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zodiethegreat

Indonesia

The name's Zodie! I like to write prose and essays sometimes. Do not give me any kind of criticism unless I ask. They/them.
Contact: zodiacriver@yahoo.com
Writing Instagram: planet.retro

Message from Writer

I'm not a writer. I'm just someone who happens to wield words with the needles of my thoughts. I like sentences and fancy lyrics; and even if they juggle and become either dust or bread under my hands, I am still no writer.

Published Work

Poetry

This is for the romantic, the mawkish, the banal, the ideal, the lyrical, the melodic. You peek through the keyhole, enamored of the art of sin and lust and pure pleasure. Poetry is the product of a nihilist’s mind, birthed from the womb of an agnostic in beauty and is the same enemy of Roman annihilation, a treacherous literature inappropriate for the innocent.
 
The timelessness of Dorian Gray’s charm is not on par with Basil Hallward’s passion; and so it is with words and you. You think that poetry is just an anthology of love, a potpourri of zealous devotion. That is false. Taken from the ribs of Eve, its essence is substantial, like the matinal sunshine, a morning kiss on the cheek. But it’s still a curse; an omen so vague and casted so sotto voce that people don’t realize its diabolical aspects behind its scenic, seductive nature.
 
Taciturn grass and talkative oceans, both speak fluently in...

Book Review Competition 2019

Totto-chan: The Little Girl at the Window

We all wish we had a childhood as carefree as Totto-chan’s. In the midst of what adults would call misery, doe-eyed Totto-chan runs, runs, moving her small feet quickly and hums a happy tune in her head, all the while her long hair flies in the wind.
 
Totto-chan: The Little Girl at the Window is a memoir written by one of Japan’s most famous actress and TV personality in her time, Tetsuko Kuroyanagi. The book tells the tale of her days in Tomoe Primary School back then during the times of World War II, the stories tailored together into a bittersweet compilation of childhood simplicity, ethereal little happiness, and poetic, unforgettable narrative.
 
As the book begins, Totto-chan is expelled from her first primary school. Her quirky and blithe behaviors, such as standing by the window to watch street musicians during lesson, become an immediate burden unbearable by her teacher. Her mother then moved her to Tomoe Gakuen, a...

Poet

I, as a poet
            can weave individual letters
can mend broken words
            can juggle pretty phrases
can bake delicious sentences
 
            I, as a poet
can write poetry,
            prose,
but not the color of your eyes.
            but not the twitch of your lips,
not the flow of your hair,
            not you.
 
You have yet made me
            a failure as a writer
I want to put my pen down
            in shame,
in despair,
            in love.

I Mistake Colors for Numbers

Blue tables and red chairs
 
grey beaches and pink swamps
 
I mistake colors for numbers,

again and again and again
 
your mouth full of whitewashed lies
 
and I fall,

fall, fall, fall
 
again and again and again.

Songs of the Fallen (in Love)

The tune of Summertime Sadness
            resonates down to my cochlea
                        like a dangerous polygon
                                    like the stranger in my words
                                                like a childhood crush
                                                            like you
                                                                        like me
                                                                                    like us
 
The tune of Wicked Game
            cracks a chunk of my heart
                        severing its strings mercilessly
                                    and your eyes are a pool of beige
                                                locking with mine,
                                                            crack.
                                                                        I don’t
                                                                                    want to
                                                                                                fall in
                                                                                                            love.

Book Review Competition 2019

Totto-chan: The Little Girl at the Window

We all wish we had a childhood as carefree as Totto-chan’s. In the midst of what adults would call misery, doe-eyed Totto-chan runs, runs, moving her small feet quickly and hums a happy tune in her head, all the while her long hair flies in the wind.
 
Totto-chan: The Little Girl at the Window is a memoir written by one of Japan’s most famous actress and TV personality in her time, Tetsuko Kuroyanagi. The book tells the tale of her days in Tomoe Primary School back then during the times of World War II, the stories tailored together into a bittersweet compilation of childhood simplicity, ethereal little happiness, and poetic, unforgettable narrative.
 
As the book begins, Totto-chan is expelled from her first primary school. Her quirky and blithe behaviors, such as standing by the window to watch street musicians during lesson, become an immediate burden unbearable by her teacher. Her mother then moved her to Tomoe Gakuen, a...

