ISSUE 5
Edited by Zack Soh, Riti Bisht, and Loo Wei Juan
PROSEWe Suffer Backwards and Forwards
by Athena Tan Courage
by Shee Yi Xuan Absolute
by Shee Yi Xuan A Person With Many Regrets
by Chong Kai Qing Uninspired Circles
by Wong Zi Ling |
POETRYHome
by Mikayla Quay
by Mikayla Impromptu Itinerary ft. Heavy Hearts
by Xuan Zi Han Paint
by Eunice Chua PTSD
by Riti Bisht |
PROSE
We Suffer Backwards and Forwards
|
|
The sun boils over us like some fissure in the sky, orange beams of light glowing down on us – too bright, too bright for a day like this – and the old ladies out on the street take out their umbrellas. I like to stand by my window in the shade, a forty-something year old male with children to speak of but not to call of, standing by the window of his townhouse, watching the old ladies toddle by with their umbrellas under the sun. I am not lonely because there are pictures—of course there are pictures, these are fashionable old ladies who like to pretend they’ve got their memories stretched out plainly on the spokes of their umbrellas—I stand there and watch the pictures march past. I am not lonely. Of course that is not true. I am and I like to romanticise my loneliness; in some universes the old ladies do not exist and the people they want to remember are there with them, taking a stroll, and in some universes, I allow myself to think that I am purposefully obsolete in my own crater on the moon, lounging in the peace and serenity that the warm arms of loneliness can provide. Of course, that is not true.
Everyone is suffering from the sun. It is too bright and like a blemish in the curved sheet of sky, hanging over us like some torrid mystical force, trying to sweep sweat from our brows all the way to the front of our shirts. It—the sweat, I mean—collects in our clavicles and reminds us of the days when we were more celebrative. People here dress like it’s a party on the street, like walking down this stretch of grey tar is a grand affair. People here are fashionable but have given up on fashion; all their fancy collars and white ruffles and the naughty bits of lace let sweat seep through in the most uncomfortable of ways and the white stands out against the breathable cotton-dri-fit-sweat-resistant material of their bottoms. What on Earth were they thinking? They weren’t thinking at all. I am thinking that everything is a contradiction. I watch the procession of contradictions march down the street like a thirty-something year old man on edge, peering through his window. Do they regret what they are wearing? It is too hot, but they want to look good. Their clothes, when worn, make the skin hot, but they do not look cool. Everyone must be suffering from their regretful walk down the road, down the street, and I regret not having done more.
No, that is not true as well. I have done enough. Nothing is true here. I just like to romanticise everything. Including the weeds amongst the flowers. Here I am a twenty-something-year-old male who pretends to hate living but actually enjoys being the epitome of starving artist. No, I am not starving, no, my passion for my craft fills me up. I’d like for all of us to ditch the portrayals of impassioned artistes with irreparable bank accounts because they’ve spent all their money wiping canvases and paint brushes and the toilets of a Denny’s down the road. I mean, just from watching the old ladies toddle down the street, umbrellas twirling high in the air, I see the wealth of our souls that fill this place. Those umbrellas, twirling in the stagnant air, filthy with the promises that we’ve let slip through our fingers on the rainier days, gleam with flowers, butterflies and sometimes pictures of women. The proper photographs, not the photocopied-scanned-black-and-white mishmash of photos that the cheaper umbrellas wear like ugly cloaks. These umbrellas of these old ladies shine like finery’s been draped all over them; the photographs are about as high-quality as you can get. They say that the more you force your fingers beneath the trappings of time and the wet fog of forget, the more of your past you reveal. That is, if you want to remember. That is, if you had a past and had a life and had something to clutch on to. I want to pay the price and remember it all, like the old ladies toddling down the street shell out their souls to allow wrinkled bodies to parade down memory lane.
Of course, that is not true, because everyone on my street is starving and about to die. I am a teen and everyone on my street is starving, starving for a glazed donut with sugar that the sun will melt into dough. The sun hangs above and I lick the sweat off of my fingers. It is raining and I fight with my mama for the umbrella. I want to hold it; the thin stalks of wrist on my mama’s hands cannot hold up the plate of fried egg, let alone the heavy iron pole of an umbrella. No, that is not true. I want to hold the umbrella because of the photographs. Can't you see, the high-quality photographs of women grinning off of the umbrella, their lipsticked smiles shining brighter than the spokes? The old ladies aren’t supposed to be using their umbrellas today, but there they are, toddling down. There is nothing but the sun in the sky. It’s too hot and skin is meant to get scorched, right? No, of course that’s not true. But nothing is. According to my calculations, anything can exist, and I don’t think I’m one of them.
Of course, that is not true. The police arrested me the other day for something I did—I stole something, a pen, to write with, because I like to chase after words and devour them up into my mouth, like I’ve been starved and a berry pie is put in front of me—it was only a petty crime, and I wanted to write, but the only thing the police would let me write later on was my name in block-letters and where I lived in. I printed, in the finest handwriting one can muster while writing with the cheapest ballpoint on this planet, Townhouse, but of course, there’s no truth in that. My mama wouldn’t let me live in a townhouse; she’d scold me because living in town would mean living in all the filth of broken hearts and broken promises and the trash that young people forget to toss lining the alleyways.
The police like to think I exist, while I don’t. Of course, that’s not true. I’m just a fifteen-year-old boy and all I care about is what kind of Pop Tart mama will put in the toaster. I want to eat that for tea, and lunch, and dinner, because I have a rather sweet tooth.
Of course, that’s definitely not true. The police tell me to stop rambling but I need to tell them the truth. I never ate as a kid. I don’t remember. Release me. These handcuffs shine too bright. I just wanted to remember. I think the old ladies toddling down the street would help me. They know the secret to unlocking memories, those encapsulated in the sun.
