Ground Zero

the sixth collective 1

GROUND
ZERO

content.

Foreword
The End Begins
One-Two
The Matriarch
The Dog-Man
Time Difference
Shadows
Afloa
Creation Myth

2

foreword.

A nuclear warhead of volatile ideas, dropped into
the mundanities of our world.
Cities are levelled, ground to dust.
There is a violent stillness in the air that holds your
breath hostage, as you head back into the world you
knew, squinting from the filtered sunlight.
All that’s left is to sort out the rubble, and see what
there is to be found anew.
Join us on a journey of destruction and calamity, of
birth and rebirth.

A new beginning.

3

The End Begins

I.

The light filters
obsessively through the
lattice constructed
to keep me.
Noticing how they are halved
not by nature,
but by men
seemingly under Justice
Heralds a crescendo of emotions,
sparking the descent within.
Soon, the rays resemble an adulterated
glare,
beamed across my forehead
etched like a demented halo,
constructed unforeseeably
The walls are greyed,
their ignominious stench reeking along with
the waste of others,
the wretched
in this defamiliarising
dungeon.
Why
how did I
end up here?

4

II.

The mood was harsh, the stakes were high
‘twas for all the wrong reasons
For the end was nigh.
footsteps prowling
senses tingling
predatory instincts triggering
I was ready for anything
For you, for us all
to pass another day.
All this, if not for
our unjust adversity
I was ready to pounce,
as expedient as it was
sigh, all this
If not for society’s floundering
To pass my days
heart’s pounding
the hands are quaking
But sustenance is beseeching.
O entrenched I am
in this system of impermanence!
where shoulders turned against us
forsaken ones.
Footsteps prowling
My senses tingling
Justice is seeking.
Conscience sleeping
now I’m weeping.

5

III.

The light is filtered
overtly through the
lattice constructed

to keep me.
the sights and sounds of this

citadel
of unattainable dreams

of forbidden wishes
matter no more.

They are my death knell.
a wisp of dust

dances through the sunlight
wistful dance encapsulated through the rays

seen from the isolation of ignominy
if only I could be that wisp,

that which glimmers and dances so carefreely
to the whims of nature

devoid of worldly considerations
guided

in nature’s embrace

6

but as I live,
I die as one

Who is but a being of freedom
Fighting the adversity that is Life.

7

One-Two

His breathing is terrible.
Each breath of air trickles into his lungs reluctantly, accompanied
by so much gasping and retching. Like a full balloon, he can’t take
anything in without letting more out.
We tried to make him throw it up by pouring vinegar in his mouth.
My father is in the front seat, trying to focus on the wheel.
I move his upper body onto my lap, and try to feel around for the
rubber ball. My fingers explore his furry stomach, poking, grasping
as he gasps for air.
I deliver my defibrillation with makeshift precision. I press the
weight of my upper body on his stomach, ramming my fist into the
soft space between his rib cage. He gasps in time with my thrusts.
It’s got to be in there somewhere.
He’s quiet now, the air barely trickling out of his limp mouth. His
teeth scrape my knuckles as my hand enters, as he swallows my
entire wrist. Find the ball, clear the airway. I feel it.
It takes me four tries to pull it out. Eventually, I have my prize. De-
spite myself, I yell in victory, throwing the culprit aside.
“I don’t think he’s breathing.”
I feel the car speed up.

8

I press on his chest, a vague imitation of the stuff in the movies. One-two,
one-two. It’s like pumping a ball that has a hole in it. I can hear the air as it
whooshes out of his open mouth.
I don’t know how long this goes on for. All I can hear is the counting in
my head, and the whooshes. One-two, One-two. Whoosh. Whoosh.
The smell of dog shit fills the car.
The car slows down.
My arms are cramping up, his limp body is slipping off my lap, but I don’t
stop. One-two, one-two.
We pull up slowly at the vet’s.
The air conditioning blows the acrid tang of vinegar and shit into my nos-
trils, making me dizzy.
I can hear again. My heavy, clear breathing.
One-two, one-two.

9

The Matriarch

Kuehs, Rendang, Lontong
1, 2, 3
The third sister is not pleased.
Please eat before entering, the matriarch warns.

