Scrivener!

Theres this great writing program called Scrivener, which is quite handy for aspiring writers out there.
http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php?platform=win its a sort of organizer with templates to getyou started.

last 2011 north york writers meeting

Me and a couple members of the North York Writers meeting all went out and had dinner, at Boston's Pizza to commemerate the great time we had throughout the year. Nice conversaiton and the later coming together to share a page of our work. I think I did the best.

I learnt a new poetry: Ghazal

Had a stop over to the Doris McCarthy Gallery at my university after class. And lo and behold, its amazing. Everytime I go there I see something new, and half the time its Tysdal. Sadly I came just as the whole thing was ending. A poet named Sheniz Janmohamed, was doing a poetry slam of her book "Bleeding Lights". It was comprised of poetry called Ghazal which I hear is a quite prominent middle-eastern form of poetry.


http://www.tsarbooks.com/TSAR_BleedingLight.htm
If you're interested.

New change of plans

For those rare chaps who stumble upon this blog on any fancy whim, listen up. From now on due to literary reasons, and by literary reasons for my own writer career, nothing that I am planning to give to writer contests or journals are going to be put on this blog. its just going to be my dream posts, or just whimsical things in my head. On a better note for this I am going to write down something cool. There is this girl I met called Danielle, and I saw her, and had she been made up of ink and words I would have fell in love with her on the spot. So i tried to recreate her as much as possible.

She had walked out of the noir genre and right into my sights. It wasn’t the black coat which hung on her, in a way only a boyfriend or her brother could have shouldered her with. She could have nothing but pale bare skin underneath that coat and I wouldn’t have cared. It was her face, the way it made so gorgeously on that fair damsel face that made her such a literary character. It was good standard, that made her up. From the blue blue eyes, the full flat curvature of her forehead made rectangle by the cut of her blondish hair, which hung like fishing lines, drawing drapery on her.  Yet she wasn’t the femme fatale with the red dress, a flowery dalliance and needy. Her face put out her best she could offer, her hands offered what was sacrificed. Spindly knuckles, that stretched the skin, white, dirtied by each nick and blotch like the opposite of ebony. Yet she wasn’t that Spade assistant, who did things that women were good for, perky and pert with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on the balancing act. She was the character child between the distilled perspective of dame and doll that was that woman. She was the good woman, not adequate, nor gorgeous, nor simple. She did not have that beguiling detail, that little flash of her eyes of infinite colours or the way she smiled, making such details greater than others. No what she had was an independence away from all inherited traits. She was character independent of her own, that common goodness which brought stability for nothing of her was lacking. She was the last women that men married the widower of the too eager first. Not of her control just the characteristics of her persona. The kind of character I love.

The Best Canadian Poetry: A happy happenstance.

It was just after class, that I remembered we had a awesome gallery at our school called the Doris McCarthy Gallery. Having this weird thing with boundaries and playing with them, there by happening some poetry reading, which included a great prof I had Professor Tysdal. A great study on Canadian Poetry, though a quick question. What does Canadian Poetry made up of?
Answer: Bears, Guns, and Fruit.

Check out their blog at http://www.bestcanadianpoetry.com/

A rare bit of poetry I scrapped off my head

I don't write poetry often, I never liked writing it in highschool and mainly lived off of short haikus. However walking in the electrical fields near my house after dark was inspirational and it was too good an idea to be stopped by my don't-like-writing-poetry filter.

Do you feel unelectric when twilight doesn’t wave goodbye?

The Black Maple

It’s a feeling to feel unelectric when

The twilight has left the sky, without goodbye

But maybe memory will still be there to console

With nostalgia spooling over the escaping heat

And then maybe wish for what you once saw, to

Shuffling sickly through grey fields of flak noticing

Steel giants holding wires aloft are now

Wire held puppets, greatness gone for the night

Do you feel sad? To be late, for what was never

Promised, except for you, walking among once titans

But everything to be said in your solitude is quiet now

In the fading afterglows, waiting for the stars which  

Is barely heard from what is maybe

The whistling in your head

Writing Goals.

