1Raspberry red and yours You've managed to trick God.

8 Fists His fists bunching up my shirt against my ribs. Hard, hurried fingers. That's how it begins. In an alley, a stench of rotting food, sweet and sickening enveloping us. -Written for the Review Game's September Writing Challenge Contest. M/M.

6Last rites Jakarta at this hour. A sultry giant who breathes clouds of kerosene and burning coconut husk. And she ought to be used to this, God playing rough.

4The serpent's fruit He disappears in spring. A stupid thing to think, because here where the equator cuts a country in two, spring doesn't even exist. - And just like that, neither does he.

6 What can't be said His palm clammy and hot against hers, holding on so hard it hurts - saying what can't be said. Because that's what they do. That's how they speak. Skin on skin, in silence.

5 Used to hate him "Hey…" he mumbles against her lips. "This is way better than that cowlick you gave me back in first grade." - Widya used to hate him, but not anymore. Now eyes burn across rooms, and smiles must be swallowed. She is married to his brother. Not to him.