Ideas for Short Stories, Vol.6
The smell was overpowering.
He scooped up the shit in the yellow Ikea plastic bowl and fed himself slowly, chewing deliberately and swallowing. It was all very dignified, his face not betraying any emotion. I was so upset, I picked up my tears on the floor and shoved them back into my eyes.
I never saw him again after that afternoon. I always wonder how he is now.
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One Tuesday morning, Sheila woke up to find that her hair has turned into daisies. She was terribly confused and didn't know to be frightened at this abnormal occurence or to be excited at the impending fame. She decided to be excited at the impending fame.
She called her colleague to tell her she's ill and cannot come to work, and then spent the rest of the morning fantasizing about the ensuing media coverage. She quivered at the thought of how the media will react to her phonecall, but she forced herself to wait until she is better prepared. She opened up a Word document, typed out questions she anticipated the press will ask her, and rehearsed the answers. She giggled at the puns she can come up with to announce her predicament on facebook. She picked out dresses to match her daisy-hair, undecided between the flirty Marc Jacobs shirtdress she got at the Club 21 sale or the expensive-looking jacket from G2000 - what DO you wear to meet the world when you have daisies as hair???
Sheila was livid when she saw the sudden newsflash at 11.35am on Channel News Asia. A woman, far prettier than her, had wakened up that same morning to find her hair had turned into roses. She had always preferred roses to daisies. In a fit of rage, she threw her furniture around (those small enough for her to pick up and throw), plucked out all her daisy-hair in clumps and sat on the floor, crying to herself.
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No one knew that Edward had died. That's because Edward's corpse continued to move, to eat, to talk, to laugh, to defacate, to sleep, to wake up, to swim, to watch the National Day Parade and feel proud, to change his underwear daily, to pay for his credit card bills, to have sex, to run after the bus when he's late, to queue up at the ATM machine, to pay for ridiculously overpriced cocktails with fancy names at trendy nightspots, to pour out his woes to strangers over msn, to debate about the national identity with his colleagues after watching a local play during the Arts Fest.
He scooped up the shit in the yellow Ikea plastic bowl and fed himself slowly, chewing deliberately and swallowing. It was all very dignified, his face not betraying any emotion. I was so upset, I picked up my tears on the floor and shoved them back into my eyes.
I never saw him again after that afternoon. I always wonder how he is now.
==================================
One Tuesday morning, Sheila woke up to find that her hair has turned into daisies. She was terribly confused and didn't know to be frightened at this abnormal occurence or to be excited at the impending fame. She decided to be excited at the impending fame.
She called her colleague to tell her she's ill and cannot come to work, and then spent the rest of the morning fantasizing about the ensuing media coverage. She quivered at the thought of how the media will react to her phonecall, but she forced herself to wait until she is better prepared. She opened up a Word document, typed out questions she anticipated the press will ask her, and rehearsed the answers. She giggled at the puns she can come up with to announce her predicament on facebook. She picked out dresses to match her daisy-hair, undecided between the flirty Marc Jacobs shirtdress she got at the Club 21 sale or the expensive-looking jacket from G2000 - what DO you wear to meet the world when you have daisies as hair???
Sheila was livid when she saw the sudden newsflash at 11.35am on Channel News Asia. A woman, far prettier than her, had wakened up that same morning to find her hair had turned into roses. She had always preferred roses to daisies. In a fit of rage, she threw her furniture around (those small enough for her to pick up and throw), plucked out all her daisy-hair in clumps and sat on the floor, crying to herself.
==================================
No one knew that Edward had died. That's because Edward's corpse continued to move, to eat, to talk, to laugh, to defacate, to sleep, to wake up, to swim, to watch the National Day Parade and feel proud, to change his underwear daily, to pay for his credit card bills, to have sex, to run after the bus when he's late, to queue up at the ATM machine, to pay for ridiculously overpriced cocktails with fancy names at trendy nightspots, to pour out his woes to strangers over msn, to debate about the national identity with his colleagues after watching a local play during the Arts Fest.