Unrequited

i.                    She had flowers in her hair. They were small and daisy-like, but she wouldn’t tell me their names. One of them was tucked in between her ear, except it was still in its bud form. When I asked her why she didn’t just wear a blooming flower, she told me, in a small, gentle voice, “I want to be her sunshine, so that when she flourishes, I will be part of her, and she will be part of me.”
 
She became one with the flower, and left me the soft brush of her fingers against mine.
 
ii.                 Her eyes were the color of nonchalant sea, the calm waves in her irises splashing the shore of my heart and the crabs of her pupils walked sideways to the very core of my soul. When she spoke, the world seemed to spin so quickly that my mind was caught in between the clouds, all because her tone of melody...

Your Name

I’m a dramatic person by nature. This shows itself in my writings; my pieces reflect what’s within me, and I admit so by saying this: I am mawkish. My feelings are made of clay. I know how to mold them into statues and tableaus, I’m good at it—I’m not a charlatan this time.
 
I water my emotions with elixir so that they can grow and become immortal. I know how to do this, too. Everything is under my full control. I’m intimate with myself, and I know how to keep an interpersonal communication, therefore it is not exaggeration to state that I know myself and my feelings better than anyone else.
 
But this time, just this time, my feelings are a tangled thread.
 
“Who are your group members?” he asked, fingers hovering above the keyboard, fidgeting and waiting.
 
I spoke your name. It was easy. My tongue was as slippery as ice and it slid out...

Bed

I held her hand tight as the lift door opened with a loud ‘ting’. The speaker announced: “Level five.”
 
“Well,” she said. “Our adventure begins here.”
 
“Adventure, you say,” I sneered.
 
“Adventure.”
 
We were at a department store—a cheap one at that—the one furthest from our house. She said it would be a good idea to visit what was usually far away from our sight, a new place often unrecognized. But if the place has snails in their toilet, shops that smelled like herbal medicines and grey tiles—I’d say it wouldn’t be a very good idea.
 
She had bought herself stupid things, like traditional Vietnamese children’s toys, while I hadn’t treated myself. So her advice was one: shop for furniture.
 
“I like furniture stores,” she rambled. “They give off a peaceful ambience. I like it. It’s as if these things are alive. At night, they grow legs and hands and dance with each other....

Deceit

My mother had taught me how to knit clouds ever since I was a child. She slipped the needles in between my fingers and with the guide of her own hand, mine began to move, braiding the white cotton candy (as I liked to say) into warm sweaters that would later warm me in the throes of cold in the winter.
 
My father told me why the forest pixies die after ten days of their birth when I was eight. Apparently, their frail little bodies stop producing red blood cells in the ninth day, and their nervous systems were entirely cut in the tenth. Father told me it was because the world practically had no use of them, so they were fitted to die.
 
And I, I taught myself that clouds can’t be knitted and forest pixies never existed.

Bad Advice

The worst advice ever shoved down my throat was to stop writing.
 
I’ve got to admit, my writing is nowhere near good. It’s not even toeing the mediocre line—it’s simply standing on thin ice and if I slip a little, I’d be falling into the cold waters of Terrible Writing. This is truth that I won’t try to deny.
 
My world is under control of a Dadaist god. I view it under strange little lens, in a way that a good majority of other people fail to understand. I implement this to my work—I make sure that they are shaped according to my will while still showing some bits of my being. This is also truth.
 
For someone to tell me to stop my dream entirely just because I was hanging loose on giving up is absurd. I am lunatic, delirious and so are my writings, but I know there will always be room for improvement. At...

Four Seasons

Spring lives in a two-room apartment in Manchester. Her hair is made of petals, including marigold’s and aster’s, and her eyes filled with fresh morning sunshine inked a little with slow zephyr. The freckles around the bridge of her bridge are dirt; soil that smells like petrichor after light shower.

Summer loves the ocean. Every time the sun opens its eyes in the East and closes them in the West, she finds her feet dirtied by the gentle cream sand. Her mind is on the clouds over her; white like cotton candy, but her heart is somewhere else. She tells her, “I love you”. But the ocean keeps her mouth shut.
 
