20 minutes: A very short short story

Meg took out the six-pack of Maggi noodles from her basket, placing it on the shiny counter as the cashier looked at her impatiently. She had to place it just so, facing upward and facing the cashier. She had this peculiarity about the arrangement of her groceries since she was old enough to go with her mom to the store.

She paid her bill and left. Unfailing politeness meant she had to smile at everyone who made eye contact. She went home to her one-year-old rabbit. It was dark, she drove slowly trying to avoid the shadow of the street lamps falling on her car, it made her think of lightning and thunder. Her home was silent, a mercy.


Bye-bye yet again

As a person interested in Psychology, with way more hours than I can recall spent in a Psychology class of some kind or another over the past 3 to 4 years, I like to wonder about why I think strange things.

One of the strange things that has been popping up into my thoughts recently is how I have had 5 different teachers in a pretty short span for this subject. The first two years of my acquaintance with the subject (hereafter referred to as psych) were spent frantically completing projects, cramming for tests, practising my answers, all in preparation for that final tough exam that was scheduled for March 2013. Despite all this work, I had fun and psych never bored me, which naturally meant that I was hankering after a BA in psych in the summer of ’13. (Doesn’t have quite the same ring as the summer of ’69, does it?)

We began our first year of college with two psych professors, but somehow that has morphed into my fifth teacher in the subject introducing herself to us today, two semesters later.

Apparently, getting used to one teacher is a pointless exercise, and maybe this is psychologically beneficial to us, in that we are learning to go with the flow, and experiencing vastly different teaching methods. This may be well and good, but I have to say, I feel miffed and at the same time sad when great teachers move on to something else, leaving us to yet another first day where we meet a teacher who probably won’t be around longer than the last.

I can do this all night

The night draws on,

I couldn’t care less.

The world I am in is just for me,

Created by someone far away,

Hoping for someone like me to come along,

And love what they worked on,


Don’t I owe them the courtesy?

The pages go by at an incredible speed,

While they spent far more than me,

Giving me this treasure.

I am absorbed,

It may not be the great work of some long-dead person,

But it amazes me,

Moving me to tears or laughter.

A book.

That is not enough to describe,

The feelings it can evoke in me.

It does not allow me to sleep,


I have no qualms,

I will continue until the aching loss of the last page registers.

Then I will sleep,

As the rest of the world around me is slowly coming to life,

The birds beginning their tweeting and chirping,

The early risers rising,

The lone vehicles zooming down my street.

But I,

I am asleep.