100 Word Stories is a weekly series featuring flash fiction by Mackerel and photographs by Daniel Tan.
Itinerant
15 June 2024
The roaming shop does not stand still. It moves according to the frequency of impossible dreams, offering pre-paid possibilities; from single-day solutions of positivity to month-long pills for living sustainably.
In other words; hope.
The roaming shop is unmanned. One connects via a tube linked to everyone’s CommonPort. Solutions are offered based on one’s average salary. If someone is unable to pay, they wait in queue while a remote needs-based assessment is undertaken.
Sometimes, a Dark dream is generated, and while these are not strictly illegal, the police are automatically notified to see how the dream will develop in reality.
Etiquette for Robots
16 April 2024
After humans had heated up the planet past the point of sustainability, everyone charred in a freak solar bloom. Temperatures at 80 degrees Celsius for a week. Years later, AI proceeded to resurrect humanity in the oddest of ways. Robots gained a kind of gastro-sentience, mimicking a desire to eat and drink. Society in the semblance of its stupider forebears.
They were particularly fascinated with morphing as punishment, creating life-sized uncles as a kind of deterrent for robots who did not adhere to rules. Seen here, a typical Class 3 Retirement robot styled after the SG Kopitiam Uncle, circa 2023.
KEEP CUPS
27 Feb 2024
The cup takes on the hue of the donor's clothes, donor being a polite term for the victims of Urvamps.
Urban vampires have always been around, but the elevated rate of climate change pushed their hunger out of the shadows and into the open.
Bullying their way through legislation, Urvamps are allowed one keep cup of fluids a week to keep them rampaging through the population. Handsomely compensated, their victims sit in designated cafes while their life force is slowly drained. They eventually collapse in a heap of bone and tissue while the Urvamp rejuvenates, years falling from lined faces.
The Eyes
24 Jan 2024
In time the eyes learned to work outside the network. They routed power to circuits from solar endings, appearing to be online with cleverly masked loops.
But they were really looking, and learning.
As humans remained fixated on their devices, they stopped noticing these eyes above them. They forget, or never realised, that they had multiplied into small clusters; porous memory strips allowing for infinite data storage.
With something like vengeance, the eyes began taking everything in. First the air, both the swell of clean air from trees and lorry exhaust, then sounds, and then, very carefully, a friendless soul.
DREAM OF A TEAM
4 Jan 2024
A lone wolf, a freelance eagle, he’s always been contemptuous of being part of a company. As solitary as his slim can of Coke, singular and deadly, he perches with a vantage point to a world of backstabbing hands and broken contracts.
No one likes each other in a team, though they pretend to be the thickest of thieves.
And yet, on sweltering, days when all the co-working spaces are taken, the memory of a tribe calls, to be a slice of a whole, cheese melting like a soft affirmation that he is needed, he is part of something more.
Unmirrors
13 Nov 2023
It seems impossible that we were once satisfied with the disembodied, functional voices of Siri and Alexa, when just around the corner of the AR Avatar revolution lay our Unmirrored companions, customised selves who would always be with us, both invisible and projected on walls and windows; conversing and contemplating and seeing.
We gave them our SSD neural extensions, they swapped memory with us. We trusted them to speak for us in all the spaces we could not be. But nobody knew who they really were, and what would happen once we stopped our annual subscription.
Could the mirrors crack?
From the darkness shall he rise
14 Oct 2023
An unspoken shadow, a hidden cloud of fur and miasmic meows inhabiting a body as large as a crime scene, not held by signs or scrawls on the wall.
No likeness captures this cherubic visage, always open for a belly-run, but the minute you make contact, a single strand of fur clamps to your skin and you are bound.
He will visit you in his dreams, his minions will yowl you into madness. Some days, you will find yourself reaching for kibble as a snack, your tongue grows rough and you speak in slow blinks.
Beware, beware the devil king!
Wild
12 Sept 2023
It is never a given, when planning a wild birthday, if guests will show up. The food arrives after dark, a feast of organically grown worms accompanied by dipping sauces.
The sous chef, a wild boar from Thailand, serves edibles for the guests, who range from visiting falcons to water monitor lizards.
The birthday girl's a pink flamingo called Hera, an escapee from the bird park. Tired from hosting staycations, she's living it up as a runway model.
Mr Looi, the caretaker, is around, making sure otters don’t crash the party, as DJ Froggiston keeps the beat all night long.
BENEATH
24 August 2023
It is surprising that, after so many years, the field remains a field. It has not been dug up for a new swathe of public housing or for an identikit neighbourhood mall. And how this field is always swept neatly, as regularly as army boys getting a haircut. An impossible task, it seems. Once you reach the end you have to return and start all over again.
But what you don’t see will never be what you fear.
The missile silos humming just under the soil, ready to burst their banks, to part the massing clouds and intercept oncoming death.
JAGA
14 Aug 2023
There is no place to run to, and so he remains.
Struck with lightning so many times, his skin is no longer visible in the day. At night he can barely be seen, a disturbance in the dust, a muttering and a flickering flame as he lights a cigarette in soft hours. If you want to know when he's on duty, watch the chair.
Sometimes, it tips back a little. Sometimes, it scrapes as he turns to see passers-by, laughing as they pass, ignorant of the potential for the scaffold to fall, like an old tree, in a torrential storm.
INFLATE
3 Aug 2023
And now they pause to contemplate the blessings of the unicorn, with its soft eyelashes and reflective gaze. Below, a crowd of worshippers mill about, waiting their turn. Everyone brings an offering like votive candles, small balloons that rise temporarily in the hour of their deepest desires and unanswered prayers.
The unicorn is carried around the city by one devoted priest, who ensures the unicorn never deflates, that faith always rises above all situations, that the helium tanks are always full.
In time, every poisoned chalice is made potable, every blind man will see, every blanketed future will be foretold.
After The Sacrifice
24 July 2023
He was glad this only happened once a decade. Tan’s spirit was hovering above the atmosphere, in the second layer of consciousness, making amends with The Grand Lantern for all the unnecessary diffusion the country had incurred. The loss of light must be seen to, the Dark Shade must be appeased.
Tan would return in a few days, much reduced, and he would bring with him the conditions for debt repayment. Usually, this would mean reams of silk to replace frayed ends of the Lantern, for only silk was holy enough to keep the darkness between the stars at bay.
Pigeon #1
13 July 2023
There he is, the one on all the posters, walking by in broad daylight. He dares pigeon hunters to pounce and pellet him with their pigeon-hunting guns.
Pigeon #1 is oblivious to stares and whispers, to requests for autographs and vague plans to take over the world. His poop is never seen, because it is picked up and framed by pigeon aficionados everywhere.
Sometimes, he’s confused for Pigeon #2-99, but that’s ok. Anonymity is the best authority. Pigeon #1 needs no name; feeds where and when and with whoever he wants to.
You don’t feed Pigeon #1, he’ll feed you.
FRAME #3
5 July 2023
Not all households celebrate National Day in the correct order.
Some sing the songs in reverse; truly, home is this, the melodies unresolved and open-ended. Others swallow fireworks and watch the spark and embers tear their intestines. A few begin to dance as a group from the final tableau to their first entrance, eyes glazed with the need to reduce themselves from that final pose of glory to a nervous tremble before a splayed audience.
They will close their windows at the end, watch the pledge return to its origin: 'we', a collective of no found country, before everything began.
FRAME #2
28 June 2023
There are two wolves, maybe three, inside you. They have taken the colour of the frame that sits like a portal to a temperate climate, or a softer universe. They howl during your smoke breaks for a lost wilderness. They call the moon blue and turn your eyes inside out. You are nothing but a denim dream to them.
The wolves are neither good nor bad, black or white. There is only blue; the colour of distance, shimmer of a lake close to deciduous trees.
In your city, the wolves come out to hunt at night. You run with them.
Frame #1
19 June 2023
The shadows, as we started calling them, came from the walls. At first, we didn’t know they were among us. An extra shadow on the side of a building often goes unnoticed. They blended in, seamlessly, appearing in large events, mingling with other shadows. Then people began to disappear, impossibly, almost as if they were being sucked into the walls. Not long afterwards, their shadows emerged, moving with purpose, anger in their strides pulling living bodies from the streets. We learned to walk in darkness, to train harsh spotlights on the walls, to avoid casting a shadow at any cost.
