Gravekerbs

In the past, they used to bury the dead in either churches' yards or cemeteries located in outskirts of town.

Nowadays, the dead are usually cremated, and even if we want to bury them, we don't have enough space for everyone in our graveyards or cemeteries. This is not yet catering for the population boom and the aging population etc. etc. factors pointing to an impending demand increase.

Do you think they will ever consider putting up the dead in those patches of grass by the roads, as in, those little plots bounded by road kerbs, lying between the pavements and the roads?

This idea came to me when I contemplated how the frangipani plants are grown on road traffic islands and the above mentioned little plots of kerb-grass. You know, frangipanis used to be associated with graveyards, where they, well, grew. This led to me thinking about how graves are constantly being exhumed to give way to development, and then, why not let their existence integrate with ours and move them into our living spaces too?

In a way, this will help our community to integrate better. Oh you live in Jurong East St X, Block YYY? Wow. Cool! My grandpa's grandpa lives there too, near Block YYZ, by the road!

Being surrounded by the dead would also help remind us on the fragility of life and appreciate our limited time left.

It'd be interesting how the graves would be marked. I think headstones are necessary, out of respect, and so people know not to let their dogs poop over the remains of other people's grandpa's grandpa. Then some of the less fortunate may choose to rent out the back of those stones as advertising space.

Somehow, when my time comes, I think I'd rather be buried than cremated. There's something more comforting about decaying messily and returning to nature, than getting torched, powdered, and encased in a marble, or ceramic, jar to be kept on a shelf. Even if it means I'd get dog pooping on my remains every now and then, or that the back of my headstone would feature an ad, which I hope to be for Tiger Beer or something nice but not bras or slimming centres. Bra ads are kinda strange to look at, in my opinion.

Little Red Riding Hood went to visit the witch

"Go eat a little piece of shit," said the witch to Little Red Riding Hood, who asked back,

"But why?" in her act-innocent manner.

"You said you wanted to bewitch the wolf, right? Since you are in love with him?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but yes... I want him to fall for me."

"Then go and eat a little piece of shit. I mean his shit. It's actually a fairly economic spell, you know."

"That's disgusting! I asked you for a love potion!"

"Gee," said the witch as she lit up another cigarette and thought about how it didn't pay to be kind, "As if you'd know more than me. You must have been reading too much stupid teenage novels or what. Anyway, if you really want it in potion form, then pay me about a thousand bucks or so, and I'd give it to you in potion form. Liquid, right? In your little world, all potions have to be in liquid form, right?"

"They tend to be... It's something for me to put in his food, right?" Little Red wanted to start devising a plan.

"No, you'd have to take it yourself. Why would you think the problem is with him? For not being in love with you? Of course you are the one who needs the potion, to make you better, so that he'd fall for you."

"Tsk," The Little Red pulled up her riding hood over her head. She did not like the idea that she was not good enough for the wolf. She was also disappointed at how straight forward the affair would be, and she wouldn't have to devise of any schemes to show off her deviousness. Yet she couldn't forget how the wolf snubbed her. Who was he to give her the cold shoulder, right? What the fuck? She must make him love her.

"So?" the witch exhaled her smoke into Little Red's face, "Will it be the potion for you, or not? It usually cost a thousand and six hundred and sixty-six. But since you're so cute as to wanna do it with a wolf, I'd let you have it for a discount."

"How much?"

"Maybe ten percent? You'd have to pay sixty percent as deposit first though. If you're okay with it, then just fill out this form, and sign here. You gotta give me his correct name and address so I don't get the wrong wolf, yeah? And any descriptors or whatever. You wouldn't want the wrong wolf falling for you."

"Don't worry I'd show you his photo. How much would it cost for having two wolves fall for me then?"

"Woah! Woah!" The witch widened her eyes, "You're kind of a sick little girl eh. You really didn't look like it."

"Tsk. Just answer the question."

"As separate potions or combined into one? You want them to fall for you at the same time, or..."

"At the same time."

The witch inhaled deeply and looked towards the ceiling, "It'd cost twice as more."

"No discount?"

"Same. Ten percent."