Everyone is suffering from the sun. It is too bright and like a blemish in the curved sheet of sky, hanging over us like some torrid mystical force, trying to sweep sweat from our brows all the way to the front of our shirts. It—the sweat, I mean—collects in our clavicles and reminds us of the days when we were more celebrative. People here dress like it’s a party on the street, like walking down this stretch of grey tar is a grand affair. People here are fashionable but have given up on fashion; all their fancy collars and white ruffles and the naughty bits of lace let sweat seep through in the most uncomfortable of ways and the white stands out against the breathable cotton-dri-fit-sweat-resistant material of their bottoms. What on Earth were they thinking? They weren’t thinking at all. I am thinking that everything is a contradiction. I watch the procession of contradictions march down the street like a thirty-something year old man on edge, peering through his window. Do they regret what they are wearing? It is too hot, but they want to look good. Their clothes, when worn, make the skin hot, but they do not look cool. Everyone must be suffering from their regretful walk down the road, down the street, and I regret not having done more.
No, that is not true as well. I have done enough. Nothing is true here. I just like to romanticise everything. Including the weeds amongst the flowers. Here I am a twenty-something-year-old male who pretends to hate living but actually enjoys being the epitome of starving artist. No, I am not starving, no, my passion for my craft fills me up. I’d like for all of us to ditch the portrayals of impassioned artistes with irreparable bank accounts because they’ve spent all their money wiping canvases and paint brushes and the toilets of a Denny’s down the road. I mean, just from watching the old ladies toddle down the street, umbrellas twirling high in the air, I see the wealth of our souls that fill this place. Those umbrellas, twirling in the stagnant air, filthy with the promises that we’ve let slip through our fingers on the rainier days, gleam with flowers, butterflies and sometimes pictures of women. The proper photographs, not the photocopied-scanned-black-and-white mishmash of photos that the cheaper umbrellas wear like ugly cloaks. These umbrellas of these old ladies shine like finery’s been draped all over them; the photographs are about as high-quality as you can get. They say that the more you force your fingers beneath the trappings of time and the wet fog of forget, the more of your past you reveal. That is, if you want to remember. That is, if you had a past and had a life and had something to clutch on to. I want to pay the price and remember it all, like the old ladies toddling down the street shell out their souls to allow wrinkled bodies to parade down memory lane.
Of course, that is not true, because everyone on my street is starving and about to die. I am a teen and everyone on my street is starving, starving for a glazed donut with sugar that the sun will melt into dough. The sun hangs above and I lick the sweat off of my fingers. It is raining and I fight with my mama for the umbrella. I want to hold it; the thin stalks of wrist on my mama’s hands cannot hold up the plate of fried egg, let alone the heavy iron pole of an umbrella. No, that is not true. I want to hold the umbrella because of the photographs. Can't you see, the high-quality photographs of women grinning off of the umbrella, their lipsticked smiles shining brighter than the spokes? The old ladies aren’t supposed to be using their umbrellas today, but there they are, toddling down. There is nothing but the sun in the sky. It’s too hot and skin is meant to get scorched, right? No, of course that’s not true. But nothing is. According to my calculations, anything can exist, and I don’t think I’m one of them.
Of course, that is not true. The police arrested me the other day for something I did—I stole something, a pen, to write with, because I like to chase after words and devour them up into my mouth, like I’ve been starved and a berry pie is put in front of me—it was only a petty crime, and I wanted to write, but the only thing the police would let me write later on was my name in block-letters and where I lived in. I printed, in the finest handwriting one can muster while writing with the cheapest ballpoint on this planet, Townhouse, but of course, there’s no truth in that. My mama wouldn’t let me live in a townhouse; she’d scold me because living in town would mean living in all the filth of broken hearts and broken promises and the trash that young people forget to toss lining the alleyways.
The police like to think I exist, while I don’t. Of course, that’s not true. I’m just a fifteen-year-old boy and all I care about is what kind of Pop Tart mama will put in the toaster. I want to eat that for tea, and lunch, and dinner, because I have a rather sweet tooth.
Of course, that’s definitely not true. The police tell me to stop rambling but I need to tell them the truth. I never ate as a kid. I don’t remember. Release me. These handcuffs shine too bright. I just wanted to remember. I think the old ladies toddling down the street would help me. They know the secret to unlocking memories, those encapsulated in the sun.
Courage
|
When you were young, you learnt that courage was the absence of fear. If that was what courage was, then you were a bloody coward.
Truth be told, there was no reason for you to be scared of anything; your parents were relatively well off, you had good friends who supported you, the teachers had nothing but praise for you, and the kids in your school were all nice.
There was nothing for you to fear, yet you still did.
As you grew older, the world revealed itself harsher, crueller, and this time, you had many things to rightfully fear.
Your cowardice morphed into avoidance, fear manifesting into crippling anxiety, and your life, into a mess of feelings, darkness splashed onto a plain canvas, staining it forever.
(You once contemplated seeking help for everything, but there was nothing in your life that made you turn out like this, so it just had to be a phase, right?)
School was bad, but it wasn’t terrible. The people were mean, but not overly so. And your friends were good, but they just weren’t good enough. You were stuck in the mediocrity of negatives, where everything wasn’t all that bad, but it wasn’t all that good either.
-
When you realised that you may have had a problem with your mental health on your hands, you were a month away from graduating, and had already finished most of your papers, with only the easier ones left.
Anxiety, by then, had its hands around your neck, squeezing away with its ridiculous strength, suffocating you while you weakly struggled against it, while its sister, panic, would dig its claws into your flesh and pin you down, whispering terrible words into your ear. Every single time you tried to ask for help, that grip tightened, and the claws sank deeper, and the words grew nastier, and eventually, you learnt to just give up.
You resigned, turning back to your books, chasing the words in an attempt to run from your own shadow.
-
Once, you managed to break free from the clutches of the demons that pinned you down.
“Mom, Dad, I think I need help.” The words came out from your mouth, clipped and detached.
“Oh? What for?”
You simply shrugged. “Mental health issues.”
You could feel the familiar rising of something from deep within your stomach, slowly crawling its way up to your mouth, even while your face remained perfectly impassive.
