Beneath the glow of silvered light,where shadows dance and dreams take flight,a world unseen, a hush concealed,where silent truths remain unsealed.

A smile worn like fragile lace,yet sorrow lingers, leaves no trace.Eyes aglow with phantom gleam,hiding echoes of a dream.

A secret held, a tale untold,wrapped in veils of silk and gold.A laugh that rings yet fades too fast,a fleeting ghost of moments past.

Behind the mask, the heart still beats,where longing and deception meet.A whispered name, a heavy sigh,a love unclaimed, a guarded lie.

Oh, shadows stretch and secrets weave,entwined with all we dare believe.For in the dark, we stand alone,with truths unspoken—yet our own.

THE OUTPOST

It’s funny how fast things can turn to shit. But here we were running for lives. Retreating and looking for any semblance of solace. And that was when I spotted it, a dilapidated structure. It was very likely unsafe and just as likely to fall on our heads the moment we crawled inside, but beggars can’t be choosers I suppose.

We gingerly climbed through any openings we could find. Propping ourselves up against walls and leaning on any available debris, as we were far too weak to do so under our own power. At the very least this crumbling building would provide relief from the scorching sun.  Once all of us finally made our way inside I decided to get a head count. Christ, was this really all of us?

We were in very bad shape. We lost Riley, our leader, as soon as the attack began. Ox was already gone, his eyes glassy and mouth slightly agape. Smithy and Beck weren’t much better off and it was hard to say how much longer they would hold on. Brick seemed to be in the best shape out of all of us, as his wounds were mostly superficial.

I glanced over at Shrike who was trying her best to conceal the pain she was in. She looked up at me and I gave her a wink. Her response? She flipped me the bird. But make no mistake Shrike was the real deal. Despite her age she was capable of taking down many formidable men, including yours truly.

And then we heard it. That unmistakable shrill cry. Those fuckers had found us already, but how? I happened to glance back over at Ox. I hadn’t noticed it before but there was a cigarette in his mouth. It had burned down to the butt. Still an almost indiscernible trail of smoke drifted into the air. But that was enough for them to find us. God damn you Ox.

We readied ourselves the best we could. Loading our weapons as we braced for the next onslaught. It was hard to tell how many there were, maybe just a few. But with the shape we were in it may as well be a few hundred. I froze as I saw one of those bastards walk past my position through a crack in the foundation. I held my breath as my finger ever so delicately cradled the trigger. As I patiently waited for the right moment to attack my mind tried to make sense of how this all came about.

No one really knows for sure where they things came from, or so they say. But on a day that seemed no different than any other they began their senseless attack. They started emerging from underground. Any place that gave way to any kind of hole, tunnel, or mine they sprung up from it. They slaughtered anyone they came across.

Sure, you could kill them. But there were just so God damn many of them. They overwhelmed us with their numbers. These things resembled insects but were bipedal with large heads. Their bodies were hard, like an exoskeleton. And their limbs long and angular.  The worst thing about them was that they had these razor-sharp blades under their forearms. They just cut people to ribbons and they were so damn fast too.

Everyone had their theories about where they came from. You had kooks saying they were planted here by aliens as a means of wiping out humanity. Bible thumping religious zealots claiming they were the wrath of God.  Some said they were the result of biological weapons that had gotten out of control, with each major power pointing the finger at the other. And some said they had just always been here lying in wait. As for me? Well, I sure as hell was no scientist. But I think a fair explanation could be derived from any combination of those speculations.

Suddenly that right moment was now as one of those things spotted me. I aimed at its head, an easy target. Its noggin exploded like a melon. But my stomach sank as I heard their shrill cry, there were a lot of them. They started coming in all around us, and it was plain to see we would soon be surrounded. I signaled to Shrike and Brick to retreat out of the far side of the structure. But the noise from the gunfire and screams were deafening, adding to the confusion. The building began to waver as the battle waged on intensifying the chaos. I found my way out, with Shrike right behind me. We set up a position and fired into the building aiming at those monsters the best we could to give our compatriots a fighting chance.

