short story
My name is Farid. I live in Johor Bahru, but my days belong to Singapore. Every weekday, my loceng—the alarm—screams at 4:30 a.m. I don’t wake up to the sun; I wake up to the cold reality of the Second Link crossing. By 5:00
short story
My name is Li Wei. I am from a small city in Fujian. When I first came to Singapore, I thought it would feel familiar. Same face, similar language, similar food. I told my mother, 很快就适应了, don't worry. I believed that. I work in a mid-sized restaurant
short story
The sun in Singapore doesn’t rise; it just switches on like a fluorescent bulb. My name is Sari. Back in my village near Solo, the air smells like damp earth and woodsmoke in the morning. Here, it smells like Clorox and the lavender spray Ma’am likes. The first
short story
My hands smell like antiseptic and hospital soap. They are steady when I clean a wound. Gentle when I hold an elderly patient who is afraid. Careful when I check an IV line at 3am. These hands know how to read a monitor, how to spot when a heartbeat is
short story
On paper, I am doing well. I am a software engineer in Singapore, earning $5,800 a month. Back in Chennai, that number becomes something else when you convert it to rupees. My parents tell people, “He is settled overseas.” My cousins message me asking if I can help with
short story
My name is Rahim. I am 29, from Bangladesh. Every morning, I wake up at 6. The room is already warm. Eight of us sleep inside, on double-decker beds, with just enough space to walk between them. We take turns to wash, to cook, to call home. By 7:
Poem
Later, you forget. Later, you tired. Later, you busy. Later, you lose interest. Later, you no money. Later, you don’t want. Later, you change your mind. Later, you regret. But you say later again. Later, your chance gone. Later, you wish you tried. Later, too late already. Credit: inspired
Books
I go to the kopitiam every day. Same kopi. Same toast. Same people. And honestly… I think I’ve learned more there than in some expensive seminars. Before you get offended, hear me out. At the kopitiam, nobody talks about “mindset,” “strategy,” or “scaling.” But the hawker who opens at
Books
You still care what other people think of you. It is a pattern that was built a long time ago. At some point in your life, you experienced rejection, embarrassment, or not fitting in. Maybe you were judged for how you looked, how you spoke, or where you came from.
Satire
You scroll for five minutes. Everyone bought a condo, launched a startup, got married, ran a marathon, and somehow still has glowing skin. You look at your kopi, your to-do list, and your life choices. Suddenly, even your WiFi feels faster than your progress. Welcome to Singapore, where success
Satire
Answering questions is dangerous. You might accidentally answer them. Here’s how to avoid that. A sarcastic guide for those who prefer control over clarity. 1. Attack the Questioner’s Intelligence Goal: Make them regret opening their mouth. Example: “That question shows a fundamental misunderstanding of how things work.” Translation:
I yelled so loudly at my daughter… people at a bus stop down the street could hear me. Not my proudest moment. It wasn’t the first time she came home late. I had already reminded her. Warned her. Explained. That night, something in me just snapped. The words came