The strongest memory is weaker than the palest ink - Chinese Proverb

These are good words to live by especially when you are a aspiring writer. Too many times the next big idea popped out of my head only to be leached out in the doldrums of life  only to remember how good it was but have no idea what it was. Beyond that however it helps with goals. If your like me and find yourself playing Modern Warfare all the while promising you'll start writing because you promised yourself that you would only to find out whoa its 1:00 already? then you know how easy it is to digress on your commitments. But writing your goals down on paper do help, to hold it down. Just say I'll commit to a page or so a day before I do anything else and surprisingly you will. The way it works I think is that you can easily delude yourself into forgetting any sort of commitment you made if your relying on memory or any poorly worded legal document. But if its on ink it is difficult to go back on your word even a contract to yourself as no one enjoys admitting they don't have the will to follow through on agreements. Try it.

Hitting a dead zone

If they haven't gotten a definition for long periods of feeling dead to your creativity well then I will refer to it as the deadening. For me it has been going on for two weeks. I can barely write the spark is so utterly smushed into a busy life that I just look at my own recent work and wonder who exactly wrote it because it sure as hell doesn't look like work I am capable of. *Sigh* Well at least I got my blog.

Writer's Block

I will tell you know. Writer's block is a horrible horrible affliction that steals the strength from even the most poetic writer's and robs them of their ideas, their prose and their ability to put a pen against a paper and make the pen move. Yes all source of strength is taken leaving its victim cruelly inchained to a desk and chair staring blinkingly at a blank piece of paper until they begin to sob and cry at the depracating state of their being. Please for those who know of this horrible afflection, should it ever occur to you do not continue to stare and cry. Get up from your cell, remove the chain which you call a pen and leave the premises which you take part in and go for a walk. Think. Enjoy the day whatever it maybe but find delight in the world around you before Dame inspiration feels love for you again and takes you into her bosum and leads you back to the friends you call pen and paper and enjoin again as one.

Story ideas: The Reality

I was having a conversation with an aspiring writer a friend of mine and I learnt two things. First aspiring authors ain't unique, usually there are those who want to do something artsy but can't hack at drawing or acting so we might as well shut out to the world. We're a dime a dozen. That dozen also comes with a free story idea with each pop too.
For those who think they are so brainy always coming up with cool nifty never been done before ideas here's a hint. Unless you got the prose to back it up, and the luck you actually know your idea is a seller they are worthless. Everyone can think up of ideas everybody. So keep them its nice to think your creative but creative means diddly squat without the hard work.

In other news I got into my Creative Writing Fiction class I so desperately craved to be in. Yah:)

Writer's Clubs Writers Clubs WRiTers CluBs!!!

Do YOU know what a writer's club is. If you looked it up it would say awesome, buddy buddy kind of awesome. And yes if you could deduce I went to tone today. No not just one, but TWO writer's club. The first one was a lucky walk in. For three years I was wondering why a university campus did not have a creative writing club. It should be enshrined in the clubbing manifesto. Was it just that my university mine, was not literally interested? No actually they just have a lousy marketing team. Though that does help make it kind of a exclusive club which was good because having a club in a prof's office does make a bit of a squeeze. What we did was have all the new people just read their work and in a very professional manner did we comment and critique it. Quite nice to have a panel of chaps to give you a good clean dose of reality.


The second Writer's club in the evening was one at my local North York library. There was quite more roomier a near empty conference room with 10 or so people in it. Similar in which I decided to show the same work I had done before hand, which was back in time? Winston again story bit I mentioned in a earlier post. Also quite helpful and a great way to meet people that I will say.

So what did I learn? That my bit of story needs more exposition, more foreshadowing and its length is quite nice. That does make it easy to realize how unnecessarily long I was planning it for.
Oh well thanks for reading chaps and next time I might put in something else I write.