Autumn is the flower in between the cracks of rock. She is purple, small and forgotten. She is not one picked by little children to make crowns out of; no eyes see her, no beauty brushes her and no lust borne over her. She is a hopeless being...

Streetlight

I found myself in an alleyway in Chinatown, that late night when the red blood moon hung up in the sky, like a red pimple.
 
The shops were all closed. Takeaway restaurants no longer lit up their neon signs and clothing stores had their doors locked with big padlocks. No other soul were seen—at least not living ones. It was lonely, but bearable.
 
I chewed the unlit cigarette in my mouth. I had wanted to taste it, taste the smoke and forgetwhat my lungs felt like; but alas, I had no lighter.
 
Probably somewhere around here was a mafia headquarters or an opium den, but fear had frozen within me. Had a wolf maul me anytime soon, I still wouldn’t have cared.
 
I was ready for anything, but I wasn’t ready enough to meet her.
 
She sat under a streetlight, legs crossed and face accentuated by the yellow hue in a way that I...

Caricature

I, for once, am someone who likes lonely places too much. Liminal spaces. Like the caricature shop I visited in Japan. The place was splashed with colors and surreal portraits framed in golden; a strangely mesmerizing, yet grotesque little shop. The night I came across it was cold, streets empty and quiet. The owner was a young man with glasses and he could speak English.
 
I wonder why I was so intrigued with it. It wasn’t a beautiful place. It was uncanny and colorful, truly the only colored place I saw that night aside from the occasional neon signs.
 
Oh. Beautiful. A beautiful place.
 
I loved it because it resembled me. Maybe not literally, and not figuratively either—but the atmosphere that it gave told me: this is your place, your safe haven, your mind. You.
 
I am indeed, a caricature shop. I store nice memories as caricaturized, ghostly remembrances that haunt me for eternity.

Butterfly Effect

When I was born, the six hundred and fourth heaven crumbled. Its golden pillars suddenly cracked; their lines of weaknesses broke open like an eggshell. The angels were on guard, but it was too late. Feathered wings detached from their backs and they fell, fell into endless limbo along with the heavens dusts.
 
When I took my first step, a boy in Ukraine wore a hat. It was a grey beret, and he wore it because he wanted to hide the bangs that he had mistakenly cut the night before. His parents questioned him why on Earth would he wear that ugly hat he hated so much. He only shook his head while he munched his breakfast. Then he went off to school.
 
When I died, a butterfly flapped its wings in a certain time, a certain way, and once. It made its way to a flower to feed and maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there, a hurricane...

Resonance

I love Physics. Not because I enjoy it thoroughly; the worldly mechanics and laws don’t bear me any interest. I prefer things that can be seen by the eyes rather than what lies in the background. Measurements, constructing circuits and other silly little technical activities bore me.
 
But I still love Physics, because it offers me a wide range of words I can touch and bring to sleep as a pillow.
 
Reflection.
 
Proton.
 
Electron.
 
Energy.
 
Power.
 
Resistance.
 
Resonance – resonance, resonance, resonance.
 
By definition, resonance means the prolonging of sound when it’s reflected. At least, that’s what I like to believe. I don’t quite understand the essential meaning of it – and neither do I want to.
 
Words are better left off ambiguous. Otherwise, they’d become too powerful for daily usage. But as for writing, words are culpable for each creation’s beauty and scar.
 
Like the amalgamation...

This I Believe

Tackling the Art of Existence Feels Like a Fish in a Bowl

Philosophy is a dangerous thing. It is all about the essence of mind, knowledge, wisdom, and whatever it is that envelopes our existence with a safe, warm blanket of ignorance. Philosophers aren’t at all wise. They are just smart enough to look up and see what bliss is protecting all of us right now. They are brave people, courageous enough to dive into the deep waters of human thoughts. That’s surely one of the things only chosen people could do, those that are cherry-picked by fate.
 
So we know—or rather, we think that we exist. But do we? Before I begin, I need us to think about what makes us up. Not blood or bones, but shards of the cosmos that the universe herself blessed us with. Is it the violin solo in a favourite song, a specific turn in the labyrinth of your imagination, the ninth chapter of The Picture of Dorian Gray, the scent of freshly...