"Lend me your calculator," Little Red asked. She thought it would be nice to let the wolf have some competition and experience some jealously. She had roll-out a clever scheme somehow. The total came up to be 4,500 after discount, but instead she proposed: "How about three wolves for 4,000?"

"Woah. Little Red... Three? At the same time? Now, now, don't be hasty..."

"Tsk. I'm not being hasty. How about it?"

"Okay. Okay. I'm not one to judge," the witch took over the calculator and pretended to do some maths. "Nope, it'd have to be at least 4,500. It's complicated now that it's 3 wolves. And at the same time! I might get found out. 4,500 is already the discounted price."

"Fine, whatever then," Little Red started to fill out the form, "I have no specific preference which 2 other wolves it should be, but just make sure they are handsome, eligible, and preferably sought after. Can I trust you to do that for me?"

"Do you like them old or young? Big or small sized?"

"As long as they're handsome, then it's fine. At least, they should be as good looking as the first one. Here's his picture," Little Red showed the picture of the wolf on her phone to the witch, who agreed that he was quite a handsome wolf.

As she was making her payment, Little Red was plotting a cheesy, Korean-drama-style, love story between the three wolves and her. Little did she know that the witch's potion would make them want to have sex with her so much that they would eventually rape her, because that was just what all love potions were meant for - to let the other party want to make love to the potion consumer. In her case, the other parties would come after her. Lesser did she know that the potion was really going to be made of three little pieces of shit from the three wolves.

And perhaps some chocolate syrup. The witch thought. And some Ribena. To musk the taste. And tequila. To musk the smell. And to give it the 'kick'. Little Red would probably think that potions should have a kick...

Going around to collect and melt the three pieces of shit would be horrid, but 4,500 is good money. The witch briefly wondered if Little Red, being so open-minded, would make a good apprentice (she was thinking of hiring one), but nah, Little Red was probably too romantic to get anything done properly. The witch made a mental note to save any extra ingredients, since Little Red seemed like the type to come back for seconds.

The Tragedy of the Siberian Tiger

There was a Siberian tiger who developed an unfortunate case of odor of the feet. It was not known how he came to contract odor of the feet, but the doctor said he should keep his feet dry, which was to his tough luck having to live in, well, snowy Siberia and to be slogging around in at least ankle-deep snow pretty much most of the time.

It grew so bad that it threatened his very livelihood. Potential prey would smell him approaching and run far away before he even got close enough to think of approaching them. He only knew that they got away when he came across the taunts they wrote in the snow (e.g. "To S. T.: your feet fucking stinks") with their pee, which also stank, but not as much as his feet did.

They were deers, mostly.

He tried to turn vegetarian and discovered an allergy to soy protein, resulting in a case of severe rash he’d rather not talk about.

He would have died of starvation, if not having first killed himself, from the stress and depression, by banging his head repeatedly against a tree until the skull broke and cut his brain, resulting in intracranial haemorrhage, which actually wouldn't have killed him if he had received prompt medical attention, which of course, he didn't receive.

Pigeon

There was a pigeon who preferred walking over flying. It was not that he was a bad flyer. He merely preferred walking.

"Eh, there's food over there!" His friends would say and point to a kopitiam across the road where food was possibly shrewn on the ground.

"Ah, you guys go ahead, I'll meet you there," the pigeon would say back and began to walk in the said direction, as his friends flew off towards wherever.

That was what happened one day, when the pigeon was crossing the road, to catch up with his friends... Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot... when a car drove by and ran him over.

The Auntie who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-food-products

There was a woman, in her early forties, who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-foodstuff at a snack store that she owned. She was gradually turning into a fish. Well, sort of.

It was not as if she grew scales or fins or gills, but her lower lip became larger and protruded, as did her eye balls. Her jawline and cheeks sagged, and her nose grew flatter and the distancebetween the nose and mouth, grew wider. In the emoticon sense, her expression grew to be more like this -
8 (
- which, if one would stretch his imagination in the right direction, is an expression that would really make any woman look more like a fish, let alone a woman who was sort of gradually turning into one.

