Announcement!!

Hey there!!

This is a note to all our followers and readers. :)

Kayu Api Productions will resume activity sometime at the end of the year. So do check back every now and then.

Regards,

KAP

Call for Short Stories!!

Asian and Asian diasporic writers, new or established, are invited to send short stories in English for a volume of NEW ASIAN SHORT STORIES to be published by Marshall Cavendish (Malaysia). The book will be edited by Prof. Mohammad A. Quayum whose details are given below. We invite short stories not exceeding 6000 words and NOT published or submitted for publication elsewhere to be submitted to the editor electronically at mquayum@gmail.com, by 15 February 2010. The book will be released in September 2010, and all successful contributors will be sent a complimentary copy of the book upon publication.

About the Editor

Mohammad A. Quayum has taught at universities in Singapore, Malaysia, Bangladesh, and the US, and is currently professor of English at International Islamic University Malaysia. He is the author or editor of nineteen books (published by Penguin, Pearson Education, Peter Lang, Prentice-Hall, Marshall Cavendish etc), and his scholarly articles have appeared in distinguished literary journals in the UK, the USA, Australia, Canada, South Africa, Singapore, Taiwan, India, and Malaysia.

(From the Malaysian-Writers Group)

News and Updates!!

Hey everyone!!!

Kayu Api is back!!! Sorry for the lack of updates recently. We have been really busy the past 2 months. Here is a post from the Asia and Pacific Writers Network (www.apwn.net) plus some information on the Asia Literary Review.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Asia Literary Review is now on sale in the US, having arrived on the shelves of 250 Barnes & Noble stores across North America in May.

“Early indications are that sales are strong,” Editor-in-Chief Chris Wood said. “The success of ALR over the past 18 months demonstrates that the eyes of the literary world are turned towards Asia. ALR has gone from strength to strength in a little over a year and is on sale throughout much of Asia and the Subcontinent, in the UK, Europe, Australia and Canada, and now America. It’s a great place for Asian writers and those writing on Asia to showcase their work, and of course to get paid for their efforts.”

With legendary former Granta Editor Ian Jack as Executive Editor and Harvard Review Fiction Editor Nam Le, author of last year’s acclaimed debute short story collection, The Boat, as a contributing editor, Asia Literary Review is fast making a name for itself in the literary world.

The Hong Kong based journal is described as the first magazine of its kind in the Asian literary world - an exciting English language quarterly devoted to reportage, documentary photography, travel writing, fiction and memoir, set to become essential reading around the world for anyone with a serious interest in Asia and the best writing from and about the region. Each issue features the work of celebrated and established writers alongside new voices from Karachi to Beijing.

___________________________________________________________________
Asia Literary Review is calling for submissions.

A young English language quarterly devoted to fiction, reportage, documentary photography, travel writing, memoir and poetry, ALR is fast becoming essential reading around the world for anyone with a serious interest in Asia and the best of Asian writing.

ALR follows the tradition of successful literary journals published in Europe and the USA. It addresses the needs of intelligent readers, each quarterly issue reflecting the Asian experience through the work of celebrated and established writers alongside new voices from Mumbai to Shanghai, New York to London.
ALR has a global reach and readership, with distribution from Australia to India, the UK to China, Canada to Singapore, and Paris to the Philippines. The current issue sees ALR available in Barnes & Noble bookstores across the US for the first time.

ALR pays for submissions accepted for publication and has experienced editors to work closely with writers. Those who would like to submit a piece or discuss a possible submission are kindly asked to contact the editor, Chris Wood, by email to chris.wood@asialiteraryreview.com
For more on ALR visit www.asialiteraryreview.com

Regards,

June

Kakiseni's 2nd Playwriting Competition and Updates

Hey everyone!!

First up,Kakiseni is having their 2nd Kakiseni Playwriting Competition. The theme this year is Conflict/Resolution. The dateline for submission is 5 pm, 1^st September 2009. The winning entry will receive RM10,000 in cash. Two runners-up will receive RM5,000 each. Seven consolation prize winners will receive RM2,000 each. For further information, rules and regulations of the competition, visit Kakiseni's website at the link we have provided here.


Next up, here's a reminder that we are still accepting stories for our Newsletter. Do send in your submissions latest by mid July so that we can sort them out.

Regards,

Alin and June

Commonwealth Short Story Competition

Hey guys!!

Here's another competition for you writers to have a go at. The competition is open to all citizens of a Commonwealth Member country (Thats Us!! :D ) The deadline is very soon - 11th May 2009. My apologies for the short notice. Hoever, the good news is that all short stories submitted must not be more than 600 words, or else the entry would be disqualified. For more details, please do visit their website in the link we have provided here. 

Commonwealth Short Story Competition

Regards, 

June

The Asia-Pacific Writing Partnership

Dear All,

Here's is something for all our followers, readers and contributers to take note of.

"The Asia-Pacific Writing Partnership brings together writers, scholars, writers’ organizations, translators, publishers and others interested in the development, exploration, distribution and promotion of writing from Asia and the Pacific.

Our mission is to encourage international understanding of the region through its literature and enrich writers in Asia and the Pacific by exposure to each others cultures, languages and creative approaches. See Aims

Our Board and Council members include established writers (across genres), scholars (across disciplines), and some of the world’s most highly regarded teachers of creative writing.

You don’t have to be an established writer, a distinguished scholar or literary organisation to join the Partnership. Membership is free to anyone interested in keeping up-to-date with discussions about writing from the region, joining internationally-supported initiatives designed to support writers from the region, or engage in collaborative research in the area.

The Partnership supports regional activities initiated and run by writers and scholars on-the-ground anywhere in Asia or the Pacific. Currently, we concentrate on holding an annual meeting in conjunction with a regional literary event, usually spearheaded by a regional member of the Partnership’s Board or Advisory Council, and in conjunction with local organizations.

Our activities include panel presentations (by writers, literary agents, publishers, translators, festival directors etc), symposia (organised by universities), writing and translation workshops, fellowships, public readings, the establishment of literary prizes, assistance with the establishment of writing programs and writers’ centres, among other initiatives.

Our primary working language is English, but our members and affiliates include many (publishers, writers and translators) whose primary language is not English. The Partnership supports diversity of cultural expression and literature that crosses borders. It champions the notion that literature enhances understanding between cultures." -taken from the Asia-Pacific Writers website

So, visit their website by clicking on the link provided above or @ http://www.apwriters.org for more information and membership registrations.