You watched as your father turned to glance at you, while your mother made a noise of clear disapproval. “Honey, why would you even need a therapist? It’s not like anything bad has happened to you in life. Maybe it’s just a phase, you know.”
“Okay.”
You turned and retreated to your room, where you’d spend the next few hours staring at the walls, too numb to react.
-
When you were older, you learnt that courage wasn’t the absence of fear, but the strength to act despite it.
Even then, you were still a bloody coward.
-
Now, you were standing on a pier, tucked away in a deserted area of this city.
The wood beneath your feet was broken and splintered, roughly patched together only to fall apart again, much like you were. The rattling of the loose boards echoed into the distance, carried away by the winds, off into the great vastness of the sea and the sky.
The wooden railings had long since fallen apart, one less layer of protection between you and the roaring waves beneath the rickety planks, but you are not afraid.
The wind sends chills down your spine, but all you can think about is how much you see yourself in this pier; eroded beyond repair in a place where no one would be able to see it.
You walk all the way to the end, watching as bits of rotting wood break away to fall into the ocean beneath. You can taste the salt in the air – it’s as saturated as the regrets you have accumulated over the years. There is little that is holding you back from the turbulent blue-green-grey waters, and you suddenly are afraid.
The sister demons are writhing within your belly, but they do not rise up to take over; others may disagree with your choice, but this is yours to decide.
You have been scared and lost and fearful and so much more for so many years now, but you never had the guts to do anything about it.
The fear running through your veins now is electrifying, and it prickles at your skin, but you close your eyes. This time, you will be dauntless.
You take a deep breath, and gather your bravery. And then, you leap off.
This is your courage.
Author’s Notes:
While aware that this piece seems to glorify suicide, the author herself does not condone such actions. Such glorification is due to the nature and theme of the piece. If you, or anyone you know, are suffering from mental illness/suicidal thoughts/self-harm tendencies, please seek help. Suicide is not the solution to any problem, no matter how bad things seem.
If you ever need someone to talk to, feel free to contact the author through the website editors!
Truth be told, there was no reason for you to be scared of anything; your parents were relatively well off, you had good friends who supported you, the teachers had nothing but praise for you, and the kids in your school were all nice.
There was nothing for you to fear, yet you still did.
As you grew older, the world revealed itself harsher, crueller, and this time, you had many things to rightfully fear.
Your cowardice morphed into avoidance, fear manifesting into crippling anxiety, and your life, into a mess of feelings, darkness splashed onto a plain canvas, staining it forever.
(You once contemplated seeking help for everything, but there was nothing in your life that made you turn out like this, so it just had to be a phase, right?)
School was bad, but it wasn’t terrible. The people were mean, but not overly so. And your friends were good, but they just weren’t good enough. You were stuck in the mediocrity of negatives, where everything wasn’t all that bad, but it wasn’t all that good either.
-
When you realised that you may have had a problem with your mental health on your hands, you were a month away from graduating, and had already finished most of your papers, with only the easier ones left.
Anxiety, by then, had its hands around your neck, squeezing away with its ridiculous strength, suffocating you while you weakly struggled against it, while its sister, panic, would dig its claws into your flesh and pin you down, whispering terrible words into your ear. Every single time you tried to ask for help, that grip tightened, and the claws sank deeper, and the words grew nastier, and eventually, you learnt to just give up.
You resigned, turning back to your books, chasing the words in an attempt to run from your own shadow.
-
Once, you managed to break free from the clutches of the demons that pinned you down.
“Mom, Dad, I think I need help.” The words came out from your mouth, clipped and detached.
“Oh? What for?”
You simply shrugged. “Mental health issues.”
You could feel the familiar rising of something from deep within your stomach, slowly crawling its way up to your mouth, even while your face remained perfectly impassive.
You watched as your father turned to glance at you, while your mother made a noise of clear disapproval. “Honey, why would you even need a therapist? It’s not like anything bad has happened to you in life. Maybe it’s just a phase, you know.”
“Okay.”
You turned and retreated to your room, where you’d spend the next few hours staring at the walls, too numb to react.
-
When you were older, you learnt that courage wasn’t the absence of fear, but the strength to act despite it.
Even then, you were still a bloody coward.
-
Now, you were standing on a pier, tucked away in a deserted area of this city.
The wood beneath your feet was broken and splintered, roughly patched together only to fall apart again, much like you were. The rattling of the loose boards echoed into the distance, carried away by the winds, off into the great vastness of the sea and the sky.
The wooden railings had long since fallen apart, one less layer of protection between you and the roaring waves beneath the rickety planks, but you are not afraid.
The wind sends chills down your spine, but all you can think about is how much you see yourself in this pier; eroded beyond repair in a place where no one would be able to see it.
You walk all the way to the end, watching as bits of rotting wood break away to fall into the ocean beneath. You can taste the salt in the air – it’s as saturated as the regrets you have accumulated over the years. There is little that is holding you back from the turbulent blue-green-grey waters, and you suddenly are afraid.
The sister demons are writhing within your belly, but they do not rise up to take over; others may disagree with your choice, but this is yours to decide.
You have been scared and lost and fearful and so much more for so many years now, but you never had the guts to do anything about it.
The fear running through your veins now is electrifying, and it prickles at your skin, but you close your eyes. This time, you will be dauntless.
You take a deep breath, and gather your bravery. And then, you leap off.
This is your courage.
Author’s Notes:
While aware that this piece seems to glorify suicide, the author herself does not condone such actions. Such glorification is due to the nature and theme of the piece. If you, or anyone you know, are suffering from mental illness/suicidal thoughts/self-harm tendencies, please seek help. Suicide is not the solution to any problem, no matter how bad things seem.
If you ever need someone to talk to, feel free to contact the author through the website editors!
