arbitraryregistry

[arbitraryregistry]

Ward

Kirk Kane turned twenty-one the midnight before he acquired the ward. Two bleary eyes looked up to his own and his heart ached for the small child. Rosy cheeks bloomed against her porcelain complexion, hand clutching a crumpled sheet of blanket. He has no idea how big children should be at age five. Whether they are in school. Will teeth start falling out at this age?

An inquisitive look overcame the little one, searching for a non-existent answer in Kirk’s empty mind. Just like him, small Heidi had been thrown into a world full of smiling adults showing shiny rows of teeth, ready to pounce at her innocence.

The same inquisitive look burned the back of his skull as he made the phone call of interest a decade later. Kirk can feel his ward’s eyes widen in horror as he drawls a familiar greeting to an old friend, with a lilt of playfulness he saved from his compromised youth in full display.

“A favor—of course, old pal—it would only be fair,” tilting his head back, he bared his teeth to the bewildered teen frozen beside him. She stomped away with deep crimson cheeks, furrowed brows, and the tell-tale teenage hunch. What harm can befall a bookstore in the heat of the summer? Probably a couple of tabloid-crazy grans and a cat or three.

Eavesdropping

If anyone asked her a week ago what her summer plans were, Heidi would have shrugged and murmured something about getting a job. Never in her wildest dream would she imagine smuggling a group of ragtag teenagers while a heated debate was afoot in the living room. She was shivering despite the summer heat, eyes darting back and forth while she anxiously held her hands out so Matt could climb through her bedroom window. Behind her, Kylie and Riley were arguing in whispers about the best method to eavesdrop on the adults. Matt landed with a thud, earning an angry shush from the group. In the corner of her eyes, she saw the rest of the boys planting their ears on the floor, even though they were not directly below the source of action. Who knew a summer job would spiral into a neighborhood-wide panic?

Commentary:

I tried to only use one point of view in this piece (Heidi’s) and practice in media res, although I do not think I nailed any successfully. I think at some point a more generalized point of view was added, and it is tricky to stay on one person’s lens because I feel that the scene would be less dynamic. Whenever I try to write in the third person, I feel like my writing becomes more casual and less descriptive. I was wondering if anyone has felt this way before.

Response from others:

It is true that media res and trying out new forms can be overwhelming but your story is very well crafted, there's constant detail and action considering Heidi is surrounded by many other characters.

You said you feel as though writing in the third person makes your writing more casual and less descriptive, I'd like to add on that. In this little extract, especially since it concerns teenagers, the characters seem to affect the form and I find that very interesting! Keeping it casual seems to help with the overall dynamics too, it moves things along nicely, and once again the consensus between the characters' age and the form feels more natural and adds vividness to your extract.

[arbitraryregistry]

My Red

I do not know what pulls me into galleries and exhibitions. I am not an artist, nor am I gifted in the arts. It is the silence that I crave. That moment when it is just you and the piece of work presented before you. When the world is muted and the emotions inside the canvas or sculpture are spilled onto us, the ones enjoying the piece of soul packed into a tangible form. When I find a piece that I like, I would meander and stay for hours. If I enjoy the event I would come the next day, and the next, and every day after that, until I get bored of the atmosphere.

Dare I say it was fate? Perhaps it was the naturally eye-catching color, but I would not have noticed her if it were not for her red outer. I first saw her on the last day of a seasonal exhibition in the national gallery. She was standing in the center of the room, eyes trained on the wall-length piece.

Her outer was a cross between a cardigan and a kimono. The material flowed purposefully whenever she moves from one side of the canvas to the other. Darker than blood, richer than ruby. That was the color that I have come to associate with her. There were intricate patterns on it, but I could never muster up the courage to stand closer. I have yet to know her name, heard her voice, and learn her story. A coward is what I am.

Our meetings are a series of accidental glances and faint blushes. She would always wear the same deep red shield. With pants, skirts, and shorts. Over a shirt, a blouse, or a button-down. I wonder if the fabric is soft, warm, or light. No matter what she wears with the outer, it would always be the first thing I see upon entering a room.

There is always another beginning to an ending. The artist featured chose red as one of the defining colors of their current exhibition. I know that she would be here. I have seen her in this establishment’s members-only event before. Millions of bright red strings were shaped into a web of intricate art. Everyone entered the installation at the same time, eyes wide and shining with admiration. Somehow in that shocking red room, a deeper red stood out. At that moment, all I can see is her.