Tea

I was a fugitive hiding in a lonely diner in the corners of the outskirts of a tiny town.
 
The waitress came over to me with a notepad and a pen in her hand. She asked me if I was ready with my order. Her voice was strange. It was high and adenoidal, with a slight speck of rasp. Seeing colors in voices was within the range of my abilities, and I’d say that hers was magenta.
 
But that’s about it. I told her that I’d like a cup of Assam. She scribbled, bolding the letters a few times. She probably should have changed her pen, but she didn’t.
 
“No milk,” I said before she could inquire. “No sugar. No creamer. Just tea.”
 
Behind the counter, I watched as she made my order. Then, in a few minutes, I found myself staring at the steaming cup in front of me and tried to find a way...

Physics

Refraction is the bending of light when it passes different mediums.
 
The pathway I take is zig-zagged. Rocks and sand inflict stinging pain onto my bare feet (I know why—it’s because they have smaller surface area, therefore the pressure upon my skin is greater), promising blisters and nasty cuts for later. I have tasted the buoyancy of water, felt the weight (or as they said, gravitational force) of the sky above my shoulders, and calculated by hand the distance I have walked.
 
I wonder that if I were light, I would bend. Imagine. In a peaceful journey, a lovely ray unsuspectingly hits a block of waiting glass. A romantic reunion, but just for a split, insignificant second. Then the light would be refracted out of its line, and then out of the glass.
 
It sounds sad. Physics is the law that controls the mechanics of the world and it appears that, perhaps, it is also the puppeteer...

Pancake

I think the first time I fell in love with her was when she explained to me why she would tick pancake instead of waffle in a ‘favorite dish’ form.
 
We were kids sitting across each other, my legs crossed and hers brought up until her knees reached her chin. I remember, we had just finished a horror movie, so the lights were still turned off and the only light came from the TV that still showed the rolling credits. The intensity of our fear was starting to subside and we agreed to know each other more through 21 Questions.
 
“Do you have a crush on anyone?” she asked, partially looking away from my eyes. There was a faint smile in her eyes.
 
“Maybe not,” I answered. “If I had, I would’ve told you.”
 
She laughed. With the back of her hand, she covered her mouth.
 
(She did that because she hated her crooked...

My Short Meeting With Tragedy

As a wanderer, I have always loved meadows. No matter if they are blessed by humble violet or caressed with radiant yellow, I adore them regardless. In meadows, I can think clearly without the disruption of worldly macabre. The flowers are often small and pretty, and they remind me of so many goodness of the world. Baskets of snacks in Easters, pots of stew, soft colors…the list goes on. At night, when the moon hangs low, they become melancholic. The night breeze would often smother the petals of asters or rues or whatever it might be; as if they’re in love with each other. Meadows are my home, they are part of me. I am made of them, and they are made of me.
 
There was once a white meadow near an orphanage in St. Petersburg. I remember, it was almost sunset. The sky was somewhere in the shades of purple and pink and orange. It was nice. In...

Murder

Just stop writing if you hate it that much.

I met her by the lake when she had bougainvillea in her hair that time when April showers didn’t bring May flowers. We skipped stones and she told me that she was porphyrogene.

She smiled at me. It was a sweet sunlight-infused smile. Her lips, pink as sweet pea, stretched and curved into heaven. She was someone whose smile made me gut my chest out, pull my fresh, warm beating hard from its throne and gently put it on her hand. She brushed blood away from the organ with fleeting caresses of her sin-stained fingers, then pressed it to her lips as if it were her newborn baby.

The hole on my breast stayed that way, never closing and always gaping, like a black abyss I voluntarily inflicted on myself.

(Sacrifice.)

Writing may not be for you if it hurts.

Her hand, still dirty with dust and dirt, felt like millipede...

Death and Supermarket

I look at the sheet of paper in my hand curiously. I know it is torn from Nora’s favorite notebook. She has an entire pile of notebook in her room because she’s a poet, but the one with a picture of her now-deceased, childhood rabbit tucked in a transparent pocket on the front cover is the one she loves the most. The paper is white and lined with fading blue, wiggly lines. I don’t know how and why someone would make a notebook with lines that are not a hundred and eighty degrees sharp, but it exists. The world sure is strange.
 
