“…along with the cat suit.”
—Margaret Atwood


Naturally, he proceeds to high-five his flat-brimmed buddy
then soaps his large hands clean in the stainless steel sink.
High on the urinal-caked fog, hypnotized by such ugly
green tile, I am suddenly numbed by the echo of their clap.
Such music in his diction! The fescue of his big dick!

Bestiality is halfway normal, when you think about it.
Did he realize this halfway in, or halfway out?
How unique, too, this cat raised by dogs, a channel of discovery
all its own. Rhetorical sex must be pretty lousy, a general rule of
dewclaw. They must be terrible fucks, right? I flush. (more…)

     When Nenek disappeared, everyone panicked. She simply left for her usual walk and didn’t come back. Mum was beside herself with worry. My aunts basically started calling everybody, demanding, beseeching, begging for her whereabouts.

     Nenek’s memory had been slipping ever since. It started with small things first: forgetting to put certain ingredients in her cooking, misplacing items, mistaking names. She brushed our concern off, saying it was just old age. She hadn’t joined us on our nightly hunts for months. Her joints ached, her fingers stiff. She hated flying for too long.

     She had been such an inspiration for the younger women, my sisters and cousins. We were a big family, yet we often got together for meals. Our blood was thick, our love was thicker. Nenek would cook our favorite food. Rendang. Curries. Even her special rojak which we must have every Saturday. Mum told us that Nenek taught her and her sisters how to sing and hunt. Sniffing out pregnant ladies in the vicinity. Looking for willing men. Mum was distraught that this era – Nenek’s time – was ending. (more…)

     THE SETTING SUN shone as if held in place by hand. It sent a band of light down the narrow slot that remained between a low layer of clouds and the flat horizon. The pastel light fell at an oblique angle, gleaming on the wet street, the car roofs, and the windows of buildings.

     I walked home from class, the sun at my back. Traffic was brisk and the sidewalk was clogged with weary pedestrians, most carrying bags or packages. The people looked straight ahead and walked with purpose. I was an exception, my eyes scanning theirs as they walked toward me.

     “That’s how you tell the country people from the city people,” one of my U of W classmates had commented as we had walked home a few weeks ago. “Country people make eye contact.” (more…)