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What would you do, if you recognise someone – but, they cannot recognise you? That feeling of not-wanting to be a creep; however you just need to tell them that they are meant to know you. I was not always this confused. I used to be a kid – until I saw him again…

The name is Dowarn Gen, and this is just the beginning of my end.

“And, that’s detention!” Mr Shaz yelled. Or, was it ‘pay attention?’ *Pffft* My best-mate released another big eruption – and the entire class almost chundered . I just  snickered as Mr Shaz, or as I liked to call him ShoeShine - ‘cause of his sparkly bald head - chased the both of us out threatening to call our parents. Who needs tutor anyways?

“Want to go down to GC?”

“Not today, bro – but, I’ll catch ya tomorrow.’

And with that, I headed to do my usual window-shopping, every year on the same day – today.

For once, I wanted to see it a little closer. It was within my grasp… *bang*

I’m craving. I haven’t had it in days. I step my feet lightly, building up a window of misty air through my mouth and then I give-in. I dig into my jacket’s pocket and pull out a ciggie that I snatched off my mate’s ear the other day. In the distance I see the V-Line train heading my way. I take a step-back as the wooden fences go down. Checking FB, I light up my ciggie. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a kid just casually running beside the gate – playing around with his tennis ball. His mother, half-wittingly chatting to someone on the mobile is looking in the opposite direction. *sigh* I glance back down to my mobile, to comment on a friend’s FB status. *BEEEEPPP* the thundering horn of the V-Line draws closer… The ball rolls under the gate and becomes stuck in between the tracks, the kid giggles and runs after his ball – not realising that the train is coming right at him. I make a break for it, jumping over the fence – I grab him by the waist and fling him across to his stupid mother.  

“Are you alright, kid?” questioned a familiar voice. “That pane of glass always seems to injure customers.” I turned around whilst rubbing the side of my head. He looked familiar too. “I can see you admire my ride. This isn’t the first time either. It’s one hell of a car, ay?” “What is it?” I automatically quizzed – but of course, I already knew the answer.  - Honda Civic CRX  -

 “Honda Civic CRX – and the latest mod at that, 2035! My brother wanted this car - I saved up a lot for it. This crimson coating, he would’ve loved it,” the car-salesman said with a facial expression that also pained me. “My bad, I didn’t get your name,” I stated.

“Oh, sorry bout that. Even though my badge say’s Ngo – you can call me Alex.’

“The name’s Dowarn Gen,” I robotically replied.

 But, you can call me brother.

The End.

Dedicated to Andrew Ngo.


A snickering bellow came from within. Tim Stuart’s panicked fists against the field began to cease as he realises he has no hope of escape. He exhales and turns around to face his death-god. When he first began his training, he knew - one day he’d have to surpass his mentor. But, he didn’t realise it’d be so soon. With a flick of his finger, Stuart sends a few boulders flying. Leonard didn’t even batter an eyelid as he disintegrates them to ashes. Stuart notices how wrinkled Leonard looks up close, how fragile he must have got as the air in the bubble began to run dry, “Any last words, pupil?” Leonard heaved and began counting down to the spell of Ghik. ”Yes,” Stuart said, his face no-longer showing any signs of fear, “I love you, father.’

Date a girl who writes.

Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve. 

Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.

Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.

She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.

Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.

If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.

It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.

She’ll give you a chance.

Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.

A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.

Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.

If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.

She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.

She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright. 

You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.

You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.

Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.

Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.

Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.

A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality. 

Date a girl who writes. 

Because there is nothing better then a girl who writes.

(Source: natalyaromanoff)

Moonlight Hour

As Vincent Crow laid in wait underneath the ton of dirty laundry, he sensed his predator looming ever so near him. ‘I’m going to die… smelling like urine,’ he thought alarmingly.

*Bang* Something cluttered down the hallway. 

With no way to be sure, Crow gently slid his head out to take notice of his surroundings after a few minutes. Noticing his death-reaper disappearing around the bend, relaxed his head and breathed a sigh of relief, just a little too loud.

He snapped back his head and barely stifled a scream. Those yellowy greenish eyes that seemed like they could stare right through to his soul. Crow just sat there helplessly, as his pursuer casually walked to greet him - grinning viciously.


Anonymous asked:

what are your favourite books? Or at least the one's you would recommend?

Tales of the Otori by Lian Hearn: is a fic story based on Feudal Japan - crossed between deceit, forbidden love and a plot that will make you squeal with pleasure.

The Wereling by Stephen Cole: a piece revolving around newly-turned werewolves and their community. This will probably send chills down your spine, but everyone’s different.