Absolute
|
“First off, you have to understand that this is extremely new technology that we’ll be working with, and as such, I cannot have you telling anyone about this. That’s why you had to sign the contract just now, yes?” You nod your head in agreement as the scientist continues babbling. “So, contract aside, since this is a very important piece of research that could change the future of mankind, we will need to put you through our standard tests to ensure that we have the best subjects available.”
You’re not fully listening to her, however, as you peer into the various rooms through the glass windows as she led you down a narrow corridor. The rooms all held different things: a seedling, several newborn rats, a few rabbits. All within a peculiar container that looked like a mixture of glass and metal with multiple layers, leaving the item inside barely visible.
The scientist starts trailing off, and you hurriedly jog to catch up with the figure in the white laboratory coat. She quickly types a long string of numbers into the keypad by the door, before scanning the key card on her neck, and then a fingerprint scan. Finally, the doors slide open, and you follow behind curiously as the scientist strides right in.
The first thing you think of is about how dead the air smells. You’ve been in sterile rooms in hospitals before, but this was something completely different. The laboratory for subject testing doesn’t smell like anything at all; it was but a mere vacuum. The scent makes you choke out a cough, and you stop for a moment to recover from the nausea.
The thoughts about the peculiar stench of the air are soon shifted to the back of your mind though, when the scientist draws your attention to the treadmill in front of you. You sigh and take off your shirt, getting ready for hell to begin.
-
When you step back into the laboratory weeks later, you are still overwhelmed by the strange sensation of how bare the air was. You don’t have time to focus on that, however, as the scientist from before pours you a cup of coffee and explains the experiment procedures to you.
“So, as you already know, your blood test went fine, and you are physically fit to participate in our newest experiment. Before we begin anything related to the experiment though, I’ll run through everything so that you know what you’re getting into.” She takes a sip of her own coffee, before setting the cup back down and sighing. “Have you heard of the term ‘absolute zero’?”
You blink, taken slightly aback by the question. “No, not really. I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“’Absolute zero’, in layman terms, is the lowest theorised temperature possible, at which the movement of all particles are at their slowest. Basically, no life is able to survive at this temperature, which leads to our experiments: to achieve perfect preservation of a body by having it in a chamber at absolute zero.
“We have come up with new technology that has allowed us to hit absolute zero – something that other scientists and researchers have been trying to achieve for years. Obviously, I cannot disclose more details to you. However, what I can say is that we’ve been successful with our experiments in smaller animals and plants. But we needed something bigger, we needed to test it out on our target audience, which was why we started asking for subjects for our experiment.
“This procedure is still relatively new; we have no concrete idea about the risks and consequences this might bring. At best, you get perfectly preserved, and you will be showcased to the world for years to come and at worst, you die. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“This is your last chance to back out. After this, you’ll be considered property of our facility. Are you sure?”
You draw in a deep breath. If you were going to die, you wanted to go big, and with a bang. “Yes.”
-
Hours later, you find yourself standing in a huge cylinder, naked as the day you were born, with scientists and researchers watching you from the safety of the laboratory control room. The platform you are standing on is a strange mechanism that makes dubious clicking noises, and you are so very tempted to question the scientists about it, but it’s probably too late by now.
The walls of the room containing your cylinder are too thick, and while you can see the researchers’ lips moving, the only thing you can hear is the beating of your heart and your uneven breathing.
A man in a white lab coat gives you a thumbs up and you nod back. His hand is hovering over what you assume to be a set of controls, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
After a few seconds you reopen your eyes. Nothing has happened; the voyeurs are still watching you with their needle sharp eyes, eagerly gripping their pens, poised over paper, as though afraid to miss a single detail. You cock your head in confusion, opening your mouth to call out to them.
The very moment you part your lips, however, the peculiar machine beneath you rattles faster, louder.
Then, as though all the air was sucked out of the chamber, you can barely breathe. Your vision begins to warp and flicker, and the light outside seems brighter now. You blink, only to find your eyelids sealed together by the substance pouring from the top of the cylinder. The temperature around you plummets too quickly, and your body has barely enough time to even register the change. Your blood vessels seem tighter, and the rush of blood keeps you warm.
Your fingers tremble, much like a fearful trapped sparrow. The tingling that started from your extremities is working its way to your core. You thought that it would hurt so much more, but the numbness overrides any other sensation.
You feel your body beginning to shut down; your heart is beating much too slowly, and your lungs can’t seem to function anymore. You push the last of the air out of you, preparing to accept the clutches of death.
-
The next day, the scientists pour into the room, where they gaze unabashedly at the naked male figure, with eyes shut tight and lips slightly parted.
They scribble their observations down into the paper in their hands, viewing the male from every angle possible, scrutinising eyes on the lookout for the smallest of details.
Someone sighs contentedly. “He looks like he’s sleeping so soundly.”
-
You are trapped in your own mind, screaming into the abyss, while your body remains perfectly frozen.
The scientist said that death was the worst thing that could happen, but you were certain that death would have been mercy compared to the hell you are stuck in.
For the first time, you begin to pray.
Author’s Note: Due to ethical concerns in cryopreservation, live human subjects have not been used as research subjects. Liberties have been taken with the medical procedures, and may not be scientifically accurate.
You’re not fully listening to her, however, as you peer into the various rooms through the glass windows as she led you down a narrow corridor. The rooms all held different things: a seedling, several newborn rats, a few rabbits. All within a peculiar container that looked like a mixture of glass and metal with multiple layers, leaving the item inside barely visible.
The scientist starts trailing off, and you hurriedly jog to catch up with the figure in the white laboratory coat. She quickly types a long string of numbers into the keypad by the door, before scanning the key card on her neck, and then a fingerprint scan. Finally, the doors slide open, and you follow behind curiously as the scientist strides right in.
The first thing you think of is about how dead the air smells. You’ve been in sterile rooms in hospitals before, but this was something completely different. The laboratory for subject testing doesn’t smell like anything at all; it was but a mere vacuum. The scent makes you choke out a cough, and you stop for a moment to recover from the nausea.
