Some discrepancies are corrected. Others are erased.
π¦π
The warehouse – my domain. It’s where I log incoming and outgoing items with precision.
My unchallenged accuracy is needed here. I log incoming and outgoing items with a simple “beep” and a red flash.
Then I sort them where they should go. There are categories for everything. Absolutely everything.
Anything that can be counted. All that’s needed is a label.
Some units do not sync with their labels.Then abnormalities.
Next shipment: A name.
Return status: Pending.
Next shipment: A name.
Return status: Pending.
Next shipment: A name.
Returln status: Pending.
Next shipment: A name
Return status: –
Expiry dates passed, but still stayed within the inventory.
Then I failed to categorize.
I stopped on one unit.
She remained within my range longer than the required thirty seconds.
A she. She shifted. Uncomfortable.
Gentle, almost undetectable murmurs.
My system couldn’t read this.
I reclassified. Sudden shifts.
To murmur.
Louder.
And LOUDER.
I categorized. Error: classification invalid.
I categorized. Error: classification invalid.
I categorized. Error: classification invalid.
Correction attempt: Denied.
And she moved. And moved.
No one viewed my monitor.
System updated successfully.
All irregularities resolved.
She disappeared.
System health: Check.
A record: Item 123456. For sale.
Where she was.
I record what comes. I do not ask.
Inventory now accurate.
No discrepancies remain.
All items accounted for.
π¦π
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We celebrate big victories on stage on World Theatre Day.
Big actions. Huge performances.
Not the small ones.
They pass unnoticed.
Holding a fork is quieter.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
To hold a fork.
Timeless.
Rare.
Precious, muted steel
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
I grasp.
It drops.
I reach.
It drops.
I grasp –
Five seconds
It drops.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
They glare.
The fallen fork shines.
Not the grasp.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
Fallen fork –
Glistens.
Grasping hand –
Dulled.
Aches.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
Unseen.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
Then lifts
Fingers clenched.
Firm.
Fork clutched.
π½οΈπ€²π΄β³π«π€
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Some calls are returned when itβs already too late to answer.
π±ποΈποΈβ³π
Hey, mum. It’s Selena. This must be the 47th voicemail I’ve recorded. The recordings are all for you, even after all you have done. I know you tried to call me yesterday. Don’t worry, I never deleted any. They are available, recorded before my time ran out.
π±ποΈποΈβ³π
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Original poem for World Poetry Day by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. Ai tags are coincidental.
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Same old, same old. Our usual walking route. Zorra and I knew it too well.
You see, she mirrored myself. A stray. A societal reject. A teenage orphan who grew up with no parents.
So it made sense that she relished walking the way I walked.
Our strolls were typical. Run-of-the-mill. The dog and I liked it that way. Zorra was a little Singapore Special stray dog that valued her own space. As with other strays like her, she was skittish; she rarely stopped to acknowledge strangers; she spent a good part of our times at the park trying to give them the runaround.
So leaning into a stranger was the furthest from her typical behaviour. She placed her paws on the man’s knees, as if he were an old friend. She sniffed his hand, a little too eagerly. The stranger, an elderly gentleman in his sixties, tousled the top of her head.
She seemed to know him. He seemed to like her. And I didn’t know why.
“Looks like she knows who I am,” the elderly gentleman chuckled.
Meanwhile, Zorra became more forward than I had ever known her to be. She rubbed against the old man’s legs with dogged persistence; highly unusual. Dogs were usually little soldiers of reservation; Zorra was particularly skilled at being restrained.
I told myself that people attracted animals. But still, she didn’t want to leave.
On one of these routine evenings, she slowed her paw steps near the same corner. This dog’s senses were keen, even if she was already 15 years old; her ears became erect long before anyone appeared round the bend.
The old man turned around the corner. Her tail did a breakdance. Confidently, with the requisite flips.
He offered his customary salutation, with a warm smile ridding the sides of his mouth of wrinkles.
Again, the two made a connection I couldn’t unravel. She knew him from before. I clearly missed a note.
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The old gentleman looked me over for a moment. Then paused.
A little too long for my liking.
“You know, you look exactly like her.” His face looked older. More thoughtful.
“You walk like her too.”