Regards,

June

Exercise 1

Good day to all! How have you all been?

I was thinking of talking about this issue for quite awhile because it is rather current and it does concern the writing community.

I was reading an article titled Defying Definition by Sarah Jane Elliot the other day, which spoke of the inflexible borders expected to be acquired by something that writer’s don’t usually think about: genre.

Genres tend to limit at times. Try an exercise this weekend where you simply allow the flow of words to take you to a place never before seen. Don’t think of the consequences. Don’t think that if something goes up, it must come down. Just go with the flow.

Elliot brings in a good point when she says that Fantasy can be a part of Science Fiction as well. It somehow becomes a necessity for some to tag a story as either Fantasy or Science Fiction that it might be unfair to works that are nestled comfortably in between.

Genre isn’t always the greatest of concerns for a writer in the process of writing. However, a person might be limited by the properties of a written story. For instance, when you’re writing an ordinary tale set in Kuala Lumpur, the possibility of a man sprouting wings and flying in the story is very small because the story then becomes unbelievable and is suspect.

It becomes a concern that our skills in writing is for practicality’s sake, therefore since young we were given a template to fill in words. Therefore, genre becomes a fence where control can be exercised. Genre is something that in all desperation, we must control.

I wonder what happens if we simply let everything run free?

Will it be extremely dysfunctional that our stories are no longer held by bricks and towers but levitate on their own? Is it much too fearful that our Twin Towers is actually a stairway to a Castle high in the clouds and occasionally receives Unicorns and Penguins as guests?

It looks rather silly, written in black and white, however what if I can tell you that it is true? What if I can make you, for a single second, believe in the possibility?

I vote take a leap. And see where it goes.

Alin
~Freedom from Conformity

Story: A Lonely Valentine's by Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 Malaysia License.

Story:Into the Rain by Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli

Name: Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli
Pen name: Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli
Title of Story: A Lonely Valentine's
Genre: Fiction, General
Summary: What happens when your soulmate leaves you? Does time stand still? Or does it go on, leaving you behind with your guilt?

*This piece was originally written in 1997, and revised in 2002. I think it's due for another overhaul.

Ian plucked the last notes with his eyes closed. The whole room was silent except for the tune that floated from his guitar. The song he sang had been light, beautiful in its sadness. Even as the final note faded and died, the magic of his song lingered. Some clapped softly, unsure of what response to give, and some cried silently in their seats. All were touched by the message within his lyrics.

“Thank you,” he whispered without looking up. Ian stood and left his seat in the middle of the stage and headed straight for the bartender’s counter. The singer before him had received a hearty applause. He left the audience subdued. Pat, the owner of the bar walked into the spotlight as he always would after a performer had left the stage, but only a few people laughed when he made a joke before introducing the next singer.

Ian slid his guitar into its leather casing and leaned it carefully against the mahogany counter. “Joe, the usual.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender slung the stained cloth he was using to wipe the counter over his left shoulder and took out a bottle of beer. In a fluid motion that bespoke years of experience, he opened the cap and slid the bottle toward Ian. Not a single drop fell on the polished surface of the counter.

“One for me, Joe,” Pat called out from beside Ian. Behind him a woman was singing an original song. Another opened bottle of beer came sliding across the counter. “Thanks.” He lifted the bottle. To Ian, he whispered, “Such a show-off, ain’t he?”

Ian gave Pat a short glance and took a draft.

“The audience loved you, boyo. Look at them.” Pat noticed the other man not paying attention to his words. He gave Ian’s shoulder a slight nudge. “Really. Look at them.”

Ian glared at Pat before turning his head to look at the crowd. Even in the dimmed light he could make out a few women wiping their cheeks with tissue or tablecloth or their own sleeves. With a shrug, he turned back and took another draft.

“You could sing for real, you know. Make money like all them professional singers.”

Ian gave Pat a bored, flat stare and finished off the beer.

“Whatever, man. You bring the crowd in, so I don’t complain.” With that, Pat took his bottle, stood up and left Ian alone. He went to greet some patrons sitting at a nearby table and they laughed at something he said.

Just when Ian found the solitude he sought, a woman came by and sat beside him.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” If the woman sought to initiate a conversation with him, it was one of the lamest line he had heard so far. He ordered another bottle of beer and stole a quick glance at this newcomer. She looked thirty-something, slightly prettier than most cheap hookers, but not someone you could single out in a crowded subway. Not like Sam. Ian took a long swig when a fresh bottle slid to his hand.

“I loved the song you sang. Beautiful voice.” She sounded like she was struggling for the right words to voice out. “I’m Kelly, by the way.” She offered her right hand, but Ian left it hanging without even a single glance. She withdrew her hand and grabbed her half-emptied glass.

Joe left his cloth on the counter and came to the rescue. “Kelly, right?”

The nervous woman forced a smile. “U-huh.”

“Look, let me refill your glass. It’s on the house. And sorry ‘bout my man Ian here. He’s always like this.”

Kelly waited just long enough for her glass to be filled before she left them.

“Thanks, man.” Ian lifted his bottle slightly.

“No sweat. Pity though. This one looked decent.”

“Whatever. I’m done for the night.” Ian finished off his beer and lifted his guitar.

“Right. See you tomorrow, man. But sing something lighter, okay. We’ll have a lot of couples wanting a little romance.” Joe resumed wiping the counter.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, hollow and barely audible. Ian put on his jacket and quietly left the bar. Pat gave him a single wave to acknowledge his exit.

Winter wind blasted at him just as he opened the door, but Ian ignored the cold just as he had ignored the woman in the bar. His apartment was not far away, but home was not his destination just yet. He had somewhere else to be, someplace away from life. Ian walked the path he had been using every night since…that day, looking up only before crossing the few streets that separated the bar from the graveyard.

Not many people were up and about that night, and those few that lingered hid within the depths of long and thick jackets, their faces masked by shadows even as they passed the watchful glare of streetlights. It was the kind of night when people are not afraid to come up and mug you out in the open. And even if they do, no one would really care. Car honks pierced the air once in a while, and at a distance, sirens from patrol cars could be heard, slightly muffled and not completely out of place. It is the city, after all.

When Ian reached the graveyard, the gate was closed but not locked. Just as he touched its cold metal surface, the bell from the clock tower across the street tolled, long and deep, breaking the stillness of the night and canceling out every other sound. Ian looked at his wristwatch. Under the flickering light of a lamppost by the gate, he made out the two overlapped hands. Midnight. The bell struck again. Ian pushed the gate open. Its rusted hinges creaked so loud not even the bell could muffle it out. People like to say teeth-grinding noises like this one could wake the dead. If only the words were true.