I dare not use the toilet now, there is no relief anymore
No F&N this time, I’ll sip on my water from my own water bottle as
We celebrate the end of fasting.

Why, in this constrained space— two newborns
wrapped delicately
Ignorance is bliss, you see, no drinks served for the son’s family everyone’s busy with their own,
carrying an infant is a symbol of power, fidelity
I only see the hypocrisy seeping through the walls of restlessness

The traditional delicacy won’t be served in this household, not for her son especially, but aren’t
we all her
Flesh and blood?
In a flash, the son becomes a mockery,
His offsprings spring in defense, his spouse is fed-up
In his defeat, the sisters lie:
Mother is lying down, don’t disturb
The mothers of mothers in a meeting—
Distraction of which
Nothing is settled.

10

Ignorance is bliss
A sweeping glance on the matriarch’s face without a roof over her head,

Unsettling.

A divide that keeps on multiplying

So keep your
Kuehs, Rendang, Lontong.
I’m full.

My own matriarch and her own secret recipe- giving birth is secondary, give
life a priority.

No, please, keep your green packets
sealed by distaste tongues when
Nobody acknowledges the elephant in the room:
A family of five, unexpecting unsuspecting suspects of scrutiny

No, keep the wedding invitation,
I don’t want to be forcefully ejected like a hard disk drive from a ‘family’’s bloodline— it makes
one feel so lonely,
I travelled to Europe only to go back to a home that doubts my identity.

So, tell me then, birth after birth after birth, who is there to carry
Her legacy when there is so much
Animosity?

11

The Dog Man

The birds are singing a strange song.

The disaster happened exactly five months ago; the forest has not forgotten. It
has been counting each day, carving it notch by notch into the treeflesh, growing
stranger with each passing day. No one has told it that it has been sentenced to
death- it will not be on parole for good behaviour.

The pines are long forgotten prisoners of war, stripped bare, spines contorted in
exhaustion. They are not dead; it is all they can do to keep standing.

Some ways into the forest, there is a small clearing with three gravestones. As
though conducting some sort of ritual, a strange menagerie stands in a circle,
not moving an inch. Wolves. No, dogs. So many of them- mostly mutts. A moth-
er stands with her pups huddling around her, taking shelter under her belly, as
she does all she can to keep them out of the falling snow. It’s pointless. A large,
matted mass stands motionless amongst them, head bowed, almost leading them
in prayer. A Russian grizzly. Not native to these woods- it must have come from
some neighbouring forest, in the hunt for food or a mate. It will find neither in
these godforsaken woods.

They are trembling in the cold, but do not break formation.

An odd sight, to be sure. There is another scent, something apart from the ash in
the air. A faint hint of chamomile. Surely enough, where they stand is an outburst
of white and yellow, the daisy-like chamomile. This is a sight perhaps strang-
er than the congregation- these small, fragrant flowers are thriving- more alive
than the forest itself, or any of its inhabitants.

They are growing on a corpse.

12

Too cold for him to decompose, we can still make out his features. He is smiling.
His hands are wrapped tightly around a flowerpot, held closely to his chest. The
flowers bloom all across his body, clothing him in beauty, covering his tattered
clothes in white and yellow, leaving his face untouched.

Perhaps most amazing of all, we can see a small trails of flowers leaving his body,
flags planted on unclaimed, poisoned soil.

Night falls, and the congregation does not budge. The forest is deathly silent,
with only the sound of gently falling snow. The pups are shivering, barely able to
stay on their feet, and the mother herself is not far off.

Without warning, the bear roars, a terrible, guttural outcry, slicing the forest in
half. As if on cue, the dogs howl, every single dog contributing its own pitch, all
the sounds blending together into a terrible cacophony, a bizarre symphony of
the night.

The next morning, the people in the town of Burakivka swear that it was the
work of the devil; or at least the sound of some sort of mutated monstrosity.

The policemen that went to check the border to the forest were the first to wit-
ness the change that had taken place.

From the moment where the road broke off into the forest, the ground was cov-
ered in chamomiles. Aerial reports showed that this had happened for the entire
section of forest between Pripyat and Burakivka.

Small, white-yellow flowers covered the ground like a bedspread, despite yester-
day’s snow.