Short Short Stories 2

So this story was one of those hey I got an idea, write it down in a sitting kind of thing. Except it took two sittings, and all done after midnight. This is a partial inspiration from the short story Memento Mori by Jonathan Nolan, brother of the awesome Christopher Nolan. I wish my short story was just as awesome, but it ain't. Being self-depracating it ain't. Still I think it got the right atmosphere though.

Talking to Darla

He stared up at the white ceiling; the halogen lights burned a white that hurt his eyes, so he closed them.

“Darla did you ever think one could be the center of the universe?” It had been floating in his head for awhile now.

“Is this one of your hey-everyone-I’m-important thoughts?”

He just stared up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. The blanket felt soft, a rough wooly softness.

                “I would say that because you hit the topic dead- on, really not aiming for subtlety there are you.”

                “Think of this thought. We can only see the world in our own eyes, everyone else can only be seen as a third-person character at best, no matter how much you known them, because it’s all through your own eyes”

A hesitant silence, he waited to hear voices, besides his own breathing.

                “You know what I had always loved about you Darla?” Darla said nothing “You’re a great listener, there are times when I can just throw a textbook at you and you would just take it”

He opened his eyes; the light was still too bright. He closed his eyes; all he could hear was his breathing.

                “Darla? You still there?” He felt his breath quicken.

                “What?” he sighed “I thought you liked me because I listened to you.”

                “Yeah I do, so shut up and listen. Could it be possible that I am the center of the universe, not like the second reincarnate in this world God doesn’t exist, but if he does he is to exist for me. So the scope of the world is just like a game that was shaped for my upbringing and life and everyone, family friends, acquaintances, are just non-consequential, all there to serve as interaction in my life. So that would be the definition of humanity, no just human, just me.”

                “So if you’re the bleeding king of the universe, how come, you fucking broke who lived in his girlfriend’s apartment?”

                “See you’ll notice all the guys who are famous, the entrepreneurs all started small, with barely a nickel in their pocket but with hard work and smarts they embody the human spirit. If I was born the son of a rich man I’d be a idiotically ironic little hipster, hardly the great thing that embodies the human spirit, now would I.”  

                “You’re a 29 year old man, who is unemployed with a bachelor of history of arts, broke, in his girlfriend’s apartment. Need I say more, or does the truth hurt too much.”

                “Hey, that just is part of my theory, everything in life no matter how bad is bad so you will learn to grow up and be a better person. Anything no matter how bad, no matter what.”

                “Even as bad as killing your girlfriend?”

He flinched, his eyes squeezing harder into wrinkles.

                “Oh shut up Darla.”

He opened his eyes into slits, the shear of light burned. He shut them for a moment, and then he started flickering his eyelids, the burning ebbed until he squinted at the room he was in. There were no windows, and the only door was shut. If it had any gaps he couldn’t tell the room itself was too bright.  

He turned his head to the right to see the surface of a desk. Its light whitish surface was clean except for a small picture frame. There was a picture an outline of two people but the light reflection obscured it.

He reached over, but couldn’t. He tried, but still couldn’t. Looking down               brown straps held him down, crossing over his body and arms. He tried moving his legs, he couldn’t, brown straps held his legs down. He began flexing his fingers, stroking the wooly softness of the blanket. He closed his eyes again.

                “Darla?”

                He could hear is breathing, nothing else.

                “Darla are you still listening to me?”

                “Yes, I still listen, David.”

                “Thanks Darla.”

Really bad day

Today was a bad day for Joshua P’ng amateur writer. Well it was okay for Joshua P’ng study wart, or Joshua P’ng anything else, but the moment I clicked the pen and whipped out notebook, it was just drull and mind blank. My time-travel idea is ranging from twitching to dead, something I haven’t gotten off the ground no matter how good it sounds, right now I playing Russian roulette with it. My second idea concerning zombie apocalypse and crazy survivors is also struggling to get beyond derivative. It’s days like this that make me wonder why oh why I want to be a writer if I’m utter shite. Its was also a cold and windy day too.

