I write prose (fiction and non-fiction) and poetry on a variety of topics. My poems are on another page because this page looked too cluttered with all the excerpts, which are obviously to entice you, reader, to read the full pieces. As someone who does visual art, I enjoy exploring ekphrastic relations in my works. Oh and I love metafiction, but haven’t quite gotten around to writing it yet.
Here I’ve linked some of my writing (with excerpts) so feel free to browse this collection of strange thoughts. Some may be linked to my other site, Cherchez Beauté where I do mostly beauty/lifestyle writing for the casual reader.
I usually write short stories because I have a deathly fear of writing long ones. Also I have a terrible propensity to procrastinate when writing and end up writing more poems than prose because of the sheer amout of time it takes to write the latter.
They were sipping drinks at the bar when she took a peek at his wrist counter for the third time. 0d 13h 10m. Just 8 hours ahead of hers.
“You excited?” She picked at her nails.
“Yeah. Just can’t believe it’s been a year already.” He laughed, nervously, she thought.
They were best friends. Best friends, she repeated to herself. They’d talked about it before. Their soul mates were selected for them from a list of thousands of potential candidates. These soul mates were the most ideal match for each individual in body, soul, and mind. A year ago, the Counsellors took care to emphasize that the AEPS life-pairing system had never made a mistake. Agape, eros, philia, storge – the four types of love. There were soul mates out there for every individual’s needs.
“You… Don’t suppose that there’s ever been a mismatch, right?”
She began to make her way through the room. The things on the floor suddenly seemed much larger than she remembered. Her hip brushed the edge of a cabinet, and she felt her apple-green merino sweater fray slightly. Her hand swept a few ornaments off a shelf and they tinkled as they fell. She thought she saw a cloud of shiny dust floating to the floor but she couldn’t be sure. It was still too dark. A few steps later, her eyes became more used to the gloom. She strained them a bit and saw something in the shape of a cello far ahead, near the door. That’s funny, I don’t remember owning a cello. She paused and took a few steps forward. Now it looked more like a large floor lamp. She didn’t have floor lamps; never liked them because they collided with her feet all the time. The fuzzy shape moved. As her eyes focused she realised that it was really a tall beast. Before she could scream or run, the beast changed shape again. Now it was a short, squat creature. Now it was furry and wide. Now it was tall again.
This must be some kind of dream. This must be some kind of dream. Her mind was running wild just thinking about the creature. She blinked, and a long time later, her lips formed words that sounded tinny and distant.
All his life, Icarus had wondered how it would feel like to be above, looking down with a bird’s eye view on Life. Some nights he would stand by the window of his apartment, thinking about the blessed ones who took the leap of faith, hurtling through the window and into the heart of the truth. He would never know that truth while he lived, but now in death he did. He was watching the world from above, drifting amongst the clouds, propelled by a mysterious force exerted by the red ball of fire suspended in the sky. He tried to look at the sun, but the sight marred his senses so greatly that he could not see for a while. He then stretched out his ethoporeal hands and felt the wet, misty clouds. They were grey and bereft of magic, completely unlike how he had imagined them to be.
One wise truth that I’ve learned as I’ve grown slightly older is this: All we need is love. This is true for happiness as well: We need to love and be loved in order for us to accept our life circumstances with a positive attitude, knowing that we will have emotional support when we’re down. We need to love and be loved to experience pleasure and gratitude when engaging in activities we enjoy – without a loved one to share that pleasure with, it becomes hollow after a while.
I believe that the problem lies with these societal standards of beauty and the people/organisations who perpetuate them. They make a profit from selling women the idea that there is something fundamentally wrong and imperfect about their physical appearance, which they can change with these products. It’s not just about helping women to feel better about themselves in a positive manner; it’s about profiting from their insecurities that stem from the same images created and circulated by the industry itself.