The last time she had sex, which was the first time after a long time since the previous time, with her husband, with whom she married for a reason she could no longer remember and who was 15 years older than her, something even more strange happened - her belly began to swelled up over the next few weeks days. A few months later, before she could concluded that she was pregnant, she gave birth, on the toilet bowl, to about four-dozen fish balls. After getting over the shock, she collected the fishballs, and rinsed it clean, and deep fried them, and put them on satay sticks, three-by-threes, and took stock, and deep fried them again just to be sure they were thoroughly cooked, and brought them to the store for sale - as the special item of the day.

Since the incident, she did not want to have sex anymore, and her sexual frustration made her sulk even more, which in turn, made her look like a fish lagi even more than ever.

Lenny's Video

He set up the video-camera on the tripod, positioned his chair to the suitable distance and height, watched the play-back of his test-shot, and adjusted the white balance.

Lenny was wearing his company polo-tee shirt. He was proud of getting into the company that they did not think he could have gotten a job in. He liked to wear the polo-tee shirt, thinking it makes a good impression; and, it was blue - his favourite colour - and it matched his jeans and favourite sneakers.

He had his hair styled especially for the occasion. He gave away his usual side-parting when he went to the hair-stylist yesterday and asked for a fashionable haircut. It was fashionable indeed. Possibly worth the sixty dollars more than what he would have paid if he went to his usual barber.
He liked it. It looked like one of the hairstyles David Beckham wore. That was a good thing. Girls liked David Beckham, right? The new haircut made him feel younger and more confident.

"Hi, I'm Lenny Lim. I'm 29 years old. I graduated from the school of engineering from Nanyang Technological University - a.k.a. N-T-U. I am currently a systems engineer, with this company," he held up the logo embossed on his polo-tee and grinned sheepishly.

"I have been working there for 4 years now. In terms of career prospects, I am ahead of my peers. This is proven by how I was promoted last year to an engineer's position. Those who joined the company around my time are still junior engineers."

He lifted the hand-drill into the camera's view. It was a new heavy duty Bosch in
green and black. He depressed the trigger a bit. It gave the loud and intimidating whirl that a professional hand-drill should make. This seemed to assure Lenny. He had practiced using the drill on something else to familiarise himself with how it worked, and he had since cleaned it.
Lenny looked at the rotating drill bit now coated with a fresh film of oil which caught the light coming through the curtains.

As if having forgotten and then suddenly recalling the camera, he nervously re-composed himself,

"Today, I would like to say sorry to... I mean, apologise... sincerely, to the two most important women in my life.

"Firstly, to my dearest mother, whose death I caused by coming to the world, for my failure to make her proud... Mother, please forgive me," he recited, "Then, to my most beloved Jenny, for... my bad behavior... against your wishes. I am sorry for hurting you, and taken advantage of the kindness you showed me. If you should ever find it in your heart, please forgive me...because I really love you dearly."

He tilted his head to the left and put the hand-drill to his right temple, which he had decided was the softest part of his skull, drilled a hole in his head, and killed himself.

(sneak.)

Tick-talk

I dreamt of being infested with my dog's ticks. In my dream, the ticks had evolved, and were no longer single red bulging dots with six legs; they were with three jointed parts, like ants, and had ferocious teeth - ferocious as in it looked like it'd hurt a lot if I were bitten - and looked blood thirsty.

I woke up being a little afraid.

The next day, I kept feeling ticklings on different parts of my body especially on my armpits, my private part, and the part of my back I can't reach enough to scratch properly.

Now, the paranoia has died off, and I don't quite still feel the tickles. I don't rule out the possibility, however, that a couple of ticks are living on me - there're quite a few places to hide - especially if they stay still so that I won't even detect their crawling motion. I mean, like afterall, I don't remember the last time I took a good look at my back.

When I do consider it, the idea of having a couple of ticks on my back is actually surprisingly alright. It's kinda freaky, but really, I should have enough blood going around to afford such "pets".

Maybe if I stay still enough they would breed and breed and one day, there would be ticks all over me. I'd be like I'm covered in red scales - except that they're actually ticks. It's kinda gross, but if I stop thinking that ticks are dirty and disgusting (which they're not inherently), it can be kinda cool. If I were all covered in ticks I'd probably get into guiness books of records in a new catagory and appear on reuters or something.