#short story #work in progress

[arbitraryregistry]

C for Charlie

Bas was approached by yet another Prefect today. He is sure the lot of them are doing a betting of some sort because he has been approached by at least a million of them this past week. He is aware that he is a transfer student, but that does not mean that he never set foot in a school before. This Prefect boy is called Taka, but he did not offer to take him around the school for a “tour” like the other kids, instead, he asked, “You’re the new guy in building E, right?”

It was most peculiar. This new school has a lot of weird kids. Everyone alters their uniform, none of the teachers has tried to punish him for sleeping in class, and the prefects feel more like a social club than the usual rule enforcer.

“Oh, sorry, that must have sounded weird. I live in building F, you see. I saw you near lobby E yesterday. We should walk home together today!”

There was no room to argue, so Bas walked home with him. Taka talked a lot. He told Bas about this other guy, Charlie from building C. Charlie lives on the first floor and his door is always open for all.

“Well, until the sun sets. The kids need to go home before it gets dark, so everyone always leaves before that to set a good example.” Taka explained that sometimes the adults read books to the kids, the kids and teens would team up to make some art, and you can drink as much tea as you want. “Every day is different in Mr. C’s place. I think you will like it, everyone is chill.”

The flat looked more like a community center rather than a bachelor’s pad. There were a couple of elderly men playing chess, a group of children reading on the carpet, and a man in a striped apron making tea behind the kitchen counter while some girls hover over pictures of a band that is currently on the rise. Charlie, the one in an apron, has a very laid-back aura around him. It is comforting, and Bas is not sure he likes it. There is always a catch to everything. He cannot get too friendly to this community, for he does not know if he will stay for much longer.

#short story

[arbitraryregistry]

Aging

There is an innate sadness to growing up. Time stretches and constricts not according to how much fun we are having, but to how much work we are doing. The morning air feels stifling, instead of refreshing like it used to. Many of us go through our days like cogs in a machine. Be awake, do the task, get nutrition, complain, rest, and do it all over again. We see children running along the streets, mouths agape and limbs flailing. We think they have it good. But do they?

I remember a time I barely see my parents. We had clubs on the weekends, school on weekdays, tuition in the evenings, and impossibly early starts in the mornings. No energy left to say all the things we needed to say to those who birthed us. Only slips and cracks in the schedule to fool around and be the trouble we so desperately needed to be. Children were trained to be cogs in this worldly machine, that was who we were.

Pressurized teens were called troubled, and self-expression and runny noses were suddenly a sin. You are well on your way to becoming an adult now, they would say, you need to be better, they would chide. A bundle of confused personas and spiking hormones, chasing dreams and aspirations through the idealistic lens of youth. There were times I thought everything would be perfect in due time. I just needed to hold on a little longer. They never told us life was excruciatingly long.

Now, what are we? If not children in adults’ skin. If not children who lost their sparks of wonder, who constantly wonders when will joy come? Who are we, if not depressed teens, desperately trying to find meaning in one’s life? Angry teens, fighting back pent-up tears, saving one of our own before ourselves. We are lost adults, in the sea of a seemingly seamless system. We work and work, and work, to make life work.

#short story #life writing

[arbitraryregistry]

The Mundane

There is a hue of sadness to the sun this morning. Its light flooded my room, the sky a shocking blue, jolting me awake from my slumber. Many friends are crowding my notification center. No sign of the people who birthed me.

“Good Morning!”, I typed. Send. Heart emoji. Send. Repeat. I still think we should have made that group chat work, even if it will only be the three of us. My automated playlist has been playing sad songs lately, my muscle memories tugging my body around the place, doing whatever I should be doing this morning.

I mentally took notes of the things I should buy. Milk, eggs, soap. Call the insurance company. Pay the internet bills. When was the last time I washed the bathroom rugs and towels? I guess today is laundry day.

Without noticing, I completed a few chores and typed a semi-generic excerpt for my next class. The clouds are rolling in, fluffy and soft. My coffee sat forgotten amid papers and highlighters littering my desk. One of these days I promise I will clean up.

Stretching my underutilized muscles, I prepare myself for a series of social interactions. Screen beeping, heart thumping, the call commences. Time dragged on and on. Dates. To-dos. Plans. All of these swirled around my head, mixing with the sound of the washing machine finishing its job. Saving documents upon documents, sending bits and pieces of my soul off to the internet, is how I spent my days.

