ISSUE ZERO:
ALAMAK!
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Editor-In-Chief Tah Ai Jia Graphic Designer Tanya Tan Layout Artist & Designer Ashryne
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contents editors note meet the team! thank you. playlist works > hall of fame*
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POETRY + Sunflowers + Things Unsaid + Homeless + Muar, 1941 + The Weather and Us + Dreaming different dreams in the same bed
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CREATIVE NON-FICTION + i’m somewhat convinced that I was 24 possessed in the summer of 2018 + our rambutan tree 32
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PROSE + I don’t remember the beaming fog I saw in that one museum I don’t visit anymore, but I remember the way I felt about you. + Microcosm: The pleasure of the Universe
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VISUAL ART + Spilt Milk + A play on Words + Paw Prints + Buns + Interception VISUAL ART + Eyelinor + Split Milk
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+ A play on Words SHORT FICTION + Hamtan + Crossed lines?!??!?! Hamka can + if+only 62 5
EDITOR’S NOTE [1]
THIS WILL BE A mistake
Dear reader, Making mistakes and regretting them soon after is something that rarely ever evades us.
Whether it be the nights spent mulling over the few careless mistakes that cost you your A* in your exam or the time you wished you had spent with a loved one or friend before you couldn’t—these are the moments that stick with us, whether we like it or not. In our lifetime, we make so many mistakes we probably don’t even have the time to regret them all. Even now, you could still be making a mistake by reading this issue in the first place! Who knows? Maybe you stumbled on this magazine by accident, maybe you didn’t. Will you regret having spent time even reading this issue? I hope not! But, I digress. Making mistakes and regretting them is easy enough but celebrating them can be difficult. Being able to acknowledge the flaws we have and the thoughtless actions we made that cost us more than we could’ve afforded isn’t something most of us want to do, even if we could. And of course, I’m no exception to this rule either. There were many moments while editing this issue and growing ALAMAK! Mag where I stopped and asked myself if maybe starting this journey had been a mistake in its own right; that maybe ten years down the line, I might wake up and regret having pulled the trigger too early for a project that just wasn’t meant to be.
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EDITOR’S NOTE [2]
(i hope)
I WILL NEVER REGRET
MAKING, IM SURE OF IT. Even now, I’m crying as I write this note to you because I don’t think I will ever know for sure if ALAMAK! Mag is the mistake I wanted to make in my lifetime. But all I know for certain is that even if this is a mistake, that even if I do regret this journey in the future, that this will be a mistake I will never forget. And that, above all else, I will regret never having ventured on this journey alongside my friends in the first place. There’s a saying in Chinese, where it goes: “从那里跌到就从那里站起” (Cóng nǎ lǐ dié dǎo jiù cóng nǎ lǐ zhàn qǐ). It means to stand up where you’ve fallen and to continue on your journey. While reading this issue, you might find mistakes and regrets scattered all along the pages left by our wonderful contributors (and, who knows, maybe even yourself). But when you find these bumps, even if you fall, just know that you’re welcome to come back, get back up and continue on your journey whenever you please. So, there you have it—ISSUE ZERO: ALAMAK!—the mistake I know I will never regret making and (I hope) you won’t regret picking up either. Here’s to celebrating mistakes, letting go of regrets, and art. Much love,
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A BIG THANK YOU TO THE FOLLOWING CLUBS AND SOCIETIES FOR THEIR LOVE AND SUPPORT!
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#QOTD ALAMAKMAG 01:20
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07:31
PLAYLIST
ALAMAK! come and wallow in your regrets :) CREATED BY ALAMAKMAG
PLAY ARTIST
ALBUM
sunflower
LXCID
SUNFLOWER
5:22
what if
ZEAUK, THE LEGACY
WHAT IF
2:56
最笨的人是我
ABIN FANG
我不是神
5:24
crazy dizzy
LUNADIRA
CRAZY DIZZY
3:07
torchlight
ALIEN LIPSTICK FIRE
complicated love
LXCID
COMPLICATED LO... 4:54
phaedo
GOLDEN MAMMOTH
SKYCRAPER TOW...
TITLE
ABIN FANG DAYS DIFFERENT
3:27
7:29
find us on spotify.
ALAMAK!Mag 13
VISUAL ART pg 14, 24, 30, 38, 46, 60
POETRY pg 22, 28, 36, 44, 50, 56
CREATIVE NONFICTION pg 22, 32
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PROSE pg 40, 52
SHORT FICTION pg 62
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HOW, WHY, WHAT? A play on the well known phrase, “no use crying over spilt milk”. Although crying may not fix the problem, just like a 1+1 package, sometimes we can’t help it – and that’s totally okay! Yasmin Nadhirah
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spilt
milk 17
spilt
milk 18
WHO. Yasmin Nadhirah (aka Nadhiarts, she/her) is an aspiring artist based in Malaysia. Having been a third-culture-kid, Yasmin has always struggled to identify herself with her home-country. Her recent experience in being a creator amongst other local artists in Malaysia has allowed her to learn more about her origins in a comfortable and familiar manner.