Ernest Beauregard

Ernest Beauregard was always taught not to stick sharp things into one's ears, lest they burst the ear-drums and become deaf. So, when he was twenty-five years old and was posted to Singapore by the auditing firm he worked for, and when his colleagues showed him around a pasar malam where he picked up a packet of three curious little metal scoops (found next to the nail cutters), he wasn't quite prepared to find out that they were ear-picks or ear-diggers used to clean one's ear wax.

Ernest was shocked and asked with concern if his colleagues and their people knew that they were not supposed to stick sharp things into one's ears. He was disappointed to find out that despite having gone through a well-developed health education syllabus that taught them the same textbook-answer of not sticking sharp things into one's ears, many sensible Singaporean adults were rebelliously skilful with the manipulation of the metal/bamboo/plastic ear-diggers. His colleagues tried to explain to him how the education was only purposeful in teaching the kids discretion such that they knew to they had to properly train themselves and master the ear-picks before use.

To Ernest, it was like finding out that half the population regularly hot-wire cars or break into houses for a living.

Ernest bought a packet of the ear-picks and showed it to his family over Skype to highlight how the absurd Asians were jeopardising their sense of hearing. All of the Beauregards, except Ernest's mother, laughed heartily at Ernest's rigid overreaction.

During his stay in Singapore, Ernest later went on to fall in love with a Singaporean girl.

Once, after they made love, the girl found the packet of ear-picks in the condom-drawer and volunteered to help Ernest clean his ears. He rejected the offer immediately, to which the girl coolly stuck the earpicks into her ears and called him a coward. She also taunted him with a emotionally blackmail of "if you trusted me, you won't be so afraid", to which he countered with a "if you loved me you wouldn't jeopardise my sense of hearing". His resistance crumbled when she threatened never to lick his ears again unless he let her pick it.

She made him lay down on his side and rested his head on her lap. She cleaned his left ear first because Ernest was right-handed and felt that the left ear was less important. Despite feeling intimidated that she might deafen him, and by the power she had over him, willing that little metal spade, he found himself aroused by the intimacy of the act. It could be due to some masochistic tendencies or a new found genuine appreciation he had for the cleanliness with every scoop of ear wax. As she insisted that looking at the removed wax was an important process of enjoying ear-digging, everytime she removed something, she would show the ear wax to him, and they would make a fuss about how gross his ears were. Although he did not admit it, he enjoyed the ear-digging immensely. He thought that it was almost cathartic.

After they broke up, Ernest tried to clean his ears himself, but he caused himself to bleed. To test if he was still able to hear with his injured ear, he called himself on his mobile phone and held against his injured ear. Fortunately, he did not damage his hearing, but he never dared to dig his ears ever again.

On the day he was packing up to go home, he saw the little plastic packet containing the two ear-picks that were left. Ernest thought it was a waste to toss them away, and that he should at least try to use the tiny scoops to scoop something else. He stood in front of his toilet mirror and stuck a metal scoop into his nose to scoop out snot. It didn't feel as good as ear cleaning - it was just a little ticklish and fairly ineffective. He concluded that nostrils were generally too big for the scoops to fit comfortably. He also concluded that fingers and fingernails were impressively well-adapted for nose-cleaning as they were well-shaped and better fit to scrape against the walls of the nostrils.

Ernest threw away the soiled ear-pick and picked up the last ear-pick and wondered what he could try to scoop next. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought that the metal pick would taste bad in his mouth so he tried to clean his eye instead. He started with his left eye. He pulled his lower eyelid downwards with his left hand and manuveured the pick to retrieve some eye wax - or so he thought, as it was actually just some whitish flesh that probably connected his eye. When he picked on it, the hurt surprised him, and Ernest panicked and unfortunately slipped and somehow jammed the earpick further into his eye socket. Thus, Ernest Beauregard blinded himself in one eye.

Years later, Ernest wished he tried to use the ear-pick to clean his belly button instead. He wondered if he could find a ear-pick from Chinatown to do just that.

