Liz Sinclair
Bio
Amateur historian who loves travel and lives in Asia. I write 'what-if' historical stories, speculative fiction, travel essays and haiku.
Twitter: @LizinBali. LinkedIn: sinclairliz
Stories (66/0)
Peach Vignettes
I read once about a wealthy man who loved grapes. He had everything money could buy so he relished the effort that a certain friend took to track down different grape varieties to bring him when she visited. This was how she showed her love, he said.
By Liz Sinclair2 years ago in Feast
Kaela and the Dragon
Chapter 1 There weren’t always dragons in the Valley, thought Kaela sleepily, as she watched the creatures circling and dipping above the distant granite hills. Or Masters. Kaela lay burrowed in warm blankets, watching the dragons through a small dormer window as they glided on invisible air currents. They looked like birds, she thought. So graceful. And so deadly. Or so people said.
By Liz Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Dewi and The Dragons of Pura Beji
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. In fact, there hadn't been any for a long long time until a Chinese tourist climbed into the forbidden inner sanctum of Dewi Kwan Im’s temple (the Chinese call her Kwan Yin), disturbing the goddess and waking the dragon guardians from their long sleep.
By Liz Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Ticket #250654
Klotho looked up from the thread she was spinning, and squinted as a bright, golden radiance filled the sitting room. Typical of Apollo, she thought, to show up in all his godhood. No wonder mortals were so awed when he appeared to them. No wonder they fell in love with him.
By Liz Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
The Slap
What I remember most about the slap is how the sound, like a shot, echoed across the dojo. I wouldn't feel the soreness, the tenderness, for a second or two. I was stunned. My body froze. I gaped at my teacher, trying to register what had just happened, but he'd turned away. I'm 58 and I had never been intentionally hit across the face before. By accident, sure, in sparring, or being jostled at a concert, or on a crowded dance floor or whacked with a tree branch. Never on purpose.
By Liz Sinclair2 years ago in Humans
Belanja
Normally, I don’t go to the Fresh Taste supermarket in the Bugis MRT station complex. It’s too upmarket for us. Min and I usually shop at the small Golden Flower Chinese grocery where dried noodles are always on special for fifty cents. Budget people us, lah.
By Liz Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
The Tea Club and Barrovian Society
“Tell us the Christmas story, Grandpa,” the children chorused. “The one about the ghost.” The old man settled into his chair before a roaring fire, shifting and stirring as his arthritic joints complained. His gnarled hands rested on his lap, cradling a mug of cocoa. He looked down and thought how once on that long-ago winter in the fields of France, his tin mug had held a Christmas ration of rum, and the hands that held it were young not old. His lungs were shot, ruined by the gas he breathed on the battlefields all those many years ago. Cold weather made him wheeze and cough. That part of the story he wouldn’t be sharing with them.
By Liz Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Ten Things I Hate About You
Dear Mr. Sanderz, Do you want to know why I call you Mr. Sanderz? That was the name written over Winne the Pooh's door. My use is ironic. You're like Pooh would have been if he was a mogwai and someone fed him honey after midnight and he turned into a Gremlin. You have claws, sharp teeth and a bad attitude.
By Liz Sinclair3 years ago in Petlife