You've managed to trick God.

He's careful not to snag himself on the sharp edges of reason. Can't think of that now. His ugly driver's uniform is on the floor and all that matters is this, his thumbs digging into her hipbones. - Written for the October WCC - link in profile

His fists bunching up my shirt against my ribs. Hard, hurried fingers. That's how it begins. In an alley, a stench of rotting food, sweet and sickening enveloping us. -Written for the Review Game's September Writing Challenge Contest. M/M.

Hope is a heartless creature. Pressing its velvety nose against the palm of your hand, gazing up with wet puppy eyes. "Let me in," it whispers. "I'll be nice this time." - Written for the August 2011 Writing Challenge Contest

Jakarta at this hour. A sultry giant who breathes clouds of kerosene and burning coconut husk. And she ought to be used to this, God playing rough.

You're not a river I can steer my way. You're debris, shards and fragments, swept along faster than I can gather you up.

He disappears in spring. A stupid thing to think, because here where the equator cuts a country in two, spring doesn't even exist. - And just like that, neither does he.

Java 1966 – A schoolgirl stumbles on the mutilated bodies of seven slain Communists. - Benevolent phantom, imaginary friend or ghost, Widya doesn't know, but one fickle spirit remains with her into adulthood, refusing to leave.

His palm clammy and hot against hers, holding on so hard it hurts - saying what can't be said. Because that's what they do. That's how they speak. Skin on skin, in silence.

Sharksucker. A parasite, that's what she is. - Taken down for revision

"Hey…" he mumbles against her lips. "This is way better than that cowlick you gave me back in first grade." - Widya used to hate him, but not anymore. Now eyes burn across rooms, and smiles must be swallowed. She is married to his brother. Not to him.