It’s published!

Go check out the “CacoSymphony” page! Lit Allsorts’ 2018 edition, CacoSymphony, is available digitally for free at the link on the page. Do read and email your feedback/comments to!

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Sneak peak at Lit Allsorts’ July 2018 edition!

Lit Allsorts’ 2018 edition will be published online next week! There’ll be a new tab on the website, so keep your eyes peeled!


Excerpts from the zine (keeping all titles and authors anonymous for the sake of suspense):

“…the steady rhythm of my fingers on wood reached down to the bottom of my mind. It felt dead and tired, like a motor stuttering with its last traces of fuel.”

“Five years ago on this day, this very hour, the sky had again brimmed and bloated with water, but refused to rain. The air, stale. The details… are as concrete as the jagged edges of cracked pots.”


home, in a hundred words


You haven’t found what you’re looking for, I know. Neither have I. Manufacture a thousand empty clicking cliches to cure this twisted longing. No place like Is where the heart is Sweet home. Call them soul balms, anesthesia, call them idiocy. Hear them clack listlessly in the sodden air, warped beads hanging disjointedly. Cooked dinners, cousins, TV — elusive perpetual motion, the mundane’s whirring, humming, clanking, clattering in hapless tattoos. Home — stretch the syllable over your tongue as your mouth dries. Sucked cavity, yawning ache. For something beyond this drooling suffocation. Tell me, how does one find something that’s not there?



more like censors.

Vein-discoloured haphazard thread in and out

of my gums

sewn like a purse, my gum and lip

locking my prodding tongue out

Feels like mosquito-net gauze.


when the bottom half of my face


a crippled grin

straining against the seams

Swollen it’s hard to straighten my face

when tangled with stitches

The right half winks up

the left immobile treacle.

I like wry smiles – pretty attractive. Just not

when it’s because of




Written in July by Fara Ling. A reflection upon the larger meaning of her first oral surgery to justify the pain she experienced once the anesthesia wore off during the first post-op week.


Smudged tents clog streets

tissues wadded in a sink

cars park in pregnant bulges

stale sun rusting as

day hinges to night.

Tudung-covered mak ciks and

pak ciks stack yellow plastic trays

fold pink checquered tablecloths

unpin hand-printed signs

wedge tables into vans

heads bent, hands oily and caked with flour.

Maghrib’s scent weighs heavily in the air

Night stars unobscured percolate

The last lights remain.

So do the beggars sewn down the street

hem cleaving road in two

Posture as crooked as back alleys

like knobbled carved staffs.



Written in July by Fara Ling