The moon was his only source of light in the crowded graveyard, but it had been so long since he last stumbled on a tombstone. He had memorized the position of every marking stone along the route to a particular plot of land that meant the world to him. The bell continued its loud toll, but he wasn’t counting. Ian kept on walking at a leisurely pace, as if he belonged here. He had long ago noticed a certain stillness in the air, as if common breeze dared not touch the hallowed ground. Even the silhouette of the trees that dotted the scenery looked eerier. Once in a while he could make out vague scents of fresh flowers, probably laid there somewhere by visitors during the day. Everything looked, smelled and sounded different during the night than in daytime, but Ian was not that particular on small details. Even sudden sounds of broken twigs or ruffling of wings could not daunt him.

Ian stopped in front of a black marble tombstone. It was simple in design, a slab of polished Italian marble without a crucifix or statue to adorn it, but curved like an arch at the top. Its surface reflected the dim moonlight beautifully, and the gold plated plaque looked brand new even when it had already been there for so long. Ian had hired the caretaker to maintain the tombstone in its perfect condition, and the old man even kept the grass over the grave trimmed evenly. Ian squatted and traced his fingers on the words engraved on the plaque, but he had already committed every single letter and symbol into memory from the very first day he had the tombstone done.

Samantha Jane Watson-Green
18.3.1972 – 14.2.1997
She loved, was loved,
But God loves her more.

Sam.

His one true love.

His wife.

Ian slumped and leaned on the cold surface of the tombstone. He closed his eyes and wondered what life would be like if things had not turned out the way they did. His apartment would not be cold and empty. It would have been a home, a place he would have looked forward to go to every night. His bed would not be much too large for him, and he would have someone to wake up beside him every morning. Sam had loved to kiss the tip of his nose to wake him up, and he would brush his lips against hers to tell her he was awake. Ian stroked his nose lightly at the memory of those tender lips touching his skin. If Sam had not been so mercilessly robbed from him, he would be singing songs that celebrated her life, not hollow songs reminiscing in what was.

All of the sudden what Joe had said just now made sense. A night where couples want romance. It was already –

“Valentine’s.”

Ian had not heard that voice for exactly a year, but nothing could make him forget the light, tender whisper. Ever. If hearing it wasn’t impossible enough, nothing could prepare him for what he saw when he opened his eyes.

“Sam.”

Ian shot up and almost lost his balance. It was impossible, but here she was, standing before him, the love he had lost. Sam was wearing the one-piece sundress that Ian loved, a white sleeveless dress with loose skirt that reached her ankles. The small colorful flowers embroidered on the hem of the skirt looked wonderful, just as he remembered it. She looked so real, so alive, with a rosy hue on her smooth cheeks, and those green eyes that gazed deep to the very core of his soul, and lips so pink and tender he wanted so much to kiss her there and then. Her long auburn hair flowed as if caressed by a gentle wind even though the air around Ian was still.

“Sam.”

Ian still could not believe it. She even smelled wonderful. The fragrance of the perfume he had bought for her the last Christmas they had spent together filled his nostrils, bringing back memories he had forgotten.

“It’s been so long, love.” Sam smiled, but in its warmth Ian could sense a deep sadness. “I’ve wanted to hear that again for so long.”

His initial shock subdued, Ian acted instinctively. His fingers, still numb, reached for Sam’s cheeks and lingered there, savoring the smooth and gentle texture he remembered all too well. He closed his eyes and sought her lips, knowing she would reach for his. For the first time in a whole year, Ian felt complete again.

“You…don’t know…how…hard it’s been,” he whispered between gentle kisses. Ian couldn’t breathe right, his chest tight from renewed heartache. Suddenly he remembered the hell he had been through the first few months he spent in denial. “I wake up every morning hoping you’d be there.” Ian tilted Sam’s face upward to study her every feature. “But I always wake up alone.” He felt his chest tighten even more.

“Ian, I can’t stay.” Sam’s face was a conflict of guilt and sadness.

“I know. That’s what hurts me even more. This is not real but I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to wake up alone again.”

“Ian, love, you know why I’m here.”

Ian wouldn’t let his eyes off Sam’s for fear she would disappear. He had lost her once, and once was more than enough.

“Look behind you. Please, for me.”

Ian felt the need in her voice and couldn’t let her down. Still holding Sam close, he turned around only to find it was no longer as dark as midnight should be. He wasn’t even at the cemetery anymore. The sun was a disk of white light above his head, staring at the world without warmth. They were standing at a broad street, with tall, dull buildings along the length of the avenue. There were many people about, all in their warm jackets. Cars and cabs completed the scene of a busy street. But everything was still, as if God had pressed the pause button. Birds with their wings stretched were suspended in mid-air; even plastic bags and paper blown by the wind were still and unmoving.

“Where are –” Ian knew he was supposed to remember this place, this particular scene, but he couldn’t quite recall what he was seeing. Until he spotted a sleek black Jag down the street. Then everything fell into place. His eyes darted around, looking for people he suspected would be there. Another Sam was across the street, wearing the same dress the one he held was wearing, and another version of him stood among a crowd of pedestrians not far from where he was standing. That other Ian had a single stalk of a large blooming red rose in his hand.

“This is where it happened!” Ian let go of Sam and suddenly everything came to life. A loud honk blasted in the air, the birds continued their hurried flight, and everybody seemed to talk all at the same time. The Sam across the street walked in Ian’s direction, and his other self waited while others crossed the street, waving his free hand to greet the woman he loved.

“No!”

Ian rushed across the street, wanting to prevent what he knew had happened. He couldn’t just stand and wait, and he had to do something. But the Jag sped through him like he was a ghost and everything else was real. A thump, a long pause, and a thud accompanied by a crack. Ian turned around and saw Sam lying on the street, a pool of blood starting to form under her still body. There was a split second of utter silence, followed by shouts of horror and a loud “Sam!” that drowned all other sounds. Ian could only stand still as he watched the other him sitting in the middle of the street cradling Sam in his blood-soaked arms. He was crying, calling out Sam’s name over and over again even though she couldn’t hear him anymore. A ring of spectators was forming around them, horrified look being the general expression. The rose lay forgotten not far from the pool of blood.

Everything disappeared and all was dark and quiet again, leaving Ian empty and devastated. Sam picked up the rose and walked closer to Ian, silent as words did not seem to belong right then.

