination at the thought of being tricked by a little gnome, Plexine transformed into a hungry shark with razors for teeth and swam after Pixie!

SNAP! SNAP! when her razor teeth as she bit of the fur off Pixie's cute buttom. Pixie swam harder as she was nearly there. She saw Yvein waiting for her on the far bank and sprang out and tossed the hand mirror in the air.

In one swift motion, Yvein pulled Pixie out and grabbed the mirror with his other hand and mumbled some magic before tossing the mirror hard into the crystal blue waters! Just as Yvein thought, it was indeed a Fairy Princess's mirror! And Fairy Princesses mirror had good magic in it.

The mirror caused the crystal blue waters to solidify into real hard crystals, trapping the shark, which was really Plexine in disguise beneath it. Plexine remained motionless as she froze under the crystals.

Pixie breathed a huge sigh of relief before hugging Yvein tightly. "You look strange for a gnome", exclaimed Pixie. "Who are you and where are you from?", she asked. "Thank you!", she exclaimed almost forgetting to thank her saviour as she pecked Yvein on his rosy cheek. Yvein blushed and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand as his face grimaced in embarrassment.

"I'm Yvein from a nearby village. Do you know your way home?", Yvein asked. "Not really. Im really lost", Pixie replied. "Well let me take you home then. But first, we need to break the spell that Plexine has casted on all those enchanted animals in her castle", exclaimed Yvein as he trotted forward.

"But I'm tired!",Pixie heaved to herself as she trailed not far behind and a whole new adventure awaits them...only they do not know it yet!

Sugar Coated Detention Blues

2008-11-30T16:47:00.003+08:00

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?

2008-11-19T21:57:00.003+08:00

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

2008-11-08T11:19:00.002+08:00

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

2008-11-06T21:32:00.002+08:00

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

2008-09-24T23:17:00.002+08:00

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

2008-09-06T12:47:00.007+08:00

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

2008-08-19T21:31:00.004+08:00

"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

2008-08-11T00:36:00.004+08:00

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

2008-08-04T15:17:00.003+08:00

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

2008-08-01T10:04:00.002+08:00

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

2008-07-22T23:47:00.002+08:00

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

2008-07-03T14:30:00.002+08:00

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

2008-07-03T14:13:00.002+08:00

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

2008-06-25T12:27:00.002+08:00

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

2008-06-24T23:23:00.003+08:00

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

2008-05-02T22:37:00.005+08:00

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

2008-05-02T00:32:00.002+08:00

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

2008-04-26T10:31:00.003+08:00

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

2008-04-19T23:18:00.002+08:00

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

2008-04-12T00:00:00.003+08:00

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

2008-04-10T01:05:00.003+08:00

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

2008-04-05T01:04:00.004+08:00

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?

2008-04-04T11:47:00.003+08:00

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.

Curtains Close...Goodbye is Forever

2008-03-25T17:20:00.002+08:00

Oh, How the Mitre has fallen. A haunt for the sentimental - and some say ghostly - the Mitre Hotel now faces the bulldozers
NO doorman will greet you when you arrive at the Mitre Hotel. If Ronko the half-blind dog lets you in, step under a wrinkled cardboard sign at the grand arched foyer and squeeze in through the creaky collapsible gates.

Step in, and step back a century.

These lyrics might drift into your head... Welcome to the Hotel California.

It's the creepy old hotel straight out of a storybook. A giant Texas flag hangs in the lobby, faded. Choose from an odd potpourri of antique couches - lime green leather, yellow flora fabric, teak and rattan. Old suitcases are stacked by the toilet, left there by travellers who never returned. Don't bother asking for beer at the bar. That's reserved for the handful of regulars. If you're a newcomer, you'll have to settle for a Coke.

This dilapidated building located at Killiney Road was at the centre of a long-running court battle. But the battle is finally over and soon, bulldozers will arrive at the Mitre's doors.

When it was first built in 1860, the building lorded over sprawling stretches of nutmeg plantations. Old residents say you used to be able to see Orchard Road from the porch of the hotel. And you could see the shopping centres come up one after the other.

Today, Orchard Road has turned into a shopping strip and towering condominiums have sprouted all around the Mitre Hotel.
It's what turned the 40,000 sq ft site into a gold mine. And what eventually split a close-knit family. Mr Chiam Heng Hsien is 62, the kind of man you won't glance at a second time if you pass him on the streets. But he's the one who runs the Mitre, which some say is now valued at more than $100 million.

Mr Chiam owns 10 per cent of the property. At the stroke of a pen, millions will be his. But he's not selling. He says he wants to be compensated fairly by the 11 other co-owners. But at night, as he sits on an old sofa in the restaurant that once bustled with guests, he'll tell a different story. It's a less spectacular one: He needs to find time to fix the leaking roof.

It was his father who bought the building for $60,000 in 1948 and converted it into a hotel.

Those were the Mitre's glory days.

The Porsches of yesteryear - big, grand Opels and Chevrons - took pride of place on the hotel's front porch. The British held weekend tea parties here and their toddlers played in a makeshift nursery out in the backyard. 'It was like the Hilton in those days,' said a relative of the family, who declined to be named due to family sensitivities.

Mr Chiam grew up here, among the hotel's wanderers. As a boy, he fished and picked up old crates at a nearby canal to bring home for firewood. In the garden, he kept rabbits and two baby crocodiles. Mr Chiam graduated in 1968 with a physics degree from the then University of Singapore and worked briefly as a civil servant. He took over the running of the hotel in 1975.

The British had left and a motley crew of travellers made the Mitre their home away from home. Scruffy oil rig divers who earned US$1,000 ($1,500) an hour doing hazardous repair work spent their cash on drinks and women here when they came onshore. Professors talked philosophy at the lobby. American soldiers dropped off here on their way home from the Vietnam War.

'The soldiers were the worst,' said Mr Chiam. 'They always left without paying.'

BACKPACKER'S SOUL

People didn't come to the Mitre following directions on a guidebook. They heard it on the grapevine. A five-star hotel with a backpacker's soul, they were told. The rooms were cheap. A double room cost $36 a night and a single, $22. Beer was half what it cost elsewhere. Occupancy rarely fell below 75 per cent.

In a Singapore of mushrooming swanky hotels, the Mitre Hotel was the defiant, bad boy on the block. The Mitre's guests left messages on the walls for posterity, words of wisdom from lives spent out on the road. Like voices calling from far away.
Hard-core party-goers used to flock here in the days when clubs closed early, blasting music from open car doors. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget...

Regulars still laugh about a tycoon's son who spent his days here drinking from dawn to dusk. 'No lunch, no dinner, just drink and drink... until he passed his body odour and bad breadth to us,' said Jass, a 32-year-old entrepreneur and patron. He left when he soiled his pants while drunk one day.

When the 1990s swung around, the Mitre's fortunes began to fade and the Chiam family was embroiled in court battle to sell the hotel. 'Because of all these court battles, we didn't have money to renovate the place,' said Mr Chiam.

The Mitre fell into disrepair and in 2002, MrChiam decided not to renew his hotel licence.

These days, visitors are few.

Mr Bill Dahl, a scruffy elderly Australian in his 70s who is said to have once worked on an oil rig as a geologist, remains as the hotel's last guest. He has lived alone in his room upstairs for the past 20 years. 'If I know you, hello. If I don't, I don't wish to,' came the curt reply when journalists knocked on his door.

Every year without fail, an elderly man from Taiwan visits the hotel room where his son died. Like any old hotel, the Mitre has its share of haunted stories. Old-timers whisper of a woman dressed in a flowery red gown, blond hair tied up in a pony tail, who has been putting on makeup in her room for 50 years. Others swear by a baby ghost that sits on the swing. Ronko's odd barking hardly helps. Haunted tales add to its mystique, but the Mitre's wild days are clearly over.

Today, it serves as a car park for savvy workers from the nearby offices. Every day, Mr Chiam spends the day with his wife and two daughters at a semi-detached house in nearby Grange Road. But he spends his nights at the Mitre, in front of an old TV on an older sofa, drifting to sleep.

Once in a while, he entertains old regulars who drop by. There's little here now, but the regulars come to remember a time long gone. Upstairs, Mr Dahl still lives amid lop-sided shutter windows, tables with three legs and fans that have stopped twirling long ago.

- Contributed by an Anonymous Journalist

The Mitre, it seems, is a place you can never leave. For me, the Mitre will always remain in my etching heart. May the Mitre Live Forever. Vaya con dios. Viva la Mitre.

Fallen Cherry Blossoms

2008-03-03T21:28:00.007+08:00

When I recall the months and years spent as the intimate of someone whose affections have now faded like cherry blossoms scattering even before a wind blew, I still remember every word of hers that once so moved me; and when I realise that she, as happens in such cases, is steadily slipping away from my world, I feel a sadness greater even that that of separation from the dead.

That is why , I am sure, a man once grieved that the utter purity of white silk thread should be dyed in different colours, and why another lamented that roads inevitably fork.

And amongst all of Kenko's verses presented, there is one that haunts me still. It runs:

The fence round her house,
The woman I loved long ago,
Is ravaged and fallen;
Only violets remain
Mingled with the spring weeds
-Kenko

What a lonely picture - the poem must describe something that really happened.

Your First Kicks

2007-12-04T21:54:00.000+08:00

If music soothes the savage beasts, then Patrick is the man that epitomizes this. A seasoned veteran in the local industry, 30 years of sheer hard work and gritting determination brought him to where he is today. 14 albums and countless Live performances later, it was only apt for Patrick to gracefully stray from the red carpet for the next generation of talented maestros.

The media shocked into a frenzy at Patrick's sudden retirement however still believed that Patrick has some more years left in him. "No. I'm done people. My time is up. I'm going back to being a husband and a father. My family needs me more than the music industry", was Patrick's usual reply, with a glint of hope in his jet black eyes.

Patrick welcomed the abundance of time wholeheartedly, helping his wife out with her daily chores, playing with his 2 young sons, and finally putting together the finishing touches to his humble abode. Still very much a man passionate about music, Patrick made sure he had a room dedicated to his first love.

The music room housed an almost complete set of his band's equipment for the occasional weekend jam with the guys. His record selling albums hung proudly, leaving little empty spaces on those off white walls for anything else.

Both Jacob and John relished the weekends when their favourite uncles and father jammed the afternoon away. Retirement didn't shave them off their edge. Polished diamonds they are, that's almost impossible to fade.

It was on one such afternoon when the band was having their usual smoke breaks when Jacob, the elder son lingered a little longer in the music room unnoticed. Left alone, Jacob silently closed the doors behind him and sat on his father's drum stool. Imagining himself to be his father, Jacob picked up the drum sticks and began pounding on those drum skins imitating his rock star father.

"No boy..That's not how its done", Patrick startled his eldest son. "Come let me show you how", Patrick obligingly motioned to his son to give way so that he could show him the proper way. Patrick sat on his stool,then carried and placed his son on his lap. Holding Jacob's dainty hands, Patrick guided his son through his first drum lesson.

Patrick was never one to enforce music onto his children. Music was like love they say, that couldn't be forced onto someone. It has to come from within, only then will it sooth the savage beasts.

Before the veterans began their second jam session for the day, Patrick announced, "Hey guys, I got something to show you". With a devilish grin sprawled across his face, Jacob did a drum roll for the rest to see. A perfect drum roll. "Wow Patrick, I didn't know this young man can play man. You've been hiding and training him secretly is it?", his band members quizzed him. "This boy is a natural man. I think he's gonna be better than the father!", they joked further.

Well, 20 years on, Jacob did indeed surpass his father musically. The old joke turned out to be a prophecy after all. Jacob never failed to smile sheepishly whenever he had to relay his story about his first drum roll. Jacob got the best to train him, and it was only time that prevented him from becoming the next rock star in the family.

Exhausted from his first world tour, Jacob longed to go home to his pregnant wife and the rest of his family. 3 more gigs and the band's done for the year Jacob thought to himself, counting down the days before he can embrace his wife whom he has been missing for almost forever now.

The tour ended in a grand finale, and alas, it was time to head home. Though physically and emotionally drained, the colour seemed to crawl back onto Jacob's face as the thought of home crept upon him.

Somehow surviving the media onslaught that greeted the homegrown heroes at the airport, Jacob managed to make it back in one piece. His wife stood by the grand doorway, with a priceless smile on her face. The same smile that made Jacob fall in love with her all those years ago. It was nice sometimes to know that some things never change.

"Oh man Naomi, it's so huge!!", Jacob exclaimed at his wife's bulging tummy, while caressing it in circular motions. "Almost 8 months my dear", Naomi managed to say between sobs of joy. "You've been gone for so long", she lamented as both of them entered the house hand in hand.

That night, Jacob placed his head on his wife's tummy, trying to hear the unborn's heartbeat. All those months of touring had made Jacob miss home so much and for once, Jacob felt a complete sense of peacefulness within him, trying to listen to those faint heartbeats. Jacob remained there for hours, filling Naomi with every detail of his successful tour.

Then Jacob felt it! Those soft thuds hitting him on the side of his head. "Is that his heartbeat!?", Jacob eagerly questioned his wife. "No you silly..that's not his heartbeat. It's your son kicking. I think he wants to punish you for neglecting us", Naomi playfully added. "Serious?", Jacob asked in utter bewilderment.

Jacob sat up, gasping in awe at whatever he felt those seconds ago. Then he placed his palms onto Naomi's stomach. He felt those kicks again, and it made him feel like he was in a spa therapy or something. It was weird Jacob thought to himself. All this while, he swore that the best feeling on earth was when he was on the stage, deafened by the roaring hordes that came watch his band play. This was definitely much more liberating.

"You know what dear....I think our son is gonna be a drummer. Yup...most definitely!", Jacob confirmed to himself. "Just like his Dad", Naomi chuckled.

Why Pigs Are Greedy

2007-11-30T16:38:00.000+08:00

You're always gonna have problems lifting a body in one piece. Apparantly the best thing to do is to cut up the corpse into six pieces, and pile it all together. And when you got your six pieces, you got to get rid of them cos its not good to leave it in the deep freeze for your mum to discover is it?

Then I hear, the best thing to do is to feed them to Pigs. You got to store the piece for a few days. Then the sight of a chopped up body will look like curry to a pisshead. You got to shave the hair off your victims, and pull their teeth out for the sake of the Piggy's digestion. You could do these afterwards of course...but you wouldn't want to be sieving through pig shit do you? They will go through bone like butter.

You need at least 16 pigs to go through the job in one sitting. So be wary of any man who keeps a pig farm. They will go through a body that weighs 200 pounds...in about 8 minutes. That means that a single pig can consume 2 pounds of uncooked flesh...every minute. Hence the expression....'As Greedy As A Pig!!'

-Brick Top Tony, Snatch

Tomorrow's Dreams

2007-11-27T22:36:00.000+08:00

Zain stood by his father's bedside, his steely eyes fixated on pale pouting lips as his father excruciatingly and intermittently clasped and gasped for air. Like a fish out of water, it was only a matter of time before all of his soul prys itself free from the clutches of its helpless body, hoary with age. The epic battle against cancer surged closer and closer, till all that separates them from certain death remains only a hair's breadth away.

Though his father had always led an industriously colourful life, Zain nevertheless regretted not heeding the doctor's advice. "He hasn't much left in him. His time is up. Any day could be his last.Make his end of days sweet and full of smiles...like how he has always lived his life. You never know what tomorrow brings," the doctor's words still lingers through the hospital's dark empty hallways.

Zain helplessly gazed at his father's peaceful looking corpse being pushed out of the ward, his head, full of thought provoking emotions. Zain couldn't explain how selfish he was, to spend most of his time away from home, hell bent on carving a name for himself in the industry. What ever time left, was spent with Caroline whom he has yet proposed to.

"Go see your father lah. Your mother has been looking for you the whole day you know", Caroline would pester Zain. "Busy lah. Got this huge project coming up. Tomorrow can go visit lah ok?", Zain curtly replied. "I dunno lah you. It's your father not mine!", Caroline would stomp into her room huffing and puffing at Zain's growing stubbornness.

Zain's tomorrows extended beyond the far reaches of the Himalayan mountains. As days transcends into weeks and months, the hefty price he paid for procrastinating the act of seeking forgiveness from his father shall be an endless sorrow, something, that would have to remain in the void of his heart till he learns to forgive himself...if ever really.

Zain isolated himself from the world, his zest for life deteriorating by the second . In the doldrums of loneliness, he keeled and suffered, and so did his relationship with Caroline.
"You know what Zain, only God knows why I'm still with you. My family has banished me for wanting to convert to Islam, my friends think I'm insane, and you've never once said 'I Love You' to me. Not even once!", Caroline lamented. "It's been forever since you actually picked me up from work, or delighted me with a fancy dinner. You've ceased surprising me with flowers. Hell! I can't even remember the last time you opened the doors for me!" Caroline rambled on and on, exposing all that she felt within her.

