ISSUE 1
Edited by Elizabeth Deng, Han Wei Tian, Zack Soh, and Teoh Jing Yang
PROSERitual I Liberation
by Katherine Push To Open
by Chloe |
POETRYWeekends
by Valerie Either Forwards Or Nowhere
by Jake |
PROSE
Ritual I Liberation
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The inky tendrils of darkness pursue you relentlessly while you run, feet flying impossibly fast across the earth. Heaven knows why, but the thing refuses to stop going after you. The ground beneath your feet feels like nothingness, as you race to reclaim the ground stolen by the shadows. You are impossibly light as you gracelessly stumble over withered shrubs planted in the dry, cracking earth. Your momentum is further ruined by the fences, protruding rocks, and potholes attempting to bring you down with them. And those were only a few of the multitude of obstacles that hold you back from winning the race against the void. Well, at least the endless mass chasing after you was slowed down by the same interruptions, puddles of black oozing between empty spaces while the rest crawled over the hurdles.
A quick glance back confirms that the shadows are still chasing you, whipping at the back of your bare feet. A peculiar chill runs down your spine as the tentacles brush against you, and you spur yourself on, pushing yourself to run faster. Your legs are not tired, not yet, but you feel as though you are barely able to breathe, as though the air around you was nothing more than a cruel lie. A mix of reflex and self-preservation urges you to greedily draw in the rapidly thinning air. The meagre amount of oxygen filling your lungs will not be able to sustain you for long and panic claws at you while you redouble your efforts to find something.
You have no idea as to what you are desperately searching for. Comfort comes in the form of the knowledge that you’ll recognise it when you see it. The only option left is to continue running, and frustration builds up in your chest as you push yourself to run faster, run harder. A long shadow casts itself on the ground, and you look up.
A whimper of defeat forces its way out of your throat as you catch sight of the tall and impossibly long wall that stands in your way. The plain surface reveals an infuriating lack of handholds, making it almost impossible to scale. You are beyond exhausted by now, and surrender would be sweet, sweet release. Your mind and body must hate you though, since you are attempting to make your way up the wall before you have time to even think about it. Your nails scrape against the unforgiving face of the wall, and by some miracle (and a lot of elbow grease), you manage to make your way up with fingertips and toes rubbed raw, while the void struggles to slither up the barricade.
A small town stretches before you, buildings clustered together with barely enough space to fit a person in the alleyways. Larger roads taper to cramped paths, and narrow walkways end up as dead ends. It is huge, a sprawling maze; a playground for the adventurous. The surfaces are all monochrome, save for the occasional splash of colour on some structures. You leap off the wall, legs barely feeling the impact as it makes contact with the solid ground beneath. You take off instantly, not wanting to waste the little advantage you gained. Whatever it is you are looking for, it is close – you can feel it. A glance behind confirms that the wall is still holding up against the assault of the shadows, and you release a short breath of relief.
You decide to take a quick look around the area - perhaps you could find someone or something to help you – only to realise the town was desolate. Another sweep of the place reveals that, curiously enough, there are barely any entrances to the buildings, save for the windows and the rare door. And because the universe loves you so much, it decided to make sure that all the doors were shut tight, with no way to open them. Not even by force.
The windows are the only option you have left. You clench your fist and pull your arm back. Here goes nothing.
The impact travels all the way up to your shoulders, leaving you stumbling back. You’re pretty sure you heard a crack.
You look up, only to find the same window in the same condition. Confusion takes over, until you hear another crack. It is dry and muted, and it takes a second before you realise that it’s coming from the wall, holy shit.
Instinct guides you now as you charge through the dirty, run-down streets of the town, feet kicking clouds of dust up. You make your way around a corner, only to find yourself back where you took a left fork. The right fork seems to be the only other option you have; you’re not willing to turn back. Even so, the endless twists and turns leaves you confused as to your exact position in this labyrinth town. The alleys are narrow and dark, and claustrophobia fills you as you power on.
The temperature of the surroundings seems to drop, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the cold sweat you’ve broken out in. You look back to see the void lagging behind you, tendrils slithering like snakes as it begins to catch up. Panic and desperation claw their way up your throat. You can’t lose. Not now, not when you’re so close. Another turn into a widening path and –
You burst into a dead end, or what seems to be one. A simple wooden door sits in the wall opposite you, and you instinctively know that this was what you were looking for.
One of your feet seems to be freezing up, and you look down only to realise that a thick curl of ink has wrapped itself around your ankle. Dread sinks into every part of your being, leaving you dizzy with apprehension and adrenaline. You struggle, vision blurring from panic, and claw at the door, arms reaching out for the pleasantly cool doorknob. The shadow tries to pull you back, but your desire for the torment to end is infinitely greater, and your fingers find their way around the strangely polished, silver knob. Pure light seeps out from the gap between the door and the floor.
You yank the door open.
-
A choked moan makes its way out of your throat as radiant light hits your closed eyes. You let them open.
