100 word stories.jpg

100 Word Stories

100 Word Stories

100 Word Stories is a weekly series featuring flash fiction by Mackerel and photographs by Daniel Tan.



20 March 2019

This is my Uncle Tony. Everyone has an Uncle Tony. The last time he got into trouble was when he mouthed off to some Ah Beng. Told the guy to feed his scrawny girlfriend. She was so pale and skinny, she frightened him. He thought her legs would break in them heels.

He got a swollen lip for that.

But who would hit an old man?! That’s my Uncle Tony. He loves his cheesy curios and he loves telling people about them. He also loves his kopi-o kao. Wouldn’t trade it for any of that fancy latte or espresso shit.



6 March 2019

6.00 am 

Dawn breaks with the sound of slippers shuffling down dormitory corridors. Slippers are floppy beings. We are soldiers on standby, scuffed to shine.

11.00 am  
I’ve already clocked 10,000 steps and it isn’t even lunch! 

1.45 pm 
He takes a nap but I stand guard, ready for a quick getaway in case the foreman comes around. 

5.00 pm
I’m soaked with mud from a sudden downpour, but his toes are warm and dry. 

10.00 pm
Finally, a bath!
I line up next to my family and we trade stories of dust and driftwood, resting our soles for another day. 


#12 - Constellation.JPG

28 Feb 2019

For $9.90, why not? It is the only way to experience the greater galaxy these days.

Smog is an eternal cloud that sits over the city, and if not for these darkstar umbrellas, it’s easy to forget there’s an entire phalanx of twinkling lights out there. Still, it takes patience and a certain nerve to look up and allow yourself to be lost in the depthless beyond.

It’s a pity (read the fine print!) that the micro-universe feature is only activated whenever it rains, which is rare these days. Under sunlight, it’s just gimmicky, something for couples to giggle over.


20 Feb 2019

Leaning forward in the ferry, something about how the sun glints off the dome of the mosque at the edge of the water catches his eye, reminds him for a second of the Sura Mosque in Dinajpur. 

When he was young, he would listen with his mother from their doorway as the call to prayer rang beyond the famous terracotta carvings, of holy men and their exploits for distant kingdoms. 

Clouds pass over and the shimmering light disappears.

His friends miss all this, deep in dreamless sleep, heading to build another empire, one that will never remember them in stone.




14 Feb 2019

The view from the top of the carousel is no different from the pack of suited skyscrapers behind; dizzying, panoramic, vast.

The harbour stretches below, carefully touristed to elate with all the right hashtags. Beyond, out of reach of the camera, lies the depthless sea. Lights from a thousand anchored ships, bereft of cargo, wait for a sea change.

High above, the pleasures of power last only until the attraction powers down, the elevators stop running and the windows lower their blinds one by one. 

In the end, we’re always taken for a ride.



6 Feb 2019

It’s a strong coconut, this one.

Before either of them can taste the flesh, the juice has already transported them beyond the bench and through the curtain of lights that hang behind. They are lifted into the sky, the familiar out-of-body-experience due to the elevated levels of potassium and Cocoon™ coursing through their blood.

All over the city, people are floating above buildings, tethered to the thin plastic straws, bobbing up and down on a gentle post-dinner rush. It’s just a harmless pastime, a way to shoot the breeze, nobody has died from it yet, or so the papers say. 

Hunter Killer


30 Jan 2019

It started when she was ten, the very tip of her little finger turned a deep, insistent green. The colour of xiao bai chye, her mother remarked. She thought nothing of it, showed it off at school and parties as she grew older. The green spread slowly to the rest of her finger, then her hand, shaded and undulating, hints of wilder kingdoms.

As suddenly as it came, it disappeared. Leaving her bereft, a herbivore hunter with no kills tattooed on her second skin. These sleeves bring relief, a way to manage her dreams of being devoured by giant rabbits.


#7 colour.jpeg

23 Jan 2019

What is grace? Who is grace? How is grace? 

Cousins couldn’t meet me for tea because of church. I hadn’t seen them in five years. And my mother just died.


They’re at the temple every Friday but leave the puppy on the road to die.


He tells his followers to bleed for his god. He beats his wives.


Light shining through the cracks in my head.


Her weekly visits to the old folks’ home to see her abusive father.


A day spent with a friend who wants to kill himself.


Not platitudes.

S&W Detective Agency Pte Ltd 

15 Jan 2019

A caption for this picture? 

Sherlock has solved the crime, and Watson is scrolling for the next case.  

Frankly speaking, it’s hard to keep up in this age of convenience, when knowledge is an online search or a prescription for manageable problems a short walk away. But we still get customers, those at their wits end, who have let emotions cloud their judgement.  

So we maintain a small office; it's important to meet clients face to face. And in the evenings, we come to this bench to think. The best ideas often come in the midst of a bustling crowd. 

Back To Front

5 Jan 2019

P-Tail finally had a seat all to herself. Some space, silence; a place to think.

To look out on the world and not be an accessory, tied up in place, forever expected to hold strays together.

This led to a new thought.

If she, by some chance, was cut off from the mane, she would be free of clips, bands and barrettes.

Free to go anywhere, to sit at a restaurant, peruse a menu and not the back of a booth. Order a glass of wine. Flirt with her locks. Be called luscious, wavy, full-bodied. Face the world head on.

Aesthetic Notes

#4 Aesthetic Notes.jpeg

30 Dec 2018


Facial muscle pull

有道youdao (CN-EN dictionary)

“A facelift?! Siao, ah? Do I look like an idiot to you?

What is that anyway? A mini cudgel? One of them crappy instruments that these rip-off salons always use? You know the ones; the things they use to scrape your back or chafe dead skin off your heels.

I don’t know. They all look the same to me. And in the end? Pain, nothing but pain.

If it isn’t angry red welts on your bum or blood on your soles, it’s swollen cheeks and puffy eyes for goodness knows how long.

I’ll keep my crags and sags, tyvm.”


#3 - Winter 24 Dec 2018.jpeg

24 Dec 2018

It’s been slow. Things usually are this time of year. Where do people go? Hokkaido? Osaka? Seoul? To see the Northern Lights and smoke some weed?

 This is our winter. Rainy and cold. Hong you to stave off the hong sip.

 Step up for a cure? Or shall I tell you a story; spin you a yarn about the days to come? It’ll be good, not to worry. It always is.

 It won’t cost you much, but enough to get me some dinner. And dinner for her, too, if you want your fortune told.

 Help an old man out?


13 Dec 2018

She was 67 when she first learned how to drive, from the pillion seat of Ah Hock’s motorised wheelchair.

For him, this was just a smaller version of the forklift he had deftly manoeuvred for thirty years, stacking crates of appliances at the warehouse in Defu Lane, until one day they told him that a machine would be replacing him.

Life is now this wheelchair for his broken heart.

At least, he can still lift her spirits up in joy, and he feels her smiling when she reaches over to wrench the wheel left, and right. 


8 Dec 2018

While his brother marched by, parades and soldiers in his mind, he found a gap between the heavy drapes and stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness after the dazzling sunlight of the gardens. The scent of something heavy shifted against his nostrils. A deep rumbling filled the limitless dark, now growing into shape and colour. And as he looked up, a massive grey elephant looked back at him, eyes fixed like a pilot light on his pounding heart. Then he heard his mother calling, and the moment, like a strange shore, was gone.