Brick was trying to back out. But he was dragging a mortally wounded Smithy with one hand and firing into the fray with another. Then one of those things pounced on Smithy and with one quick swipe of its forearm severed his head clean off. Brick screamed a torrid of unintelligible profanities as he reached for and pulled the pin on a blast grenade.

I tried to yell at him to stop, but it was too late. The blast threw myself and Shrike back. We covered our heads as debris rained down on us and that whole damn building came down in a smoldering heap of rubble and steel.  We slowly rose to our feet and cautiously approached the ruins with our weapons ready. It was eerily quiet as the dust began to settle and that was when we heard Brick coughing.

He was in a bad way. It took all I had in me to keep my composure. His lower body was crushed and trapped under rubble with his guts spilled out to one side. I gingerly walked up to him and took a knee. Brick struggled to speak as he coughed up blood. “Did I get’em?” He asked. I looked up at the collapsed structure. “Every last one of them.” I answer confidently. “Good, motherfuckers.” He answered sharply. Brick struggled to maintain his equanimity. “But...I don’t think I am doing...too good.”  I wasn’t going to bullshit him. “No, you're not.” I responded dryly.

Brick nodded his head through gritted teeth. “Can you do one last thing for me?” He asked. There was no reason to let him carry on this way I thought to myself. “I can. You know, you always were a little overzealous” I said with a smirk. Brick nodded his head and let out a pained guffaw. “And you were always a bit of goody two shoes.” He added. I pulled out my sidearm and we both went silent. I held it a few inches from his temple. “Do it.” He said under his breath. I pulled the trigger a second later.

I stood and looked over Brick for a moment, it was down to just me and Shrike now, and she didn’t look so hot either. “You alright? You look a little pale.” I asked. But Shrike didn’t answer me. Instead, she simply pointed. “Look, there is the outpost.” My jaw dropped, were we really that close?

I helped Shrike up and she tried her best to stifle a groan. The utpost was just klicks away, we could make it on foot so we wasted no time on the well-traveled path. The dry earth crunched under our boots as the sun beat down relentlessly on our fatigued sweat-soaked bodies. I went for my canteen and pressed the warm metal to my dry cracked lips. I could only spare a few gulps to alleviate my parched throat.

I ever so discreetly lessened my pace as I felt Shrike slowly fall behind. Her breathing was labored, her gait was pained.  I keep my eyes forward trying my best to play a convincing ruse that everything was alright. “What’s the first thing you are going do when we get there? Shower I hope” I said with an amused tone. Shrike’s response was delayed. “Is there a reason you feel the need to patronize me? I heard her struggle to quicken her pace. She was one stubborn ass bitch that was for sure.

But as we drew close to the outpost it became clear something was wrong. It was far too quiet. There was no sign of activity, no sign of anything. At this point we both slowed down and readied our weapons making sure we were locked and loaded.

We reached the entrance and we were greeted by the stench of decay. Cautiously we stepped inside. It was total decimation like I had never before seen. The outpost was in complete fubar. As we carefully explored the base we were meet with death at every turn. Those things had been here and it was a real bloodbath. The remains of both soldiers and those monsters were everywhere, nothing was alive.

It was hard to say how long ago this battle took place, maybe a couple of weeks? Stunned and despondent Shrike and I ambled towards the center of the base and plopped down on the remains of a J8. We pondered what to do next as we took in the immense scale of desolation.

Something caught my eye in the jeep. Under the seat I discovered a can of beer. Amused I picked up the warm dented can and smirked at Shrike. But what I saw next caused me to freeze. Shrike’s face was deathly pallid. She seemed to stare right through me, her gaze completely lifeless. I slowly turned away as the smirk faded from my face. I only stared ahead, refusing to look back at her.

Her breathing soon turned to gasping and choking. I cracked open the beer, anything to distract from Shrike’s suffering. Her hand trembled as it found mine. She squeezed it hard and through her grasp I felt the agony she was in. I defiantly chugged down the warm beer as Shrike’s body convulsed, but she never let go of me.