“Why did you let me see all that again?” His words were barely audible.

“To make you see it wasn’t your fault.”

“But I should have been the one crossing the street.”

“Or the car shouldn’t have been there, or I should’ve looked before crossing. It was my time, Ian, and nothing could have prevented it. You have to let go.”

“I love you…so…much. I can’t…let you go.”

Sam caressed Ian’s cheek, soothing him and calming his shaking body. “Not me, love. The guilt. It was never your fault. I’ve been luckier than most people. I died in the arms of the man I loved. I didn’t feel pain, only your warmth as you held me. I felt your heartbeat, strong and fast, even as mine stopped. I should thank you, love, for leaving me nothing to regret about the life I lived.”

“Don’t leave me again, Sam.” Ian hugged her close and kissed her forehead.

Sam buried her face in Ian’s strong chest. “I’ll always be with you as long as you remember me.” It was all the promise she could give him.

But it was enough. “Then you’ll be with me till the day I die.”

Their kiss was long and tender, filled with years of love they didn’t have to voice out.

* * * * *

“Sonny. You alive?”

Ian awoke to the sharp jab of the butt end of a garden rake on his chest. After blinking a few moments to clear his head, he realized he had been sleeping with his back supported by the black marble tombstone. He rubbed his temple to ease what he felt like a hangover. When he opened his eyes, Ian saw the caretaker’s open hand in front of his face. He grabbed the old man’s scrawny arm and used it as a leverage to stand up. Ian felt something fell off his lap, and when he looked at the ground, he saw a stalk of deep red rose.

Ian couldn’t say for sure whether what happened that night was a dream from drinking too much, or everything had been real. With his guitar in one hand and the rose in the other, he walked out of the graveyard with a warm smile on his face. In his heart and in his mind, Sam would live forever.

©Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli 2009
...Read more

Story: Into the Rain by Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 Malaysia License.

Story:Into the Rain by Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli

Name: Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli
Pen name: Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli
Title of Story: Into the Rain
Genre: Romance, Fiction, General
Summary:What if when you finally figure out you should have held on, instead of letting go? May you already be too late?

*This short piece is just something to get my fingers moving. It may or may not be used for something big I have in progress.


Thunder rumbled overhead. Usually I would count the gap till lightning struck, but not this time. I was busy praying I wasn't too late.

I bounded up the narrow stairwell two steps at a time. I held on to the banister, fully aware of the filth and grime that were beginning to coat my palm with a thickening layer of slime. Not that I had much choice. Raindrops pelted at me like an endless wave of angry insects, limiting my vision and making my steps treacherous. I'd already lost count on the times I almost slipped. Above the din of the building storm, I could hear my heartbeat. I could even feel it in my fingertips.

Please. Don't let me be too late.

I lost track of how many floors I left behind me. My chest felt tight, my breaths came out ragged and hot, and my sides felt like someone was squeezing me hard, long nails burying deep. I was already panting, acrid-tasting raindrops making their way into my open mouth, but still I ran.

Wait for me.

I could barely make my way to the partially opened door when I reached the top landing. The small, dust-coated space was littered with broken and forgotten desks and chairs with missing legs, piled up looking like they would topple and bury me with the slightest sneeze. Even the rotting door leaned at a slight angle inward, its top hinge broken. I was never acrobatic, but determination helped me through the door. Into the rain. Lightning struck somewhere beyond my periphery vision, casting the sky with a sudden illumination before plunging me into near darkness again.

Please.

I'd been on this roof only once before, and even then it was one time too many. The big granite slabs were unsteady at some places. With piss-smelling hallways filled with maggot-laden garbage bags, I wouldn't expect the roof to be maintained with any more care and devotion. I promised myself then I would never come here again. Yet here I was, rubbing my eyes with my grime-free hand to clear the rain off my lashes.

Why must he pick this freaking place, of all places?

Shielding my eyes the best I could, I scanned my surroundings. People could play badminton and basketball up here, full court each, without getting into each other's way. If the footing wasn't this uneven, and if the edges weren't only secured with knee-high rusted railings. Other than a few other stairwell openings and the occasional vent pipes jutting out awkwardly, the roof was an open space. He was nowhere to be seen, and I was running out of time. Even without the blinding rain, twilight was fast approaching, and I wouldn't be able to see much anyway.

Where the hell is he?

I took out my phone, risking damaging it in this deluge. I had to try. I pressed the button 2 without even looking at the keypad, to speed-dial his number. I closed my eyes, and listened.

At first I thought I was imagining it. Then Damien Rice's song got louder there was no mistaking it. It came from the other stairwell. I flew toward the sound, praying hard I would find more than his mobile there.

I found him sitting against the wall, his arms hugging his drawn knees. He was looking down, chin resting between his knees. His eyes were partly hidden by his hair. He ignored the rain flowing from the plastered locks just as much as he ignored the clothes that clung onto his body. He was shivering, but I couldn't tell if it was from the cold. His mobile lay forgotten by his side, its screen glowing softly. The song stopped abruptly when I canceled the call.

My heart almost stopped.

"I told you not to use the song as your ringtone. What if I couldn't hear it?" Could he hear me above the chatter of my teeth?

He didn't look up. He didn't move one bit. His silence was loud.

"I was afraid you'd jump."

"I could have," he finally said, barely above a whisper. "I wanted to."

"Are you alright?" I took a step closer, my hands reaching out. I was shaking. But I did not feel the cold. He was here, in front of me. My heart reached out further than my tentative body could.

"I don't know if I could do this anymore, Rina." He looked up when he said my name. What I saw looking into his golden eyes, dark now without luster, broke my heart more than the words he told me when he left six days and three hours ago ever could. Where was the fire? Where was the life I loved to discover in those beautiful eyes? He bowed his head low and started rocking back and forth.

Where was the Adrian I had always known? Where was the anger, the confidence? Where was my Adrian?

"Everything I've done. Nothing. Gone." His shoulders sagged lower, boneless. Even his voice, his tone, was midnight.

I kneeled in front of him and reached for his face. I lifted his chin to face me. He did not resist. "Hey, I'm here, aren't I?"

He closed his eyes. "I don't have any strength left."

"Adrian," I whispered, each syllable of his name a song on my lips. I smoothed hair, dark with rain, from his eyes. "Let me in. If you refuse to see the light, let me in on the darkness. Let me be lost with you. Let me be your strength as you've been mine."

"You can't, Rina," he said. "Not after what I did to you."