Slowly, I move it closer to my nose and the raw, chemical smell of marker hurts my lungs. Not only Nora used the smelliest marker out there, her antique handwriting becomes more bizarre as it follows the uneven lines. Up and down, down and up, as if the words are in a journey of climbing hundreds of...

Visitor

That particular morning when the bell rang was cold. I had expected the milkman or a package of staplers I ordered from Italy, but I didn’t expect him to be standing on my welcome mat.

He had changed. His hair was longer now; it reached his shoulders ever so gracefully in an old-fashioned style, and it was colored in the fairest shade of yellow. His eyes were still dark grey, like the fur of a wolf, and they looked at me as if I were transparent and he could see everything through me. It was something that I didn’t know he had. He was taller and leaner too. His limbs dangled like Christmas ornaments. It was rather funny.

When he turned his head to the right a little, I noticed a bruise on his jaw. It must have been bleeding a few hours before. A nasty, purple bruise with a few dots of red, like a sudden burst of magenta...

Tens

The first time I met her, she was in art class.
 
I noticed how people who can master art are art themselves. But she was something else. A part of the universe seemed to stay within her, somehow a burst of nebula created her existence. She was like the first crayon doodle of a toddler; unable to be forgotten and always thumbtacked on my mind. She must be a magician. Ordinary strokes and lines became dreams under her pretty hands.
 
The tenth time I met her, she smiled at me.
 
Her smile had life. It was as if she was breathing it out. There was a sense of longing in the curve of her lips, a shining star that confused me between time and space. She altered reality simply with a twitch of her mouth, and I think that was a stellar superpower not everybody had. A smile that made me want to smile too, a smile...

Memento Mori

Back when I was a child, I used to stay in a bungalow my aunt owned. It was a huge place. The entirety of the living room was made of wood, aside from the couches and fireplace. There was a grandfather clock that made an eerie, low sound every time the long hand strikes twelve sharp. The kitchen was more minimalist, with only a single counter, two stoves and a tall fridge. Half of the fridge was filled with my uncle’s liquor bottles.
 
The second floor consisted of bedrooms; all five of them equally large, with a built-in bathroom in each, but only one was haunted by Death, and it was mine.
 
My parents never believed in that kind of superstitions. They should have though, because I met Death herself in my room that night. I thought Death would look like how people expected her to look: an entity made of skull and bones, wearing a black cape...

Boring and Lengthy

Just like my life.
 
Art cannot exist without the presence of the artist’s personality. A melancholic person will create something dreamy and monster-filled. A bubbly fellow will transform simple brushstrokes into sunny lollipops with vibrant shades of magenta. Someone who spend a third of their life in a hospital will make something out of nurses and doctors and the millipede in the clinic’s garden.
 
And a writer who has lived an ordinary life for way too long will write boring and lengthy things.
 
That’s just how it is. I cannot get blood out of a rock, the same way I cannot convert black and white into red and blue with the power of words. I can say something along the line of:
 
                        Grey wakes up in the open waters of hope, where the steady current of love washes over her, living a somewhat bittersweet aftertaste—like candy, but also like soap. Her pain is slowly alleviated,...

der Teufel ist ein Eichhörnchen

It was the last stop of the train. I’ve been riding it for three hours now, and it was time to step out and see where my subconscious has brought me.
 
The door opened with a ‘ding’. The speaker, the voice of a woman, told me to mind my steps. I looked up at it, gave my salute, and said in the firmest voice I could manage, “thank you for the journey. Good bye.”
 
Outside, the wind blew. It caressed my face and combed my hair. Strangely, it gave me a vivid sense of belonging, like coming home from a long day of school to find that the unfinished cup of tea you made last night is still on the dining table. It’s a lonely metaphor, but a lone wanderer like me could only wish for one thing: home.
 
My left and right were dust, while my eyes were aligned with a concrete, straight path. I abandoned...

The Circus

There is a travelling circus a few kilometers away from my house, and this is my journey to the tents every morning.