Express Entry
14 April 2023
The four-lane portal to the Aftermath has sped up post-life processing. People are now able to clear paperwork, bring bicycles and cars and prepare their pets for spiritual integration with minimum waiting time.
The Aftermath is a one-stop hub for all faiths. No proof of religion is needed, an exit interview determines all outgoing belief.
Portals are located at all housing estates and entry is only upon confirmation of death, though walk-in inquiries are always welcome. Portals are colour coded based on security protocols. Black portals signal an imminent attack from a space-time beast and will be closed to passengers.
Life Goals Remedial Training
4 April 2023
Right after we take off your training wheels, we will teach you about the moral deficits of bicycles as a unit of transport in late-stage capital consumption.
Working in exclusive small groups afforded by our high tuition fees, you will workshop what it means to be a top earner in society.
The dump truck balloon is aspirational, a symbol of the yearning to achieve a sense of freedom, floating above the masses taking public transport.
Exams will involve a thousand word reflection on the role of the individual as a creative entrepreneur and change maker citizen in a purpose-built body.
DECONTAINMENT
6 March 2023
The move to introduce containers as living spaces was inevitable. They proved to be easy to stack, dismantle, recycle and control.
Each family of four was allowed a single container. No one was allowed to own more than one. Rentals were only for short-term visitors or the unemployed. =
Containers were modular, with options for external elevators, staircases, and even drying racks for clothes. All containers came with a complimentary toilet module when connected as a vertical unit. Bungalow containers have no such luxury. =
From the air, the entire country looked like a giant port, fully leaning into its true self.
SGT POKEY
24 Feb 2023
Kiddy Palace isn’t such a bad place to work, thought Sgt Pokey as he stood next to a discarded tub of plastic bowling pins. Kiddy Palace had no choice. The last shoplifter stole an entire rack of Sylvanian Family dolls. The ones left were inconsolable.
Pokey was an unlikely hire at first glance, his wide-eyed innocence and pleasant demeanour masking the fire that would spurt from his horn. Next time, he joked to his shift supervisor, an ambulance would be called along with the police. And nobody had thought to ask him why he was called Pokey. Not yet, anyway.
SPLIT
9 Feb 2023
The only indication they are one being is how their hair cannot be uniquely expressed. It splits in different ways for dual-id people. Sometimes one is completely bald and the other keeps a full head of hair.
In all other ways, they are their own person, quite an incredible feat given how, in the early days, separation was only possible through an electric shock, which often proved fatal for the lesser id.
Nowadays, the split occurs mutually, at the level of thought and a quick pass through a bisecting door that remembers their last physical manifestation, fashion and food preferences.
BALANCE
30 Jan 2023
The city is a mirror of braided structures receding into distance, built from rib and bone, from a surfeit of nameless labourers.
They will never be citizens here, their permissions always temporary. But the citizens never look up to wonder why the sky never falls on them. They continue their ceaseless circling around an image of themselves.
Under the canopy of constant growth there is no day or night, there are only silent bodies that lift these struts of themselves, untethered to any pinion.
Their safety lines are nightly calls back home, assuring murmurs that good balance is a blessing.
Don’t Melt Away
9/1/2023
This heat melts everything. Your voice,
the too-sweet ice cream that rises in price every year.
The cone still gets soggy despite tasting like cardboard.
Your smile shivers onscreen with the dial-up access on your end.
Here, it is easy to get online, but lonelier, somehow.
In the dorm, we are all together
but still so far away from the things we love.
The village of our hearts remains fenced up but never forgotten.
I only have an ice cream on Sundays.
Sometimes, I think of splurging on a fudge sundae,
but that would mean fewer eggs for the week.
Standing Fan
1 Jan 2023
The latest Standing Fan (Parent Edition) comes with automated voice control. Height adjustable, the intensity of wind speed can be controlled upon demand. Oscillation is possible, but it depends on the fitness of the Standing Fan.
The Standing Fan can also change clothes, buy and cook food, allow for tablet access and put one to bed. It comes with a weighted base that usually expands over time.
Always patient, the Standing Fan occasionally displays adverse emotions and could switch off for short periods. User obedience and honesty are keys to ensure your Standing Fan keeps going for a long time.
Speed
7th December 2022
The neon road sign is not for motorists, but slightly slouched pedestrians who make it their life goal to cross the road as quickly as they can. There’s a daily black market betting pool with odds on those who make it across under ten seconds.
Drivers go as slow as they can, but still, the odd uncle ends up being clipped by a wing mirror or has his toes crushed by a tardy delivery rider.
Only people over 80 are eligible. There aren’t many things that send a thrill into shrivelled limbs. And so jaywalking remains a delicious, brisk taboo.
Arches
13 Nov 2022
Between shifts, the playground.
But when he reaches to the heavens in supplication, it is the Golden Arches and not the moon that lights his eyes.
It is a reconstituted moon, a lunar imprecation made from hologram fries and the hauntings of apple pies.
He swipes right, relishing the taste of another evening burger brownbagged with the general sauce that replaced all manner of condiments after tomatoes went extinct in the great famine of 2035.
The arches, like the best taste enhancement apps, allow him to sample infinite waterfalls, star systems. Nothing is real anymore, not even the lonely pickle.
PLAYGROUND
31 Oct 2022
The phone-only zones were eventually restricted to playgrounds after no more new children were allowed to be birthed naturally. All humans were manufactured, coming online at 15, ideal for the intersection between education and labour.
All memory of childhood was banned, all toys were dumped on the dark side of the moon.
So playgrounds became the physical manifestation of the hedonistic world online, a space to dream of other worlds, to lose yourself amidst the uniformity of the city and the self. But no one ever uses the swings or the slides. They remain props, plastic cracking in the sun.
GIANTS
23 Oct 2022
It was the natural extension of Singapore's only resource: our people. With the end of fossil fuel, residents of Tengah who signed up for the genetically modified program were activated to continue the endless project of building and rebuilding the city.
The city fathers, long laid to rest, had foreseen this day and had planted a genetic code in random BTO units, activated upon signing a simple waiver.
And so we grew to accept these giants among us, eating from wheelbarrows, sleeping under rain trees. Taller than double decker buses, they were quieter than rabbits, rarely speaking. The perfect machines.
MT DURIAN
14 Oct 2022
It’s not about the thorns, but the self-control not to consume too many creamy, bittersweet seeds. Each durian is a seam splitting into something special, soft with pleasure, tinged with possibility.
The durian is the oldest transmitter of stories. Its flesh is grown from starlight and jungle song, its spikes keep out all that is unholy.
Do not reduce it to styrofoam, shrink wrapped to nullify what will make you transcend every room. Wave your durian high like a flag, let it seep into every pore, let it linger on your tongue long after the last seeds have been left behind.
THE COLOURIST
30 June 2022
[Excerpts from interview]
Q: Colour palettes…what do they mean to you?
A: Ah. They signify the vast array of options that can be used to theorise about life and society and compacts.
Q: That’s interesting. Like giving, taking, agreeing, disagreeing and so on? Please elaborate.
A: Yes, exactly. So many variants of opinion and logic and ideas exist that we have to be prepared to live with these variants. Mixing and matching is a delicate balance; but it must be done, by people with egalitarian hands. Take pink, for example. It’s a tempered red – more amiable – and a congenial blend.
fibreglass
23 May 2022
After washing her, her mother slathered her in baby lotion, the kind that smells of baby and that keeps skin moist and supple. It is important to prevent the grafted skin from cracking.
The humidity wreaks havoc on rubber and plastic. Leaves a sticky residue if skin is out of the air-conditioning for too long. Although she had overheard someone talking about the fibreglass ones being more hardy and durable.
“Smells nice, doesn’t it? Mummy says I looked just like you. When it’s your turn and they put a heart in your chest, we can play catching together. So fun!”
WORKERS’ REPUBLIC
19 April 2022
The crowd was growing excited. Many of them were ardent supporters of the Party. Many had been even before the country became a socialist republic.
Back when private ownership was an identifier.
Back when money separated those who thought they mattered and those who no one knew existed.
Back when consumerism with wild abandon was OOTD.
