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Fiction
Dried fish
Here goes the Australian lady from the second floor again, standing at the door, towering over Mama and looking mad. “It bloody stinks in here. You and your smelly food! You’re not the only ones living in this building you know.” She screws...
The Final Bullet
Her father called it a six-gun. A revolver. It no longer boasted any paint or markings from its original make. Instead, the weapon bore on its surface the colorful history of local gang warfare. Its dry texture echoed the shape of polished bone....
Memories of the moving finger
I don’t know but I am almost running. My feet seem to drag me, unaware of the puddles scattered here and there like rivulets of mocha or chocolate. By the side of the road, I see an old man peddling ripe mangoes in...
Dominus
Don Isidro sat on his chair at his home office, and in front of him where three bottles of single-malt whiskeys of different brands: a Macallan 1926, a Glenfiddich’s 50-year old, and a Highland Park 50-year old.
All three he had been saving for...
The ruins
PROLOGUE
Dr. Ahmad was barred in an old, rusted and darkened room in extreme solitude with his face laid down on the sand. The only source of light was coming from the scattered peepholes on the walls. With a heavy-head lifted in agony, he...
Lights of different colours
Christy dabs her eyes to dry her tears with the flannelette sheet as she pulls it up to her neck, tucking herself in tightly against the creeping chill of Hong Kong’s winter. From her space under the laundry bench, between the washing machine...