I have to walk through the woods. Under my feet, the fresh dirt was  wet, making the outsole of my shoes  dirtied with filthy brown soil. Even without the influence of rain, it always smells humid and clean, exactly like what runs in a god’s vein—petrichor. I am unable to enjoy the spectacular view of trees and flowers I am unfamiliar of, because I have to keep an eye for small snakes and insects I don’t want to step on.

The wind always softly combs my hair with its gentle fingers. My locks bounce from left to right, right to left above my shoulders. The sound of breeze and singing birds mix into a perfect harmony, like a scene from paradise; a blessing to the ears, all due to its calming tone and nonchalant melody.

Out of the...

The Painting

    My grandmother’s bungalow had always been a strange home, but a painting hung on the third floor was the most bizarre of them all. The style was abstract—probably painted by a Dadaist, and the colors blindingly vibrant. It was hung so up high on the wall and framed in expensive wood, which I believed to be oak, even if my father said it was ebony. It was titled: Crowley.

            Nobody thought of it as something out the ordinary, but it was only because they never paid attention. I knew that there were times it wasn’t there. A paradoxical conundrum began to flood my mind as a child. My early hypothesis was that it disappeared during full moons, or crescents, but in reality, there was no pattern.

            I never told anyone about this. I kept it as a small secret I promised to never spill, because if I did, the adults would take it away and maybe...

La Tristesse Durera Toujors

Melancholy, it seems, have rooted itself in my heart even before I was born. It was there when I was still a tiny bubble that floats in the chasm of unmade, rather broken fragments of the universe.
 
So that’s that. That’s how nature wants it to be. What is there to do?
 
I do wish that everything, including the entirety of our lives weren’t so sad. Why am I here in this ground, contemplating the reason of why I am here? I take my first steps, meet people, go to coffee shops, read books—but what for? What is the point of all that, if ceasing to exist is so frighteningly easy?
 
The moon waxes and wanes. She doesn’t care about the macabre of human existence. The sun rises and sets. She gives no mind to my tragedies. And while there may be a point for everyone else, for them to fight the laws of science and philosophy,...

Hell

There are all kinds of hell in this world. I’m almost certain that I’m in one.
 
Hell isn’t a dumpster of torture devices and fire; it’s not packed with caterwauling sinners in every corner. There are no demons with blood on their teeth, or some dog-like creature that thirsts on human flesh. Hell doesn’t reek of gasoline and acid. It isn’t located nine-hundred feet below our ground, neither it resides in a starless alternate universe.
 
Hell is the hospital’s waiting room where you are neglected by every passing soul. It’s a place where I should be alone in my battle with these unforgiving, crushing thoughts of mine.
 
“We’re sorry, but the emergency room is full,” the receptionist said, all completed with a plastic smile on her face and blink of her eyes, as if she was trying to showcase me her brand new red lipstick and fake eyelashes.
 
So I sat. I told myself to be...

The Kingdom's Executioner

She’s a nightmare in purple tunic and roses in her hair. Her mouth is full of petals of blood that used to run in the veins of her victims, before her infamous double-edged blade kissed their necks, sliding its lips so easily against their skins. Intense red, alive millipedes crawl over her heart and lick her with their rotten tongues, but she pays them no mind.

Her hand is gentle for such a venomous person. She looks at me with those grey, grey eyes, like the core of a storm, begging me to dive in and lose myself. When she tilts her head to the right, the corners of her lips twitch into the most perfect smile.

Venomous. Venomous. Venomous.

I know I’m in great danger, but the softness and safety of her palm throws me into a treacherous dilemma. I am falling. She is made of bones and flesh and melancholy; tainted with sins, but also humanity. I notice...

The Wanderer and the Stayer

The wanderer thinks of herself as a princess. She walks along dusty boulevards that are made for her feet. Her being is made of fireworks, burning like spider lilies, breathing in the moon as if it were elixir, and scream, scream like a passionate explosion of a Catherine wheel in the starless horizon.

The crown on her head is made of rose thorns, cherry plucked by her own broken nails and bleeding fingers. Her cape is her memories, back at home when she was fifteen, the heat of the hearth became her sunset and the warmth of gingerbread cookies were her sunrise. Her sandals are made of oceans, like the one she used to know, the one in the East of a strange town where navy blue sky and dawn-induced aroma accompanied her.