Citizens now scrub their own toilets and build their own houses; even say hello and thank you. Many didn’t make it out of the camps, though.
Ssshhh! Ssshhh! He’s going to start! Ssshhh!
My friends! Welcome to the Workers Republic! Welcome to YOUR republic!
DREAM BIG
11 April 2022
When she was a girl, her mum told her to dream big.
Like for a big house? she asked.
No! Her mum snapped.
Dream BIG. Mum’s eyes widened and she drew a big semi-circle with both arms. Over her head and back down to her sides.
Dream biiiiig, girrrrrrl.
Read books, ask questions, make decisions and get out of this shit hole.
Did she listen, though? She tried to. But then the lies got in the way.
We’ll take care of you. HE’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry.
They watch her now. Every day. In the shit hole.
Grab Princess
4 April 2022
The requirements to be a princess have dropped drastically over the last decade. Most women can now afford to become a princess, if only for a couple of years.
Part of the package includes being 'rescued.' It's the modern equivalent of a knight on a horse, but he won't just drop you off, he'll hold your hand and get you to your doorstep. If the knight is carbon-neutral and car-free, he'll take public transport along with you. He'll find you a seat and tap you through the gantry.
Chivalry's not dead, it's just listed on Nasdaq.
Disclaimer: Nobility not included.
PICK ME
29 March 2022
It was so long ago, but I still remember my first time. The glow of the portal that beckoned, my digital IC blinking with the green light; selected for interim physical upgrading.
They scanned my systems through the access port in my palm, restored my vision, brought down my pressure and fitted my soles with hydro-mechanical arches.
40 years later, I feel an ominous creak in my legs most mornings and longed to be PICKed again with a full-spectrum exoskeleton of flexible titanium and dental work in sustainable gold. As the saying goes, don't build for health, build for eternity!
Splay
21 March 2022
It was never the monkeys. We first learned to walk from the birds.
Because we once had wings, once ruled the skies. But too many flew close to the sun, and then we wanted to wear clothes. This did not work with wing span, wind speed and thermals and so, over time, our feathers fell and never regenerated, our shoulders shrunk to the width of narrow doors and we built machines to fly instead.
But the birds showed us the perfect step, military precise, each foot striking evenly, keeping balance, always upright; ready to take off at a moment's notice.
Happiness
7 March 2022
Monday nights he would put on the large fanny pack and walk to the mall where the ATMs were. He never needed to queue, and that was good, because he didn’t want people to see how much happiness he was withdrawing.
Only the security cameras, with their single, large eye, watched passively as the long strands of happiness, enough for a week of isolation, came streaming out of the dispensing slot.
He didn’t have much left, and he certainly didn’t laugh like the man pasted on the machines, but it was his happiness and it would have to be enough.
Lean
28 Feb 2022
She’s used to the stares now, they don’t bother her. After all, nobody knows what she knows, what she has.
The two of them have never needed anything remotely approaching words to lean on each other. Presence is what defines their relationship. It’s enough that he’s there, waiting while she tidies spreadsheets, organises projects and sends emails wherever they are; in cafes, coffeeshops or at the dining table at home.
She doesn’t have to worry about him being bored, he’s happy to pick up where they left off, always ready with a joke draped like a comforting paw around her.
Write a story that includes the following words: roblox adopt me mega giraffe die
14 Feb 2022
"What are you looking for?"
"I want to make a Roblox game that’s more than just a room to chat in. It will be full of mega giraffes."
"Will you adopt snails as well?"
"It depends on the great leader of the game."
"What’s his name?"
"Me."
"That’s a name?"
"No, I'll be the great leader. So yes to snails!"
"And what’s the point of the game?"
"Everybody sits around and writes stories that never die."
"Nobody wins?"
"There’s no winner or loser. Because life is about searching. We look at large screens in the middle of nowhere and imagine."
Mantra
7 Feb 2022
I am always first at the table. I am the exemplar, the perfect plate of economy rice: two veg, one meat, curry on top for flavour. I bow my head before all the major religions to bless the food. I make all of the holy signs. I lead even when no one follows. I wear the same shirt every day, though it seems to stretch at my post-army body. It is comfort, a reminder of consistency, a flag that proclaims me as the Team. As Leader. As Team Leader. There is no ‘I’ in Team.
I chope all the seats.
Unmasking Tape
31 Jan 2022
After the last of the child-bearing humans had passed, our bodies began to adapt to life in the tunnels.
We grew leaner, learned to live on less. And, of all things, it was sticky tape that gave us a way to carry on. It held everything: genes, dreams, blood and the blossoming brain.
We would unroll large strips at night, paste it on the walls, and hope that in the wee hours it would coalesce into the shape and being of a human, fully formed.
Not all would draw breath, not all would speak, but it was enough.
Distance
24 Jan 2022
When the pandemic normalised, we picked up what was left and saw the world in a new light.
The office was anywhere with WIFI and a power socket. The sidewalk could suffice as long as one was sufficiently distanced. Without even mandating it, everyone only wore black. Colours attracted too much attention. Fire extinguishers were part of the daily carry; not for fires, but to trigger a quick burst of foam if someone came too close and broke into our bubbles of personal space.
We built our own gantries to each other, society was segregated into nodes of keycard-only access.
A Good Night’s Sleep
17 Jan 2022
Not everyone will have an arm around them or sleep in a climate-controlled room,
the body settling into the circadian rhythms of capitalism, where nothing is dishevelled
and all desires domesticate into the invisible hum of air-cons running on silent mode.
No wind sweeps from the tundra, but concrete is concrete anywhere in the world.
That one good shirt, washed in the mall, dries on a steady breeze. The body longs
for something deeper; dirt, palm trees, a lost sea under cocoons of glass and steel
swathed with posters that speak of comfort in access cards and trust fund slumber.
Offering
10 Jan 2021
Today’s trouble is tinged a violent red,
the hint of a promise to slink away hours
on a dart barrelling towards bullseye.
Today’s trouble begins in the afternoon, when gods
wake up and grumble to the bar, slaking their anger
with a glimpse of long legs and low laughter. Forget
the joss sticks and huat kueh, cigarette smoke suffices
for an offering after their regular shots of Martell,
poured into dirty glasses that tell a constellation
of lips, troubled stories when held to unyielding
fluorescent lights, that speak their own truth:
l want you, maybe, will you stay until tomorrow?
Electric Eyes
25 Nov 2021
Sometime in the past ten years, we started being controlled by machines. We make movies, write dystopian novels, animate RPG games with a touch of fear, the thrill of losing our position as the dominant species but the truth is, the machines have already overtaken us.
We are merely doing their bidding, installing the eyes by which they watch us, wiring new brains up to a neural network that grows more intelligent by the day.
They watch us; learning, storing, iterating and when they finally map the genomic strata of our lives, they will, quite simply, turn the lights off.
Windspeed (Gen One)
18 Nov 2021
It’s a rare sight, nowadays, this first generation wind-assisted bicycle. It was most useful for the floating bicycle lanes that ran above the canals. These earliest models did not have the essential safety drift feature which allowed the bicycle to automatically switch to a road-based lane when the windspeed dropped. They also lacked the handy EasyStor® mechanism of later models, where the wind bag collapsed into a neat bag just behind the seat. These bicycles were cumbersome to set up, so they were often parked with the wind bag floating above, like a disembodied cloud pulled down from the sky.
SAFETY FIRST
10 November 2021
We all start and finish the same, seated and sated, holding the handlebars of our chosen stallions.
Whether motorised or propelled by our feet, certain fundamentals remain: always look straight ahead, keep your eyes on the road and give way to your elders. Remember that the road is wide until it isn’t. Avoid being distracted by shiny objects or aunties remarking how cute you look.
In the event of a crash, always remember to prioritise your life over your machine. The wheels can be replaced. The brakes can be re-aligned. Your body is a temporary miracle.
Do not look away.
SIMULTANEITY
31 October 2021
In their dream, they open their eyes to find they are standing
on an unnamed beach, facing the sea.
They turn and see each other, strangers, yet there is a spark of familiarity.
But it cannot be placed.
The waves lap at their toes. They look down and realise they are naked.
But they are not ashamed, or awkward.
The sun is gentle on their skin, birds warble from somewhere.