The clock reads 7:51 a.m., but it is much too early for you to be awake. You shut your eyes and try to fall back asleep, but the darkness behind your closed lids makes it feel so strange, so… wrong. You sigh and give up, making your way to the bathroom.
You stare into the mirror, and you don’t see a human in the reflection. Your face is deathly pale, your lips tinted blue. Your eyes have bags around them, dark enough to make you look as though someone had punched you in the face. Your face is devoid of expression, and your eyes are impossibly blank. You look like shit.
Folktales say that a body without a soul will cease to appear in reflective surfaces. And you are mildly bemused by the fact that your image is still shown by the mirror.
A hand reaches for the toothbrush in a cup, out of habit rather than purpose. Every single movement you go through is a ritual, one you go through each and every day without fail. Brush your teeth, 10 strokes for each area. Relieve your bowels. Wash your hands, wash your face. Breakfast consists of the same serving of eggs, toast, and extra strong coffee. A bag sits on the chair to the right of yours, packed last night by ritual, again.
The dishes are washed, dried, and shelved. You sling the bag across your shoulder and you leave your house, double locking the door. The door. You hiss in frustration. This is the wrong door.
You step into your car, slamming the door shut. It’s always the damned door. The wrong damned door.
The rest of the day is nothing but the wisps of a memory shrouded in fog as you go through the ritual of work. Your colleagues never fail to mention how terrible you look too, another rite. You go by your work methodically, emotionlessly, and you clear one task after another even without thinking about the work you are doing.
The dream. The same damned dream you’ve been having as long as you can remember. It haunts you and drains you and leaves you a mere machine, a shell reminiscing and pining for the humanity it was cruelly dragged away from. You would beg for it, if you could, but you have nothing left to give.
You return home, have the same dinner, the same shower, the same nightly processes and habits.
And the same dreams.
-
You go on for months and months in the same mechanic state, a lowly slave to the habits that control you. There is the same feeling of longing and void in your chest, growing with each passing moment. The days are unforgiving, but you pull through just fine. You have to; are supposed to. After all, it is part of your ritual.
And you are still pining for that pretty, simple door. It is part of your ritual too.
-
You follow your morning ritual and step in the car, slamming the (wrong) door shut. Your head continues throbbing as you shut your eyes and rest them against the wheel. The dreams have been becoming increasingly vivid – as have your emotions in them – and it is almost unbearable. Nothing can compare to the raw fear you wake up to, and may the heavens have mercy; you are beginning to slowly break down.
On the other hand, the lucidity does help, in a sense, since the missing details of the door begin to show up.
You remember the wood grains that left delicate swirls across the expanse of the surface, and the long, shallow slash on the sturdy oak door. Splinters stuck out from the barely processed surface, as though warning others to stay away from it.
Lord, what are you doing fantasising about a plain door? You have work to attend to.
You start the car up and pull it out of the driveway, trying your best to ignore the dull pain in your head. Your hands and feet take over as you automatically drive to your workplace. You barely need to think; driving on the same road for years has lead to your ability to navigate the road with minimal thinking. The headache messes with your senses though; the roads seem to be narrowing.
You park your car in its usual lot, and step into the towering building. Apprehension washes over you as you walk into the office. You wish you knew why. Your cubicle feels too small and restrictive, while colleagues begin to pepper you with the same questions. “How was your morning? Any interesting things in your life right now? Hey, those eye bags seem to be getting worse, don’t they?”
You feel trapped, and you can’t wait to get out of here.
-
Lunch finally rolls around.
Your colleagues ask you to have lunch with them, and you reject them, as usual. This time, however, you don’t bother to head down to the cafeteria. You are suffocating and suffering and you really need some fresh air to clear your mind. You head up to the roof.
The next thing you have any memory of seeing is a thick wooden door. Your head is fuzzy, but you manage to make out the long bare-there score on the door. Hundreds of splinters are on the door surface, and – oh.
A strange emotion bubbles up within, one you are drastically unfamiliar with, and it feels like joy. You can’t seem to place it.
A sliver of amusement courses through as well. Who would have thought that the high-tech structure would have such a plain, old wooden door?
Your arm reaches out, hand caressing the silver knob. Warmth.
You turn the knob and yank the door open. The expanse of the city lays before your very eyes, and you step forward, standing at the edge of the roof.
Vertigo runs through you, accompanied by toe-curling anticipation, as you look down, the world so very small beneath your feet.
You shut your eyes.
Light.
A quick glance back confirms that the shadows are still chasing you, whipping at the back of your bare feet. A peculiar chill runs down your spine as the tentacles brush against you, and you spur yourself on, pushing yourself to run faster. Your legs are not tired, not yet, but you feel as though you are barely able to breathe, as though the air around you was nothing more than a cruel lie. A mix of reflex and self-preservation urges you to greedily draw in the rapidly thinning air. The meagre amount of oxygen filling your lungs will not be able to sustain you for long and panic claws at you while you redouble your efforts to find something.
