G. Serai was a 6–7min walk, during Ramadan all mosque-mouse quiet. The older FT in blue was the only other white in attendance... No. A young IT in track pants was working from home. (Alone in the condo was even more crushing than these generic chains.) Couple gleaming stainless belt-buckles sported by the mid-30s prematurely aged Chinese biz guys. Oh! And another older FT too, neat casual chosen by his wife. Closing 9. Every last one of the tables was shortly to be filled and many late arrivals would be forced to turn on their heels disappointed.
pavle radonić, “Slovenian Slalom” | This wild little thing has had some appreciation over a short submission cycle, but really it's a SG product, best fitted for local consumption. “Slovenian Slalom” was previously published in Action, Spectacle.
Kang asked me quite out of blue, “What are the greatest differences between China and Canada or the West?”
Never a good speaker, much less a public one, I simply mentioned that culturally, westerners were born with an evil nature, so they stressed the rule of law, the use of power, and the importance of freedom, while we Chinese people were good at birth, that’s why we pay more heed to the rule of virtue, the need for social harmony and the interest of the collective.
“To hell with politics!” said Hu, a well-recognized local artist and calligrapher still working as a union leader of a big state-owned enterprise.
“To hell with cultural discourse!” echoed Cao, a retired professor who taught chemistry in a community college and owned a small but very profitable business.
“Most important, to hell with Deng’s socio-capitalism!” added Kang, a retired mid-ranking government official, who was also a quite well established author of short fiction.
“What shall we talk about then?” I asked, not sure what other topics to bring up, but interested in anything my old high schoolmates might have to say about their lives.
“Sex or women,” Hu suggested. “A topic safe but interesting to all men all time.”
yuan changming, “Rooster Party” | Author's note: “Rooster Party” is devoted to Kang Jian (康健).
When Kim Seng entered that room, his attention was instantly fixed on an expensive-looking sword hanging prominently on the wall beside the engraved clavicles. Its handle was encrusted with multi-coloured jewels, some of which still shone brightly under the glare of spotlights despite the intervening millennia since they first saw the light of day. Kim Seng found himself wondering how much each jewel would fetch in today’s money. The side of the blade facing him was engraved with symbols which were recognisably ancient Chinese characters, but the evolution of the script over time meant that they could not be deciphered by those who could only read the modern incarnation of the script. For some reason the card accompanying the object did not specify the meaning of those words as well. Just looking at the sword, however, filled Kim Seng’s heart with a curious sense of delight, as though he was gazing at a long-lost friend, and as he stepped forward to take a closer look, something inexplicable happened that would change his life forever.
ho soon hoe, “The Quest” | I have some fiction works sitting in my folder muttering to themselves for far too long and have decided to send one piece to you for consideration.
Eighty-seven seats, four beer cans, three years and counting, and one night. We are old enough to vote, not sure what constituency you are in though I know you won’t care. You won’t care if the results are good, won’t care about getting the whole chicken when you can buy farms, won’t care if I bleed so red like an island hurting tonight.
lim yi jie, “AFTER POLLING DAY, I’LL WATCH THAT SCENE IN SINNERS AND DREAM OF KISSING YOU.” | I vomited out this poem on Polling Day, tipsy and inspired to write this mess after many TikToks of other badly written poems about lost loves with much thanks to the infamous scene of Mary and Smoke from the movie Sinners. I love this work because it encapsulates what I usually write about, which is said lost love, situationships, and yearnings. I also hate this work because it sounds like a loser crying (not to say I am not a loser). I am too embarrassed to send this elsewhere and, yet, still have that feeling to show this work regardless.
like omgggggggggg I’m like soooo happy for your upcoming trip to japanchinakorea!! *gasp* no yeah tell me more please, no i don't mind switching topics cause i don't think it matters all that much actually, what i was, um, saying. what? you didn’t hear what i said? no it’s ok it’s fine just keep going, yeah yeah!...yeah... *physically deflate like a balloon*
nicole bruma, “there’s too much ‘i’ in everything” | This poem came from a time of desperation and longing and reads much like a diary entry where I struggle to define how much is too much to say, inspired after receiving advice that people do actually want to hear from me (an idea that was revolutionary to me at the time).
There were four chairs, four sets of dinnerware, and four others—father, mother, sister, brother. I slid onto a chair that didn’t exist, at the table that had no space, eating oden stolen off their plates. They smiled at me, said their welcome, and chattered away in Japanese. I opened my mouth to speak, to make a home here, but years of disuse had rendered my tongue numb. What do I say, to endear them to me staying? Through the window, I watched water drip off the icicles, coalescing into liquid indents on the frosted windowsill. Where did the cat go?
liv, “genkan” | These pieces of scraps explore themes of rejection and/or alienation. Thanks, but no thanks, embodied.
Crystals running backward through a salt wound big enough to unsee. Middle of a flower enlaced with black rubies. Suturing sanity in time, what cannot be joined. Cannot. Lacen bells from under grounding an itching likely to be. This is like what I had the other night.
brandon david servos, “Whispering Ant” | I do not really know what exactly this piece is trying to say. It started off as a vibes-based stream of consciousness thing and turned into me writing from the point of view of an ant making its way through a coffin and entering the body inside. Though I have a soft spot for this piece, I cannot think of where I would be comfortable sending it, and thought this round of OF ZOOS was a good potential platform.
His favourite colour was blue too. She could tell. His house was drowning in it. It wasn’t just the furniture and cushions and towels and sheets. Outside, the harbour and sky rushed towards the massive windows as though threatening to swallow the entire apartment. The windows were tinted blue as well. He had even named the WiFi after the colour.
It was peaceful. She felt like a child again—no, like before-child, a state of non-being. There was consciousness without conscience. Time passed, but it was not time. What was it then? Wave after wave of it washed over them.
Sometimes, he cooked for her: fish fingers, cucumber and carrot sticks, cherry tomatoes, pear slices, eggs, crackers, cheese… And always, a blueberry smoothie in a whiskey glass. He let her taste wines, even taught her how to mix a gin and tonic. But she did not want to drink him in. She had tried others before. The taste reminded her of blue dribbling from her nose into her mouth.
In bed, they watched ships sail by. In the shower, she could tiptoe and still see them. He washed her. He worried if the water was too hot or too cold. He laid out her discarded clothes neatly. He made her another blueberry smoothie. He booked cabs for her when she had to meet her mother.
When he said goodbye, he would always look down. Blue flashed across his face.
the very fancy caterpillar, “least concern” | This piece was first birthed in November 2023. I did not dare look at it or complete it until now. I think it shares too much. I think it is too emotional. I think it is drunk. I think I should not put my real name to it. And I know that if any one in the story read it, I would be in trouble. So, I’m just writing and sharing for fun. I hope it will be alright and not too painful to read.
I thought of killing myself many, many times.
I had always thought that I would be the one all my friends were grieving for. I didn’t know Leah had depression as well.
I can’t fucking let you leave me.
Never.
And the other time I cried was when Andrew Garfield saved Zendaya.
I want to ugly cry like he does when he looks at Zendaya, thinking, I saved her this time, I caught her this time.
I want to ugly cry like that, at our wedding, when I look into your eyes knowing that this time, we are both saved.
I love you in every universe.
kristi koo, “The Moment When It Strikes” | This work is a peek into my delusional and traumatized brain. It is a peek into the stirring mess that no one wants to look at. It is a piece that even I don’t want to reread. It is disgusting, yet truthful. It is raw, but it might just be the right kind of thing to be raw, like sashimi—not everyone likes it but it has to be served raw. Or it is just rubbish. I like rubbish though. I hope you like my rubbish too.
