Queen of The Night

“She will meet you in ten minutes. Would you like a tea, coffee or water?” The girl asked.

“Water will be good, thanks.” He replied.

“Sparkling or still?”

“Tap water will be fine, thanks.”

He got up from the nubuck leather couch and walked towards the loft style gallery area. All the walls were filled with tasteful paintings except a space at the far corner, hung an empty frame, it looked a bit out of place. 

“Your tap water is over there by the couch, but she is ready to see you now, if you are ready?” The girl approached him.

“Ah sure sure. After you.” 

He was led to a small but functionable meeting room decorated with neutral toned modern furniture. It had a view of the Wooloomooloo Finger Wharf. He was left there to admire the view. There were cyclists and joggers. He was a little bit surprised to see them exercising in mid-morning. He turned around to the sound of the door being opened. Her hourglass body was hugged by a black knee length A-line dress, her siren red stilettos made an undeniable statement.  

“Apologies for running late. I hope you got a chance to look at the gallery.” She turned around to close the door. He had a full view of her back. A metal zipper ran full length of the dress, leading his eyes to her toned and well-defined calf muscles. 

To him, she looked like a queen of the night, mysterious and arousing. He quickly interrupted his own thought by thinking about the sweaty cyclist and joggers he saw earlier on. 

“OK, I am all yours.” She walked back to him.

“You what?” He couldn’t be sure what he heard.

“I am all yours. No interruptions.” She said again and sat down while gesturing him to do the same.

His face turned red. He sat down and avoided eye contact before he gathered himself. “Oh, of course. I was surprised to get the call about this meeting. What I means is that I am flattered. You know I am only a start-up artist. I had my first exhibition and only sold one painting, to my grandfather.” He laughed a self-inflicted sarcastic laugh. 

“I was once a new kid on the block. It’s understandable that you don’t consider your first exhibition successful because you didn’t sell many paintings. The mission of my gallery is to give emerging artists a platform to showcase their work and get a start in this highly bias and competitive market. I saw a few of your paintings sent to me by my curator. She’s right, your work is fresh and unique. I want to purchase the one titled “The Forgotten” and display in my gallery. I hope you see the frame I chose for it. Say no if you don’t think the frame works.”

“Ah my God! I don’t know what to say. Thank you! Thank you! For giving me a chance, a head start. Oh my God. Is this happening?”

She let out a string of laughter. “Don’t thank me. You earned it. Your work is niche, and I love niche.” She looked into his moistened eyes, “get out of here before I change my mind. Leave your account detail before you leave so you’ll get paid. I evaluated the painting and had a price in mind. You can say no to the offer, but I think you’ll be happy with my offer.” She winked at him before he quickly exited the room in case his tears of joy fell.  

He left his account detail with the girl at the front desk. She processed a payment straight away and gave him a printout of the transaction record. He was stunned by the high price of his first legitimate sale.  

“She wants to take you out for dinner to discuss more business. Here are the available time slots, which one should I book you in?” The girl asked.

Dinner?!!! Didn’t mind the business bit. His primal instinct was giving him an erection, for some strange reason. Not strange, it’s her curves and the siren red stilettos. He picked a time slot that was the soonest. 

My 1st Book Released

My first book is officially released today! I am stoked 😸
You may pick up a copy on:
Barns and Noble
Search “The Scars We Don’t See by Cassa Bassa”
If you read it and write a genuine review, it will help me to grow as a writer.
Thank you!

Publication – The Scars We Don’t See

My collection of micro fiction The Scars We Don’t See is out.

Amazon UK
Amazon Australia
Amazon US
Barnes and Noble


It started as an intention to leave something for my son to keep when I am gone (a bit morbid, I know). Then through the process of being guided by my publisher Tara and my editor Candice, to put this book together, I felt inspired by the joy a completed book brought to all parties involved. I am eternally grateful for Tara and Candice, deeply encouraged by Benjamin , without them, this book would not become a reality.

I will be posting in the next few days to share with you more about this book. I’d love you to make a purchase, read it and write a genuine review for me, which will help me grow as a writer (who just enjoys writing).

With love and respect, Cassa

Crossed Paths

The exhibition was heading into a direction of disaster. The central heating in the venue wasn’t working and leaving pockets of cold air throughout the loft. He could hear viewers sneezing and coughing.

The viewers only filled about thirty percent of the gallery capacity, pathetic really. Why would anyone wanted to spend a Friday night after a long ass day of work to look at some abstract expressionist paintings from a no name artist and a fresh graduate? He knew he was no Pollock; he didn’t want to be Pollock or his work identified as Pollock alike.

His work had a floral theme, always, even the viewers couldn’t tell because they were abstracts. He had always fixated on flowers especially the little ones like baby-breath, forget-me-not, fairy-foxglove and windflowers.

These are beautiful paintings, don’t you think? A euphonious voice interrupted his negative thoughts about his exhibition.

I feel the artist is trying to tell the world how much they love the seemingly invisible things in life. She spoke again.

Do you know much about the painter? He asked without looking at her. And he knew they were both focusing on the painting in front of them, for some reason, he just knew that she wasn’t looking at him.

Not at all. I literally walked in here to get warm and stumbled into an exhibition. Life is like that, unexpected pleasure.

He could hear the smile and even joy from her voice.

And I try not to read or research the artist before I look at their paintings anyway. I want to really see them through their work rather than filtered opinions, if you know what I mean.