ARTIST RATIONALE
find her on instagram.
@nadhiarts
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SUNFLOWERS Faris Ruzain
How foolish was I to have dyed my bathroom tiles the colour of sunflowers my sun behind permanently stagnant clouds. I thirsted for your golden rays like a stalk in this sea of other similarly wilting flowers.
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WHO. Faris Ruzain (he/him) grew up in a humble town in Malaysia where the roads and the houses don’t seem to change. What did change was his perspective on life when he met the people who became the muses in his works. Malaysia, the home of his muses.
find him on instagram.
@ fris_21
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It’s the start of February, and I wake up and slip on a bright orange bralette I bought the moment I got off the plane almost exactly one month ago. Looking at my reflection in my bathroom mirror is like watching a white canvas paint itself right in front of me. The colour in my cheeks are rosy from the scalding heat; the spark in my eyes glistening against teary-eyed rebellion. I stand on top of my toilet seat to get a better look at my outfit and twist a little just for show. I run my hand through my hair like I’m posing for a magazine cover my family won’t buy, and smile. This is the year of self-reinvention. At school, I chase around my friends on the bullpen of my college campus while people line up to do some orientation bullshit. The air caresses my cheeks and paints me in something other than air-conditioned malls or childhood bedrooms I never seem to leave. The people staring only make my feet float a little more and my smile a little sweeter while I trip and fall on grass, laughing the very same laugh my mom disapproves of and calls ‘too loud’, before rolling over, tits first and eyes squinted shut from laughing too hard, in retaliation. Even the grass on my tongue is tangy in taste. I get up, turn to everyone around me and tell them I want to show them a ‘magic’ trick I learned how to do but only because my sisters said I had to. I cover my nose and slip my septum piercing into my nostrils and turn around and go: voila! Now my piercing is gone. Everybody freaks the fuck out because we’re all young and from Asia so it’s not like this is normal. It doesn’t matter that my nose stings from the friction. It only matters that they’re laughing and looking at me like I’m somewhat insane. Because now I’m not in Asia. I’m in Melbourne, and it doesn’t matter how insane I finally get. Because for a moment, I forget what it’s like to be back home. Everything just fell into place. But all it takes is one Chinese New Year’s dinner. It’s 10 pm and I’m sat awkwardly in my seat as two of my older sisters scream it out at each other like their lives depend on it. I grew up with four of these monsters, and even then, this is the first time I’ve witness screaming so obscene. What started as a wholesome family dinner at my second sister’s place soon turned into something straight out of a horror film. Something about humiliating my fourth sister in front of her housemate. Something about disrespecting your elders in their very own homes. In the blur of the moment, I forget how this started and why it’s even relevant to Chinese New Year anyways. My nose slightly stings, but I stop myself from touching it. It’s not until my fourth sister locks herself in the toilet to cry that my second sister is forced to shift her attention onto me. She side-eyes me and walks to her room, calling me to follow her only once she’s halfway up the steps. I follow her, but only because I have to. I sit down with the tips of my feet on the edge of her bed, and my shoulders filled with forced nonchalance. The mattress is too soft for my liking, and the room’s too brightly lit. The circumstances are betraying me, I can’t look her in the eyes. 22
She stares me down, eyes closed, and barks: take it out. I want to see it. My fingers shake as I inch towards my nose and pull out the metallic beast she’s been waiting to chastise me for. The cold touch of metal on my upper lip is liberating, but short-lived. My septum piercing is in full view. I already knew what was coming: flashes of my forth sister coming home and laughing a little when she jokes that 你sendiri活该 (lit. you deserved this) and that if she asks, I had nothing to do with this run through my mind. I had already practiced in my head the silence I was going to say to her, and the solemn nodding I was going to do to show my remorse the moment she starts screaming at me. I was ready for the backlash, and all the nodding and silent sorry’s I was going to say when the time came. I wince a little when she finally opens her mouth to speak. Fuck, I know I should’ve just blocked all my sisters on instagram. But then, I only hear silence. I look up, and I see a broken husk of an older sister. And in the summer of 2018, I saw my sister cry for the very first time. Of course, in the end, I never took out the septum piercing. But looking back at this version of me is like watching a soap opera transpire in front of my eyes. In the span of just two months, I somehow managed to make my parents regret every choice they made while raising me. I would head out the door with nothing but a flimsy piece of orange cloth covering my nipples with nothing but my laughter to match. It’ll be 40 degrees out, and the only thing on my mind is what I should wear and how I should wear it. My closet is full of clothes my mother doesn’t know I own, and probably never will. Urgent phone calls and worried texts from my family about what I’m wearing, what I’m doing and who I’ve become would filter past me like I don’t give a shit. Because I didn’t give a shit. Why would I? At one point in my life, I think I had achieved happiness— the kind of raw happiness that you only really see in movies; at one point, I was me.