You have no idea as to what you are desperately searching for. Comfort comes in the form of the knowledge that you’ll recognise it when you see it. The only option left is to continue running, and frustration builds up in your chest as you push yourself to run faster, run harder. A long shadow casts itself on the ground, and you look up.
A whimper of defeat forces its way out of your throat as you catch sight of the tall and impossibly long wall that stands in your way. The plain surface reveals an infuriating lack of handholds, making it almost impossible to scale. You are beyond exhausted by now, and surrender would be sweet, sweet release. Your mind and body must hate you though, since you are attempting to make your way up the wall before you have time to even think about it. Your nails scrape against the unforgiving face of the wall, and by some miracle (and a lot of elbow grease), you manage to make your way up with fingertips and toes rubbed raw, while the void struggles to slither up the barricade.
A small town stretches before you, buildings clustered together with barely enough space to fit a person in the alleyways. Larger roads taper to cramped paths, and narrow walkways end up as dead ends. It is huge, a sprawling maze; a playground for the adventurous. The surfaces are all monochrome, save for the occasional splash of colour on some structures. You leap off the wall, legs barely feeling the impact as it makes contact with the solid ground beneath. You take off instantly, not wanting to waste the little advantage you gained. Whatever it is you are looking for, it is close – you can feel it. A glance behind confirms that the wall is still holding up against the assault of the shadows, and you release a short breath of relief.
You decide to take a quick look around the area - perhaps you could find someone or something to help you – only to realise the town was desolate. Another sweep of the place reveals that, curiously enough, there are barely any entrances to the buildings, save for the windows and the rare door. And because the universe loves you so much, it decided to make sure that all the doors were shut tight, with no way to open them. Not even by force.
The windows are the only option you have left. You clench your fist and pull your arm back. Here goes nothing.
The impact travels all the way up to your shoulders, leaving you stumbling back. You’re pretty sure you heard a crack.
You look up, only to find the same window in the same condition. Confusion takes over, until you hear another crack. It is dry and muted, and it takes a second before you realise that it’s coming from the wall, holy shit.
Instinct guides you now as you charge through the dirty, run-down streets of the town, feet kicking clouds of dust up. You make your way around a corner, only to find yourself back where you took a left fork. The right fork seems to be the only other option you have; you’re not willing to turn back. Even so, the endless twists and turns leaves you confused as to your exact position in this labyrinth town. The alleys are narrow and dark, and claustrophobia fills you as you power on.
The temperature of the surroundings seems to drop, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the cold sweat you’ve broken out in. You look back to see the void lagging behind you, tendrils slithering like snakes as it begins to catch up. Panic and desperation claw their way up your throat. You can’t lose. Not now, not when you’re so close. Another turn into a widening path and –
You burst into a dead end, or what seems to be one. A simple wooden door sits in the wall opposite you, and you instinctively know that this was what you were looking for.
One of your feet seems to be freezing up, and you look down only to realise that a thick curl of ink has wrapped itself around your ankle. Dread sinks into every part of your being, leaving you dizzy with apprehension and adrenaline. You struggle, vision blurring from panic, and claw at the door, arms reaching out for the pleasantly cool doorknob. The shadow tries to pull you back, but your desire for the torment to end is infinitely greater, and your fingers find their way around the strangely polished, silver knob. Pure light seeps out from the gap between the door and the floor.
You yank the door open.
-
A choked moan makes its way out of your throat as radiant light hits your closed eyes. You let them open.
The clock reads 7:51 a.m., but it is much too early for you to be awake. You shut your eyes and try to fall back asleep, but the darkness behind your closed lids makes it feel so strange, so… wrong. You sigh and give up, making your way to the bathroom.
You stare into the mirror, and you don’t see a human in the reflection. Your face is deathly pale, your lips tinted blue. Your eyes have bags around them, dark enough to make you look as though someone had punched you in the face. Your face is devoid of expression, and your eyes are impossibly blank. You look like shit.
Folktales say that a body without a soul will cease to appear in reflective surfaces. And you are mildly bemused by the fact that your image is still shown by the mirror.
A hand reaches for the toothbrush in a cup, out of habit rather than purpose. Every single movement you go through is a ritual, one you go through each and every day without fail. Brush your teeth, 10 strokes for each area. Relieve your bowels. Wash your hands, wash your face. Breakfast consists of the same serving of eggs, toast, and extra strong coffee. A bag sits on the chair to the right of yours, packed last night by ritual, again.
The dishes are washed, dried, and shelved. You sling the bag across your shoulder and you leave your house, double locking the door. The door. You hiss in frustration. This is the wrong door.
You step into your car, slamming the door shut. It’s always the damned door. The wrong damned door.
The rest of the day is nothing but the wisps of a memory shrouded in fog as you go through the ritual of work. Your colleagues never fail to mention how terrible you look too, another rite. You go by your work methodically, emotionlessly, and you clear one task after another even without thinking about the work you are doing.
The dream. The same damned dream you’ve been having as long as you can remember. It haunts you and drains you and leaves you a mere machine, a shell reminiscing and pining for the humanity it was cruelly dragged away from. You would beg for it, if you could, but you have nothing left to give.