(sneak.)

Milk Thistle for the Liver

Somebody gave somebody a bottle of milk thistle supplements, and that latter somebody, in turn, gave the entire bottle to me and said,

"Apparently, it's good for the liver."

"But my liver is not bad," I said.

"You can't ever have a good enough liver," he said.

"Then why don't you keep it for yourself?" I said, "It's not very nice, you know... it was a gift to you..."

"My liver's too damaged, you know, from all those years of drinking and cigarettes," he said. "This thing won't have any effect on me."

"Well, it could do some damage control," I said.

"It's too late, and I won't eat it, so it's wasted on me," he said.

"Why not? Since 'one can't ever have a good enough liver'."

"Because I think life is boring, and life has no meaning, and I have simply no will to live."

This convinced me to quickly accept his offer and to take the milk thistle supplements dutifully... for fear that my liver gets as damaged as his.

Flippers

One day, she woke up and found her ankles missing. Her feet merely stuck out at the end of her legs, like flippers.

At first she was worried thinking about how would she walk and how would she get to work and if she was going to get fired. Then she persuaded herself to be optimistic.

Sometime later, she eventually ended up as a circus act. She made a living by balancing a ball on her nose and pretending to be a seal.

Funnel

I dreamt I was in a forest, with the air chilly and still. It was just past sunset, so the forest was getting ready to sleep. Birds flew home hastily.

Then a sheep appeared from nowhere. He was big and humanoid in the way that he walked on his two hind legs. His wool was unshaven for a long time, and it was filthy. At first sight, he looked like a bear or a wolf or just some menacing figure. At sight, I was startled and fell over.

He walked towards me and reached towards my hand. Recognising that he was a sheep, and thus stereotypically harmless, I thought he was going to help me up. Instead, he grabbed me by my wrist roughly, and easily overpowered me, and tied my wrists together with a rope that was seemingly made from his wool. It was also rough and cut into my skin. Then, he tied my ankles together.

I laid on my back on the forest floor. He squatted next to my head and held it down by pressing on my forehead with one hoof. With another, he held out a funnel, and stuffed the narrow end into my mouth. I was frightened stiff and forgot to gag.

He then took out a book or a dictionary of some magical sort, from which he poured into the funnel and stuffed something into my mouth. When they started overflowing from the overwhelmed funnel, I saw what they were - words - black strings of letters put together - and they were alive - like fat maggots - which was a bad thing to notice because then I started to I feel them squirm and crawl in my mouth, on my tongue, and down my throat.

Then out of nowhere as well, I suddenly realised it could have been worse - he could have poured glass, or knives, or debit notes, or sins into my mouth. I think they would have been ripping my mouth into bits - since words crawled and squirmed. Sure, it could have been better, but chances are, in a nightmare like this, it would have been worse.

With that somewhat-reconciliation, I drifted away from the dream and went back to sleep.

(sneak.)

The Song of the Cradled

There was a people who was poor and lived in drastic and harsh conditions. They lived in the high mountains where food was scarce and not tasty and it was cold. They don't think and invent tools to improve their lives because they don't have enough to eat and don't have enough energy to think. These people quite often gave birth to stillborns since marriages were usually between very close relatives. In fact, their children were weak and they often died before maturity.

After their passing, the dead body would be washed and cleaned and wrapped up in some hide or cloth. The parents, or if not, only the mother, would usually cradle the dead child and sing a song. This was known as "The Song of the Cradled". The song was about being born into this world and the harshness of the land and the beauty of the love that the child has never got to experience, and how fortunate it was to die young and having not to suffer hunger any more, and about how the living had to suffer their ill-fate for not being dead yet. When it should come to be their turn to die, they would not be held by their parents, but only be cradled by the merciless chill of the mountains... and they bade their goodbyes.

After the song was sung, the parents would cut the head off the carcass and de-gut the body. They, and whoever at the ceremony, would then eat the flesh of dead child.

I overheard the cats...