13

14

When he first heard the news, he was gardening. People were screaming and
shouting in the streets, as people always are, he thought.

It was different this time.

His chamomiles were still growing strong, he smiled to himself. His wife’s fa-
vourite. A tiny, underwhelming flower, almost like a weed in many parts. An
odd flower, but he never questioned her preferences; after all, he had been one of
them. He did not need to know much to take care of them.

They are hardy, and can grow anywhere freely- fitting for Russia’s national flower.

The people knew him as the dog man. A long time ago, the streets had been
overrun by strays, and they were beginning to pose a health and safety concern.
Hundreds of people complained to the mayor, and demanded he do something
about the dogs that they had inadvertently released onto the streets. In a bid to
appease the people and save money, the mayor made a new law- all strays found
on the streets would be taken away and put down. He promised to send out pa-
trol vehicles full of big men with tranquiliser guns, sedating strays and throwing
them into the back of their van, to be killed later. Nobody wants death on their
streets. The people were satisfied.

A seasoned police officer, he was dispatched to head the new unit. He drove the
van, and he listened for reports on strays and drove to the street in question,
parked, and waited until his officers returned with an unconscious dog. By the
end of the first day, they had three sedated mutts in the back of their van.

The going was slow because people had yet to learn about this unit of death deal-
ers; also because none of them actually wanted to kill any dogs. They caught the
bare minimum, only responding to complaints.

15

At their final briefing of the day, the officers did not hang up their uniforms and
leave. They sat in the room, staring at him, the question hanging heavy in the air.
“I will deal with them.”
Relieved, the officers went home with clear consciences.
To his wife’s dismay, he promptly brought them home.
He named them Sasha and Ivan. She warmed up to them almost immediately.
He fed and bathed the girl, she took care of the boy. That was the agreement they
had a long time ago, lying on the open field, staring at the stars, holding hands
in secret.
He would raise the girls, and she would raise the boys, they laughed. Sasha spent
the rest of the night in his lap, snuggling with him. Ivan was more difficult.
Abandonment can be dealt with in one of two ways; by yearning and searching
for someone, or closing one’s heart all together.
Ivan growled and snapped at first, but his wife would not yield- she approached
slowly and calmly, allowing him to slowly sidle up to her, sniffing her suspicious-
ly. By the end of the night, no one could say they were anything but mother and
child. That was simply the way she was- once she made up her mind on some-
thing, it would be done. Not once did he hear her boast or brag; it was simply her
nature to do what she loved.

16

It was getting late, and soon it would be time to catch more dogs. They both
knew he could not keep this up. The dogs had to be kept somewhere else. Her
uncle used to live deep in the woods, a place she used to play often. That uncle
was dead now, and she was sure he wouldn’t mind. That night they drove down
the only road leading to the forest, parking their car where the road stopped.
He had fashioned two collars and leashes out of old belts, and was holding on to
them while his wife led the way with a flashlight. The most threatening animal in
those woods were wolverines, and even then with the dogs they had absolutely
nothing to fear. She knew the path by heart, and before long they were in an old,
forgotten house.

By virtue of his position, he was granted an audience with the mayor, and he dis-
cussed his plan with him. The mayor was delighted. The news was out the next
day- the law had been changed. Stray dogs would now be taken and rehomed in
the new dog sanctuary, some distance off in the woods, headed by the ex-chief of
the Dog Disposal Unit. Far better sounding than death, and the same results. The
people were even more satisfied. The government gave him a ten dollar grant a
year, and proudly proclaimed that the whole project was government sponsored.

He didn’t mind at all.

He converted the entire house to a storehouse, where he kept dog food and all
the essentials, and he fenced up a large area in the back for all the dogs to live and
play. Every morning, he would drive down with his wife to feed them and mon-
itor their health. Eventually the population grew to more than fifty dogs. They
were the children he and his wife could never have had, and they were happy.
They named every single one.

When he heard about the meltdown, he dropped his watering can in the dirt. His
hands were getting weaker, his joints always ached, and well, it was terrible news.
What about the dogs? What terrible, terrible news.

Unexpectedly, he slept fine.