The thoughts about the peculiar stench of the air are soon shifted to the back of your mind though, when the scientist draws your attention to the treadmill in front of you. You sigh and take off your shirt, getting ready for hell to begin.
-
When you step back into the laboratory weeks later, you are still overwhelmed by the strange sensation of how bare the air was. You don’t have time to focus on that, however, as the scientist from before pours you a cup of coffee and explains the experiment procedures to you.
“So, as you already know, your blood test went fine, and you are physically fit to participate in our newest experiment. Before we begin anything related to the experiment though, I’ll run through everything so that you know what you’re getting into.” She takes a sip of her own coffee, before setting the cup back down and sighing. “Have you heard of the term ‘absolute zero’?”
You blink, taken slightly aback by the question. “No, not really. I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“’Absolute zero’, in layman terms, is the lowest theorised temperature possible, at which the movement of all particles are at their slowest. Basically, no life is able to survive at this temperature, which leads to our experiments: to achieve perfect preservation of a body by having it in a chamber at absolute zero.
“We have come up with new technology that has allowed us to hit absolute zero – something that other scientists and researchers have been trying to achieve for years. Obviously, I cannot disclose more details to you. However, what I can say is that we’ve been successful with our experiments in smaller animals and plants. But we needed something bigger, we needed to test it out on our target audience, which was why we started asking for subjects for our experiment.
“This procedure is still relatively new; we have no concrete idea about the risks and consequences this might bring. At best, you get perfectly preserved, and you will be showcased to the world for years to come and at worst, you die. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“This is your last chance to back out. After this, you’ll be considered property of our facility. Are you sure?”
You draw in a deep breath. If you were going to die, you wanted to go big, and with a bang. “Yes.”
-
Hours later, you find yourself standing in a huge cylinder, naked as the day you were born, with scientists and researchers watching you from the safety of the laboratory control room. The platform you are standing on is a strange mechanism that makes dubious clicking noises, and you are so very tempted to question the scientists about it, but it’s probably too late by now.
The walls of the room containing your cylinder are too thick, and while you can see the researchers’ lips moving, the only thing you can hear is the beating of your heart and your uneven breathing.
A man in a white lab coat gives you a thumbs up and you nod back. His hand is hovering over what you assume to be a set of controls, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
After a few seconds you reopen your eyes. Nothing has happened; the voyeurs are still watching you with their needle sharp eyes, eagerly gripping their pens, poised over paper, as though afraid to miss a single detail. You cock your head in confusion, opening your mouth to call out to them.
The very moment you part your lips, however, the peculiar machine beneath you rattles faster, louder.
Then, as though all the air was sucked out of the chamber, you can barely breathe. Your vision begins to warp and flicker, and the light outside seems brighter now. You blink, only to find your eyelids sealed together by the substance pouring from the top of the cylinder. The temperature around you plummets too quickly, and your body has barely enough time to even register the change. Your blood vessels seem tighter, and the rush of blood keeps you warm.
Your fingers tremble, much like a fearful trapped sparrow. The tingling that started from your extremities is working its way to your core. You thought that it would hurt so much more, but the numbness overrides any other sensation.
You feel your body beginning to shut down; your heart is beating much too slowly, and your lungs can’t seem to function anymore. You push the last of the air out of you, preparing to accept the clutches of death.
-
The next day, the scientists pour into the room, where they gaze unabashedly at the naked male figure, with eyes shut tight and lips slightly parted.
They scribble their observations down into the paper in their hands, viewing the male from every angle possible, scrutinising eyes on the lookout for the smallest of details.
Someone sighs contentedly. “He looks like he’s sleeping so soundly.”
-
You are trapped in your own mind, screaming into the abyss, while your body remains perfectly frozen.
The scientist said that death was the worst thing that could happen, but you were certain that death would have been mercy compared to the hell you are stuck in.
For the first time, you begin to pray.
Author’s Note: Due to ethical concerns in cryopreservation, live human subjects have not been used as research subjects. Liberties have been taken with the medical procedures, and may not be scientifically accurate.
A Person With Many Regrets
|
(ending adapted from Justin Chin’s Quietus)
When my mother fell sick, she sent me away. For someone who always lacked the vocabulary to discuss pain, she felt the prognosis could only become poorer picking up the primer, her relatives suddenly pushed into the position to know better. One afternoon, an unbearably hot midday after the trip to the hospital, she told me briefly I will be in hospice care. Don't tell your aunts or uncles. Don’t visit me unless I call. And don’t oppose my decision. You know the reason.
I sat unmoving and unblinking from the backseat of the taxi, my mother in the shotgun. Once again, I was a girl in an ironed pinafore who had begun her menstrual cycle for the first time, receiving prescriptions from her. The ones for me, the ones for her, the ones best for the quagmire. The cramps came from somewhere higher up, but I said nothing. We reached our flat, both knowing that it would be the last time she came back home. As my mother turned her eyes away from the rear-view mirror, away from mine, I realised I unfailingly lacked the words to reply.
---
The longest conversation I had with my mother was an interview with her, a piece of homework for History. We were supposed to do something different for a change, instead of pen and paper assignments. Something about creating a primary source. The task was to put together a meal for your parents, and record an interview with them at the dining table. The questions could be about anything related to their lives, as long as there were at least five.
There were only two of us so I only had to prepare something for my mother. The food was simple – butter crackers with a mug of hot milo. I tried to plate them carefully, but there was only so much appeal you can add to a metal plate.
Why do you need to do this? It is my homework, Ma. I need to ask you a few questions. About me? Yes. Make it about yourself. So that a stranger who hears this can tell what you are like. Don’t ask rubbish.
How was it like growing up in a big family? The drumstick had never been mine. Not that it mattered. It meant that in a logical chronology of events, you didn’t have the luxury to learn as much. Do you feel like many of your years were absent? They were sufficient.
What was your relationship with Pa like? I thought this was about me. This is about your feelings. For someone you loved.