I’m somewhat convinced that I was possessed during the summer of 2018. find her on instagram.
@a.jiapoetry
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WHO.
Lee Ming Hui (she/her) is a 19-year-old graphic design student from Malaysia and one of her biggest passions besides design is makeup. She has lived in Malaysia all her life and although it’s not perfect - considering the conservative culture and racial tension, she can’t imagine living anywhere else. Just like every other Malaysian, I’m glad to be able to taste foods and dishes from different cultures and learn about art from different cultures.
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find her on instagram.
@minghui.psd
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drawing on my eyebrows
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... eye-liner
erase
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Lee Ming Hui
HOW, WHY, WHAT? For the inspiration for this series, I decided to use a play on words and create a literal take on common makeup techniques: removing your makeup, putting on eyeliner, and drawing on your eyebrows. This series is basically about taking things literally and having fun with words.
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THINGS THINGS
UNSAID UNSAID
UNSAID THINGS 28
If you press palms against thickening silence with eager ear beside, you will hear the pulse of the Timeless and Adverse. You will hear his short, stiff breaths that reek of blue and purple hyacinths, and you will drown in muffled Prayers of Regret. You will consume strings of warped truths, pungent lies, and putrid words that shadow the crippled creature – Better Left Unsaid. And you will whimper and writhe when hands curl around neck, claw at heart, and then you will surrender to all Things Unsaid.
HOW, WHY, WHAT? In this poem, I depict ‘the unsaid’ as a metaphorical monster that silently consumes the mind and heart. He is a living and breathing monster with a “pulse” and “breath that [reeks] of blue and purple hyacinths*”. He is alive and lives between the crevices of “thickening silence”. He is his own entity. The capitalisation of certain words in the poem intentionally brings emphasis to the multifaceted nature of this monster while simultaneously suggests that he possesses many names. In other words, different people know him as different forms/names (prayers of regrets, better left unsaid, etc.). Things Unsaid” can be interpreted as his generic name (i.e. umbrella term) for all. As for structure, the poem consists of 3 full quintets, with the fourth being intentionally divided into one tercet and couplet. This division emphasises the harmful effects of the monster. It is a reflection of the lines themselves; as the monster is physically tearing the reader apart, the original quintet stanza is also left broken. By doing so, I am also able to emphasise the last two lines to create a more jarring impact on the reader. Hence, from a writer’s perspective, there is no omission of the capitalisation in the fourth stanza (since if you put the last two stanzas together it would complete four full quintets with the final line having the capitalisation), but rather I wanted to probe a shift in perspective from the readers for them to understand the true depth of the meaning of “things unsaid”.
find her on instagram.
@nadhiarts
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find her on instagram.
@telur.aku
HOW, WHY, WHAT? this was inspired by a post I saw on twitter! The photo was of someone trying to bake some duck buns, but it ended up looking all wonky. I thought it was really funny and that it really encompassed the chaotic energy that comes with “ALAMAK!� and making mistakes hehe
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buns
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our rambutan tree. Do you see the rambutan tree? It was there. Surrounded by the potted plants, its roots breaking through the bricks covered in moss. It was tall and proud. The one thing that stood out about my grandparent’s house; the first thing I saw when my dad drove into the neighbourhood every Friday for dinner. There was a wooden swing handmade by my grandfather. Thick, rough ropes holding onto a wooden plank for us kids to play on. I spent a lot of my childhood outside, since it was either watching Mr Bean for the hundredth time or pretending to be a chef with plastic fruits held by velcro tape over and over again. I would dig up the moss between the bricks and roll them up. I picked up sticks that had fallen from the tree and sneakily took the small white stones my grandmother used to decorate her pots. Then, I would call my cousins and sister to help me build my fairy village. I had little fairy houses and campsites set up around the garden and at the base of the rambutan tree. When it bore its red and hairy fruit, my grandfather would climb the branches and pluck them as soon as possible because of the monkeys. They would steal them if we were not fast enough. I watched him climb up, up, up. His eyes sharp on the red amongst the green. His hands strong, his feet steady. I watched him from below, waiting to grab his harvest. I was never afraid that he would fall. Never. We sat together on a wooden bench with the fruit next to him and an old newspaper spread on the table. He taught me how to break rambutans open with my thumb and pointer finger ‘Just squeeze it and the skin will come off in the middle.’ He would ask me to be careful when I put the whole thing in my mouth just in case I choked. But I loved chewing on the whole thing and then spitting out the seed on the newspaper the same way he does. My grandmother told me that it wasn’t proper for a girl to spit, but he waved his hand dismissively and told her off. As a kid, it felt as if I was a grown-up just like him. It was me, him, and the newspaper full of seeds against the world.
