Satire
This morning at 9am, on my usual walk to Hola for coffee, the air was suddenly filled with loud music. Next to me sat a new customer, a 70-year-old Chinese uncle. Two bottles of beer on the table. His face was red, a little dazed, completely unbothered by the world.
Books
“The most important part of a story is not how it begins, but how it ends.” Most of us were taught how to start life. Study hard. Get a job. Build a career. Save enough. But very few of us were taught how to finish. We were told that if
short story
You do not grow up silent. You are trained into it. Before anyone labels you as quiet, withdrawn, or lacking confidence, they should ask a better question: what kind of environment teaches a person that speaking is a liability? School is usually where it starts. You are told participation matters,
Books
The quiet fear nobody likes to admit Once, my grandmother tried to help around the house instead of sitting quietly and doing nothing. She washed the dishes. But they were not clean. They were still oily. My mother asked her to stop, because it was making things worse. I imagine
Satire
“What’s the rush?” In Singapore, doing nothing feels illegal. If you sit too long, even your own conscience will ask, “Are you sure you shouldn’t be doing something?” If you tell people you spent the afternoon doing nothing, they look at you the way they look at an
Satire
But the strange thing is, nobody told the people still climbing it. So every morning, we’re still polishing resumes, tweaking LinkedIn headlines, and waiting patiently for the next rung. It’s like showing up at an airport with a perfectly packed suitcase, only to realize the airline shut down
Satire
You probably have a small window in your day that feels like it belongs to you. For you, it might be late evening. The house is quieter. The work noise fades. You finally sit down with the idea that now you can think, read, or work on something that actually
short story
The chair was one of those plastic stackable ones, grey, slightly curved, with a crack near the backrest that pinched if you leaned too far. It sat outside the meeting room on the eighth floor, next to a potted plant that had not been watered in a long time. I
micro memoir
When I went looking for companionship, the person in the mirror spoke first. “Don’t forget me,” she said. “I’m still here.” So I wrapped my arms around myself. She had been waiting all along, patient and unseen. It wasn’t loneliness. It was forgetting. PS I write books
micro memoir
I always picked the broken crayon. No one else wanted it. Just like me. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
The day I quit, the air felt lighter. By evening, my stomach asked questions I couldn’t answer yet. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
Whenever I smell dumplings, I am back in my mother’s kitchen, learning that love was something you made with your hands. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