The Saga of Darren Shan by Darren Shan: this is one of my favourite series. Would you give your own life away to save your bestie’s? Also check our D.S’s Lord Loss, an entirely different series.

Skulduggery Pleasant by Derek Landy: A story weaved from the very bones of magic <— a inside joke. Read it to find out!

Happy readings, my fellow Bookworm.


Walking past her every Friday to see her waiting for you, face gloomy. You get there half an hour late as usual, yet her ears always seem to perk up at the sound of your engine roaring around from the corner: I see this and my heart breaks. You don’t open the door for her, nor help her with her bag but only flick your hand effortlessly like you’re telling her to hurry up… Whilst, staring blankly ahead although she leans in for a kiss - you just motion for the door to get closed.

I spot her on the train, but she never sees my existence. All her concentration is probably on how many minutes, hours, maybe even days when she can see your smug-face again. And it breaks my heart. 

I, seriously don’t know if I should intervene. Is it a bad thing to get cut that you kissed her? Should I be enraged to the point of confronting her?

I mean, after all - you kissed another girl…



It’s actually funny that this person is telling me to learn more about something before trying to educate others when she/he doesn’t know anything about me.

It’s pretty clear that I spent 2 weeks in China? Um, I was born and raised there for 9 years. I return to visit my relatives in the summer, and I always travel alone, not with my parents (but I do visit my dad) because the family issue presented in Knite isn’t just shit I made up, it’s shit I had to deal with (murderous psycho stepmom? Check).

Japanese school uniform? China is HUGE, I highly doubt there’s no school, especially a high end school like the ones Sen and Kai goes to, has those green track suites as uniform. How do I know? I wore that kind of uniform for 2 years while growing up in Chengdu.

I never said the kite designs were traditional so I don’t know where you got that from. This is a modern day story, Sen makes his own kites (as seen in Ch3). It’s his simplified design, not a traditional one. I thought it was extremely obvious that the designs are a mix of the old an new (I mean, even the picture you wrote this rant on is specifically about the divide between globalization and tradition). If I were doing a historical story, then you can bitch about the designs.

I lack understanding in the educational system? Please tell me about how the school you went to is representative of every school in China. If you know anything about China, you’ll know that corruption is worse in some areas than others, and the “free” education in some areas are seen as for those with no future.

As for the nursery rhymes, please elaborate on how they are wrong because if a few words aren’t translated to your exact liking, that’s just you being anal. 

And since we’re on the topic, let me tell you a bit more about my inspiration for Knite. Sheltered girl in America? My parents grew up with nothing. My mom got to eat an egg once a year on her birthday. My dad had to eat rats caught by his dog, but the communist government see dogs as luxury items so it was banned to have dogs. His family had to kill his dog and eat it to avoid prosecution. 

Because my father grew up with so little, money meant survival and everything to him. He and his older siblings got into the pesticide industry and became rich due to the corruption and bribery shown in Knite. He told me how you can just take a politician out for dinner and slip a red pocket of money under the table and they’ll forget all about the inspection. He has left that industry for many years now and is into stocks instead. He regrets the things his family company has done, and I, like Kai, inevitably benefited from the money they made at the cost of the environment’s expense.

That’s where I got the money to move to America at the age of 9. Like Sen, my mom left China when I was 5 because she was fed up with China. Unlike Sen’s mom, she didn’t abandon me, and I was able to join her later on but my father stayed behind. I won’t get into the rest of my family drama but know that the life I’ve lived is far from being sheltered. Even the money my father made from the pesticide company barely afforded a lower class life style in America back in the days (8 RMB was 1 USD), but it was enough.

I was able to live a balanced life, between China and America, poverty and wealth. Everything in Knite has been inspired by things I’ve witness myself, not through news clips. I’ve been advocating environmentalism for almost 8 years but I wasn’t born the with knowledge, it was a slow path of discovery. That’s what I want to show in Knite. Sen starts out as a dreamer with a grand goal, but as he matures, he will slowly learn about all the complexities of the world, and the path to his dreams is not as simple as attaching lights to kites.

Knite is inspired by my life experiences, and I’ll be damned if you expect me have lived the exact same life as you. You’ve seen parts of China that I haven’t, but I have seen parts that you haven’t. Don’t compare the Bible Belt to San Francisco, and don’t compare my life to yours.

And just to insult you some more, I will repeat:

I, Wenqing Yan (情), dedicate Knite to the land of my birth, where many happy and sad memories were had, for all the laughs, all the tears, everything: China.


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