17

It was getting up the next day that he had trouble with.
The morning radio was on, and they kept going on about how many people had
died, and how the forest was now off limits- in fact, no one should leave town
towards Pripyat at all.
For the first time in his sixty eight years, he found himself unable to get out of
bed.
He could not possibly go to see the dogs or the bear. That was his rhythm- he
would meet his wife, go see the dogs and return for an early dinner, water his
plants, and head to bed. He spent the entire day sitting outside, pretending to
water his chamomiles.

18

He dreamt of the bear that night.
His wife was out walking one of the dogs outside the enclosure, just around the
borders of the house.
He hears her scream. He grabs his gun and races out of the house.
He can smell the blood. He sees a massive, hulking grizzly standing on its hind
legs, his wife lying inert at its feet. He screams and he fires. He shoots and he
shoots, loading and unloading his rifle, filling the beast with lead. Finally, it falls.
He goes to her.
The bear has torn her throat out, ruined her face- he does not get the chance to
say goodbye. Ivan is lying some distance away, three deep gashes in his belly. He
must have tried to help. It’s too late for him too.
He sits with him, listening to the life wheeze out of him, petting him. Ivan’s tail
wags.
He hears a rustle. On high alert, he reaches for his gun.
A cub. It paws at its mother, whining. He relaxes. In this way, he nurses Ivan to
death as he watches the cub trying to wake its dead mother, eventually curling up
on her to sleep. Ivan sleeps too.
He buries Ivan, his wife and the bear in that exact spot, next to each other. He
spends ages digging a hole large enough for the bear- when he eventually does,
he grabs the cub by the scruff of the neck, and brings it back with him.

19

~

She was waiting for him.

That morning he decided that he would simply do what he knew best. He packed
everything he owned, bought as much dog food as he could store on the car, and
drove off towards the forest.

He had expected the forest to change, but not as much as it did. The trees were
now full of sorrow, as though they knew a terrible secret they could not tell. It
was quiet. Even the birds refused to sing as he trekked through the forest, on that
all too familiar route. The ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble.

In this alien landscape, his each step grew smaller and smaller. What was waiting
for him at the shelter? His mind danced with visions of a field of carcasses, or
worse still, beasts mutated beyond belief. He was on high alert- the rustling of
his own feet against the dry leaves made him jump. Each branch that brushed
against him made him flinch. For a moment, he found himself frozen to the
floor, unable to advance.

The moment was brief.

He imagines his wife laughing at him for being so silly, and cheering him on.

The dogs ran out from inside their shelters to greet him. They came upon him
like a torrent, and swarmed him with tongues and paws. They had missed him.
And they were hungry. Nastasia, Sasha’s firstborn, was graying- she too, joined
the pups in their excitement, licking his hands, spinning excited circles around
him. He is almost bowled over by a shaggy, brown beast. He spits the saliva out
of his mouth and reprimands Ivan, the resident grizzly. The dogs had come to
accept the no-longer-a-cub as one of their own, and Ivan certainly behaved that
way; a fierce and loyal member of the pack.

His wife would have been proud to see this Ivan.

20

The darkness in his heart was gone. He was back to do what he was meant to.

He re-established his routine. He visited his wife, spent time with the dogs, and
spent the rest of the time in the house, watering the pot of chamomiles that he
brought. Every night, he crossed off a day on his calendar. He found an old peace,
a peace he knew he could only hold for so long.

The dog food he brought could not last.

Each dog would have a small cupful daily, enough to keep them healthy, but not
full. He rationed it well, perhaps too well. He saved whatever he could for the
dogs, and only ate a small handful each day. He was an old man, and did not need
to eat much to survive, he reasoned with himself. He just needed to survive for
a little bit longer.

It was beginning to grow cold; the clothes he had brought with him were unable
to keep the chill out of his bones. They ran out of food. He was starting to feel
weaker, getting dizzy when he stood up too long. He needed to conserve his en-
ergy.

He stopped leaving the house altogether.

He began to let them into the house when they wanted to come in. Oftentimes,
the dogs would swarm his room, sleeping beside and on his bed. The bear too.
He did not mind at all. He felt himself beginning to fade. Just hold on, just one
last night, he told himself.

That night, every single dog crept into his room, squeezing into his tiny cabin.

He woke up with the sun in his eyes, with a clarity of mind he had not felt in a
long time.