"I love you, Adrian."

I hugged him close with all the strength I could muster. I would not let him go. Not this time. He was still at first, but then a miracle happened. He hugged me back.

The rain was heavier still, but I was far from cold. Adrian was a soul helplessly lost, and so was I. But we found each other again. If I was never sure of anything else in my life, this I knew to be true:

I love Adrian.

And he loves me back.

©Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli 2009
...Read more

Poetry : Untitled by Jessica

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 Malaysia License.

Poetry:Untitled by Jessica

Name: Jessica
Pen name: -
Title of Poetry: Untitled
Genre: General,Reflections
Summary:

I hear the breeze
I feel it upon my face
Water waves about me
Let my eyes open
A painted sky

Upon an imaginary craft
No oars
Stranded yet flowing
Agitated but can only stay still
Nearing land that I don't see

Clouded, nature unnoticed
Seeking peace
Stilling anger
Let me sleep
Only to wake upon the cycle

©Jessica2009

KAP's First Newsletter and Other Announcements

Hey all!!

First and foremost, we at Kayu Api Productions would like to thank all of you who have supported us throughout these couple of months(4 months to be exact)-by visiting,submitting stories, etc...

Therefore, today we are proud to announce that Kayu Api Productions is coming up with our very first NEWSLETTER for the year!! And that's not all!! Our very first newsletter would be submitted to the Asia and Pacific Writers Network for their September 2009 Issue!! So, send us you stories (fiction,non-fiction etc) and poems. We would be selecting about 6-10 pieces from all our submissions received (since we can't possible send all :D). There is no specific deadline but for those who would like their submissions to be considered, do try to send it to us by mid July. We need to read through,edit, and compile. Do bear in mind that all your submissions would first be published in our blog regardless as to whether it is selected for the newsletter or not..

You can submit your entries to us through the "Submit Form" at the sidebar, or alternatively you can choose to send it to our email- kayuapiproductions(AT)gmail.com . For those sending directly to our email, do remember to include your name, pen name, genre, summary, title and working email address so that we can contact you!! And read the terms and conditions too!!

Also, always remember that Kayu Api Productions accepts and welcomes all kinds of stories and poems from and all walks of life and all ages. We do not filter submissions sent to us unless it is something we deem highly inappropriate-vulgarities etc.... (So far, there's none ;D) All we do is edit and make sure there are no grammatical or typo errors. We strongly believe that every writer has to start from somewhere and there will never be any stories/poems etc that would be too substandard, simple for Kayu Api. The key to improving is towrite, write and just write!! And we are here to encourage that!!!

Next up! I'm sure most of you have noticed the minor changes in KAP's layout!! Well, we at KAP are working hard to bring you much more!! So stay tuned!! Also, KAP is adding an Events section which would feature the latest events attended by KAP in the local arts industry!!

We have also added a chat box to our blog. Feel free to drop us a message there or even email us.It would mean a lot to us.At least we'll know our progress.We don't bite!! :D

Well. that's all for now. Do continue to support us!!!

Regards,

Alin and June

Earth Hour

Hey All!

We're here announcing Earth Hour tomorrow!




Switch off your lights at 8:30 to 9:30 PM

Among the Landmark Buildings set to flip the switch off are:

KLCC
KL Tower
Dataran Merdeka
Penang Bridge
Putrajaya
Menara Taming Sari - Melaka
Sunway City
Midvalley City

Join in the fun at any of these places!

Dataran Merdeka
Sunway
Cap Square
i-City(Shah Alam)
Sunrise - Mont Kiara
Starhill - YTL
Island Plaza (Penang)
Green Heights Mall ( Kuching)

It'll be a fun experience. Try gathering with your mates in this Hour of Darkness and see what happens!

So do turn off your lights! Remember, it is a point we are making. Then, write your experiences of this single hour and share it with us! Or grumble the state of darkness your sister or your brother left you in and share it with us. We would love to hear how you spent the time.

~This is KAP in support of Earth Hour and saving the environment!

Alin and June


Details

ALL THE BELOVEDS: Alina Rastam Poetry Book Launch

Hey everyone!!

There's a Poetry Book Launch entitled ALL THE BELOVEDS by Alina Rastam happening this Saturday, the 21st @ the Annexe Gallery. It's from 6.30 -8.00 pm and admission is free.



Listed below is the programme for the night.

7.15pm - Jerome Kugan performs acoustic set of two songs.

7.25pm - Alina Rastam reads a selection of poems from All The Beloveds.

Light refreshments will be served.

For more information, you can call this number - 012 232 9282

You can get more information of the author at the Annexe Gallery Website here.

Regards,

Alin and June

Story: Revelry Queen sees the Empty Tomb by Raina

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 Malaysia License.


Story: Revelry Queen sees the Empty Tomb by Raina

Name: Raina
Pen name: Ymber
Title of Story: Revelry Queen sees the Empty Tomb
Genre: Real Life, Fiction
Summary: Emptiness is a large part of our lives and most of the time what we do revolves around filling in that space.

City lights a-fading. That's how the view is from here. I watch as the thirsty faces seek to fill their hollow hearts and I see their hollow eyes bleed tears. Where would they seek solace for their lonely souls? The loud music causes an echo in the depth of their bodies. It scares a lot of them how quick this moment of slight pleasure that tingles their happy nerve will fade, and then they are left alone, hearing the echo of their own voices calling out for someone to hear them. My own heart turns and I feel it shrink to hide under my belly. It fears something real and raw.

I close my eyes as the music gains an auditory strength that shuts all things out. I retreat back to the space where no one can touch and I look around. Does love live within me?

See her run, she runs after love. But she runs not for love himself, she runs for the pleasure she may gain when she possess love. Love runs from her, for her pursuit of him is but artificial, she is unwilling to sacrifice for love himself. She is after his gifts. The pleasure, the romance, and when she exhausts the very well love himself is, she moves on. She sits in despair for she understands not, love must be obtained not for his gifts, love must be sought for the sake of himself. Love himself.

She closes her eyes as the music gains an auditory strength that shuts all things out. She is unable to retreat for she knows not how. Her heart has shut out all things good while shutting out all things bad. The calloused wounded entity in her chest cannot shout out its loneliest cries, the ones she screams silently in the darkest pain. It is heard not. Not by her, not by anyone. She continues to run, but she stands still. Motionless in motion.