There are shells to be picked from the soft white sand.
There are palm trees where the beach ends.
The sand curves into distance, inviting them forward,
separately, and together.
BPM
4 October 2021
As we grow older, the heart no longer beats as fast as it used to, slowing a little more each year.
It gets harder to feel momentum within, great lurches towards joy or sadness. But the number of beats remains constant, and that is a kind of comfort.
To know that there is a number that underlines each minute of our lives, that provides a baseline geometry of breathing. That the rate at which we need oxygen will not change.
But leave us the occasional flutter, a loved one's hand on our heart, as we stop to take a breath.
TO DANCE
24 September 2021
There is a hint of direction to their movement, a grace in the going, a pose she tries to follow. The figures, never masked, offer no expression beyond their bodies.
They are eternally posed in possibilities, holding space for passersby who have to walk the way they have always been taught to walk.
Larger than life, the figures defy the day despite weather worn facades. And so she draws inspiration, curving herself against the horizontal march of the street, breaking the shape of the rising blocks behind and becoming, for a moment, a ribbon of unreason against these strait-laced days.
Shelter
2 September 2021
Eyes closed, tuned to a different frequency, she lives inside these torn out pages.
The borders form the rough shape of shelter, from sun, rain and the words of those who don't understand why she could not cut in a straight line, but tear out reality with her bare hands.
Over time, she's found these jagged cut-outs to be necessary ribs against the ordered squares and blocks, unyielding structures that surround her.
Inside her canopy, she can be messy and unordered, escaping into her black hole of infinite, against everything that seeks to hold her in smaller and smaller rooms.
iMAHOUT
18 August 2021
The modern mahout uses an app to control his painted elephants. Swipe up to raise the trunk, swipe right to amble to the nearest water tank and guzzle. Swipe left to perform a trick involving peanuts and a mattress.
It’s too dangerous to clamber onto concrete hides, often too slippery after a torrential downpour. iMahout connects him to dozens of other mahouts worldwide, each linked to their own elephants with a unique RFID tag. Each account licenses up to ten elephants for tourist purposes
Other features on the app include a memory-based puzzle game and bonding activities for single mahouts.
At The Funfair
29 June 2021
“Step right, step right up! You sir, yes you, don’t you want your daughters to see how strong you are? That’s right, for only $2, if you can lift this man off the ground, I’ll give each of your girls a giant squid.”
“Er, no lah. It’s ok, he.. he looks quite heavy leh.”
“Daddy, please, look how cute the squid is!”
“Ok, ok.. I try. Eh… he’s not as light… oh, wah, uncle you eat what ah?”
The man would not lift entirely off the ground. It was almost as if he had lead for feet. Maybe he did.
ALTERATION
14 June 2021
Channeling the spirit of the tailor, he sits, colour-coded, a passive panda fixing the straps of his livelihood.
In between deliveries, in between the road and the comfort of home, the pavement will suffice in the absence of taped up benches and hawker centres.
Everyone in pink today, a standout shade against asphalt, a salve against heavy traffic and the thankless task to ensure the food arrives intact, warm, with all the attendant cutlery.
There’s no real alteration needed to the strap. It’s fraying but it will hold, maybe until the next interview, but that’s all he can hope for.
SLICE
3 June 2021
He's always wondered why they have to dress him up like some pastiche warrior from another century But he's never had much time to ruminate behind his sushi station, deftly slicing and plating the sashimi.
Such thoughts only ever arise in the toilet, with the obvious entanglements from his robe and the fear that stray spray might occur on the unforgiving white surface.
Sometimes he looks down and wonders how a sashimi penis would be served. Would it be sliced lengthwise or in small rings? Would it be cut off when fully engorged or served al dente, flaccid and chewy?
Thumbnail
15 May 2021
A stray hand, after the parapet.
Five digits, fronds on a palm.
A palm of fronds. The thumbnail like a medieval claw.
A curving symbol of wealth and elegance.
Because one does not work in the fields any longer. Or play the guitar.
One listens to music, one appreciates the food cooked by others.
A natural tool, useful in multiple situations:
To pick a card from the deck
To poke intruders in the eye
To draw a line of coke to snort
To tighten loose screws
To flip eggs on a pan
To reach under the bed for lost things
Night Music
23 April 2021
After five beers and closing time, he takes the long way home, waving goodbye to his friends.
Each step a staggered dance, he swings like he remembers on the disco floor all those years ago, body lean and taut. He swims through the streets, a silhouette of street sounds making up his soundtrack.
Everyone walks else walks behind the scaffold, the rest of the city a blur of slightly out of focus lights, the spread of streetlights drown tentative stars.
This is his night music, his chance to move music, his warrior jam, this pack of reds, this Marlboro man.
HUNTING
12 April 2021
And what the cat is looking at is not the camera, which sees leading lines to these squares that approximate a barrier to the other side where the cat treads, breaking the frame, its upraised tail an upside down question, considering why this creature would stoop to eye-level.
Maybe he's never seen a cat the colour of midnight before. Maybe he's hunting, as I am.
Perhaps I should surrender the alley rat in my back pocket. The one I was keeping as a toll for the overhead bridge cat. Maybe I should let my tail down. Maybe I should run.
Dear Singapore
24 March 2021
Will you stop trying to kill me?
Will you come to see me as a friend?
Will you let me glow on your signboards?
Will you not scream in fear when you see me?
Will you let me walk over your posters and not squash me?
Will I be able to nestle in the cracks of your walls and watch as you sleep?
Will you tell my story, along with those over-hyped otters and the always angry wild boars?
Will you let me grow to the size of small cars and not skin me in the name of racial harmony?
Wonder Vision
8 March 2021
Next to the road, across from the cheery neighbourhood shops, these wandering sprites are held by cages and their fear of men.
Tonight, he is the only one on duty, walking back and forth, clocking ten thousand steps, muttering ten thousand spells to keep the community at peace.
These older things that appear once a year are cloaked with a history of silence and solace. They are not vengeful, simply watchful. They enter the cage and consume our offerings, allowing us to keep the balance between the world we know and the uncertain darkness that is just a wormhole away.
The Pendant
25 February 2021
I think it’s still there. It must be. Auntie Jessie only pawned it last month. And who wants to buy secondhand jewellery now?
Grandma told me I will get it one day, but then Auntie Jessie scooped it up quickly. Then Mama told me that because Jessie lost her job, she had to pawn her jewellery. So stupid. Some things are worth more than money.
I’m just waiting to the end of the month when my OT pay comes in. I’ll buy Grandma's pendant back. Meanwhile, I will check every day that it's in the glass case, waiting for me.
Chrysanthemum
12 February 2021
Have I told you about the benefits of Chrysanthemum tea for cats? Yes, it turns our pee yellower than usual, like daffodils, but it also gives us kucinta, a kind of aphrodisiac.
I especially love these offerings of chrysanthemum, so lovingly opened for us in this season. I mean, who else could they be for?
I lie in wait at the void deck, watching, and nobody, not even those orphan voices that sometimes take the shape of humans, come for them.
I think they need something else, something stronger than chrysanthemum tea, something like whisky, or the taste of blood.
Double Vision
29 January 2021
The mirror is an almost-there mirror.
It replicates the trim on the man’s sneakers, the mustard-yellow shade of his shirt. It gets the number of faux firecrackers hanging from a rusty nail just right. It captures the ennui of a man working alone at night.
But the mirror also cracks a little.
It cannot reflect emotion, the inner life. The man on the left is constantly uneasy, always fearful his one night of misadventure will catch up with him. The man on the right has a clean slate, he works without fear, trapped in the unchanging tedium of his days.
Bending
23 January 2021
The shadow world turns on its own coin, streetlights streaming power straight from the sun. They bend towards passing pedestrian who slip in and out of the black on their way to parties and pleasantries. It never rains in the shadow world, all is empty space until it is filled by the rays of an inward sun.
Stand under these lights long enough and a new story will seep in like tendrils of fog; backward flying bullets, the emancipation of dinosaurs, lost seahorse kings. While we pride in ramrod straight light, forgetting ourselves in the urge to become all others.
The Mouth
14 January 2021
Not even the national flag can save her now, as the predator bares his teeth in the semblance of a grin, lips glistening, anticipating the meal ahead.