Short Short Stories 1

Well besides the occasion short stories, dream posts and other weird shit I can think of I also have short short stories. Note for post purposes short short stories can also include reject short story paragraphs. This one is of a coincidence I happened to observe on my way to the library. It's a bit odd a little dabbling in 2nd-person, and really doesn't make any sense.

The first thing you would have noticed, is she had shorter legs than you, or walked fewer steps or just slower. Not that you would have thought that, just you were overtaking her, on the sidewalk eventually brushing by and staring back again at the end of the path you were planning to reach in record time. That would be it, now you think, but perhaps if you weren’t so uptight about the places you absolutely must be at This time, you may have drifted to the women you passed by. But it’s too late, she’s already behind you and looking back will only make you look paranoid, so you think of the back of her. But what memories thought happily secreted into the comfy corner it once resided you dragged out into the unforgiving scrutiny of your thoughts aren’t happy. Unhappy memories now unfaithful, giving you a sultry peek at what you missed, before sneaking in with laughing toss never to show more.

And what glimpse is generic. Utterly basic. So what was it? Red hair, a black and white criss-cross women’s jacket (you forget their proper name) and black pants that reveal the slim legs that all women seem to have.

So what?

Yah that is a question, so what. It isn’t a person you know, not very interesting could be anyone, anything if you think about how much it matters. And it was just a person’s back; everyone’s back is the same utterly neutral without a face to set it up. So yes do let go if you wish, it was just a curious prodding anyways into your life.

So you continue on this suburban suburb walking by eager to reach the shining towers of the real urban play to which this story is meant to end, passing by as you go. You see another woman, coming from the other end, you may find the courage to give a hello, a quick smile even if your nerves can hold, or you may not. It doesn’t matter at all any greeting for she just stares straight ahead in atypical grumptious look those middle-aged women who are too young to be venerated and so thought as judgmental bitches. She doesn’t judge you though, you’re non-existent in her world but because I say you notice her. You may not care, you got places to be, but then it’s the 2^nd person you saw but never met, so you take a quick peek behind your back. Don’t worry she won’t look back and think you’re paranoid. You don’t exist in her world remember?

So you look. What do you see?

Red hair, a criss-cross black jacket and black slimming pants.

Now it’s not like you should have seen this coincidence now would you?

You would have looked at her plus a bonus of a face, and the clothes she wore; they don’t change much from front to back. But you wouldn’t have noticed then; the first woman was already shelved into your ordinary fluff section of your memory.

How’s that eh, both women look just the same from their backs and your brain now finding a link’s probably putting the same bitchy face on both backs if you ever thought about them again. But here’s the kicker, think, you passed the first women from behind, and passed the second from the front. You can imagine that they will cross paths, from each other, the bitchy one definitely won’t see, but the first just maybe, and the first perhaps takes a peek behind her to see the red hair, black and white criss-cross, black pants. She may not realize it just then may not realize it anyways, but maybe when she has found her destination, have finally cleared the hurried need to reach just find a quizzical oddness in her journey that something was about it but she just doesn’t know what. But you did at least, those two women whom you conjoined by their backs, were one and the same, a thing to think about in your walk.

A Letter to Kerry Yelkin

This semester for me has digressed from three spurts from classes I can take to two nauseating bad courses. But that isn't really important, what is important is my english class (god i love english), has introduced me to Kerry Yaklin. A artist who drew a bunch of slew of expressive paintings and heres a letter I wrote to one. This chubby chap with a flat cap and a thick caterpillar moustache. This is the letter I wrote.

To my Dearest (#034)

                Before I knew you I had meant to write a letter to you. During the summer when the pressures of life had eased just temporarily, I had it all planned out. I didn’t know where you lived, didn’t know who you were yet but I truly still wanted to talk to you, write a letter to you for letter’s sake. To tell you that in a world of emails and Facebook we could still remember the letter. To take the time to articulate our thoughts, and express what we could, knowing each word written down in our best handwriting was said. And would be what we truly wanted to say because of the time we devoted to it.