You return home, have the same dinner, the same shower, the same nightly processes and habits.
And the same dreams.
-
You go on for months and months in the same mechanic state, a lowly slave to the habits that control you. There is the same feeling of longing and void in your chest, growing with each passing moment. The days are unforgiving, but you pull through just fine. You have to; are supposed to. After all, it is part of your ritual.
And you are still pining for that pretty, simple door. It is part of your ritual too.
-
You follow your morning ritual and step in the car, slamming the (wrong) door shut. Your head continues throbbing as you shut your eyes and rest them against the wheel. The dreams have been becoming increasingly vivid – as have your emotions in them – and it is almost unbearable. Nothing can compare to the raw fear you wake up to, and may the heavens have mercy; you are beginning to slowly break down.
On the other hand, the lucidity does help, in a sense, since the missing details of the door begin to show up.
You remember the wood grains that left delicate swirls across the expanse of the surface, and the long, shallow slash on the sturdy oak door. Splinters stuck out from the barely processed surface, as though warning others to stay away from it.
Lord, what are you doing fantasising about a plain door? You have work to attend to.
You start the car up and pull it out of the driveway, trying your best to ignore the dull pain in your head. Your hands and feet take over as you automatically drive to your workplace. You barely need to think; driving on the same road for years has lead to your ability to navigate the road with minimal thinking. The headache messes with your senses though; the roads seem to be narrowing.
You park your car in its usual lot, and step into the towering building. Apprehension washes over you as you walk into the office. You wish you knew why. Your cubicle feels too small and restrictive, while colleagues begin to pepper you with the same questions. “How was your morning? Any interesting things in your life right now? Hey, those eye bags seem to be getting worse, don’t they?”
You feel trapped, and you can’t wait to get out of here.
-
Lunch finally rolls around.
Your colleagues ask you to have lunch with them, and you reject them, as usual. This time, however, you don’t bother to head down to the cafeteria. You are suffocating and suffering and you really need some fresh air to clear your mind. You head up to the roof.
The next thing you have any memory of seeing is a thick wooden door. Your head is fuzzy, but you manage to make out the long bare-there score on the door. Hundreds of splinters are on the door surface, and – oh.
A strange emotion bubbles up within, one you are drastically unfamiliar with, and it feels like joy. You can’t seem to place it.
A sliver of amusement courses through as well. Who would have thought that the high-tech structure would have such a plain, old wooden door?
Your arm reaches out, hand caressing the silver knob. Warmth.
You turn the knob and yank the door open. The expanse of the city lays before your very eyes, and you step forward, standing at the edge of the roof.
Vertigo runs through you, accompanied by toe-curling anticipation, as you look down, the world so very small beneath your feet.
You shut your eyes.
Light.
Push To Open
|
Four Doors.
Four People.
Eight hours after midnight.
i. 08 00. A jail - Cell 591.
She stumbles through the steel door and nearly decapitates herself. A door designed to be just that bit too low, to make you bow or risk a limbo. Everything from the drab walls, to the imposing steel bars, to the food served at fixed time interval that was never quite enough to fill, everything carefully calibrated to ensure submission, to instill obedience.
A stack of clothes was tossed to her, the only colour in the monochrome fortress of vagabonds. She clutches them with all the reverence of someone seeing their newborn child. A gruff voice and a slight shove guides her to an office in the booking area- the kind that she used to loathe but now wished for more than anything. A simple office. A simple desk job. A simple life.
She signs forms in a haze. Scribbling acknowledgement that a normal life would be hard to even understand now. (Criminal records never looked good on job applications.) With the clang of locks and metal, she steps out from those doors into the suddenly blinding glare of daylight not filtered through barbed fences. Into the world of henpecked workers living from paycheck to paycheck, permanently intoxicated on either alcohol or caffeine, the one that had driven her to pocket one too many packs of unpaid mascara.
But freedom was a strange thing. It made the same air taste fresher, the same light warmer. Turned off gravity because she felt weightless; in all but the literal sense of the word. She felt like she could give Usain Bolt a run for his money, if chasing what you wanted was Olympic sport.
Freedom however, did not turn off hunger, as her stomach rumbled – a daily occurence that for once could be quelled. Pancakes. She wanted blueberry pancakes. Smooth fluffy pancakes. Thick maple syrup. Pancakes.
The chase was on.
ii.08 00. A nondescript house. A white picket fence.
“GET OUT!” a voice raised to a volume that no normal person should ever be using at 8am in the morning rings out.
A boy stumbles out of the mahogany door, a tattered backpack slung over one shoulder. He is dressed from head to toe in black, except for a shock of blue and green hair - the poster child of every parent’s nightmare, all inclusive with an attitude to match. The only part of the equation that doesn’t add up is the house with a white picket fence, the kind that raises golden boys and star quarterbacks, not whatever he was. Standing in the middle of the perfectly manicured grass, petunia patches, morning glories collecting dew, he looked like a weed. He certainly felt like one too.