I wouldn’t consider him my lover. There was no time for love. My parents were more concerned about the bride price than excited to prepare the dowry. I think I only remembered his full name when we set down to arrange a date for the wedding ceremony. Not long after the marriage, we both knew we could at best be neighbours living without partitions. We talked mainly about receipts and the weather. From some point onwards, he started saying he had to work overtime and that he would sleep over at his colleague’s apartment close to the office. Daniel, if I’m not wrong. It wasn’t a case of perfidy. I know well enough. But then he suffered from something. It was like a death sentence. I was pregnant with you for six months when he died. That’s it.
How do you know? Living with someone is like looking at a person through a window. You will read his lifestyle, his tendencies, his tenor. And soon, it becomes like a screen. Somehow, he won’t seem like a person in front of you anymore. He’s someone you can see but cannot touch. I know because what Daniel said to me corresponded with what I knew, yet his words were mellower.
I think he was cherished. Did you love someone after Pa? When you came along.
What is your biggest regret? Regrets are for people who did not live properly. Let me ask you, how will you describe someone with many regrets?
Tell me about something when circumstances failed you. When you could have done better.
My mother’s mug was empty by then. But the plate was barely touched. She brought a square of crackers to her mouth and crunched. Before it went down her throat, she ate another. And another. Maybe it was too hard to swallow.
---
The morning she requested to see me through the hospice staff, I felt embarrassed to have had hesitated. The woman on the line did not seem to notice the ambivalence. Perhaps she did, but was already familiar with the stillness. What could we talk about when we meet? Work? Family? During family gatherings, my paternal aunts and uncles always managed to bring up Pa towards the end of the night. It would start off with a note of levity, and then the Second Uncle, old and unmarried, would look straight into my eyes and say jit tiam bak sai poon bo lao (there wasn’t even a drop of tear), as if the words were blood in his mouth. The other relatives would shift around awkwardly in their seats, while my mother continued washing the dishes at the sink. I could imagine how my mother refused to shed a single tear in front of those people.
I imagined my mother crying after Pa’s funeral wake. Perhaps privately, perhaps throwing herself at Daniel when they met for the first time, pawing and leaving nail indentations on his skin as if it were Pa’s coffin, and then perhaps allowing him to grieve with her. I decided to bring a photo album just in case conversation ran out before neither of us were ready to leave. It was thin and pathetic, but nonetheless a filler.
When I saw my mother from afar, her eyelids were battling to remain open, like the canopy of an umbrella trying tiredly to remain plastered to its ribs in a thunderstorm. Her body was lodged in less than half the span of the mattress. Somehow, she aged in three months more than I ever noticed as I grew up. I never thought I could or would recognise vulnerability in this form. The nurse kneaded her calves with a force that seemed so cautious, so measured, that I felt my chest split inside.
I turned away promptly. I knuckled the elevator button and left for the taxi stand.
---
In shaky handwriting, the message read:
I guess I’ve scratched all the scratch cards I have. That’s it. The pills feel like stones now, and my gut is threatening to tear. I feel like my body is inside a thick, thick quilt, and I am both weightless and saturated.
You must be your own spring and your best photographer. Sayang, you know, you are beloved.
A person with many regrets is stilted, muted, heaving, creasing, crippled, sundered, smarted, submerged, soap in the eyes, pins and needles in the heart, waiting.
When my mother fell sick, she sent me away. For someone who always lacked the vocabulary to discuss pain, she felt the prognosis could only become poorer picking up the primer, her relatives suddenly pushed into the position to know better. One afternoon, an unbearably hot midday after the trip to the hospital, she told me briefly I will be in hospice care. Don't tell your aunts or uncles. Don’t visit me unless I call. And don’t oppose my decision. You know the reason.
I sat unmoving and unblinking from the backseat of the taxi, my mother in the shotgun. Once again, I was a girl in an ironed pinafore who had begun her menstrual cycle for the first time, receiving prescriptions from her. The ones for me, the ones for her, the ones best for the quagmire. The cramps came from somewhere higher up, but I said nothing. We reached our flat, both knowing that it would be the last time she came back home. As my mother turned her eyes away from the rear-view mirror, away from mine, I realised I unfailingly lacked the words to reply.
---
The longest conversation I had with my mother was an interview with her, a piece of homework for History. We were supposed to do something different for a change, instead of pen and paper assignments. Something about creating a primary source. The task was to put together a meal for your parents, and record an interview with them at the dining table. The questions could be about anything related to their lives, as long as there were at least five.
There were only two of us so I only had to prepare something for my mother. The food was simple – butter crackers with a mug of hot milo. I tried to plate them carefully, but there was only so much appeal you can add to a metal plate.
Why do you need to do this? It is my homework, Ma. I need to ask you a few questions. About me? Yes. Make it about yourself. So that a stranger who hears this can tell what you are like. Don’t ask rubbish.
How was it like growing up in a big family? The drumstick had never been mine. Not that it mattered. It meant that in a logical chronology of events, you didn’t have the luxury to learn as much. Do you feel like many of your years were absent? They were sufficient.
What was your relationship with Pa like? I thought this was about me. This is about your feelings. For someone you loved.
I wouldn’t consider him my lover. There was no time for love. My parents were more concerned about the bride price than excited to prepare the dowry. I think I only remembered his full name when we set down to arrange a date for the wedding ceremony. Not long after the marriage, we both knew we could at best be neighbours living without partitions. We talked mainly about receipts and the weather. From some point onwards, he started saying he had to work overtime and that he would sleep over at his colleague’s apartment close to the office. Daniel, if I’m not wrong. It wasn’t a case of perfidy. I know well enough. But then he suffered from something. It was like a death sentence. I was pregnant with you for six months when he died. That’s it.
How do you know? Living with someone is like looking at a person through a window. You will read his lifestyle, his tendencies, his tenor. And soon, it becomes like a screen. Somehow, he won’t seem like a person in front of you anymore. He’s someone you can see but cannot touch. I know because what Daniel said to me corresponded with what I knew, yet his words were mellower.
I think he was cherished. Did you love someone after Pa? When you came along.