I had wanted to tell you to take heart that I still do care, that you were not just a number, a civilian, a pedestrian, a statistic, or just a population. But a person with a face and a name.  With the effort I put in this letter for you, to write that I care for you even though we share no other outward connection.

 But I never did. I always found another way to say next week, and have that self-satisfied lazy thought of the ample time I had as the days slip through. I let you down, leaving you where you were, thinking to yourself without an ear in sympathy. I’m sorry for this when I realized this as I was marked with the last day of summer, and still sorry now. By then I no longer had the time, school was coming, I had grad school to prepare for, and you my dearest became simply another little thing in my mind that whispered softly into the deafening roar of my busy life.

But then I found you again. From a great teacher of mine you may know her Dr. Sonja Nikkila, who showed me your face. And now I realize all isn’t well in your thoughts. That something has caused you to reflect deeply with troubled eyes. Perhaps it would be good if you could say your thoughts out loud to the world. A sympathetic ear is ready to hear.

Sincerely Joshua P’ng, Student of ENGB03

Joy of Apex and of writing

Well it took a touch of rewirng in my academic compass and skipped the last half of my Business Comm class to go to a Book Launch for "Joy of Apex".
So I trotted out 20 minutes late, but it was cool, being fashionably late was as it started just as I walked in.
This is what I got.




Something isn't it. I had thought it was a graphic novel or something but it is a soft-cover of 101 pages worth $10.
The book reading was full of delightful puffs of humour in a easy-to-read format.
The author Napatsi Folger was a UTSC student who won a short story contest I had submitted to with fingers cross.
Great gal, really kind and it did help recharge that spark that reminds me of why I want to be a writer, and a spark that I hope still burns even after the midnight oil has burned away.

Random bit of Meta-fiction.

Interesting happened yesterday. This probably only happens to me, but possibly just possibly for those who have itunes with their PCs this also happened. My computer was slow very slow, and picking some music on itunes to help me concentrate, I flip on my microsoft word and I'm still seeing my itunes page. Then i notice the word flashing bar indicating I can start writing, write on my Lights music playlist. And I began.

Hmm this is odd. I am right now looking at an itunes page and typing across it. Right now its so slow that the words can’t catch up to my writing oh here it is! Well known it kind of slowed down. But hilariously I think I could call this a new form of art, just paying with the ridiculous slowness of my laptop. But what should I call it? I dunno it’s a metafiction I guess, through I doubt a paragraphic excuse counts. Now should I keep writing By the itunes measurement I have covered 5 songtracks worth. Also my grammer sucks though I guess I should be improving. What should I say next? Well I guess seeing as I have the luxury of looking at my itunes page well some of it, I could at least describe it. The top albums are Metal by Fiest 21 by Adele and yeah and so on. The only one I know is Siberia by Lights. I like her music. Now across from it is my SkySailing soundtrack the only soundtrack I ever bought from itunes because its cd burning sucks. Good thing this is just a tardy memory and not a virus cause that would just suck if it did.

Should I describe it? This shows only the parts of Microsoft word I’m using. Once I use a different piece of Microsoft word I tear down the itunes page that originally covered it so think of it as a really lazy remodeling job, a patch you don’t like tear it off. For example lets say I run my mouse to the bold. There that part of itunes gone. Now I can use bold. I got about 65% of my Microsoft word page that I can see, though I am now getting bored of this. I got work to do, have to put this writing off another day. I don’t worry this happens all the time.

All this was written down at the moment, responding to what I saw on screen, but sheesh I've done writer's block like that writing off the top of my head, maybe I can pass it off as a new type of meta-fiction or what have you.