"Well, me going to Hong Kong next week for an assignment shall be a good time for you to think about everything...about us. Think carefully Zain. I'm giving you this time to sort your muddled self out. I sincerely hope you make the right decision. An inkling of my heart still believes in you", Caroline drilled her words into Zain's head before slamming the doors shut.

Zain stared at the ceiling unperturbed by whatever Caroline had to say. After all, she was the reason why he severed all ties with his father in the first place. Zain was ripped apart, having to decide between Caroline and his family but he could not see himself sitting on the pedestal with any other woman to call his queen.

Zain remembered the day he first introduced Caroline to his parents. Though his late father didn't approve his only son's desire to marry a Catholic, his father was respectful enough to not show his true feelings to their non-Muslim guest that day.

However, all hell broke lose the moment Caroline left for home that night. Never in Zain's life had he wounded his father so deeply. Bitter words were exchanged between father and son which resulted in Zain moving out of the family house. "I will move out of this stupid house!", Zain recalled the exact last words said to his father 2 years before his demise. Zain felt so mighty that night, like he had broken loose from the firm chains that gripped him.

Zain lazily slumped into his rocking chair, gazing far beyond the cityscapes, reflecting on the recent events of his life. Zain have always coveted his lonely nights by the balcony with his pet cat nestled comfortably on his lap. That night however, Sugar seemed rather more interested in the rubber ball. The strong breeze that caressed his face also strangely whistled an unusually chillier tune.

Praying for some kind of divine intervention to enlighten his path ahead, Zain succumbed to God's mercy and shed tears that seeked help and guidance. For a moment, he felt a familiar warmth on the top of his head. Zain remained still, wondering if this was real or merely a dream. Zain remembered how as a boy his father would always place his palm on the top of Zain's head. Whenever Zain apologized for being naughty, his father would just place his palm on the head, while advising the boy not to repeat the offence before ruffling the boy's hair.

It was just all too familiar to Zain as he turned his head abruptly, hoping to see a ghost or something. Emptiness stared straight back into Zain's apologetic eyes. The winds decided to stop still and so did the rustling of the leaves on the trees. "Bapak?", Zain whispered. "Bapak, is that you?", Zain pondered in a hush tone.

"Bapak...I know it's you. I know you're here. I know I have not been a good son. And I shall live with this guilt for as long as I live. I know it's too late now to seek your forgiveness. I have to live with this for I dunno how long. It's been barely a week since you passed away, and already I can't take this pressure. My whole life is in a mess. I got no one to talk to...I dunno what to do..", Zain continued.

Zain took in a deep breath, fighting off his urge to break down and cry before continuing. "Bapak, for a long time now I've asked myself if I ever regretted making a move on Caroline all those years ago. My answer is still no. She is the only woman that can keep me happy and it will always be that way. But my family is more important to me too. And if it's your desire that i shall not marry Caroline, so be it. You've always known what's best for me Bapak", Zain conceded.

"I knew I can never forgive myself when I was by your death bed. If there is one thing I regret in life, it is to not visit you earlier. I've always thought that you had plenty left in you. You've always been strong, physically and mentally. Bapak, if it is really you standing beside me now, and if you accept my forgiveness please place your palms on my head like how you always used to", Zain begged.

Zain bowed his head in prayer, then he felt it! That all too familiar warm sensation on the top of his head. Secretly, he said a little prayer and was soon fast asleep there and then on his rocking chair. That night, Zain had a peculiar dream. In it, Zain was at a wedding ceremony. His own wedding ceremony!

As Zain wan putting the final touches on his impressive hair do, there came a knock on his door. It was his father! And this is what he had to say:

"My son...if this is what you want, so be it. I shall shower you with all the blessings from the bottom of my heart. Too much grief and tears have already been sacrificed in this family, and tears of sadness would never flower any tree. Too much time has been wasted, when nobody is promised a Tomorrow. Go out there...she's waiting for you"

Zain sprang from the rocking chair, cold and shivering. Zain was lost in translation, trying to come to terms the night's events. Everything seemed so real, like a sign. As he stepped into his house, his eyes laid on Caroline's photograph on his bookshelf and in an instant, everything began to make sense once again.

Zain scrambled to his room and was out of the house in a flash. It was 2am but time shall not deter him from claiming his love once again. After all, Nobody Is Promised Tomorrow.

The Battle for Paschendale

2007-11-20T22:11:00.000+08:00

In a foreign field he lay
Lonely soldier unknown grave
On his dying words he prays
Tell the world of Paschendale

Relive all that he's been through
Last communion of his soul
Rust your bullets with his tears
Let me tell you 'bout his years

The bodies of ours and our foes
The sea of death it overflows
In no man's land God only knows
Into jaws of death we go...

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

See my spirit on the wind
Across the lines beyond the hill
Friend and foe will meet again
Those who died at Paschendale

In a foreign field he lay
Lonely soldier unknown grave
On his dying words he prays
Tell the world of Paschendale

- Iron Maiden

Monday Morning 5.19

2007-11-18T21:30:00.000+08:00

At eight o'clock we said goodbye
That's when I left her house for mine
She said that she'd be staying in
Well, she had to be at work by nine

So I get home and have a bath
And left an hour or two pass
Drifting in front of my TV
When a film comes on that she wants to see

Cause if she's still not back
Well, heaven knows what then
Is this the end

At half past two I picture her
In the back of someone else's car
He runs his fingers through her hair
Oh, you shouldn't left him touch you there

It's Monday morning 5. 19
And I'm still wondering where she's been
Cause every time
I try to call I just get her machine

And now it's almost 6 a.m.
And I don't want to try again
Cause if she's still not back
And then this must be the end

- Rialto
Monday Morning 5.19

Our Little Big Story

2007-11-13T23:42:00.000+08:00

Anna 'retired' to her room earlier than usual that night, heeding the advice of her elders. She knew she had to have as much of her beauty sleep in order to rival the radiance of the morning sun the next day. As she closed her room doors shut behind her, she could still make out the hustle and bustle of the preparations downstairs.

Anna's soulful eyes were transfixed unto her stunning Vera Wang wedding gown, hanging from the handle of her old wardrobe. She ran her hands through the hemlines of her dress and she lulled into every young girl's fantasy that encompasses a wedding befitting a princess. Half of her wanted so much to start a new chapter with her soon to be husband but the other half of her seemed reluctant to part with her doting parents and her adorable younger sister.

It wasn't easy she sighed, to share a room with a 'stranger' whom she loved so dearly, after spending the vast majority of her life sharing a bed with her younger sister. At least twice the size she was, Anna coyly smiled as she thought about how they always fought for bed space. As much as she hated the fact that her sister inevitably shoved her to the ends of the mattress, somehow, Anna knew she was going to miss her sister terribly.

Anna stood by the window sill, the silvery light from the crescent moon embracing her rosy cheeks. The white wedding tents stood majestically in the lawn of her family house. Rose bushes lined the garden edges, fresh with blooming flowers, as if they knew they had to look extra pretty the next day.

The white jasmine flowers looked as though they naturally grew out from the custom crafted arches where both bride and groom shall exchange their vows during the ceremony. Anna pictured herself standing there with her husband, with flower girls en towed, looking delightfully charming like the flower petals that trailed the wedding couple's footsteps.

Anna cupped her delicate hands together as she transcended into a moment of solitude to offer a quick quiet prayer to God for blessing her with this stupefying splendor of a wedding that played endlessly in possibly every girls' mind.

Anna was disrupted by a loud rap on the door before her younger sister let herself into the room for possibly the last night that both sisters would spend genuine quality time with each other. Agnes, the younger of the two went straight to Anna and blanketed her with her large frame, already sensing the loss.

Anna reciprocated with a bear hug of her own, though she was almost hidden within Agnes's large frame. Both sisters sobbed tears mixed with joy and sadness but no words were exchanged. Only the echoes of the crickets provided some sort of night time melody but the sisters were oblivious to it all. Sometimes, silence speaks more clearly what words fail to convey.

That night, both sisters sat cross legged on the bed as they talked like how all loving sisters do. They talked about mostly happy times, from childhood, to school days, to the torrid times of having to fight for 5 more minutes in the bathroom or who shall sit at the vanity table first to beautify herself for work.

If one does not know the Osmond family, they would have never guessed in a million years that both Anna and Agnes are sisters in name and in blood. Anna, the older of the two boasted a svelte figure, with ample bosoms and sharp features. Her skin, smooth and milky, would make the fine porcelains weep in envy. Her hair flowed like the nile and it was never difficult for Anna to make friends wherever she went and the boys came tumbling down after her as well.

Agnes, a good 5 years younger on the other hand had excess flesh in all the wrong places, the result of persistent pampering from both her parents and grandparents. They had the same flawless skin and hair but sadly, it didn't matter because these were somehow obscured by Agnes's huge frame. As expected, Agnes didn't make friends easily at school, endlessly being scorned at for being fat. Naturally, the boys didn't want to be associated with her and all her life, Agnes has yet to discover what love felt like, what tingling sensations a boy's lips can bring, or what warmth, a boy's hands radiates when slipped in between her fingers.

That night, as both sisters sat and chatted the night away, Agnes looked as though she wanted to tell Anna something important but somehow, she held it back. Anna could feel it and she persisted. Noticing her sister's adamant resistance, she reluctantly withdrew her efforts. The day's events somehow got to the two sisters and after much thought, both sisters surrendered their heads unto the pillows, hugging each other, and hearing each others' breathing, for the last time before dear Anna gallops away with her prince into the charmed world that bestowed upon her.

The wedding was indeed befitting royalty. Smiles shot in from all angles along with their humble blessings for the couple and their families. The band provided much entertainment and kept the crowd in a joyous mood. It was hard to disagree that perhaps, this was really one hell of a wedding, a wedding meant to be remembered for many years indeed.

That night, as the last of the guests bid farewell to the hosts, so did the bride and groom. Tears filled the Osmond household as the bride hugged her family members one by one. It wasn't as if this was the last time they were going to see Anna, but somehow, it's a baffling unique phenomenon shared by all cultures whichever part of the world you came from. It was just a customary mark to officially hand over something precious, something you have fed and watch grow and blossom into a fine young woman.

Anna saved the last hug for her dear sister Agnes, and as the wedding car zoomed away, the Osmond household was drowned in a sombre silence, with streaks of tears showing on each and every one of the Osmonds' cheeks.

That night, as Anna was heaving herself to undress and wash up, her handphone ringed. It was a muffled ring and Anna managed to trace it in her bag just in time before the caller hung up. Anna was greeted with the voice of her best friend Suzy who was now living in London. Suzy drowned Anna with her well wishes for the wedding couple which lasted a whole of 5 mins. With her wedding gown half undone, Anna chucked her handphone onto the bed but she noticed something peculiar peeking out of her handbag.

Curiously, Anna pulled out the piece of white paper and unfolded it to reveal its contents. The paper reeked of a sweet pulsating smell of her favourite scent and it read:

To my 'Little' Big Sister,

No words can describe how genuinely happy I felt when I saw you up on the pedestal as the priest pronounced you man and wife. You looked beautiful, like a visiting angel that disobeyed God's orders to stay in the Heavens.

I knew from the moment Marcus came into your life that he will be the rainbow shining in your skies. I sincerely hope that he takes care of you as good as how Dad takes care of all of us. Though you're not far away, as you are reading this, I have already felt this sense of loss. Though this is not a bad kind of loss, it somehow made me cherish all the times we shared even more.

Sleeping in our old room shall never be the same again, and so does watching our favourite chick flicks over sinful Haagen Dazs Chocolate ice creams. Your presence still lingers in our house, and it shall always remain that way.

I know for a fact that I may never find a man to call my own because of the way I look but I shall be secretly waiting, though hope is fast wilting away. Like what Mum always says, if good things do not happen to us in this life, perhaps there is something better awaiting us in the next.

You have always been the best part of my life and I hope now, you can be the best part of Marcus's life as well. I wish you two all the best and can't wait for your next visit. Till then....

Love, Your 'Big' Little Sister,
Agnes Anne Osmond

The Guitar Gently Weeps

2007-10-19T12:00:00.000+08:00

Inspired by a true Singapore Story set in the 70s titled 'Sonny's Blues'

Sonny was late as he hobbled from the bus station, lugging his Fender Stratocaster over his frail shoulders, with a cigarette in one hand. It was typical of Sonny, a local guitar god to some to perpetually stride in a few minutes late for every of his live stage performances. But it was already an hour past his scheduled set, and the crowd were anxious to catch a glimpse of Singapore's very own 'Jimi Hendrix'.

Sonny burst through the back door, with his hair sprawled across his face, blanketing his forlorn and faraway look. Sonny looked worried, but the dim lights shrouded his boyish face, casting a gloomy shadow and the event organizers pulled him into his room hastily, so that he could make the necessary preperations to mesmerize the anticipating audience.

Tuning the strings of his Fender Stratocaster, Sonny could hear the muffled roars of the crowd outside. It only took him a few seconds to put his gear together and Sonny stood up and walked toward the vanity mirror. He scattered everything on the wooden table onto the floor and he frantically rummaged his jeans for his daily 'prescription'.

Sonny careully straightened up a line of pure China White cocaine with his guitar pick on the table's surface and in one swift motion, snorted it into his blood stream. The effect was instantaneous as he felt the ultimate high...perfect to take the crowd away into a dream holocaust. Looking at his reflection, Sonny knew that his bloodshot eyes were a massive giveaway. Sonny couldn't care less.

Sonny staggered onto the stage struggling to find his footing, refusing to acknowledge the rapturous applause. It wasn't because of pride, but Sonny was in such a fucking high, that it rendered him speechless. Dazed and confused, Sonny jammed his guitar jack into the amplifier and began tuning his guitar once more.

Requesting a stool, he carefully placed it in the middle of the stage, so that the spotlight would flood onto his petite frame. The thunderous applause ceased slowly and the silence that crept henceforth was chilling. The floodlights on Sonny was so bright that all he could see of the crowd was pitch darkness. This was perfect, Sonny thought to himself for he felt alone once again, an optimum clause for the perfect performance.

Sonny let the crowd in to his world of fantasy and mind boggling hallucination with his impeccable guitar playing. Forgiving Sonny for his punctuality, the crowd encouraged him to play even more, beyond his scheduled 1 hour set. Sonny obliged without haste and the night wore on past the witching hour of midnight. Sonny graced the end of his performance with a haunting 30 minute blues solo, cementing any doubt that this 20-year old is indeed the 'Jimi Hendrix' of Singapore.

Sonny's fame sky rocketed drastically within the underground scene since that daunting performance. And every penny earned was spent on his immense craving for hard substances. His health deteriorated but his skills didn't fade thanks to Gopal, the owner of the now defunct Gay World Pub who allowed the boy to practice his guitar playing every single night after the pub closes.

Ever since Sonny was 15, Gopal would allow Sonny to freely use the musical equipment on his stage to practice. And every single day, Sonny did not fail to turn up at 2am, when the crowd starts to disperse. Sonny would sit on the stage, and in the darkness, he would let loose those beautiful riffs.

Gopal could recall the days when Sonny first began playing. He was crap, but his determination to master the guitar impressed Gopal. Sonny's progress was quick, and within a year, Sonny could play almost all of Hendrix's songs. Being an orphan himself, Gopal began to treat Sonny like a son, showering him with food, money, cigarettes, and on rainy nights, a place to stay.

Sonny in return, never forgot Gopal's kindness when he inherited fame. Though Gopal refused to take Sonny's money, Sonny would somehow find ways to leave some cash in Gopal's drawer by the spiral staircase when Gopal is unaware. Not wanting to disappoint Sonny, Gopal reluctantly accepted this gesture and so this continued for many years.

Sonny still kept on practicing at the old Gay World Pub despite having to face Gopal's fatherly ramblings against his drug addiction. Sonny's dependence on cocaine grew beyond control that slowly, Sonny began to wilt away. Gopal could smell the end of Sonny life but his advice seemingly fell on deaf ears. It was amazing however, that each time Sonny practiced in the pub during those wee hours, Gopal would stand in the corner, hypnotised by Sonny's skills.

There was one night, on the eve of the New Year, that Sonny came bursting through Gopal's office, begging him to buy off his Fender Stratocaster. "What do you mean Sunny? I can't buy this guitar from you! This guitar is your life! Your soul needs this to live!", Gopal retorted. "Please Gopal..please. I need the money urgently. After all, I will buy it back from you when I have enough money. But for now...please Gopal. Help Me!", Sonny pleaded.

"Alright", Gopal conceded. "But promise me one thing boy. Promise me that you shall keep on coming back here every day to practice. I shall keep the guitar here for you. You can take it back anytime", Gopal reasoned with Sonny. Sonny nodded his head and looked down in shame as Gopal handed him the money. Gopal stood by the doorway as he watched Sonny scatter away into the night...probably to score some drugs...and ruin himself.