21

The day had finally come. He held onto the door frame for support, taking a deep
breath before stepping out. His body trembled as he took his entire flowerpot of
chamomiles, holding them close to his chest to keep them out of the falling snow.
The pack trailed behind him as he trudged forward.
His breathing began to grow ragged.
His vision started to blur, large black spots appearing in his sight.
His legs were giving way, he stumbled with each step.
It was then that a stray branch tripped him, planting him face first into the
ground.
He scrambled in the ground for his flowerpot, his precious flowers, finding it all
intact.
It was all he could do to turn himself around, facing the sky, holding the flower-
pot to his chest.
The fatigue was too much to bear. His body was growing numb, his mind light.
Slipping in and out of his final consciousness, he finally admitted bitter defeat.
He closed his eyes for the last time.
The first to move was the bear. Ivan gently nudged his head aside and bit into the
scruff of his collar, pulling him forward softly. The dogs joined in, each pulling at
a tiny part of his clothing, bringing him closer, closer.

22

In this way, they pulled him for several hundred metres, with the bear at their
helm.
The snow was relentless on their emaciated bodies; their ribcages showing, their
fur matted, the exertion taking its toll on them. At an excruciating pace they
pulled him forward, taking great care to avoid any obstacles that would disturb
his rest. He was only vaguely aware of a sensation of moving, of getting closer
and closer, and he held on to consciousness for just a while more.
The motion came to a stop.
He knew. He could feel her close by.
He wished he could thank them one last time.
Smiling, he pulled the flowers close to his heart.

23

24

25

time difference:

let’s put this to sleep. i forgot how to write. when i mastered the art of forgetting, playing
nonchalant was easy. the heart is always trying.

1. set your intentions right before the act,
2. perform Ghusl bath like one will do after sex or on a dead body, there are rituals set in

stone and this is one of them so —
3. get in line, jump into the sea — there’s plenty of fish.

the heavy aroma whisked like thunderclouds forming. they settle down, landing on my latte cup.
the white foam stirred
as i sip the coffee my hands cup for warmth i think of
your warm hands my hands used to disappear under yours— i want to disappear now;

my tongue roll silently, reciting your name— 3 syllables (a mindless mantra the way Mercury
belted ‘bismillah’) i take a sip
of the coffee, pretended to love the flattery. my restless hands are in hiding now, tying invisible
knots under the table. he is trying to be warm now, i know the sequence of a mating ritual like the
palm of your hand
the heart flutters to the first day i saw your face
now it falters

no more cigarette-smelling fingers.

an air of suspension, our time difference.

26

two pendulum bobs swinging, you and i
want to hear you pick on my pace
can we pick up the pace/ can you
pick me up again?

time dances with you, wrong and wrenching.
his hour is right and rigid

i used his Starbucks card for your chocolate black tea btw
fuck it. texted my girls to say i blew it. “he isn’t my cup of tea”, ha ha i can hear the sighs of
everyone in my circle, settle down bitch
maybe if i say it long enough you might re-appear, like a bookmark falling to the floor, after
flipping yellow, rotting pages, is there a way to/
any ritual to
revive the dead?

abstinence, these five months i experienced
some turbulence
this time ‘round, i became the ghost
on airplane mode

one day the recovery of the black box replays
your promises and i
breaking.

“Hey
where u”

27

the ticking hand. we kiss the way the the hands of time do, fleetingly

passing time.

28
i’m the hour hand and you

we’re just friends

i write. i mastered the art of —
oh now i remember
i’m jetlegged, tired of the inconsistency—
your hands extend, grabbed my luggage/ my suitcase/ my barang-barang/
you look silly we both walk/ sit/ lean/ shoulder-to-shoulder and speak with the same sparkle in
the
eyes
my rituals are dead.

29

Shadow

I.

Imagine living under
a shadow. Or even
a black hole,
mercilessly sucking your essence out.
No escape,
devoid of any guidance,
lone star
in a dark universe.
who was I to you?
a vessel to exercise your hegemony?
What foul, skewed notions
of protectorship
in tradition and values
of right and wrong, of how
to live Life.
Imagine one who trivialises everything
One who, in times of fire and fury,
Twists and turns your words
Reforges your lines into
Poison-tipped daggers of
Vitriol.
“everything for your own good”
An extended synonym for your
Ulterior motive.
Harbingers of delusions of success
Champions of the family
Keep telling yourself that.