His shoulders are stiff, even as he flips off the man standing at the door, failing to mask the fear, the urge to run back. But he strides off, counting in his head 1 2 3 4. 1 2 3 4. One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. The almost arrogant tilt of his head and the carefree jaunt belies the anxiety bubbling inside.
If you had told him 5 years ago that he would be chased from the house by his father, he would have stared at you like you were a lunatic. The very thought of disobeying his father would have been inconceivable. 3 years ago, he would have rolled his eyes and said “I wish”. 1 year ago, he would have asked “What did I do?”. 1 month ago, he would have mumbled, “I’m surprised he didn’t do it sooner”. 1 week ago, he would have lamented, “Sometimes I wish he just would, so I would have to stop hiding.” 1 day ago, he would have confided (with this stranger who seemed to have a penchant for warning him of his future), “I hope he doesn’t do that after what I tell him tomorrow.”
Today, he doesn’t know what he is doing. Where he is going. All he knows is to walk and keep walking.
iii. 08 00. A hospital.
He bursts through the hospital doors, hair in a disarray, hands trembling - a complete and utter wreck. He practically flies to the information counter and struggles to get a coherent sentence out, “Hello sorry could you please help me find my wife?” sounding simultaneously like a lost child and a man whose wife was about to give birth.
The wrinkled nurse at the counter stifles a smile, reminded of the countless other fathers-to-be whose shoes this man was walking in. “Yes I certainly can, if you tell me her name.” She’s old, she’s allowed to mess with these kids.
“Oh yes. Um it’s…. it’s Amelia!”
“Are you her husband or not? You’ve got to give me more than that! I have at least 6 Amelias here.”
“Amelia Tyler! Could you please, please just hurry? I’m already late!!!!” his voice getting progressively higher as he tapped an erratic rhythm on the counter, eyes darting to the clock and back to the nurse at a comical speed.
“Oh alright. She’s in Room 951.”
He disappears right before her eyes, leaving only the squeaking of sneakers against linoleum as he runs down corridors, almost slamming into a doctor who grabs his shoulders to steady him. He makes hurried apologies, playing the my-wife-is-about-to-give-birth card.
“What a coincidence! I just delivered a baby in 951. What’s your wife’s room number, I’ll bring you there.”
“…951?” He asks, questioning if the old nurse at the counter had played a joke on him. He never trusted her! She looked like she was having too much fun messing with him.
“Are you Ms Amelia Tyler’s husband?”
“Yes?” He’s questioning if that’s even true anymore. Maybe the old nurse at the counter was actually a witch and this is dream?
“Oh congratulations! You have a healthy baby girl. But… she’s a bit early so we’ve got to run some tests first and your wife is asleep. So I suggest you go get yourself something to eat and come back later. You look like you need it.”
“Oh thank you.” He awkwardly sticks out his hand, and tries to convey his gratitude that translates into a rather overenthusiastic handshake. (It leaves the doctor trying inconspicuously to stretch fingers for the next 10 minutes as he does his rounds.)
He turns back to the foyer, but gets distracted by the delicious scent wafting around the corridor. He turns around eagerly and gets greeted by a hospital meal cart.
For one second he thought hospital food was delicious. The doctor was right. He should go get some breakfast.
iv. 08 00. A church.
The church bells ring, a melody lasting exactly 1 minute and 24 seconds.
A stream of people pass through the church doors, some lingering outside to murmur with friends and to speak with the family. There was no lack of red-rimmed eyes and the complete lack of boisterous noise that a gathering of family and friends usually entailed.
Eventually, they settled into the seats, leaving the church full and the courtyard empty. Save for a lone middle aged man, who stood at the church doors, fighting an internal battle to walk through them.
Eventually a white flag is hoisted as he steps in joining the mass of black suits and dresses, walking down the aisle as the gathered eye him with pity. He seats himself at the first bench, alone.
The priest acknowledges him with a grave nod, stepping onto the pew and opening his book. The priest nervously wets his lips. He's done this for years but it's always different and always just as important. Taking a deep breath, he takes in the silence, punctuated by the occasional sniffle, and he begins.
"Dearly beloved we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of daughter, sister and beloved wife, Marianne Knox..."
-
epilogue. A diner.
Lexi is half asleep when the ringing of the door, a slight tinkling, wakes her, signaling a customer at the diner.
She shrugs herself awake and rubs the sleep (or rather, lack of sleep) from her eyes. The door tinkles once more before she makes it to the bar, still struggling into her apron. A rather grimy looking woman - who has seated herself at the booth near the door - smiles at her, a rare sight at 8.30 am; normally it was either sleepy looks or bloodshot eyes squinting in the sunlight. The boy with the seaweed hair, who has just entered, gestures toward the seat and seems to be asking the woman if he can sit. She obliges and he slumps into the opposite seat, proceeding to stare out of the glass mindlessly. Lexi takes their order - a stack of pancakes and two cups of coffee.
