Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention puh-leeeeeeeez! Okay I listen to the Sweeney Todd soundtrack too much.

Anyway, three parodies! The first two are of One Republic's 'Apologize', and Grace and I wrote them together.

Fornication

I’m holding on your rope

Got me ten feet off the ground

I try to get you horny, but you don’t even turn around

You tell me that you want me

Then you go and menopause, but wait

You tell me that you’re sorry,

Didn’t think I’d want more kids

You say that

It’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

You said it’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

Even though my hair’s grey there’s still some sperm in me

And we all know that men need sex to keep em’ all happy

So I don’t understand why you refuse to mate with me

And you say

“It would be really painful, now that I’m over 50,

So I’m afraid,”

It’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

You said it’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

It’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

You said it’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

It’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

You said it’s too late for fornication, it’s too late

Contraception

They talked to us in school and they told us all sorts of things

They told us about condoms and having chastity rings

They told us that they’re sorry, but we’ll all catch STIs

If we

Partake in underage sex, without using spermicide

Then we’ll say

That it’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

I said it’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

Of course we didn’t listen, we’ve heard it all before

For hormonal teenagers safe sex was such a chore

Till one day you woke up, find you have a baby bump

Oh shit

Tried for an abortion, doctor freaking cheated us

Goddamn

It’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

I said it’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

And it’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

I said it’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

It’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

I said it’s too late for contraception

It’s too late

And the last one is a parody of Rihanna's 'Unfaithful'. I wrote it on request for a friend, and he helped write the second verse, so due credit to Benny of CHS =D

Unfaithful (or I Couldn't Think Of A New Title)

Story of my life

Sitting in my room

Doing trigonometry

Sorrow in my soul

Cause I just can’t do

Cosine A and tangent B

Math is more than trig

And trig is more than math

But it doesn’t feel that way

And I’m a getting sick

Of Victor Frankenstein

And his stupid monstrosity

And we all know Pythagoras’ theorem

But who really cares?

When I know that my G.P.A is negative three

I can see it dying

I don’t wanna do this anymore

I don’t wanna be the reason why

Every time I open my pencil box

I see that all my ink is running dry

I don’t wanna do redox anymore

I don’t want more hydrogen oxides

I don’t wanna read…my history notes.

I feel it in the ground

The answer can’t be found

There’s got to be some other way

This encroaching sense

Of despair makes me tense

I guess I’m gonna stay up late

This paper’s really long.

Midnight is almost here

A math can go to hell

Because we both know

That I am gonna fail

And we know it very well

And we all know Pythagoras’ theorem

But who really cares?

When I know that my G.P.A is negative three

I can see it dying

I don’t wanna do this anymore

I don’t wanna be the reason why

Every time I open my pencil box

I see that all my ink is running dry

I don’t wanna do redox anymore

I don’t want more hydrogen oxides

I don’t wanna read…my history notes.

I feel disgust

At all these malay worksheets that are piling on my desk

Get it over with

I don’t wanna do this anymore

Anymore

I don’t wanna do this anymore

I don’t wanna be the reason why

Every time I open my pencil box

I see that all my ink is running dry

I don’t wanna do redox anymore

I don’t want more hydrogen oxides

I don’t wanna read…my history notes.

Happy mugging, darlings <3

Nana (315)

weiqing's parody!

hey hey, i'm here to post because ms ng made me feel sufficiently guilty about the thought of not-doing/posting my um, parody. It's a spoof/parody of Bleeding Love, and it's called Eating Junk Food. haha :D

Eating Junk Food
Closed off from my fridge
I didn’t need weight gain
One rice grain was enough
Yeah, I was that vain
Time starts to pass
Before long I’m just skin and bone

But something happened
For the very first time with you
My mouth watered with the sound
Of “fast food chain”
And everyone’s looking round
Thinking I’m going crazy 

Chorus
But I don’t care what they say
I’ll still eat junk food
They try to give me salad
But I’ll still get the fries
My heart’s crippled by the veins
That you keep on clogging
You tempt me too much and I,

Keep eating
Keep, keep eating junk food
I keep eating
I keep, keep eating junk food
Keep eating
Keep, keep eating junk food
You tempt me too much

Trying hard not to eat
But you look so good
HPB (health promotion board) ads fill my eyes
Try to fill me with doubt
Yeah I know that their goal
Is to keep me healthy

But nothing’s greater
Than the rush that comes with eating you
And in this world of tasteless greens
I see you on a plate
Yet everyone around me
Thinks that I’m going crazy, maybe, maybe 

-Chorus-

And it’s draining my money
Oh they find it hard to believe
I’ll be carrying these burgers
For everyone to try

-Chorus-

Keep eating,
Keep, keep eating junk food.

(disclaimer: it's supposed to be like a commentary on the obesity
epidemic in US and to a certain extent singapore too)

You can find the original lyrics and video here: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/l/leona_lewis/bleeding_love.html

<3 weiqing

parody

ok here is mine! if you didnt realise, it is about da vinci code. like the book by dan brown.

oh and the original song is love, me by colin raye.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycze0tiMAPw
that is the youtube link for the original.

I read a note my Grandpa wrote back in 2003,
Grandpa laid it on the floor, and he used Fibbonacci.
He said, 'Princess, you might not understand, but a long long time ago,
Priory of Sion was once founded, to protect the Holy Grail.'

Robert Langdon is the one you need, and run away together.
The cryptex is the first clue I leave you, may you discover,
The word of wisdom which help unlock is you, 'Sophie'.
You'll find this last note, and this is what it says:

'If you get there before Teabing,
Seek the orb quickly
Beneath the ancient Roslin waits
The Holy Grail and you history.

See I'm not gonna let you down
Princess, forgive me
And between now and then
Til you find your Grandma,

I'll be lovng you,
Love, Me.'

I read these words just hours after my Grandpa passed away.
In the archway of the church where me and Langdon stopped to pray.
I know I never seen Grandma in all my twenty years.
But as we said these words to her, her eyes filled up with tears.

'If you get there before Teabing,
Seek the orb quickly
Beneath the ancient Roslin waits
The Holy Grail and you history.

