Challenge 4.

Respond in any shape size or form, but incorporating these six words.

Challenge 3

Snap the first three things/people you see. Write a story about them - a lonely toothbrush finding love with the elusive toothpaste, your cat dreaming of running a marathon in her sleep, your boyfriend when he laughs out loud.

Anything. But three.

Re: Exhibit 2 - You Give Me The Kind of Feelings People Write Novels About -

And if you were Romantic Classics and I was Thriller slash Mystery, then together we would be General Fiction.

There is nothing special about us. We both struggle for money, and for a place in this world, and we struggle to restrain ourselves from anger outbursts or overspending and too much of coffee. Our togetherness is common, ordinary, burgers by the roadside and checking out girls. Our respect is mutual, as our dislike for rude people, as our passion for gesturing while talking, or toddlers in squeaky shoes.

Our love is General Fiction. And we are overeager lieutenants exploring the bookshelves, combing through pages in search of extra ordinary common love mementos.

Re: Exhibit 5 - The Cities We Are In

(exhibit 5)

I am smiling and so are you.

When we met, I was a doodler drawing things at whim. You had on a pair of Converse. Our instant attraction was electrified by the fireworks in the background. Your crazy drunk friend puked on our shoes as we talked, face-to-face and at a distance, as if enjoying the current pulsating between us.

We made love in the car parked beside a lonely streetlight.

In bed, before we sleep, our conversations magnified the very souls of ourselves. You would curl my hair around your fingers, burying your face into them like a pile of fresh laundry or new clothes or a dog slobbering. You love my hair up, hair down, hair wet, in a frizz, curled in a bun, curled around your face, curled around our cats. In return I would curl up inside you - spooning - spooning, swooning, swooning... into a peaceful slumber.

Our fights are as fiery as the fireworks (the night we met). You shout - because you hardly voice out - and I smash things and purses, and hands (on the dashboard) and then sob uncontrollably. We would end the fight in a resigned state -

We make love in the car parked beside a lonely streetlight.

I am smiling and you are smiling.
We are so far from each other.

It is cold where I am, foreign, and smells weird. At night I smoke by the window, looking down at miniature people buying miniature papers and hauling miniature groceries on their miniature bicycles. My German is getting better -

Ich bin einsam ohne dich

Exhibit 5

Through the lens of Naqisonfire.

Challenge 2.

pick one or more or all things off this photo for your next response. (magnify)

we end up in the bookstore

Fiction, mystery, thriller, romance, classics, non-fiction. We’ve chased each other for hours now through the mall. Sometimes I catch up to you, touch your hair from behind, grab you by the waist, sit down together at the food court, wait for you against the wall outside the restrooms. We uncap body wash bottles and smell them in stores, but never deodorants.

I am over six foot and you are not, so I have the advantage. It also means I can give you chances, because sometimes I do see you and decide to let the crowd cover you up again. And, sometimes, you appear out of nowhere to investigate my palm with your fingers. It’s different every time, like a crossword puzzle. The ending is always the same; boxes filled with letters. We end up in the bookstore.

Alleys' worth of shelves stretch to the ceiling, the floor muted for stealth, and quiet except for an orchestra living in the speakers. Our favourite place to hide, even forget each other, until you find something so amazing you cry out for me. But until then,

I live off the glimpses of your hair through a row of books. Your eyelashes. Or our hands reaching out, brushing briefly as we move in opposite directions. We make fun of the Mills & Boon covers, run our fingers over scientific illustrations. I do my homework and study your laugh, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, help you to reach for books that are too high for you. I know your looks of indifference to books you would never even consider to touch, how your eyes change when you find a title you love, and my favourite; the transitioning look from curious to approval. That look makes me wonder how our story would fit on these shelves.

Which genre would it be? Which typeset for the pages? Would it come with visual aids? Will it find home in the New York Times, or the 3 for 1 pile? Would it even be? Because honestly, I would never write a novel about you. The characters need to be complete, the story riveting to millions. And more and more, everytime I find you, I feel like we’re just getting started. Fiction, mystery, thriller, romance, classics, non-fiction. In me, you spark them all.

We end up in the bookstore.

No one else would get it.


re: exhibit 2

Re Exhibit 4: Summer in The Tents.

Exhibit 4:

I’m starting to get nervous.

You’re doing it again, giving me that look of yours. 7 years of pulling myself back together. And you just know where to knock and rattle my cage.

“We used to travel together,” I say when my boyfriend asks about the picture. “I think he’s teaching music somewhere in Singapore.” In the picture I looked like a washed out hippie and you had a scruffy beard. We both smelled of rain, gutter and sidewalk from all the nights sleeping at train stations. I look at that picture and practically could feel the grime underneath my shirt.

I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes thinking about you. My boyfriend sleeps peacefully beside me, his body brown and beautiful. His hair is cut closely cropped to his head, whereas yours springs wildly like a brushfire. I take my time in those nights to look out the window and pretend that we are looking at the same sky. I don’t know why I do that since I never did when we were together.

I do remember, one night in Venice, when we slept underneath the stars because the tent was too stuffy. You checked if I was awake, so I willed my eyes to not twitch or move. “Hey,” you nudged me, whispering. And then after a pause, “I love you.”

You said you loved me. The next day, we took out the tent and I gave you a moony smile to which you said, “What? Are you okay?” I never let in that I heard what you said. I wanted it to be a secret. We had an open relationship but your heart was mine, all mine to keep. That knowledge alone soared me to the highest level possible. I was in love with you all throughout Italy. In the middle of a busy street you’d turn to give me a smile and I said to myself, Yes, I love you too.

It never mattered to me that you didn’t say it out loud.

Exhibit 4

Postsecret.
I would re-use this over and over again.

Response to Challenge 1: Heroes

Challenge 1:

I had my camera ready. And I always enjoy people watching. They were contenders: the kid in red shorts, my colleague at work pushing a trolley, a lanky teenaged boy in white t-shirt and Fall Out Boy hairstyle.

But I feel compelled - his excitement over the parade of electronic equipments was amusing. How he has fallen into the trap of display marketing; his eyes going glassy and wide over the arrays of items on the shelves. Both his hands curled into fists whenever he found something he likes. He was like Hiro yelling Yataaaaaaaaa in New York City. Finally he bought a 10 ringgit Casio wristwatch.

That person is my boyfriend. To be honest, this was a new side of him, making him a stranger, thus making this entry valid.