Where I'm From

I am from pressed uniforms, from Faultless and Easy On.

I am from Mama'a Baby by Burberry

that nobody sells anymore.

I am from Papa's Saturday newspaper and naps on Sunday afternoons.

From Tita Rosalie's, "Nysha, Nysha, lavandera," and, "Carrots are good for you."

From when Kisha ran with her injured hip and came in second place

I am from the mossy walls around the garden.

From the bright yellow allamandas and

the smell of pine after the rain.

From dried acrylic paints and unsharpened pencils.

I am from Asia.

From the Hainan Islands and Philippine archipaelego

From Grandma Nena's rice with the occasional cooked ants

From Hainanese Chicken Rice and Sinigang soup

I am from church trips only during christmas and the bible collecting dust in the storeroom

Collecting dust with the stacks of photo albums,

Black and white pictures,

Sepia, polaroids

coloured

Set aside but not far away

The memories building up

Thickening like the bark of the tree

A new ring

A new memory

Screaming at the Water

*based on the March 11,2011 Japan Tsunami & Earthquake.

As Yoko and I walked back home from school, we heard the audible sound of the tsunami alert. People along the streets came out from their houses--with babies and children in tow--and started to run to the nearest evacuation area. Yoko and I joined the crowd and held hands to facilitate finding each other in the moving bodies of people.

I heard a sound. A rush of water not so far away. The group began to panic. There was a cry from an old lady behind me. Wailing from a baby. The adults' voice trembling as they told their children to hush. And as the panic surged, the crowd scattered in different places leaving us in the path of the preceding flood of water--with no evidence of decelerating. Time was crucial.

I ran to the nearest tree, Yoko behind me, and quickly began to climb.

" Wait for me!" Yoko shrieked as she struggled getting her legs on the branches.

The tsunami was nearing us, fearing for my best friend's life, I extended my arm and shouted,"Grab on!"

And just as her hand touched my palm, just as her fingers gripped my wrist, a great colour of azure slammed against Yoko out of the tree like a bowling pin.

I screamed Yoko's name, searching the deluge of water and copious amounts of debris for any sign of her.I screamed till I felt a pang in my throat. I screamed till I didn't even know what I was screaming for; was I screaming for Yoko to emerge from the waters? Or was I screaming at the water, demanding why it had to wash my best friend away?

Night by Elie Wiesel

Reviewed by Nysha T.

"Night" meaning the darkness the memorist was living, in the harsh conditions of the Holocaust. The concentration camps. Caved in, with no way out, that place locks you, your mind, away from the world--none of them knowing what goes on behind the heavy iron gates.

This is the memoir of Elie Wiesel. A Jew, from Sighet, Trasylvania, who tells us his terrifying story about being transported to and trapped in the wrath of concentration camps with his father during his teenage years.

Separated from his mother and sisters, it is a vivid narrative depicted through the observant eyes of a boy in a way where you know the treatment of people, how they lived, the pain they faced, stringed with powerful words and thoughts.

He came to realize being kept away from humanity, and getting beaten, the fear of it happening again can numb your emotions. It numbed the memorist's belief in his god as he grew questioning what He can really do. It numbs till the only thing you think of is your ration of food and living for yourself--not for anyone else.

I think it is painful to know how life was like in a concentration camp. (If it would be called a “life.”). It has gripped me with a painful respect to the people who have survived such a horrific experience. It is the revalation of what goes on behind the gates. How some were forced to do things that can erase their emotions. And how some, through all these sufferings, sometimes succumbed to insanity, and death.

LINES THAT YOU LOVED.:

"How long had we been standing on the freezing wind? One hour? A single hour? Sixty minutes?

Surely it was a dream." (Page 37)

"All I could hear was the violin, and it was as if Juliek's soul had become his bow. He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unfulfilled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. He played that which he would never play again." (Page 95)

What I believe

I believe sunsets are too common--

I don't like watching

something end.

I believe we all wake up

to the scent of dew

from the trees.

I believe nutella on bread

is key

to a good breakfast

I believe time does wait for people

but we are all trying hard to beat it

I believe deadlines don't kill us

but we do so on our own doing.

