In My World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember Me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curtains Close...Goodbye is Forever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

"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

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.