Dream Post 1

I enjoy dreams, ever since I watched Inception, I have found two appreciations. Christopher Nolan movies (who is the new God of movies, get the f$#k off Spielberg!) and dreams. Of recent months beginning in the summer, I’ve been dreaming quite frequently, unfortunately I’ve also been prone to forget most of them. The few I have I’ve written down.

Well not exact. Writing them I’ve got to thinking well there weird but they ain’t a textbook reiteration so I decided to splice them up a little, add a little story into them. Now they don’t make any sense but it’s a cool way I found of practicing your writing skills finding whatever weird shit you can out of them.

So the first dream I’ve started recording is I dreamt I was in a carnival and find a weird carny game.

It’s a carnival, all the gay lights, ever-jingles of the music and the carneys, screaming kids the works. What’s more it’s a seaside carnival, so you gotta add the moonlight couples on the sodden boardwalk who came for a short burst of cotton candy and soda to snuggling up on the beach or whatnot. A couple brushes by me just then, the girlfriend giggling to the inane jokes her guy is boasting on. She’s pretty, soft arms wrapped around his, nice swaying hips, wish that could be me. Hell I envy anyone here right now. Even Castella my partner I envy about now. And when a carneys detective, is just all about watching whose watching the rubes, fumbling past their way of pressing against you to catch the finger smiths, only to have the unlucky sod who got nicked wail about you for being too stupid to know loose pockets get picked on at carnivals. That ain’t enviable, and Castella’s pulling double shift, on account of me envying him.

Right now, I got the most unenviable thing I have to do right about now, going beyond finger smiths and inebriated carneys. Can’t stop and think of bringing Angie for a little play at the shooting range, cause it only makes it worse. Pushing past them kids, and parents and young folk, is a hassle. Some jerk misguided father, jumps on me when I brush him, he’s got that self-righteous grin, setting an example and so forth. But I throw out my badge, his grin slumps into fear, and he’s off. Then there it is.

The newest game vending out to them rubes. Some sort of black square tent, held up by steel metal support poles that’ ain’t hid, but exposed to everyone who walks by and in. Some slick chap came on to the Carney master, with soft words, and quick hands I bet, setting up without a little foreplay on his earnings. Ain’t seen a cut the carney master said after a week of grease-ball earning, more so most of the rubes, are walking out there with those sighing giggles, or whining grouches, no dumb lucky’s come out yet, and you need one at least one a day to keep them coming. I watch this for a good half-hour, people coming in and out, before I go in.

                 Then I see John. I’m shocked. John’s a buddy, he wears twaid shirts and losses a good dollar score in the carnival, a friendly guy. ‘xcept John ain’t ever packing fire, and now I see half a dozen black holsters strapped all over his fine yellow twaid shirts. He’s in the crowd, looking all Johnny and then I miss him.

Procedure’s easy at first, you slide your badge down your pants, tuck it in your sock. Most venders only look at your pockets and the sweet gullibility on your face anyways. Then you begin playing a few, just to see how the score works.  I pay my bit, a cheeky amount a strong tenner. It’s a gambling game, xcept this is high stakes. Not good sign. A whack-a-mole, if it looked anything like a burrow. Its three large push bangs. Two large green-rimmed ones with a red-rimmed one below. The slicker hands me a hammer, more for a war if anything. Its covered in leather tarping, but hard as anything I’ve held before. Long thick steel lets me hold it two-handed. I could bust him for regulation right there, but I still gotta see how this goes.

I start whacking the push poppers, and then the rules change. Slick boy with a black greased hair back, says you gotta hit when he says. Fine eh so I do so. Whacking each till I get a good $16 down. Then the hammer’s too heavy and fall one +1 too much, damn! $8 dollars. That’s it. Now I know a broken cheapness when I see it, and about to whip my badge at slicker here then this heavy Negro women shows up. She’s got these fancy eyeglasses, where its more of a black band across her eyes, with ear latches like white bands. She’s cool, trying to mediate and all that. Then sis shows up. Sis and little brother. Course now I wonder what the hell they’re there for. Then she’s got her glasses off, pretty brown eyes for a matronwomen, but then the surpise of the night. Sis and that negro are going at it, by God! I wish I was Castella right now.