"U up for dins? Ramen?", my phone lit up. I glanced over, having all the intentions to answer this text. When I came to, I was sporting another cup of coffee, mindlessly scrolling through my socials. Ah, the dinner invitation. Sending a quick "lets", I surfed the food delivery app, to see ratings and kill time.

"omw, order-in?"

Ah. Fewer outfits to wash, I guess.

#short story #life writing

[arbitraryregistry]

House Calls

The house phone rang at seven that night, just like every other night. This event has been going on for a couple of weeks. I picked the phone up, knowing exactly who was on the other side of the line.

“Hello? This is Dan’s Mum. Is Wah asleep yet?”, a melodious voice traveled through the speakers. Once the lady knew I was speaking, she started to list out all of our homework for the day. It was amazing how much she knew about Dan’s school. I knew what was coming next.

“Can you list out your answers? I would like to compare it with Dan’s work.” While listing out my answers, which I got myself, I could not help but think that it must be nice to have a Mum that does all your work for you. My Mum insisted that I do everything myself. Most of the time, I would prefer this, but Dad got me a new magazine earlier and I have not had any chances to read it at all.

Frankly, it is weird that Dan cannot do his own homework. He is ranked first in class. I am ranked third and I do all of them myself. While contemplating all of these, Dan’s Mum is going on and on about an answer to our homework. I subconsciously nodded my head to agree with whatever she was saying before I realized she could not see me. The phone call ended much later than I thought it would. I hope this will not go on for all eternity, I do not like sharing my answers with the smartest boy in class 1A.

#life writing #short story

[arbitraryregistry]

Milk

She wishes to say that the day started like any other, but that would be a lie. When she slammed the snooze button that morning she did not know it would be the start of her demise. She could hear her breathing becoming more labored, knees screaming at her to stop, but her head sending her an urgent KEEP RUNNING. Lucette knows she longs for an adventure in her life. Something she could pass on to her children. Something that would turn her into a legend. She did not think that would cost her a life. That of her own.

A bolt of purple lightning nearly zapped her out of existence. Someone was wailing in agony nearby, but she did not stick around to see who. Maybe it was her. Everything was blurry. Lucette feels the killing intent engulfing her from behind, the smoky form of this monster spilling into her peripheral vision. She was an inch away from becoming charbroiled at 8 AM on a Monday.

If she had not taken the bus today, she would never meet Rocco this early. They would not have had to walk to school together. They would never talk about those darned flavored milk.

None of them knew Rocco could conjure a three-meter shadow monster out of his chest after she casually rejected him. The bright electrical zaps were becoming more frequent. Her chances of surviving resurfaced when she saw the school gates ahead. The wards would nullify Rocco’s erratic powers. Just as she was about to cross the threshold, there was a deafening hum. The last thing she remembered was the color purple overcoming her vision.

———

Commentary:

I have been seeing a lot of fantasy fiction lately, so I decided to try my hand at writing a few lines. I feel that it’s harder to do especially when I’m adamant about using in-media res and keeping in mind Davis’s style. It was fun because a lot of action was going on, and I tried to focus the descriptions on the action since it is a limited 3rd person point of view. I have two drafts this week, one depicting a “normal” day and this is the other one. I do not know why I did this, but it helped me with my tendency to over-explain plot points and accidentally spoil the readers.

Responses from others:

I know writing in a third-person point of view can be quite daunting, but I truly think you excelled at the way you were trying to convey your narrative. The choice of words and language was executed profoundly. I really enjoyed reading your piece from the beginning right till the end.

What an entertaining read! Your technique of parallel drafts sounds interesting, I am intrigued by what the "normal" draft is like. Did you find that juxtaposing "normal" and "tension" helped with creating and balancing the tension in this piece?

My response: Yes! It is surprisingly helpful in terms of creating and balancing tension, and with the comparison, I can also see where I can put the "conflict" in this piece. I do feel that I have to reduce most of the background information about the characters' dynamics, but I think it was worth it because I wanted to focus on the action rather than the plot this time.