Sonny kept his word and visited the Gay World Pub every night to practice and though his guitar skills remain legendary, Sonny looked lifeless. Sonny's eyes seem to want to tell the world something, but somehow they seem reluctant to speak. Gopal, ever so fond of the boy, surrendered at the thought of saving Sonny from a premature end.

Gopal vividly remembered the night before Easter Sunday, when Sonny was late. It had been an hour since Gopal closed the pub for the night and yet Sonny was nowhere to be seen. Gopal tried hard to fall asleep but being already accustomed to Sonny's tunes, he found it impossible to fall asleep without listening to Sonny play.

Just as Gopal was about to get up and wait for Sonny at the entrance, he heard the main door creak open, followed by heavy footsteps. The footsteps came closer towards Gopal's room, accompanied by some weird noises before Gopal heard it walk away. Moments later, the angelic tones of Sonny's Fender Stratocaster was being played. There was no doubt, it was Sonny practicing his blues. Relieved, Gopal soon dozed off.

The next morning, Gopal received a shock as he was sipping coffee for in the The Straits Times, Sonny's ethereal face was sprawled across the front page. The police had apparently come across his stone cold body, covered in froth and vomit during a drug raid. Sonny had died the night before from a drug overdose.

Gopal stared at the report on the front page for a good few minutes, trying to explain the events of the previous night. There was no doubt it was Sonny playing the guitar that night. There was simply no one else who could communicate with the guitar the way Sonny does. Gopal crept into the main hall of the pub, and saw the Fender Stratocaster neatly placed on the guitar stand, like how Sonny would have usually done so.

Gopal's heart was coated with lead as he was disappointed with Sonny. Though it was inevitable that Sonny's drug use is bound to take a deathly toll, Gopal felt that he could have done something to help Sonny. At the very least, all Gopal wanted was to say goodbye.

Sonny's ghost came back every night to practice the guitar. Perhaps this was Sonny's way of saying goodbye. Perhaps, Sonny was just keeping his promise to Gopal. Perhaps, Sonny just wanted to play the blues so much, that even death could not part him from his Fender Stratocaster.

Gopal found it hard to run his business, with so many encapsulating memories of Sonny entailed with it. Gopal eventually closed down the pub. He received numerous generous offers for Sonny's guitar...but the old faithful Gopal still keeps it with him in his humble house till this very moment...hoping that one day, Sonny would come back to claim his 'Dearly Beloved' once more.

White Doves Cry

2007-10-08T23:52:00.001+08:00

As a young boy, I fondly remember constantly getting into mischief, almost certain that almost all the time, I can get away with murder when my mother is around. Mother, a word that's synonymous on the lips of all children, is a figure of warmth, comfort and the epitomy of a safe haven, like a thick black cloud that repels the evil rays of the sun.

I never understood how a mother's kiss can heal the wounds on our knees when we fall from our bicycles. Nor can I comprehend how a mother's words and advice, spoken with such eloquent compassion, can bring comfort and clarity to one's thoughts. All they need to do is say that everything will be fine and astonishingly, we become so convinced by them that even the dull grey skies may seem blue.

I remember particularly a difficult period of time when I was barely 4 years old. My mother, after a prolonged decision making process, decided to go back to working full time since I was alot 'bigger' and less of a hassle to take care of. Entrusting me in the doting hands of my grandmother, I felt my circle of protection temporarily weakened, during the hours she went to work.

My sweet mother however made it a point that she left for work before I woke up every morning, and bribing me with toys and candy upon her return home so that I would not make a fuss. Though I'd trade all the gifts for having my mother with me at home, I could somehow understand the situation and so the trend went on for a while at least until a week before her 30th birthday.

On that fateful day, my mother was doubling her steps from the bus stop en route home. The skies were trembling and it was only a matter of time before it released its vehement anger on the world below. Approaching the final bend before our row of houses, the mean and gnarly Dobermans from our neighbours' house began barking and howling as my mother approached.

The gates rattled with fear as the dogs gnarled and press its mouths onto the steel frames, saliva dripping in hunger, relishing for some action at the expense of the passerbys. In a stroke of ill-luck, the rusty chains gave way, and the gates flew open, igniting the dogs on a hell bent chase for my mother.

Anticipating the need to run like how she did during her school champion running days, my mother kicked the high-heeled shoes off her feet and opened her strides. She was no match for the Dobermans though as they inched their way closer to human flesh.

The smaller of the two Dobermans sinked its fangs onto my mother's calf as she desperately used her handbag to ward the bigger dog off. The smaller one tightened its grip as blood oozed out from the gaping wound. Old Ah Hock, coincidently waiting for his daughter to return, was alert as ever as he rushed out with his wooden pole and whacked the crap out of the biting beasts, which instantaneously released its jaws. Fleeting back to where they came from, the night remained silent, less for my mother's cries in agony.

I remembered when half of the residences came out during the commotion to see what was going on. I stood by the doorway, holding back my tears, refusing to go up to my mother, for the fear of seeing her withering in pain. But I felt it, like as if the dogs had bitten me instead. Up till this day, I still wished that it was me lying on the road instead of my mother.

It didn't turned out as bad as it looked, for the jeans worn by my mother somehow prevented the bite from getting any worse. Nevertheless, I was rattled by it all, and since then, everytime my mother goes out to work, I cried and begged her not to walk past that house with the dogs.

I didn't believe her when she said she shall take the long route to the bus stop, and so everyday since then, before my mother wanted to leave for work, she had to lie by my side, till I dozed off, before she left.

As time went by, we moved away from that neighbourhood, to the comfort of a new estate where somehow the folks didn't favour dogs as pets. I grew off from my fear of dogs, and as I ventured into teenage life, I somehow wanted to see less of my mother, as how all teenagers do.

The story of how I begged for my mother to stay by my side, for the fear of getting mauled by dogs once again became the butt of many jokes as countless times, my mother would repeat the saga to my friends, to new neighbours, to my girlfriends, and to anyone who became acquainted with me.

Feeling a little embarassed, I would always laugh it off with the others, blaming it all on a passing phase which I successfully grew out of. Though it has been many years since my mother's passing, and with my own teenage children now 'despising' me, once again I'm left alone, standing by the window at an unearthly hour of 4 in the morning, awaiting my children to come back from some party somewhere.

The night was still, with the occasional drifting winds, hinting the coming of rain. The silence is broken by the barking and howling of dogs nearby, startling me from my coveted night smoke breaks. Even till this very day, I have kept it a secret. That every time I hear the barking of dogs, it brought me back to that fateful night. Perhaps I'm too much of a hard ass to admit, but I missed my mother so.

And I secretly wished, whilst looking out for my children by the window, that perhaps I would see the spirit of my mother, looking out for her grandchildren, or perhaps coming home for me... for every dog that barks, there's a white dove that cries.

Can I Have Somemore?

2007-09-30T21:23:00.000+08:00

I can't recall the last time I felt like Charlie from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Malnutritioned, scrawny, pale and feeble, yet with a heart shining so bright. Being a hardcore chocoholic, I'd gobble up every ounce and ooze of chocolate within my 10-mile radius. But alas, it is the holy month of Ramadan and Iftar is still but a good 8 hours away.

This wasn't your typical bar of chocolate, that's nestling in the secret compartment of my huge work bag. I knew that those countless zippers inside the bag would come in handy one day. Handy, not because I can segregate my knicks from my knacks, handy not because I can compartmentalize my Ipod from my mobile phone, handy not because I would not have to rummage my bag inside out to scour for my keys. Handy, simply for the selfish reason that I could hide my precious chocolate stash from the prying eyes of the world.

Did I mention that this wasn't your typical bar of chocolate? This isn't your caramel filled Mars or your scrumptous nutty Snickers delight. Even your prized Godiva or assorted mix from Sins could match the adulterous bar hidden in my vault of a bag. This bar, is a gift from a friend, all the way from New York. Now there are many homemade chocolate shops lining the busy streets of New York. The more famous ones could be found off Broadway or the quaint little neighbourhood of Chelsea. But the often better tasting ones are hidden in little nooks and cranny of a lane in the least expected of places.

This one here, just a mere 5 minute walk from the Brooklyn side of the industrious Brooklyn bridge, is simply out of this world. On its royal red wrapper, just the brand name Jacques Torres is printed on the top in prim gold letterings. You don't need a description to be stated clearly on the wrapper. You simply have to let your tongue massage the silky smooth surface of the chocolate, then let your senses take charge and drive you into a delirious chocolate orgasm.

Now all these thoughts about chocolate is leaving me oh so insane that I even considered faulting my fast for the day just so I can devour that chocolate bar. Snapping myself out of this mess, I decided to do something meaningful for the next few hours before sunset. I went about working on my proposal and tweaking my reports for my big presentation the next day. All this while, telling myself that I shall NOT share my chocolate with anyone but myself.

And so it was time to leave the office. It was 6.30pm and I knew that I would not be able to reach home in time for Iftar. I considered hanging around for a little while but then again, the thought of eating home cooked food was just much to strong and so I brisked hastily toward the train station.

The evening train was not as crowded as expected, and though I could not zero in on an empty seat, I settled for the spot near the sliding doors where I can lean against the glass pane and watch the city zoom past me in a mazy haze.

By this time, I was perpetually glancing at my watch every few seconds to see how far away am I to breaking my fast. A sweet looking Muslim girl standing opposite me must have noticed my antics for she smiled to herself and tried to look away. If only she knew whats hiding beneath that big brown bag of mine. I reciprocated her smile with one of my own as I tried to redeem myself by pulling down my shirt sleeve so that it covered my watch.

As the surrounding skies began to darken and the street lights began to take prominence on the roads below, I allowed myself to ponder on my big presentation the next day, almost forgetting that the time for Muslims in Singapore to break their fast is just a mere few seconds away. The sweet looking Muslim girl suddenly jolted and rummaged her bag only to retrieve her mobile phone whose alarm went off in berzerk, to signal the time to break our fast.

I smiled mischievously at her, trying to imply that I'm not the only one that is having a hard time containing my hunger and thirst. She must have felt embarrassed and forced herself not to look in my direction.

I didn't plan to break my fast with a bar of chocolate but considering the situation I'm in, I had no choice. I slowly reached into the bag, already memorizing which compartment I had placed my prized possession in. With my hands still in my bag, I skillfully tore out the red wrapping first, followed by the silver foiling.

I took careful measures not to rip that whole godamn thing off. I ensured that I tore enough just for me to pluck one 'cube' of the entire chunk of heaven. My god as I allowed the chocolate to melt in my mouth, its flavour just precipitates throughout my physical being and I swear I had a chocolate orgasm. I just closed my eyes and sucked on the 'cube' so that it melted and withered and seeped its gooey self down my throat.

As I opened my eyes, the sweet Muslim girl looked bewildered. She must be mathematically wondering what I had just placed into my mouth. I mind was telling me NOT to share the chocolate but my heart was opposing it with equal strength. In the month of giving, I sincerely took out the entire bar and offered it to the sweet looking Muslim girl.

She was taken aback by my actions. She smiled and muttured, "Chocolate??. Now that's funny. First time I've seen anyone breaking their fast with chocolate", she exclaimed. "Believe me, this is the first time I'm breaking fast with chocolate too", I replied. "Have some", I insisted, as I motioned to her to help herself to the chocolate.

As soon as she put it into her mouth, I could sense whatever she was feeling at that moment. Her eyes just grew larger as she munched on the chocolate only for it to disappear down her throat and left her wishing she had taken more! Within a few seconds, she asked me where I got the chocolate from and very soon, two strangers were pretty much engulfed in a chocolatey conversation.

It was funny I thought to myself how I was hell bent on not sharing that coveted chocolate with anyone else but in this holy month, I guess miracles are continuously occurring if only we allow ourselves to open up and help others. After all, life is much about giving and sharing. They say happiness is much more bliss if it is shared.

By coincidence, Sarah, the sweet looking Muslim girl was about to alight at the next stop and I plcuked enough courage to ask for her telephone number, not because I just learnt that she's as much a chocolate addict as I am but solely because she was a great conversationalist.

Sarah keyed in her number on my mobile phone without much haste before leaning forward to my ear begging, "Can I Have Somemore Chocolate please?"

I told you that this wasn't your typical bar of chocolate. ;)

Scars

2007-09-30T21:05:00.001+08:00

Dotting my arms
Winding up my spine
They are all over me
These many Scars of mine

Reminding me sometimes
Of things I'd rather forget
Scenes of violence and despair
Times of sorrow and regret

Some were from carelessness
Others by accident
When they were first received
I knew not what they meant

Time reveals their purpose
And what I'm meant to feel
My Scars are here to remind me
That my past is real

Changes

2007-09-03T22:31:00.000+08:00

They say that in this life, the only thing that is constant is change. Just like how the howling winter could not last forever as the might of nature introduces the spring so that the birds can sing. Or how about when big orange hairdos from the effervescent 80's gave way to ironed straight coiffure ala Jennifer Aniston in the 90's. Seasons change, Fashion changes, moods constantly changes by the minute, music styles change...and so does people and feelings, no matter how deeply etched they seem to be.

Though change is inevitable, it is beyond anyone's comprehension why it has to occur ever so often at the most inopportune of moments. Just as in Eddy's case, at the conclusion of his legal proceedings against an offence he had not committed, his wife ditched him for a much much older Indonesian tycoon, who could effortlessly, bring her the moon if he wanted to.

Perhaps it was all well-schemed out, waiting for the most opportune moment to lay down the bomb on Eddy. And what an apt time to relay such ill-news. At the moment where a man is chained and entwined in the lowest point of his life. It was a time when Eddy badly craved for all manner of support that his loved ones could muster. More so, from his 'loving' wife who eats the food that he puts on the table, the wife that sleeps on his bed, under the shelter that he provides her with, the wife that ever since he first laid eyes upon her, has showered her with gifts and love, that is unrivaled, the wife that bore him a daughter just 3 years ago.

As Eddy was awaiting the judge's verdict, he can't help noticing the empty seats that filled the back of the court room. Secretly though, he had hoped that this was all a morbid little dream and that his wife, is sitting quietly right there in the back with his daughter Nabilah, to await the sentence.

Eddy started to mull over the possibilities that is besieging him. Little did he realise that whatever the outcome of this proceeding, he will be forced to see his daughter Nabilah on an irregular basis. If he goes to prison, there was no chance that his soon to be ex-wife will visit. If he avoids prison, he would have to face the divorce head on and inevitably still lose custody of his only daughter. Either way, Eddy already felt like a man torn and tattered, and left for the hungry wolves to feast on.

Eddy's mind flash backed to the day his wife told him that she was carrying a little life inside her. Eddy vividly remembered what a bad day he had but when he heard those words from his then doting wife, he literally felt the burden of work being lifted off him. Eddy recalled the day when together as husband and wife, they went for an ultrasound to determine the sex of his child. Eddy still kept the sonogram picture with him at all times, to keep him rooted, and to guide himself through torrid days like today.

Eddy reached for his wallet and rummaged for the sonogram picture. He managed a meagre smile as he looked at it, simultaneously welcoming all thought provoking instances involving Nabilah. He recollected Nabilah's first tooth and the time he accidently dropped Nabilah on the cushion. He reminisced Nabilah's first step and the first time she squealed the word "Daddy".

And just a few months ago, Eddy remembered coming home late, tired and battered from work. Seeing his daughter waiting up for her father never failed to sooth his pain. On that particular day, Nabilah was just too eager to show her dad the drawings she made. It didn't matter to Eddy that the little Picasso charred the living room walls.

There were clouds and cats and trees on one side, a girl and a boy on one side, and a half completed star on the other side. According to Nabilah, the star was sad that day so it decided to show only half its face. Eddy could only afford to beam at Nabilah's innocence. Not wanting to feel left out, Eddy placed his right palm on one of the empty spaces of the already fast filling wall. He beckoned to Nabilah to take a crayon and outline the palm of his hand.

Like a seasoned artist, she traced it out with grace and poise. After that was done, Nabilah placed her palm within the outline of her father's palm that she had just drawn, and began outlining her own palm. With her limited word bank, she said something along the lines of "This way, I shall always be protected by you, daddy". She also mentioned that every year, on her birthday, they shall repeat that same process as a way to chart her growth, right up till she's married!

The sudden shuffling and scurrying of feet within the court room jerked Eddy out of his lullaby as the judge was ready with the final verdict. Like all good men, God has saved Eddy from this hell. After much anticipation, the court finds Eddy not guilty of swindling the company's funds. Eddy breathed a sigh of relief as he placed the sonogram picture in his left breast pocket. He conjured enough strength to say a little prayer, thanking God for guiding him through this ordeal.

That night, Eddy sat back against the wall, on his living room floor, admiring the art on the walls. The house by now is already empty, silenced by the night's assassin, free from the sound of the television, free from his daughter's cries for affection. The silence was deathly to the point that he could hear the receding paper burn as he smoked his cigarette.