See I'm not gonna let you down
Princess, forgive me
And between now and then
Til you find your Grandma,

I'll be lovng you,
Love, Me.'

yay!

xinxuan

Parody - I've Just Seen A Face

YAY I HAVE THE AWESOME HONOUR OF POSTING AGAIN AFTER SO LONG :D

Baobi and I made a parody of this song "I've Just Seen A Face" by The Beatles, but sung by Jim Sturgess in the movie 'Across The Universe' here.
(Yes, you click the word 'here' for a youtube link so that you can attempt to sing with our parodied lyrics roughly meant to tell you about the life of a crazy fangirl coughexamplecoughbaobicoughlisacoughcoughcough)

Here's our parody:

I've just seen a face
Won't forget it in my haste
I fell in love - he's just the guy for me
And I want all the girls to know he's mine
Na na na na na na

If we ever met someday
I won't be able to look away
But you will never notice me
And my heart it still flutters for you
Na na na na na na

Calling, yes I am calling
But they keep blocking my numbers (again)

You'll probably never see
A fan like this, you should be scared
And I have missed you and stalked you home
I bet the other girls were never quite like this
Na na na na na na

Calling, please do call me
xxxxxxxx (insert number here, I don't want to put up a number in case you really try to call it)

Here's the original lyrics:

I've just seen a face
I can't forget the time or place
That we'd just met, she's just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see we've met
Na na na na na na

Had it been another day
I might have looked the other way
But I had never been aware
And as it is I dream of her tonight
Na na na na na na

Falling, yes I am falling
And she keeps calling, me back again

I have never known the likes of this, I've been alone
And I have missed things and stayed out of sight
But the other girls were never quite like this
Na na na na na na

Falling, yes I am falling
And she keeps calling, me back again

Thanks :)

Love,
Ruifen who misses her oreos.

nanofiction (:

hey! this is kaiyuit (: YES goodbye math! and chinese! and physics! tralala.

some pieces of fifty-five fiction(: enjoy.

Your food, your foe.

My skin is ripped apart.
My innards ooze out onto sizzling metal, like yellow goo.
I feel the scorching heat; my time is up.
But, I thought, as my comrades joined me in my cruel fate, we’ll never surrender meekly!
Hear the war cries of the scrambled eggs, as we bring you humans, FOOD POISONING.

By the Vanity Pond
A girl sits by the lake. The water is glossy and smooth; it entices her.
She leans forward; her reflection stares back in surprise.
She bends down to kiss it; she loves her reflection with intense passion.
It whispers to her to join it: her other self, beneath the glassy surface.
And intoxicated, she follows.

A foolish clown
He slips back into the dressing room, amidst the audience’s laughs. Another successful act. He reapplies his thick, red and white makeup and twists his polka-dotted tie briskly. He glances at the cracked mirror, and wonders, for the first time in thirty-five years, if he was nothing but a sad play-thing for others to ridicule.

horror
At midnight, the girl shuffles into the dark, unlit kitchen. She picks up and fills a mug with milk, then drinks sleepily from it. But something’s not right: what is it? She switches the light on. She screams. Her cup falls and shatters with a resounding crash. For inside the cup, was a live cockroach.
(this DID happen to me. except that it wasn't a cockcroach x/EWWW~)

Clockwork
The two figures whirl in time to the intense music, their bodies flying, connecting, and separating in a mad tempo. Dance. Their feet move in a drunken blur. Crazy, senseless, frenzied, intoxicating passion. A fiery fervor that'll never be extinguished; a dance that will go on forever. Or at least, until their clockwork winds down.

55 fiction/why write?

Hey, here’s my (weiqing’s) stuff, hope it’ll be a good read for you!

Life
With an unsteady hand, she etches the first strokes on the blank white canvas. Then come the bright splashes of vivid colour, before a surge of mottled black drowns out everything. Desperate, she rains a bucketful of tears upon it, but the stains refuse to go away. Indeed, life’s canvas never offers a second chance.

Hello, Mars!
This is his last meeting with her. Much has changed since they first met. Once, she was fresh and full of life, and he had just begun to experience the heady joys of being with her. Now she was old and spent, and so Man bid goodbye to Earth and boarded the spaceship to Mars.

Do you remember me?
The bright sparkle of the thread of sunshine that sneaks in through the crack in the wooden doors catches her breath. She leans towards it, and is gratified when the cool morning breeze gently caresses the back of her eyelids. Then you slam the closet doors shut again on that hideous shirt you’ll never wear.

Writing

Writing is often exalted as the truest and purest form of expression; the most effective way to crystallize the swirl of emotions inside each and every one of us. But is it, really?

For the tired, jaded souls trudging through the rhetoric of everyday life, writing ceases to be a beautiful, emotional exercise. Their writing comes straight from their hearts, and possessing hearts long dulled by the slow pounding rhythm of boredom and fatigue, the glimmer of inspiration and hope that one oft sees in the writing of youth is shrouded in an oppressive fog of ennui. The best pieces of writing can only be produced when the writer herself is in her best state of mind; consequently, a writer whose senses have been blunted by years of disillusionment cannot hope to craft a masterpiece.

Or, perhaps there exist a few people whose innate talent for writing is so strong that no matter what their frame of mind, once a pen is put in their hand, the sheets of blank paper in front of them have no chance of protecting themselves from the barrage of words soon to drown them.

At the end of the day, I guess, a piece of writing does hold up a mirror to the churning feelings of its writer as she was writing it. A piece of writing can very well allow a reader to asses the writer’s mood, personal opinion and maybe even her beliefs and values. It reflects its writer’s subconscious thoughts and emotions, and the subtle shades of meanings detected in the various words employed can all paint a good picture of the writer’s psycho-emotional thought processes.

Or- does it? If you could tell I was feeling (how do I put “sian” cheemly), kudos to you, you’ve proven my (mini excuse for an) essay right (:

55 fiction (:

Here goes...

1. Answers

I took a slow, meaningful promenade in the park, trying desperately to clear my head. Questions zipped pas me in a flurry, and I wanted answers immediately. Suddenly, I looked up, only to hear the senile old hag shriek loudly, "Noo!". Content, I went home. After all, they say a man of few words is wise.

2. Hunt

Aclump of brown fur whizzed past the tall grass, and the hunter perked up at the sight. He edged closer, gripping his weapon tightly in his calloused palm, ready to make the perfect shot. He positioned himself stealthily and waited, the silence only growing gradually louder. Suddenly a loud roar behind him. The end.

3. World

Millions of years.

Billions of years.

The same motion.

The constant dizziness and nausea, causing my occasional outbursts at various peaks, and the continuous, ceaseless journey through eternity- I needed no assurance that I'd never view anything elso in alternate perspective. A revolution was very regular, for gravity did believe: One good turn deserves another.

(: japna.

very discerning

A quick one.

-----------------------------------

She looks sideways at you. “Well, is she pretty?”
“Some. Mm, she’s beautiful sometimes. When she ties her hair a certain way. When she has a genuine smile.”
“You really like her, don’t you!”
“But she’s such a bitch!”
“But you like her anyway.”
Silence.
She grins. “You’re blushing. I’ll get you an ice cube.”