I watch her light her fourth cigarette in such an urgency as if in it she would finally obtain a certain answer. I watch her kiss him with such an abandonment as if in him she would find a certain salvation. I watch her down her alcohol with such a thirst as if in it she would find a certain joy. I watch. I watch. I watch her give herself to him with such passion as if in it she would find a certain love. Love stands still watching.

I watch her light her fifth cigarette. Her hollow eyes searching around for something. Something is missing. She placed her palm on the face of him who lay beside her and sighed. His hand ran up and down her thighs as he sighed. The morning makes us see more clearly. The night of abandonment to each other had done less than fill the chasm within the each of them. The feel of another's skin on their naked bodies did nothing but make them feel completely used, they feel completely cheated for when morning came and as they looked at each other they only saw hollowness in the other. Nothing glorious such as love. Nothing sweet such as joy. Nothing fulfilling such as wholeness. And they thought the revelry was supposed to fill the deep chasm of emptiness.

I sighed a sigh that only can be sighed from a pain that is born so deep within my being. I watched. City lights a-fading. That's how the view is from here. I watch the thirsty faces seeking to fill their hollow hearts and see their hollow eyes bleed tears. I watch without them waiting. I stand about them waiting. I nudge them but that which concerns them blinds them and they heed me not. I am dying. Dying to tell them. Something is missing, she looks. She laughs. I touch her beautiful face and look at her eyes, and then wait until she turns to see me.

Of course something is missing.

I am outside of her.

©Raina2009
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Events to Keep a Lookout for !!

IMPAC Dublin Literary Award for Yound Malaysians 2009


Topic: "The Best Things In Life"
(Write either a factual or fictional account inspired by this topic)
Essay language: English
Length of essay: 800 - 1,200 words
Eligibility: All Malaysian students aged between 14 to 18 (as of 31st March 2009)
Closing date: 31st March 2009


Prizes:
• Best Overall Essay Trip to Dublin, Ireland (1 winner & parent)(to attend the gala ceremony for International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, the world's richest book prize and associated events)
• 9 Merit Awards
• 1 Special School Prize
• 10 Consolation Prizes
• Certificates for 20 short listed entries and the winning school.

For more contest details, please visit this page at theStar Online.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Revisiting Your Short Story by Daphne Lee

Date : 7 March 2009 (Sat)
Time : 10:00 am – 1:00 pm
Venue: Booker Room, MPH Megastore 1 Utama
For participants aged 13-18 years old only.
Note :This is especially helpful for those who are taking part in the MPH Alliance Bank National Short Story Competition.


Making Your Story Move by S H Lim

Date : 22 March 2009 (Sun)
Time: 10:30 am – 12:00 pm
Venue: Booker Room, MPH Megastore 1 Utama

For further details on these two events and how to sign up, please visit the MPH event webpage here.
Scroll all the way down. It's the last two events on the list.

That's all for now. Enjoy!!

Regards,

Alin and June

Poetry:Within You by May

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 Malaysia License.

Poetry:Within You by May

Name: May
Pen name: -
Title of Poetry: Within You
Genre: General,Reflections
Summary: A poem about looking deep within yourself to find the blossom of spring.

When you plant a seed,
Water it,
Take care of it,

So,
As it Grows,
You must Love it
and Cherish it,

So...
When it blooms,
you will smell
the blossoms of the most beautiful flower ever.
Deep within you...

Appearance is not a factor.
Be proud of who YOU are.

©May2008

KAP wishes a Happy Belated Chinese New Year and Valentines Day!

Yikes! We seemed to have missed much of the celebrations in the past few weeks! First off would be Chinese New Year! It's the Happy Year of the Ox! May the coming year be prosperous for all despite the words tossed in the wind.

We are welcoming stories especially in regards of this celebration. If you have a tale to tell, do share! Colour it, describe it, soak it in angst, joy or any tone you wish. It would be wonderful to allow the congregation of different interpretations of this festival on this page.

Another would be Valentines. Well, Happy Valentines to those who are celebrating, Single Awareness Day to those who aren't and well, Happy Merrymaking for those who can hardly care less. Express your thoughts through words and do share them with us. It would be our honour to place them here.

Onto news of updates. We are currently in the process of revamping the site. We realize the basic look has served its purpose and now wish to expand the possibilities of the site. If there are any suggestions or perhaps volunteers, do drop us a line. We would be more than happy to receive aid!

The third is a reminder that the Short Story for MPH is due on the 31st of March. It isn't too late for a last minute rush of 2000 words! All the best to those who are trying!

That's it for now. Thank you for your patience!

Alin and June


Details

A Short Note....

Hey everyone!!

How are things? We hope the New Year has been treating you well. :)

First of all, we would like to remind everyone that the deadline for the MPH Short Story Writing Competition is coming up - 31st of March 2009. So for those who have not started, don't worry. There is still time!! So pick up your pens and start writing!!

Next up, we would be tweaking the layout slightly. So, do expect some minor changes in the coming weeks. If by any chance at all you are prohibited from reading the blog, don't worry.Check back again in a few days time. Just know it's us working on the blog. :D

Also, we would like to encourage all of you to join our Forums. We know that it's slightly tacky as you would require authentication from the administrator after registering. But this is only to avoid spam and to protect our users from online scams and redirections to inappropriate websites.

Last but not least, we are looking for more stories from YOU!! We, from Kayu Api are working on publishing a newsletter soon. We can't confirm the exact date of publication or where it is going to be publish as of yet. But, in regards to the date, we can tell you this- It's going to be in the near future (reasonably near.....) So, do send us your stories. We would love to hear from all of you. You can choose to submit a story to us through the submit story button at our sidebar or you can directly email it to us at kayuapiproductions(AT)gmail.com. Replace the (AT) with @.

To cap it all off, since the Chinese New Year holidays are coming, we at Kayu Api would like to wish everyone out there a Happy Chinese New Year!! May this year be prosperous and bountiful for all!!

Sincerely,

Alin and June

Kayu Api is Looking for Staff Members for the Forums!!

Hey!!

Kayu Api is looking for Staff Members for the forum!! We are looking for someone who is passionate, responsible and able to meet deadlines. Also, the person must at least be able to spend a reasonable amount time online. WE understand that each one has many other dedications to attend to as well so we do not expect you to sit in front of the computer all day long.What we mean by reasonable is at least a couple of hours per week, at your own discretion. :) So without further ado, the specific positions we are looking for are listed as below:-

Graphic Designer -Someone to work with Graphics at the Forums- our Banner etc..... If you have sufficient "photoshopping" skills, do drop us an email with maybe a sample of your work!!