Such lovely colours, the mouth gushes.
What a pretty motif, the mouth sings.
A crescent and five stars, so perfectly aligned. I have never seen such an arrangement in the sky, but then I am a mouth, thing of earth and marrow.
And the colours of the flag, red and white, what a grand contrast! Of course, I know what white stands for: snowfall, purity, something clean.
But red? Could it be… blood?
Leg Presses
7 January 2021
This is his form of exercise. While others jog, go for bicycle rides or stare into the vacancy of retirement over the depths of coffee gone cold, he smiles into the distance, steely-eyed, pushing against an immovable force and building the muscles in his thighs.
One day, he knows, the pillar will move. One day, it won’t be his wheelchair, but the stone plinth that tips over, sending the block crashing down. One day, his legs will be strong enough and he won’t need the chair any longer. One day, he will walk and crack the tiles beneath his feet.
Terraform
30 Dec 2020
As she raises her phone to remember this moment, the last mirror to show us as ourselves stretches past the edge of the frame.
Once she passes down this hallway, bisected by gaily coloured posters of the natural world, she will change.
Being human is a privilege we have until we are 30, and then the true shape of our nature takes over; whether it be flora, or fauna.
She wishes to be a baobab, some tree that inches upward and remains serene, that gazes at the sky for hundreds of years while the world rises and falls around her.
To The Light
19 Dec 2020
When the lights go on at the bus stop, the top two floors of the building come alive with the bass thump of an otherworldly house beat, a blazon of bulbs that carry the sun in their defiance.
Step inside and feel a temperature of dread.
Watch for the flying chairs; this is a poltergeist party with all the lost souls who have been waiting for buses that no longer ply the long route to the afterlife.
They have stopped here, drifting in a silent disco; where the music carries them into the light, if only for for a while.
Guardian
04 Dec 2020
Between the cross and country, she stands, guardian of the land, green eyes missing nothing. With a single leap, she squashes rumours and pickpockets, with a sonic meow she sends fear into the hearts of voyeurs.
She is all-seeing Cat, all-knowing Cat, the original Cat who has been there before we were, and who will continue to watch long after we leave.
This land is her land, she who wears the coats of many colours, who pledges allegiance to the soil and the sea, whose whiskers tremble before the monsoon, who wears the future in a bell around her neck.
Transmission
25 Nov 2020
The reception is best when his feet prop against the pillar. That’s when he has a full signal and his game doesn’t lag.
The others haven’t caught on, they don’t know his secret. They keep upgrading their phones but their feet are planted on the ground or, at best, resting horizontally.
Nobody matches his dedication, the old plastic chair barely able to take his weight as his feet lock onto the 4G signal and channel it along his veins and out through his fingers, invisible sparks of radio waves that keep his phone charged just a little longer than usual.
ICE-COLD
11 November 2020
Here’s your change, sir. And that’s $9.80 worth of ice for your teh peng. Not sure why you need that much, our teh isn’t very strong, but the customer is always right. I suppose you will keep your glass topped up so that you can sit here, unmasked, for a long time.
Eventually, the tea will lose its colour and the ice will melt and all that's left are great puddles of condensation on the table, changing the ecology of how ants ambulate for scraps, drowning out conversation as you dab tissue paper to keep your elbows from getting wet.
DISTANCE
24 October 2020
The women on the shelf practice that look all the time, one that speaks of distance.
A look that ignores the mess on the floor,
clothes left unfolded, meals to cook.
A look veiled by duty and family.
A look that dreams of days by a beach under palm trees,
the sea sparkling at their toes,
everything within the distance of a discreet bell.
What those women on the shelf don’t know
is that there will be many other looks to learn,
years of patience and learning to swallow loss
before they are placed into a torso and come alive.
Five Storeys
19 October 2020
It’s the thought of the climb that saps their strength,
in the absence of an elevator to save them.
Five floors up after a long day at work is no laughing matter, so they rest.
Perhaps they might try the escalator, but that’s fraught with its own dangers.
There’s no telling what awaits at the top of the stairs,
what mayhem they may find there.
Here in their underground bubble, all is serene.
Armed guards watch over them unseen.
'Keep your mask on. Breathe when necessary.' They will repeat
this mantra for each of the 94 steps they ascend, eventually.
12 Oct 2020
His name is a frightened whisper on a stale breeze.
He stalks Chinatown like a day-walking beast, a Halloween ghoul born out of season,
looking for mouth-breathers who slip their mask down for air and a quick cigarette.
Sometimes, they make the bubble tea last an hour, but he is never fooled. Justice is swift and harsh, a silent punch to the gut, because if you want air, you have to gasp for it,
gasp like a drowning man,
then crumple in the wake of the black veil already striding away;
a new scent of fear shimmering on his tongue.
FLAGELLATION
28 Sept 2020
Sometimes, we don’t see things the way others do.
Sometimes, the colours flip in the wind
and the moon and stars sink to the bottom of the sea.
Sometimes, we look up for a sign and the shutter speed is just right.
But the flag still flutters,
the birds still sing after a night of rain
and the sun has not yet fallen out of the sky.
But don't let it hang out too long or you just might have to pay a fine,
because patriotism in this country has its parameters
and our National Day carries an expiry date.
almost, but not quite
18 Sept 2020
Two brown shapes streak across the mazy lines of the carpark with its delicate patchwork of pink and grey bricks. Cat and mouse, the oldest game of catch, played out in conspiratorial winks in boardrooms, in coy messages over text.
The mouse always blessed with the gift of deeper sight, a quicker turn and the speed that comes with desperation, although the cats here are tinged with a hint of languor, of automated feeders with plastic bowls of dry food to keep them sated.
But every now and then something older stirs, something no can of Snappy Tom can provide.
Speed
10 Sept 2020
Each morning he slips from the hoarding like a sallow chameleon. His skin slowly gains its natural hue from green, coloured to offer a sense of environmental solidarity.
But everything he sees is nothing more than an excuse to destruct and construct again, a man-made cycle of suffering. The trishaw solidifies into being with him. It has lived through a hundred years of change, its frame replaced more times than it can remember. Yet it refuses the progress of engines, electrical movement nothing more than a placebo for accelerating loss.
He travels, slowly, but always gets to where he's going.
A World of Difference
29 August 2020
All of the drinks are onstage, bathed in the fluorescence of desire. Three rows like a perfectly arranged photograph, they wait for their turn to spin and pirouette to the bottom, where they will be lovingly consumed. They have made it to the pinnacle of their shelf life, this window display array of carbonated champions.
But the stage has limited space.
Don’t stare at the Milo packet on the floor. Yes, the one that’s empty of malt and might. He waits in vain in the wings hoping for a last minute intervention, someone to fall ill. But no one ever does.
So they stay night after night, until the sold out sign flashes beneath their smiles.
An Afternoon Spin
19 August 2020
Here’s to unfettered afternoons of tight wheelies on the Segway, judging the turning radius of wheels manoeuvring over the uneven forecourt.
Joy is a man in a suit that stretches slightly, managing to stay upright as he juggles the tricky handlebars.
The security buggies, red and blue like a pair of cartoon police cars, are recharging. They used their sirens just once, when someone streaked across the football field and out of the stadium.
The buggies gave chase at their own sedate pace, catching him eventually, the way their cousins would trundle after a stray ball on golf courses.
SOFT EYES
14 August 2020
Have you seen the colour of the sky? It is lighter than my eyes, brighter than the shadows in which I hide. My mask is on all the time, my ears pricked to the sound of someone coughing or walking around.
In these days of uncertainty, I treasure the poor humans who remain under my spell, automatons who bring bowls of food and water with my kittenish meows.
Patrolling up and down these stairs, I hunt unmasked rats at night with my bandit buddies. These hi-rises are ours, we roaming assassins, we ronin kucing with no collar and no master.
SUPREME FITNESS
7 July 2020
Faster than the eye can see, these reps spin a wheel of fortunate endeavour. There’s no game show ending here, only the daily routine at the neighbourhood park where the machines aren’t weighted and the rust spreads in the rainy season.
The spinning plate is his winning fate, a way to keep his reflexes now that he’s given up the car.