30

Borne of narcissism,
We’d be forsaken if need be,
Your self-preservation first because
‘who are we without you?’.
Remember the day you concretised everything,
laying hands on your own
Slapped ‘em good didn’t you?
hurling insults,
a can, hurling
my respect for you
Away.
Know how it feels like to be
Misunderstood by all?
An assumed, childish ignorance of us
Our unjust hate towards you.
but, like a sapling whose upbringing centred on the Light
we grew around the obstacles,
your deficiencies.
Albeit stunted we were,
we rose.
Thank you for giving me the lessons oft unheard of by many.
lessons
experiences
on how to become a better human being
A parent unlike you.
Thanks for being that wretch.

31

II.

The day I collected you
as a whole
left me full
of doubts.
The heart aches.
A pain that shouldn’t be
Where is the happiness from your banishment?
Then, as you drift off,
fragmented I become, just like you being
Sent
off to where you came from
Part of me crumbles.
Surely, an illogical loss
Today I watch your dust fade into the abyss,
Scattering a part of my memories
of us. The bad ones.
For after all that you did,
all your wrongs made
Me.
Life’s too short to begrudge
I picked up the pieces within.

32

JAN 28 2019

+ A POSITIVE PERSONALITY ✓

+ ISFJ according to Myers-Briggs Type
Indicator, a Protector ✓

+ I would like to think I retained
a Childlike sense of wonder ✓

+ According to Ma and the Goddess of Mercy,
a child Prodigy but I

+ used to struggle with a Protractor and writing + And AIDS/ HIV (like PSLE) is just
+ in alignment ✓ Another Attention-grabbing headline ✓
+ PSLE score of 142 ✓
+ Growing up was easy, - This is a national outcry.
+ i’m writing in restraint.​At the registry,
I tell my nephew that all the time ✓
+ All you had to fight was the occasional Bronchitis, I was supposed to be Ready ✓
+ Rescued, now a nobody is✓
leaking nose + Reduced and Ridiculed ✓
+ But now there’s a Brochez poking his nose, leaking + Sometimes, the breach of trust triggers a
+ Details + “I’m Sorry” and now people tell people to
+ See initially, I was in - Have mercy, According to Ma and the
- Denial,
- Disseminating information that the Deficiency lies in Goddess of Mercy let this just be
- the system and not the person Disease-stricken, Another Attention-grabbing headline ✓
- A skewed alignment, a protractor can’t fix
Apologies! ✓ - Another Attention-grabbing headline ✓
+ I won’t say I’m a Private person but tell me Government,

what’s the Plan! ✓
+ How do I tell my nephew that this is not new
+ the Adult world is made up of Acronyms,

And I used to be an ✓
+ Anonymous, (like an aggregate score of 142),

one of the 14,200 ✓

33

34

Afloat

Aways on the journey
Ebbing and flowing in the sojourn
Aimless
with no directives.
A search for a search
feels like
stasis but always
sloshing about.
On the metro,
slave to the oscillations
Inclinations of societal contrivance.
Within the realms of music
basking, dwelling
seeking sanctuary and asylum
Within the blissful notes that wash over
The accursed agitated
psyche billowing over
like waves to
drown me
and that ineffable, vague,
formlessness of being.
Some ache
primordially reeking of
melan-
from inception till
this identity’s distortion

35

This composition,
a journey that alludes to
the external
realities estranged from
my inner bastion
It floats meanderingly,
hopeful for meaning
journeying amidst toils and celebrations,
just like very entity
channeling this outreach.
Keeping me buoyed within the ocean of life.
Such is the floatation of creation.

36

Creation Myth

In the beginning, God created the heavens and earth.
Planet Earth was formed roughly 4.5 billion years ago.
Taking a generous estimate, we will live for a hundred years.
Across time, approximately 100 billion human beings, homo sapiens, have
ever existed.
And God said, “Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly
above the earth across the vault of the sky.”
There are more than 8.7 million species on Earth.
Only 1.2 million of those have been discovered.
New breakthroughs are being made every day.
Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that
they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the live-
stock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the
ground.”
Mankind is the strangest of all creatures.
We stand on the shoulders of giants, enabling us to see beyond our own time-
lines.
We are at once the microbe, and the scientist peering down.
The paradox of mankind.
To be aware of our insignificance
yet constantly yearn to be more.