In this dark abyss of a situation, Eddy gazed upon that drawing of his palm encapsulating his daughter's tiny palm. He thought to himself and knew that he would not have the chance to see Nabilah grow like how he had always imagined it to be. Each and every day spent with Nabilah now will be a little more precious. Would his daughter miss him? Would she totally forget him? Would her undying love for her father fade? They say in this life, the only thing that is constant is change. It is risible though how Eddy yearns for his fortunes to change, yet for Nabilah's love toward him to remain just as how it used to be.

Wish You Were Here

2007-08-29T21:34:00.000+08:00

The weekend that has just eluded was one of that is rather odd but on hindsight, it did however made me smile benignly. Armed with my newly acquired Polaroid camera, I instantaneously mutated into a trigger happy fool, snapping away at anything that seemed remotely interesting to me. Though Polaroid films are anything but cheap, the composition and raw nature of the pictures somehow appeals to me.

My theme for that weekend was 'Old'. I shot a photo of a cracked wall, I shot a photo of my aging grandmother, I shot a photo of my old schoolbag and of the old antiques that furnished my mother's living room. Out of all these photos, I love them all. Not because of the way I managed to capture them within the 4 frames, but because each of them had a tonnage of significance in my life. Now out of all these photos, there was this particular one that made me quiver in silence.

It was a picture of a quaint little hotel, tucked away, safely within the hustle and bustle of the city. Now this hotel is not one where hanky meets panky. On good days, you'll get folks from all over the globe, sitting down and melting their life's adventures into one big melting pot, left to be forgotten as they stepped away from this magical abode.

People come and they go, and so do their stories. But the old cranky walls never ceases to forget. So much so, that as the walls peels away, exposing itself to the harshness of time, it somehow gives one the impression that it shall never crumble....it shall never forget the stories that has been told....it shall never forgot the people that tells those stories. That day, as I snapped that photograph of the Old Mitre, the walls seemed to whisper to me through the winds that was seeping through its many cracks.

It seemed to remind me of my dear friend Juliana. I remember that day vividly. The 16th of March, 1999. Juliana dragged me down from our work place, and forced me to 'chill' in this sombre looking hotel. Her idea of 'chill' was nothing extravagant. A couple of drinks, served by the oldest bartender you can ever chance upon, in a place that's older than the city itself. That was my first trip to The Mitre.

The Mitre charmed me so much that it made me its humble pilgrim. Every other day for the next 4 years was spent at The Mitre. And every time I paid a visit to this place, dear Juliana will always be by my side. I can never forget the person that introduced me to my little sweet escape.

Looking at that picture of The Mitre, it made me miss Juliana even more. Visiting the Mitre alone or with anyone but Juliana did not feel complete...and the walls told me so. The walls never lie. As I slouched into a once majestic red chair, I remembered Juliana sitting on the chair beside me, with her legs comfortably rested on my thighs. She was tired from the long walks we had prior to this and I had the daunting task of pleasuring her via a foot massage.

It was funny how each time we arrived at The Mitre, Juliana would collapse into that same chair and it was even funnier that I willingly take her shoes off and gave her a massage that she so craves for. It was definitely weird staring into that empty chair now, knowing that you are far away in London, pursuing your degree...knowing that you'll never come back, less for Hari Raya Puasa which only occurs once a year.

As I scrutinized the aging walls, I came across that little patch on the wall where we wrote something. I still remember it was a few hours before the Christmas of 2000. On the wall, we scribbled, "May our friendship last forever through the ages, like The Mitre". I signed off as a stick man drawing, and you, a stick girl. We were holding hands in that drawing. It was sweet, adn the walls of The Mitre has kept that secret of ours even up till this day.

I smiled as I carassed my hands over that piece of declaration on the wall. As I left The Mitre that day, I stopped in the middle of my tracks and took a peek behind, hoping to see you running up to me, but it was nothingness that was staring back at me.

Dear Juliana, if you are reading this, I need to tell you that The Mitre will be demolished anytime soon. It's been in the newspapers for weeks already. If my memories are correct, we would have only about 2 months before the government starts to tear our nest down. My first visit to The Mitre was with you my dear, and I long for my last visit there to be with you just as well.

Mother

2007-08-28T14:46:00.000+08:00

"For your repititive drug use, the court hereby finds you guilty as charged!", the definitive voice of the judge echoed within the walls of the court room. All subsequent murmurings within the room somehow fell silent as Mandy was handcuffed. Mandy reluctantly turned her head backwards to face the crowd. It wasn't too difficult to spot her Mother in her large floral printed Ah Soh dress. Beside her stood Mandy's two sons, aged 6 and 8.

As Mandy was led out of the court room, she stopped abruptly near where her two sons were standing. The boys' wanted so much to say something but somehow they could not conjure up the courage or ability to speak their mind. The emotional wave that's going through their fragile minds somehow overshadowed and took control of their speech. Nevertheless, the younger of the two related his feelings without speaking a word as a tear dripped down his left cheek. The elder one wrapped his comforting arm around his younger brother's shoulder as if trying to convince him that things are going to work out just fine.

A Victim to hard drugs since the age of 16, it was near impossible to part Mandy from those souless substances. When she conceived her second son though, for a brief time, she managed to go straight and avoid her drug laden friends. She found a decent job in a restaurant and brought her sons up the best way possible. Though Mandy does not earn much from her job at the restaurant, she still tried to brighten her sons' life with small gifts. Though these little gifts may seem negligible compared to the Nike shoes or hand-held games that their friends possess, it meant the world to the two boys.

The fairytale lasted only for a brief moment though before Mandy started abusing again. Her drug addict husband just got out of rehab and instantaneously, his constant drug use within their home became too much for Mandy to ignore. Mandy remembered the first time in 3 years when she stuck a needle into her vein once again, she could literally feel the substances working in her blood stream and taking her to a place near paradise. "The best feeling on Earth", she would say. Like a bad friend, the drugs just kept coming and coming her way and in no time, she was hooked.

The boys' father has since seeked refuge in one of the Indonesian islands when the narcotics people came for Mandy. In the care of their grandmother now, the boys just longed for their mother to be by their side once again. Living with the grandmother was not a bed of roses. Mrs Kim went down hard on those 2 boys for she does not want to repeat the mistakes she made with her only daugther Mandy.

The boys found the initial stages of their new life burdensome to cope with but at least, they get clean clothes to wear and good food to eat on an everyday basis. In no time, they somehow seemed to forget about their dear mother and life went on pretty well. The teachers were impressed with their improving grades and they made more friends now in school.

Every month though, Mrs Kim would receive a letter from Mandy, asking about her sons. Not once did Mrs Kim reply to them for she still kept deep inside her the grieve and hurt that Mandy has caused her all those years. Despite not getting any replies, Mandy still persisted and kept on sending those mails on a monthly basis. The boys were oblivous to those mails sent by their mother for Mrs Kim kept them stashed away in her cupboard.

There was once, in her letter, Mandy asked if Mrs Kim was ever going to come visit her with her two sons. Mrs Kim stared hard at her daugther's almost inelligible handwriting. There were dried-up tear drops all over the letter. Mrs Kim sobbed uncontrollably to herself but yet she was reluctant to bring the boys to see their mother. As ther exams are approaching, Mrs Kim did not want to remind them of their Mother and all the bad memories that comes together in big black packages.

A week before Christmas, Mrs Kim received a call. It was Mandy. Mandy was sobbing uncontrollably the moment she said 'Hello'. Mandy apologized profusely to Mrs Kim for all the years of inconveniences she has caused. Mandy lamented on how this is the last time and how she wanted to mend her ways and start life anew with her loved ones back home. This wasn't new to Mrs Kim. Mrs Kim have had this conversation with Mandy the first time she went into prison. Deep down however, Mrs Kim still had an inkling of hope for her daughter and silently she prayed for God to show Mandy the path where all good people walk on.

"Maa....Maaa...Can I speak to Steven? Maa!!...Put Steven or Sean on the phone please. I want to hear their voice.", Mandy begged her Mother. Mrs Kim held the receiver tightly to her ears, tears in her eyes. The two boys were in the living room. Mrs Kim could see them from where she's seated. Their eyes were etched on the TV screens as they were having a duel with each other on their Playstation which she bought them for an early Christmas gift.

They say Mothers have an emotional telepathic almost magical connection with their children. Mothers could recognise their sons even though their faces are hiding inside a motorbike helmet. Mothers could tell if their sons were having a bad day by simply looking at their faces when they walk in the front door after a hard day at school or work.

"Maa...Please Maa....Just let me say hello to my sons", Mandy pleaded. "They're not in", Mrs Kim lied. "They're playing football downstairs", Mrs Kim continued. "No! Maa...you can't do this to me!! I want to speak to my sons...please!!", Mandy pleaded uncontrollably. "I know they're there with you. Can I speak to them?", Mandy begged once more. Mrs Kim put down the phone without saying goodbye.

She slumped into her chair and tilted her head back against the wall. Mrs Kim sobbed silently in resentment. She did not know why she didn't call the two boys to at least say hello to their Mother. Perhaps its the anger that's built up over the years...perhaps she just did not want to remind them of their Mother just yet. As all those morbid thoughts were playing in her head, Mrs Kim felt her shirt sleeve being tugged at. It was Steven, the younger brother. "Grandma, why are you crying?", he quizzed. "Grandma...I miss Mummy", he confessed. "Are you crying because you miss Mummy too?", Steven quizzed once again. Steven climbed onto his grandmother's lap and hugged her tightly. It as been a long time since he felt a Mother's warmth and his was the closest that he could get to a Mother for the time being.

In that emotional embrace, Mrs Kim secretly wished that the one she's hugging is her daugther Mandy. Steven simlarly wished that the one he's hugging is his dear Mother. There and then, Mrs Kim vowed to take the boys go see their Mother before the year ends. As they say, its beyond words, trying to explain a Mother's love.

Home

2007-08-12T18:43:00.000+08:00

Adding to the fact that a 20-hour plane ride would pop his tiny ears silly, it is impossible to conceive that 7-year old Jude would be disheartened with the thought of embarking on a 14-day North American escapade. Sluggishly, Jude dragged his favourite clothes out of his closet as his mother packed the essentials into the luggage bag.

Jude sat on the floor, back against the wall as he stared at his mother gleefully folding away and tucking every piece of clothing expertly into the luggage bag, leaving no space for even ants to make room for themselves.

Silently, Jude calculated the remaining days before his entire family actually depart for their North American holiday. The sight of his mother whistling whilst packing made Jude all the more irate. "Why that look Jude? We'll be going to Disneyland and you and your brothers and sisters can get on all those fantastic rides, eat all the candy you want, shake hands with those lovable cartoon characters. Isn't it nice? Common Jude, you're going to love it. Trust Mamma. Now put on a smile for me will you", Jude's mother tried to make Jude feel better.

Jude smiled reluctantly. It wasn't difficult to brainwash a 7-year old kid and in an instant, Jude's mouth watered as he imagined being on one of those roller-coasters, with the wind messing his hair up at a blistering speed.

America was nothing like Jude had imagined. Everything he watched on TV multiplied by 10 and you're still nowhere close to the excitement that Jude and his siblings experienced. Everyday spent there was a blast and by the third day, Jude already forgot about his home at the end of a small road off Siglap.

During their trip to Canada, Jude touched snow for the very first time. The cold ice smoothing itself against his skin made Jude gasp in awe as he dug his hands deeper into the pile of snow. Jude carefully crafted the snow into a ball and pressed against the sides so that it hardened up. He aimed carefully and let fly his snowball right smack in the middle of his brother's head and a snowball fight soon engulfed amongst the siblings as their parents sat by the bench in the park, smooching like they were still in high school.

That evening, just before the sun began to set, Jude braved the chilling winds as he stood outside the hotel balcony and absorbed the breathtaking view of Vancouver that beset upon his little peering eyes.

"What are you looking at Jude. Come on in before you catch a cold", Jude's mother nagged after she noticed her youngest son standing on that same spot in the balcony for the past 20 minutes. Jude pointed out into the far horizon, with the look of amazement etched in his face. "What is it Jude?", his mother queried again. "What are you looking at?", his mother continued.

"Look at that Mummy. It's so beautiful isn't it?", Jude seeked his mother's approval as he pointed far away beyond the sunset. "It is indeed. You are looking at the Vancouver skyline Jude", his mother attempted to play tour guide for once. "No!", Jude interrupted his mother before she could ramble any more. "See that Mamma?", Jude pointed out again. "This is going to be my home Mamma. This is going to be my home", Jude corrected his mother as he dreamed of living in Vancouver.

That evening, the city of Vancouver emotionally encapsulated young Jude's heart. So much so that he made a vow to himself, though silently, it was still a vow. He vowed that when he grew up, he would make Vancouver his home. Jude's mother thought very little of the incident and as the years went by, she almost forgot about it.

There was one particular night though, Jude's mother was frantically sobbing whilst packing her luggage bag. She could still feel Jude's presence in the room. Jude's mother looked up and could almost make out young Jude's petite frame, back against the wall, whimpering at the thought of embarking on a North American holiday just 18 years ago.

How time flies Jude's mother thought to herself. In less than 24 hours time, the entire family will be on their way to Vancouver yet again. Only thing is, this time round, they're going there to attend Jude's graduation ceremony at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, Canada.

Jude's mother abandoned her packing duties as she rummaged the wooden cabinets for the old photograph albums. Her eyes watered as she flipped through the albums. Her mind couldn't help reminiscing the yesteryears when all her children were young and restless, running around and literally pulling the ends out of her hair.

The best times in life are spent when the kids are still young. She never understood that fact when her mother explained to her years ago. Instead, she spent her time slogging at work, thus missing out on watching the kids grow up. In a flash, one by one, her children is stepping into adulthood and Jude's mother could do nothing about it.

One of the last photos in the album was of Jude looking out into that Vancouver sunset and declaring his desire to make Vancouver his home. Initially, his mother brushed it aside as Jude was only 7 then. As she recalled the phone conversation she had with her youngest son Jude just a few hours before, it seems however that Jude wants to live and work in Vancouver after his graduation. Alas, Jude was telling the truth after all.

In My Life

2007-06-30T17:33:00.000+08:00

There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends
I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

- John Lennon & Paul McCartney

Beauty & The Beast

2007-05-26T11:22:00.000+08:00

There's this age old saying insisting that opposites always attract. It probably stemmed from the early civilizations when Men first began to comprehend the science of magnets. Or perhaps how can a seductive and temptress moon like Cleopatra fall in love with an ugly, bearded, disheveled war-mongering brute like Caesar.

It boggles me but ever so often there comes a day when I, or even you have such stigmas lingering in your head as we walk past a handsome, decent mannered lad cuddling up against his obnoxious hideous girlfriend which brings this question to our heads..."What the f**k is HE doing with an ugly f**k like her!?". Well in my case, when I see a pretty young thing with a monster, I'd go, "Seriously...what the hell does this guy have that's better than me?" And as always, I could not find an answer.

Perhaps it is just human behaviour to react that way. I blame all the fairy tales that was fed to us on a daily basis when we were kids. It is being drilled into our puny little brains that the handsome prince always wins the heart of the fair princess, or that good always trample against the bad, and the wicked witch always lives alone, tucked away in a far corner of a deep forest.

Alas, we live in the real world. A world where personality and character accounts far more than just physical attraction. I'd have to admit that looks does play an important role, but only to get one foot through the door. In the end, its the far more complex elements of a human that draws him closer with another.

And this brings me to my story of my dear 103kg friend Shaun who recently tied the knot with his 46kg hot as hell girlfriend of 12 years Anna. Congratulations you idiots, I love you guys still. I have to admit that I'm a little envious of the two of them. Envious because they managed to sail their relationship from the blossom of puberty through the secondary school years, through the poly years, and then the testing torrid times of the National Service years.

Anna could have left a pennyless Shaun during his National Service but she didn't. Instead she found a good job, was frugal with her expenses, saved whenever possible and waited for her dear Shaun to complete his NS cycle. Disappointingly, Shaun did not lose much weight during NS but then again, it wouldn't be the same lovable, huggable Shaun if he did lost weight.

My generously sized friend found a job easily after his NS because of his amiable character, the same traits that warmed Anna's heart during their courting years. I still get disapproving folks asking me what Anna sees in Shaun. And my answer was always the same. Shaun was so suave and innocent in his own unique manner that makes any girl just wanna cuddle up and snuggle next to him. There was never a dull moment when Shaun is around and there is no other guy that could keep a girl like Anna happier. You can even get all the Brad Pitts and Wentworth Millers to try woo hot Anna but still, I can guarantee you Shaun will come up tops.

And so fast forward to their wedding reception at Goodwood Park Hotel. It was a grand occasion alright. And it was great to see familiar faces from yesteryears like the guys we used to hang out with from school, to the even unfamiliar faces that's probably the friends of the bride/groom's parents. The MC was being a bitch all night, mocking Shaun because of his sheer size. But he did it in a subtle way of course and knowing Shaun, always smiling and cheerful, these comments did not affect him one bit.