Your depiction of action is phenomenal, you always create dynamic plots, filled with action, tension, and the feeling of an ominous situation from fantasy. It's lovely to see how you push the limits of your imagination with monsters, hurling alarms, and superhumans - it's very much your vibe, keep it up!!

the teacher: It is good to read that you're trying new things! From the start, I like how your story begins with the quintessentially bland 'Milk'. I don't know if your aim is to productively wrong-foot or leave the reader with the back-drop of pure white onto which you superimpose the 'purple lightning' and 'color purple', but the effect is clever and memorable.

Now a few little pieces of advice:

There is a bit of a disconnect between the 'snooze button' and 'knees screaming' and 'KEEP RUNNING'. Might you fill in the gaps of logic there? That that intense activity is followed by the reflective 'Lucette knows...' possibly makes it all the more confusing.

Similarly, with 'A bolt of purple lightning...' to 'Rocco' and 'the bus'. I appreciate the mystery and like when a story makes me figure things out, but this is quite a challenge!

When you say 'None of them knew...' this means, of course, before this started happening to her? So this is habitual? Just a bit of context to answer these questions will allow you to imagine freely within the contours of the story.

If Lucette is still in school (we don't really know what age she is), would she be thinking about 'something she could pass on to her children'?

In paragraph three, 'those darned flavoured milk' is grammatically incorrect. Please fix.

I think you have the bones of a good story, with interesting characters in a world here. That the significance of the 'milk' is left unanswered keeps me wanting to read on and learn that detail.

Again, nice work. Good luck with future iterations!

My response: Thank you for the amazing feedback! I will definitely keep these in mind when I re-write this piece, I have become fond of it for some reason. Reading it now, I do feel the gap in logic everywhere, I think it was because I had two drafts while writing this piece, and some details (admittedly crucial ones) got lost in the process.

Milk: Prelude

The life of an average teenager is not an easy one. In every coming-of-age narrative, life is never this simple for the main character. Sometimes it is a love rival, a serial killer on the loose, or a monster from an ancient scroll. Her adventure could start any day now. Lucette believes this with all her heart. There must be something more outside of the compound. Better yet, there must be secrets inside this very compound.

She biked to school with a melancholic heart that chilly morning. The birds were singing in minor while dry leaves fall onto damp concrete without much fight. Lucette sighed as she parked her bike alongside its countless twins, wishing she was a heroine on a quest to a dragon’s island instead. In a world full of mindless uniformity, Lucette longs to be a silver spiky-haired protagonist. Instead, her hair was straight and black just like everyone else’s. Her face and skin were spotless, her uniform neatly tucked in, as it should be. She was the very definition of a perfect youth. A smile was tugged onto her lips automatically as she passed the students and teachers in the hallway. Everyday was the same, peaceful charade.

A small bottle of melon-flavored milk was on her designated desk. It will be chocolate tomorrow, and strawberry the day after. The Morning Milk Promotion in their canteen has a strict schedule. Through the classroom window, she could see the school’s athletes cooling down after their morning practice. The bottle opened with a distinct pop. A sound she associates with her childhood friend Rocco because they are the ones leaving milk on her desk every morning. She could not remember when it all started. They never talked about the milk. Not when they biked home, not when they hang out on the weekends, not when they worked the night shift at the local minimart.

#excerpt

[arbitraryregistry]

Milk: Prelude

The life of an average teenager is not an easy one. In every coming-of-age narrative, life is never this simple for the main character. Sometimes it is a love rival, a serial killer on the loose, or a monster from an ancient scroll. Her adventure could start any day now. Lucette believes this with all her heart. There must be something more outside of the compound. Better yet, there must be secrets inside this very compound.

She biked to school with a melancholic heart that chilly morning. The birds were singing in minor while dry leaves fall onto damp concrete without much fight. Lucette sighed as she parked her bike alongside its countless twins, wishing she was a heroine on a quest to a dragon’s island instead. In a world full of mindless uniformity, Lucette longs to be a silver spiky-haired protagonist. Instead, her hair was straight and black just like everyone else’s. Her face and skin were spotless, her uniform neatly tucked in, as it should be. She was the very definition of a perfect youth. A smile was tugged onto her lips automatically as she passed the students and teachers in the hallway. Everyday was the same, peaceful charade.

A small bottle of melon-flavored milk was on her designated desk. It will be chocolate tomorrow, and strawberry the day after. The Morning Milk Promotion in their canteen has a strict schedule. Through the classroom window, she could see the school’s athletes cooling down after their morning practice. The bottle opened with a distinct pop. A sound she associates with her childhood friend Rocco because they are the ones leaving milk on her desk every morning. She could not remember when it all started. They never talked about the milk. Not when they biked home, not when they hang out on the weekends, not when they worked the night shift at the local minimart.