Finally with the last gulp of warm ale burning down my throat Shrike’s pain mercifully ended. Her hand went limp and she fell silent. I crushed the can into a jagged metal ball and threw it away as far as I could. Shrike’s body gently slumped over to the side.

I sat alone on the jeep as the temperature started to drop. In my deeply morose state of mind I began to cogitate what to do next.  Lost in my thoughts I discovered a beautiful indigo shroud had enveloped the outpost as the night crept in. Leaving a man alone with his thoughts can lead to him realizing there isn’t much left to think about, and not much left to do.

The outpost had fallen into a total empty darkness. Suddenly a loud bang accompanied by a brilliant flash of light pierced the night sky. It was over in an instant.

THE OUTPOST

I have no hands, yet I point the way,I speak no words, yet I talk all day.I move so slow, yet never stay—What am I?(Answer: A clock)

The Beauty of the Uncommon(by INKELLE)

I was never meant for symmetry,nor made to fit a perfect mold—my edges jagged, colors clashing,a story whispered, never told.

I walk where footprints fade too soon,where echoes hum a nameless tune.The sky I chase is not just blue,but stitched with threads of violet hue.

They called me strange, they called me lost,a puzzle missing half its cost.Yet in my hands, I hold the light—a world that bends to my own sight.

For stars are born in quiet spaces,where no one dares to stand alone.And flowers bloom in unseen places,between the cracks of steel and stone.

So let me shine, not bright, but true—not like the rest, but something new.For in the wild, the untamed air,the uncommon hearts grow rarest there.

—

Madness & Insanity – A Descent into the Unknown

A whisper crawls through hollow halls,soft as silk, yet sharp as claws.Shadows stretch where none should be,dancing, laughing—mocking me.

The walls are breathing, slow and deep,humming secrets while I sleep.Or do I dream? Or do I wake?This thread of thought begins to break.

Mirrors crack with silent screams,fragments birthing fractured dreams.I reach—my hands dissolve like mist,a ghost, a shade, a fevered twist.

The stars are melting, bleeding light,dripping truths too vast, too bright.A thousand voices gnaw my spine,chanting hymns in warped design.

Yet in this ruin, strange and wild,I smile—enchanted, lost, beguiled.For madness sings where reason dies,and in its tune, my spirit flies.

A Love Letter to the Moon

O silver muse in velvet skies,you watch with ever-dreaming eyes.Bathed in glow, so soft, so bright,you cradle lovers in the night.

You hear the wishes, hearts unspoken,whispers stitched in dreams unbroken.A secret sigh, a name, a vow—you hold them all, then fade somehow.

Your light spills on a waiting shore,where lovers dance forevermore.Each tide you pull, a longing swell,like hearts that ache but never tell.

O distant queen of midnight blue,if only I could drift to you—I’d carve my love in stardust fine,so you’d remember: I was thine.

Olden Stars

Beneath the sky where echoes hum,Where silver threads of moonlight drum,The ancient voices rise and weave,A tale the wind shall not deceive.

Once, a king with golden hands,Forged his throne from shattered lands.Once, a nymph with eyes so wide,Turned the sea with sorrow’s tide.

A dragon coiled in embered night,Spoke of love, then burned the light.A maiden wove the sunlit streams,And stitched the dawn from shattered dreams.

Mountains grieve and rivers sigh,As legends wake, then bid goodbye.Yet in the hush of twilight’s core,They rise again—forevermore.

“Pipaluk! Lunch is ready!”

The little man bent over his desk didn’t hear his wife’s call. He was frowning at a series of complicated formulas spread across several whiteboards and blackboards while his pen doodled freely on a sticky note. Its cartoon sketches made more sense than the jumble of letters, numbers, and glyphs before him.

“You’re wasting those,” a paperclip chided in its squeaky voice.

The pen dropped dispiritedly to the desk.

“It’s fine,” Pipaluk muttered, waving a hand absentmindedly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, anyway.” He sighed and slumped back in his chair, removing his thick, round glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t think here.”