Shaun laughed together with the guests at the MC's jokes as they showed the footage of old pictures and videos recollecting Shaun and Anna's past. As the best man, I gave a 5 minute speech for my dear friends who just got married and I have to admit, I almost cried..not because it was a touching speech, but because I could sense the thoughts of the folks seated in the ballroom. I could sense that in their minds, they're asking the same questions any normal person would ask.."What the hell is this girl doing with a fat guy like Shaun?".

Shaun was oblivious to it all but Anna noticed it as well. Anna being Anna, she could just turn into a bitch at the blink of an eye. She motioned to me after my speech that she wanted the microphone. "Oh oh", I thought to myself as I sensed the wrath behind Anna's deceiving smile.

Anna grabbed the mic from me and began thanking her parents, her in-laws, her friends for making this night possible. She thanked the guests for turning up and all the formalities and thank yous thats associated with weddings.

The guests were applauding, some sincerely, but most of them just followed the motion. Anna looked around at all of them before nonchalantly turning to her groom and declared, "You know Shaun, I'm amazed that you managed to keep me happier and happier each day since the day we met. I've never grown tired of you and never will. I love you like hell and no matter what people say, you're still the Beauty while I'm the Beast".

Telephones Anyone?

2007-04-26T20:30:00.000+08:00

East Coast, Katong 1962 - One of the many haunts for young romantics

May 4th, 1962.

"Iceball satu", Zaed almost whispered to the Chinese man in the twilight of his years. Slowly but surely, his decrepit hands scooped a generous portion of the ice cold ball which for so many years, has relieved both the young and the old in the scorching and bustling port that's Singapore. The bulging veins protruding beneath his crumpled faded skin indicated the years of hard work probably from pushing his war torn mobile 'mart' from one small town to another.

Zaed fished out two pieces of the now defunct 1 cent coin and placed it in the old man's cash register which was really just an ordinary dirty plastic bowl. Zaed longed for days when he could have an iceball for lunch. It's because on days like these that Zaed skips his meal just so that he can afford to order more food at dinner with Rozza, the girl he is going to marry one day.

"Same time same place ok abang Zaed?", Zaed could still hear his Rozza reminding him before they parted during their last date. Singapore back then did not have the majestic malls and streets of Orchard Road to roam about. There wasn't anything close to the vibrant bars the line Boat Quay or the 9 foot walkways of the Durianish Esplanade where couples, both old, new and the queer take long romantic walks.

1960s Singapore had other things though. They had beautiful parks and drive-in movies. They had a theme park in Katong and 1-cent per stick Satays lining the old Satay Club. The youths had house parties every other weekend and dance clubs that was hardly any dangerous to attend.

1960s Singapore most importantly was almost untainted by things modern and every other corner somewhat provided a little bit of memory for couples that allowed the moonlight to guide their long romantic walks after a road-side dinner. The intricate architecture of the island's rich colonial past fused with those brought about by travelling immigrants from Java, Melaka and China, setting up a spectacular array of Film Noir like backdrops that added so much character to life back then.

"Zaed, I'm afraid you got to work late tonight. Ismail's wife is sick and you got to cover him alright?", Mr Smith, their manager informed. Zaed does not have much of a choice but to nod in agreement. Although knowing that his attempts at reaching Rozza would be futile, Zaed still dialled Rozza's telephone number and waited.

"Assalamualaikum. Boleh saya cakap dengan Rozza?", Zaed asked without much confidence. "Rozza belum pulang dari kerja nak. Ini Zaed ye? Rozza kan kat kerja, dia kata malam ni dia balik lambat. Overtime katanye", Rozza's mum went on and on.

Zaed smiled sheepishly for he knows that Rozza only tells her mum that she has to work overtime whenever he is meeting her for dinner or a movie or a walk in the park as Rozza comes from a traditional Malay family and it is not common for parents to allow their daughters to go out with a boy without their younger siblings or friends to chaperon them.

Thoughts of Rozza worrying over his punctuality made Zaid break out into cold sweat. The time showed 8pm. They were supposed to meet at the corner of the Siglap Market almost an hour ago. Surely Rozza must be fretting herself silly waiting for him Zaed thought as he could not fully concentrate on the work he has at hand.

9pm came and went. By the time Zaed was done, Zaed wished the clock was lying when it showed 9.20pm."I hope Rozza is home safely", Zaed told himself as he placed his hands on the receiver of the telephone. "Should I call?", Zaid questioned himself as he was afraid he might get a tongue lashing from Rozza's dad or mum for calling late in the night. "I think I shall just call. Rozza is always the first to answer the phone anyway whenever she is home. Then I shall just hang up when I hear her voice so that she won't get into trouble for talking on the phone at such an odd hour.

Zaed dialed the number and sure enough, he heard Rozza's voice and hung up smiling to himself. Zaed grabbed his helmet and flew down the stairs to his Vespa scooter. On his ride home, Zaid mulled over the beautiful dinner that never came. Stomach growling, no girlfriend, overtime...all these omens encompassed a disastrous day for the young man.

"What the heck", Zaed thought to himself, as he turned left toward the Siglap Market junction. "If I don't get to see my Rozza, at least let me walk in her footsteps", Zaed decided to console himself. As her swerved toward that iconic landmark, never did he imagine what was presented to him. There sitting on the bench was Rozza, smiling from ear to ear the moment she heard that stutter of a sound Zaed's Vespa always made.

"You are late Abang Zaed!!", Rozza tried to sound cross as she walked toward Zaed and hugged him tightly."I knew you will somehow still be waiting. I just knew it", Zaed said while squeezing her hands. "But I could have sworn I heard your voice when I called your home!", Zaed sounded suprised. "Are you a ghost?" Zaed joked as he poked Rozza on her arm. "Its my sister lah. We sound the same over the phone. Even my mum has difficulty differentiating our voice", Rozza comforted Zaed.

That night was one of the most memorable nights that Zaed and Rozza ever had as a couple. The most memorable night was still their wedding day. 10 years and 6 kids later, on May the 4th, 1972, when the flower power and the psychedelic tones of Pink Floyd reigned supreme over the charts, Zaed and Rozza was having one of those rare nights when all of the kids were away at Grandma's place.

Zaed browsed through his vinyl collection before putting on a Bossanova track that reminded the love birds of their courting days. "Can I have this dance?", Zaed extended his hand toward his wife. "Still the Romeo huh my love..", Rozza replied in between smiles as she allowed Zaed to serenade her in their living room.

"Can I ask you something?", Zaed asked like a shy boy. "Remember that night when I had to work late. And the clock said 10pm and you were still waiting at that Siglap Market corner. Why didn't you go home that night? Why did you wait for me? How did you know I would come?" Zaed threw the burning questions at Rozza.

"Because if I had to work late that night...and there was no way I could have reached you, I know that you would have done the same. You would have stayed there and not gone home...You would have waited for me...And I would still come down however late it was, even if its to bask and walk in your footsteps."

Present Day

It's amazing the rate the world is changing. Now it seems everyone owns a mobile phone and hence could be connected to each other at the mere touch of the 'call' button, whatever time it is, however late it is.

Feeling lazy? Call/SMS the person you're supposed to meet and tell them you can't make it because of blah blah blah reasons.

Working Overtime? Call/SMS the person you're supposed to meet and tell them you can't make it because of blah blah blah reasons.

Bad Weather? Call/SMS the person you're supposed to meet and tell them you can't make it because of blah blah blah reasons.

For good or bad, I'm sure the mobile phone has its uses. But with every development or advancement comes a sacrifice. And with this accessibility these telephones bring, it's such a pity that perhaps the youth of today will never ever experience the level of integrity, perseverance and love our parents or grandparents had.

Promises could be made a week before, be it verbally or via writing of a letter and trust these guys to be there at the time stated. Bad weather or not, Overtime or not, Feeling lazy or not, the tendency to shun away from a promise is so much lesser. I for one, shall miss those days.

March 31st, 2007

Zaed passed away suddenly one cold March morning. Rozza accompanied him a day later, leaving behind 8 children and 10 grandchildren.Coincidentally, they are buried beside each other. Till death do us part? Suddenly...I choose not to believe in that either.

Doze Were The Days

2007-04-10T23:56:00.000+08:00

Every Kid Has A Right, As Soon As He/She Is Born, On A Name And A Nationality
(World's Declaration Of Human Rights)
- Benetton

Doze Were The Days

Remember when "Getting High" meant swinging at the playground,
When "Protection" meant wearing a helmet.
When the worst thing you could get from BOYS were cooties and the worst thing you could get from Girls was a cold.

Mom was your hero and Dads shoulders were the highest place on earth.
Your Worst Enemies were your siblings.
"Race Issues" were about who ran the fastest or a game of soccer meant Malays VS Chinese

"War was only a card game.
The only "Drug" you knew was cough medicine.
Wearing a skirt didn't mean you were a "Slut".
The only thing you "Smoked" was the tires on your BMX bike.

The only thing that would "Hurt you" were skinned knees.
The only thing that could be "Broken" were your toys &
"Goodbyes" only meant until tomorrow...

Life was so simple and carefree, but what I remember most was wanting to grow up.
And now, all I want is to be a kid again."

- Anonymous

Prom Queen

2007-04-03T00:06:00.000+08:00

The graduating students of Temasek Polytechnic can finally rejoice at the end of their perilous 3 year journey of frequently skipping lectures, 5-hour breaks, schoolboy crushes, first kisses, project bingeings, part time jobs for surplus pocket money, formal class presentations, 3-hour breaks, skipping lectures again and again, then the pinnacle final year project and now, the graduating class of 2002.

To commemorate their final sending off, the relevant school committees has planned a lavish dinner & dance at the grand ballroom befitting all manner of royalty at The Fullerton Hotel. The ballroom was transformed with nitty gritty details to ensure a memorable farewell for these hardworking students.

As I placed the programme guide at the centre of each round table, I smiled to the fact that in addition to a 10 course feast, there will also be the formalities of a photograph taking session, a final farewell speech, and to top it all off - a pageant to crown the school's Prom Queen for 2002.

I would very much love to be a spectator for the night, for I fear the embarrassment I'd have to face when all these gorgeously clad girls giggle past me, a simple waiter, and into the ballroom to their respective seats. I worry at the embarrassment of having to serve these fine looking boys and girls who are unaware that I'm only doing this whilst waiting to serve my mandatory 2 years for the country.

One by one, they start pouring into the ballroom, covered in their most coveted looking gowns and suits. Each of them looked trigged and polished with their best hair and new accessories. It was hard for me to concentrate on my job for I was drowned in a room full of 'Greek' muses. I looked left, then right, then left again as these ladies delivered me one knockout punch after another. But of course, I maintained my cool and did my job as professionally as possible.

The event went well as planned and after the entire 10 course feast had been served, us waiters stepped aside as the pageant began. There was much work needed to be done in the kitchen but I opted to stay on at the rear of the ballroom just in case someone needed another glass of water, or whatever issue that was within the jurisdiction of a ballroom waiter at the Fullerton.

Of course, you and me know, that the truth behind me opting to stay on was that I wanted to witness the pageant. Not only to ogle at the pretty looking things, but also to relive my memorable graduation that still lingered in my head though it has already been 1 whole year.

And so the top 5 beauties elect of TP catwalked their way up onto the stage and strutted their stuff to an overwhelming rapture of claps and whistles. I leaned onto the pillar as I scrutinized these babes one by one and it didn't take long for my heart to swallow whatever contestant number 4 had to offer.

The MC went on to explain that the Prom Queen will be crowned not only on her looks but also based on the manner in which they approach the questions posed to them. Once all 5 are done with the questions, the winner will be picked depending on how popular she is with the crowd at that Fullerton ballroom. To put it simply, the one that gets the loudest cheers wins.

I personally thought it was a rather biased approach to the crowning of the Queen for it somehow balls down to who has the most friends in attendance. But oh well, what could a measly waiter ask for and so I just continued allowing contestant number 4 to awe me into oblivion.

MC : Contestant number 1, could you step forward please...

Contestant 1 catwalked to the front portion of the stage to a thunderous applause before making her way toward the MC.

MC : Contestant number 1, could you tell us your name, faculty you are from and the inspiration behind your outfit?

Contestant #1 : Hi....My name is Shariffah and I'm graduating from the School of Business and my close friends are seated at table no 9!!

Shariffah waves in the direction of table number 9 and the girls at that table went bezerk with their shrieking.

MC : Wow, you got alot of friends over there huh. Okay, so tell us more about your chosen outfit today....

Shariffah : Well, as you can see, this red gown is from Chanel, a gift from my dearest Mum especially for this occassion. My shoes is actually from a boutique in Milan and I begged my darling sister to let me have it for the night. What do you think??

Shariffah went on to lament on her hair and expensive accessories but I chose to ignore her as soon as she started blabbering irritatingly like a spoilt brat. My eyes remained fixated on contestant #4.

MC : Contestant number 2, could you step forward please...

Contestant #2 catwalked to the front portion of the stage to an applause a decible less compared to Shariffah's before making her way toward the MC.

Contestant #2 :Hi everyone...my name is Sylvia from School of Design and the reason I chose this sexy black dress is *blah blah blah blah blahhhhhh.

Again I wasn't interested in lousy peppy answers along the lines of how great and how expensive and how exquisite they each looked in their chosen outfits. So again my eyes just went back to contestant # 4.

You see the reason why I'm very much drawn to the goddess that is contestant number 4 was that she effortlessly sweeps me off my feet with her natural beauty. She hardly had on any cosmetic on her flawless exterior. Yet single handedly she manages to pale out the other contestants who had on their Bobby Browns Estee Lauders.

And her dress, was all of just a simple rag looking brown chiffon garment that is wrapped around her dulcet and delicate body, fastened to her left hip via an unusual, unorthodox knot. There wasn't any diamantes or sequins to complement the general outlook of her dress and transform it into something complete but yet she looked breath taking and riveting in my eyes. Perhaps I'm just a simple man that is contented with the humble minimum that life had to offer.

For shoes, she had on a pair of matching brown high heeled leather sandals with straps that crept up her slender legs to form a perfect knot nestled just below her trembling knees. No diamonds, no elaborate designs, no traces of designer wear on contestant #4!

I completely forgot about what contestant #3 had to say but it was along the lines of the first 2 contestants.

MC : Contestant number 4, could you step forward please...

Contestant #4 coyly took small dainty steps forward as she tried to balance her high heels. In between her careful catwalk, she managed to slot in a meagre smile in between balancing her heels, teetering with a potential fall and striking a pose at the front end of the stage before making her way toward the MC.

Judging from the applause garnered, I could tell that she wasn't a crowd favourite. The only notable cheers that she got was probably from her geeky looking proud and faithful friends sitting at the far end of the ballroom at table number 29. Secretly, I clapped my hands so softly that surely only I could hear my undying attempt at supporting my contestant #4.

Contestant #4 : Hello to all in this ballrooom. My name is Farah and I'm from the School Of Design. About my dress (smiles abruptly while running her velvety palms across her hip area). Well my dress, as you can see may not be as ravishing compared to those sharing this stage with me but oh well....I'll let the 4 of them be the Cinderellas for the night for I'm just glad to be a simple Pocahontas...

Her reply blew me away for she effortlessly brushes aside any politically correct answer expected in a pageant.

As expected, it was never a surprise when the majority of the crowd rooted for Shariffah for she was one of the popular 'plastic' girls in the graduating batch of 2002. Nevertheless, my Pocahontas accepted the loss with grace and poise of a swan as she descended the stage and joined her friends at table 29.

The TP students rocked the dancefloor that night for a good 1 hour before the dinner and dance bowed down its curtains with a Lauryn Hill number titled 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You'. I for one could definitely not take my eyes off contestant #4... the deserving Prom Queen for the night.

New York, New York

2007-03-09T20:06:00.000+08:00

New York, New York. The city that never sleeps. A city where the lights of the nightime transits into the 8th wonder of the world. A city where all the flavours of the world converge into one eloquent melting pot of cultures. A city that inspires movies, both old and new. A city where sleeping in the deserted subways brings as much joy as enjoying the trolly-pushed hotdogs on a park bench. New York, New York, a city so beautiful, it has to be mentioned twice.

It was an opportunity not to be missed for young Noel, when his boss, Steven proposed an all expense business trip to New York. Business or not, it already sounds like a holiday of a lifetime. For someone whose only brush with cold weather is confined to the ghastly four walls of his air-conditioned Singapore office, the mere mention of the trip deafened his surroundings for a good few seconds.

Noel blinked his eyes a couple of times before getting in sync with reality. He accepted the offer without thinking much of his almost depleted bank balance. And so it is, as his name is being printed out onto the boarding pass, Noel D'Souza, Destination : JFK International Airport. As the warm winds of the south finds its way to the north, and the birds of the city shall start to sing again, Noel is exhilarated to welcome the spring in New York.

