We publish zines.

New Village 4

The September 2013 issue of New Village contains

  • a short story by Zedeck Siew
  • a review of Sheena Baharudin’s Rhymes for Mending Hearts
  • an interview with Boon Kia Meng
  • a photo-essay by Azzief Khaliq

Read it below!

theparisreview:

This landscape with its somber skiesMust have fallen in loveWith a story by Edgar Allan Poe.One of its birch trees could be his Eleonora,And the other, further on, Ligeia.
Life is a dream within a dream,Whisper the fallen leaves under our feet.The old house, softly lit from withinBy its copper pots and mirrors,Seems even more abandoned this evening.
What if I were to knock on its door?Keeping in mind, as I push it openAnd enter cautiously, that for PoeBeauty could be the cause of sudden death.
—Charles Simic, “Dead Season”Art Credit Jungjin Lee

theparisreview:

This landscape with its somber skies
Must have fallen in love
With a story by Edgar Allan Poe.
One of its birch trees could be his Eleonora,
And the other, further on, Ligeia.

Life is a dream within a dream,
Whisper the fallen leaves under our feet.
The old house, softly lit from within
By its copper pots and mirrors,
Seems even more abandoned this evening.

What if I were to knock on its door?
Keeping in mind, as I push it open
And enter cautiously, that for Poe
Beauty could be the cause of sudden death.

Charles Simic, “Dead Season”
Art Credit Jungjin Lee

Tioman (part 5)

This is part 5 of Reza Rosli’s short story. Read part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here.

One person I met had an interesting story about her own experience of running away from home. She had gone to London, where she had found work as a hairstylist, illegally, and hid away in an attic with her lesbian lover, who owned the salon. She did what she had to survive, she said, and once you get to a place big enough, it’s easy to disappear. She only came back for her son, whom she had left with her parents, a burden she cannot carry with her. In the end it was the irrepressible desire to see him again that made her come back, and somehow that thought comforted me. As they say, water cannot be cleaved. One day, perhaps kakak will come back, or if I go far enough, she will be the one to see me first.

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Tioman (part 4)

This is part 4 of Reza Rosli’s short story. Read part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here.

So after Sofi confessed that—in different words—she had no desire for me, I secretly started to haunt drinking holes around town, bouncing from bar to bar after school, and returning home by midnight. My parents thought I had been spending time with Sofi as usual. They had long decided that my friendship with Sofi was healthy, and I showed no signs of breaking out the way my sister had, so they never questioned where I went. Outside, nobody suspected I was a minor. By all appearances I blended in easily with the yuppies I befriended, and having read precociously I could engage anyone in any topic of conversation. This was how I bartered for drinks with my yuppie friends, as I was the ideal and able wingman to play the dandy and always ready to strike up conversations with the women and bring them to the team. Years of being close yet distant to Sofi had taught me the art of conversation, peppered with double entrendres yet framed with sexless, unthreatening body language; and ironically I began meeting women who found that attractive and frequently offered to send me home; albeit after brief stopovers at their bachelorette flat or some deserted office parking lot. If Sofi suspected of my activities she never said anything, only huffing with displeasure every now and then when I rebuffed her late-night telephone calls, too inebriated with either alcohol or post-coital stupor to make the effort to listen to her chatter.

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