Published Writing

Deborah Emmanuel took the stage looking reminiscent of Chaka Khan—her afro-like hair hovering and bobbing in a wild arc above her swaying shoulders, highlighting her petite frame. Wobology’s opening concert at the marina had attracted the sparse members of the free-spirited movement in Singapore, locals and expats alike, and curious bystanders.

The eternal summer of life on the equator. The light dawning and fading at the same time every day, up at 7 a.m., down at 7 p.m. Always the same unrelenting heat, always the same stifling humidity, the sweat beads convening on lips, wetting the armpits of shirts, sliding down underneath the crease where breasts meet ribs.

Millie missed the last month of second grade because her mother had convinced herself she could get rich by selling t-shirts. She told Millie she had no time to drive her to the elementary school in town, help her with math, or make her dinner. Instead, her mother spent her time buying a thousand packs of Hanes 100% cotton shirts, three to a pack, and screen-printing old airplane paintings and Bible verses on them.

Remember the night we got lost in space? That was the night I fell in love with you.