Regular updates

Okay I was up watching cat vids on YouTube, and chatting it up on Facebook when I was checking up my favourite bar and so this blog on it. I thought that was funny until I realized it was my blog, and then it turned tragic. Talking to myself is sad, but going only once a month updates is even sadder. Thinking that I need some silly poem or some other little short story shouldn't exclude me from writing here. So here's what I promise. That I make a post every other day so 4 times a week, and at least something interesting to read once a week. If I fail and you are reading this do send me hate emails because I deserve them.

Story excerpt

Okay this is a excerpt from a short-story I was walking on. This was originally going to be the opening about a time-traveling hitman. Unfortunately I only got the first part thought out and drew a blank on the rest of the story. Time-Travel stories are complicated. Any-hoo I'm re-writing it but chances are good I'm not adding this piece in. A fine piece of work though. 

Winston checked the chronosmeter, again for the umpteenth time.

01:24/11/Sept/1988 now 01:25/11/Sept/1988 Right on time.

It was raining on that date, the hour and moment, the fat droplets bashing against him, the sidewalk he was standing on, and everything in the city. The wet droplets, splattered on his fedora, inescapably running into rivulets, down into his trench coat, and everything else. 

But he already knew that, it would be raining. He knew it as much as where he knew he wanted to be, near O’Malleys Pub  the dingy alleyway which even O’Malley would never use for a smoke break, for want of convenience. He could see why that man would have used it. He frequented O’Malley’s often, and the alleyway was a dead-end, no escape. A large enough dump that O’Malley near sense-deaf, rarely checked to be anything beyond the regular garbage bags, and Winston always brought his own to hide disposals. Be packed along with the garbage and in the landfill before anyone noticed.

It wasn’t so hard to see, just by the saturated yellow light from O’Malleys where dim shadows hunched behind the window, ever dimmer from the sky wet above. To the side of it, nothing but shadow, but he could still see, the narrow crack, between O’Malleys and some small apartment, that shouldn’t have been there, but was still there. No matter, if they never complained about O’Malley’s late night hours, they wouldn’t hear him.  

He checked the chronosmeter, again.

01:27/11/Sept/1988 any minute now that man would come.

Hiding in his own alleyway, across the street, Winston fingered his pistol in his coat pocket, checking it. A Smith & Wesson, a discontinued MK 22 his favourite for silent kills. Taking a silencer from his other coat pocket, he screwed it on, trying his best to keep it all dry. It didn’t matter, the wet was everywhere, and spattered all over it and the chronosmeter on his wrist, leaving boil-sized droplets behind. The gun would still work in the end, he didn’t know why he even bothered, just force of habit he guessed.

Looking up, there! The man was already there entering the alleyway, his face obscured by the large collar of his trench coat. Winston cursed, running out onto the road. The crack of thunder, split wide, the sky in harsh brightness, as the rain poured harder now, obscuring his sight, as he ran hoping against hope.

Then there was a shot. Just barely over, the raucous sounds from the pub, but there it was. Winston stopped, listening to the underscore as he cursed again. He knew he would be too late, that he would always be too late, no matter what he did. Still he had still hoped, but that didn’t stop him from pursuing his original goal. The man would still be there, with him.

The rain diminished, when he was inside, protected by O’Malleys and the apartments from either side, yet a steady pour showered down on his head, when he saw the man. The man was already bending over his body, checking to see if he was still alive. Too bad he would be but the man wouldn’t.

“Hey!”

As the man turned, Winston shot. Once, the gunshot low under the rain but still clear in his ears. The blood spewed off the scalp, as the man fell. Dropping the gun he had in his hands. He fell on his side, to the side of his victim, the collar obscuring his face. His gun also fell down on his side. The cold wetness of the rain trickled down off the rim of Winston’s fedora. It was done.

