You Are You (Mind Map)

So many different possibilities that have made you into the person you are today.

Fallen (Poem)

let's pitch up blankets like tents
huddling underneath with only a torchlight
our too-loud voices and my imagination

we could have travelled to
anywhere,
everywhere,
except you never wanted to hold my hand.

we'll attach helium balloons to kites
and race across hushed air and tense silence,
our favourite game is 'pretend the wind exists'
(you always did like faith,

... but I can't feel it anymore.)

and I kept crying,
pleading,
'wipe these lies away from your eyes
while I wipe those tears away from mine'

but you sewed your ears shut,
you refused to believe you were wrong.

we treat ourselves as scientific lab experiments,
slowly dissecting each other layer by layer
until there's nothing left,
except slow, empty beating hearts.

they remain untouched by our fear,
fear of what will, might, must happen,
(humans are terribly, tragically flawed)

and still, we wanted more
still, we died.


we have fallen a long way down, darling.

Asylum (Short Story)

The two cups of coffees were untouched, resting just beside the fingers of a man and a woman in their early forties.

They were staring at each other wordlessly, tension lingering in their bright green eyes.

Then, the man cleared his throat.

"Are you sure it's ... safe for her to ... to be discharged?" he stammered, nervously wiping the sweat from his brow with an already soaked handkerchief.

"Dylan, will you please calm down? She’s been really good while she was in there, displaying no signs of outright insanity, showing no hostility towards the nurses ..." the woman trailed off hesitantly.

"... it's almost like she's normal again."

And still, the statement managed to sound like a question.

Although she was two years younger than her brother, she had always been the more controlled and logical one.

Yet reasoning it out in terms of insanity had always left her teetering on the edge unsure.

"Marion, you know just how well she ... she can act."

"She doesn't have long to live," Marion pursed her lips tightly, as though trying to hide the relief that was leaking through her teeth. "The doctors predict only a month or so before she'll die. Her cancer is at the last stage, Dylan. We have nothing to fear."

Her brother's hands were trembling uncontrollably as he shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket.

He didn't take his hand back out.

"Have you forgotten how calmly she ... she convinced you to drink washing detergent by insisting it ... it was some special tonic? Or the time she ... she broke all the glassware in the house in ... in a fit of temper and started ... started blaming ... "

"You. And she forced you to walk all over the broken glass. Yes, I know, Dylan," Marion interrupted through gritted teeth. Her voice was controlled, but the pain in her eyes was obvious. "I remember."

All those trips to the hospital, the faked excuses, the crying, the horror, the longing for it to all just stop, to feel safe in their own home for once.

It was insanity in itself to welcome back the person who had wreaked so much terror and pain in their lives so many years ago.

Had she somehow inherited that gene?

No, I cannot be as cruel as her, I will not.

Yet, it was a strange, stubborn sense of filial duty compelling Marion to take back her mother during her last days.

And the underlying perverse need to prove that she will not be the defenseless little girl she was back then.

"Don't worry, brother," she said softly. "We've grown up and she can't harm us now."

Her words rang with a determined conviction, a quiet defiance.

Dylan remained silent, but the hands in his pockets were still trembling. And Marion could read his unspoken reply.

She can still hurt us, sister.

The look in his eyes was that of a six-year old boy once more, trying to claw his way out of a living nightmare.

Hearts beating as fast and loud as hurried feet pounding against the ground, terrified eyes darting around, sweaty skin, harsh ragged breaths and walls that never seemed to let them escape.

It was as if their minds had connected in that flashback, for Dylan immediately surged up from his chair.

Muttering something under his breath, he left quickly.

A sob caught in Marion's throat and she continued to sit in the café drinking stone cold coffee for the next one hour after her brother left, staring at the swinging arms and legs striding past the café window.

Suddenly, it felt as if she was inside a television box, observing the show of reality while trapped behind a glass screen.

As this feeling grew, her heart began to race, governed by the rush of familiar, unreasonable fear.

And it was this fear that finally propelled her from her seat to stride out past the door.

The very next day, she went to collect her mother from the hospital.

Even though it was their first meeting in twenty years, there was no drama involved.

Marion couldn't bring herself to feel anything other than awkwardness, and more than a little of the old fear, as she stood facing her mother.