What is your biggest regret? Regrets are for people who did not live properly. Let me ask you, how will you describe someone with many regrets?
Tell me about something when circumstances failed you. When you could have done better.
My mother’s mug was empty by then. But the plate was barely touched. She brought a square of crackers to her mouth and crunched. Before it went down her throat, she ate another. And another. Maybe it was too hard to swallow.
---
The morning she requested to see me through the hospice staff, I felt embarrassed to have had hesitated. The woman on the line did not seem to notice the ambivalence. Perhaps she did, but was already familiar with the stillness. What could we talk about when we meet? Work? Family? During family gatherings, my paternal aunts and uncles always managed to bring up Pa towards the end of the night. It would start off with a note of levity, and then the Second Uncle, old and unmarried, would look straight into my eyes and say jit tiam bak sai poon bo lao (there wasn’t even a drop of tear), as if the words were blood in his mouth. The other relatives would shift around awkwardly in their seats, while my mother continued washing the dishes at the sink. I could imagine how my mother refused to shed a single tear in front of those people.
I imagined my mother crying after Pa’s funeral wake. Perhaps privately, perhaps throwing herself at Daniel when they met for the first time, pawing and leaving nail indentations on his skin as if it were Pa’s coffin, and then perhaps allowing him to grieve with her. I decided to bring a photo album just in case conversation ran out before neither of us were ready to leave. It was thin and pathetic, but nonetheless a filler.
When I saw my mother from afar, her eyelids were battling to remain open, like the canopy of an umbrella trying tiredly to remain plastered to its ribs in a thunderstorm. Her body was lodged in less than half the span of the mattress. Somehow, she aged in three months more than I ever noticed as I grew up. I never thought I could or would recognise vulnerability in this form. The nurse kneaded her calves with a force that seemed so cautious, so measured, that I felt my chest split inside.
I turned away promptly. I knuckled the elevator button and left for the taxi stand.
---
In shaky handwriting, the message read:
I guess I’ve scratched all the scratch cards I have. That’s it. The pills feel like stones now, and my gut is threatening to tear. I feel like my body is inside a thick, thick quilt, and I am both weightless and saturated.
You must be your own spring and your best photographer. Sayang, you know, you are beloved.
A person with many regrets is stilted, muted, heaving, creasing, crippled, sundered, smarted, submerged, soap in the eyes, pins and needles in the heart, waiting.
Uninspired Circles
|
Time, perhaps the only indicator that this is real (Debatable). In a universe where Time runs linearly, the rules are pretty simple:
What has happened cannot unhappen
What has yet to happen cannot be happening.
Our lives, in relation to this wicked thing that takes while it gives, exists as a handwoven web, entangled and drowned by Time and his unrelenting rules. Each strand we weave into the ever enlarging web only ever takes us forward, in a mirage of colours and textures.
Some shimmer with starlight, erratic and volatile, darting between others, a messenger from the heavens. They choose to diffuse their brilliance into the millions of webs that happen to entangle with their own… leaving behind only radiance.
Others take on the colour of dirt stirred while running after the bus. The colour of dull eyes while standing rigid and pressed up against others during rush hour. The colour of the sigh that leaves their lips as they return home to start on work. The colour of their coffee as they gulp it down with their eyes still bleary and backs hunched.
The colour of uninspired circles painstakingly hand stitched across their webs.
Repeating once, twice, thrice —you furrow your brows here — four times. Another sigh.
You think about it, changing the strands of your web, you do. The possibilities of a different colour, one that blazes like indignant flames. One that would provide sunlit warmth to the webs that fleetingly brush past you in their own journeys. One that would leave behind trails of yellows and reds, jolting small and large webs awake with your boldness and magnificence. One that would make even Time Himself impressed.
You are so prepared to do it.
But you never do.
You’re already halfway through the next pattern. It’ll be a waste to not complete it.
The fact is, you don’t want to change, do you? Not really. The thought is daunting enough and this is safe. You know this pattern. Been doing it for awhile now. Why change now?
And so you return to stitch yet another uninspired circle into your web while the flame sputters; until it’s nothing more than a wisp of smoke…
What has happened cannot unhappen
What has yet to happen cannot be happening.
Our lives, in relation to this wicked thing that takes while it gives, exists as a handwoven web, entangled and drowned by Time and his unrelenting rules. Each strand we weave into the ever enlarging web only ever takes us forward, in a mirage of colours and textures.
Some shimmer with starlight, erratic and volatile, darting between others, a messenger from the heavens. They choose to diffuse their brilliance into the millions of webs that happen to entangle with their own… leaving behind only radiance.
Others take on the colour of dirt stirred while running after the bus. The colour of dull eyes while standing rigid and pressed up against others during rush hour. The colour of the sigh that leaves their lips as they return home to start on work. The colour of their coffee as they gulp it down with their eyes still bleary and backs hunched.
The colour of uninspired circles painstakingly hand stitched across their webs.
Repeating once, twice, thrice —you furrow your brows here — four times. Another sigh.
You think about it, changing the strands of your web, you do. The possibilities of a different colour, one that blazes like indignant flames. One that would provide sunlit warmth to the webs that fleetingly brush past you in their own journeys. One that would leave behind trails of yellows and reds, jolting small and large webs awake with your boldness and magnificence. One that would make even Time Himself impressed.
You are so prepared to do it.
But you never do.
You’re already halfway through the next pattern. It’ll be a waste to not complete it.
The fact is, you don’t want to change, do you? Not really. The thought is daunting enough and this is safe. You know this pattern. Been doing it for awhile now. Why change now?
And so you return to stitch yet another uninspired circle into your web while the flame sputters; until it’s nothing more than a wisp of smoke…
POETRY
Home
|
you have six foot long hair that drags in the rats
from the canal miles away in hometown xiang gang
because for some strange reason i can’t place my
finger on is how you manage to be so foreign,
every breath i take with you is so new and cold
but your skin still smells like faan syu¹ and soy
bean curd what seems like home from eons
ago. you are home and you are travelling you
are mile high clubs and sex under old sheets on
our
mattress.
