Traces of Me

Like the spirit of my home, my writings are a kind of whisper from the person I once was.

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  • The Sea Slime
    The woman said, ' I am a sinking sea slime; slimy, cold, leathery, shapeless. I live in the mud at the bottom of the sea, listening to i...
  • A Friend of November?
    I’ve never been a friend of November, but lately I’ve been trying to learn to appreciate it more. So I wrote two sentences in my black-paged...
  • The Cat in the Hostel
    I was sitting on the train, on my way home from work, when a spectacled woman suddenly asked me, ‘Do you remember the cat in the hostel? I t...