“Pipaluk! Lunch!”

“You’ll get it,” his pen said encouragingly, hopping onto its tip again and adding a smiley face to the spikey-haired cartoon man on the sticky note. “You always do.”

“Although if you could do it without an explosion this time, I’d appreciate it,” added his first-aid kit. “That last one left a lot of casualties, and Band Aids don’t work well on objects.”

“I still have burns,” the china cabinet said sadly.

“I know, I know…”

Pipaluk sighed and replaced his glasses. His new laboratory was as spacious as his last one, but it was also colder. That came with living in the North Pole, of course. He’d gotten used to the much warmer Nebraska climate. Aside from adding defrosters to his glasses, he hadn’t invented a single thing in the seven months since his family moved back to the Arctic.

If this kept up, he’d have to find something else to do. Maybe take up an actual profession.

“Pipaluk!”

He jumped in his chair at the shout in his ear. His wife Emma stood next to him, hands on hips, lips pursed, chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in frustration.

“Oh, h-hi, h-honey,” Pipaluk stammered. “Did I…miss something?”

“Not yet, and I’m not letting you miss lunch again today. Come on.”

He trudged up the stairs after her, sighing heavily again. Maybe it was the subject. There was a reason nobody had successfully built a time machine, after all. It was hard. Possibly impossible. And definitely controversial, since the risk of succeeding and then altering history drastically with a single apparently minor disruption to the past was very real.

Everybody told him he couldn’t do it, and he shouldn’t do it. Everybody.

But after bolting his lunch, he was back at his desk, puzzling over the formulas again.

If he could do it—if he could go back in time and stop Lily from ever meeting that raccoon—then Emma would stop blaming herself for misjudging its character and inviting it into Lily’s home. Then Lily wouldn’t have to live with Pipaluk’s family, too scared to be alone.

Then that entire tragedy with Boris’ attempted murder and Lily’s arrest wouldn’t have happened.

“Need a little help?”

He jumped in his chair for the second time that day, but this time, the voice didn’t belong to his wife or any of his past experiments. It belonged to a tall woman with slate gray hair and wispy black-veined wings.

“You’re back,” he gasped.

She smiled. He knew that, although he couldn’t quite make out her face. It was as though a grey fog hid it from him, a grey fog that became more solid over her slender body to drape her in an airy dress and more dense between the black veins to form the smokey wings.

“Here.”

She handed him four vials, three of them filled with objects he recognized: grey scales, grey dust, grey hair. Key ingredients in the potion he’d invented to restore Lily’s magic when she overexerted herself. But a thin clear substance filled the fourth vial, sloshing against the glass walls when he tilted it slightly.

“What is this?” he asked, studying it from every angle.

“H2O.”

His head snapped up to look at her again. “Water?”

“Well, not strictly ‘water,’” she explained. “Its origin is a place out of mortal reach. You can use it once, and only once. I cannot supply you with more. You wouldn’t believe all the paperwork I had to do just to give you that small amount.”

“So…it’s okay for me to make a time machine?” he asked hesitantly, returning his attention to the immortal water.

She didn’t reply.

He looked up, and she was gone. Not a trace of her in the laboratory, aside from the four vials she gave him.

The four vials and a headful of ideas.

He worked the rest of the afternoon and on into the night. Emma probably called him for dinner, and then bedtime, but he didn’t hear her, and if she came to get him, she must have given up. There was no stopping him when he had hit on a solution.

The formulas became more elaborate, the sketches more abstract, the laboratory more cluttered. The feather duster and broom were complaining. His pen was cheering him on. His calculator was muttering about bad math.

And then it was done.

“What the heck is that?” the Rubik’s cube asked, uncharacteristically confused.

“That,” Pipaluk said proudly, beaming at the mass of metal, wood and sparkling gray magic, “is an urglegaburblezoombler.”

“A what?” echoed a chaotic chorus of metallic, plastic, wooden, squeaky, scratchy, and otherwise discordant voices.

