Even though it is her second trip up the Balik Pulau hill, Sanhui still turns into the wrong lane. She does not understand why her father chose to live so high above, in the middle of nowhere. But she made a promise to visit him at least three times a year.
After twists and turns, she finally reaches Lotus Garden, where the buildings are adorned in earthy tones and overhanging gable roofs. The sunlight falls on the shoulder of a large golden Guanyin Pusa statue, which meditates on top of a gigantic lotus flower with her eyes closed. The fallen leaves whistle a relaxing, serene tune that can easily soothe one’s soul. No wonder her father invested his retirement funds to secure a unit in this tranquil sanctuary, away from Ayer Itam’s hustles at the foothills.…
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“See you tomorrow,” says Grandpa Julien, as his fake daughter drops us at the door for our usual weekend visit.
He waves as she skitters down the steps. The stinkers. I sling my backpack hard into Julien’s messy living room and stomp into the house. He looks the same as always with his rumpled velveteen jacket and a wild geranium in his snow-white hair. Mom and Julien pretend he’s our grandfather. He is really our father. Mom was really just a model for his paintings. They’re not related.
Yesterday I found out about the big lie. How doesn’t matter.
“Gampa!” Sprout jumps into his arms, reaches to jiggle the flower in his hair, and slides down his body to the ground.
Slinky, Julien’s ancient Siamese cat, rubs the side of her body against my bare leg, then disappears before Sprout can grab her tail.…
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I used to be jealous of the rising tide, for it could never leave
Just lap at jagged teeth and spray its foam upon your sleeve
My blindness felt the seagulls flee, their mocking heard no more
Yet still the tide, it rose in time, to crash on rocky shores
I know why the kestrel races, on the hunt for freckled faces
In the beaches, ports, and harbors, raving for its saving graces
In the alleyways, for forty days, I heard them caw
In the burning trees, I heard their pleas, their throats so raw
I swore the birds, they never rest, for land and earthly law
Don’t much apply in cyan sky and clench of vulture’s jaw…
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That damn commercial. It kept airing in between game shows, its sentimentality breaking up the raucous flow of applause and flashing lights and cartoonish contestants. A little girl calling her grandmother on an iPhone and telling her about a sunflower she drew at school while the grandmother looked out the window at the lone sunflower in her yard and smiled. After about its 50th airing, Lottie powered on her father’s old desktop computer and ordered an iPhone on Amazon.
She hadn’t made a call with it yet, but she had managed to download Facebook. She filled out a few of the information fields — full name (Loretta “Lottie” Finster), occupation (retired financial advisor), relationship status (single), and education (Pine Valley High School, Dartmouth). The app suggested some friends.…
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Did I feel reformed? I can’t say. But, as I watched those heavy, black gates dizzyingly sweeping to a close, one thing was certain – I never wanted to see them again. That day, with the last rays of the sun, a period of my life ended that I wished never to relive or recall again.
The railway station was teeming with people, fortunately for me. After all, where could a person hope to attract least attention if not in a crowd? Nonetheless, there must have been something very singular about my appearance, for I noticed that even in the midst of their busy operations, they managed to throw a furtive glance or two my way – a distinction awarded to no other person.
There were still two hours before the train was due.…
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I’ve seen her fragmented,
with pupils swollen, overfilling to black,
not mourning the absence of color.
My neck tilts—revealing
her skull to be a collection of shards.
Yet, always her mouth curls up,
the corners pointed to satisfaction.
Tonight, the moon strikes her.
Rotted prisms bark back at me.
I peel along my damaged skin,
scraping the imperfection,
hoping my blood gives her new life.…
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Getting them into bed is easy. Once there, many get the wrong idea.
“It’s not that kind of club,” Nemo chides, grabbing her hands before they snake below his waistband.
Pouting, the USO girl toys with the filmy mosquito net draping the bed. “I’ll be very quiet.”
“I’m sure you will,” he purrs, playing along. “But first, sleep. It’s part of the experience.” Nemo hands her a NightCap elixir. “Be a good girl. Take your medicine.”
Giggling, she downs the cocktail, flops onto the bed, and drifts off in seconds, nostrils quivering with whistling snores.
He’d like to join her, but Nemo does not sleep, not yet. Rubbing his gritty eyes, he pulls the gauzy fabric closed, watches the black dots of her nightmares swirl into the net, then leaves to find another sleeper.…
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