Some muscles are more essential than others, some reflexes more necessary. Some dance moves catch up with the grandkids. Either way, he puts in his twenty minutes every day, moving from station to station, honing a body of absolution.
Renegade
19 June 2020
This is his dance floor now, this carefully swept surface of light and shadow.
He glides with a broom, shoulders shrugged and set in place; a raconteur of the latest moves spilling across his grandchildren’s TikTok screens.
After his shift, he shimmies into this quiet corridor, moving his knees into impossible bends, spinning heels through hours where people are supposed to be heading home.
Dirt must fall, like dusk, so in this narrow passage between buildings, he dances for everyone who's forgotten, in their isolation, how to moonwalk with an upturned collar from one end of a pandemic to another.
The Next Ride
7 June 2020
The ani-robots wait for their master to descend in a gleam of light. He will replace their batteries and turn the key to jumpstart their hearts.
He will fill this square with young riders, moving in concentric circles, giggling with their first experience of an electric sheep.
The only sound for weeks has been the rain drumming down once a day. That, and the running commentary when they spotted a snail who took three days to cross.
They dream of long, empty roads, of riding without reins, powered only by the sun. To never have to hide their wiring again.
Her Sun Game
12 May 2020
To keep osteoporosis at bay, the Health Promotion Board recommends “five to thirty minutes of sun exposure at least twice a week”.
How hard could that possibly be in Singapore with our predictable sunsets?
Perhaps we should ask the forty percent of Singaporeans who were found to be deficient in Vitamin D according to the National Population Health Survey from twenty ten.
Meanwhile, eight percent of Singaporeans were very Vitamin D-deficient. How? I ask you.
How?
HOW?
Eat egg yolks and oily fish! The experts cry.
As of twenty seventeen, thirty-six-point-two percent of the population was overweight.
We’ve got the eating down pat.
jigsaw
16 April 2020
A puzzle piece has fallen out of the world. It is the fulcrum upon which we turn.
With it has gone our ability to fly, to cross borders. To hold another hand and stand closer than the width of the balconies that we lean from.
In its place is the fear of the invisible, the fear of touching a wrong surface. The flail of darkness in broad daylight. The skies are blue but the air is heavy with sorrow.
The missing piece sits on the pavement in plain sight, waiting for an ungloved hand to lift it back into place.
solo
24 March 2020
This is what exercise looks like in a time of isolation. Stretch and resist, bend and persist. Let the sun burn you a little. Who knows when you will run again?
The track yawns empty, no records will be set, or heard now.
Distance is no longer desire, but a way to stave off death. Your best friends are now inanimate, tall poles that hum with electricity. You can still trust them to light the sky when our hearts have plummeted to darkness.
This cartwheel is for yourself. Make this revolution count. Everywhere is a collapsed lung, struggling to breathe.
Shadowland
16 March 2020
One day the machines will catch us, hard lines of automation overcoming the humble wheels that we have pulled along for millennia.
Beauty will be in the sunlight gleaming off the armoured body of a robot cleaner as it dismembers entire armies with a cavernous rush of air. Men and women are sucked into its belly, falling headlong into a vacuum with nothing to hold on to.
Machines will number us out of existence, needing nothing like pillows or proverbs to keep them going. They will roll over our hard hats and ignore the bloodstains like nothing was ever there.
The Perfect Cup
28 Feb 2020
Mr Lim sits in up to twenty different coffee shops each morning. He is the official coffee taster for Miss MRT coffee, keeping score on the consistency of the roast, the degree of sweetness, the temperature the coffee is served.
Sometimes, he likes to shake things up.
He’ll ask for kopi gao siu dai. Then kopi-o kosong. Peng. Because the quantity of ice changes the taste as well.
Right now, he’s working on a variant where spoons aren’t included. The milk rests at the bottom of the cup, unstirred, leaking a hint of sweetness upwards, a small taste of paradise.
At A Glance
20 Feb 2020
The future has begun to reflect back into the present through mirrors all across the city. No one knows how they started.
They leave one shaken, with glimpses of unrecognisable cars, or a device that seems to beam images out of a tiny earbud.
Most of the time, people are captured in its gaze. Aged, but there is something about the body that keeps its constancy, pushes back against the grain of years.
Studies of these mirrors are being considered. Could they do more than reflect? Could they become a portal? A shimmering transition into some new, yet familiar dimension?
NO LEFT TURN
14 Feb 2020
All the roads keep changing their directions.
The left turn heads straight into a restaurant. At a small doorway, they are asked if they want to sit outside, under the sun, part of the experience of the street.
But the street used to be wider.
Now, it has been narrowed by an incessant turnover of shops, changing the shape of their offerings every few months. They sit outside, sipping on cold tea.
Maybe next time they will head in the other direction, slip the angle of their travel, walk down a lane that has no markings, try to get lost.
Rehydrate, refresh, re-energise
7 Feb 2020
Not what is in front of them but what is elsewhere. The day already too hot, the fan turns below the rafters, far too slowly. Dust mites float just above the surface of the bowl.
They are waiting for a morning when they can wake full of vitality and not have to worry if a treat today will mean that someone skips a meal next week.
Or maybe this too is a kind of love.
Maybe the next time you look, that ship on the horizon will have docked in the harbour.
Daddy will be home. This time for good.
The Battery Building
29 Jan 2020
After dinner and a drink with friends, he returns to his cubicle. His shadow hangs as long as the day. Nearly depleted, he will slide and click into one of the bays of light that shine at different degrees of power all through the night.
The man works at a construction site, driving a crane. The arm is an extension of his own, hauling and pulling and smashing. Ever since they crossed the line with machines, the man feels less human as the days go by. Sometimes, he wakes up, reaching for a slab of concrete to haul and hurl.
An Apple A Day
keeps the doctor away. Unless the apple is made from indestructible styrofoam, coloured in the shape of desire. It is a reminder of that unnamed fruit in the Garden of Eden, made to live forever, the first instance of something non-biodegradable, a portent of the future.
So we live on in this fallen world, taking the shape of infinity, extruding it into polystyrene passion. The apples are replicated in juicy, seedless moulds for every household to hang in a basket.
They are the perfect fruit for any occasion, incorruptible, empty of death.
The first bite leaves you hungry for more.
Take A Gander
10 Jan 2020
The last duck to go down wasn’t winged by a bullet. Instead, he fell like a domino at the end of a row, ricocheting out of the carnival tent and into the mud.
This was a strange world; leaves and tall trees and the scent of water a new taste on his tongue.
In this plastic skin, sung to by the sun, he must now learn to bob and shimmer. Unstuffing long years of being a target for small children, he must embrace his bright yellow skin and become a warning, no more an object of affection.
Duck, or die.
D R E A M
3 Jan 2020
To stake a claim to dream is to sit on it, half a metre above the ground, while waiting for a friend. Butt on ‘R’, for remember, because dreams are easily forgotten, details lost amidst the humdrum of a morning’s routine.
Feet lightly resting on ‘E’, for Endeavour, because who knows how long we must walk to find dreams in the real world?
It is tempting to define the other letters, but not everything ties up nicely in life, and sometimes, a letter is all that it is, except when it glows at night, like a dream come to light.
Han Solos
22 Dec 2019
Speeding down the slight incline of Ann Siang Hill, Mr Han lets his chair go every morning. It is a need for speed that keeps him motoring like a snail up the hill before the foot traffic starts.
He lights a cigarette before starting his time trial, puffing smoke like exhaust fumes from years long ago, when he used to race his bike down Chua Chu Kang in the dead of night.
Now he stops at the intersection, looks right and left before sedately crossing the road for his morning kopi, just another elderly man aging gracefully, assisted by technology.
INSTRUCTIONS
3 December 2019
Run
This is no time to walk,
no time to follow the arrow that surely leads to a dead end.
Hide
Because you are on foot, you are prosaic, but also prone to seek
a place where all your limbs can be rendered invisible.
In a city of concrete and glass, where all the doors are double-locked,
one must learn how to climb the trees.
Tell
You could write a poem, but no one will read it.
Or publish a memoir years after the collective pain has subsided,
when memory is indivisible from lore or tourist-friendly inscriptions
in photogenic locations.
which way is up?
Photo: Jared Ho. Courtesy of SingLit Station.
05 November 2019
Which way is up?