The stayer owns a music box. Every time she turns the handle, once, twice, thrice, it produces a sweet little music. Its tune was familiar, giving off...

The Sea

The Sea tastes like salt and the Moon has battle wounds on her lips, but she kisses her, every time when dusk arrives. Her smile against her mouth washes away the eternal loneliness, and she stays there like the stationary being she is, whilst the Moon, as a wanderess, continues her journey. And the Sea waits religiously until the sun sets again.

She’s a lover, with glitched shipwrecks in her heart. They appear and disappear, like the ghosts of pirates who often talk about moving away to some other realm that is far from the waters. Sometimes apparitions of drowned children trip over the rusting anchors. The Sea takes pity on them. Their laughs resonate childishness, and she knows that it’s simply because they will forever be children, forever looking for the right (sometimes left) side of their sandals.

Skeletons that are never going to be found think that messages in bottles are for them. The letters remind them of...

Solar Eclipse

I am the Moon. And yet I fell in love with the Sun.
 
The mortal world has always been correct. The Sun is, indeed, majestic. Great poets have foreshadowed the smiles of beautiful people and the gleam in their eyes as Sun’s warm light for so many decades. I’ve read about how looking at one’s beloved is like staring at the Sun. So charming, they said. So bright. Ah, poor, poor humans. They can only see her throne. They could never see the true Sun, not even her shadow. How pitiful! When I’m upset at myself, I should only ponder on how lucky I am for being able to see my lovely Sun everyday.
 
Though I could not blame anyone for making Sun a poetic depiction of beauty. Compared to me, the lowly Moon, I am merely a travesty of Sun – my throne is grey and small and it cannot even emit its own light. It is...

Personal Narrative Competition 2018

A Thing of the Past

Even if the ink of my pen keeps on spilling pretty words, one thing is for sure: I am not a writer. I’m just a charlatan.
 
When I was twelve, a stranger messaged me on Facebook. He was a middle-aged man living somewhere in America and he intended to be my friend. He started off with many things about himself, including how his previous wife died in a plane crash, while my introductory paragraph consisted of only two simple sentences:
 
‘My name is Zodie. I am a writer.’
 
The poignancy of my writings cannot be measured by a meter ruler. That’s some Physics class impossibility, and, being a neophyte in Physics, I won’t begin to explain why. Perhaps that’s just how the world works—our catastrophic nature won’t let numbers reign over everything. Some things are unable to be calculated, and my ability to write is one of them.
 
It was easy to call myself a writer...

Personal Narrative Competition 2018

A Thing of the Past

Even if the ink of my pen keeps on spilling pretty words, one thing is for sure: I am not a writer. I’m just a charlatan.

When I was twelve, a stranger messaged me on Facebook. He was a middle-aged man living somewhere in America and he intended to be my friend. He started off with many things about himself, including how his previous wife died in a plane crash, while my introductory paragraph consisted of only two simple sentences:

‘My name is Zodie. I am a writer.’

The poignancy of my writings cannot be measured by a meter ruler. That’s some Physics class impossibility, and, being a neophyte in Physics, I won’t begin to explain why. Perhaps that’s just how the world works—our catastrophic nature won’t let numbers reign over everything. Some things are unable to be calculated, and my ability to write is one of them.

It was easy to call myself a writer as a child. Like...

Personal Narrative Competition 2018

A Thing of the Past

Even if the ink of my pen keeps on spilling pretty words, one thing is for sure: I am not a writer. I’m just a charlatan.

When I was twelve, a stranger messaged me on Facebook. He was a middle-aged man living somewhere in America and he intended to be my friend. He started off with many things about himself, including how his previous wife died in a plane crash, while my introductory paragraph consisted of only two simple sentences:

‘My name is Zodie. I am a writer.’

The poignancy of my writings cannot be measured by a meter ruler. That’s some Physics class impossibility, and, being a neophyte in Physics, I won’t begin to explain why. Perhaps that’s just how the world works—our catastrophic nature won’t let numbers reign over everything. Some things are unable to be calculated, and my ability to write is one of them.

It was easy to call myself a writer as a child. Like...