I kinda know what you mean. You want to experience first-hand the inner world of the artist rather than an interpretation from others.

Correct! For all I know, this painter could be a granny with saggy tits. But she is beautiful because her paintings are exquisitely beautiful.

You really think so?

What? The granny with saggy tits, or the paintings are exquisite?

Now the left side of his face was burning, he knew she was looking at him. He turned to her with an uncontrollable grin, the painting, and the granny too.

I am not much an art person; I mean I am not professionally trained. These paintings look abstract to me. For some reason, I feel I saw little flowers or petals. Maybe this led me to believe the painter is a she, or feminine. The saggy tits are just my bad humour. She pulled her face and he love that witty look.

Excuse me, may I borrow the artist from you, mam? He was pulled away from her by the gallery curator to the rugged area which served as a stage. It was time for him to deliver the thank you for coming speech and close the exhibition.

I want to say thank you to you all for coming tonight to my first exhibition. I am sorry that if you end up catching a cold because of the stuffed central heating. I will suggest you buy one of my paintings to wipe your noise with, I know the paper I used, they are suitable for sanding your nose.

Jokes aside, I didn’t expect anyone would come tonight, and yet you are here. You may not get my paintings, I know, I know they are not everyone’s cup of tea. But I feel supported, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I know at least one of you get me as an artist and what I try to express and share, and I am grateful for you, and I am glad you stumbled into my exhibition. He looked at her when he said that last few sentences.


He ran his paint stained fingers over the scars on his chest. They reminded him of the pleasure she gave him. The raised flesh was soft like her lips, and the memory of the demeaning words came from her lips made him hard. But a rush of sadness formed a stabbing pain in his heart.

He got out of bed and moved towards his studio, brought the half smoked weed with him. Continued to work on the painting, he wanted to finish it by dawn. he had already completed the sketch, and the lilac, pink and white windflowers covered most of the canvas. The final touch was to work on the detail of the ugly weathered window where the viewer would see the field of windflowers from. He might go over the field of windflowers with a wash of rain, might not. His mind was scattered by the earlier encounter with her.

He took a drag of the weed, not sure why he smoked it, it had no effect on him whatsoever. She hated him smoking. Was it the rebel in him, or being spiteful, or making a statement of his new found freedom, or an attempt to distract himself from thinking of her? Without any warning, he was all choked up by the lump in his throat trying to move up to release into salt vapours.

The Love of My Life

Masticadores India published my microstory ☺️

Here is the excerpt, please click on the link above to read the full story, and if you like what you read, remember to subscribe.

It’s my wife’s birthday party tonight. I took a day off to get ready, well, not me getting ready, it’s getting her and the party ready.

I dropped her off at the spa first thing in the morning, then went to pick up the party decorations, then went to the venue and set everything up. It took me four hours to get all that done. The timing was perfect though, just in time to pick her up from the spa. I told her that she looked a million dollars with a facial treatment, manicure and pedicure. Not that I could tell, but she told me enough that I learned to compliment her, one of the secrets of a happy marriage, I guess.

We were hungry so we decided to drive to the sailing club to have lunch since it’s a glorious day. I drove like a mad man in the traffic because there was no other way when you had a hangry wife in the passenger seat.

When we were about twenty metres to the T junction, I spotted a car moving out of the parking spot right in front of the club on the esplanade. I slammed on the accelerator and dashed to take the spot; I was so fixated on the parking spot, my safe driving sense became retarded.

Boom! I went through a red light

The Invisible Thread

Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Thread

Her loved ones and her psychiatrist kept telling her that she lost her baby boy at birth, to be precised, it was a still born.

But she noticed this invisible thread connecting her and her boy like an umbilical cord.

She had heard him cry, coo and breath all time of the day, all days of the week, and all weeks of the year, then it all stopped.

The sense of loss was unbearable for her. Drowning herself with tears and vodka, she had numbed herself to sleep each night for almost three years.

On the twenty-ninth of February, by the Grace of God or by a miracle, she heard her boy again crying, breathing, but this time she also heard him giggling.

Daydream Kids

I miss the time I could daydream by the wooden window facing the treetops. Summer breeze took my thoughts far away to the forest where my eyes would be filled with shades of green and brown earth. Those days were so worth it even at times I suffered the humiliation of a chalk being thrown at my face, trying to bring me back to whatever boring class it was, usually history and politics.

At graduation, you gifted me a pencil sketch of the back of my head with a high ponytail, my head faced north west to the window in the classroom, the gateway to my world of escape. You captured me capturing the wonders of the world far beyond the treetops through that wooden frame. And I wondered if I was your world of escape.


Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Tension

The tension between the boss and the new hire is so obvious to everyone in the office.

We heard hard cover folders being thrown to the door, the boss’s fist banging on the desk, shoes shuffling on the wooden floor. When she came out of his office, her face is flushed with red, mascara smeared by tears possibly. We feel really sorry for her because we all know about our boss’s bad temper.

I walked up to her desk and whispered to her, “Sweety, it’ll get better after probation, just hang in there, alright?” She whispered back with a giggle, “I thought it can’t get any better, it was mind blowing!”

The Lucky Fourth

Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Silk

She eventually married a practical man.
He reminds her of cotton, comfortable and reliable.

Husband number one was like linen, raw and earthy, but stubborn.

Number two husband was like nylon, clung to her legs and ended up a fake.

Husband number three was the worst of them all who reminded her of silk, sleek and deceiving.
The marriage with him was a string of slippery lies.

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