On Eagles' Wings

by Lisa Kwan Written for: The Writer's Tower Theme: Name (August) Bonus words: mustard, asylum Paradise. Her name was Paradise. Indeed, what a beautiful name , he thought. He closed his eyes and he could vividly see her wavy brown locks, the stray strands caught on her moist ruby red lips, her porcelain alabaster skin. It couldn’t have been a chance encounter. Of all the coffee delivery girls at all the branches of Coffee R Us , it had to be her. Of all the offices in the building, it had to be his . And of the sixty-odd interns at his office, the one with coffee duty today, of all days, had to be him . He hated coffee duty, because getting coffee for his coffee-crazed superiors was really, he felt, an opportunity. An opportunity to screw up and get yelled at, with your face covered in superior spittle, for the entire department to watch in glee—until it was their turn. So far, since his six months here, this was his second time on coffee duty, and he hadn’t...

by Lisa Kwan Written for: The Writer's Tower Theme: Paradox (July) 911 911!!!! ‘Sup babe? I need help! It’s an emergency!!! Get over here, STAT!!!!! Ok. On my way. I wanted to take my time, going over to Christy’s place. She tends to be…overly dramatic, sometimes. But then again, I didn’t want to be responsible if it were really some emergency. Granted, it probably wouldn’t be her house burning down, or an axe murderer breaking down her front door, but…you can never be sure with Christy. I sped through a yellow light, hastily overtook a white Peugeot whose driver actually rolled down the window to angrily wave a bright yellow steering lock at me, and finally arrived in front of Christy’s small single-storey terrace in record time, accidentally knocking over a trash bin, spilling its contents—last night’s dinner debris and, oddly, a deflated football. Half-running, half-jogging, I went up to her door and rang the doorbell. Christy appeared at t...

by Lisa Kwan Written for: The Writer's Tower Theme: Mirror (June) Her eyelids fluttered open, kissed by the sunlight streaming through the windows. Beside her, he stirred, and she turned towards him, her lips barely brushing his day-old stubble. She blew gently on his neck, and she was amused to see his eyebrows furrow. “You awake, darling?” His voice was hoarse. And sexy. She wrapped her arm around his belly in response, and slipped her hand underneath him. She could almost feel his smile, as he planted a kiss atop her head. “Breakfast?” She spoke into his chest. “I’ll ring for it,” he said, but didn’t move. She sat up and stretched, lifting her arms high above her and exposing her naked breasts, as big as pomegranates, as the covers slipped from her shoulders. She watched him watch her, his eyes travelling from her heart-shaped face, to her delicate neck, her small shoulders, taut stomach and tiny waist, the rest concealed by the sheets. And she glowed, like the p...

I actually wrote this short story a long time ago, in 2008, and it was published in Write Out Loud: a series of original contemporary writings, by Oak Publication, with editor Karen Ann Theseira, retailed at RM29.90 in MPH, though they no longer print them :p It is one of the reasons why I never gave up on writing. I must be doing  something  right, isn't it? ;) Enjoy! :D **** THE PRIZE by Lisa Kwan             “Good morning. Welcome to Brittany’s Beauty Shop. How may I help you?” chirped a young bespectacled girl. A tall, slim woman wearing a red suit stood in front of the counter.             “I’d like a manicure and pedicure, please.”             “Wonderful. If you’ll just write your name and address in our guest book here, you’ll be right on your way to a relaxing time at Brittany’s B...

by Lisa Kwan Written for: The Writer's Tower Theme: The Evil Within (May) Deadline: 2nd June 2014 The police are here. Sirens wail and the flashing red and blue reflect off the walls. I am crouched beneath Rob’s work desk in his home office, heart pounding, but surprised to realize that I am still trembling. I anticipate their kicking down the front door, bursting upon the scene like the heroes they think they are, knights in shining armour atop equally shining white horses. Armed officers case the living room as they enter, then swiftly move further into the house, checking the other rooms, yelling “Clear!” Still, I wait, patiently and calmly, for them to discover me. And discover the bodies. Whichever came first. “Sir! In here, sir!” They must be in the kitchen now. Thundering footsteps moving towards the back of the house, away from where I am, then almost absolute silence. I can imagine the sight that greets them: a cluttered kitchen with a carton of milk ...

by Lisa Kwan I’ll probably die. We’ll all probably die, never to get out of this alive. The sounds on the aircraft are deafening. I can hear screams, wailing, babies crying, prayers muttered in languages I don’t know, to deities and gods I have never known. A man is yelling at a distraught flight stewardess, arguing about something completely meaningless at this point. The plane is tilted somewhat downwards now; I make an effort to keep my back against the upright seat. I tighten my seatbelt, and then unintentionally allow a chuckle to escape my lips from the absurdity of it all. The plane is about to go down, and I tighten my seatbelt? How helpful. I turn to her, sitting beside me, sobbing hysterically; squeezing my hand so tight it is practically white. I turn to her, but I can only stare helplessly. What do you say, in such circumstances? What do you say, when you know there’s not going to be a tomorrow? I stroke her hand, and she hiccups, tired out. I follow the outlines...