37

God created mankind in his own image,
In the image of God he created them.
The timeline of man is a canvas.
The greats have painted massive stretches,
Their colours dominate entire eras.
The only way to escape the inevitability is creation.
Splash your paint across the canvas with reckless abandon,
Stain this world with your mark, live forever.
To simply exist is an absurdity.
However small your voice may be, yell at the top of your lungs.
We are no passing wind on this world.
Create.
And God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.

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ground zero noun

1 : the point directly above, below, or at which a nuclear ex-
plosion occurs
2 : the center or origin of rapid, intense, or violent activity
or change broadly : CENTER sense 2a the party town that
served as ground zero for those corporate … bashes — Rich
Eisen
3 : the very beginning : SQUARE ONE

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ground zero noun

1 : the point directly above, below, or at which a nuclear ex-
plosion occurs
2 : the center or origin of rapid, intense, or violent activity
or change broadly : CENTER sense 2a the party town that
served as ground zero for those corporate … bashes — Rich
Eisen
3 : the very beginning : SQUARE ONE

40

e authors
The Matriarch to life at the Helsinki airport before my
time difference red-eye flight which probably explains
+/ positive the aviation metaphors. It’s melancholia
AMIRA YUNOS mixed with nonchalance. On the
surface, it’s childish. But the Islamic
In the beginning, we nearly buried this allusions gives this fleeting piece
collective. It felt like a defeating dream weight. Her actions are casual but the
but the combustion of experiences irrevocable sadness is heavy. It’s a love
defined Ground Zero. To me, this was that is a little jetlagged: love for yourself
how it all began. that should have arrived earlier before
loving another. This is time difference
for you.

The Matriarch was born out of the +/ positive was initially submitted for
familial/ the familiar. Close to home, a Creative Writing Competition by the
ground zero lies in the cultural origin: School of Humanities (SoH) at Nanyang
set in a celebratory occasion when Technological University (NTU).
displacement takes place. Yuna, my Kudos to Tammi, our chief designer,
favourite R&B singer hailed from for portraying this piece in a newspaper
Malaysia, once said something format, which was something I failed to
along the lines of how the biggest critically deliver in my submission for
racism and discrimination she ever the competition. I wanted to reflect on
faced was from her own race. This the impact of the HIV data leak earlier
piece reminds me of her words. this year. This piece is at ground zero, a
time difference is a fun one. I wrote it point directly at which the devastation
occurred. Note the timestamp.

Amira loves the dying, unexplored ocean. Her favourite colour, unexpectedly,
is blue. Ground Zero was the literary peak of her Summer ‘19, and she couldn’t
be prouder. Oh, and her book club too. She is a sophomore student at the
Wee Kim Wee School of Communication and Information, NTU. Like most
of her pieces, Amira is a work in progress.

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meet the
The End Begins befalling some in the budding stages of
Pieces From a Shadow their lives! I chose to address this topic (oft
Afloat regarded with a shameful, unspeakable
WEI HAO nature) to shed light on the raw viscerality
of neglect and the dangers of fragmentation
I resonated with Ground Zero as theme of borne from one’s ‘supposed’ guiding pillars in
moving forward, transcending the chaos of life. Predominantly toying with the notions
life’s errant, random disruptions. of wholeness of self and illumination, it’s
The End Begins: In this poem-prose entry, ultimately a progression of coming to terms
I decided to fuse both art forms together with the past and making peace; finally letting
as a means of achieving the best of both in light where the sun don’t shine.
literary worlds with a non-linear, prosaically Afloat: In life, we all strive ceaselessly to
detailing format whilst encapsulating the negate uncertainty, extracting as much
eloquent punch of poetic brevity. In The purpose and meaning from life and its grey
End Begins, the overarching concerns of areas; To understand progress, to have
societal marginalisation and existentialism progressed or not, or to even bother with
are reimagined in a quasi-dystopian, alternate progress (which ironically is progress on
universe of ages once passed. Here, the its own!) - these are the invariable stages of
thematic concerns which are oft familiar questioning we may have experienced in life’s
to us in our daily lives are convincingly journey of enlightenment. For me, amidst this
transposed into an alternate universe set occasionally tiresome quest for clarity, my
in a different age, ultimately exhibiting the pressure-release valve takes the form of Art -
universality of human thought and feeling, I seek catharsis within the realms of writing,
ie. the human condition, showcasing how our of poetry in this instance. Ironically, the
humanity transcends the expanse o f time. adage ‘art imitates life’ comes to mind here,
Pieces From a Shadow: A venture espousing where my poetry parallels that of my own
the dark side of an experience unwillingly life - one great, big work-in-progress, hence,
the corresponding ‘meanderingly’ floaty,
certainly uncertain nature of Afloat.