#excerpt

[arbitraryregistry]

Missing Boy

Mr. Kirk Kane paced back and forth, the creases on his forehead contrasting his surprisingly youthful complexion. His living room felt stifling like someone had turned off the air supply permanently. Everyone present had an inkling that something was wrong in the Kim household, but they never thought much of it. After all, Mr. Kim is a respected scientist while Mrs. Kim is an active mother in the neighborhood. John Kim, the missing boy, was last seen hanging out with the Tanner boy last night at the market’s parking lot.

The boy claimed John looked normal last night. For once, Oliver Tanner did not lie. He did not know that John hid his backpack behind the building. He did not realize that may be the last time anyone had seen John alive. They shooed him back to Heidi’s room along with the younger Kim brother. The adults did not know that the group of ragtag teenagers was slowly assembling, listening to their every sigh.

Mrs. Kim was still near-hysterical, mumbling something about not forgiving herself and disappointing her ancestors. The other mothers were whispering comforting yet empty lines to her. It would not bring John back home. Kirk thought he heard a thud from above, but he was soon distracted by Mrs. Kim suddenly collapsing. The living room broke into unprecedented chaos.

———

Commentary:

This week I tried to continue last week’s story, but through a wider lens, so that the reader can see more details of the “debate” in the living room. I am not sure if it showed but I tried to convey the fact that there is more to the Kim family than what the other adults are seeing, and that the kids are far more ingenious than they anticipated. At first, I was confused as to what sentence I could include for something that only the narrator knew. Then I realized that I needed more details on the missing boy’s action, so I included the fact that his disappearance was actually planned.

Responses from others:

It struck me only after that there is no dialogue in your piece. The 'creases on his forehead' and the 'near-hysterical mumbling' do the talking instead. You have some really good to-the-point sentences, particularly in the first paragraph, that shoot out circumstances, background, and potential issues (for once OT did not lie…) at the reader, through the omniscient narrator. Is John really dead???

I'm left intrigued by John's disappearance. I also liked your characterization and the sense that there seem to be many secrets at the heart of the Kim household.

Eavesdropping

If anyone asked her a week ago what her summer plans were, Heidi would have shrugged and murmured something about getting a job. Never in her wildest dream would she imagine smuggling a group of ragtag teenagers while a heated debate was afoot in the living room. She was shivering despite the summer heat, eyes darting back and forth while she anxiously held her hands out so Matt could climb through her bedroom window. Behind her, Kylie and Riley were arguing in whispers about the best method to eavesdrop on the adults. Matt landed with a thud, earning an angry shush from the group. In the corner of her eyes, she saw the rest of the boys planting their ears on the floor, even though they were not directly below the source of action. Who knew a summer job would spiral into a neighborhood-wide panic?

Commentary:

I tried to only use one point of view in this piece (Heidi’s) and practice in media res, although I do not think I nailed any successfully. I think at some point a more generalized point of view was added, and it is tricky to stay on one person’s lens because I feel that the scene would be less dynamic. Whenever I try to write in the third person, I feel like my writing becomes more casual and less descriptive. I was wondering if anyone has felt this way before.

Response from others:

It is true that media res and trying out new forms can be overwhelming but your story is very well crafted, there's constant detail and action considering Heidi is surrounded by many other characters.

You said you feel as though writing in the third person makes your writing more casual and less descriptive, I'd like to add on that. In this little extract, especially since it concerns teenagers, the characters seem to affect the form and I find that very interesting! Keeping it casual seems to help with the overall dynamics too, it moves things along nicely, and once again the consensus between the characters' age and the form feels more natural and adds vividness to your extract.

#excerpt

[arbitraryregistry]

Eavesdropping

If anyone asked her a week ago what her summer plans were, Heidi would have shrugged and murmured something about getting a job. Never in her wildest dream would she imagine smuggling a group of ragtag teenagers while a heated debate was afoot in the living room. She was shivering despite the summer heat, eyes darting back and forth while she anxiously held her hands out so Matt could climb through her bedroom window. Behind her, Kylie and Riley were arguing in whispers about the best method to eavesdrop on the adults. Matt landed with a thud, earning an angry shush from the group. In the corner of her eyes, she saw the rest of the boys planting their ears on the floor, even though they were not directly below the source of action. Who knew a summer job would spiral into a neighborhood-wide panic?