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Since young, my grandfather had taken care of the rambutan tree. He was the one who climbed up to pluck the fruits, he was the one who cleared the roof of the leaves and twigs. He chased away monkeys that would try to pick the fruits. He knew every curve of its branches, every trail the ants travelled on. To me, my grandfather and the rambutan tree were a pair. Like my grandfather, it was old. It felt older than him, older than the house itself like an ancient God towering over my grandparent’s small house. It had been there for as long as I can remember, and I thought it would be there for as long as I lived. A week or so after my grandfather’s death, we drove to my grandparent’s house. It felt like the air from his funeral clung onto me, heavy and full of a sorrow that I could not explain. We turned the corner and immediately, I knew something was missing. The rambutan tree was gone. I don’t know if anyone felt the same way I did when it was cut down. The waves of pain and grief that were calming down had raged inside me again. They cut it down because nobody could maintain it. I argued with my parents that we could have done it. Why did they not ask me before doing it? Now, the only thing that was left was the stump. Its roots had dug too deep for them to remove them. I don’t know if the stump was making things worse or better. Sometimes, I saw it and I thought of all that had left. Other times, I looked at it and remembered that my grandfather was still with me even if it was just a fraction. I wish I had been brave enough to learn how to climb the tree. I wished I was strong enough to clear the roof of its branches. I wish I knew how to pick the rambutans. Maybe then, they would’ve kept it if I could have taken care of it. Maybe then, they wouldn’t have chopped it off without asking me. I could have helped. If I learned from him, perhaps the tree that held the fondest memories of him would still be right there.
In the middle of the potted plants and bricks covered in moss. 33
WHO. Carynn Lai (she/her) was born in Petaling Jaya, Malaysia where her love for storytelling started to sprout. She pursued a Creative Writing degree in Melbourne and started to write about home when she was homesick. Most of her works involve food, family, and more food (it’s a streak that she has no intention of breaking).
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find her on instagram.
@Carynn.l
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find her on instagram.
@joieyin
As I take small steps Walking along the road Cold and blurry night A boy came to me He asked for my name I couldn’t remember I walk away from him I look at my dirty clothes My blistered feet Stomach grumbling I continue walking As I take small steps.
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HOME
WHO. Joie Yin (Yinn) (she/her) is a Poet, Volunteer and Nurse. She was born in Kelantan but moved to several states while growing up. She fell in love with Poetry while reading out an excerpt in a literature class and hopes to spread love and kindness through her writings.
LESS
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WHO. Tanya Tan (she/her) is a 19 year old graphic designer/illustrator based in msia and she’s currently pursuing her studies in RMIT. Outside of work you can catch her chilling with her six cats.
HOW, WHY, WHAT? this piece was inspired by my cats and how they unintentionally mess up some of my work but I still love them cause they’re my babies
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paw prints
find her on instagram.
@telur.aku
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I don’t remember the name of the beaming beaming fog fog I saw in that one museum I never visit anymore, how I felt about y You were a (…)—secluded in a museum, hidden in a darkened room away from reach. I would have missed you if I hadn’t stumbled in dazed and confused at what exactly the attraction was supposed to be. I was taken aback, as it was my first time seeing such beauty— how your fog-like beam laid above my smaller frame, only a fingertip away from my reach. It felt as if time itself had ceased to exist; as if I had been in your light’s presence since the dawn of time. I couldn't help but imagine reaching up and grasping it in my fists, holding on tight as I stared bewildered by its blur of beauty unravelling from my fingertips. And yet, I didn't– couldn't. For even its more common counterpart, misty fogs that loom above abandoned highways and lonely skies, were not crafted to be held and cradled, but to blind and chill. So why bother to reach for a replica, a mere illusion of some sort? To fantasise the rush of euphoria that would prickle against my skin, to visualise how time stopped as I claimed its beauty to be of my owning? Admittedly, my glances of feigned coincidences had not always lingered on you. There was always another that came before, and it was obvious that you knew through the laughs and giggles that slipped your tongue of gold, or how you paced a half step quicker, earbuds in place, smiling at our innocent squabbles and talks.