-----------------------------------

Based on a real conversation. I couldn't resist. [:

Just a drop of water in an endless sea

I hope you guys enjoy this, and thank you if you comment (:

- Kar Min

FIFTY-FIVE FICTION

Shelley
Today the ocean is a mourning murderer. A half-dressed skeleton reclines on a wooden pedestal. He is haloed by fire in the salt-spiked air, surrendering to the blind music of the sea as red night descends. You crane your neck as you circle overhead and see only those loving waters pooling round an empty shell.

Fat Hope
That day I gave you a fat bag of hopes. You looked in and found Heart, which was slightly squashed by Affection. Later you returned me everything, saying that you couldn’t own my Dreams. You thought I wasn’t looking when you slipped my red globe into your breast pocket and exchanged it for your own.


Her pen draws ragged circles. She scouts the table top for invisible ink she might have left before the invigilator’s harsh “remove all notes and materials from the examination hall”. Panic is an old friend. Questions glare at her, marring the innocence of fresh white paper, still hot from the photocopier. Her mind fires blanks.

Angel
I remember when you and I sat on the beach as the sea threw its blankets over us. You kissed the salt on my eyelids and said you tasted honey. I asked why you desecrated your wings with this raw, jagged soul – you simply replied that every sand grain was the crumb of a star.

WRITING ABOUT WRITING
Who is a writer?

Last Wednesday there was a commotion out in the corridor of our apartment, the sound of muffled boxes and cartons on roller skates. I tiptoed to look through the peephole and listened to the distorted voices rebounding against the front door. With a squint I distinguished the figure of a thin man in a black suit standing directly outside. My neck cramped and uncramped as he pointed directions to the brawny, faceless men who were dragging big brown slabs of cardboard down the hallway. The boxes sailed down the dirty carpet and disappeared from my view on the right. By this time my feet hurt and my brother had crept up and poked me in the back.

"New neighbour," I explained, my lips almost brushing the door. I heard his grunt and subsequent retreat to the computer. The familiar video-game gunshots began.

Outside, the thin man jumped, startled.

I tried another angle and understood why. A box had fallen on its side – there was a gash in its brown sealing tape and what looked like smaller boxes were bleeding from it. The small boxes began doing splits face-down on the carpet and I realised that they were all identically gaudy little books! The thin man was making violent hand actions and shaking his head as he shooed away the brawny ones. No-one was allowed in his protective radius as he knelt down, pushed the box upright (wincing as the remaining contents tumbled and gurgled), began picking up the little books on the floor and gently, gently refilled the void in the injured box.

I could almost hear the forlorn shuffle of the box on the floor as he pushed it out of my sight, into the apartment next door.

There was no one left outside but the carpet. Gingerly I unlatched the door, pushed down the handle and pushed it just the tiniest fraction open. My nose fit the gap perfectly. My eyes must have crossed themselves as the narrow sliver of light showed me: a lonely hallway, a floor of footprints in transit, and a little book lying curled up like a child after a fall. It looked so dejected that I had to run out and pick it up.

It was a notebook. It was lined, perhaps with worry, and filled with more (squiggly) lines which told the story of another world. I sat in the hallway and read of laughter, bloodshed and the clashing of souls. After the final full stop I felt a horrible emptiness and a need to return to the obvious and the insincere – so I observed that dust was attacking the cover, its corners were bent at a strange angle, and half the book was mutilated by an angry crease. The handwriting resembled barbed wire. But I thought it was beautiful, a bird with a broken wing. I thought I would nurse it back to health and set it free.

In a sudden the Next Door opened and there was the thin man, standing sideways in the doorway, pretending to usher the brawny men out while making shooing motions with his hands. I was right opposite him, crouched on the floor with the black book hanging from my palms. For a moment I shut my eyes and listened to the clumpy bootsteps of the men as they marched down and away, their low, disgruntled mumbles about "bloody sensitive artist types" and "I need a donut now". The sounds faded into the distance as the carpet began to make my nose itch.

After I sneezed, I opened my eyes. He was still standing there, but now he was looking at me and the book in my hands. Just then I realised how tacky it was, how its blue spirals clashed with its burgundy plastic coat and how the dreadful logo proclaiming REDTYPE INC: communicable solutions for The Future was a violent stain on the spine. Yet I didn’t want to let go of it. As I glanced down at the open face of the book, the spidery handwriting spun a web for my heart. I knew I was holding life in my hands.

One, two, three. That was all it took for him to cross the hallway. I didn’t want to have a conversation with his knees so I stood up, very slowly, keeping the breathing book in my arms. My eyes were level with his shoulders but I thought it strange how his voice seemed to be right in my ear as he said,

"Sorry, is that notebook mine?"

My gaze flickered up to his face, which was angular and slightly ill-looking. His eyes were like fog. Were these the windows out of which he was looking when he sketched a world to life in his notebook, using no more than words, the rough tools available to every commoner on the street? Those eyes frightened me. I dropped my stare.

"Come, return it to me." I think he meant to sound coaxing but I would not be coaxed. His hand stretched out, and I saw blueish stains on his fingertips. Was that the ink of the sky in his creation? Was that the hand with which he spun an epic on a garish company notebook? It was too much to believe. I took a step back, stumbling against the wall.

"Who are you?" My voice wobbled on a tightrope. He lowered his eyes to meet mine, head tilted at a slightly amused angle, and his voice was quiet laughter.

"I’m a writer." He smiled.

I crumbled and placed the book in his open palm.

For those who understand, appreciate and relish in the power of words, and cannot live without them (perhaps because you love to read, perhaps because you love to write or/and perhaps because words define who and what you are), this poem is for you.

I Leave Bits of Me Everywhere- Karen Swank-Fitch

poem-words are my clothing, stripped late at night

a trail from the threshold to the foot of bed

along the stairs lay verbs

the actions i need to climb twelve steps at 2am

a vowel left adjacent to toothbrush

i get sloppy with tartar and allusions

over the cornice of mirror, hangs a strand of pearly metaphors

a simile in my sink

a limerick needing to be laundered

the clothes hamper is full of rimes and meters in want of mending

kick off the shoes,

make a pile of cacophony

wrap myself in the plum flannel of sonnet

hair up-tied with haiku

finding the resting place for naked poet...

in ambiance i light a candle

a sestina goes up in flames.

- ms ng :)

For those of you mentioned that you "can't write on demand" or "this writing task is meaningless", I'm sure you can empathise with the ape in the poem below.