———

Commentary:

I tried to only use one point of view in this piece (Heidi’s) and practice in media res, although I do not think I nailed any successfully. I think at some point a more generalized point of view was added, and it is tricky to stay on one person’s lens because I feel that the scene would be less dynamic. Whenever I try to write in the third person, I feel like my writing becomes more casual and less descriptive. I was wondering if anyone has felt this way before.

Response from others:

It is true that media res and trying out new forms can be overwhelming but your story is very well crafted, there's constant detail and action considering Heidi is surrounded by many other characters.

You said you feel as though writing in the third person makes your writing more casual and less descriptive, I'd like to add on that. In this little extract, especially since it concerns teenagers, the characters seem to affect the form and I find that very interesting! Keeping it casual seems to help with the overall dynamics too, it moves things along nicely, and once again the consensus between the characters' age and the form feels more natural and adds vividness to your extract.

#excerpt

[arbitraryregistry]

Noodles

My breath hitched as some broth from my giant bowl of noodles jumped out and narrowly missed my uniform. One hundred and eighty seconds left. I slurped the piping-hot noodles, tongue burning, mind racing. It was a miracle I did not bump into anyone on the staircases. I can already imagine the embarrassment I should face if that happened. The moment I entered the room, my three classmates cheered. There was no teacher in sight. We ravenously ate from the comically big bowl, each of us somehow already possessing a pair of chopsticks in hand. Mission accomplished.

———

We were supposed to write while keeping the ideal imagined reader in mind, practicing a style of writing that is more catered to the readers' enjoyment rather than only thinking about what the author wants. This was my reflection at the time:

Thinking of the reader while writing was more challenging for me. It took me a while to decide what to write and how to begin writing it because I feel the need to connect to them more compared to before. I tried emulating a feeling both of us know all too well, being late to class because we cannot give up food. I guess this shows that having the reader in mind can make me write more passionately, so I think I will try to keep this technique in mind moving forward.

Responses from others:

I liked how you immediately drew me as a reader in; I felt tension from the first three words onwards; I ran up the stairs with you. So I think your remark on writing more passionately is true. In comparison towards the end, you go 'lighter'; I feel the relief, you call the bowl 'comically big' and its smiles all around. Time to let the reader breathe… and crave noodles :)

I love the ending ‘mission accomplished’ which beautifully communicates the importance of what the speaker is doing…. Indeed a very relatable situation for a wide array of readers! And counting the seconds left until duty catches up with us? Who hasn’t done that?!

A really lively scene you have created with a mere 100ish words. You placed the reader right in the scene with you, all noodles and chaos! Brings back memories of running up the hill (literally) in my school uniform as the warning bell rings in the background, stomach full of broth and noodles. One thing that got my attention other than the content itself was the use of 'adverb-verb' order, which for a reader like me who is more acclimated to the 'verb-adverb' order created an against the grain feel, an interesting effect placing more weight on the description than the action.

I found myself caught up in the sense of urgency as the narrator hurried to class. I also liked the sense of mischief when the three classmates cheered. For me, the scene succeeded in capturing a moment of carefree student fun.

Your passage has great use of detail, zooming into the time, and the feelings of the narrator rushing through lunch. This is a great use of the technique that intrigues the reader, well done :)

#excerpt

[arbitraryregistry]

You

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear

The way your eyes widen in confusion

They feel familiar, yet so foreign

You never spare the mirror the slightest glance

Never looked back to the days that have gone past

Always moving into uncharted waters

The scar on your upper lip

Cannot be seen with bare eyes

But felt through delicate fingertips

Just like you

Easily missed in crowds

But always in one's thought

#free verse #poetry

[arbitraryregistry]

Backstage

Sweat was running down the nape of my neck despite the theatre's AC blowing on full blast. The performers danced through the opening number, while the crew danced around the equipment immaculately placed backstage. A set of earphones connected to the walkie-talkie perched on my pants was rapping cues and signals from the other wing. I held my cue sheet tightly in my sweaty palm, returning the favor to the other side.