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you.
but I still but Iremember still remember how I felt about you. But it was not as if I hadn’t noticed your indisputable charms—like how you made me laugh so effortlessly or how your smile shone even in the shadows—nor was it as if I hadn’t glanced at you quietly, even if it was cut one second short before I turned to stare longingly at him. No, I had known better than to pin after what was not mine (or, if I let myself be honest for once, what I had sworn to never touch again). But you were different—too different; Your chestnut glow making my soft, yellow hue pale in comparison. To think that your sly remarks and innuendos had once bounced off me and made me laugh an innocent tune as they had always intended to do; To think that your smile had once shone softly, rather than the blinding allure that dazes me to no end. And to think that now, I am staring down a beam of fog thinking of you. It was unrealistic, unfathomable, unobtainable—something I shouldn't even have hoped for to start. Clearly, its beauty was not carved for the grooves of my arms, nor was it meant for the warmth of my embrace. And yet, its beauty still clouded the inner corners of my mind; its gentle caress suffocating me ever so subtly. It was not until an employee came in reminding me that the museum was to close soon, that my thoughts had been cut short. The abrupt reminder that not even this feeling of maybe‘s and what if‘s could last as long as I had hoped… And as the door opened, the light glaring into the abyss of the room, overshadowing the misty glow of the (…) , I couldn't help but be reminded of what was real and what was not. Oh, how I wish I had never been told to leave. At least then, as I cradled myself against the chill of the darkened room, my dreams had run wild and free.
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WHO. Tah Ai Jia (she/her) is a poet, writer and aspiring storyteller whose works tend to err on the sad side. As someone once said in her creative writing club in uni: “Sometimes, I think I’m always so happy that I write things that make me sad.” (paraphrasing, of course)
find her on instagram.
@a.jiapoetry
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MUAR, 1941 for both my grandmothers. * first published in The Mays Anthology Vol. 27 (2019)
We live in a house on stilts above the water, and at dawn we shake off starlight, diving into the murky depths of a mining lake. Like silver fishes, we play in water that tastes of rust, marvelling at the way our skin glitters in the sun. When tired, we lie on the dirt inert, limbs a tangle of drowsiness. In this golden light our eyes are as cloudy as the sickle-slit sap from a rubber tree, the days passing like soap bubbles popping in the heat. When the monsoon sweeps down from the mountains, the lake overflows—lost treasures discovered, forgotten toys. Empty shells, a spinning top, the final pieces of a Chinese chess set, board splintered into fragments. Carelessly skipping stones amidst the aftermath, displacement haunted by sinking ships to the peninsula. Innocence at this age is an opaque plume of smoke, difficult to walk through, but dissipating in a blink.
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And like lightning strike, the war: we follow the storm back into hiding. My father wakes me in the dead of night, the only witness to the funeral of a casket filled with gold. In the day, my sister shears her hair short, dresses in our older brother’s castoffs. Our youngest sibling kept quiet with a rag dipped in milk. Moving silently through the sugar plantations, insects rising in a swarm at our approach, the haze of sugar-cane holding us captive. We blend into the forest, become the background to a struggle we have no part in, the voiceless in any great adventure. The sound of gunfire synonymous with a rolling tropical tempest, stream running red with blood no one can trace. Undaunted, we live between the leaves, play the same games with a new companion, who does not speak or sing. The tropical climate first rots his flesh before his clothes, face peeled raw.
find her on twitter.
@KwanAnnTan 45
WHO.
Ashe (she/her) is a design student currently pursuing her degree in RMIT. Her style may vary from minimalism to any kind of abstract art- it tends to depend on her mood. For example, what you see here might be completely different from what she’ll do next.
find her on instagram.
@ashrynex
HOW, WHY, WHAT? I just went with it.
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E
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PLAYER 6 PLAYER 5
PLAYER 7
ERROR 404. you do not exist.
PLAYER 2
PLAYER 4
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find her on instagram.
@ashrynex 48
PLAYER 9 PLAYER 3 PLAYER 10
PLAYER 1
PLAYER 8
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find her on instagram.
@joieyin
The Weather And Us
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Today I drove by the highway the floating clouds White and smooth as cotton The sky not so blue The sun not too bright You liked it, I remembered If only you were next to me You would describe them all As if they were characters Conversing with each other I would have laughed along I smiled knowing up there You’re watching over me kindly Today I drove by the highway.
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Regret leaves a scent with time. The festering of this supernova is a simultaneous sequence, operating on multiple axes. Rotating at light-speed. Unnoticeable. Over moments unaccounted for brews a seed no bigger than the pad of my thumb. The shell is full of constellations too expansive to count, and when one tries to, they lose themselves to the crux of infinity. I explore the exoskeleton of space and cannot find my way home. ‌ A seedling emerges. Then, shoots, roots, stems, branches. I feel them all clinging onto me. Their scent, in the dusty air, lingers on the crushed leaves beneath my bare feet. I feel them all exhausting me. ‌
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The seedling, it turns into a network of veins—full of life. Inside, hollowed paths in which galaxies after galaxies after galaxies reside. And in these galaxies, the infection that terrorises and deteriorates and consumes such life. It brings us to the brink of no salvation. That feeling without having drunk water for days, without eating for weeks, without breathing. I cannot make what is lost found, and I cannot forge time into steel and melt and build it up to the architecture of my mind. … Regret—at first a small, insignificant seed. Hardly anyone ever notices the cluster of galaxies etched into, under, inside, all over its surface until it is too late. But I did. And I don’t know if that was the problem. That I saw the whole universe and it caused me my salvation.| 53
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WHO. find her on instagram.