“How do you spell that?” asked his pen.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Now, I insert the vial of water here, and—”

The world ripped away from him. He was in a void of darkness, blacker than black, more silent than silence, holding the device and staring around at the nothingness.

“That was fast.”

A click from the urglegaburblezoombler sounded, deafeningly loud, and bright lights appeared in the darkness like stars, zipping past him almost too quickly for him to make out any details. People, places, objects, set in times he recognized and times he didn’t. An elaborate ball in the European Middle Ages, samurai battling in the Japanese Sengoku period, Moses parting the Red Sea, in no logical order.

Was that him, flushing his son’s dead goldfish down a toilet?

How did he pick one day and jump into it?

Were those aliens?

As Santa’s elf, he was well-versed in the various species and races inhabiting planet Earth, but that wasn’t one of them. Were those…people…living in an active volcano? Was that a flying shark? Wait—that was Emma with another man! And those kids were not Pipaluk’s Bobby and Sue!

“Focus,” he reminded himself. “This is a rip in the space-time continuum. It's not my reality, and I can’t let it distract me. I want the night that raccoon ended up on Lily’s doorstep.”

The blackness ripped away with a suddenness that made his stomach jolt. He was on Lily’s front porch, shivering in the frigid cold and looking out at the ice snow globe she’d created to seal herself away from the world. A blanket of white covered the ground; icicles hung from the eaves.

And a raccoon stared up at him from a cardboard box.

“You!” Pipaluk pointed an accusatory finger at the raccoon. “I don’t know who you are, or what you are, but you need to go away! I won’t let you mess Lily’s life up again!”

Its whiskers twitched. It flicked a brown-furred ear.

Wendy sent you, didn’t she?

Pipaluk’s pink eyes widened. “Are you in my head?”

No. I’m just talking directly to your mind. What is that?The raccoon nodded its head toward the device still clutched in Pipaluk’s hands.

“Oh, it’s an urglegaburblezoombler,” Pipaluk replied, looking down at it. There was still water in the vial.

Who do you think you are? Dr. Seuss?

“I…I don’t know! It just came to me, all right? But wait. We’re not having a conversation here! You need to leave!”

The raccoon climbed out of the box and trundled up to Pipaluk. It sat on its haunches in front of him, swishing its black and brown striped tail back and forth. Studying him. Studying the device.

The silence stretched into awkwardness.

“Um…what are you doing?”

The raccoon’s black eyes flashed purple. It reached a paw out to Pipaluk before he could react, touching his heavy work boots, and the world ripped away again.

Sort of.

Pipaluk and the raccoon were still there, on Lily’s front porch, watching time pass at high speed, watching people move in and out of them as though they weren’t there. Because they weren’t. Boris arrived; Lily woke up long enough to eject him out of the snow globe before she passed out; Emma and the raccoon dragged Lily inside. Day turned into night and dawned again, and when the light faded a second time, time stopped.

Follow me.

Pipaluk looked down at the device. Only a little water left.

He followed the raccoon inside.

The icy hall was dark. Another raccoon padded past them toward the kitchen, casting them a sideways glance as they went to the living room. Pipaluk’s stomach was churning. This was when it happened. When the raccoon used Lily’s enchantment, which it had tainted, to attack Boris. It was about to happen.

You can’t believe your eyes.

“Well, what am I supposed to believe?” Pipaluk demanded.

The raccoon sat in front of the frozen-over fireplace. Pipaluk stood next to him, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. The other raccoon returned, an egg roll clutched between its teeth. It clambered onto the sofa and sat down, looking at them.

Now,it said.

Thought?

Pipaluk wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure how he could distinguish the voice of one raccoon from the other when they sounded the same, but he could.

The one sitting next to him tugged on his lab coat, and a fog appeared in the fireplace. Suddenly, it was sucking them in, Pipaluk and the raccoon, yanking them through a haze to tumble onto the floor of an icy bedroom.

“What is going on?” Pipaluk exclaimed, picking himself up and looking around.

