NON FICTION: I Really Should Insert A Title, But Then You Wouldn’t Read It

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I remember harbouring a dream of writing for a magazine. In fact, I remember the exact article that prompted me to sign up for a Writer’s Bureau course. It was an FHM Magazine article, and it introduced me to the world of creative non-fiction, much like the stuff I publish on my blog.

It was then that I’d realise how words could be manipulated to evoke emotion. I starkly remember the sentence ‘One hour later and the airport lights were a thing of the past.’ The turn of phrase blew my mind, and since that day, I begun to aspire to the ways of wordsmithery.

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NON FICTION: Wrestling With Procrastination

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A wrestler getting some reps in with a sixty kilo bag before clocking in as a bus driver

“Don’t tell me what you value, show me your budget, and I’ll tell you what you value.”

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It’s easy to procrastinate your life away. I mean, look at my last post date. It’s been months since my last update.

Or you could take a look at how I spent the past weekend: I slept in, had a late lunch, decided I wanted to spend the day writing, did some chores, played some games, watched TV, realised I’ve pissed away hours of said writing time, drank some vodka, blitzed a few online chess games, had dinner, drank more vodka, and before I knew it, the sun has set, and I’ve wasted another day.

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NON FICTION: Introspection In Sapa

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Embarking on the hike to Ta Phin

I should’ve packed an extra set of clothes. We were headed to the remote village of Ta Phin, Vietnam, so I saw it fit to cram my day pack with water and bread. Oh, they had tons of that over at my homestay. They even had enough beer and rice wine to kill a couple of cows. What they didn’t have were spare clothes, a fact I had to learn while drenched from the rain in fifteen-degrees Celsius weather. I sought refuge next to the fire pit under the pretense of helping out in the kitchen, all the while thinking, I definitely should’ve packed that extra set of clothes.

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NON FICTION: Life’s Biggest Goal

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Photo credit: Sam Caplat

Via Daily Prompt: Cling

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I can’t polish a blank page, which is why I actually started writing this piece — I wanted to prove to myself that I couldn’t polish crap either. I haven’t been able to write as freely as I’d like lately, and it’s probably because I’m clinging to perfection.

Much of my workflow involves tinkering the first sentence over and over until I realise I’ve veered so far off what I actually wanted to say that I end up abandoning the piece completely.

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WRITING PROMPT: God Of Gamers

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Photo credit: Kevin Dooley

Writing prompt: One morning humanity wakes up to a message in the sky. “Sorry was AFK for a bit there” -God

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“How do you think it got there?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably some skywriters with a good idea of a prank.”

“Skywriting? But it’s been there since this morning!”

I leave the stranger behind, because I don’t need more questions that I can understand myself. Why don’t you come up with your own explanations then? If I’d stayed there for another minute, I might’ve snapped at him. Thank God, heh, I had the presence of mind to leave. Who knows what else I’d have done. I’m just on edge, is all. But deep down, I know I’m fuckin’ terrified.

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FICTION: The Great Machine

FOREWORD: I submitted this piece to a submission call, but it got rejected, so here it is. My blog needed updates anyway.

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Sol was poring over the building plans when the front door flung open. He traced his fingers along floor 48.

“Babe, close the door,” Sol said. “The smog’s getting in.” When no reply came, he looked up to find a tear-stricken Jenn.

“What’s wrong?”

“They did it,” she said between sobs. “They s-stuck me like a pig.”

“What?”

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NON FICTION: The Singaporean romance (Part II)

Finally, I’ve gotten around to continuing this personal recount. Read part one here.

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The phone rang, and I would sooner chew on broken glass than pick up the call. Cindy rarely called anymore, so when her name registered on the screen, I was sure that having a serious talk would be an understatement. I answered the phone.

“What the fuck, is that bitch, doing sitting on your lap.” It wasn’t a question. Also, there’s something about broken sentences that amplifies the perception of anger, especially when coupled with a seething calm.

“What lap? What are you talking about? We’re just friends!” I said in a tone somewhere between a comforting snigger and a cry for help.

“Don’t lie to me. And what the fuck, are you doing, hugging her.”

“Okay, fine. Fine. Babe, we need to talk.”

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