Flash Fiction

    Mei pushed open the door to the Salvation Army and pulled her daughter into the quiet, open spaces that had been the grasslands of her youth. "You'll like it, Judy-tudy."
     "Oh, don't call me that." Judy frowned and crossed her arms across her chest and glared defensively at the other customers shuffling about in what seemed to be a dazed reverie, quietly handling the artifacts with undue reverence. Great fans hummed somewhere, like some large, trapped bumblebee buzzing in the dim recesses of the shop. Judy wrinkled her nose. "It smells funny in here."
     "I like old things," was Mother's answer. "They have character."
     "And germs." Judy purposely made a show of stepping away from the closest arrangement of old watches. "Dettol, here I come."
     "You're being dramatic. I used to love this place when I was a kid."
     "Because ah mah didn't have any money to buy you nice things, and it was all very sad. I know."
     Mother shook her head, absorbing the shocks in better humour than she showed. "Shoes. Over there."
     "But we're not poor, so I shouldn't have to be subjected to this."
     "I want you to appreciate the value of things."
     Judy sighed and trudged after her mother in the direction of the giant bumblebee. She wasn't really upset, but she had made such a fuss over going at all that she couldn't very well give up now. She hunched and made a face and dragged her feet. Mother didn't seem to notice. Despite her best effort, Judy found herself lingering over a porcelain tea set and then a stack of Enid Blyton books. Her disinterest was regretfully slipping.
     "Find anything you like?" called Mother.
     Judy scowled and remembered she was unhappy. "No."
     "Here's the shoe section, Judy-tudy. Come and look."
     Judy slouched her way over to where Mother was standing. There were shelves of shoes, quite nice-looking, some even new with tags, and a tall young woman was sitting on the low couch, trying on a pair of strappy wedges. She was pretty, thought Judy, with creamy skin and dark hair tied into a neat bun on her head; in her long skirt she looked sleek and stylishly out-of-place next to the rack of carpets and a basket of straw hats. She glanced up when they came.
     Mei silently breathed a sigh of relief and hoped Judy would notice that even elegant young ladies found shoes at the Salvation Army.
     Judy, after much reluctant starting and stopping, finally settled on something she thought, perhaps, maybe she might like and at long last slipped her feet into the shoes. A black pair of heels. She stood up and walked past the mirror a few times--she felt so grown up--but she couldn't give in now and admit Mother was right.
     "Well, do you want them or not?" Mei said after what had seemed to her an unbearably long time for anyone to stare at a pair of shoes.
     "I don't know..." Judy gazed at her reflection in the black-flecked mirror. What would Sidney say? Or Karen? Or Hannah? Or any number of the other girls? Perhaps they could sense second-hand goods instinctively. "I'm not sure."
     "They look wonderful," Mei tried again.
     The young woman, who had by then decided against the wedges, stood up to leave but halted and stared hard at Judy's shoes, "Excuse me. If you're not going to buy them, could I?"
     Judy's eyes widened and she looked suddenly resolute. "No, I'm buying them."
     And with that she picked up her old shoes in one hand and stalked off gracelessly towards the cashier. Mei blinked in surprise. She felt a hand on her shoulder. The young woman was wearing a muted look of amusement on her face as she slung her satchel over her shoulder. "Reverse psychology," she said, saluted her in an easy manner, and disappeared behind a shelf of books.


This was my try at flash fiction. I took me about an hour or so to write. Perhaps I'll write more one day, depending on its popularity. Let me know what you think.

The Difference of a Day

Yesterday started out wet and cool. I woke to torrential rain smattering on my aircon with a tinny sound. The courtyard outside my flat magnifies all sound in it, and even a lighter rain sounds like a waterfall outside my window. I don't mind at all, of course; I have always loved rain here in the tropics.

It isn't the rainy season, and the freshness soon wore off, leading into a thick and close evening.

This morning I woke to something quite different. The sun streamed in through every window, and the skies were as blue as a robin's egg. I opened wide the back door and let the sunshine fall in long, warm slats across my floor. It feels like summer, and I say that meaningfully here in this land of eternal sunshine. 

Skirt Intentions

I really like long skirts, and I have been meaning since the beginning of the year to take what cloth I bought on Arab Street to a tailor and have them make me a few high-waisted skirts according to the above pattern. The cut is so flattering, and I know what works on my frame, and I have every intention looking like I wish and wearing what I want, whatever stares may come my way. Isn't the skirt just darling?

Half Poem

I found this half-finished poem among my documents.

When will we walk the mountains,

stride the plains in brisk and steady rhythm,

hum as we cross borders, break the trails,

and

And what? I will never know! My train of thought has no end station; it is a frustrating, ghostly ride, a neverending journey that simply passes station after station after station. I am a rusting machine, grinding slowly to a stop, and I am having a hard time completing my

Othello

I watched Othello in the park the other night. It is that great annual production by the Singapore Repertory Theatre, and I took the eighth graders to it, and they enjoyed it to varying degrees, mostly divided along lines of understanding. As for the experience itself, I could say that Iago was fantastic (he was) and Desdemona was less than convincing (she was) and that the staging was magnificent (a very well thought-out martial theme with infrared goggles and helicopters and satellites), but the most important thing of all was that I met Lim Yu Beng!

Who, you ask? Was he in the production? No, but that's not important. I saw him once before, months ago at Serene Centre in Bukit Timah. He was walking past and I had buillt up courage to shake his hand. He came closer, I stood up, and...he passed me by.

Rejected! Like the miserable wretch I am!

Little did I know my disappointment would be reversed. During Othello, I needed to find a restroom, and I was climbing the dark stairs  up to Fort Canning when a man pulls out a penlight and clicks it on, shining a light unto my path and a lamp unto my feet. "It's up the stairs to the right."
I stare at him for what must have been an uncomfortable amount of time. It's hard to tell in the dark, but could it be? I finally take a step forward and hold out my hand. "Are you Lim Yu Beng?"
"Yes?" He takes my hand tentatively, unsure.
"I grew up in Singapore," I gush. "I used to watch you on Triple Nine!"
I forget what he did, but in my mind I'd like to think he laughed.
"And you did that pen thing!" I try to recover smoothly and nod at the stairs. "Up the stairs to the right, right?" (Man, I'm good.)
"Yes."
"Thank you!"

Ladies and gentlemen, I--Sanna "the Almighty" Gabriel, first-year teacher--have shaken the hand of Lim Yu Beng, Singaporean television and stage actor of my childhood years. My life's purpose is fulfilled. Consequently, my faith in chance encounters has also been restored. I completely expect to run into Tom Hiddleston on the train in London (we'll discuss Shakespeare), and why not Kenneth Branagh while I'm at it.

See ya!

Here I am, in high form, shrugging off the world off with my devil-may-care attitude; I flick my hand back as if to say I'm-outta-here. And so I am, very soon, provided school ends or I lose my mind completely. Either one should  get me off campus.
"You use a lot of sticky notes," Kelly tells me today as she shows me her late homework.
I look at my desk, and she is right. I have no brain anymore. I keep losing track, forgetting things I shouldn't, and the only thought that keeps me upright is that this will all soon be over. I am not alone in this.

Dancers

My brother and his wife were featured on the front page of a newspaper. I do not know what they are doing or wherefore they are doing it, but that someone should take a picture of them whilst they did does not surprise me in the least. Perhaps when I have investigated the matter further I can give you more details.