Teaching the Poem to Write Poems-John Tate

They didn't have much trouble

teaching the ape to write poems:

first they strapped him into the chair,

then tied the pencil around his hand

(the paper had already been nailed down).

Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his should 

and whispered into his ear:

"You look like a god sitting there.

Why don't you try writing something?"

- ms ng :)

55 fictions

Hello everyone and before anything else,

HAPPY NATIONAL DAY !!!

It's Singapore's birthday ! To anyone who sees this, try to catch the parade later okay !

Anyway, here are my 55 fictions. I aimed for morbid, but when Ms Ng read them, she laughed. *sniff sniff*

Uninspired
It started off red and raw, a glorious gash of scarlet against cream. It wasn't long before it crusted over, brown and unyielding, the old and tired layer flaking away and revealing that pink vulnerability that only change in time can bring. It was inevitable that protection was lost in the flurry of growing up.

Anorexic
The light winked against the mirror, drawing his attention yet again to his overly plump body. He closed his eyes and felt the discomfort of a bloated tummy, skin stretched tight over it. Teddy's button nose crinkled as he averted his eyes from a body people would only ever deign to call "cuddly".

Scalped
A chronic dandruff problem. That was about as close as one could get to the root of the issue, Layer after layer of rubbed off material collected on the surface of the table, forming a veritable snow storm of gray and white. The eraser's scalp tingled with the heat of fresh friction.

Haha and that's it. xD Feel free to comment on them okay !

Love,
Charmaine the garfield

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Hallo good citizens, fellow inhabitants of this blog and creepy blogstalkers (Yes, I know you're out there. >O)! Today I present you with um, 55 fiction which I wrote long ago but was too lazy to post until now! They are COMPLETELY UNRELATED to one another (unless you want to talk about randomness and weirdness, then, uh, okay ._.).

---

1. Splitting!

Bobby's head hurt. He'd been wandering around in the darkness, alone for as long as he could remember. A few days ago a strange person had appeared, declared, 'Let there be light!' and Bobby's head had hurt since then. Suddenly, Bobby exploded into a million little pieces, and the Universe was formed. (55! Huzzah!)

2. Final Epic Battle

"Oh no! It's THE DARK LORD!!!" Screamed frail little Timmy, flailing in terror as he was pulled closer to DOOM. "DIE!" roared the Dark Lord, and green magic flew out and hit little Timmy in the face, killing him. Then Bobby folded the tissue and threw it into the bin.

---

Have a good night! The Olympics Opening Ceremony is very interesting. :O

jiaxuan--fictions, long and short

One-nil
Their eyes met briefly; the man in blue smirked before morphing into Alex’s dead brother. The latter shifted his gaze in reflex and only allowed himself a grimace after winning the tussle for the ball. He felt no euphoria as he shot home a match-winner, only the bittersweet sensation of momentarily conquering the robots one-nil.

28 years later
They sat on the benches under the shade of the tree, savouring their ice-creams quietly in the summer evening. The noises in the park—the chirping of birds, the merry screaming of children—made up for the lack of conversation.
“Do you remember,” she started, “The time when these were all real flesh and blood?”

The ring
Through it all, the ring with a rose motif witnessed the diplomatic conversation lined with double meanings, exchanged between two men clad in smart suits.
“Good prospect,” the Mafioso said when the other left, touching the family heirloom.
He did not know that the ring of the Blackrose family had been replaced with a bug.

*
The mother watched as her daughter sat unmoving with a bulky, heavy headset covering her face.

“What’s happening?” The mother thought aloud.

Her daughter’s reply took a while to register. “I’m stranded on an island,” She started finally, before lapsing into another long pause. “Searching food.” Ingrid’s message reached her mother’s mind unclear and halting—she was engrossed in her simulation. The mother stared intently at Ingrid, though the headset and the almost-subconscious security system, and saw a clear picture of Ingrid being marooned on an island with a friend, attempting to gain their bearings in the jungle amidst finding food to satisfy their virtual hunger.

“Do you know what books were?” The mother mused, almost suddenly.

“I’m intent on surviving on the island until I find a way out,” Ingrid explained and paused as she removed the device and set it on her lap. The sentence reached her mother’s mind crystal-clear this time.

“No,” Ingrid finally responded. “Aren’t they extinct?”

The mother nodded and stood up, gesturing mentally for Ingrid to follow. They stood at the corner of the room, by a set of complex switches beside the door. With the mother’s silent command, the switches performed a series of flicks.

Slowly, the room changed—the marble flooring of the living room was replaced with wood and the dark room emanated a warm orange glow; formidable rows of tall shelves stood in front of them. The mother walked towards the sofa in front of the fireplace; Ingrid followed closely behind, with the faint cackling of fire from the fireplace puncturing the silence.

Ingrid’s thoughts were teeming with a multitude of different things. This room was one she had never seen before; the family had no use for them. It looked so different from the rest and her mind buzzed with the discovery of new, queer objects, from the archaic florescent light and its artificial orange glow, to block-like objects that filled the shelves ,and the feel of warm carpet under her feet.

“This is the library,” Ingrid commented furtively and the mother smiled, repeating her sentence with a mix of confidence and amusement.

“What are those?” Ingrid gesticulated for her mother to look at the shelves. “Those block-like objects sitting there.”

Her mother smiled once more; Ingrid had never seen that smile on her mother’s face. It gave a sparkling quality to her mother’s eyes and for a few moments, she looked a little younger. One block appeared on the table in front of them at her mother’s retrieval.

“This,” she proclaimed, pride evident in her voice. “Is a book.”

Ingrid took it, blew the dust off the cover and flipped it open; queer symbols disjointed by a small spacing greeted her. Her mother stood behind and pronounced aloud word for word, and for the first time, she heard the rich tone of her mother’s voice. Together with the enthusiastic storytelling, the words came cleverly together to paint Ingrid a mental picture of an alternate universe she would otherwise never meet. Slowly but surely, Ingrid began to remember the letters, and how they came together to represent the words so frequently exchanged through a matter of thought.


Ingrid could not quite recall how her mother first mentioned books, but she found her mind roaming for ideas and put down her thoughts and fantasies into concrete proof, and when she finished, she dragged her mother to the library and read aloud her first story, of a little girl stumbling into a library for the first time.

My fictions currently centre around stuff I’m preoccupied with, mainly soccer, thrillers and sci-fi. After not being able to write concrete narratives for a while, I found it a little hard to get the words to come together, so mostly these were idea and plot-driven. I’m more satisfied with my 55 fictions because the story’s lacking in detail and the ending was somewhat disappointing and clichéd. Nonetheless enjoy and thanks for comments :D

Jia Xuan (can I use JX? D: )

55 fiction!