@mishazahraa
Growing up in Malaysia, Misha Zahraa (currently a 20-year-old student, she/her) felt that she both belonged and didn’t—not because of her lack of Malaysian-ness, but rather she hadn’t found an outlet to express herself. And that’s where writing comes in. She hopes to, one day, be a published writer conveying stories of self-discovery and all things Malaysian.
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on the days I am fox-woman I want to do nothing but sleep, curled up in the centre of the sheets like a pebble in palm. from the corner of my left eye, the ivy weaves in & out of sight, a film of green over my cracked vision. I slink through the dark corners of the earth even when it is light. the sun does not agree with me. it thinks I spend too much time alone. it does not care. at night I look for fireflies. I lay traps of love at her feet that she avoids— or cannot understand.
dreaming different dreams 同床异梦
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sometimes I leap, lily-pad light, across the river. I drink of the moonlight, as silvery as my soft underbelly. I listen to the birds singing love songs as they build their nests. I face her head-on, although she does not see me in the same way. no matter, no matter. even when we lose the light, lightning strikes: the fractured splinters of her face. in sleep, my nightmares turn to steel, to red. in the worst ones, I look at myself, and I am no longer fox-woman, but a dream made real. & yet, is this not love? is this not love? the fox-fur pelt around my neck so warm I think there must be life in it yet.
in the same bed
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WHO. Kwan-Ann Tan (she/her) is a writer from Malaysia, and a third-year student at the University of Oxford. Her work has appeared in The Mays Anthology, Sine Theta Magazine, and Crab Fat Magazine, amongst others.
find her on twitter.
@KwanAnnTan. find her online.
kwananntan.carrd.co 58
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eyelinor
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HOW, WHY, WHAT? this is based on a very tragic real story that I constantly experience on a daily basis. find her on instagram.
@telur.aku
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The crowd was everything I had wanted it to be. Everybody
rubbed shoulders against everyone and their mothers, and people were stumbling over each other to get in line. Breathing was hard but worth it. My eyesight was blurry from the pushing and shoving, and my feet hurt from the constant being step on, and the occasional stepping of others (if I was lucky). The pain was overwhelmingly beautiful, everything I had needed to get my mind off this day of the month.
IF ON
The movie playing was a supernatural love story, something about bats and wolves that turn into people? Something about a girl, I think. It goes without saying that the hype for the release was surreal. Young girls screaming over pictures of the main actors on the side of shops, to the point where cafes would put up exclusive posters just to rake in the customers. Countless signs that read “buy a drink or you can’t take pictures” plastered over cafe windows and restaurant doors. I bought a drink once, took a few pictures and tried screaming over the posters once or twice. Even made the poster my phone wallpaper so I could scream at it outside in my own time, despite the awkward glances I got at church. Usually I just tell them the phone was my daughter’s, and that I had confiscated it because I am Good Parent™. Even if it isn’t true, no matter how many times I say it. They don’t need to know all the details. Sometimes if I’m unlucky, I meet someone who questions this “daughter” I apparently have and why I seem to scream at her phone out of nowhere. I always try my best to keep my composure when they do that, but sometimes I can’t help but scream at them and cry a little when they accuse me of not being a mother. But most of the time, they just nod sombrely and walk away, never to talk to me again. Never truly got into the whole hype thing, to be honest. All it did was make my throat itch more than it already did. It only took a few searches online before I figured out the date for the movie premier. The perfect date, at that. 12th October, the one day I refuse to stay home and sulk because I never have anything better to do. And with everyone crowding around the theatre hours before the movie was set to start, it wasn’t that hard to actually find the place either. The air was a tangy orange when I managed to squeeze into the crowd, like a cocktail I would have never ordered if not for my young, and overly eccentric co-workers ordering me the drink. Everyone was stretching to look over somebody’s shoulder, as if there was some big secret waiting to reveal itself that I didn’t know about. Somehow, the sky seemed bluer than I remembered it to be.
The clouds calm, and sparse. Not angry, never angry. Oh, how I loved it, every moment of every second that passed . 62
Everything just felt so real. From the screaming to the pushing and the parents on the side lines questioning me screaming along with all these kids. The touch of skin against my empty palm, even if it still didn’t feel right, even if it still felt empty. Something about sweaty armpits and prepubescent screams that really made me feel both alive and claustrophobic all at once. The pain in my aching shoulders as kids fell back and onto hard concrete as I scratched my way up to the very front. Like I was finally part of something for the first time in a long while, even if it was involuntary; like I was finally able to breathe again, despite all the overwhelming chaos. I stood there in the sea of people for around 3 hours before the doors opened and everyone rushed in to see the movie, while I quietly turned away and walked in the opposite direction. I think one lady looked over, and then another. Both their eyes questioning my (now very quickly) disappearing silhouette, probably thinking I had left my imaginary daughter for dead in the war of vampires and werewolves in a dark movie theatre. Or that I was some weirdo who spent the last 3 hours screaming over men too young for me only to slip away right at the last second. It’s anybody’s guess, at this point. But honestly, I couldn’t really care for their opinions on me. They’re the kind of parents who’d rather stand aside as their kids fought amongst themselves. If my daughter was here, I would’ve fought alongside her. Probably would’ve even forced her into the gym and trained her for months just for this very day, too. But I don’t have a daughter, and she isn’t here. So, what do I know of anything, right?