"Hello, Marion," Mrs. Collins murmured. "You've grown so much."

Marion simply looked at her blankly and stared down at the grey concrete floor that her mother had walked across for the past twenty years.

Despite her long confinement, her mother's grey eyes were still just as curiously bright and sharp.

However, her movements had slowed, her back more stooped than before and Marion could tell that she was easily tired.

The journey back home was uneventful, with Mrs. Collins falling asleep and Marion focusing on her driving, all to the sound of classical music pouring out from the radio.

When they entered the apartment, Mrs. Collins had glanced around once but hadn't shown much interest in her surroundings.

"Your room is just over here, beside mine," Marion said politely, dropping her mother's small bag at the doorway. "We'll have dinner later. You'd better sort out your belongings first."

When Mrs. Collins entered the room, she held up three fingers and slowly ran them across the whitewashed walls; they came away coated in dust.

"This is just like my cell," she said, smiling blandly.

Marion couldn't tell if she meant it in a good or bad way. Shrugging apologetically, she left her mother to grow accustomed to the room.

The next few days went by rather smoothly, and other than the occasional bout of screaming at night, her mother never tried to do anything out of the ordinary.

Until the day she approached Marion with a request.

"I would very much like to see Dylan," she said weakly. "I ... I do not have very much longer to live, I know that. I was hoping I could at least see him for the last time."

Her expression was bland, passive like the surface of a peaceful lake. Marion found it difficult to look past that depth.

She hesitated.

Dylan was still extremely sensitive. She wasn't sure if her brother would be able to handle meeting their mother, the sole reason for his nightmares at night.

"It'd be wonderful if I could cook a nice, hot meal for you two," Mrs. Collins paused, her voice wavering. " ... like ... like a normal mother."

It was the closest to an apology Marion knew she would ever get, and somewhere within her heart softened.

"I'll try," she said stiffly.

It took more than a week of coaxing and pleading.

"At least grant a dying woman her last wish, please?"

Over the phone, Marion could hear her brother sigh exasperatedly, trying to muster up his last shreds of pity for the 'dying woman'. And she knew he would never be able to summon back something that never existed in the first place.

"Do it for my sake then."

A pause. Another sigh; this time in defeat.

"One hour, not more."

He showed up promptly on time, wearing a too tight white checkered shirt and barely suppressed frown.

Marion gave him a quick hug, feeling the tension and sweat on his skin soaking into her own before she pulled away and ushered him in.

"Hello Dylan, it's so wonderful to see you again," Mrs. Collins said calmly, appearing from behind.

There was nothing in her expression to indicate maternal love or recognition of the fact that they hadn't met in a very long time and that Dylan probably wanted it to remain that way.

He stiffened and for a moment, Marion was almost sure he was going to turn around and leave.

Then he paused, tilting his nose up to sniff the air.

"Is that ... minestrone soup?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes ... I remember it was your favourite," Mrs. Collins said. Her lips twitched with the barest hint of gleeful triumph.

Marion frowned.

She'd helped with the cooking of course, but when it came to the minestrone soup, Mrs. Collins had been adamant that she 'did this alone'.

"It's a special surprise," she'd explained, pushing her out of the kitchen with renewed strength that had not seemed to exist until then.

Marion just could not figure out why that unsettled her.

Dylan simply looked away and snorted, but he made no second attempt to move towards the door.

"Let's eat, then," Marion said, clasping her hands together tightly, as though sending a subconscious prayer to a God she'd stopped believing the day her father died.

The meal was a quiet one, filled mainly with the clinking of utensils against the plates and chewing of food.

Dylan did not bother to talk at all, focusing on his food with a fierce intensity, acting like it was a trial he had to endure before he could finally escape.

Then Mrs. Collins brought out the final dish, the minestrone soup.

To Marion's pleasant surprise, it smelled delicious.

The rich taste of chicken broth and chopped potatoes flooded her senses and she dug in without a second thought.

Even Dylan's tense expression relaxed slightly as he drank a few spoonfuls.

"How's the soup?" Mrs. Collins asked expectantly.

"It's ... wonderful. But I ... I didn't know you could cook so well," Marion said, puzzlement creeping into her voice.

After all, her mother didn't strike her as someone who was good at cooking, and she hadn’t exactly had any opportunity to do so either.

