Blue Seas

I knew I was going to die, Long before I did. I could feel it in my bones. I could feel it in the dark, bottomless pit of pain That I could no longer give a name. I knew I was going to die, Long before the bullet left your gun. Before it missed my heart, as it has always been your intention, And shattered my collarbone instead. Before the wisp of smoke momentarily clouded your face. Before the burn and residue from the .38 caliber GSW singed my skin. I knew I was going to die, Before I crumpled to the ground, ageless and graceless,  Like my life before me had been. Before the adrenalin and shock prevented the pain to settle in. Before the dark blood surged out and pooled around my neck. I knew I was going to die, Because I had never really been alive. And when you finally pulled that trigger, I briefly saw my life flash before my eyes. None of it mattered, until this very moment now, The moment I had been born for. 

"Yes." "Yes." "Uh-huh." "Uh, no. I checked the accounts last night. I transferred it a week ago. It should have reached by now." "Yes, he's fine. I spoke with him yesterday. No, don't call him today, he has an exam. I'll tell him you'll call him tomorrow after you reach Hong Kong." "I have to leave in five minutes if I want to make it to the meeting on time." "I'm fine, dad. Are you? Did you bother to get a check-up done before you left?" "Hmm, I thought as much." "Dad, I said, Luke is fine. No, I've transferred his rent for this month. Yes, and the tuition fees." "Not bloody likely." "Fine, I won't swear." "Sorry." "I don't know, Dad! I can't tell you three months in advance if I'm going to get a leave for..." "Yeah well, when I...you know what? Never mind. I'm ...

'The number you are trying to call is currently not reachable. Please try again later.' "Welp!" I thought, as I took the escalator steps two at a time, phone pressed between my left ear and shoulder, right hand clutching my wallet and EZ Link card and left hand balancing my briefcase and a couple of files from work. "Lilly, please pick up your phone!" As if on cue, my phone rang out shrilly. I backed up against the wall to let the rush hour crowd from the MRT pass me by and transferred the contents of my right hand to my left and answered my phone. "Your'e late," I heard my sister snap on the other end. "I know, I'm sorry!' I pleaded between breaths, "I've almost reached, just...need...to...cross the street," I said resuming my pace with the rest of the crowd, "Ow, these heels are killing me. Is Sandy there yet?" "Of course he is," Lilly snorted, 'We drove here together from work." ...

I cannot touch him. My hands recoil and I fold them and keep them to myself. Much as I want to, I am afraid. He has fallen asleep, still in his dinner clothes. A silk shirt, a vest. An expensive suit. Still wearing his tie. The coat he's thrown at the foot of the bed. The shoes kicked to one side, near the door. The socks lying around, strewn on the carpet. I sit at the head of the bed, listening to him breathe. He is lying face down. I want to tuck a pillow under his head and cover him with a blanket, but I haven't the heart to disturb him. Besides I really don't want to touch him. He looks so fragile. It had taken days and days of coaxing to get him to agree to go out. We had gone for dinner. He hadn't said a word, barely eaten. Then come back and flopped down on the bed and passed out from sheer exhaustion. There was little I could do or say that would make him feel better. I could never love him like he deserved to be loved.  Love . What a silly notion, h...

I walk into the room and throw my stuff unceremoniously on his bed. He doesn't even look up from the book he is reading, some dialogue on philosophy, the usual nonsense he reads. Philosophy. As if real people like me, who have real jobs, can just afford to sit around reading poetic discourses written by some two thousand year old Greek. "You're back," he mutters. I don't bother replying. I walk to the fridge instead. I dig past behind the bottles of beer and find a pastry. There are eggs, I could cook them for dinner, I process mentally as I stuff the pastry into my face. I turn around to look for my laptop. There's no point in wasting time. Might as well get to work. "Why are you here?" he asks, this time looking up from his book. Because I'm stupid. Stupid. I think to myself. "Because I owe your mother a favour," I say aloud, shortly. "So you've come here, to watch me, as a favour for my mother?" he says, rolling his...

I watched him as he took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. I watched him lift his other hand and run his long, spidery fingers through his dark, curly hair as I fought the urge to wave the cloud of smoke away from my face. "I thought you quit..." I said. "Extenuating circumstances," he said, exhaling deeply again, keeping his eyes fixed away from my face. "I'm sorry," I blurted. I didn't what to say. He shrugged. I felt so bad. He looked so broken. I tried to look away from him. I blinked my eyes rapidly. I didn't want him to notice my tears. "I thought you had left," he said slowly. "I did," I said quickly. "And yet, here you are..." he said inhaling another long puff, all the time looking away from my face. "Extenuating circumstances," I mumbled. He let out a short, rasping laugh. I didn't find it funny. Not one bit. "You should leave," he said matter-of-factly, t...

Katie sat down on the sofa and frowned unhappily at the side stitch marks on her thighs made by her skin-tight jeans. She poured a little bit of Japanese Cherry Blossom body lotion in her cupped palm and began rubbing them onto her legs.  Paula turned her head to look behind her and then continued to stare down the balcony. Yesterday, in a fit to get into the holiday spirit, the girls had strung little fairy lights along the balcony railings. They were gleaming red and yellow and blue and orange and green in an alternating fashion now. Paula sighed. Alexa looked up from the floor where she was sitting and cleaning out her DSLR lenses.  "What's wrong Paulie?" she asked good-naturedly. "Nothing." said Paula absentmindedly, still staring out from the balcony which overlooked a street below. It was empty. "OOH YE-AH..." Music blasted in from the kitchen where Sandrine was cooking. She stuck her head out from the kitchen door, 'I'm making a...