NLY
It didn’t take long for the tangy orange taste in my mouth to disappear (four steps away from the crowd, to be exact). Unfortunately, these moments don’t tend to last long, especially on a day like this. They like to take you by the collar and wring you dry of your emotions, before dropping you in the same puddle they squeezed right out of you two seconds ago. Just last week, I camped in line to buy tickets for the upcoming Justin Bieber concert for a whole night, only for my aching back to become an afterthought the moment I stopped screaming and pretending like I cared. One time I even bought the thing I was in line for, but all that came out of it was my bank account suffering the same fate I did— the kind of empty feeling you get after getting full off of water. Some might even say it isn’t really worth the trouble of researching and leaving the house just for one sweet moment of bliss, but what can you do when it’s the only thing that works. Down the street from the cinema, were some cafes and stores up and running just as usual, the mingling pedestrians coming in and out like they would on any other Saturday evening. Children were throwing tantrums at their parents for toys of all kinds, and kids were giggling over their classmates in the Starbucks across the street. I tried to let the sound of their voices drown me of my surroundings as I walked. But I’ve gotten so used to doing that, that it’s never really worked since. Just muffled conversations at the back of my mind, never the screaming and shouting I look forward to anymore. Now all I can do is just distract myself with whatever’s in front of me, like the shops and people I couldn’t care less about. The bookstore was no different, although I did stop by to look at the rows of books I might one day line up for but never buy. From middle grade fantasy stories, to middle-age self-help books, the store had anything and everything anyone could’ve asked for. The place was quaint, and the customers few. Like a small little heaven for just the average bookworm. 63
If only I was the average bookworm.
Just standing in the overly spacious store made me want to gag. Actually holding the books in my hand while browsing through was no better. The place screamed of miscellaneous details on nights you see on Pinterest boards but never really experience, the kind of sweetness you get from your coffee right before the bitter aftertaste overwhelms your throat. Everything inside was just so neatly placed on the bookshelves, as if everything was just where they were supposed to be. As if nothing was out of place. And I hated it, the way everything looked so perfect when today has been anything but. Imagine what it would be like if I just ran by arm through all the bookshelves. Just throw everything on the ground and run. Maybe even ask the only worker in the shop ridiculous questions, searching for a book that doesn’t exist right before I do it, too. Just to see their face go from genuine help, to annoyance before it fell and became either rage or panicked fear. Imagine all the looks of disgust and shock that would be on everyone’s faces, as they watch a deranged old witch shake up an innocent bookstore. Not that I’m old, or a witch for that matter, by the way. But we all know what they call people who do these sorts of things.
IF O
A soft tap on my shoulder took me out of my day dream. The worker forced a smile on their lips and informed me that the shop was set to close in the next five minutes, and that if I wanted to get the stay-at-home-mom cookbook I was holding that I should either get it now or leave. I shrugged, placed the book on the fantasy bookshelf and left the door wide open as I walked onto the street. Quite frankly to annoy the already irked worker for just being there. Guess I’ll just wreak havoc on this store some other day instead.
Outside, the sun had set. Or was about to set, what’s the difference. The sky had turned dirt orange (not tangy, though, unfortunately), and the clouds were beginning their nightly rampage across the skies. Almost immediately, my urge for spiteful rebellion left me. As if my soul had been ripped from my skin, only to be run over by a bus too big to see it crawling against the pavement shortly after. Unsurprisingly, not even the thought of untamed freedom could fill me up with anything of substance. My hands were still empty from yet another almost-purchase, with my body barely hurting even after the constant pushing and shoving I had to endure all day. And while most days I can cope with the pain, today was different. Today will always be different. It took a moment of sulking by the pavement before it finally hit me how long I’ve been out, and how much time I’ve spent running around doing nothing just to avoid the only thing I was meant to do. I looked up; eyes blurry. Nothing but clouds, always clouds. Swirling, twisting. Fighting for their very own dominance against the small traces of birds and fleeting sunlight left in the sky. Angry, always angry. If only I was angry. 64
If only I could rampage across my very own sky. Subconsciously, my feet started shuffling forward. Like a broken record player, replaying the only song it knows how to play. Or the only song it really cares to. Walk down 150 metres from the bookstore, and then turn left. Trace your fingers across whatever wall you come across, just so you don’t turn right and run back home. Turn away when you walk past the high school you never get to visit anymore, because why would you want to. Buy a bouquet of white lilies from the nearby florists right before you reach your destination, because it’s always been your favourite. Always remember to offer the guy working there a small smile when he looks at you knowingly, and tries to ask you about your day. But most importantly, bite your lip so hard that when you finally break apart when walking out the door, you feel like it’s because you wanted to, and not because it hurts.
