Singapore in 2022, just beyond the brink of discussions about preventing global warming, is hotter and wetter than it has always been.
You are unborn. You are minus one day old. You jostle for a place in the future. Half-sleeping, without thinking, you become. You are one. A day. You are.
Gavin hasn’t changed a bit. That much is obvious when he comes barrelling over to me.
Ah laid the boax ae painkillers alongside the boattle ae Smirnoff vodka oan the coffee table. It doesnae even matter tae me that ma flat is that cauld it wid gee an Inuit the shivers.
5.30: DAWN The boy with the body of a man lies inert. Lips that habitually crack a smile, now still. Chest barely moving. Long legs bare, thin, immobile. The police officer gestures to the door.
The editor sent me a message back, underlining a quote: “This is illogical.” My eyes narrowed, even though I was used to this subconscious intolerance of sociolect.
I never intended to be a tree. Like so much in life, it just sort of happened. I suppose the first sign was the stiffness and pain in my joints, although at the time, I didn’t know what it meant. My knees and elbows tightened, so they were hard to bend and soon it became difficult to move around.
It weighs as much as a grown man’s leg. Its shape, a torpedo. Imagine hauling a torpedo behind you on a stick with wheels, and with a swath of heat or hit of pressure, it can explode and destroy everything.
… a little voice whispered as I dressed for the outing, Take your new glasses, in case you see Tim. I tucked the bronze wire frames in my denim jacket, then bounced. It was October 1998. I didn’t have a cellphone.
It has been suggested, by certain neuroscientists and psychologists I consider to be the Enlightened Ones, that neuro-atypicality is nature’s attempt to coax humanity into an evolutionary advance.
Two of our votaries perched like hawks on the walkway, thirty feet above the driveway, in front of a limestone building constructed in 1868. Obadiah, the senior votary, impeccably attired in a dark blue suit, silk tie – the color of which befitted our calendar – and sunglasses, rested his hands on the polished railing.
When Ba built the garage floor, no walls, no roof existed. White, large men drove in with a truck that housed a sideways rolling barrel; it churned liquid cement into a square, thin pool. The men and Ba settled the grey gruel, swept and spread it out with their metal-bladed, long brooms.
Mia wore weary like a perfectly fitted dress. The type of weary worn by women who let life live them instead of living it. You could see the fatigue all over her face. Even Mia’s outer eyes
I never saw him blink – not once. His eyes were not eyes, so much as bottomless holes. He watched as I tossed an empty pill bottle into the trash by my bed.
The fluttering in her stomach started at school when Brian scribbled Will you go out with me? on her textbook. It was Sunday now and the fluttering persisted.
The moonlight was cold on her skin. The door, a massive, ponderous structure of wood, the one she guarded with him, was now shut. Their day’s work was done.
The neighbours talked a lot about the occupant of 606 A wing. For one, she was so beautiful. No, attractive, according to Mrs Munshi of 606 B wing, because ‘she is dark, no?’ Dark but attractive, everyone agreed.
Reverend Langston Penniman sat on the edge of his bed, stretching his black fingers. Everything – except his stomach – had either twisted up on him or shrunk.
I’ve often wondered whether it might not be better to eradicate the nuclear family altogether, to just let us disperse like loose seeds
She hadn’t seen Her today. Not yet. Una hoped She wouldn’t visit anytime soon
Within the chapel there is a hum, a soft whisper, as a congregation of hymn sheets are placed upon pew backs.