Noel enjoyed the business aspect of the trip as much as the diverse sights and sounds that the city has to offer. He will be literally be drinking from the taps when he returns to his homeland, but you can try reminding him so and he would gladly scuff your words aside. Halfway into the trip and Noel has already bought 2 more bags to accommodate his wild shopping antics.

On the the second last day however, over breakfast consisting of hotdogs and some orange juice in Central Park, Steven shot a question out of the blue to young Noel, "So Noel, are you enjoying yourself in the company?". "Why of course Steven. I'm just blessed that you have given me the opportunity despite my lack of experience to ply my trade in the industry. You know I went to countless interviews only to be rejected because I couldn't speak a word of Mandarin or because I didn't possess enough industry experience. But I guess you must have saw something in me to give me a shot. And I have never been anything less but dedicated and committed to the company's cause", Noel said in one breath.

"I mean I really love this job and despite the unearthly hours that we work till most of the time, I still wake up each day with the same amount of enthusiasm and eagerness to step into the office doors. At the moment, this job means everything to me Steven. Supposing this wasn't New York. Supposing we are now at the Beach Road hawker centre back home, and you're asking me this exact question, I'd have answered it just the same", Noel continued.

"And you Steven, I mean you have taught me so much. Even more than what my lecturers taught in school. You have been a great mentor, a great boss, and a great friend and I'm proud to tell my friends that I'm working under such a dedicated and talented individual as yourself. To be honest Steven, I don't think any other boss would have shared his knowledge and experience to his colleagues the way you did to all of us in the company", Noel confessed his inner thoughts.

"You know, it's a funny way of putting it but....you remember the last FA Cup Final when Steven Gerrard scored the equaliser for Liverpool in the dying seconds against a plucky West Ham side?" "Well of course!", Steven exclaimed. "How can I ever forget that? Simply fantastic!", Steven said in between bites.

"Well yeah. Gerrard is the sole heartbeat of that Liverpool side. And you are to the company what Gerrard is to Liverpool. Well, I'm a hardcore Man Utd fan but we lost our heartbeat when Roy Keane left and I can't think of another example. But yeah, you are the heartbeat of the company," Noel claimed.

"Thanks Noel. It really means alot to me the way you say it. Well, it is very hard for me to say this. I have not told any of them back home but, I'll be leaving the company in a couple of months time and I just thought of sharing that with you. I know a lot of them including you would think of leaving as well once I'm gone but I'm just hoping that you guys stay in the company you know. Help it grow. Stay on a little longer until you find another suitable place," Steven dropped the bomb.

Noel felt like how the West Ham players must have felt when Gerrard blasted in that sumptous volley into the back of the net in the game's dying seconds. "Well I can see that you are dampened by what I have said but I hope you guys respect my decision you know. I have my personal goals to attain. I mean, I'm still a phone call away if you guys need me. I'll still be glad to meet up for coffee or dinner or something. Just thought that you should know this first Noel", Steven attempted to cheer up young Noel.

Deep down, Noel knows that this is part and parcel of life. People come and go in our lives and it is often those that touches you in one way or another that always seem to inflict the deepest wounds. Steven for one had a huge part to play in Noel's infant professional career in the industry. Whatver that Noel has accumulated in the 9 months or so in that company can be all accredited to Steven's guidance.

Steven is like the doting father to all in that company and by him leaving, the impact would be as great as a homeless child. The hotdog somehow didn't taste as good anymore after all that he heard in the last few minutes but Noel tried to hide his feelings from Steven. Both Steven and Noel, teacher and student, advertising guru and protege walked side by side toward the end of Central Park, deep in their own thoughts.

New York, New York, a city so beautiful, it has to be mentioned twice. Noel was promised the spring, but instead he found Autumn in New York.

Story Of The Rain

2007-03-07T00:53:00.000+08:00

They say a wounded heart can take as short a time taken for a match to ignite or even as long as forever to heal. Rezel for 3 years now has already succumbed the fate of his love life to the later. It seemed effortless to forget the memory of someone etched like a bad virus within. Try as he might, somehow Rezel always resorted to comparing the girl he currently is dating to Jasmine.

Unfair you might say to compare two completely contrasting individuals but efforts taken to advice him to refrain perpetually falls on deaf ears. Time and again, he leads himself into the inevitable and comforting atmosphere of comparison. What a cruel habit.

On the first day of the new year, fresh from the aftermath of the hard partying that ended 2006 on a record low, the manager introduced the new girl from Ipoh. Though she looked every bit as modern and trendy as the common Singaporean Malay girl, her essence and upbringing was still very much deeply rooted. Juliana as of now, has yet to be corrupted from the politics of the world that very much enclaves our sunny island.

Rezel quickly developed a positive professional relationship with Juliana for her ability to hold witty conversations and her quirky dressing very much appeals to him. It makes working in Advertising seem like a gentle breeze when in actual fact, stress levels could effortlessly reach boiling point.

2 months into the job and somehow, Rezel began to look forward to the next working day as soon as he sets his foot into his house. For a moment, Rezel refused to acknowledge the fact that he is somewhat smitten by his colleague but at the back of his head, it would be a massacre to sacrifice a solid working relationship that he already has with Juliana.

After many confessional booth type sessions and late night binges with his buddies, Rezel somehow plucked enough courage to ask Juliana out after work one day on the pretext of having 'coffee'. Apparently, as Rezel subtlety puts it, "nothing beats unwinding oneself down after an eventful working day like a chilled Ice Blended and a warm Chocolate Brownie".

They have the luxury of the nice backdrop of the draping Singapore skyline and the pristine but somewhat murky waters of the Singapore river flowing by the side of the cafe. It didn't take long for Rezel and Juliana to drown themselves in meaningful, 'healthy' arguments.

When the verbal disputes got too tense, they would somehow find a way to meander the direction of the conversation to the walking passerbys and the hustle and bustle of the tourists that flooded the quay side cafes.

Secretly, both didn't want the night to fade away too fast but midnight was approaching and the the red clouds hinted that rain was approaching. Like the gentleman that he is, Rezel paid for the drinks and whatever brownies that they had and both walked toward the train station.

Without prior warning, the sky opened and rained on the two. Rezel pulled out his umbrella in a jiffy and attempted to shelter both of them from the menacing rain. Both of them saw the funny side to the situation at hand as they wet their designer shoes as they stepped into the odd puddles that mushroomed on the brick walkway.

After a somewhat long ten minute walk, trying to keep themselves dry from the rain, they approached the traffic junction where many others are secretly cursing for the 'green man' to come on so that they can cross to the safe haven of the MRT station entrance.

Each time a car or a bus approaches the junction, it meant a possible splash of dirty rain water potentially splashing on their fine clothes. No one liked these kinda situations which always crops up in those Hollywood comedies.

While waiting, both Rezel and Juliana couldn't help overhearing the couple standing next to them. The girl was giving the guy a hard time and bitching about the rain ruining their evening. She blamed the boyfriend for not bringing an umbrella, she blamed her boyfriend for her wet clothes, and she blamed her boyfriend for coming late which resulted in them getting caught in the rain.

Standing in front of Rezel and Juliana, another couple was having a similar squabble where the girl was blaming her boyfriend for everything. This couple was somewhat more extreme compared to the other for the girl was generally uncouth in her choice of words. "How could something as natural as the rain be the object of these domestic disputes", Rezal thought to himself.

Without warning, a taxi cab sped past the junction and splashed the pitter patter raindrops on all at that Church St junction. The quarreling went up a few notches but Rezel and Juliana looked at each other and just smiled. Juliana locked her arms around Rezel's left hand and leaned her head on his already wet shoulders. "Raining also want to fight. Haizz...these people ar. No big deal mah raining. Most to most wet only", Juliana exclaimed while she tightened her grip on Rezel's hand.

The moment those words came out from Juliana, Rezel knew that this girl must be special. Her ability to remain calm and collected during times of peril in the office overflowed even when it isn't concerning work. Her free spiritedness and her ability to take 'hardship' in a light-hearted manner moved Rezel. Like the short time taken to light a match, Rezel secretly fell for Juliana. At that Church St junction, cupid's arrow had left its quiver and struck Rezel's deserving heart.

As they lived in totally extreme ends of the island, Rezel insisted to wait for Juliana to board the train first. They parted their goodbyes and Rezel stared solemnly as Juliana walked through the sliding train doors. All the while, Juliana forced herself not too turn around for she could feel Rezel's warm parting eyes on her.

Just as the beeping sounds of the train signaled for its doors to close, Juliana turned around and walked out of the train. She hurried toward Rezel, whoose heart already skipped a couple of beats. "Is she going to give me a kiss on the lips?", Rezel hoped. "Peck on the cheek also can lah", Rezel bargained with himself.

"You know what Rezel. I can't deny that I really like your company and especially today, you intellectually and physically swept me off my feet. I don't know how to put this but err...how shall I say this?" Juliana struggled with her words. "I'm not one to deny when it comes my way but I have to tell you that I have already promised my parents that after my 2 year stint in Singapore, I'll go back to Ipoh to marry a Datuk that I do not love at all!!!. Do you have any idea how that feels?! There I have said it. I'm sorry Rezel", Juliana confessed with tears welling in her eyes.

Juliana boarded her train and left Rezel alone to swallow what she had to reveal. There is no one to blame in this case, Rezel thought but nevertheless, he could feel his heart break once more. How could a love so pure, just vanish so quickly. As Rezel thought more and more about it, about their good working relationship, about the good time he had just a while ago, Rezel realised that he at long last managed to fall for someone without comparing her to Jasmine.

"Maybe I'm just not meant to fall in love again", Rezel concluded to himself as he made his way home. The next morning, Rezel, still fresh from the mishap from the day before, was standing again at that Church St junction on his way to work. The very junction where Juliana rested her head on his shoulders, the very junction where he felt her skin for the very first time, the very junction where he shall always remember the love that the Rain brought him.

Boys Will Be Boys

2007-01-12T00:29:00.000+08:00

An associate posed me an intractable question any male, given ten lifetimes would find it a little too overwhelming for his liking. The most nimblest of rappers, the wisest amongst scholars, a charismatic war dictator, even for a moment or two, I'm sure would stumble in their vast knowledge before conjuring up an unsatisfying acrid reply.

"Why does my boyfriend cheat on me despite me being filial, loving and sincere to him?", the associate of mine queried. I tried hard within a nanosecond to deliver a witty riposte but ended up shaking my head and unconvincingly muttered, "Hmmm, maybe it's because you've been neglecting him? Guys need a little attention too at times you know?". "Forget it! What do you guys know anyway!", she silenced me off. To be honest, I was glad our discussion did not precipitate into something ugly. Reputations are at stake, and I prefered for mine to remain intact.

I must admit that her question made me ponder for the remaining hours that was left of my day at the office. In an ideal world, I'd settle for the fact that any male should be contented with what is presented to them. Alas, our world isn't like that since the evolution of time. Only a male would understand the necessity to untiringly seek self improvement.

Think about it, if Men in general were meant to be contented, Mr Stone Age would not have created sparks and eventually fire by knocking on 2 pieces of stone. Mr Monkey Man would not have created spears to catch him a salmon in the rivers. Mr Alexander Bell would not have invented the telephone and we would have to use paper cups with zillions of strings in between them. Imagine! What an ugly world that would be. Hey, Mr Albert Einstein would not have invented electricity and we would have to make love in pitch black conditions. Imagine!

Well 6.30pm came, and I was off to 'collect' some goods which I 'purchased' from one of the more glamorous shopping centres in town. You see, a good friend of mine has been working in a particular boutique there for a good number of years now. And when people constantly asks me, where do you dig all the money for all the fine threads hanging in your wardrobe. "I slog blood and tears for it!", I'd always reply. For good or for bad, that statement is just partially true.

And so I waited at the wooden bench opposite the lingerie shop with a book on my lap. Occasionally, I glanced my head up to relieve myself from the strains derived from reading... unerved by the events that was about to happen. We were professionals in this crime. Subconsiously, I monitored the people going in and out of my 'escape' door which was probably about 2 metres to the right of the bench I was warming.

It was interesting trying to analyse the people that entered that Lingerie store. There are days when though I was too far away to listen, I could roughly make out what was being said to these customers. I've seen shy guys trying to explain to the sales assistant what they want to get for their loved ones. I've seen teenage boys fret uneasily as their girlfriends browse through the kinky numbers. I've seen fat women fuming when being told that such delicacies does not come in size 984757438987. Then for the first time that day, I spotted a MILF entering the store with her adorable 5 year old son trailing behind.

As Mummy was busy going through the lace section, cute lil boy was staring hard at the protruding assests of the store's mannequin. He pranced around the mannequin for a couple of rounds, eyes wide open. Then cheekily, he unzipped the front portion of an outrageously kinky panty. Like the naughty boy that he is, he must have realised the damage done and he ran toward his mum's side and acted all innocent, complete with droopy puppy eyes. He deserved an Oscar for that. No one saw that episode but me. I smiled to myself as I returned to my book.

Constantly thankful for the invention of digital watches, the alarm went off as the time showed 20:02. I got up, made my way through the door, grabbed the handles of my HUGE paratrooper Army bag already there fillially waiting and just had enough time to see the bottom half of my accomplice's legs scurrying up the flight of stairs. Within minutes, I hailed a taxi cab and was on my way home.

That night as I lay in bed, I can't help pondering on the events of the day, constantly still musing over that question being posed to me. I thought about the actions of the cheeky little boy. I thought about our insatiable habit of heisting expensive branded clothings and accessories. I thought about unfaithful husbands and boyfriends. I tried hard to device a sound justification or rationale behind all these actions. Perhaps the age old saying has pure truth to it all. Perhaps, some things are better left unexplained. Perhaps... Boys Will Always Be Boys.

The Hero Whose Story Almost Died

2006-12-19T00:41:00.000+08:00

There it hanged, in the middle of the hall in my grandma's living room. The main event surrounded by hoards of other smaller ones. It was the oldest and dustiest. It's black and white appeal paled out to the modern coloured ones.

Funny how the other photographs on the dainty pink walls each had a story to tell. Stories that could possibly speak a thousand words. Mostly jovial stories, depicted from those smiling faces embedded in fine print.

Yet again all the black and white photo got were stealing glances, while the modern ones always had people asking about it. The black and white photo it seemed, had no story to tell. So I grew up in that house, oblivous to that photo altogether, like a dried leaf, being blown further from its home.

You see, the portrait in that black and white is my late grandfather. A volunteer in the second World War. He served under the Royal British Navy and picked up a few medals here and there. But when he passed on in 1975, so did his uniform and medals, being tucked away in a wooden box, and banished in the dark cellar.

I, the writer, was born in 1982, and by that time, no one spoke about my grandfather, except for the very trivial one liners like, "Your grandfather is a nice man", or "Your grandfather would be very glad to see you if he is still around", or "Your grandfather was a hero". But these statements were empty...like a great big museum which once housed treasures of the past.

It was one fine night, shortly after my 22nd birthday, when I was feeling a little peculiar that I crept down the wooden stairway to fetch myself a glass of water, that I paused and took a closer look at that photo. Clad in his white uniform, medals lined his left breast pocket like how the street lamps lined the modern expressways.

That night, I looked at that photo with a different perspective. In his steely eyes, he seemed to want to tell me his stories, stories of the war, stories of the struggle, the overcoming of brutal massacres, and the happiness that came after the spoils of war.

Slowly, I brought my hand and touched my grandfather's face, for the very first time. Though the photo was dusty and rough, I felt the warmth. I felt the bond that never had the chance to surface. And if I let time take its course, all would have been gone should my grandmother close her eyes. For she's the only one left that holds on dearly to the key that can unlock the secrets of the solitary black and white photograph.

That night, I woke my sleeping grandmother up, begging her to tell me the tales of the past. It was History lesson 101, with a special personal touch. Every word she breathed kept me riveted to my bed, and I yearned for more.

She told me about how he escaped a sinking ship and swam to St John's Island, which was back then, a haven for lepers and polio victims. Despite the high chances of him catching the disease, he opted to stay there. To help the dying, the mourners and the hundreds of injured soldiers condemned on that island.

A few weeks later, he was to be stationed at mainland Singapore to reinforce the British. The British surrendered, and so did my grandfather, retreating to his home to protect his family. Life was hell from then on, for the Japanese were brutal animals.

When all the troubles were over and the island people start to rejoice again, the then Queen of England presented to those gallant soldiers several medals to commemerate their undying efforts. For a while, people spoke of it, but then people spoke less and less until it just remains as memories like ashes resting in an urn.

Then, as the city flourished, and people start to amuse themselves with all things modern, forgetting the past, where they came from, who their grandfather's were, and the sufferings they went through. Times when they had to queue many hours for a miserable tub of water, when now, with the turn of the tap, you could just immerse yourself in 20 minute baths.

The next morning, I was late for school and the stories fed to me the night before just seemed like a passing dream. In my rush, I ran into the kitchen to kiss my grandmother goodbye and stopped short as I was running toward the main door.

