The Past

Loneliness is a Dangerous Thing

Oh dear, I have been trying to write you a story but nothing seems to be good enough. Unfortunately, I have not been able to send you good news. I have just gotten out from a long high and dry relationship and I was caught in a hazy state for quite some time. I merely exist from day to day, places to places. But something happened two Saturdays ago. 

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I met a guy that made me feel everything was not so bad – I suppose if I was terribly miserable I would have not thought of this.

I met him at this postcard-themed pub in town on a charity event in aid for Gaza appeal. We were introduced through a mutual friend that I was working with in a project last summer. You know, it was one of those nights where a simple conversation over a pint of beer caught me off guard.

He radiates the spirit of summer – which I was lack of, as I was definitely a gloomy winter. His presence was so warm and noticeably happy.

He was also infectious, almost like a virus that caught me just in time when my anti-body was asleep. The way he talked and looked at me was full of wonder, as if like he just discovered an alien, and he wanted to know everything about me and my planet. And the weirdest part was I strangely liked it.

I did not quite understand how to explain this strange attraction. He did not strike as someone that I would normally look twice if I walk pass on the street. Not that he was not attractive - he was, in his own way. He was over 6 feet tall, had the hair with the colour of red fox, scruffy beard and a nose ring.

The conversation was okay, too. Nothing burns but there was something about the simplicity of it that I was deeply enjoyed. It might have been just his excellent communication skills, but either way, within the span of less than an hour, I could feel a teeny tiny hope creeps in to the very centre of my rib cage.

However, at the same time, I was not sure whether this illuminating feeling of attraction was real or it was just because I long for a company. Remember when I said I thought hope was a dangerous thing? Now, I am starting to think that loneliness is worse.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Remember to Forget

Image and video hosting by TinyPicAt the age of twenty-two, Sophia is starting to forget things. She is - or perhaps was now, remarkably good at remembering things. She thought, if she ever been good at something, it is definitely to remember. She remembers where she put last winter's receipt of jumper she bought in Topshop on the second drawer on her beside table. She remembers she put the loose screw from her shoe rack that she unable to put it back in the red tin where she keeps all her small jewellery and spare buttons. She remembers her best friend, Rosie's mother birthday on the 31st of January. She remembers her local bartender's goldfish name. She used to remember all the littlest things. But yesterday, she forgot whether she had turned off the stove after making her scrambled egg or not. She forgot where she put her favourite raincoat when it was actually raining outside. And this morning, Sophia forgot to close her bathroom window after left it wide open to let the steam out, resulting she had to walk back to her house and late for her first morning lecture of the new term. But nevertheless, she realised one thing today: that after a very long while, she finally forgot that Joe was once meant love to her.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz


The subway from Bank smelled like Friday night – a mixture of alcohol, piss and tube engine waste. I was not complaining. I did not care. I loved it. I was with him. What’s there to be afraid of? Daniel was next to me, with our hands interlock. As we walked through the faded white porcelain ceramic wall, the other late Thursday commuters were just dots. We reached the end of the tunnel and ended up in front of the Bank of England. Maybe majestic was the right word to explain what stood before me. It represented lavish culture and enunciate wealth, prosperity almost to the sense that it made me sick. The pillar stood tall with the perfect amount of dimmed lighting on the ceiling and occasional car’s headlights passing by beaming just about the essence of London, gloriously. Just a little across the street, there was a statue in front of a posh restaurant that I would not even dared to enter wearing ripped black stocking and knitted cardigan, not to mention wet red converse from the puddle I accidentally got into next to the sidewalk in Shoreditch. I looked around, then finally at Daniel that seemed rather laid back seeing what’s in front of us. He took his eyes off the statue and returned to mine, “It’s beautiful.” I was not trying to whisper, but my voice sounded smitten and probably with slightly hazy eyes. His thumb stroke the palm of my hand that still in his and replied, “I know.” He leaned forward and kissed me. I could feel London was immersing in me, in his soft lips, in the background noise of London’s traffic. I felt like I was in a love-drunk fiction book. That moment was very intimate almost I feel I did not want to share it with anybody else. It was mine. It was not even his. Everything was just mine.

But then if I was part of a book, I was afraid there might be a plot twist in the next chapter.

I want the story to end here, where everything is almost perfect. 
A piece by : Fiya Muiz