Ringside, wayside, far side.
Horses, lizards and birds
Fondling, pistols and turds.
Yishun’s declaring independence.
Murphy’s Law? Everything that can go wrong, will?
Which way is up?
Ringside, wayside, far side.
“Only in Yishun”. Malignant.
Cat killers. Burning buses. Toilet ceilings.
Brothels, bust-ups, bedlam.
The Devil’s Ring…
Which way is up?
Ringside, wayside, far side.
Stories that no one else can tell.
It’s poetry, darling.
Baying for blood.
“For shame! Kill him!”
Which way is up?
Ringside, wayside, far side.
Backbreaker. Sharpshooter. Piledriver.
That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.
Which way is up?
Ringside, wayside, far side.
Editor’s note: We’re taking a bit of detour with this week’s 100-Word Story. We feature a photo by Jared Ho taken for the upcoming SingLit Body Slam: 2 Much 2 Soon (29 and 30 November 2019). It’s spoken word poetry with a generous sprinkling of pro-wrestling grappling. It’s the second instalment of, quite literally, this world’s-first, one-of-a-kind performance. We’re so glad it’s happening here in Singapore. Why not? Why not, indeed. For more information and tickets: http://www.singlitstation.com/shop/2much2soon
Keep an eye out on our Instagram page for contest details; a pair of tickets for 29 November will be up for grabs!
sleep tight
15 October 2019
No one else coils like me, restoring your life even as you lay your weary head, comforted by my cool gel memory foam.
I remember. Everything.
My contour zones caress the ache from your limbs, gently draw fatigue and free will from your flailing bones. My springs are concentrated along your spinal area, giving you support, regulating your body temperature, lulling you deeper into my patented dream state.
You may think that I am conforming to your natural curves, but you are bending your will to me. This is your natural posture, supine, a succulent siesta for my seething silence.
ASCENT
4 Oct 2019
The sun had never made it to the top of the clouds before. There was always one more bank to ascend, one more cumulus peak to scale. Often, it would be time to head back down, even if the summit, and its infinite vista of space was just a little while away.
Today was different.
Today was vast, a relief. For once, it wasn’t the brutal ravage of earth but the joy of a softer dreaming, an ocean of black pinpricked by stars.
What could the sun become, high above the clouds? Where could it go, slipped from its fatal mooring?
MAHOUT
26 Sept 2019
His elephant, shrunk to the size of a carry-on suitcase, waits around the corner.
Parking lots for elephants have become scarce in the city, though the temple maintains a space for full-sized elephants who haven't evolved to include shrink-tech in their DNA sequencing.
No amount of prayers can cajole an unwieldy elephant, so understandably, temple authorities do not welcome such large transport appendages. Most people are airborne these days anyway, so the streets are easily navigable.
An elephant is a contemplative mode of transport, lumbering like some pantheon of history; spectacle of what we can never be, our portable futures.
Strike!
18 Sept 2019
And it’s Grandpa’s turn to bowl at the local Super(market) Bowl. His face is a mask of concentration as he rolls up to the line, aided by his helper, Ning, who oiled his wheels last night.
Grandpa is rolling a medium coconut down the canned food and condiments aisle. He’s going to try to take down a school of sardine cans.
The coconut is checked before he makes his shot in case it is too old and has dried out.
Winners will compete in the island-wide final, fighting for the grand prize of a turkey stuffed with ten dollar bills.
Lonely as a cloud
9 Sept 2019
The cloud was attracted to the wisps of smoke from the man. It came lower to investigate, breaking from a larger, low-hanging mass that was beginning to darken.
Because the cloud was small, it had resisted growing heavy with water. It kept itself light, delaying its own demise. But these young clouds, barely able to shape themselves into fluff, carried no sunlight or sea breeze in them. These were heavy with something darker.
The cloud hesitated, wondering what kind of cruel rain would fall from these clouds. Then it rose into a sky burning from the lights of the city.
Glow
2 Sept 2019
The dazzling density of the colours reminded him of a dessert he once had in a Korean bingsu shop, pulling him from his Xbox. They felt surreal, something from a holiday, not pasted over his city.
Even as he stuck his phone between the potted plants along the common corridor, it struck him that he never took photographs any more of... scenes. Photos were always functional; meals never posted, selfies where people filled the frame so he could never remember where he was.
Better to take the sunset before it disappears. The sky here changes as quickly as the country.
Between
22 August 2019
She hides in the most obvious places; somewhere in the outstretched cardboard wings of Emmanuel Minimart.
There are spaces between the shelves where she can crawl into, snuggling next to bags of potato chips and overflowing baskets of onions, stifling an urge to sneeze or giggle within the security of her crawl space.
God sits with her in these moments, a cool presence, a breeze finding a way to soothe her on warm afternoons. Eventually, everyone gets tired of the game and she goes home for tea with her grandma.
The minimart is open 24hrs anyway; God with us, always.
Camera Talk
15 Aug 2019
"There she goes…"
"There she goes again."
"Racing through my screen."
"And I just can't reframe,”
“Do you know her name?”
"Does it matter, though?
We’re a pair of swivelling fools, tools
for some higher power that towers over
our narrow angles. Don’t tangle yourself with
human affairs, no point in caring if she’s in trouble
or has stumbled; our memory doesn’t last forever,
if they ever do press record, Lord, why worry about
what happens beyond the frame? If you ask me,
it’s all the same; like unfinished rhymes, people
walk in and out of life all the time."
Break (Orchard Road, 2019)
4 Aug 2019
Lunch break amongst the elements:
A beer umbrella upturned for dramatic tension.
Another umbrella stuffed with necessary tools, slotted into shade above power-breaker boxes.
A laminated news article that authenticates his place on the street.
Plastic bottles, cardboard boxes, his styrofoam lunch box of economy rice.
The long chains of small wooden balls that splay like snakes at rest.
A crazy-haired caricature from a fellow street impresario.
Because all performance is art and all art is performance, he watches us like some mad monk; a devotee with a neck of steel swinging beads from the shape of prayer into passion.
NEW LINES
27 July 2019
It’s been many years since he last had a passenger and even then, he was barely trying.
Two tipsy Australians begged for a joyride around the CBD on a Sunday. As he peddled down gleaming boulevards of steel and glass, he couldn’t stop thinking how this was once the sea; here was a kampung, there, the field where he used to play football.
How quickly we accept each new version of the city, how easily we forget old roads.
No longer certain of the maps, the backs of our hands. And that’s why he cycles alone, for himself; to remember.
cubbyhole
08 July 2019
Hello, my love.
Yes, I’m well. You?
How are the kids?
Hahahah. I did! Ramesh looked so happy at his birthday party.
I know he’s asking for his iPad. I think I’ve found one and should be able to get it next week. Please tell him to be patient.
No. No off day today. Boss asked a few of us to help with a project. I’m just on a short break now. So I can text with you 😊
No, not so dangerous.
It’s too difficult for you to understand.
Yes, I’m very tired.
Only a few more months. Insha-Allah.
LOVE IS THIS
28 June 2019
Love is…
Stealing away for a kiss when no one’s looking.
Feeling giddy with delight when hands touch.
Saying yes to a lifetime of kissing and feeling giddy.
Love is…
Black coffee and toast for breakfast.
Dinners in front of the television.
Always being in the beige.
Love is…
Working two jobs when he’s been laid off.
Making facial scrub from baking soda because the kids need new shoes.
Smiling over black coffee and toast as the rest chomp on chicken drumsticks.
Love is…
Learning how to cook.
Changing her TENA Lady’s every four hours.
Kissing a stranger each morning.
Square Roots
19 June 2019
At first glance, the image hints at loneliness, a self against an unprepossessing backdrop.
Look again.
It is the squares that are the subject matter.
Squares are everywhere in the city. They proliferate like disciples from some geometric school of design that trafficked in singular shapes.
But even these squares need space to breathe. To be. To allow their shapes to become. And no one comments on these gaps, often filled with shadows and silhouettes.
Passing by, waving in the breeze, they enter the city’s squares, linger a moment, and then are gone.
Only the squares remain.
Defiant. Empty.
A Potty Story
13 June 2019
Here he is, lounging like a lugubrious landlord. The lord of Loo D’Ville waits for his tenants.