There, on the wall, was that photo in its full glory. Stories hidden beneath its black and white facade. It looked harmless and boring amongst the pretty pictures surrounding it. I stopped and stared hard at the man looking down on me. I dropped my bag, and saluted the photo...the photo that didn't have much stories to tell but just epics hidden in time.

The stories my grandmother told me that night will stay vivid in my mind for as long as time permits. It will be told and retold to my children, and my children's children. Some things are meant to live forever.

Let's Get D_v_ _ _ e _!

2006-12-17T14:38:00.000+08:00

It didn't felt too long ago that I left secondary school. I left behind many great stories, some real, mostly exaggerated. Stories are meant to be exaggerated, like how trees are meant to have leaves and how a football match are meant to have plenty of goals. Life would be meaningless sans these staggering exaggerations. Think about the last time you had been given the opportunity to retell a story...if you didn't exaggerate it a little, you must be a boring liar.

Like I said, it didn't felt too long ago that I left secondary school. It was sad to leave behind the many interesting people and experiences that effortlessly always seems to linger my way. Of course there are many bad ones too, like broken hearts and puppy love, ugly girls and unwanted hair sprouting up like buildings in some modern city. And then there was pesky Sally. The teacher's pet no doubt for she had a penchant for telling on the rest of us.

She was the resident snitch. And as much as people wanted to gauge her eyes out, they can't!! For she would have told on the teachers the moment you started imagining such mishapen tales. We used to tease Sally that she would never be the bride of any sane man ever but Sally always seemed unpurturbed by such remarks. Deep down however, Sally began to muse over the possible truth to that matter.

Time flies like a Boeing 747 and before I could even balance my career on four stable legs, one by one, the girls from my alma mater started ringing their wedding bells. The pretty plastic ones ended up marrying ugly but rich pests and had their life made out already...simply by being pretty. Its Fantastic.

Then the ugly ones excelled in their studies and commanded relatively high salaries. They married equally ugly opposites but justified everything by bringing home an average income of about ten thousand dollars! To an extent, they have the last laugh but too bad they're probably gonna have ugly smart children.

And the biggest shocker of all rocked my boat one mundane evening when I received an invitation card for pesky Sally's wedding. "What a wanker!", I thought to myself as I read out the groom's name. It was puzzling and amazing at the same time, the fact Sally found my correct address and had the cheek to invite the ever so mean and heartless class joker to her wedding. Maybe she just wanted to prove to me that there really is such a thing as true transparent love. Interesting eh?.

I attended the wedding nevertheless. For the sumptous food, for the much awaited catching up with the other lads from secondary school, and to lay to rest the itch that had been bugging me. I wanted to see first hand the idiot that made the biggest mistake of his life.

Well I must admit that he looked pretty normal to me. He looked every inch a genuine nice guy that didn't deserve the hannibal like tortures that awaited him. And I felt sorry for him. Though Sally didn't seem as pesky as she was but I choose to believe that has something to do with brides not being able to utter a word while in public.

And so Sally was off the shelf and off to the Maldives for a blistering week of a rocking and humping honeymoon and that's suppose to be the icing on the cake for a blissful wedding..

A month later, I bumped into the newlyweds at Borders Bookstore. Of course, I attempted to be friendly and greeted them with the longest of smiles and heartiest of words. Sally was returning to her pesky self once again and took out her photo albums to show me some of the pictures taken at her wedding. I tried to look interested as I browsed through it.

Sally didn't allow her husband to get into the conversation. She dictated everything. He was carrying like 40 shopping bags while Sally was holding on to her Dior handbag.

As I bid them farewell, I lingered on a few more seconds to look at them walk down the long narrow isle and I felt his loss. After just ten steps or so, Sally's husband glanced back at me and lip synched a sentence. I was trying hard to swallow whatever that he said...coz if I remembered correctly, he said, " I Want A Divorce!'. Well pesky Sally, it appears, some things never change and I'm not exaggerating this time round.

The Tale That Wasn't Right

2006-11-07T21:58:00.001+08:00

Once Upon A Time...

On a morning where the splendour of the rising sun crept above our sleepy island inconspicously, Ayshah was already listening to the music garnered by the formless winds as her car sped across a barren expressway.

She was early no doubt, but she couldn't wait any longer. Though her appointment with Dr. Lim was scheduled for 8am that morning, showing up sooner at the hospital somewhat appeased her constant flusters.

As she waited, the dainty footsteps of a nurse echoed along the empty corridors. Other than that, the atmosphere at the hospital transformed to a genuinely ghastly silence.

"Ms Ayshah, you're awfully early", Staff Nurse Imelda broke the ice in her Tagalog accent. "Yah, I can't sleep last night Nurse. This results thing is getting to me. Hope it's nothing bad", Ayshah tried to sound positive. "Well there is a God child. We'll hope for the best. I'll pray for you", Nurse Imelda offered her compassion.

"Insyaallah", Ayshah whispered in her heart as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the wall.

Ayshah fell asleep without putting in much effort but it lasted only an hour as one of the younger nurses woke her up and walked her to Dr. Lim's office. As the nurse closed the door, once again the ghastly silence creeped into the air.

Dr Lim motioned for Ayshah to take a seat while he flipped through her results file. It was as though Dr Lim refused to look at his patient. Ayshah felt her heart trying to get out of her chest as she waited for Dr Lim to speak.

"Well, let's cut to the chase Ayshah. I am not going to lie to you. The test results has confirmed that your cancer cells has already spread rapidly to the major parts of your body. It would have helped if you came for a detection early, but there is nothing much we can do", Dr Lim sounded as honest as he possibly can.

Whatever Dr Lim said henceforth fell on deaf ears. To a cancer patient, the only thing that mattered now was how long do they have left. But Ayshah was different. She accepted God's will with open arms and a few tears. For her, she's going to live as though everyday was her last.

The loving people around Ayshah wept secretly when they heard of the tragic news but they strived to be by her side to ensure that everything was as joyous as summer.

It took a good couple of months before Adam, Ayshah's childhood friend learnt of her illness.By that time, Ayshah's condition deteriorated and left her on the bed for the most part of the day. Being a busy professional, Adam found it hard to snatch away some time to pay his friend a visit.

On one such frustrating night at work, Adam leaned against the splendid glass window of his office and dialled Ayshah's number. They talked for a good 15 minutes. They talked mostly about the past. And for the first time in months, Ayshah candidly managed a laugh.

"I'll be dropping by tomorrow Ayshah. Is there anything I can get you?" Adam offered. "Nothing lah Adam. Just come already can. If you really want to bring something, make sure it makes me happy Ok?" Ayshah replied.

I couldn't possibly think of any object tangible or otherwise that could appease a leaving soul. Adam, despite his complicating work related issues circling within his mind, somehow tried to wreck his brain to think of a meaningful gift.

Adam never thought so hard before and unknowingly, he fell asleep whilst deep in thought. With God's grace, Adam had a remarkable dream that night. In that dream, the world was 1979 once again. A time where simple pleasures like playing in the drains and catching butterflies brought about as much laughter and warmth as how a Playstation could ever bring to a child of this present day.

In that dream, he saw how on every Tuesdays and Thursdays, Ms Andrea, the lovely Eurasian lady would always gather the kampung kids to read them fairy tales. Sometimes, when she had more time to entertain us, she would kindly choose a role for the kids and when she reads the story out from the book, we would act out the part.

On one such occasion, Ms Andrea was reading "The Firebird" to the kids. It was Ayshah's favourite fairy tale and she demanded to be the fair Helena, the princess in that story. The setting was all to vivid for Adam and just as Ms Andrea was about to finish the last page of The Firebird, Adam awoke from his dream.

It took a while for Adam to arouse his senses. For once, Adam wanted to be brought back again in time. To a period in his life where there wasn't any responsibilities and where the bad things seem to only happen to grown ups.

Then it hit him. Getting that Firebird book would make the most perfect gift. But Adam wasn't interested in the reprints. He wanted to locate the original publication. The exact ones when they used to read while they were kids.

Adam took the day off and set off to search for the book. He scoured almost every old bookshop he could find but they only carried the modern reprints. Then, when Adam was about to give up all hope, he saw it. In a small second hand bookshop in Bras Basah Complex. A similar copy to the one he read while he was a kid. He flipped through the pages, he could still remember all the illustrations as he flipped on.

Overwhelmed with satisfaction, Adam made his way to Ayshah's home. Ayshah was sleeping when Adam arrived. Adam noticed how weak she looked even in her sleep. Adam did not want to wake her up so he crept by her bedside and stared at his friend.

Adam must have been there for hours with the only movement from him is the battling of his eyelids. Adam then took out the book, rested his hands on her lap, then started to flip the book open.

Adam began to read. In a soft yet clear tone. Adam tried to emulate the way Ms Andrea would read to them back in the days of 1979. Adam was really too engrossed in reading that he failed to notice Ayshah waking up from her sleep to listen to him.

Ayshah stole a smile then pretended to close her eyes. She listened attentively to her favourite Fairy Tale that was being read aloud. Then as Adam flipped to the last page, he stumbled on the words. He refused to read it out aloud. Adam snapped the book close like the jaws of an alligator.

"Finish up the story Adam. Common", Ayshah whispered. "Huh. You mean you're awake this whole time?" Adam replied bewildered. "Yah..Of course I'm awake. My favourite fairy tale you know", Ayshah struggled with her words before letting out a series of coughs.

"I can't Ayshah. It's just to painfull", Adam started to tear already. "Just read it out lah. I want to hear it", Ayshah requested and that reminded Adam of how she forced Ms Andrea to let her act out as the fair princess Helena.

"Ivan hurried into the palace. There stood Helena in her wedding dress, and when she saw Ivan she gave a cry of joy. His two brothers were struck dumb with terror.

When the Tsar heard Ivan's story he banished the wicked brothers, and gave half his kingdom to his youngest son instead. Ivan and Helena were married and lived happily ever after."

"Bullshit! Where got such a thing as happily ever after?" Adam began to sob as he looked away from Ayshah.

"No Adam. You can't say that. This is life. This is God's will. You have to be strong. In the game of life, the only thing that is certain is death. It's the people that we meet along the way...the events that we go through... these are the things that we can count on to make us laugh and make us smile. And by you doing all these, it has surpassed any of my expectations.

This is my happily ever after Adam... You made my rainbow even more colourful that it already is", Ayshah said while holding on tightly to Adam's hands. "This is my happily ever after."

Sherene's Closet's Full Of Suprises

2006-11-03T23:27:00.000+08:00

The first time Mr & Mrs Yusoff brought Sherene back was a day that was all too burdensome to forget. Only a week old, Sherene had the rosiest lips that equalled her porcelain skin. Her eyes brought about a deep sense of tranquility, her dimples as deep as valleys, and her little fingers was as delicate as wilting flowers.

The Yussof's had been trying far too long to have a child. 8 years to be precise. Sherene's dulcet cries, aimless smiles, her telling eyes and endless hunger calls in the wee hours of morning all contributed and transformed the Yussof's humble abode into a home.

It's funny how us humans accomplishes so much throughout our lives and often the things that we always remember are the 'Firsts'. The first cry, the first kiss, the first smile, the first tooth, the first step, the first fall and the list just grows.

The Yusoff's documented every 'Firsts' pertaining their only child through photographs. I remembered looking through their photo albums. The collection was more than my lifetime put together. I saw Sherene's first day at home, her first smile, first tooth, first wound on her chin when her mother accidently hit her at the endge of the table.

Then I saw her first birthday cake, and her first orange school uniform in Kindergarten, her first toy car, her first watter bottle, her first Barbie doll schoolbag, her first pair of Velcro Bubblegummers shoes. Through the eyes of these photographs, I can't help smiling and thinking to myself, "What a beautiful and blessed life Sherene is about to go through". She has such loving parents that showered her an abundance of love and affection.

Sherene grew up very much into the daughter that every parent wished for. She is well-mannered, soft spoken, graceful, and spots an undying smile as she performs her household chores. Very much a rarity these days and time.

Then on her 16th birthday, for the first time, her parents decided to throw her a lavish surprise party in their huge garden. There was to be expensive food, loud music and all her family and friends will be there.

Of course, Sherene does not know of this as she came home that day. Her mother was out 'doing groceries' while her busy father's still at work as usual. She set about doing her household chores with that forgiving smile on her face as always. All of a sudden, Sherene decided to take a look at her growing up photo albums. The same one that I told you about earlier.

High and low she searched for it but to no avail. It wasn't among the other albums, it wasn't in the living room, it sure wasn't in her bedroom as well. She then opened her mother's wardrobe and saw it perched up in the top shelf, amongst other miscelleneous stuff.

Sherene groaned as she tip toed and tried to reach for that album. Realising that she was still too short to reach it, she grabbed a stool and tried again. Sherene lost her footing as she attempted to lug it out from the cupboard and the album, along with a pile of other stuff rained on her.

Sherene sighed at the thought of having to re arrange everything nicely again in the cupboard. As she picked up every single item piece by piece, she came across a yellowish piece of paper, folded nicely. She opened it and read its contents.

It was a letter of adoption. It bears her name and that of her 'parents'. Sherene attempted at holding back her tears until she was at the comfort of her own room. She buried her face into her pillow and thought hard. She didn't need that album anymore. In her mind, she pictured her first birthday and her first day at school and whatever first's that life has to offer.

This day marks a series of many 'firsts' in Sherene's life. The first time she cried buckets. The first time she thought of slitting her wrists. The first time she felt so lost. The first time she learned that life is indeed a beautiful portrait.....like those photographs. It was just nice to look at but the emotions of those within the photos remains concealed and untold.

the party my friends...I'm afraid has already began. From one friend to another,
Happy 16th Birthday Sherene....
I'm still real..
I'm still a phone call away..
I'm still real
I'm still Real
I'm still REal
I'm still REAL

Someone Else's

2006-10-26T00:39:00.000+08:00

Someone Else's

Remember the first time we watched Shrek? The 'irritating lady' beside me was making it difficult for us to spend a little quality time. She didn't know I had not seen you for a month prior to that day. But its ok, we enjoyed irritating the hell out of her. But we enjoyed the movie more.

We enjoyed it so much that i said, "If there was ever going to be a Shrek 2, I will only watch it with you". You squeezed my hand and replied, "Of course lah...Who else will I watch it with?" And that felt better than the movie, but I did not tell you so.

3 years later, Shrek 2 came out and I felt eager like a child. Even if there were 100 'irritating ladies' waiting for us in the cinema, I'd still enjoy it just as much. Alas I was in NS and you said we'll watch it the day I booked out. The show was sold out that weekend so we ended up buying tickets for another show. But I ended up watching you instead.

The following weekend, you pissed the hell out of me when you said you watched it with your school friends. I kept it inside but told you it was ok. I had a 'fever' that weekend. The 4th time I ever lied to you. I watched Shrek 2 alone...because I know you've already watched it with someone else.

Then came the moment I was going to ORD. I saved enough money for us to go to Hong Kong's Disneyland. Though it wouldnt have been as glamorous as the one in Los Angeles, it was all I could afford. It would have been great, coz u liked Disney, and so did I.

And then the wind decided to blow the other direction. You had to accompany your sister to Kuala Lumpur for an 'urgent' matter. I told you its ok for I have not purchased the tickets. It was the 6th time I lied to you.

It wasn't bad at all going to Hong Kong on my own. I had good company with me and I shopped like a prince. When the rest wanted to go to Disneyland, I declined and went to do some photography. The weather was perfect and I had the perfect shots of old buildings. Funny how I felt dissappointed when I developed those pictures coz the buildings refused to smile and made the photo dull.

Staring at the photos, I realised it wasnt the buildings that was sad. It was me. Coz I knew you were having a ball in Kuala Lumpur. With your sister, with your friends, and with someone else.

In my first letter to you. I gave you a list of things 'we' should do before grow old together. Number 8 on that list was to take a ferris wheel. You gleamed when you read the next item on that list coz Number 9 says that we will have our first kiss when we are somewhere up there.

Though that list was all based on dreams and fantasy stuff, it seemed possible when they proposed to build a ferris wheel at Marina. The tallest in Asia somemore. What else could be as beautiful?

Then came the moment we broke up. Though its still a few years before the ferris wheel is complete, I still relish and hope that I will live that moment. Not with anyone else but you. Writing this, I can almost see the wheel rotating into the brilliant Singapore night sky. The brilliant view of the city skyline in the background will be obscured by your heart shaped face. But the one staring at you isn't me of course. It's someone else. Someone else.

Perfect Strangers (Part 2)

2006-08-19T13:45:00.000+08:00

And so the sheer devilry of that one night at the Gallery Hotel mutilated into countless more charmed encounters. There was never a doubt that Mathilda is fond of the charismatic Marvin but her bruised ego kept her mum from making the right declarations. She was very much afraid that her confessions might lead to nothingness.