I overheard that night, when the cats downstairs and below my window were talking about how there's a kind of crazy cat doctor. I don't know how it works and where these cats came from and why I understood what they were gossiping about I don't know. But they talked and I overheard about how there's a kind of crazy cat doctor from their kind of crazy cat world where they came from. The crazy cat doctor was a kind of cosmetic surgeon who was basically going around trying to multilate other cats. He was cutting off tails and ears and don't know what parts off cats and then transplanting them onto other cats.

What? The other one of the cats exclaimed. no, it was more like, WHAT? (In a way you must imagine a crazy cat would say it in.)

So the first cat went on and on about how those stranger than strange cats that would go and visit this doctor would all be granted these deviant secret wishes, to have 2 tails, to have 4 ears, to have 11 tits and all that. But the real question was, is, was, is? (They weren't particular about grammar and tenses.) Where did all these extra body parts came from?

Some rumours said it was from dead cats who recently died. Some said it was from like orphans that the mothers sold. Some said it was most likely from those cats who didn't speak and were normal and didn't have higher cognitive abilities... that would have been the most humane. like, dummy cats, farmed for this very purpose.

But the truth is, was, is, was, and I know because I know someone who knows someone who went to get an extra leg (apparently so that she could scratch herself better) and saw the doctor for herself, that it was done by some kind of blue magic, or black magic, or the ancient magic of the moon. You could ask for any body parts except for the eyes. There could be no mention of eyes. Because the doctor himself also has no eyes.

You see, the doctor was a subject of mutilation by some powerful magician - probably a human being who owned him as a pet or something - who gouged the eyes out of him and transplanted his testicles into his eye sockets. Makes sense, because only they could be bothered to do something like that. Then apparently, something strange must have snapped and happened such that not only could the doctor still see very well, he had a magical power for things like that.

If you ask me, I would say that the cat doctor probably was a powerful magician to begin with. And he might could might have performed the strange transplantation himself, because of some ancient magic or something, because it's really unlikely that any human being would have known better than his cat. The testicles thing must have only boosted his initial prowess exponentially.

And they went on to talk a little about the degenerate state of their cat-kind before they went away and I couldn't overhear them any more.

(sneak.)

Relieve

There was once a girl who was at a meeting when she suddenly felt a big piece of snot falling apart from the roof of her nostrils. She found it hard to concentrate on what was discussed because the loose piece of snot flapped with her every out-breath and threatened to drop out of her nose.

It was a big one. It was a potentially gooey one as well - the hybrid kind of snot with the dry end and the gooey wet tail...

She really ought to excuse herself and go to the toilet and get it out before embarrassing herself - but being a junior executive, she was uncomfortable with having to get out of her chair in the middle of senior management's discussion and to possibly disrupt anyone by going across the room and opening and closing the big and heavy door.

Thus, she decided to take a deep breath - and to suck in the snot.

It was a big mistake. She sucked too hard, and it got pulled back too far into her nose and that was so uncomfortable that she wanted to dig it back out, but she still wanted to keep a low profile, so she struggled a bit and kept quiet. In a desperate fit, she thought to take another quick and hard breath to suck it further back in so that she could swallow it.

It was an even bigger mistake. She was right that the snot was sticky at one end, and it was stuck somewhere. She felt like gagging and wanted to cough, but again, she was shy and reluctant to attracting attention to herself, so she held it in and kept quiet, and she was did such a good job until she silently choked and died.

Soon after her death, they noticed her anyway because she relaxed and released her bowels.

(sneak.)

Withholder

There was once a girl who was particularly adept at withholding her breath so much so that she fooled everybody into believing that she was dead. They held her wake and funeral and everything. She thought it was funny and marvellous that she should be able to pull off such a feat - until the sombre timbre of the resonance of her self-amusement startled her to realise that she was alone in a coffin buried five and a half feet underground.

So, she decided to crawl her way out of her grave.

After much effort and might, she managed to gasp a breath of fresh cool graveyard air.