I know it was time to move as the spotlight dimmed and footsteps resounded on the side of the stage. I did not have to look to know that the curtain was closing. We got through the first number. A sequence of rapid movements controlled by my reflexes saved me from the embarrassment of stumbling through my work. Pointing in the general area of the properties used in the next scene, I feel several choruses quickly moving to haul the chairs and tables needed. My attention was consumed by the in-ear I was securing on one of the performers’ ears. Sweat is a blessing and a curse to humanity.

Ushering the performer on stage, my eyes were assaulted by the spotlight. I hastily retreated and jogged further into the stomach of the stage, trying to make out faces that slipped past me in the dim lightning. On the corner, I could make out a couple of make-up coordinators helping the antagonist of the play change into a complicated costume. One person was frantically dabbing sweat out of the performer’s face to preserve the make-up that was done for hours before the show. Another person was lacing the intricate top, stumbling over the premade knots and laces stuck onto the costume.

A body slammed into my being and I could feel the air knocking out of me. Both of us went down hard but quickly got up in fear of trampling other people. Upon closer inspection, I can make out the familiar face of the property director, in charge of the equipment used throughout the duration of the play. They walked past me with a solemn nod and a slightly panicky face. I walked back to my original post in the wings, finding a pair of chorus lying in wait on the bottom of the platform leading to the stage. Here I can see clearly what was happening on stage, and by the looks of it, we are one song away from the closing of Act 1.

Next to me was the embodiment of energy, a boy in charge of slowly pulling backgrounds up and down from the screen and some other properties related to the scenery and sky. I tapped his shoulder the exact moment he should pull the lever to reveal our finely made moon backdrop.

As the last song presented its first note, a burst of colors flashed onto the stage, in rhythm with the beat of the song and by extension, the dancing of the performers. 30 seconds before the song ended I made sure the path down to the backstage was cleared of any stray equipment and pieces of clothes, haphazardly thrown by those on stage during quick costume changes.

I exhaled a breath I did not know I was holding as the curtain closed for a second time that night. The familiar instrumentals grew silent together with the dimming of the stage light. One more Act to go.

#short story

[arbitraryregistry]

Not A Tortoise

“Are you tired? Let’s skip this next class” A voice murmured beside me. I could never wish for a seatmate more perfect than George. I grunted and faced him, head still resting on the table.

Truth be told, neither George nor I would get in trouble if we skip a few more classes this term. We were in the top ranks after all. It has always seemed like a stupid thing to do, rank students based on their marks. That’s not my problem to think about though. Right now, I just need to decide whether I would like to join George and his impulses.

“So? Are we going?” He quipped, almost impatiently. The hare and the tortoise. That’s what people call us. I think George is more like a mouse on stimulants than a hare, and I am like a chronically slow koala rather than a tortoise. I should really focus on the task at hand. I nodded an affirmative and slowly rose from my desk, phantom popping present in my supposedly young joints.

“Easy grandpa, you might break a bone”, he joked. I scoffed at his ridiculous attempt to practice humor. We exited the class smoothly, my excited comrade chattering all the way to the hidden garden, where we escaped the building through a hole behind some bushes.

#excerpt

[arbitraryregistry]

Disoriented

Harsh neon colors assaulted my bleary eyes. Through my hazy vision, I can make out at least half a dozen people-shaped blobs contrasting with the garish colors of my surroundings. We were in a narrow entryway. There seemed to be more people ahead, a queue of some sort. I could feel the vibration of the ear-splitting music as soon as my vision cleared. It was as if someone cranked the volume up on life. The foreign tune was banging its way into my head, nearly popping what was left of my eardrums in the process.

A friend was talking, yelling. I could not see their face, let alone read their lips. Eventually, they were yanking and pulling my arms. I was beyond confused. My skin was sticky with sweat, but a shiver ran down my spine. This person was adamant about pulling me into the queue, but my body recoiled at the thought.

I held onto the carpeting for dear life, fear blossoming from the pits of my stomach. Something was amiss. I am unsure if these people are friends or foes. While frantically pulling my arm away from the now scowling group of strangers, I pray to whatever deity that should be guarding the world, “Please let me escape,” I pleaded with all my heart. Mind racing, arms aching, I sprinted in the opposite direction that they were pulling me into. As I charged into the unknown, a blinding white light greeted me. The world was a blur once more.

There was no mistaking the sensation of asphalt connecting to one’s face. It was odd that the sting never came. I sat numbly on the ashy ground, glancing back. I could not see the doorway from which I came. Only darkness that the scorching sun could not reach. A tug in my chest told me to walk onward. My breath was steady, strides unyielding.