Coder/Designer - A person with sufficient html skills and can help work with the forum layout....design. This person must work with the Graphic Designer since the Graphic Designer will be providing the graphics for use in the forums.

Moderator/Publicity - Since the forums are pretty inactive now, the moderators won't have much to do yet. So, initially, those that apply would do some publicity work which would be spreading the word around on Kayu Api and the Forums. It's a pretty easy job. You can send emails out to your friends and we would provide the introduction note and everything. When the forum starts working, then the moderators can start moderating. I'm pretty sure I need not explain the jobs of a moderator since the name "Moderator" itself is self-explanatory.

So, if you feel like to joining the team and you fufill the criterias listed above or if you want to make any further enquiries, do drop us a note at kayuapiproductions(AT)gmail.com. Remember to replace the (AT) with @. We would love to hear from you!!

Regards,

Alin and June

Creative Writing Workshop by Tunku Halim

 
Here's another event to check out!

Creative Writing Workshop
Theme: How to Win a Writing Competition

If you are attending you MUST register with MPH so call 03-7726 9003 or email csoneutama@mph.com.my

Here's the blurb: Tunku Halim is back for another creative writing workshop in conjunction with The MPH-Alliance Bank National Short Story Prize 2009. Learn from the master of macabre to get you started on writing. Limited seats available for participants age 13 years and above.

I'll start off with some tips about winning a writing competition. Then we'll go through an extract from "Juriah's Song" and we'll discuss getting ideas, setting, character, plot, dialogue and description. This is a workshop, so we'll all be doing some reading, writing exercises and having fun too!

Interested participants MUST register at MPH Megastore, 1 Utama Customer Service or call 03-7726 9003 or email csoneutama@mph.com.my

Link it through facebook.

Have a great day!

Alin and June

Story: Poor Thing by Alam

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 Malaysia License.

Story: Poor Thing by Alam

Name: Alam Shah
Pen name: Alam
Title of Story: Poor Thing
Genre: General
Summary: Journey, contemplation, poetry, etc.



It was the year 2015, the month of August. I don’t think the need to specify a date and on exactly what day this occurred would matter. By this, I am referring to the way I feel because I endure these feelings quite often. I was headed home that evening; my objective was to head home in the fastest, most convenient way. All that was on my mind was weariness and a longing for leisurely activity.

What came to mind was a wide, clean cozy bed that came with a set of warm pillows awaiting my body weight. Just the thought of it brought out a sense of pleasure in my mind followed by desire. This was the perfect time to snap back to reality I uttered in my thoughts. I disliked fantasizing about something that isn’t within my grasp. When the mind thinks about something nice, it starts to keep on thinking about it and soon enough the heart follows suits and you have this strong desire building up in you. Day after day the demand to make them realize strengthens and suddenly upon realizing that you were asking for too much and that you’re not able to possess that something the heart immediately starts to sink and in process starts to eat you up.

Coming back to reality, I thought of my hardened mattress and the unshapely pillows that were in my possession. This time it wasn’t comfort that I felt but a sense of familiarity and longing-ness. It serves its purpose that much I can vouch for, if you’re not too picky that is. But I am going to get rid of them anyway due to their unruliness from failing to live up to my expectations of providing constant comfort and also due to its old age and unattractiveness. Yes, I can be cold-blooded like that.

I was currently standing in the subway waiting for the train to arrive, the one I’ve been commuting on almost everyday for the past 5 years, twice a day. I stood there alone with the familiar faces that await the train with me everyday. We all had something in common though; neither of us were interested in wanting to intermingle or to develop a friendship. I was an unhappy individual, so it would only be fair to assume the rest of the people who follows my work pattern and my routine should feel the exact same.

“At least you have a job”, “Hey, it pays man, so quit whining and man up!”, “There are certain things that a man has to do whether he likes it or not, men were destined for such things”. These are some of the things my friends say with good intentions of course and probably to prevent me from going on dreading on the subject. I am a slave for money, a materialist. But then again, who isn’t? I would say that I have not enough wisdom in me to brave myself to not be dependant on it as an excuse. But yes, just as you’re thinking, it is a subjective matter.

The main factor that keeps me going is the ones I see everyday. The homeless people sitting, practically living in the subway. I think to myself that I cannot compare to them.

Dissimilar from what I am, I don’t see their need to impress anyone with good clothing, good manners, and a good job or even about the slightest inclination on what others might think of them. Its either the thought of surviving overwhelms and conquers all the other feelings or they’ve reached a level so low that they do not anymore care about what or how others look at them.

Of course what I am saying is nonsensical; these people are far away from home without any inkling near them. Living in a complete foreign place without having to feel shame and without anyone knowing their past… I am certain if they were to meet their parents, relatives or friends their human side will come out, starting by a feeling of queasiness and then the face starts to redden, almost instantaneously their pride begins to hurt and their thoughts showered by ill and troubled ones, flashbacks and things of the past comes in play and finally leaves them with a feeling of a long discomfort, of regret and disgrace.

Train stations were everywhere these days, as trains were most widely and commonly used. A few busy ones like the one I am standing in are opened 24 hours a day. The people of today have adopted the train system as their main means of transportation.

It wasn’t a surprise or a bad thing for people not to own a car too. Moreover people who owned a car were considered just for show, inefficient and impractical.

Though, we all knew that the issue of oil shortage would one day be significant and end up in producing lesser and lesser till it doesn’t anymore. Anyways, before that could even take place, a group of alliance went out of their heads and bombarded the many oil plantations in existence. It was very intricately planned. they targeted the ones that were the biggest producers and the most important ones.

It was a chaotic moment. The oil sites were so deeply and badly damaged. After a few weeks they announced that the oil sources were completely wiped out. We completely ran out of oil, we have no more oil.

When it was first announced people began to panic, it felt as if it was the end of the world. The economy plummeted to the lowest, everywhere. People started acting crazy, suicidal cases were common everywhere, governments were overthrown, poverty became a wide disaster and as predicted, Wars erupted but they didn’t last long because war needed fuel, oil or gas whatever you want to call it.

Thankfully enough, it only lasted a couple of years. Particularly, in times of desperation and in need people do their best to change their fate. More importantly they show their human side and work together with each other. People managed to come up with a dozen other technologies that didn’t require oil.

And the oil people managed to dig out oil from the damaged ones.. they eventually managed to find new oil pones Just enough to go by with the production but it was never the same.