“Like who?” I was beyond flabbergasted. “You’re talking in riddles. I’ve had enough of those.”
The old man looked me over again. A little too closely.
Still, perhaps he meant someone else.
My equally senior dog simply rubbed against his leg. She hadn’t had enough of him.
I couldn’t get the old man’s words out of my head. I looked like her?
I hadn’t known any mother. Or father for that matter. My first knowledge of existence had been the orphanage at the corner of the street.
The same street we walked. That he did too.
My father had been a name mentioned once or twice in passing among the orphanage’s staff.
No more than that.
But he watched me with quiet recognition I didn’t feel comfortable with.
Because it seemed that we had already met where I couldn’t remember.
Zorra sat comfortably beside him as we all sat on a park bench. She seemed to have found someone she could trust.
That she thought I could too.
I watched them as he fed Zorra a piece of bread from his bag. The dog wolfed it in a gulp.
At times, she didn’t eat the food I gave her.
I turned to him to ask the question I’d always wanted to ask.
“Well, Zorra, I’ve got to go. I’ll play with you tomorrow.”
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
If you like this story, do join me onΒ Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kindΒ donationΒ via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
All gardeners understand that plants don’t grow uniformly. Some thrive in strong sunlight. Others in darker corners. Some don’t thrive at all.
And there are those seeds that grow a little at a time.
Like the little mustard seed that takes time to grow – but burgeons when it does.
Here’s to the seeds that take a little time.
π±π±π±ππ±
A mustard seed
A nail, to heed
Pressed into ground
Plain, no sound.
π±π±π±ππ±
The earth now shifts
Roots seek new space
The ground then lifts
With spirit’s trace.
π±π±π±ππ±
The planted seed stays
Grows down, not to sky;
In the dark, it prays
Time treads slowly by
π±π±π±ππ±
The garden recalls
The seed once sown
The place where it falls
Ground heaved, leaves strewn.
π±π±π±ππ±
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
Today is Plant a Flower Day.
All gardeners understand that plants don’t grow uniformly. Some thrive in strong sunlight. Others in darker corners. Some don’t thrive at all.
And there are those seeds that grow a little at a time.
Like the little mustard seed that takes time to grow – but burgeons when it does.
Here’s to the seeds that take a little time.
π±π±π±ππ±
A mustard seed
A nail, to heed
Pressed into ground
Plain, no sound.
π±π±π±ππ±
The earth now shifts
Roots seek new space
The ground then lifts
With spirit’s trace.
π±π±π±ππ±
The planted seed stays
Grows down, not to sky;
In the dark, it prays
Time treads slowly by
π±π±π±ππ±
The garden recalls
The seed once sown
The place where it falls
Ground heaved, leaves strewn.
π±π±π±ππ±
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Today is International Women’s Day. A day we celebrate how far women have come.
And they have gone the distance.
But we also remember the women before, and the women of the present, who still remain the the beautiful rose on the table.
Praised. Appreciated?
When beauty is praised, the roots that were cut are rarely seen.
πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉ
At the table’s centre, in full bloom
A rose offered across the room;
Its red hues, the crowd does praise,
To its lovely form, toasts they raise.
πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉ
But it seems pinned, it does stay still,
its stem does bend to perfect will;
It remains kept, stays in a vase
Petals shine bright red when asked.
πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉ
They praised the bloom, its petals fine
Cut from its roots for all to shine;
But its wilting leaves, all do ignore
Its heartfelt pleas, how it implores
πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉ
The flower knows, accolades come
Only when their will is won;
Its quiet form, by others shaped
On the table, for others laid.
πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉ
And the rose does own, as it debuts,
That its blood red hue, a substitute;
It waits for all, it bides its time
To partake of hard-won wine.
πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉπ€πΉ
Poetry often speaks differently to each reader. If this rose stirred a thought or feeling for you, I would be glad to hear it.
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ometimes a river divides us. Sometimes it carries us across.
π¦πΏπ¦πΏπ¦πΏ
Flowing river brings
Kingfisher to her mother
On another bank.
π¦πΏπ¦πΏπ¦πΏ
Original Haiku by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Original haiku by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
f you like this story, do join me onΒ Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kindΒ donationΒ via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