Ahead of me was a yellow railing. It guided me along with a set of steps, not unlike an emergency exit I am familiar with. I left the deserted parking lot without an ounce of regret. There was no way I would know the difficulties that may beset me.

A voice within me whispered, “Do not be fearful, this one is not real."

#short story

[arbitraryregistry]

The Old Town

In the midst of stark city lights and towering skyscrapers was a block lost in time. It doesn’t shine as brightly as any other place, nor does it stay as busy as them. O traveled long and far to see the greatness of the modern world, only to stumble upon a hidden gem. The bus accommodating their journey was fully air-conditioned and clean, unlike the ones they were used to. They were on a quest of finding a small diner that meant a lot to their family. Their grandfather met their grandmother there.

O was not sure they would find the diner standing or replaced with a newer, cooler establishment. They imagined walking off the bus and finding the diner being demolished, a scenario that would likely happen if O was a star in a TV series. The robotic announcement of the bus woke them up from their daydream. It’s time. O was aghast. All remains of the modern city they came to know and love in the short span they have been here seemed to have washed away as soon as they took their first step off the bus. Instead of metal flooring, they stood on a platform made with wood, warm and inviting them to take a step further, into a city filled with tokens of the past.

The smell of melted sugar and smoke permeated their senses, taking them back to an age they only saw through vintage films and words of mouth from their grandfather. On the corner near the exit was a small street vendor, selling colorful candies crafted into animal shapes. Walking into the area is like walking into a time capsule, serene and muted. O was greeted by a plaza decorated with trees and grey bricks. Surrounding that plaza was an array of buildings with designs they saw in history books, with intricate patterns decorating the entirety of the place. The buildings were concrete, but unlike the grey and blue of the city, they eluded the calmer energy of white, grey, and green. It was almost therapeutic. O remembered days that are long gone, days when they would visit their grandfather’s house to see old pictures of old people doing what people do in the olden times. They remembered how their grandfather’s eyes would shine with a gleam of longing, wishing the times would pass by slower, wishing for a time to come back.

After a few strides around to admire the ridiculousness of it all, O realized that they could not hear any engines around. There were no cars or motorcycles. Only its echoes far in the distance. Instead, people were walking in harmony with bicycles, seemingly more relaxed and joyful. In between the buildings were roads taking them deeper into memory lane, some fitting for a couple, others as wide as several cars.

More vendors were scattered throughout these roads, and smaller roads were snaked behind the occasional building housing a cafe or store. O wondered if their grandfather knew anyone from this area and if they are still here. They walked aimlessly, jaw-slacked from seeing a place so unexpected. A thousand thoughts were running through their mind, their brain trying to soak all that the eyes can see, hands itching to touch every inch of the place, feeling the hum of lives of the past and the present. Unconsciously their eyes were searching for a color. A faded orange. A battered sign with “horrendous handwriting” in the words of their grandfather. The smell of freshly seasoned noodles. O was sure the diner place so dear to their family is still preserved. Even after all these years.

#short story

[arbitraryregistry]

House

I never approved of this move. The new house looks weird and feels off when I am alone in it after school. It never truly feels empty. We should have stayed in our apartment. The adults never considered my opinions when doing anything ever. Did they not see all those adventure movies? Children's guts are more reliable than adults'. It is technically not a new house since Father inherited it from a great-great-grandfather, who was probably alive at the same time as Cleopatra.

The house has solid floors and many windows that Mother keeps open in daylight despite the threat of robbery. The air feels lighter, which is probably why the house runs a few degrees lower than the world outside. Mother seemed to notice this and complimented the air circulation. It was slightly baffling that she never commented on the random breezes that often pass through us. Does this not prove my point that children's guts are better than adults?

Father has his studies now, but he kept his PlayStation there. I am unsure how much work got done while he spent his time inside it. Mother has the reigns in the family room and kitchen. Her smile was genuine when she finished unpacking everything. Despite my objection to moving, It was nice to see that my parents are settling in.

They did give me a room to study and play in, but I was reluctant to use it. I am not keen on putting my worldly desires in another room. It does not help that the area they gave me has hidden doors everywhere. There is one on the ceiling, and another in the far corner of the room. Both gave themselves away with a ring knob. Which means anyone could be living in the walls. A goblin might pop out, or worse, a monster!

#short story