After getting over congratulating herself on how capable she was, she thought of what to do next. She imagined that she would go home and scare the living wits out of the people who buried her, and have a good laugh. They might send her for counselling to find out what psychopathic condition might have induced such a funny behaviour before failing to diagnose her with anything specific. Then she'd be sent to school. If she's lucky, the kids at school might find her cool. Otherwise, she'd be ostracised - no big deal - because in a few years, she'd be out to work. Then she'd work - wake up earlier than she did for school - and get home later - she'd wear high heels or sandals and wrinkle-free office clothes. Then, she might start a family with somebody. Then, she might have some children - who might grow up - and start their own families. And by then, she'd realise how old she'd have grown - and then, she'd die of some terminal illness - then, they'd cremate her.

She looked up at the sky and forgot about the blood that was flowing from her nail-less fingers for a moment. Some of the stars shone clearly from behind the scattering of orangey clouds. The moon was new. There was the smell of some random flowers and other things from the offerings to a grave nearby. She thought briefly about looking for something to eat but decided that it would only be too troublesome.

She prayed silently and sincerely for peace to prevail and for all beings to relax and to eventually find salvation from suffering. Then, she anyhow re-buried herself before she suffocated.

Would write

I remember her telling me about how she was feeling depressed and out of hope for life and tomorrow. When I suggested that perhaps writing could help to make her feel better, she said to me, "how can I bring myself to write about anything when all I want to do is to end my life?"

"Don't you have things to do? Things that you want to do and have not yet have the chance to do? Start a family? Go to Europe? Write a play?" I asked.

"Sure, I'll want to do them if I were alive, but if I die, I won't have to do any of them. Don't you get it?"

Even though I pretended not to get it, I did. I saw how her logic worked. I empathised with her and it scared me.

She told everyone that she was going to Europe, but she actually sealed herself into her cupboard, that she sealed inside her room - so that the smell of her rotting flesh wouldn't easily escape. In the cupboard, there were drawers, which was modified by her handiwork to become a planter which contained soil. In the soil, there were seeds of different kinds buried, the most absurd of which was a lotus seed. And she must have sat on top of the soil. She killed herself by blood letting. When they had discovered that she was gone, she was gone, there were traces of blood and other liquids and bits of her bones, but most of it had disintegrated into the earth. There was a little ikea light fixed in the cupboard, perhaps to help the seeds germinate, perhaps to let her write. The ikea lamp was kept on for quite some time because she had made giro arrangements for her utility bill payment and left enough money in the bank for that. Amongst the things she wrote, in a little blue notebook, as she was dying in the cupboard, she wrote this,

"...my greatest regret is not having brought a watch along. Not because I want to know how many days passed, but only to be even more conscious of how time is passing by slowly. Perhaps, the gold casio watch that somebody gave me - if it were digital and without the ticking - that would drive me crazy - it would be perfect. Or perhaps I could live with - no, die with - the ticking.

She had suggested that I could try writing to make myself feel better.

I remember once I was writing under the blue sky. The sky was so fine and brilliantly blue, that my white paper was blue in colour. The gentle breeze, the sound of the trees swaying... the blue sky was so blue... I remember the yellow curtains I had when I was very young. The curtains were very thin, and the blue sky would come through. On Sunday mornings when I woke myself up to watch cartoons, I would spend some lazy time to watch how the blueness of the sky shone through and complemented the pale yellow curtains so well.

Writing does make me feel better. If nothing else I'm leaving behind finds her, please let at least this find her - that she was right, and I was wrong. Writing does make me feel better.

I can't imagine if I didn't have paper and pen to write with now - how else could I make myself sit still here and wait for myself to die?..."

She was wearing shorts and tee-shirt, and bra and panties, and her specs. She was 32.

(sneak.)

The Golden Beetle

My mind smashes around like the golden beetle who is confused by the fluorescent lights whose dashing allure promised and baited it to enter into a room, a house, a building, a world that is cold and foreign and that it just can't seem to get out of - but surely there is a way! a way to defend its dreams its ideal its will to live! It must beat its wings as hard as it can as hard as it can and it tries to go a little crazy i fly towards the outside, but i slam against the window it's closed i don't know it's the window perhaps I should gain more speed, perhaps these walls are like the shadows of a dense tree, if I just zoom into it, it will give way it will give way so i ram myself against the wall but i fall i fall I fall on my back and never mind it's okay I will struggle to flip myself back i will not give up i don't know what it is to give up, i have landed on my back before, when I was young, and I can flip myself around then I will try again and I will take a deep breath and I will fly I will fly and beat my wings so hard and so fast and I will burst through the wall and that sense of triumph will surely make this all worth while I will go i will go i will go and tell this story to my wife my kids or the girl that I love or my father and he'd be proud of me and wish that he was the one who was telling me this story instead and it'll be worth while for that moment of glorious glory to see the look on their faces and so I go I go I go I go! but I fall I fall I fall I fall.

