genre is irrelevant, only content.

Must he cry, must she cry he wondered he wandered. It was no less an incident, no less an accident that we two must end up together and gaze on each other and cry. Weariness crept in oh so slowly and oh so subtly, that she still thought he loved her, not seeing what he felt, not feeling what he saw. It was there no longer, perhaps a little of it left, but not much. Not much. “Hmm.” “What?” A big city, he thought. He was walking nonchalant self-absorbed indifferent ill at ease. Oh dear, oh my a lady said as he passed by. He turned to look at some spilt coffee; he laughed quietly. Brown liquid dripped from the table, hot liquid. Ow, ouch. Let me help you with that someone said and the waiter came flustered and cleaned it up. He walked on, forge forward not looking back. Went into a bookstore, took out his wallet peered in it. A lot of money, he smiled. A lot of expendable money. What shall I buy? What shall he buy someone thought who saw him with the wallet and the expend...

The piece I wrote and presented at the Young Writers Camp '07, during the "Writer's Slam" session. No one was slammed, however. Disappointingly. Hehe. _____________________ A breeze blew. Fluttered, went the leaves. Gazing at them, I paused...then reflected. With silent, disenchanted melancholy, I thought about how easy it is to lose yourself in the abyss that is your thoughts. Hehehe. What rubbish that was, all in the name of showing off to others how "powderful" your "Engrish" is. I am, after all, not like Alvin* or Owen*. I do not use big words, as it can be telling of me- since the size of your words is proportional to that of your ego. But what am I saying? I do not like to criticize people. However, for the purpose of my story, I'll be glad to make an exception. The story begins on a cool, breezy night. Don't worry, no big words coming up. He stared into the sky, with nervousness. His hands were shaking. He had a date. Something, no, ...

I wrote this story when I was 13, and it certainly is still one of the best stories (personally speaking) I've written to date. I actually finished this series up, racking up 30,000 words (I think). Unfortunately I was not smart enough to back up my stuff, and I lost it all when my PC was reformatted. Anyway, I am attempting to piece together the pieces, as well as add new things in the process. This is the very first chapter, of which I remember almost everything. Of course there are new additions (not to mention grammatical changes!), but the main plot of the story is still intact. ___________________________ A person jumped off a thirty story building. And then another. And another. And then hundreds of them came falling down like rain. All of them landed on the sidewalk with loud splats, though the thudding became softer each second as the sound was dampened by the ever increasing pile of corpses. “New Guinness World Record!” a small boy yelled out. “Most people committing suic...

Sarah looked out the window, watching cars pass by. They slowed down as they approached a bump. Then they sped up again; sped away. The day had passed from gloomy to sunny. She liked gloomy better, but knew not why. Come to think of it, she thought, she had always liked rain better than sunshine. One of the symptoms of melancholia, so it seems. Untreatable, maybe. But certainly she was not one who will delight in it. There was another part of her that was a relentless optimist. And sunshine is its prime symbol. As she pulled herself away from her gazing (she had other things to do), she recalled last night. It was a very boring one. Yet she still wanted it to continue. Today was a day she did not want to dwell in. Yet it’s not like you can stop it. She fatalistically resigned. Yes, there was nothing you can do. “Maybe…” Sarah whispered. Why did she say it? She did not herself know; maybe ”maybe” sounded nice. Perhaps it was suitable. Something made her say it. What did? She did not kno...

Some commentary is required. This story is part nonsense story and part slight satire on some issues in my country (Malaysia). Unless you are familiar with them, you probably will not notice the parallels I draw. (E.g. Aryans, 15% discount, Kutadships). Anyway, enjoy! ___________________________________ Prince Democracy (yes, that is his name) was quite intrigued when he heard about the Paper Lighthouse. “And so,” Mr. Fairytale said, “this is the story of the Paper Lighthouse.” “Intriguing indeed. Very intriguing.” Democracy said to himself the moment Mr. Fairytale ended. “So. Where is my cash?” Mr. Fairytale asked. “How dare you show such contempt to me!” raged Prince Democracy. “Off with his head!” Thus, Mr. Fairytale’s existence came to an abrupt end. *** Across the ocean, the very same tale of the Paper Lighthouse came to the ears of King Communism. The Messenger (so was the name of the person who brought the tale to King Communism) intrigued the King with “an amazingly intriguing ...

She figured that since the clouds were rather gloomy, it would be better not to hang the clothes at all. It was an excuse, actually. She drifted back to her room. It was going to rain anyway. Sitting back on her chair, she resumed her online conversation. Much was discussed. Halfway typing, while she was about to press the “E” key, a thought struck her. One wonders why we take delight in trivialities. Enter. Her friend replied with an emoticon scratching its head. She smiled. “That was random,” she chuckled. Hmm…trivialities. *** “Don’t worry.” He reassured his friend. Bad times, after all, are followed by good times. It only rains for so long. An apt metaphor, rather, considering the heavy rain outside. Just get another girl, was his point. His friend got his meaning, and nodded. “But she meant a lot to me,” he said. Yeah. Breaking up is tough. Especially when that someone happens to mean a lot to you. He mused silently. Then again, my cat meant a lot to me. I think. And it ran away, ...

"Ahem". It was what the Captain usually did. It wasn't much, but certainly it was enough to gain the attention of the troop- mostly consisting of young teenagers and older children (to crudely categorize them), who were very much uncomfortable. The scorching sun, of course. Mercilessly baking their bare backs. And no, sunblock was not available. Not that it would ease their suffering at all. "Can we go?" said Sarah, in a very pleading, very urgent, tone. Those who heard her nodded in agreement. The torture was apparent- they were right next to the cool, blue lake. Its waters inviting them. Mercilessly, again. The only thing between them and the lake was the Captain, who could not be blamed for suspecting imminent mutiny. So he decided to appease them. "You may swim in the lake." he said, with an air of defeat. Nobody bothered to say anything to the Captain, nor to express their relief. The only sounds there were? Exclamations of sheer delight (and spla...

Silent, was her stare. It conveyed little…no…no emotion. He wondered why. He looked into her eyes, and smiled. She didn’t smile back. He looked away. She turned away. “What was her name?” Jason’s friend asked him. He shrugged in reply. “Just a woman who was…looking at me.” Jason added, a moment later. “Why?” Jason pondered awhile, before he replied, “Dunno.” He fiddled at his food with his fork. “I’ll go first.” His friend said, and got up. Jason nodded. He thought hard. He remembered her from somewhere. A familiar face. Their eyes met. She was 9, he was 16. Both, side by side, on a swing. She giggled. “What?” Jason asked. “You’re too old for this sort of thing!” she said, matter-of-factly, in a tone that resembled a delightful squeal. Jason laughed. “Says who?” “Says me!” He smiled. “I’ve always liked the swing. Helps me think.” “Oh?” said she. “Yeah.” He saw her there everyday, but he never bothered to ask for her name. She didn’t e...