1. Her fingers danced up and down the fingerboard, experimenting with tones and colours, like an artist. Her face was incomprehensible, ecstasy at one moment, then a map of wrinkles the next. Her neighbours have long-diminished her as a manic, with her wild, indecipherable gestures and obsessive concentration. She was deaf, but music knows no boundaries.


[for my favourite team Manchester United:]
2. The girl lay, inanimate, on her bed. On the television set, however, history was unfolding.

11.50pm. Manchester United 0, Arsenal 0. The girl wheezed; her time was almost up.

11.55pm. Nothing.

Then, abruptly, “GOAL!!!” Manchester United has won the Champions League. The girl’s eyes opened in a last flash of comprehension, and she passed on.


3. We disembarked, and I was helped into a waiting ambulance, I heard conversation all around me:

“How long has it been already?”
“We need to hurry; the hospital is twenty minutes away!”

Inside the ER, a little boy’s parents were waiting anxiously. Finally, the doors burst open and a voice announced. “The heart is here!”

Thanks for reading!

love,

shanjee

chinwei - 55fiction

[Three rather miserable works of 55fiction! Unfortunately they’re not very coherent or comprehensible because there are contexts/ implicit stuff that I use as premises for each of them and my manner of writing just makes things worse. Read the first version of the third piece first because it starts to sound as stupid as it is when you know which songs the phrases are from. And yes, I was feeling crazy enough to compose the entire thing out of quoted and completely unchanged lyrics. It was fun, this whole thing.]

1. Traumerei (55WORDS!)

The penguin sat fingering a melody. It was beautiful, how perfection commanded attention but soothed the senses. The music escalated and returned to the beginning motif. Curtains split and shredded to creepy streamers and cherubs’ faces melted to lumps – the repetition was mocking, definite. It was perfect, and would remain perfect. They couldn’t ever leave.

2. Epistamai (55WORDS!)

She herself was to blame. It wasn’t her concern, not then, but she had wanted too much, cared too much. And she had seen too much, though she saw blindly. The point wasn’t her death, it was her eyes. There, now I’ve removed her eyelids and she’ll always see. But, as always, she’ll never comprehend.

3. Why Can’t I (55WORDS!)

He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease – any dream will do.

Hey little apple blossom, maybe Tuesday will be my good news day. Don’t let the stormy darkness hold you down; I can show you the world somewhere out there. It’s a wonderful world, wherever you are.

If happy little bluebirds fly.

3. Why Can’t I (over the rainbow)

He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease (the daring young man on the flying trapeze)– any dream will do (any dream will do).

Hey little apple blossom (hey little apple blossom), maybe Tuesday will be my good news day (the man i love). Don’t let the stormy darkness hold you down (candle on the water); I can show you the world (a whole new world) somewhere out there (somewhere out there). It’s a wonderful world (wonderful world), wherever you are (my heart will go on).

If happy little bluebirds fly (over the rainbow).

[I’ve just added one. The first literal and remotely sensible, albeit deliriously sadistic and fantastic, one. ALL NEONATES SHOULD BE DIPPED IN LIQUID NITROGEN.]

4. Liquid Nitrogen (55WORDS!)

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock, when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. We’ve stopped pretending though – cradles are costly, wind is slow. They’re now hung by legs from moving belts and dipped in turn, making them dead and brittle, then dropped into the chute, smashed on landing and incinerated – so efficient!

chinwei - keep on writing

as indicated by the title, this is my response to the 'keep on writing' assignment. it is boldly incoherent and some parts of it suspiciously resemble those conversations i have with my Other Voices, therefore you might not actually want to read this. i hope ms ng doesn't actually plow through every single piece on this blog and end up reading this. okay ms ng if you're reading this kindly do not get pissed with the fact that i am pissed with the fact that i have to write this. thankyou.

(insert heart since blogger mysteriously refuses to let me put the heart emocon here) teesh

A CONTEMPLATION ON THE WRITTEN WORD AND THE SUBLIME ART OF WRITING

I am supposed to be writing about writing. Using writing to support writing, by the way, is a circular argument. According to Munchausen’s Trilemma, circular arguments are a denial of truth. Therefore my essay will be a denial of truth. That shouldn’t matter, though, because there is no absolute truth anyway.

Thus it is that I discard all metaphysical notions and attempt to deliver a compelling diatribe on the abovementioned title. That is, this piece is not actually a ‘Contemplation on the Written Word and the Sublime Art of Writing’, but will be about a ‘Contemplation on the Written Word and the Sublime Art of Writing’. It is an essay not of that title, but on that subject. If, by any chance, you don’t get the difference, don’t go on. Think about it and understand it before you read any further or else all I’m writing here might just be more futile than it already is.

You might, no you must, have heard much hyperbolic praise for the written word and the sublime art of writing. These go along the lines of ‘writing is man’s greatest achievement’, essentially in an attempt to point out how uniquely integral writing is to the human race. This it might just be but, if you could possibly bear to peel these profound lines from your head for a bit, kindly consider what I have to say.

Wholesale transfer of notions, perceptions and ideas is not known to be possible as long as the human mind is involved, and communication among man is made possible by one man creating his idea and another man getting an idea of this creation. This longwinded and therefore rather twisty process called communication does a lot to make ideas volatile and dangerously tractable, but it is in this malleability that expression derives all its subtlety and meaning.

Having spouted so much I do hope you get what I mean to say about writing. Writing is a form of expression and communication. So in this sense, yes, writing is a sublime art. If you were wondering about the other part of the title, the bit about the ‘written word’, the written word is a form in which writing exists – an ever-evolving but nonetheless grounded medium of expression.

In case you have not adequately grasped my meaning in the previous paragraphs, I will repeat that writing is a form of expression and communication. As such, it is to be respected and regarded as the sublime art which I would like to believe it is. However, it is a necessary evil that writing and the written word goes to serve less noble purposes.

Let me elaborate by a remotely metacognitive means. Think about at this piece of work – the question and requirements, not this essay itself. Think, also, about ‘creative’ writing assignments. If writing is about sharing ideas, why are we made to write if we have no ideas? Sure, we end up having ideas, but I would like to suggest that these notions are contrived and extruded like noodles through a die – longwinded, dense and nondescript though remotely tasty for a bit.