This is Boris’ bedroom. Stand right there and do not move. Or scream. If you do, the world ends.

Pipaluk opened his mouth to reply, but the raccoon was gone. In its place was a skull, not quite human, hovering above the floor and lit from within by a fog of purple and pink. His legs nearly gave out. The dull bronze orbs in the weathered yellow sockets turned their attention to the sleeping snow warlock, and Pipaluk couldn’t have screamed if he wanted to. This was a nightmare, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye. Something black and indistinct, smaller than the raccoon had been, slinking along the floor toward the bed. Cold terror gripped Pipaluk’s heart in a vise.

You can’t have him.

It happened so quickly. The blackness launched itself at Boris before the skull’s last word echoed through Pipaluk’s mind, just as the lasso shot out of the ice bookmark on the nightstand and bronze chains shot out of the skull’s hoop earrings. The rope won the race to Boris’ throat; the metal wrapped around the blackness and yanked it away. It was hissing and writhing; Boris was thrashing about, clawing at the rope around his neck; and Pipaluk stood paralyzed, watching it all in horror.

The chains tightened, splitting the blackness in two as it let loose a blood-curdling shriek. It vanished, and the chains changed course, wrapping around the length of rope that stretched from the bookmark, engulfing it in a purple light. Boris fell back against the bed, his strength nearly gone, and the lasso fell away. He gasped for breath, the only sound in the eerie silence. The lasso unwound itself from him and slithered back into the bookmark.

The skull was gone.

Pipaluk stood perfectly still, his heart pounding out of his chest. He swallowed, forcing saliva into his dry mouth, and looked down at the urglegaburblezoombler.

The water was gone.

And then he was gone.

And the laboratory was back. As was the raccoon, sitting on Pipaluk’s desk, twitching its whiskers.

“What…was all that?” Pipaluk croaked.

Proof that I didn’t betray Lily. I’ll tell her myself when I can, but I’d like you to give her this.

He nodded at a Chinese food menu on the desk. A bright red circle marked the Peking duck, and beneath it, scribbled in nearly illegible handwriting, were the words, “I’m buying next time. –Mr. Raccoon.”

“What does this…”

Pipaluk’s voice trailed off as he looked up and realized the raccoon was gone.

“So…it could have been worse?” he wondered aloud.

“Pipaluk?”

Emma was descending the stairs, dressed in her pink bunny slippers and her baby blue housecoat, her face covered in green cream and her brown hair in curlers.

“It’s really late, Pipaluk, and—”

The image of her kissing another elf flashed through Pipaluk’s mind. He dropped the urglegaburblezoombler on the desk and ran to her, surprising her with his fierce embrace.

“Um, Pipaluk?”

“I love you, Emma,” he said fervently, kissing her cream-covered cheek.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him. “And I love you, you, you crazy mad scientist, you. Now, come to bed. It’s late. Your project can wait until tomorrow.”

He smiled and squeezed her tighter. Tomorrow, he would start on the self-sorting shoe storage she’d been asking about. He’d made a time machine, after all. Shoes couldn’t be that hard.

Date of creation: 02/20/2025

Word count: 2,234

Author’s note: The prompt was to write a short story in the speculative fiction genre including the following six elements: a world in danger, a mysterious visitor, H2O, a rip in the space-time continuum, the ultimate urglegaburblezoombler, and a happy end. There were no word count restrictions.

Author’s note: And that’s the last prompt fromThe Fabulous Spec-Fic Smack Down.So…it’s time for a facelift! New title, new cover, new story description—it’s time for this to stop being a book I wrote for a contest and just be a book. I’ll also add an intro chapter about its origins and quirks, and to keep it going, I’ll look into other prompt-based contests. Or just plain ol’ prompts. Who knows? I never do with this story, and that’s all the fun.

The Beauty of the Macabre

A Dance of Darkness and Light

Beneath the veil where silence sighs,where midnight weeps with hollow cries,there blooms a rose in ashen shade,a beauty neither bright nor frayed.

A marbled hand, so cold, so pale,traces love lines worn and frail,etched in stone and whispered air,a relic left to time’s despair.