In the back, she hears the bell ringing twice more. What a busy day.
Two men join the woman and boy at their table, one looking like he had fallen straight off the wrong side of the bed but had just found out he won the lottery, while the other dressed so dapper, seemed muted, dead. She takes their order - bacon and eggs and an earl grey tea.
What a band of misfits.
~
Strangely the usual mutually agreed silence between strangers at a table had been broken before they had gotten food in their systems. When she serves the drinks, she overhears the woman speaking to the boy. “Freedom comes with responsibility and your parents only want the best for you. Trust me. I’ve made many mistakes and it would be great if I could help you not make those same mistakes.” Lexi wonders when the last time anyone other than her mother had given her advice. Much less a stranger who looked liked they came from much darker places than yours, gone through more hardship than you yet didn’t belittle yours.
~
When the dishes are out, she sees the middle aged man clapping the other’s shoulder, congratulating him, with a slightly sad smile stretched over his face. Makes him look years younger. The origin of those years she wonders about. Questions when someone had last looked genuinely happy for her, when had someone congratulated her without fake smiles and seething jealousy.
~
Over the course of their meal, laughter occasionally bursts from the table, as Lexi strains to hear its cause from behind the counter. She reminds herself that joining their table would be unprofessional, no matter how much she wanted to join the table of loving strangers who seemed to care for and accept each other more than any of her fair-weather friends.
~
They leave together, leaving a tip larger than required. Enough that she will be able to pay for her rent this month on time - a rare occurrence since she lost her job at the newspaper company. She thanks her not-very-lucky-but-trying stars for whatever had brought those four people together in this diner, and whatever had possessed them to leave her a tip of 100 dollars. She looks up, unformed thanks still trapped behind her lips.
But all she sees is the door swinging close, the bell still softly chiming.
Four People.
Eight hours after midnight.
i. 08 00. A jail - Cell 591.
She stumbles through the steel door and nearly decapitates herself. A door designed to be just that bit too low, to make you bow or risk a limbo. Everything from the drab walls, to the imposing steel bars, to the food served at fixed time interval that was never quite enough to fill, everything carefully calibrated to ensure submission, to instill obedience.
A stack of clothes was tossed to her, the only colour in the monochrome fortress of vagabonds. She clutches them with all the reverence of someone seeing their newborn child. A gruff voice and a slight shove guides her to an office in the booking area- the kind that she used to loathe but now wished for more than anything. A simple office. A simple desk job. A simple life.
She signs forms in a haze. Scribbling acknowledgement that a normal life would be hard to even understand now. (Criminal records never looked good on job applications.) With the clang of locks and metal, she steps out from those doors into the suddenly blinding glare of daylight not filtered through barbed fences. Into the world of henpecked workers living from paycheck to paycheck, permanently intoxicated on either alcohol or caffeine, the one that had driven her to pocket one too many packs of unpaid mascara.
But freedom was a strange thing. It made the same air taste fresher, the same light warmer. Turned off gravity because she felt weightless; in all but the literal sense of the word. She felt like she could give Usain Bolt a run for his money, if chasing what you wanted was Olympic sport.
Freedom however, did not turn off hunger, as her stomach rumbled – a daily occurence that for once could be quelled. Pancakes. She wanted blueberry pancakes. Smooth fluffy pancakes. Thick maple syrup. Pancakes.
The chase was on.
ii.08 00. A nondescript house. A white picket fence.
“GET OUT!” a voice raised to a volume that no normal person should ever be using at 8am in the morning rings out.
A boy stumbles out of the mahogany door, a tattered backpack slung over one shoulder. He is dressed from head to toe in black, except for a shock of blue and green hair - the poster child of every parent’s nightmare, all inclusive with an attitude to match. The only part of the equation that doesn’t add up is the house with a white picket fence, the kind that raises golden boys and star quarterbacks, not whatever he was. Standing in the middle of the perfectly manicured grass, petunia patches, morning glories collecting dew, he looked like a weed. He certainly felt like one too.
His shoulders are stiff, even as he flips off the man standing at the door, failing to mask the fear, the urge to run back. But he strides off, counting in his head 1 2 3 4. 1 2 3 4. One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. The almost arrogant tilt of his head and the carefree jaunt belies the anxiety bubbling inside.
If you had told him 5 years ago that he would be chased from the house by his father, he would have stared at you like you were a lunatic. The very thought of disobeying his father would have been inconceivable. 3 years ago, he would have rolled his eyes and said “I wish”. 1 year ago, he would have asked “What did I do?”. 1 month ago, he would have mumbled, “I’m surprised he didn’t do it sooner”. 1 week ago, he would have lamented, “Sometimes I wish he just would, so I would have to stop hiding.” 1 day ago, he would have confided (with this stranger who seemed to have a penchant for warning him of his future), “I hope he doesn’t do that after what I tell him tomorrow.”
Today, he doesn’t know what he is doing. Where he is going. All he knows is to walk and keep walking.
iii. 08 00. A hospital.