"Oh, I couldn't do that in any other kitchen, Marion," Mrs. Collins said. "There is just something about your kitchen that is more ... fitting."

And she smiled a slow, chillingly triumphant smile.

Icy dark fear permeated the atmosphere, sour and unstoppable.

Dylan pushed his bowl away violently.

Paralyzed, Marion felt as though she was seeing the remaining soup droplets arc from the bowl in slow motion.

As the soup spilled onto the linoleum floor, it puddled like a growing bloody pool of liquid.

"What have you done?" Dylan hissed furiously, his body shaking with terror.

Marion couldn't tell if it was directed at her or their mother. She was too ashamed to face her brother.

He'd warned her and she hadn't listened.

Only Mrs. Collins remained unperturbed, calmly stirring her spoon on the table, metal scraping against cheap synthetic wood.

"Soon, you will all join me in a place where our souls will be together forever," she said softly, lovingly caressing her own bowl of soup.

"You're ... you're crazy!" Dylan sputtered, half-crying, half-yelling as he backed away, knocking back his chair and falling over. "I don't want to die with you ... this ... this monster."

At the last word, Mrs. Collins' head snapped up and her eyes darkened in anger.

"I am your mother," she said coldly.

But Dylan was already cowering at one corner, rocking his knees back and forth; his mouth open in a silent scream.

Marion couldn't bear to see him this way.

When they were young, she'd promised to protect him from their mother, no matter what the cost.

But now, she has made a terrible mistake, she has broken her promise.

No, I cannot let this happen. I will not.

Something snapped inside of her.

This time round, it wasn't fear that made her push her chair back and stand up. It was a slow, overwhelming fury that dragged her to grab her mother by the neck.

"How dare you," she hissed, her pale white fingers digging into Mrs. Collins' wrinkled skin.

Yet Mrs. Collins simply went limp, leaning against the support of Marion's hands.

Like a broken ragdoll; she offered no resistance.

Then she started to laugh weakly, even as Marion's fingers continued to tighten around her neck.

Stop, you'll kill her.

No, she deserves it.

Am I going crazy too?

Mrs. Collins began shaking violently as she started to suffocate to death, but Marion found herself unable to let go.

Hatred, deep and embittered, had seeped down to her fingers and glued them there.

Suddenly, there was a sharp rapping on the door.

Marion jerked around, immediately loosening her grip as her mother collapsed to the floor, barely alive.

A random neighbour's voice called out in concern, muffled from behind the door.

Even though her brain was reverberating with frayed threads of thought, Marion found herself automatically responding that 'everything was okay' before sinking to the floor.

And she lay there, her eyes squeezed shut and trembling, for a very long time.

It was only after the next day that one thing became very clear.

The soup was never poisoned.

That Secret Half Smile (Poem)

that incident halved her smile.
it became crooked, bent and out of shape,
one side of the lips fell just a fraction lower,
as though she was struggling not to care
but sadness was weighing down on one edge.

she thought no one ever noticed.

I did.

I called it her secret half-smile,
and I'm going to pretend this is a mystery
shared between her and I.

yet she will never know,
for I am just a stranger,
standing, lost,
behind the shadows.

Faeries (Poem)

Let me tell you a secret,
I do not belong here,
no.

In my world,
I wear skirts woven out of tulip petals,
cutting pieces of blue sky to sew into my dress.
I taste the first drops of morning dew on blades of grass,
Mixed with potions concocted out of moonbeam & sunshine.

Dancing around fairy circles and empty grass bowers,
I decorate empty acorn shells with pretty wildflowers
At night, I sleep in a robin bird's nest,
where dreaming of magic is what I like best.

In yours,
You wear military uniforms created out of greed,
Shooting missiles into the sky, you couldn't care less,
Drink the first drops of power and thirst for more,
Mixed with weapons concocted out of a bloody, pointless mess.

You are like dogs on a leash
Limited by your own set laws and false humanity
Yet you try to stretch beyond as far as possible
With your secret agendas and smooth talk no one believes.

I do not belong here,
no.
I never wished to be.

So I'll paste broken fairy wings onto my back,
Of fragile faith hopefully, I do not lack,
Fly to a faraway place where time can never tell,
And no one ever has to say, forever farewell.