The waltz of shadows, slow and sweet,where sorrow and enchantment meet,the ghostly grace of candle’s gleam,a flicker lost in endless dream.

The art of ruin—soft, profound,where fractured echoes shape the soundof stories whispered in decay,of hearts that bled, yet found their way.

For in the hollow, in the dread,where ghosts still dance with souls long fled,there is a beauty—dark yet bright,a haunting kiss of death and light.

The Haunting Past

The past is a house with hollowed halls,Where echoes linger, where silence calls.A door once shut, yet never locked,A ghostly hand, a ticking clock.

Through moonlit panes, the shadows creep,Their whispers tangled in my sleep.Old laughter fades, then turns to sighs,Soft-footed ghosts with hollow eyes.

I walk the rooms of yesteryears,Each step a weight, each breath a tear.Regrets like ivy twist and climb,Rooted deep in loss and time.

A voice I knew drifts down the stair,Faint as dust upon the air.It calls my name, a mournful hymn,A love long lost, a light gone dim.

I reach, I grasp, but all in vain—The past dissolves like autumn rain.Yet still it lingers, soft and slow,A shadow where the cold winds blow.

So tell me, ghosts of love and pain,Do you haunt to warn, or just remain?For even in the hush of dawn,The past is here—it’s never gone.

As a child, the mere thought of stepping into a Hong Kong-style cha chaan teng(茶餐廳) filled me with an inexplicable sense of dread. With their peculiar blend of chaos and grease, these establishments hardly evoked an image of culinary refinement. Waiters, moving with a swiftness that could put Olympic sprinters to shame, would take your order in a flash before disappearing into the melee of patrons and simmering woks. If the place was heaving, as it invariably was, they would not hesitate to hurl a few choice words into the air, a verbal seasoning to the already frenetic atmosphere. And the water? I often spent more time contemplating whether their fingers had taken a dip than I did actually drinking it. Not that it was for drinking, of course—this was the ritualistic rinse for one’s utensils before tucking in.

Yet, in an amusing twist of fate, the very establishments I once scorned have become the embodiment of nostalgia. The distinct tang of lemon tea, the velvety comfort of Hong Kong-style milk tea, the childhood indulgence of a well-chilled Horlicks, the hearty embrace of baked pork chop rice, and the golden crunch of deep-fried French toast—these are now the artefacts of a cherished museum in my mind. What once felt like a cacophonous assault on the senses now plays like a nostalgic symphony, its every note steeped in memory.

Somewhere in the clamour, the hurried waiters have morphed from intimidating figures into unsung heroes of the cityscape, their relentless pace a testament to Hong Kong’s indomitable spirit. What I once mistook for brusqueness I now recognise as efficiency honed by necessity. The breakneck service, the unceremonious thud of dishes onto tables, the shouted orders from the kitchen—all of it is part of the theatre, an experience as much as a meal.

Now, every visit is not merely a pursuit of taste but a pilgrimage of sorts, a journey back to a place that, since 2019, feels increasingly distant in more ways than one. It is not just the miles that separate me from Hong Kong, but a widening gulf shaped by seismic shifts, leaving both city and diaspora adrift in a new and uncertain reality. And yet, in this evolving narrative, the humble cha chaan tengstands as a defiant relic of continuity, an anchor in turbulent waters where memories are preserved with every sip and bite. It is a reminder that, despite everything, there remains a corner of the world where the past lingers on, deliciously unchanged.

The Dreammaker’s Lullaby

Beneath a sky that sways and sings,where midnight blooms in silver rings,a whisper weaves through painted air,calling dreamers unaware.

A tower floats with roots untied,its stairway curls into the tide,while mirrors ripple, bending space,reflections dancing out of place.

A clock with neither hand nor facemelts softly into time’s embrace,and in the hush of liquid light,a thousand shadows take their flight.

The Dreammaker hums, with eyes aglow,stitching stars in seams below,as slumber bends the waking mind—in dreams, the lost are never blind.