Jumping back to the present, I think to myself that when my train comes, I’ll take a smaller train that will drop me right in front of the place I was living in. however, this too was just a dream. In reality I still had to walk close to a kilometer to reach home. I see it as dreadful exercising.

Amidst the crowd I found an empty seat. There was a huge fan pointed towards my direction. I felt relaxed and just when I started enjoying and starting to feel comfy, the train arrived. I am now standing with a few hundred more people who are probably on their way home. Most of them are familiar faces and was at their familiar places. There was this cute girl that I used to see everyday, now I see her everyday with her partner. I stopped seeing her.

Since cars were no longer the best way for traveling, and there were no real means to separate and differentiate each other financially and in society, hence they created a way where one would be able to do so and at the same time make more money out of it. They came up with different compartments, one for the rich and the upper middle class, one for the middle class and another for the lower class. And for the really wealthy, they had their own trains and their own tracks to move on.

The journey took exactly 25 minutes, right on time I said to myself, oblivious to the time. This particular stop was a busy one, it was an attraction to street performers, and homeless people but no longer snatch thieves. Ever since the new law of cutting the thieves finger every time they get caught was authorized, snatch thieves had to find a different way to satisfy their needs…………………

I got down, together with the masses. I looked at my watch and it was still earlier than usual. I walked slowly passing one performer after another.

The bright neon lights made me feel safe and reassured. Which brings me to thinking about something that bothered me for quite some time, Imagine a place where you’re so used to and feel comfortable being in and suddenly the lights go off and the comfort and the security turns into fear and obscurity. Why when the place is the same but without the presence of light is able to manipulate peoples feeling towards that place? Not being able to see and to familiarize one self with their surroundings creates uneasiness and insecurity. This makes me come to the conclusion that one who can’t see is in darkness, one who is in darkness

As I walked out the station, the sky was already dark, the wind was cold and the air was a mixture of smells. I could see the huge sky scrapers ahead of me. It was a painful sight, sore to my eyes, I am and will always be a nature person but ironically I prefer and rather live in cities. Only thing is, I despise the rapid growth of buildings whose land was once filled with trees and of course the pollution that ruins the smell in the air.

I walked on looking at the performers doing their thing. Some singing and playing the guitar, some with different instruments like the drums, flute and even the didgeridoo. I waved at some of the performers busy with their performances; the ones that noticed either nodded their heads or waved back in acknowledgement.

Knowing what I wanted, I went directly to my favorite performer. A middle aged guy, with shoulder length hair, loose clothes and pleasant when he smiled, He was sitting down on the pavement with a cloth of sort as his cover as he sat there writing something. I stood right in front of him and he looked up at me and with a jolt of recognition, he said, “hey! You came at the right time! I was just done with my new poem.” He said smiling. His voice was deep and it felt as if his cheerfulness didn’t go ‘hand in hand’ with his groggy voice. This man was a poet, most of the time I didn’t understand what he was trying to convey. But at other times, it was simple and easy to comprehend.

Together with me was another guy. He was dressed the same as me, working attire. Only thing is his clothes appeared more neat and exclusive. His hair was the same length as mine but somewhat slicker, his skin color fairer and his feature better and sharper. He was also slightly taller. I was slightly taken a back and caught myself staring at him, he noticed me, smiled and said, “hello” I greeted him back and quickly turned my attention to the poet. He was standing, with his sketch book in his left hand. He started:

“Our true birthplace is when we first lay an intelligent gaze on ourselves.”

He looked at me nodded as if asking whether I understood. I nodded back as if answering to his question. Upon looking at that he continued,

“White, blue, gray and black,
Thus the alteration from young to old,”

He then looked at us and said, “Okay?” Amused, we replied back, “okay”

“I shall start my poem now he said in a deeper tone” I assumed he was getting serious. He started with his hands in the air and he moved it as he spoke…

“Why give us existence,
When there’s no significance,
Why give us logic,
When life itself is illogical
Why put evil in us,
And expect something pure from it,
Why give us needs,
When you don’t give us the ability to procure it,
Why instill desire in us,
When desires are destroyers,
Why give us power and then corrupt us,
And expect us to be humble and incorruptible,
Why give us mind to think,
When the answer is faith,
Why give us choices,
When you don’t expect us to make them
Why give us fantasy,
When what is reality
Why create knowledge,
When knowledge can misguide
Why create humans,
When they turn out an atheist, agnostic and a deist
Why give us intelligence,
When stupidity can always reign
Why let me wonder, think and ponder,
When there is no answer
What are these if not a test?
Why if not to show the difference between the seeing and the blind
Why if not this life is a prison for the believer.
What if this life does not belong to us?
What if, there is no ‘I’ as one but ‘us’ as one?”

He looked exhausted; obviously it was tiring for him. There were only two of us, but he recited as if there were hundreds before him. His wild hand movements although captivating and strengthen and weighed emotions to his performances had to be tiring. He sat down on the piece of cloth.

I wanted to ask him a few questions but I found myself hesitating as usual. However to my annoyance, the guy beside me beat me to it before I could, “So basically you’re saying that we shouldn’t live our lives not for ourselves but for others?” I corrected him, “no, not for others, but for the creator.” The other guy looked at me as I shifted my gaze and spoke again, “Right?” looking at the poet, seeking confirmation.

The poet looked at us nodded at me but said, “It was just a poem, and it’s up to you how you perceive it as long as it affects you positively.” He smiled a little.

“True.” the other guy said sarcastically, he then added, “a homeless, who sells his own poems and quotes to make his living giving advices on life heh” he said grinning widely. “See you guys later” he said cynically and walked away.

I didn’t have the energy to get worked up over what he said. The poet was looking at me now. I started to feel uneasy, I quickly said, “So how do one become selfless and you know…meek?” He said with his deep voice, “since you asked, dare you cut your ties with the world, Give away everything that you possess and only have with you your essential necessities?” he stopped talking. I looked scared and uncertain. I think, judging from my reaction. He added, “Unless you’re able to have no sense of inclination on your material wealth, you’re allowed to own them.”

“Oh, that’s quite heavy isn’t it?” I said jokingly. But I didn’t hear any laughter, the poet just kept on staring at me. This time I quickly looked at my watch and almost mumbled. “I am going to be late, I have to go now.” I bought a sticker of a quotation and one of poetic books from him, and bid my farewell.

My thoughts were now back on a clean cozy bed that came with a set of warm pillows awaiting my body weight. Just the thought of it brought out a sense of pleasure in my mind followed by desire.

©Alam2008
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