Sometimes, the heart breaks.

This weekend has been an emotional roller-coaster for me. It is my wedding anniversary weekend. We had a vacation and it was fun. But when we came back, reality hit. My boy cat, whom I had looked after since kittenhood, was on the verge of death. We rushed him to a neighborhood vet who said they couldn’t ward him as they didn’t have the facilities. So, we brought him to another emergency vet who immediately warded him in and placed him in ICU.

I think I cried enough. Seeing him so sick, so dehydrated, broke my heart.

How do you mend a broken heart?

How do you heal it, bruised as it is by the numerous obstacles it has encountered?




This year has been a year that I would have gladly forgotten. Finances are tight, people whom I love and care for are ill, and my health hasn’t been good as well. I am still looking for a job. At the same time, I am battling fatigue and stress. Not sure when I could stop, because obligations are fine as barbed wire. But I have learned and fought how to say ‘no’, how to draw my boundaries.

How much is my heart going to take?

Tip Jar for a Phoenix

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Phoenix With A Purpose.

If you like it, do drop a tip of 1 dollar into the jar. Or what you can do is to like on Facebook or signal boost. Finances are tight for me this month and I am trying this again.

donate here.

If you so like, drop that tip into the jar if you like my other stuff!

A bit of what I am working on, of late.

Huge blue boxes. Five of them. They looked like old-fashioned book cabinets. A strange ghostly figure, clothed in a white protective baggy suit and netted helmet, moved about with a silver cylinder spouting smoke. When it saw Ah Ming approach, it waved a gloved hand and beckoned the young officer forward. Ah Ming walked on gingerly. Bees were flying around, going about their tasks. In a way, he thought, they are like me. A worker bee. Still, he had to curb the wild urge to run away. His nape itched madly, as if remembering the sting and the fever that felt like fire. He craved his safe little cubicle in a building right in the middle of the city. It was an ordeal.


Support obscure YA authors: Buy their books.

More free fiction.

This time, Phoenix With A Purpose:

phoenix with a purpose-1

Read and vote!
Read and vote!

Print version: here.

PS: Cover art is done by Fadzlishah Johanabas.. 🙂

Crowdfunding Question

Question: If I run an Indiegogo campaign to fund – say – the illustration of Oysters, Pearls & Magic as a graphic novel, are people willing to donate?

(Similarly for the print version of Wolf At The Door)

Where art can flourish: some thoughts.

I woke up this morning to only find out that The Pigeonhole, a local indie bar/space/hang-out, is closing in about three weeks. Then, I found out that 15 Minutes, another cafe, has also closed down.

I want to rant and rave about evil landlords and exorbitant rents and evil evil Singapore. But ranting is counter-effective. Let’s talk about… allowing art to flourish. Sustainable art, where there is a flow of ideas and money, to keep it going. Yes, I have mentioned the bad M-word. Money. Unfortunately, we need money to survive in this cut-throat society where art is devalued and everything is priced. (Sounds like a bad dystopia, doesn’t it?)

These events coincided with my own thoughts where I struggle with the issue of sustainability or the ability to be able to sustain a self-publishing route and struggle against obscurity which hurts it even further. How does this relate to allowing art to flourish?

Spaces like this need to be cultivated and nurtured, just like a garden. As in a garden, you need to pitch in and – well – garden. Patronage, fans, people who support you – helps a lot. People who care helps a lot. Where does money come in here? We need ideas, we need support, but we also need the finances to survive. Am I greedy? No. Art is also effort and energy. It needs sustenance just as any type of work or job. I have seen too many cases of people who want free things and give back nothing in return. Are we ultimately living in a cheapskate society? (The successful Kickstarter campaigns seem to counter my statement. People are willing to pay – as long as they get something in return).

So, people, are we going to let market forces rule our emotions? Or are we genuinely supportive of the arts? You tell me.

Angels do cry – an excerpt from “Broken Dream”

Angry, half-sobbing, half-raging, I turned away from their cruelty and simply ran. Wind whizzed past, stinging my face while I flagellated myself with an internal litany of self-hate. Halfway through my blind lope, it happened.

I felt a tearing pain, of flesh being ripped apart, on my back. The pain made me dizzy and I gasped, out of shock more than of agony. Then, the agony came like a physical electrical shock and I shrieked as two things burst forth, with a spray of red blood (my blood) and the crunch of tendons and bones. I found myself on the ground, my uniform torn, a pool of blood slowly being diluted by the drizzle. There was a lingering ache on my back as if I had pulled a muscle. There was also a buzz of excited whispers and muttered words.


I glanced at my sides, seeing the feathered wings, still pink with blood and other fluids. The rainwater was gently cleaning the coppery redness away and I knew that the color of the wings was going to be white. Swan-white.

Gingerly, slowly, I stood up and I watched my mockers back away, fearful and awed by my terrifying transformation. Almost instinctively, I spread my wings and I felt them unfold, their strength pulling at new muscles and bones, like the tug of wind on sails. Suddenly, there was a ray of sunlight, the first I had ever seen – razor-sharp and razor-bright, lancing everyone on the stop. It bathed me with radiance.




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