Just a drop of water in an endless sea

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- Kar Min

FIFTY-FIVE FICTION

Shelley
Today the ocean is a mourning murderer. A half-dressed skeleton reclines on a wooden pedestal. He is haloed by fire in the salt-spiked air, surrendering to the blind music of the sea as red night descends. You crane your neck as you circle overhead and see only those loving waters pooling round an empty shell.

Fat Hope
That day I gave you a fat bag of hopes. You looked in and found Heart, which was slightly squashed by Affection. Later you returned me everything, saying that you couldn’t own my Dreams. You thought I wasn’t looking when you slipped my red globe into your breast pocket and exchanged it for your own.


Her pen draws ragged circles. She scouts the table top for invisible ink she might have left before the invigilator’s harsh “remove all notes and materials from the examination hall”. Panic is an old friend. Questions glare at her, marring the innocence of fresh white paper, still hot from the photocopier. Her mind fires blanks.

Angel
I remember when you and I sat on the beach as the sea threw its blankets over us. You kissed the salt on my eyelids and said you tasted honey. I asked why you desecrated your wings with this raw, jagged soul – you simply replied that every sand grain was the crumb of a star.

WRITING ABOUT WRITING
Who is a writer?

Last Wednesday there was a commotion out in the corridor of our apartment, the sound of muffled boxes and cartons on roller skates. I tiptoed to look through the peephole and listened to the distorted voices rebounding against the front door. With a squint I distinguished the figure of a thin man in a black suit standing directly outside. My neck cramped and uncramped as he pointed directions to the brawny, faceless men who were dragging big brown slabs of cardboard down the hallway. The boxes sailed down the dirty carpet and disappeared from my view on the right. By this time my feet hurt and my brother had crept up and poked me in the back.

"New neighbour," I explained, my lips almost brushing the door. I heard his grunt and subsequent retreat to the computer. The familiar video-game gunshots began.

Outside, the thin man jumped, startled.

I tried another angle and understood why. A box had fallen on its side – there was a gash in its brown sealing tape and what looked like smaller boxes were bleeding from it. The small boxes began doing splits face-down on the carpet and I realised that they were all identically gaudy little books! The thin man was making violent hand actions and shaking his head as he shooed away the brawny ones. No-one was allowed in his protective radius as he knelt down, pushed the box upright (wincing as the remaining contents tumbled and gurgled), began picking up the little books on the floor and gently, gently refilled the void in the injured box.

I could almost hear the forlorn shuffle of the box on the floor as he pushed it out of my sight, into the apartment next door.

There was no one left outside but the carpet. Gingerly I unlatched the door, pushed down the handle and pushed it just the tiniest fraction open. My nose fit the gap perfectly. My eyes must have crossed themselves as the narrow sliver of light showed me: a lonely hallway, a floor of footprints in transit, and a little book lying curled up like a child after a fall. It looked so dejected that I had to run out and pick it up.

It was a notebook. It was lined, perhaps with worry, and filled with more (squiggly) lines which told the story of another world. I sat in the hallway and read of laughter, bloodshed and the clashing of souls. After the final full stop I felt a horrible emptiness and a need to return to the obvious and the insincere – so I observed that dust was attacking the cover, its corners were bent at a strange angle, and half the book was mutilated by an angry crease. The handwriting resembled barbed wire. But I thought it was beautiful, a bird with a broken wing. I thought I would nurse it back to health and set it free.

In a sudden the Next Door opened and there was the thin man, standing sideways in the doorway, pretending to usher the brawny men out while making shooing motions with his hands. I was right opposite him, crouched on the floor with the black book hanging from my palms. For a moment I shut my eyes and listened to the clumpy bootsteps of the men as they marched down and away, their low, disgruntled mumbles about "bloody sensitive artist types" and "I need a donut now". The sounds faded into the distance as the carpet began to make my nose itch.