Marvin on the other hand remained as nonchalant like a circus performer. There was no denying that he is enjoying the ride. It is obvious. The male species never loses out in such sticky circumstances.

Marvin was lying down dead to the world one cold Sunday morning when the telephone rang. "I'm pregnant..", said a familiar voice. Marvin paused for a good 5 seconds before putting down the phone...without muttering a response.

The phone rang once again. "Hello?...Did you hear me? I'm pregnant", this time her voice almost seemed like it was begging on its knees. Again Marvin put off her pleas and placed the receiver in its birth. Marvin's cowardice surfaced as he realised the contorted predicament he was in. The telephone rang again but Marvin just squirmed and covered his ears with his pillow.

Mathilda on the other hand was getting desperate. She felt as if she was forced into such a situation. She felt as if she was guided into the dark depths of a room with warm hands...and the instant the lights came on...all the warmth disappears...only emptiness lingers.

Reluctantly, Mathilda spoke into Marvin's voice recorder..knowing full well that Marvin will somehow hear her. Mathilda dragged her words. She fumbled whilst speaking and sobbing simultaneously. Mathilda lamented that she was disappointed that Marvin reacted in such a manner without shouldering the tiniest speck of responsibility.

"By the way Marvin, I've decided to keep the baby", the message ended without a good bye.

Marvin laid frozen. As much as Marvin wanted to run away from the mishap, he can't seem to get the fact out of his head that he had to face this somehow. Not ready to marry, what more raising a child? Marvin on the other hand decided that the best way out was to visit the abortion clinic.

After much coaxing, Mathilda agreed with Marvin's decision...but only by a hair's breadth. Mathilda was so confused at the same time afraid to face her parents should they know about this.

Marvin picked Mathilda up from her place, without uttering a word till they reached the clinic. It was funny how the building looked like an abbatoir that Sunday morning. To cement this fact, it started to drizzle, as though the heavens just wanted to cry for the unborn child.

Marvin waited restlessly while Mathilda was taken beyond his sight. The cold stares received from the few nurses was cutting him up to pieces. The info-graphics on the walls showcasing topics on abortion and responsibility simply seems to open its jaws wide and try to swallow him alive.

And for that moment, Marvin wondered if he had made the right decision. Preventing an innocent life from learning to walk, cringing its face when tasting its first ice-cream, or uttering its first word whatever it may be.

It was too late for Marvin. Perhaps he should have given much thought before indulging in such a lifestyle. Marvin started to crack his knuckles and hit the back of his head against the wall. Marvin closed his eyes tightly and squeezed his fingers hard.

As the anaesthetic began to take effect, Mathilda tried to find the strength to call the abortion off. She did not want to commit the biggest sin in her life. She knew she could never forgive herself if she went ahead with it. But it was too little too late.

After a while, Mathilda came out, looking like a sad love song. Mathilda walked painfully toward Marvin...and then bypassed him without stealing a glance. "Mathilda?", Marvin called. Mathilda kept on pressing toward the exit despite the insatiable pain she felt. "Mathilda...What's wrong? How are you feeling?," Marvin asked once more. "Empty. I feel empty, Marvin. Empty", came the reply.

If

2006-08-07T23:29:00.000+08:00

If I Am A Rifle,
Will You Be My Rounds?
To Guide Me When I Stifle,
To Silence The Hungry Hounds.

If I Am An Elm,
Will You Be My Roots?
To Anchor Me During Winter's Helm,
Within The Barren Woods.

If I Am A Bard,
Will You Be My Poem?
To Shed Some Light When Times Are Hard,
And Help Me Stray From Vallium.

Perfect Strangers (Part 1)

2006-07-20T22:16:00.000+08:00



Ever so often does it occur that when lonely hearts collide,
a catastrophe of error emerges after an intense embrace.
It is the grand opening of the Ministry Of Sound
in Singapore and all who wants to be seen will be there.
Socialites, Celebrities,Paparazi, Art students, computer
nerds, music lovers, drug junkies, the odd office boy,sluts,
the occasional gayboy and then you have people like Mathilda
and Marvin.


It wasn’t written in the stars for their paths to cross.
They are supposed to remain anonymous in idle synchrosity.
With his chiseled facial structure and gawking features,
Marvin is the epitome of the perfect male. Mathilda…she
is simply as breathtaking as the view atop the Eiffel.
In the eyes of the world, this two shall be its perfect
strangers.


After braving a queue that must have been visible from
the moon, at long last Marvin managed to breathe the
sweetsmell of sweat pulsating from Singapore’s latest club.
The thumping beats were roaring and so was the crowd.
It seemed as though there wasn’t a place for him inside
less a nook or cranny here and there but somehow Marvin
managed to soak himself into the atmosphere.


Marvin was really getting parallel with the groove that
the DJ is spinning and unconsciously, he fell into a
trance as he danced himself away into a drunken mess.
Oblivious of the world revolving around him, somewhere
in the next dance hall, Mathilda is hypnotizing the hundreds
of guys with erotic and sultry moves that would make an
exotic dancer hide inside the cloak of envy.


They stood in awe and amazement as she gyrated her hips
to the languid music booming from the speakers. Streaks
of her hair covering her face makes her look all the more
appetizing. Like a chocolate buffet, everyone wanted more
of her but she remained leery of these wandering beasts
known as Men.One by one they tried to ride on their luck
and make an introduction but Mathilda brushed them aside
like falling autumn leaves. It took them quite awhile to
come out of their reverie and thus they were forced to
look elsewhere to sustain whatever sumptuous cravings
besieged them.


After hours of constant pounding on the dancefloor,
Marvin wanted to breathe new air and so he lugged
his way into the next hall, cigarette in one hand
and a San Miguel in another. The next dancehall is
similarly filled with squirming masses of people
having the time of their lives. Marvin found an empty
stool by the bar and proceeded on downing his 7th San
Miguel for the night. The vulgar display of tossing and
catching of bottles intrigued Marvin for a bit. He
really appreciated the flair of these bartenders.
Their wild antics never fail to splurge a little colour.


Marvin could already feel it. The perfect high was
slowly percolating into his brain. He felt almost
complete yet it still remained a distant 2nd compared
to an orgasm. In a somber daze, he swiveled his chair
round and his eyes got caught in an intricate apparition
of the dancing queen. Marvin is diagnosed with loneliness
and Mathilda is his prescription.


After a few minutes of gasping at Mathilda, Marvin’s
vision is now stifled with conjuring images of Mathilda’s
figure. He could hear the dulcet tones of her fragile heart
amidst the loud thumping background. He dried his bottle
with his last sip and began his lonely walk toward the healing.

Somehow he managed to slither in between the throng of
people and he wrapped his arms around Mathilda’s svelte
waist. He buried his face on her neck and she moaned in
agony. Mathilda looks like a goddess but she smelt sinful.


Mathilda stared at Marvin with approving eyes and pressed
her pelvic region firmly against his. She surrendered to
him. The crowd around muttered silently as the knight won
his fair princess effortlessly. It felt lousy settling
for second prize but there is only room for one.


Neither could take their eyes of each other as they
allowed their mechanical hands to roam freely.
Inevitably Marvin brought Mathilda back to the
Gallery Hotel where they consummate their chanced
meeting in an artistic love nest.

To be continued...

The Class Of '98

2006-05-28T07:15:00.000+08:00

The setting was surreal. I am sitting at my usual desk right behind of the class. I had the pleasure of feeling the passing winds in my hair, observing the cars that zoom up and down the narrow street outside my school, and I even had the best view of the city.

It was inevitable that 16 year old me didn't pay much attention to my Math teacher for it was the last day of school. I was already welcoming the June holidays before it began. I was worrying about the subtle things that awaited me such as the fishing trips and the night outs and the beach. Though I was sitting right behind looking at my teacher profusely writing on the blackboard...in my mind, I was supinely thinking of the month of June.

Before my math teacher ended the class, she constantly reminded us of the tonne of homework we had to do for the holidays. Formality sake, I did however jotted it down at the back of my book. And it was to stay there unscathed....throughout the month of June for in my mind, I was going to copy my homework on the first morning when school commences again.

And so the holidays came and went in a jiffy and for once, I was the first to reach school that morning. I placed my school bag on my desk and proceeded to have breakfast at a coffeeshop nearby.

My friends and I decided to skip assembly that morning. Something we did at random days most of the time. We sneaked through the back gate and up the stairs and went on to our respective classes.

My class was as empty as when I first came in that morning. "Where are all my classmates?", I asked myself. Then I remembered that we had classes at another venue for Monday. I grabbed my bag and tried to rush to my class in a futile manner.

When I arrived, I could have merged with the rest of the class for they were still scampering around in a holiday daze, trying to find a seat. The righteous me however made a bee line for the teacher to confess my late coming.

My teacher must have read my mind or somehow had enough psychic powers to deduce what I was going to confess for she glared at me with her huge eyes as though they were like saucers. I would be lying if I said I wasn't disturbed.

"I'm sorry Mrs Foo, but I am late this morning", I managed to squeeze out that line while looking at the floor. I could still feel the heat of her huge saucer-like eyes on me. "Why are you late huh? First day of school also late!", she silenced me off. It was then also that I realised that I hadn't touched the homework she had given us earlier. I was doomed and I just prayed that she didn't ask to see my exercise book.

At that precise moment, I opened my eyes to the darkness of my room. My head still on my soft lush pillows but I was asking myself whether or not I had done my homework. What time is it? Was I late for school? The vision of an appalling Mrs Foo with arms akimbo was still in my head. I was trapped between reality and dream.

The time showed 6.58am. If I was still in school, I would be so very late. But thank god I wasn't. Thank god all these was just a dream. As I lay in bed tossing and turning, I managed to smile. Smile to the fact that although I was a lazy, disobedient, and mischievous student...I still have the fear for Mrs Foo. I, the writer.....am 24 years old now.

Mrs Foo was a teacher that invented grit through her sheer abilities. I didn't realise it back then but in one way or another, she has contributed to the shaping of our lives. She thought us about punctuality, righteousness and other virtues of that moulds a successful individual.

To Mrs Foo who if in any case happens to chance upon this page (but I know she wouldn't for she's probably busy marking Math homework of those brats), I wanna shout out a huge 'Thank You' for you deserved it. Though it's a long time coming..nevertheless you still deserved it.

To my class & the batch of '98......Those were the best days of my life.

For now, I wish you guys all the best in your future endeavours and I shall sign off as

Yours Always,
The Boy Who Sits Right Behind In Class

A Father's Tale

2006-05-15T19:02:00.000+08:00

MWO Phillip Oh
1948 - 2006

Master Warrant Officer(MWO) Phillip's war decorations painted one side of his office wall a riot of colours. On the opposite wall hung his family portrait. MWO Phillip in his ceremonial attire, his wife in a pretty red cheongsam and his only son Dominic.

Though he often barks like a bull dog and terrorizes the soldiers under him, you can never miss his forlorn look whenever he is alone. Like as if he is deep in thought. The way he smoked his cigarette...the way he stares into the open sky...and the way he blinks his eyes. Something bothered him but like a statue of a war hero, his thoughts remained embedded in stone.

His much anticipated retirement commenced as soon as my batch of soldiers completed our national service and with the test of time, images and memories of MWO Phillip banished itself from our minds.

Some of my camp mates became lawyers, doctors and salesmen. Some went back to becoming secret society members. Others got married but nevertheless whenever we happen to chance upon one another, we still laughed and discussed about the days when MWO Phillip striked fear into all of us.

I took over my father's business and my marriage bore me a son and everyday was a dream. I was rushing home one Friday evening for I missed my son a little bit more than usual. My wife did not cook that day and so I sighed when she called to say I had to buy dinner from the coffee shop nearby.

After getting dinner, I was scurrying out of the coffee shop when an all too familiar voice filled the space around my ears. "Private Han! Where are you darting off to. Only 6 o clock man. Come here and sit down drink one 'kopi' with me la", the unmistakable commanding voice of MWO Phillip barked in a somewhat friendly tone this time.

"Sir...Waa you still remember my name hah?," I tried to reply in a coyish manner. Somehow I obliged to his wishes like the old days and I summarised to MWO Phillip the details of my life since I left the army.

"Well son..you better take care of your family while you still have them", MWO relayed to me in between puffs. "Unlike you, my wife stopped cooking for me 25 years ago. She ran away with my gangster friend when my son was 5. I take it as retribution. You know when I was younger, I messed up many people's life. Being in the secret society was my way of life. I even took people's lives in fights before. Till today, I still thank god that I'm still alive. Do you know how it feels like to sleep with a parang by your bedside? Everyday I close my eyes could have been my last", MWO Phillip shaked his head and blinked his eye slowly.

"Well at least the army gave me an opportunity. An opportunity to send my son to school and some simple luxuries like toys and football boots," MWO Phillip tried hard to fake a smile. "My son...a very smart boy. Ten years ago, I sent him overseas for further studies. All my savings was spent for his University fees, hoping that one day, I would get to see the returns of my investment. But my son, he fell in love with an 'ang moh' and his university thought him how to slang. Ka ni na!! He adopted the western way of life and is now too shy to return home to his father. He is scared his 'ang moh' wife would laugh at me," MWO Phillip cackled like an evil man.

"He should have been back by now. Never write me a letter. Never call. No address for me to visit. What am I supposed to do? I thought I would live to see the day that he gets married. Be among grandchildren. But now..I'll never know. Life works in mysterious ways huh Pvt Han?" MWO Phillip asked me a question I can't answer.

"Secretly I'm still praying for the day that my son will walk into my house. I want to see how he's aged..whether or not he still looks the same. Will he be eager to see his old room? I never touch a thing you know since the day he left because he never liked anyone to mess his room. He says wait he can't find his things." MWO Phillips paused for a while...deep in thought.

"Im not much of an English educated person. But I know of this nursery rhyme which I always read to my son Dominic. It goes like this,

Two Little Dicky Birds Sitting On A Wall,
One Named Peter, One Named Paul.
Fly Away Peter, Fly Away Paul,
Come Back Peter, Come Back Paul!

I think it is easier to be a son than to be a father sometimes. But somehow I still failed to be a father let alone a dad", MWO Phillip lamented. MWO Phillip's story stripped my mind of other worldly issues and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't affected.

2 years have passed since the day I saw him at the coffee shop. His face appeared in the obituary. Loneliness, Depression and ill health has finally caught up with him. He looked sad in the photo as always. I still wonder if his little dicky bird ever found its way back to its nest. It appears...I shall never know.

The Cheat

2006-05-03T11:01:00.000+08:00

Tomorrow is the Secondary 2 History test which constitutes 30% of the total semester grade. What a chore the students thought for they have Chapter 1- 3 to study...or more appropriately MEMORIZE. What a terrorizing word that is. Teachers always say, "You know what class..why don't you guys burn the pages of your text and drink it with water. Then perhaps you don't have to study." Do you think thats a funny joke? Personally I can't laugh to that. Such teachers should just go fuck a spider.

I reached home early that day and chucked my bag into the corner where it always belongs. I forced myself to open my History text. The pages seemed like an endless ancient scroll. What has these contents got to do with my career in the future I wonder. I scurried through the pages and sighed as I rested against my study chair.

The sound of the Playstation 2 being played by my brothers somehow seeped its way through my room door...beckoning onto me. The calling was too powerful and I gave in. An hour of bliss on the PS2 soon became 2 and 3 and without realizing, the sun had set without prior warning.

I lugged into my room again cursing at my text. It is comedy night today on TV and I've never missed it. "Everybody Loves Raymond" followed by "My Wife & Kids" , "Still Standing", "King of Queens", "Frasier".

Of course, I opted for the telly and still my History text remained untouched like a forgotten relic. After the last show ended, it was bedtime and my eyes were just too tired to battle on. And it was then that I had the most brilliant idea. I was going to attempt to cheat on the test.

And so armed with my foolscape and pen, I forged out my best handwriting. Small and nimble they were such that Tom Thumb would be proud of. Vital pieces of information that spans 3 chapters is now tucked sweetly into bed in just a single piece of paper. Contented with my 'studying' I knocked out with a smile.

On my way to school, I see students with faces buried in their texts. Some were still scrawling on little pieces of info to aid in their studying. I just shook my head and laughed. Before the commencement of the test, they were asking each other, "Eh you got study this or not? Wah Lau! I never study this leh". Then the other retorted, "You die ah! Teacher say this one CONFIRM come out!". Then he starts rummaging through his text again. But of course it is of no use at this point of time. I just tucked my pocket gently to see if my ticket to an A grade is still there.

The invigilator pranced up and down the aisle like a night watchmen as he gave out the test papers faced down. As soon as he gave out mine and his back is facing me, I skillfully took out the paper, unfolded it and placed it in between the test papers in a single motion. The naked eye could never see the foreign object between the test papers. Smart. Brilliance.

And so I did the test referring to my personal little helper whenever I had the opportunity. I was done within an hour and never felt this satisfied before. Of course I got my A grade....and many more A's will be waiting for me unless.....