I believe we don't throw things away,

we set them aside.

I believe in laughing like a fool.

And crying like a toddler.

I believe in chilled watermelon

on a sweltering day,

the cold juice trickling down my chin

and numbing my fingers.

I believe the only way to eat chicken wings

is with your hands.

And when you're done

you have to lick your fingers.

If not, it isn't really doing the chicken wings justice

I believe the man on the moon

is not a man at all,

it's a rabbit.

And I believe,

if you're on a swing,

and you tilt your head back,

the sky is not so far away.

We All Have to Start Somewhere

It was a meeting, a session. Private. In the studio of budding designer Genevive J'maine. It had taken her weeks to complete each piece. Afraid of dissension from the critics, she had been meticulous about each detail, sequin, hem, you name it. But it wasn't her fault to be such a perfectionist. Who wouldn't be when, Paul Hudkinson, one of the greatest magazine editors of all time, would be coming?

The guests have arrived: high-end models, assistants, stylists, editors in-chiefs, sitting in front of a make-shift stage. Genevive appeared from the white curtains, said a small speech and began her introduction to her newest collection: Shining sequined mini dresses, colourful batik themed jumpers, feather skirts....The critics, even Paul Hudkinson, gave her pieces a nod as they assimilated her masterpieces!

And that was the start of Genevive J'maine's fashion career. After that day, there has been calls after calls coming in asking her to present it to the public, Central Park, and even during the New York Fashion week! Now you can see all her designs in each top magazines in the world. All of them lionizing her artistic palette.

The Case of the Diamond Catcher

It was 10 o'clock on a Friday night and I am sitting there in my office in 125A, 50th Street, Waterloo Avenue with the lamp shining on my latest case: a series of puzzling robberies in jewelry stores around the Glasshouse town, leaving the staff of the stores in a state of anarchy. It was no ordinary robbery, mind you. What was taken was only diamonds. Yes, diamonds, ingeniusly picked out of their rings like plucking strawberries out of the bush under the cover of darkness. The Diamond Catcher, some have nicknamed. Who or what would conspire such a bizzare burgurlary?

I puffed on my cigar, musing on the information I had gathered today. I had stopped by a jewelry store that has not been robbed to loan a diamond ring; I wanted to study how this rock could be taken out with sheer delicacy. Then I rememeber meeting up with Olie Benson--one of the witnesses of the robberies--and had some coffee on Broadway while he told me what he saw. When we were done, I had decided to get the lights I ordered for the apartment, since the shop was right across the street. The shop, I noticed, had a dark green van parked outside, the same van Benson had mentioned. I noticed a chandelier being made as I paid for the lights. I recall, when I was leaving, seeing the maker using a special plier taking out something from a...ring.

I reached for the telephone, I am very sure Inspector Menken would like to hear who to apprehend for the case of the Diamond Catcher.

Magic Hands

You meet him at a petrol kiosk at night, when not much people are around. The kiosk is open with only the accountant counting on the desk. He sits you down on a red plastic chair. You tell him you have headaches in the morning when you wake up. He laughs and says he knows exactly what to do.

Then you feel pain when he swipes your arm with only his fingertips. This small man, with a light blue cap with silver stars all over. That means your blood circulation isn't so well, he says. This small man, with a long, grey braid streaming down his back.

Then he pulls across the skin of your arm. You feel it burn. He pulls your fingertips. Pop! Pop! Pop! You feel relief. Relax, he says. Now up! Your arm rockets to the air. Again, he says. Up one more! Pop! You feel light. He does the same to the other arm. You feel like a feather.

This small man, whose teeth are black to the gum, smiles in delight as he watches your face glimmer in awe. Thanks god, he says. He swipes your arm. Not even a flinch. He swipes the other. Nothing. He laughs. I told you I knew what to do! You pay him, he smiles as he shakes your hand.Thanks god, he says again, thanks god. And you both leave.

This small man, who wears a white singlet and a pair of jeans, who lives with a psycic in his apartment, walks back home--denim jacket in hand--his brown skin blending into the night. This small man, has magic hands.