After I sneezed, I opened my eyes. He was still standing there, but now he was looking at me and the book in my hands. Just then I realised how tacky it was, how its blue spirals clashed with its burgundy plastic coat and how the dreadful logo proclaiming REDTYPE INC: communicable solutions for The Future was a violent stain on the spine. Yet I didn’t want to let go of it. As I glanced down at the open face of the book, the spidery handwriting spun a web for my heart. I knew I was holding life in my hands.

One, two, three. That was all it took for him to cross the hallway. I didn’t want to have a conversation with his knees so I stood up, very slowly, keeping the breathing book in my arms. My eyes were level with his shoulders but I thought it strange how his voice seemed to be right in my ear as he said,

"Sorry, is that notebook mine?"

My gaze flickered up to his face, which was angular and slightly ill-looking. His eyes were like fog. Were these the windows out of which he was looking when he sketched a world to life in his notebook, using no more than words, the rough tools available to every commoner on the street? Those eyes frightened me. I dropped my stare.

"Come, return it to me." I think he meant to sound coaxing but I would not be coaxed. His hand stretched out, and I saw blueish stains on his fingertips. Was that the ink of the sky in his creation? Was that the hand with which he spun an epic on a garish company notebook? It was too much to believe. I took a step back, stumbling against the wall.

"Who are you?" My voice wobbled on a tightrope. He lowered his eyes to meet mine, head tilted at a slightly amused angle, and his voice was quiet laughter.

"I’m a writer." He smiled.

I crumbled and placed the book in his open palm.

55 Fiction + 500 words

Weighing the truth

She was the best partner a person could have. She was faithful, loyal and always brutally honest, even if it meant hurting people in the process. She never told a lie to anyone, even in the most disastrous circumstances. But she dreaded the day she would have to tell him that he had gained weight.

Best teacher in the world
Mr E was the best teacher in the world, correcting student's mistakes all day without pause. Never giving up in the face of stubborn obstacles hindering the truth from prevailing, persisting despite all odds. Sadly, he knew that his legacy would soon end, as they gradually rubbed away his life and essence away on paper.

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Who is a writer?

It has long been said that the pen is mightier than the sword. Man has written throughout the centuries, through the peaks and troughs of our happiness and prosperity, and we have come a long way since then. From scribbling on thin pieces of tree bark, we now have no lack of paper and writing materials to pen down anything we might want to communicate to others, and with the popularization of the computer and the internet, it is now easier than ever for one to expose himself to different bodies of writing.

Logically, if you have a fair mastery of at least one language and can compose sentences, you are supposed to be able to write. In my opinion, this is condition does not necessarily lead to the definition of a writer. This might come off as slightly elitist in my discerning, but I believe those who write because they are forced to and do so grudgingly, perhaps for a school assignment or an essay, are not writers. True writers embrace the freedom that they possess in being able to write and thoroughly enjoy any opportunity they have to write. Being mindful of the great potential that writing has in shaping society and mindsets, they often craft their writings with specific messages to be conveyed to the intended readers in mind. Writers are empowered with language, empowered with powerful vocabulary that can be used for almost any purpose imaginable - to sway the minds of the impressionable, to promote propaganda theories or simply allow the reader to enjoy captivating stories.

Writers are people who are often staunchly devoted to their craft and are excruciatingly aware of the impact their writings might bring. Historically, many writers have been ridiculed for their works that did not conform to society’s norm and often for expressing ideas that have been so shocking and controversial in that time that people responded by banning the relevant book from further publication. They often have the determination and conviction to bring their thoughts across to people and never waver until they successfully accomplish the task.

The writer aims to preserve his thoughts and ideas in his writing, and in this way, he ensures that his ideas will live much longer than he will. The writer can be said to possess the vial of immortality, as through his works, his ideas will transcend the generations, stay unchanged in the face of time, and will always remain relevant in some way or another.

Writings are also historical timepieces that are infinitely educational in some way or another. When we pick up a book, we are actually picking up a memento of that time it was written in. In reading different books, we learn about different historical periods with varying societal expectations, cultures, beliefs and behaviour.

The history of man is a great story waiting to be written. What are you waiting for?

-Kiasu parker Wan Hui