ONLY ONLY It’s always the walk here at the end of the day that makes breathing hard, and reaching the cemetery that makes it even harder. Not really worth anything, but not really worthless either. Just… hard. Everything goes blurry, and all you see is grey. Slabs of concrete placed on what could’ve been a beautiful backyard. Flowers plucked and placed delicately in front of loved ones, only to wilt from constant negligence. People surrounding you, but never talking. When not even the itch behind your throat coming back to haunt you fazes you anymore as you cry. Ironically enough, this is the only crowd I never want to visit, but always find myself revisiting every other day of the month. Here, nobody gives me a disapproving glare when I leave after a few hours, feeling unfulfilled and empty. They don’t judge me, they don’t stare. Their quiet whispers and weirded out looks are instead muffled by the crunching dirt beneath me. But somehow, that just makes it worse.
Tonight, the stars decided to make a surprise appearance by the time I arrive. It’s nothing much, but it’s something I don’t really bother to ask for anymore, but always wish for silently when I wake up the next day. Somehow, their presence gave me some sort of solace when I knelt down against the dirt, hands heavy and ready to fall apart at any moment. But I’m used to it. The flowers are always heavier today than they’re meant to be. I sucked in a breath, stuttering while I did so, and forced a smile.
Happy 16th Birthday. find her on instagram.
@a.jiapoetry
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emBARrassing STories!!1! Many embarrassing things have happened in my life but I guess I could pick the time I tried to sharpen my fingers as a kid. It did not go well. Lee Ming Hui | @minghui.psd
Carynn Lai | @Carynn.I
I peed my pants in front of my class in primary school because I wasn’t allowed to go to the toilet and had to sit on a plastic bag for the rest of the day.
Once during a family dinner at a very crowded restaurant, I spilled an entire jug of sirap bandung which flooded the table and instead of pretending to be shocked that somebody else had the audacity to do such a thing, I ducked under the table. Obviously, everyone knew it was me. Faris Ruzain | @faris_21
I had once called out a girl from her back by my friend’s name loudly in a crowd thinking it was her and even patted her shoulder, but the person turned out to be a complete stranger! Joie Yin | @joieyin
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halL OF Fame!!!!21 To be fair, I think I’ve mastered the art of suppressing nearly all of my embarrassing memories so this is really mild compared with other stories, alas … I was on a Zoom call with a friend of mine, and she had asked me about a cake that I sent a picture of a couple days prior. However, I heard it as ‘The King’ (yes, as in the K-Drama) and I went on a WHOLE tangent rambling about it until she stopped me and I realised she said cake and not The King. Yikes. Suffice it to say, I blame the horrible WiFi connection and not my horrible hearing. Huhu ✌️ Misha Zahraa | @mishazahraa
Yasmin Nasharuddin | @nadhiarts
One of my clients was telling me how she “dah tukar color cap dia from black to gold”. I was left confused because I thought we were talking about designing stickers for her cookie jars – not stamps! It turned out “cap” was meant to be read in English and she was referring to the caps of her bottle :’)
Kwan Ann Tan | @KwanAnnTan
A classic one that’s still particularly embarrassing- forgetting my towel when going to the shower- while my flat mate had guests over. Between the choice of having to put back on my gross clothes or flashing a bunch of people I hadn’t even met before, I reached a happy middle by asking one of them to bring my towel over from my room instead.
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I got a free cube of washing powder which I happily threw into my washing machine only to find out from my friend after I had sent him a picture - what I thought was brilliant - had turned out to be dishwashing powder instead. now those little dishwashing cubes are my best friends. Ashryne | @ashrynex
the amount of embarassing stories I have will probably fill up this whole magazine, and then some. But here’s one that happened recently: 2 days into my two week quarantine in a hotel in KL, I got locked out of my room trying to pass Tanya a snack...... i ended up having to wait over an hour for someone to open the door for me. Tah Ai Jia | @a.jiapoetry
When I was in kindy I cried so hard I puked. they a real one for cleaning me up tho xoxo Tanya Tan | @telur.aku
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ISSUE ZERO: ALAMAK! shoutout to our CONTRIBUTORS: [in no order]
Tah Ai Jia Tanya Tan Ashryne Yasmin Nadhirah Faris Ruzain Lee Ming Hui Carynn Lai Joie Yin Misha Zahraa Kwan Ann Tan
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ISSUE ZERO: ALAMAK!
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