"Hush! Don't cry..." The mother clasped the child to her body. Whatever little space remained between them was closed. The child buried his face in the mother's neck and howled. His tears smothered, drowned over the mother's reassuring words of kindness. The pangs of hunger. The sense of disappointment. The feeling of unhappiness and failure and grief that was seeping into it, through its skin. The child couldn't take it any more. A fresh wave of tears washed over him. He was lying on the floor. Curled up in a foetal position. Crying. The mother came, tried to embrace the defeated being. Crooned soft, calming words. The child's body shook. The mother stroked his head and murmured, "Don't cry." The child sobbed loudly in reply. The mother sighed and said with finality, "Don't cry. For there is no end to this grief."

She hides. Who do you hide from? The morning rays catches the tinted windows. The curtains rustle softly in the wind. Wait, did I just hear a windchime?  So many things she's seen. She knows what the real world is like. She's not a child anymore. She was never a child. The flurry of activity down the hall. The buzz of conversation and amused laughter. The pitter-patter of flip-flopped feet against the kitchen tiles. The sizzle and smell of pancakes. I try to draw her out of the shell. She's so shy! I would have never thought when I first met her. The others smile. The kettle whistles. Coffee is ready, almost. She's still hiding. This is getting annoying. What is she so desperate to hide from anyway? My eyes sweep over the hall. Magazines strewn over the coffee table. A spaghetti stain on the ottoman. The bottle and glasses from last night, propped on the sideboard. Signs of the people who live here. She's hiding from herself. Breakfast is ready. I yawn,...

"I would do anything for you. Anything. Really." She could see him. She could see his lips moving, forming every word. His slightly parted, parched lips. She could see the hint of a five o' clock shadow on his jawline and upper lip. She could see the beads of sweat collecting at the side of his dark eyebrows. Yet she couldn't hear him properly. As if his voice was muted in her mind. His hand touched her cheek to turn her face towards his, in an attempt to get her to focus. "Look at me. I would go to the ends of the world for you. I'm willing to do everything. Whatever it takes to make you happy. If there's anything you want, anything at all, I'll do it for you." Outside, lightning streaked across the dark sky illuminating the horizon in one, white flash. Rumbling thunder followed. "It's going to rain," she said softly. Her voice sounded hoarse. "Look at me! Listen to me! I love you and I mean it." ' ...

"If I fell, would you catch me? If I left, would you wait for me to come back? If I made a mistake, would you forgive me? When I'm in trouble, will you shield from this world? If I mess up, will you help me clean up and start over?" "Of course, I will. But I'd rather you didn't do these things in the first place."

John Dykes: Welcome and good evening! The FIFA World Cup South Africa 2010 is coming to and end tonight. Spain and Holland will battle for the cup tonight, after the spectacular Closing Cermony at Johannesburg. I'm here with our experts Shebby, hello. And Steve. Good evening Steve! And of course our special guest, err, Paul! *points to orange octopus in tank* So, Shebby, what do you think of tonight's Dutch formation? Shebby: Um, a 4-3-1-2 is always a dicey formation. Even though I must say they have seen success with it before. Steve: Yes, I mean it did go against Loew and his boys the other night. But the match against Uruguay, what a splendid performance! John Dykes: And Paul? What do you have to add to this? Paul: glub glub John Dykes: Very well then! That said, we'll take a short break and then we'll join you for the first half of the FIFA World Cup 2010 finals with John Helm, the commentator. Don't forget to tune in to the scintillating First H...

"Where..were...you? Why...why did you leave?" he said. He was panting, breathing in and out. In and out. The wind blew, the leaves rustled, the water lapped at the side of the docks where we were standing. The noise of the traffic blared from the city. The crows, the sparrows and the pigeons screeched as they flapped back to their nests at the end of the day. The big, bright orange sun sunk in slow motion into the bay. I didn't see any of that, I didn't hear any of that. I didn't even feel any of that. All I could see was him. Standing in front of me. Breathing. In and out. In and out. "You left, you left me. With nothing. I... I had to come...thousands of miles. Why? Why...did..you... leave?" "You weren't mine to keep" "Okay...that. You don't get to decide that. You understand me?" I could barely nod. The giant, gaping hole that had occupied my chest for so long, was being healed, very quickly. So quickly, that it hurt. It f...

Mitch trudged back home, stopping to mutter curses under his breath in the direction of the factory. It constituted part of the looming box-shaped skyline, each house, each go-down gloomier than the other. There were no lights where Mitch lived. He swung his feet over the stile, walked on by the side of the stinking canal choked with stagnant water, until he reached the ghetto where he lived. An acrid smell of burning plastic filled his senses, but Mitch was used to such smells. He banged open the door of his miserable shack to announce his arrival. Mitch’s house was the gloomiest place you could imagine. Everything in it seemed to have been whitewashed with liberal coats of grey. The living room was undecorated and furnished with two rickety chairs and a threadbare sofa. An old woman lay on it, clutching her hip and moaning slightly. A short grey figure came scuttling out of the kitchen, stopped short on seeing Mitch and then fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her dirty face .The hand...