What's that i feel? is it pain? i did not fold my wings properly. did I injure myself? did i injure my wing? did I hurt my head? what's this heaviness I feel coming over me? I am tired it is late I am sleepy the corner here is comfortable and quite familiar I will rest for a while and soon I will forget what was life before because I am after all just a beetle - how much do you expect me to be able to remember? Was I born here? Soon I will believe I was born here. Soon, I will forget what I remember. What do I remember? I was born here. I not know despair.

Emotional Blackmail

There was a woman who emotionally blackmailed a man into having sex with her. After a few times, she was impregnated, and she emotionally blackmailed him into letting her keep the baby and to move in with her. When she was a few months from the due-delivery of her baby, she emotionally blackmailed the man into marrying her. Of course, all along the way, she would constantly emotionally blackmail the man to get her way in every little way.

When the baby was born, it turned out that he was a little monster.

He had six limbs and an upside down face - his eyes were nearest to his neck and his mouth nearer the top of his bald head that was made of blueberry cheese cake - as was the rest of his body - and to match, he was covered in blueberry jam and a fine film of water - like condensation from being taken out of refrigeration too long ago - except that the water was probably salty and more like the perspiration of a fat labourer at the end of the day - which was not how he smelled like, though - He smelled like clean rotten durian yogurt mixed in with a little of how babies' shit would smell like. He had claws like that of a parrot's instead of hands and fingers. He had a tail like that of a rat's. And he had a piece of steamed yam for his little stick of a dick.

When he came out of his mother, the delivery nurse screamed and cried and felt so guilty for dropping the baby that she jumped out of the window - they were at the 23rd storey of the building - and died from the fall.

The little monster stretched a little and yawned and danced a sneaky dance to his mother's side - it was a miracle because he could walk and knew his way about - and strangled her with the umbilical cord - still attached to the womb.

(sneak.)

The Overworked Girl

There was a girl who graduated from somewhere on a bad economic year, so she had to take up a job offer which wasn't that great and had long hours, and she had to appreciate it.

So, she worked and worked, and gradually her hand and her legs and her lower back and her shoulders started aching. At first, she didn't think of much, perhaps it was just having to accustom to the long hours of computer usage. Then she wondered if it was carpal tunnel syndrome or something. Then she saw in the news that some other overworking girl died overworking, so on the third day of consecutive late nights at work, after she threw up in the office because of, she concluded, her disrupted circadian rhythm, she decided to quit her job. After all, come to think of it, it wasn't like her family was dependent on her income to sustain the livelihood at all. With the savings she saved up from the past year of over-working, she decided to go to the doctors to fix her ailments.

The doctor tested her blood, and found a large amount of aluminium in her blood, which was unusual, since aluminium wasn't usually found in the blood. From the x-rays in her arm and ailing physical parts, they found blood clots, and decided that it was bad blood circulation.

Until one day, she "accidentally" slit her wrists and was sent to the hospital, they found out that the accumulation at her ailing portions was not due to bad blood circulation but that aluminium was coating her veins a bit, and she was actually transforming into a machine. The transformation was permanent and it was irreversible. The doctors recommended her to this underground workshop, should she require any servicing. From their personal experiences, this particular workshop's servicing was reasonably priced and the repair crew was knowledgeable - as they figured out how the machinery works from their own personal experiences. They used to be biochemists.

Grandmother (3)

As I was sitting on the toilet bowl, incubating shit, I recalled my grandma telling me that constipation strained her heart, and it occurred to me that, one day, I, too, might grow so weak that just shitting would excite my heart to beat harder, and perhaps so much harder, that it would be too much harder and kill me.