It wouldn’t hurt to see who the man actually was; he always referred him as the man, but never knowing who he was. Could have been a female from what little he knew. Walking over, he bent down to pick up the man’s gun. The reaction automatic, experience telling him, you never left anything to chance. But then he looked at the gun, momentarily confused, then his eyes widened in shock. He grabbed the man’s shoulder turning him over to confirm what he thought he realized.

He shouldn’t have looked.

Impossible WIngs

My first successfully (in my eyes) short story i ever wrote. Sent it to a short story contest, and hope I win.

Impossible Wings

By Joshua P’ng

                If he had not forgotten the cleaning fluid by some stroke of fate, he would never have passed by the service staircase to retrieve it, and in that moment noticed the door to the service staircase closing. Then, finding himself standing in a concrete staircase momentarily adrift, he looked up above him to see the fleetness of feet – which by more than happenstance; he could have easily deluded himself to having imagined. Even though fate played a hand, it was still his choice, one he hadn’t given much thought to or wouldn’t have even realized the ramifications of until he would return perplexed and inexplicably saddened, finally realizing his cognitive thoughts that begun with his arrival at the roof’s door, opening it, and meeting her.

                Her back was turned to him, strong black hair waving to the sky. She wore clothing girls of her age were prone to wear: tight, short whitish crinkled jeans and a white tank top. Her appearance would not have seemed different from those typical girls he would see giggling, clutching each other on their way to their lives; if not for where she had chosen to stand: on the edge, just above the precipice below. In that moment all he felt was the unforgiving wind rattling his shirt, fluttering against his skin as the building trembled whilst the girl’s figure moved with it. He could be forgiven for his immediate response.

“Hey! What are you doing up here?” he howled out against the sky.

                She turned to him, having a confident smile that was more than he felt comfortable with her having, realizing why she was standing at the edge, the knowledge weakening him.

“Hey, uh you better get down from there before you fall off!” he shouted at her, scared now as he edged closer across roof pebble while she still stood swaying with the sky scrapper.

“Would you believe me if I told you I am already an angel and death is nothing to be scared of?” she replied back, her voice shooting easily across the wind, her words confirming to him what she meant to do.  

“Wait! Don’t jump!” he pleaded as he came near with trembling steps “you may believe this is your only choice, just please trust me, There is always another chance, just step away from the ledge, please.” His imagination retched with the image of her broken body, limbs askew.

“Yes you should trust in that, but I’ve made my choice already.” She told him, walking along on the edge, with not a tear in her eye.

Oh God why is such a young girl killing herself? And why I am the unlucky bastard’s whose going to have to stop her!

She moved a body’s length away from him, just beyond the reach of his arms.

“No please stop! I don’t know why you chose this place, but could you just step away and talk with me about this?” he begged once again, a plan to stop her already decided.

She stood now at the corner of the edge, like she had all the time in the world, “It’s not too late for you to understand. I already have wings – angel wings – to take me away from here” she said.

“What, you’re just going to fly away?” he questioned, disbelief written all over his face.

“Yes, Can you believe what you see to be impossible? Just watch and you’ll see my wings.”

He stopped just then, a handbreadth away from grabbing her.

In that moment, almost in awe at her unshakeable faith, he almost believed he could see wings ready to take her to the sky and he felt soothed. Then his well-being demanded him to think, People cannot fly, that’s impossible! He imagined the grieving parents, the hard-faced cops, and his boss all looking at him for answers he wasn’t sure he could provide.

He did what he chosen to do – what he always meant to do if he could believe that.

He expected to feel soft flesh gripped in his arms when he lunged for her, to be pulled toward him and away from the edge. But she already knew, her eyes sad with the truth, before he felt open air within his arms.

And then he watched, astounded and then saddened, as she flew away with what he could almost imagine but never see to be angel wings. They carried her away from the skyline and beyond into the sky, leaving him alone, safe and away from the edge.