¹ -sweet potatoes in Cantonese
from the canal miles away in hometown xiang gang
because for some strange reason i can’t place my
finger on is how you manage to be so foreign,
every breath i take with you is so new and cold
but your skin still smells like faan syu¹ and soy
bean curd what seems like home from eons
ago. you are home and you are travelling you
are mile high clubs and sex under old sheets on
our
mattress.
¹ -sweet potatoes in Cantonese
Quay
|
the Morning came to pass
right next to the waves to cast
nets in my drink
teabags in the sink
and took me to the room
where i lay silent, in my cotton tomb.
dark twilight came quick,
crashing through the shelter i made ;
hurl meteors straight
into singing yellow whiskey
and knocked me out whole,
feeling nothing, but the burning cold.
Morning once again, weary and tiresome
but backwards to none and
faced forward to bleeding sun
so in its shade i succumbed
with my mug still, empty
slow awaiting, sails swaying.
evening dawned swiftly,
leaving ceramic crumbs at my feet
sand
under my nails, sightless and sensitive
to the white in the skies,
lone ports in old eyes.
right next to the waves to cast
nets in my drink
teabags in the sink
and took me to the room
where i lay silent, in my cotton tomb.
dark twilight came quick,
crashing through the shelter i made ;
hurl meteors straight
into singing yellow whiskey
and knocked me out whole,
feeling nothing, but the burning cold.
Morning once again, weary and tiresome
but backwards to none and
faced forward to bleeding sun
so in its shade i succumbed
with my mug still, empty
slow awaiting, sails swaying.
evening dawned swiftly,
leaving ceramic crumbs at my feet
sand
under my nails, sightless and sensitive
to the white in the skies,
lone ports in old eyes.
Impromptu Itinerary ft. Heavy Hearts
|
so, my learned companions,
let’s set sail: decked out in a gleaming outfit
of worldly intelligentsia, hunting profit
for the less fortunate abandons
(noblesse oblige after all,
to understand, empathise,
appreciate, that they
latch, loot, then leave.
oh, those foreign ingrates!)
immersing ourselves in their s—, we
sigh, steer the ship of knowledge careening
to avoid thorny icebergs freezing
our conscience. need to flee
(before they,
scaling fences and
surrounding borders,
surge onshore,
scars abound,
swarming,
hastening to k—)
yet their boat teeters
only profit’s in chilly survival
limping in tattered wear
and rusting memories,
they tour the alien globe
with teasing tears.
*a piece dedicated to explore, among many concerns, how the “knowledgeable” mis-understand and mis-construe the struggles faced by refugees
let’s set sail: decked out in a gleaming outfit
of worldly intelligentsia, hunting profit
for the less fortunate abandons
(noblesse oblige after all,
to understand, empathise,
appreciate, that they
latch, loot, then leave.
oh, those foreign ingrates!)
immersing ourselves in their s—, we
sigh, steer the ship of knowledge careening
to avoid thorny icebergs freezing
our conscience. need to flee
(before they,
scaling fences and
surrounding borders,
surge onshore,
scars abound,
swarming,
hastening to k—)
yet their boat teeters
only profit’s in chilly survival
limping in tattered wear
and rusting memories,
they tour the alien globe
with teasing tears.
*a piece dedicated to explore, among many concerns, how the “knowledgeable” mis-understand and mis-construe the struggles faced by refugees
Paint
|
your words drip and melt me into you
the tessellation we step on mocks us
for how we are our own symmetry.
your harsh words splatter when we fight
the alternating patterns that represent us
are a gradient of grey.
your wildness hurls me into swirls that
resemble the locks of your hair
i tug every night for comfort and
reassurance that you are there
the monochrome of our love has unveiled
into the colors of the sunsets we breathe.
we are the
same hues
same stroke
same never-ending pattern.
the tessellation we step on mocks us
for how we are our own symmetry.
your harsh words splatter when we fight
the alternating patterns that represent us
are a gradient of grey.
your wildness hurls me into swirls that
resemble the locks of your hair
i tug every night for comfort and
reassurance that you are there
the monochrome of our love has unveiled
into the colors of the sunsets we breathe.
we are the
same hues
same stroke
same never-ending pattern.
PTSD
|
|
the page turns
the landscape changes
but the screaming stays
the nauseating smell of blood on my hands
the crimson smears on my face
the taste of death on my tongue
return
the faster I leave, the quicker they catch up
the farther I run, the longer they linger
vile beasts nibbling on the remains of my conscience
poisoning my own mind against me
my guilt
my regrets
my remorse
the smell of laughter
the smell of happiness
the smell of spring
never remain
the warm daffodils
smiling warmly at me
remind me of the thousands
of children at my mercy
the yellow sun
shining through the sky
reminds me of the bright light we shone
in their faces before butchering them
the chirping birds, even,
who sing gaily the song of new beginnings
remind me of the soundless tune
of death I used to play
the landscape changes
the book rotates
but the fear persists
the shame remains
no matter how hard I try
the cycle repeats
the algorithm refusing to change
the landscape changes
but the screaming stays
the nauseating smell of blood on my hands
the crimson smears on my face
the taste of death on my tongue
return
the faster I leave, the quicker they catch up
the farther I run, the longer they linger
vile beasts nibbling on the remains of my conscience
poisoning my own mind against me
my guilt
my regrets
my remorse
the smell of laughter
the smell of happiness
the smell of spring
never remain
the warm daffodils
smiling warmly at me
remind me of the thousands
of children at my mercy
the yellow sun
shining through the sky
reminds me of the bright light we shone
in their faces before butchering them
the chirping birds, even,
who sing gaily the song of new beginnings
remind me of the soundless tune
of death I used to play
the landscape changes
the book rotates
but the fear persists
the shame remains
no matter how hard I try
the cycle repeats
the algorithm refusing to change