Let me elaborate more, this time a little more pettily. The written word and writing, a supreme art, is used to commit unwelcome acts such as reminding you that ‘Memoirs of a Madman’ is due today when you’ve just begun on it, or informing you that you have been sued for defamation. It also exists as a means by which you can be demanded to write a totally irrational essay on the pros and cons of minority representation or some other political rubbish.

As a writer and as a human being, I find that rather regrettable. But it is one of the ironies of life. Now, this denial of truth is arriving at its long-awaited end. After all that I’ve said, perhaps you can do a little inferring on what I meant when I said this piece will not be of that subject mentioned, but on that subject. Write as I may, understanding cannot be substituted.

blogger is so slow! ):

Livejournal > Blogger :D

Ever-dependable Lisa very nicely asked me to post this beacuse it's about her.

HAHA enjoy.

National Pastime
She leans drowsily into me and I am acutely aware of the solidness and warmth of her body and the smell of her shampoo and the slight jerk as her head nods.
Her sleepiness is contagious. But we both jolt awake instantly when they start blasting that awful National Day rap into the assembly hall.

Flirting with Flash Fiction

Remembrance

The watch's resounding ticks brought mum's nagging to life. I was running late again. I had forgotten her quaint little teatime party. Driving round the corner, expectantly waiting for the lineup of salubrious widows' abodes, I was gretted with a row of burnt ramshackle houses and a fleeting memory of her death. I had forgotten.

Flight

She flies and... she sticks the landing! My passing flights of fancy bound by squares of scribbled chalk had me smiling. Showing off is a daily ritual and social quo is a ladder made built for climbing. As anticipation escalated, I took a leap and crashed. Now, I'm the girl who broke her foot playing hopscotch.

******

I think you know who i am. (Incredible Hulk + Big Foot = MY FOOT)

55 fiction

True Love

He plunged on deeper, further and faster while she spiraled down towards an unavoidable end. She seemed so lithe, her delicate features glowing with a green mystical sheen. Friction was completely non-existent between them. There was only love, as pure and eternal as that slight breeze carrying a slight leaf to far-flung corners of the world. (55 words)

Infatuation

His mesmerizing eyes were sparkling blue; exquisitely sculptured lips lusciously tempting and perfectly positioned nose a stunning piece of art. He seemed like Don Juan, seductively tantalizing. I yearned to take him home and make him mine. The opportunity finally arrived when a half price discount tag was gracefully added to the striking marble statue. (55 words)

jiayi
315

She furrowed her brows, fixated on the screen. Blurred colours flash past as she looked for the “picture perfect” one. Jackpot. She hooted triumphantly, uploading the picture of three poor girls overpowered by an oversized shirted raccoon. Her smile disappears, efforts unrecognized. Click click. There all fixed now, on top again, for all to see.

yay crappy 55! :D after biting my shoulder, lisa wanted a post of herself. she altered the date of her post so it could be on top LOL xD

evan.

Bothersome blogging

It’s that time of the day again. Or perhaps week – maybe even month, for some. You sit before the screen, typing furiously in mock busyness – hunching over the screen, as though your body were a shield of sorts. Hiding the tell-tale signs from what you perceive to be prying eyes from behind. But ironically, with a simple click of the mouse, you jubilantly send your latest masterpiece (or not) off to be processed for worldwide display. This time spent on this routine procedure ranges from seconds to hours, and all this despite a keen awareness of the exponentially growing pile of homework and PTs – all too familiar terms in the average student’s vocabulary.

Welcome to blogging, the phenomenon of the new teenage generation, amid cries of being overworked and time-stretched. For many, gone are the days of old fashioned pen-and-paper, heart-and soul meetings. In its place rushes in an illuminated screen, suave keyboards, incoherent ramblings – as professed by many, and a couple of other flashing windows to keep you occupied during the 10 second log in time (no, all you eager Lit students, I am not referring to enlightenment of any form).

Why the lure of this rather unflattering transition?

Many cite the primary reason of convenience over the conventional diary. It does seem justified that the combined succession of fingers is faster than the mere vibration of the wrist. Thus minutes are saved each day – but possibly at the cost of pondering, reflecting on the deeper wonders of life; it its place ten lines of words that might not even constitute a grammatical sentence.

It is also acknowledged that blogging serves as a public outlet for sharing, and sympathizing. A mere “help I am going to die!!!!” (perhaps expressed in a more hyperbolic fashion) earns one a myriad of encouraging tags or comments. Though this can be a positive point, another problem will inevitably crop up – the slow, but sure undermining of the necessity for face-to-face social interactions, be it in joy, distress, or anxiety. Let’s face it, typing a “jiayou!” is so much easier, but cheaper, than hearing out and encouraging the person in real life.

Moreover, blogging can be manipulated for personal benefit. It helps one get out of sticky situations, in particular with those closer to you (and are hence likely to read your blog). A harsh phrase that hurt can be rectified by a simple indirect apology online, enabling one to escape the necessity of humility in real confession. Words are cheapened, less considered, uttered unthinkingly; since one can apologise behind the comfort of the screen without requiring an element of sincerity. Actually, the entirely realistic possibility of an online persona being a mere façade can be frightening.

Convenience, but at what cost: bothering to care, bothering to be there?


- Talia Seet 315

three hundred 5 five

Bombed
Orange felt uncomofortable... Everyday, wires and metal watched her with unrelenting suspicion, all tense with fear that she would suddenly turn red and blast them into oblivion. Thank goodness cooler was there to support her, or she would have turned emotional. Emotions would have just caused her to blink faster and heat up, and who knew what would happen then (55 WORDS)

[if you look at the back of your computer CPU when it is turned on... you will see a small blinking orange light.]

you love Maximum flow
Pentel was pissed out of his mind. what sort of name was maxiflo!!!??? Even if he was popular, and got to make out with the whiteboard everyday, she always rejected him after that, claiming that Supercolourmarker had a cooler name, and stayed with her for longer anyway. Now, if he could be cooler and smarter.....(55 WORDS)

O is for OMER
So goddamn stuffy.....He hated his job. All the kids would come squawking, "OMER, OMER, OMER!!!" Fighting to hug him and take photos. Hell, even the adults did that. As more screamy kids flocked over to tug and grab at him, one looked up and squealed, "you smell nice!!" He stared.

This wasa the end. 055 WORDS0


[based on a true story where chloe told that to omer herself. ]





THIS WAS LISA

Why Write!

Hi guys I sort of wanted to write a story because I am quite terrible at expos ><

Black book of treasures

She never did have any friends. Her parents were too busy working to pay much attention to her. She cooped herself up in the house all day, with her black book tucked safely under her arm and a pen in her pocket. “She must live a boring life,” the other children said.

