Her New Favourite Show

She watched through
blurry eyes, this
reality cooking
show on the telly, which
she never was a fan of
before. But now,
with everything
going on
in her mind, she found
it interesting.

The challenge: Make
the bitter gourd palatable
to those who hate it.

And seeing one of these
would-be Master
Chefs washing his bitter
gourd, hunched over the
sink, she slowly
felt waves of
sadness, like running
water washing
over her, the
bitterness sinking to
the pit of her stomach,

She watched the chef
boil the gourd
in saltwater,
to lessen its bitterness,
but the taste of salt
in her tears
did not lessen hers.

The chef took
the boiled gourd,
and with his sharp
kinfe, sliced
it thin, with
deft, deliberate
strokes, as she imagined
parallel bleeding strips
if she applied the
same knife strokes on
her wrists.

And finally, with
time running
out, in
an act of desperation,
the would-be
Master Chef tried covering
the bitterness in a sweet
caramel cover.
But she knew this chef
would lose the challenge,
for no amount of sugar-
coating can conceal
the bitterness
hidden underneath.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Auto Erotica

He had tried all the amusement
park rides except this one; and so 
he found himself behind the 
wheel of a go-kart, 
positioned tenth and 
last at the starting 
line, waiting 
for the green light, 
which sent them off to 
race 'round the circuit 
for twelve minutes. 

Now he considered 
himself more than 
a decent driver. He was fast–
really fast–moving slowly 
up the grid with 
each passing lap. 

By the tenth lap, 
he could feel his 
bare hands burning from his 
tight grip on the wheel, and 
arm muscles aching from 
the strain of a steering 
mechanism that only 
responded to brute force.
Then it dawned on him::he was
out of shape, gradually 
running out of breath with
the discovery of this exciting,
unpredictable, and uncertain 
world of motorsports. 

Soon he found his 
rhythm in the "racing line", 
the imaginary guide that traced 
the fastest path 'round the race 
track. And he began 
to relax, his breathing 
slowed down as 
he quickened his 
pace, attacking both
the corners and the competition 
at high speeds, weaving 
through the twists, 
turns and traffic in 
a type of trance that 
only motorsports 
can bring, where both 
car and driver, 
man and machine 
become one. 

The sound of the siren 
snapped him back 
to reality, realising the race 
had ended. But his 
adrenaline was still rushing 
as he lifted his helmet, 
and he flexed the fingers of 
his red hands which had 
finally loosened their grip. 
Stepping off his kart, he looked 
up at a large screen which announced 
the three fastest drivers, 
and smiled despite seeing 
his kart number 
finish fifth.

He left the track in 
high spirits, resolving to 
lift weights to strengthen his arms, 
wear gloves to protect his hands, and to
start running to develop his cardio, 
vowing to come back 
next week to race 
all over 
again.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

My Literary Side

"The Words come from the Divine; from the Muse the Idea. The Poet merely transcribes." ┼Old Sumerian proverb

(Kidding, I made that up. LOL)

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