He bursts through the hospital doors, hair in a disarray, hands trembling - a complete and utter wreck. He practically flies to the information counter and struggles to get a coherent sentence out, “Hello sorry could you please help me find my wife?” sounding simultaneously like a lost child and a man whose wife was about to give birth.
The wrinkled nurse at the counter stifles a smile, reminded of the countless other fathers-to-be whose shoes this man was walking in. “Yes I certainly can, if you tell me her name.” She’s old, she’s allowed to mess with these kids.
“Oh yes. Um it’s…. it’s Amelia!”
“Are you her husband or not? You’ve got to give me more than that! I have at least 6 Amelias here.”
“Amelia Tyler! Could you please, please just hurry? I’m already late!!!!” his voice getting progressively higher as he tapped an erratic rhythm on the counter, eyes darting to the clock and back to the nurse at a comical speed.
“Oh alright. She’s in Room 951.”
He disappears right before her eyes, leaving only the squeaking of sneakers against linoleum as he runs down corridors, almost slamming into a doctor who grabs his shoulders to steady him. He makes hurried apologies, playing the my-wife-is-about-to-give-birth card.
“What a coincidence! I just delivered a baby in 951. What’s your wife’s room number, I’ll bring you there.”
“…951?” He asks, questioning if the old nurse at the counter had played a joke on him. He never trusted her! She looked like she was having too much fun messing with him.
“Are you Ms Amelia Tyler’s husband?”
“Yes?” He’s questioning if that’s even true anymore. Maybe the old nurse at the counter was actually a witch and this is dream?
“Oh congratulations! You have a healthy baby girl. But… she’s a bit early so we’ve got to run some tests first and your wife is asleep. So I suggest you go get yourself something to eat and come back later. You look like you need it.”
“Oh thank you.” He awkwardly sticks out his hand, and tries to convey his gratitude that translates into a rather overenthusiastic handshake. (It leaves the doctor trying inconspicuously to stretch fingers for the next 10 minutes as he does his rounds.)
He turns back to the foyer, but gets distracted by the delicious scent wafting around the corridor. He turns around eagerly and gets greeted by a hospital meal cart.
For one second he thought hospital food was delicious. The doctor was right. He should go get some breakfast.
iv. 08 00. A church.
The church bells ring, a melody lasting exactly 1 minute and 24 seconds.
A stream of people pass through the church doors, some lingering outside to murmur with friends and to speak with the family. There was no lack of red-rimmed eyes and the complete lack of boisterous noise that a gathering of family and friends usually entailed.
Eventually, they settled into the seats, leaving the church full and the courtyard empty. Save for a lone middle aged man, who stood at the church doors, fighting an internal battle to walk through them.
Eventually a white flag is hoisted as he steps in joining the mass of black suits and dresses, walking down the aisle as the gathered eye him with pity. He seats himself at the first bench, alone.
The priest acknowledges him with a grave nod, stepping onto the pew and opening his book. The priest nervously wets his lips. He's done this for years but it's always different and always just as important. Taking a deep breath, he takes in the silence, punctuated by the occasional sniffle, and he begins.
"Dearly beloved we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of daughter, sister and beloved wife, Marianne Knox..."
-
epilogue. A diner.
Lexi is half asleep when the ringing of the door, a slight tinkling, wakes her, signaling a customer at the diner.
She shrugs herself awake and rubs the sleep (or rather, lack of sleep) from her eyes. The door tinkles once more before she makes it to the bar, still struggling into her apron. A rather grimy looking woman - who has seated herself at the booth near the door - smiles at her, a rare sight at 8.30 am; normally it was either sleepy looks or bloodshot eyes squinting in the sunlight. The boy with the seaweed hair, who has just entered, gestures toward the seat and seems to be asking the woman if he can sit. She obliges and he slumps into the opposite seat, proceeding to stare out of the glass mindlessly. Lexi takes their order - a stack of pancakes and two cups of coffee.
In the back, she hears the bell ringing twice more. What a busy day.
Two men join the woman and boy at their table, one looking like he had fallen straight off the wrong side of the bed but had just found out he won the lottery, while the other dressed so dapper, seemed muted, dead. She takes their order - bacon and eggs and an earl grey tea.
What a band of misfits.
~
Strangely the usual mutually agreed silence between strangers at a table had been broken before they had gotten food in their systems. When she serves the drinks, she overhears the woman speaking to the boy. “Freedom comes with responsibility and your parents only want the best for you. Trust me. I’ve made many mistakes and it would be great if I could help you not make those same mistakes.” Lexi wonders when the last time anyone other than her mother had given her advice. Much less a stranger who looked liked they came from much darker places than yours, gone through more hardship than you yet didn’t belittle yours.
~
When the dishes are out, she sees the middle aged man clapping the other’s shoulder, congratulating him, with a slightly sad smile stretched over his face. Makes him look years younger. The origin of those years she wonders about. Questions when someone had last looked genuinely happy for her, when had someone congratulated her without fake smiles and seething jealousy.