Or so they thought. Her life was anything but boring. She went on adventures every day, made new friends every day, and visited new places every day. She had a secret she shared with no one, not even her parents. Truth was, she had her very own magical world, a world where no one else could go, for only she held the key to this world. It was a beautiful world. This world would morph into different places, and all she had to do was to concentrate hard on the place where she wanted to go. In this world, she could be anyone she wanted to be, whether it was a princess, a mermaid, a brave female warrior, or even a dolphin! Again, all she had to do was focus. She rushed home from school every day, ready to enter her magical world, where she had full control of who she was, where she was and what she was going to do.

Just yesterday, she was a pirate, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. She wore a red bandana, a black patch over her left eye, had a shiny steel hook for a right hand and a wooden left leg. On her left shoulder stood Percy the parrot, who would ask for crackers every five minutes and left her fuming. She spoke with authority as she ordered her crew around. Many feared her, and she was known as the Terror of the Seven Seas. Just hearing the name made others shudder and cringe in fear. She stole from many rich merchants sailing the seas and gave them generously to the poor. To some, she was the worst thing you could ever imagine, but to others, she was a heroine.

"What adventures shall I embark on today?" She wondered as she skipped home. Joyful chatter was heard as she walked past a playground where all the other children were playing. The other children suddenly grew very silent, stopping to watch her as she passed by, gleefuflly skipping her way home. "Lonely? Who needs friends when I have you?“ She held her black book close to her heart and felt for the pen in her pocket. Then she ran all the way home, with a knowing smile on her face, ready for another exciting adventure.

<3, Yi-Min

Fiction

She bit her nails. Through her elbows on the desk she could sense her classmate's pencil tapping across the back of a maths worksheet. Her knees were cold - very slightly. It was more as if she was experiencing the abstract concept of low temperature, than actually-

She sighs, frustrated, and rubs the entire paragraph out.

(55 words)

O:
Jing Xuan

(By the way, 'fiction' is the title of this piece of fiction.)

Why Write?

"Breathe. Don't think only those who sing need breathe, or those who talk. They breathe more obviously, but you still have to breathe..."

She could not. She forgot.

***

"Why write?" she obviously had no idea.

But her eyes were fixed on her computer screen, typing away furiously. Writing wasn't limited to pen and paper anymore...there were keyboards, palmtops, number pads...there were so many different ways she could write. Writing took the forms of so many unconventional modes.

She still chose to blog.

The keyboard was her friend. The weblog was her diary. Writing was her life.

She had no idea what to do other than blog. Asking her to speak to someone seemed like a surmountable task. Written words were the only means for her to convey how she thought. Yet, so often was it misinterpreted, used against her, causing her to close up so much more.

It actually made her so vulnerable. She was stripped naked by Words. Her inner feelings were exposed, completely bare. It was probably as terrible as her life could get- while trying to hide everything, she revealed much more about herself, her inner nature, the unchartered waters of her life...

Her heart sank. Words began to take her over again.

It amazed her how her life could be summed up with Words. How Words was about the most powerful form to express oneself. There had been so much said about the power of multimedia, and how writing or reading had been long considered as passe. Yet, the power of books have been ever-prevalent. You could see how many people still, although secretly, sink into the fantasy of books, and drown themselves in the sea of words. Writing was still important, because words meant so much.

The one good thing about writing was that there were no ratings. She could write as she liked. Hopefully not slandering lest she get sued. In any case, she could choose not to publish her blogpost, or book, or whatever form of writing she had.

Movies, however, had ratings- G, PG, PG-13, NC-16, M18, R21- in her country alone. Books had none. Of course they were classified into different sections like fiction and non-fiction, children and adults, and a whole variety of genres, but who cares. There was pratically no limit on what you could write about. And there definitely was no control on who would be reading it. Have you ever seen a librarian chase a child away from the romance section in the library, or confiscicating books with sexual content? Obviously not. Who knows, there might be a priest somewhere reading a book about atheism or darwinism or the big-bang theory. And he might actually have been convinced.

That's what she admired the most. The power of Words.

She stared into the screen again.

Her lines were incoherent. But she understood. Words meant something to her.

Words. He was her best friend.

Writing made her feel like she had conquered the Everest, and was taking in the scenery from there. It was so...carefree. In a world of her own, taking in every single sight around her. It released her from her oppression, her frustration, her unhappiness.

***

"I write therefore I am." It made more sense to her than Cognito Ergo Sum.

It was about the only thing which kept her breathing.

She breathed. She finally remembered how to breathe.

----------------

I think it sounds very much like ranting...but hey, it does make some sense(: (i think)

love,

Annaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(:

55 Fiction Spam

I AM HERE TO SPAM 55 FICTION AT YOU.

Eight stories. Eight lives. Eight pieces of my soul, posted here for your reading pleasure.

WARNING: Number 3, Son of Sam, contains a few words which some of you may find offensive. We're all big girls now, so don't flame me or something because of my vocabulary. Just skip it if you don't like swear words.


1) Depravity

“But I don’t want to go among mad people!” Alice protested, struggling wildly against the leather straps that bound her to the chair. The assembled members of the tea party remained silent and still, except for the cat. ”Oh you can’t help that…we’re all a bit mad here,” it purred, grinning, displaying very human teeth.

2) Descent

It burns, the sun. It burns his flesh and blinds his eyes, and makes him run, dignity abandoned, back into darkness, cool darkness. Makes him forget the experience of age, the light reduces him to a child, running from the bogeyman. He descends to his coffin; the sun rising is a daily apocalypse for vampires.

3) Son of Sam

“I do not like green eggs and ham,” insisted the child, face stubborn. “I do not like them, Sam I am,” he repeated, earning a withering glance from his mother. She wished her husband hadn’t started the kid on this crap. “Your name isn’t Sam, it’s Harry, now eat your fucking breakfast,” she snapped, pissed.

4) Haemophilia

“Mummy,” he said, “I think I’m turning into a werewolf.” She smiled at him fondly, her darling son; still so young and innocent. It would be quite a while until he became a mature adult, contributing to society. “All in good time, dear,” she said. “Now go and brush your face.” He skipped off obediently.

5) Dreams VS Reality

He bounced the ball, frowning, concentrating. Sweat poured down his forehead. It poured hot and salty down his back in steady rivulets. The sun burned down, hot and bright and very real. He lined up his shot, worn trainers pounding the court. He shot, he scored; for a moment the arcing ball eclipsed the sun.