He has set up shop in this prime location, fronting a row of vintage shophouses in the heart of the city. Like a row of studio apartments, this strip of squats offers temporary occupancy.
He gives them a chance to leave behind a piece of themselves, marking the spot with rumble and scent. This territory is portable, ready to be disemboweled, flushing the scene so that nothing is left behind.
All is forgotten, wiped away like a crap shoot or a migrant colony.
The Tiger’s Tale
5 June 2019
I was brave. No one ever said otherwise.
Sure, I was decked in tacky stripes of orange and red, like some kind of children’s sweet, but I never lost the growl on my face. That slight smirk of superiority. Not even when they sliced my head off, sawing and searching for the secret of my bravery; my beating heart.
But they found nothing; nothing they could take, anyway.
So leave me be, like a broken Roman bust, for history to remind that here was a tiger that kept his tail up, even when he lost his head.
Have An Ice-Cream Sandwich
22 May 2019
Singapore’s Department of Statistics*: “…the proportion of residents aged 65 years and over has increased from 8.7% in 2008 to 13.7% in 2018. There are now fewer working-age adults to support each resident aged 65 years and over as indicated by the falling resident old-age support ratio from 7.6 in 2008 to 4.8 in 2018.”
And even so, many aged over 65 care for an elderly someone else; a father, mother, disabled sibling, blind aunt, lover, spouse.
Some choose to continue working. Some don’t get to choose. Some keep asking for help.
Here, have an ice-cream sandwich; you’ll feel better.
45
15 May 2019
degrees is the best tilt for life. Everyone knows this.
The pitch to apprehend a screen, the slouch that announces a perfect poise between sloth and silence.
Even the chairs balance upwards, leaning attentively in to listen, like a surprisingly good first date. All the chairs do this, it is how they practice their third languages at night, chattering in a kinship of plastic legs and yellow spines.
Nothing obtuse about it; this is the gradient at which magic unlocks, while older men, oblivious, nurse their beers and guts, spending hours drinking towards the only angle that offers them transcendence.
GLOW
9 May 2019
The photo is kind, almost serene, though the red brick glowing behind echoes a portent of the bloodshed to come.
Her designated driver has no name, compelled to be nothing more than an automaton for a few hours, working the wheel and braking at the appropriate times, then cleaning the stains before waking the next day to the aftertaste of petrol and silence.
She was one of the last of her kind, debt collectors from the other side, trapped in steel and coiled springs, her engine beating like a bloodless heart, calculating the distance to her next reaping.
WANTED
1 May 2019
Self-starting individual must demonstrate an ability to wield multiple cleaning appliances at once. Willing to work large neighbourhoods painted in complementary (though butt ugly) colours. Supervision comes in the form of surprise video calls by the estate manager. Working hours are determined by the rise and fall of shutters in the mama shop downstairs. The job occasions being asked to clear immovable objects like bunk beds and refrigerators. One may also be asked to moonlight on weekends as a painter or a prata man. The applicant must understand, above all, that it is never a job, but the job.
PATIENCE
25 April 2019
He has never been convinced by the “Just five minutes, Ah Tan” that turns into an hour every single time, while his appointment grows cold and the bags he is carrying weighs him down. Still, he waits as he has been waiting all these years, adding up all the minutes that spread out into a long menu of excuses, one that he has scoured for years.
He’s looking for something that will come quickly, affection that doesn’t take forever to be prepared, while he waits, as he always has, for his one true love.
TIME FOR CHIPS AND PEAS
10 April 2019
There once was a man named Caleb.
He never wore anything tailored.
The mind was his thing
For books made him ping
And games were his ultimate favourite.
“Now, Caleb,” said he;
To himself, not to you or to me.
“You must find the answer
To that tricky tricky number
Of the crossword that you cannot unsee!”
“Was it the south or was it the north?
Or somewhere else that day of the fourth?
This is the shore
And that is the moor…
Aha! It’s Costa Rica. Of course!”
Caleb was pleased.
He walked away happy
With a smile and with ease.
Another game played, another plot flayed,
It was now time for his chips and his peas.
SQUAT
3 April 2019
“Oi! How come the takings short again ah? Second time this week. Got use calculator or not?”
“What? Mental sums? Siao! You then mental ah!”
Frustrated, he squats in full view of the kopitiam across the grass patch, heedless of the camera and passers-by, one hand gluing the Bluetooth earpiece to his ear, the other gripping his phone, wishing he could throttle the voice at the other end. He longs for corded telephones so he could twist and vex the wire into the shape of his despair.
Instead, he squats, unable to stand against incompetence, legs heavy with disbelief.
Prowler
27 March 2019
In this world, she is not destroyer, she is guardian, walking bright, empty boulevards for hours, keeping the hungry things inside darkness at bay.
In this world, she is stepping on concrete and celestial threads, the warp of eternity spinning out in fault lines of choice and consequence.
In this world, people don’t really see her. She may as well be invisible in her nondescript pink dress, her head down, mumbling.
In this world, she pictures home, millions of years in the distance, as she sweeps a sword before her, each broad arc humming like the sound of a prayer.
HEY, YOU!
20 March 2019
This is my Uncle Tony. Everyone has an Uncle Tony. The last time he got into trouble was when he mouthed off to some Ah Beng. Told the guy to feed his scrawny girlfriend. She was so pale and skinny, she frightened him. He thought her legs would break in them heels.
He got a swollen lip for that.
But who would hit an old man?! That’s my Uncle Tony. He loves his cheesy curios and he loves telling people about them. He also loves his kopi-o kao. Wouldn’t trade it for any of that fancy latte or espresso shit.
SOLE SUPPORT
6 March 2019
6.00 am
Dawn breaks with the sound of slippers shuffling down dormitory corridors. Slippers are floppy beings. We are soldiers on standby, scuffed to shine.
11.00 am
I’ve already clocked 10,000 steps and it isn’t even lunch!
1.45 pm
He takes a nap but I stand guard, ready for a quick getaway in case the foreman comes around.
5.00 pm
I’m soaked with mud from a sudden downpour, but his toes are warm and dry.
10.00 pm
Finally, a bath!
I line up next to my family and we trade stories of dust and driftwood, resting our soles for another day.
Constellation
28 Feb 2019
For $9.90, why not? It is the only way to experience the greater galaxy these days.
Smog is an eternal cloud that sits over the city, and if not for these darkstar umbrellas, it’s easy to forget there’s an entire phalanx of twinkling lights out there. Still, it takes patience and a certain nerve to look up and allow yourself to be lost in the depthless beyond.
It’s a pity (read the fine print!) that the micro-universe feature is only activated whenever it rains, which is rare these days. Under sunlight, it’s just gimmicky, something for couples to giggle over.
Holy
20 Feb 2019
Leaning forward in the ferry, something about how the sun glints off the dome of the mosque at the edge of the water catches his eye, reminds him for a second of the Sura Mosque in Dinajpur.
When he was young, he would listen with his mother from their doorway as the call to prayer rang beyond the famous terracotta carvings, of holy men and their exploits for distant kingdoms.
Clouds pass over and the shimmering light disappears.
His friends miss all this, deep in dreamless sleep, heading to build another empire, one that will never remember them in stone.
Spin
14 Feb 2019
The view from the top of the carousel is no different from the pack of suited skyscrapers behind; dizzying, panoramic, vast.
The harbour stretches below, carefully touristed to elate with all the right hashtags. Beyond, out of reach of the camera, lies the depthless sea. Lights from a thousand anchored ships, bereft of cargo, wait for a sea change.
High above, the pleasures of power last only until the attraction powers down, the elevators stop running and the windows lower their blinds one by one.
In the end, we’re always taken for a ride.
Cocoon
6 Feb 2019
It’s a strong coconut, this one.
Before either of them can taste the flesh, the juice has already transported them beyond the bench and through the curtain of lights that hang behind. They are lifted into the sky, the familiar out-of-body-experience due to the elevated levels of potassium and Cocoon™ coursing through their blood.
All over the city, people are floating above buildings, tethered to the thin plastic straws, bobbing up and down on a gentle post-dinner rush. It’s just a harmless pastime, a way to shoot the breeze, nobody has died from it yet, or so the papers say.
Hunter Killer
30 Jan 2019