~
Over the course of their meal, laughter occasionally bursts from the table, as Lexi strains to hear its cause from behind the counter. She reminds herself that joining their table would be unprofessional, no matter how much she wanted to join the table of loving strangers who seemed to care for and accept each other more than any of her fair-weather friends.
~
They leave together, leaving a tip larger than required. Enough that she will be able to pay for her rent this month on time - a rare occurrence since she lost her job at the newspaper company. She thanks her not-very-lucky-but-trying stars for whatever had brought those four people together in this diner, and whatever had possessed them to leave her a tip of 100 dollars. She looks up, unformed thanks still trapped behind her lips.
But all she sees is the door swinging close, the bell still softly chiming.
POETRY
Weekends
|
 
|
we recline in air-conditioned rooms
closed off,
each an unlit hearth
within created winter.
fading warmth in our iceboxes
found in childhood quilts,
last patched an era ago by
tender hands:
now grown,
untouched.
the corridors are snowed-in
(yes, shovels are outdated now)
but we have found new ways to dream,
insulated from the world.
haven't you heard of windows?
closed off,
each an unlit hearth
within created winter.
fading warmth in our iceboxes
found in childhood quilts,
last patched an era ago by
tender hands:
now grown,
untouched.
the corridors are snowed-in
(yes, shovels are outdated now)
but we have found new ways to dream,
insulated from the world.
haven't you heard of windows?
Either Forwards Or Nowhere
|
|
the usually incessant rain faded away into nothingness in the saturday languor, insipid
moonshine on windows reinstalled never.
the sky was defiled, coloured a foul yellow like old books found in libraries
quiet not for imposition of silence
but for lack of the living.
her mattress was fine as it was. she couldn't find strength, bravery, anything to get up; and so she laid there,
listening to whatever on the playlist
or not listening, but hearing, carelessly.
her mother went out to play mahjong again.
how was it
the acrid smoke of cigarettes recalling the word "tang"
like her surname, or of a blade's anatomy, or of mandarins she never remembered tasting
just eating, swallowing
the sea of noise of shuffling tiles
images of bamboo, fish, blue coins like cobalt
clack! lick! crick!
almost like her gong gong's back
now dug up and cremated among a hundred others
in another faceless sea
that drowns with quiet.
now no one was home
the girl was troubled.
excused from randomly selected classes
(she excused herself)
tried every instrument her mother could afford to borrow
neighbour's clarinet
a lone piano in the void deck
violin from a colleague
put to pen half-assed words
bought textbooks endlessly that whispered "N" and "Technical"
blank pages
four pens scattered on the desk
painted every image she could form
all half completes.
tried every door.
"well, what can i say, she tried what."
"she'll come out fine one lah, my nephew also like that, he got his family and they're doing good."
"if your grades and skills like that then..."
"hopeless lor."
tsk here.
cluck there.
always going forward
but never enough.
what the hell do you want?
what is it you want from me?
i go through every door
and i get
nothing
because this body
is not for me
because this life
it’s not for me.
if you could live another life
what would you be?
but she
she had a melancholy in her that nobody saw.
because in the cascade of life
things get
so obscured
it's hard
to tell
fluency from
pauses.
because in the cascade of life
when it comes to doors
you go either forward
or nowhere.
moonshine on windows reinstalled never.
the sky was defiled, coloured a foul yellow like old books found in libraries
quiet not for imposition of silence
but for lack of the living.
her mattress was fine as it was. she couldn't find strength, bravery, anything to get up; and so she laid there,
listening to whatever on the playlist
or not listening, but hearing, carelessly.
her mother went out to play mahjong again.
how was it
the acrid smoke of cigarettes recalling the word "tang"
like her surname, or of a blade's anatomy, or of mandarins she never remembered tasting
just eating, swallowing
the sea of noise of shuffling tiles
images of bamboo, fish, blue coins like cobalt
clack! lick! crick!
almost like her gong gong's back
now dug up and cremated among a hundred others
in another faceless sea
that drowns with quiet.
now no one was home
the girl was troubled.
excused from randomly selected classes
(she excused herself)
tried every instrument her mother could afford to borrow
neighbour's clarinet
a lone piano in the void deck
violin from a colleague
put to pen half-assed words
bought textbooks endlessly that whispered "N" and "Technical"
blank pages
four pens scattered on the desk
painted every image she could form
all half completes.
tried every door.
"well, what can i say, she tried what."
"she'll come out fine one lah, my nephew also like that, he got his family and they're doing good."
"if your grades and skills like that then..."
"hopeless lor."
tsk here.
cluck there.
always going forward
but never enough.
what the hell do you want?
what is it you want from me?
i go through every door
and i get
nothing
because this body
is not for me
because this life
it’s not for me.
if you could live another life
what would you be?
but she
she had a melancholy in her that nobody saw.
because in the cascade of life
things get
so obscured
it's hard
to tell
fluency from
pauses.
because in the cascade of life
when it comes to doors
you go either forward
or nowhere.