Wei Hao is an omnivore. He eats everything along with their antithesis. He is convinced
of something and simultaneously unconvinced. He loves the logical along with the
ludicrous. But what is smart and what isn’t? This whole journey’s one hell of a sandbox
for exploration. The meaning lies in the aforementioned lines and beyond! In short, he
thinks too much, unremorsefully so.

42

e authors
Art the end result surprisingly really fit.
The Dog Man: The very first piece of work I
TAMMI CHNG did for Ground Zero was for The Dog Man.
Within a few days of reading the first draft
I’m more of a consumer of art than a creator. of the piece, I had finished the art for it. The
But Ground Zero marks a return to art after image of a lone dog in a field of daisies growing
four years of dormancy - that’s pretty wank. where they shouldn’t, communicates an
Ground Zero’s theme presented equal optimism and contentment in spite of turmoil
opportunity for light and dark, hope and and hardship. That’s such a core message that
hopelessness. Working with the authors to I feel isn’t being communicated enough. But
try and amalgamate their experiences into a in hindsight, that fever dream fervor was kind
single image was so difficult but exciting. of to the magazine’s detriment. I missed the
Cover Art: This went through a thousand chance to plan out the works more carefully
different iterations including a shelf of and intentionally. But as the first piece of work
curiosities and snakes in jars biting tails, but I’ve really done in four years, I’m endlessly
in the end the concept of dust settling won proud of how it came out.
out. The image of a man peering through the Time Difference / A Positive Personality:
dust is oddly apt as the works in ground zero This author’s style was so clearly distinct from
are exactly that - a glimpse into the chaos and the rest and it offered a lot for me to play
calm in the lives of our authors. with. In the end, I feel like the stripped down,
The End Begins / Afloat: I wanted to convey tumblr gurl aesthetic of the art for Time
the desolation and emptiness of these works Difference was such a good contrast to The
through empty/negative space and fantasy. Dog Man’s heavy, realistic style. It felt like a
The art for these two works in particular went refreshing renewal of the theme right smack
through a couple million versions that I never in the middle of Ground Zero. The same can
really felt satisfied with. There were just too be said for A Positive Personality. Although
many great stylistic choices and paths I could it’s transformation into a newspaper style isn’t
take with the same prompt. Nevertheless, exactly “art”, A Positive Personality’s first draft
breathes completely different from its Final
Formtm in the absolute best way possible.

Tammi is a dummy dumb that doesn’t know how to make her Paint Tool Sai draw straight
lines. But things fall into place, and it’s this serendipity that led to her new non-weeb
artistic voice. She hopes for more flukes to guide her as she continues to learn more
things and play old games from 2003 (Statement: KOTOR is GOTY every year).

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editorial note

We’re the 6th Collective, a creative space for amateur and experienced cre-
atives to showcase their work- built around different perspectives of a uni-
versal theme.
Where you were seconds ago— at Ground Zero— was our pilot edition.
This was equal parts a promotional edition and a teaser.
We’d love to hear what you think- tell us in the survey below!
In the spirit of our next theme; scroll… Down The Rabbit Hole we go- we
cordially invite you to our tea party. We’re open to photography, art, short
stories, poems and non-fiction. Anything, really! If you’d like to be featured
in the next edition, look out for submission details on our website. If you
want to get in contact with us about anything at all, please e-mail us at
[email protected].
The Cheshire Cat grins, and looks forward to hearing from you.

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