new moon of June 2026
Greetings, earthlings. Once again, your moon has disappeared from the night sky, and thus it is an occasion to write to you.
Since the previous new moon, I have been touring various locations where earthlings gather, colloquially termed “watering holes”.
Observing your hidden resentment, and open conflict, I am reminded of one of the proverbs from your ancient sages from China:
“君子和而不同，小人同而不和。”
short stories
Allow me to present a few sketches of human behaviour, that I have dreamt about. Perhaps this might entertain you until the next new moon.
Graphic and disturbing imagery follows. Reader discretion is advised.
Harold
The wind flipped the pages of the Harold's book, but he did not notice. The pungent, smoky titillation that the Scotch whisky presented to his olfactory senses proved too captivating.
Gazing at the honey-coloured concoction, Harold marvelled that he had had an entire bottle of the delicate liquid to himself. Not too long ago, he had watched enviously as men in tuxedos poured a dram for casually-dressed, corpulent tourists from abroad, and now he, Harold McDonald, could have this bottle, all to himself, in the convenience of his lodging. What a little convenience that an inheritance makes.
But, unbidden, a memory came to Harold like a grainy video: long hair, flying in the wind — green leaves, rustling — laughter, tinkling like little windchimes.
Where was she now? The bottle of Scotch sat expectantly on the shelf before Harold, as if eager to please, while he roamed a restless hand across his bald scalp and frowned; how could he ever rid his mind of this video? Dang these thoughts!
It wasn't fair! He had retired! Everything his friends strove for, he now imbibed in excess! Private gardens! Famous acquaintances!
And yet — and yet — her voice came, floating to his ear of ears: “I'm getting married to Mark. This is goodbye, Harold. I don't think we should meet again.”
- fin
Siti
“Help me,” said the woman, sobbing piteously.
Sheena stopped mid-stride, looked up from her high heels, which she had been inspecting for dirt, and then noticed the woman: red puffy eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, mucus —
“What's wrong?” Sheena softened, and knelt down to where the woman was perched on the curb of road.
“My boss —” the latter choked out, “My boss —”
“My boss make me fuck men!” At this last burst of emotion, the woman started wailing.
Sheena found that a lump had formed in her throat, and she attempted to swallow it. What should I do?
“Let's go to the police station,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I'll go with you. Can you manage to walk?”
The woman silently nodded. She has no bags with her, thought Sheena. Did she escape from her boss, in a hurry?
“What's your name?” asked Sheena politely.
“Siti. Siti Sri Bandar.”
A pause swelled into the conversation.
“I have a daughter,” continued Siti, “back home in Mujina. She's turning 10 years old, this year. Please don't tell her about this.”
Siti looked at Sheena, pleading.
“Your story is safe with me, Siti. But I want you to tell the police officer everything. This is not right, what your boss is doing. If they go after your boss in a criminal investigation, this may appear in the news. I hope the reporter or the judge keeps your name anonymous.”
Sheena paused.
“I'm so sorry this happened to you, Siti. Can I buy you a cup of teh?”
- fin
bookshelf
- Editor: Margaret Thomas. “The politics of defeat: Preliminary chapters and the secret diary of Francis Thomas”.
- Publisher: NVPC, Singapore. “Guide to Impact Measurement: from intent to impact, for non-profits.”