short story
The nurse called me at 3:17 a.m. I still remember the exact time because my phone was silent, my room was dark, and my heart knew before my mind did. “Can you come to the hospital? Your mother’s condition has worsened.” I didn’t ask what happened.
short story
In 2008, I walked away from a job without knowing how I was going to survive. At that time, I was working in an organisation as the IT representative for my division. I took care of the computers and technical problems of about one hundred employees. Part of my work
Satire
The meeting room was silent. “Good news,” the CEO announced cheerfully. “We are not removing people. We are optimizing lower-value human capital.” Everyone nodded nervously while clutching their company-issued laptops like life jackets. Somewhere in the back row, a manager whispered, “Does that mean I’m medium-value human capital?” Another
short story
The first time my son visited me in prison, I almost didn’t recognize him. He had grown taller. His face looked sharper. Even the way he stood felt different. Less like a child. More like someone who had already learned disappointment too early. There was a thick glass panel
short story
Every morning at 6:45 AM, I would sit on the concrete ledge just outside the kopitiam. Five minutes. That was all the time I had left. I’d stare at my phone, pretending to scroll, but my eyes couldn’t focus. Inside my chest, my heart would start to
Books
The first thing you learn in an office is that nobody says “no.” They say: “Noted with thanks.” Which roughly translates to: “I acknowledge your existence and this problem now belongs to the universe.” It is perhaps the greatest corporate phrase ever invented. Not “synergy.” Not “innovation.” Not “thought leadership.
short story
“I learned how to cook pork adobo from YouTube,” Ma’am once told her friends proudly during a dinner party. I was standing behind them holding a plate of sliced oranges. I almost laughed. For nine years, I was the one cooking it. My name is Teresa. I came to
short story
Some dreams don’t fail. They just stay hidden in drawers for too long. Yesterday at my Book Writing & Self-Publishing Clinic, a student shared something that stayed in my mind long after the session ended. Years ago, after speaking to ex-prisoners in the Philippines, she was deeply moved by
short story
I knew my marriage was over when the dog started eating better than I did. His name was Tofu. Tiny. White. Anxious. The kind of dog that looked permanently disappointed in you. I never wanted a dog. My wife called him an “emotional investment.” In hindsight, that was the warning:
short story
I still remember how the idea first took root. When I was young, my mother would often say that the best place to work was in a bank. She did not explain it in complex terms. She simply pointed to the skyline. Some of the tallest, most impressive buildings in
short story
I did not walk a straight path. Over the past 35 years, I changed jobs eight times. Not out of restlessness, but because life kept shifting under my feet. Just when I thought I had found stable ground, something would move. There were seasons of progress. Some seasons took things
short story
“I had two choices. Wait and blame, or rebuild and continue.” I thought the hardest part about being an author would be the writing. I was wrong. The hardest part came after. For four years, I worked on a manuscript about making finance easier to understand. Late nights became routine.