6) Dedication

“I think I love him,” she murmured, twining her hair around her finger. Remembering his soft dark hair, his constantly averted eyes, his adorably shy smile. Remembering a hug, supposedly between friends, soft and sweet and comforting, limbs intertwined, neither daring to speak, for fear of ending the moment. “I really think I love him.”

7) Requires careful handling

“Hey,” he said,” Are your hands bigger than mine?” He held out an open hand for comparison, and she realized that she would actually have to touch him now. Suddenly slightly breathless, she rolled up her sleeve and gently laid her hand upon his. For someone with such skinny wrists, he had pretty big hands.

8) The One Word

She said the word freely to her friends; they did mean a lot to her. She rarely said it to her parents, and when she did she rarely meant it; they had, after all, committed the original sin. But she had never said the word to him; probably because he meant the most to her.


I'm no expert. Constructive criticism appreciated. <3, Nana (315)

//Fivety-five fiction (^.^)

Hello!
I take ages to write anything 'cos I'm really used to writing fanfiction reviews/casual blog posts/letters...etc, so here are the two pieces of 55 fiction that I have so far.

Anyway, the themes of these pieces are very special to me, to be honest. Yes, I like reading fascinating pieces that display unique perspectives; they are creative and whenever I get to read them (like the pieces you guys have posted up!) I feel very much marvelled by them..! But human nature mystifies me even more, because of it's unreachable complexity. (if you think about it) Mmkay well my 55 fiction is very simply written, but I hope you guys enjoy it :)

Wallflower
It lay passive a nd cold on those warm bricks; wishing, wanting, waiting for heads to turn and them to admire. The buzz of the bees and chatter of cicadas brewed anticipation for life in its roots but was quelled as harsh winds blew. "I am a wallflower," she breathed in tears, "a living, walking dead."

To Surrender
In my mind's eye, I am spreading heaven's embriodered cloths beneath your feet. I lavish it with perfume, colour it with beautiful threads and smoothen it for your touch. But, I being deeply inadequate, own only my dreams though they now belong to you to tread, to stomp, to step. Sometimes love is rightfully extravagant.

---

Am planning to write something on obsession (haha fangirlism!) and another as a parody of sorts of The Dark Knight. Omg when I watched the movie I was so stunned by the last line in it (my memory D:) "He isn't a hero, but a guardian of the city, a Dark Knight ."Hahahahaa, sorry Karminee even if that's a mini-spoiler..?!

AZA AZA (to all you budding writers out there)

-Joni!

The 55

You take my breath away
I've always longed for your embrace, to feel the touch of your warm, strong arms around me. A moment's hesitation dissoved in a fiery passion as your hands wrapped tightly around me. I close my eyes to enjoy the tender touch of you finger tips against my neck. Tighter and tighter, taking my breath away.

Samantha

Anna's 4x55(:

Crane
I was stuck on solid blue. My wings stiff and angled, unable to budge an inch. Within me the folds rigid and sharp, my feathers plastered in one piece, the glossy surface glinting under the light above. The chilly wind blew the squared sheets lying next to me...And an instruction sheet on “origami cranes” (55 words WHOO!)

The million dollar question
“If I had a million dollars...” she thought, unable to continue with her next lines. There's nothing much with a million dollars anyway...you don't magically disappear or attain immortality. Well, but with the million dollars you wouldn't be stuck here as “she” and thinking of an impactful 55 fiction essay and a suitable conclusion. (55 words too!)

W.B.
Pure and white, W.B. stood tall with pride...upright- almost as straight as the wall. Everyone's gaze was fixed on him, not in mesmerization, but in sheer boredom. A yawn. “Am I that boring?” No one seemed to notice or care. Instead, ink splattered over him- red, blue, black, green. A holler. “Students! Focus now!” ( YESSSS 55!)

Future
It pulsated. Swelling, red, sharp, jutting out. She refused to accept this, but there was no stopping The Happening. It had already been done. Tears flowed down her eyes as she thought of her ruined future. “I'm really sorry...” he was remorseful. What could she do now?

She couldn't play piano with a finger injury.

(FINALLY 55:D)

Yayyyy(:

love,
Anna

Asymptote

'Please mind the gap...'

The train doors open. A great human mass pours out; hurriedly buzzing with the constant hum of all their ordinary lives. He watches their shoes pass by - battered plimsolls, clicking heels and a few brilliant flashes of colour. He is surrounded by feet, yet no pair walks forward to meet him.

(55 words!)

O:

Jing Xuan

55 fiction!

PRESSING
The heat seared through his outer layer. Steam is released. As the heat played with the water, Blue straightened himself up and delighted in the tingling sensation of the metal pressing against his thick layers of skin. However, he knew that his ultimate destiny was to be pressed against White, thin, soft and sleeved.

TANNING
They sizzled and cackled, slowly but surely turning a beautiful tasty brown under the intense light. The layer of tanning oil brushed on earlier, along with the regular turning ensured the even tan. They looked almost delicious. The bell rang. They emerged with pride, knowing that they were more toned, more solid, fresh and hot.

PENNING
They walked around in lines, they walked around in circles. They walked around in groups, they walked around alone. Their paths were parallel, their paths were perpendicular. Their paths crossed, their paths diverged. They scattered wildly, yet they were thoroughly contained. They roamed as freely as possible, before they were herded, back into the pen.

Deborah

55 - Out of His System

55 fiction!

Out of His System

He felt the rising bile, thick and vile against the wall of his will and throat, and refused to swallow. With relief – frantic, almost desperate – he grabbed at the tissue, letting it out.
-
Massaging his temples, leaning against the doorframe. She, crumpled, sits by the bed, absorbing the harshness of words he said.

Absurd 55:
Demise

The sound -
AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMM
- like a siren it is breaking him.
Light shocks him – he shivers inside his skin -
TOOOOOOPAUUUUF THWOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRLLLLD -
- something thunders, deep below. It bursts from above, Zeus’ storm upon Poseidon. Our brave ant tumbles underwater.
Above, a little bathing girl squeals at the black speck,
looking down on creation.

- Sarah

55 Fiction + Piece on writing

KEYS
He lives one level above. I often look up at him. We are two separate entities, never with the same voice nor skin colour. Today, I moved to the apartment next to his, yet in between was still the distance from my original identity. Keys like us can never open the lock to true love.

EACH HAS HER OWN STAGE
She sang loudly and melodiously. Her rich voice reverberated and echoes resonated. A grandiose turn, and a roar of applause was activated. She aimed for the highest note, but it came out as a pitiful squawk instead. Just then, there was a knock on the door. She turned off the shower and stepped out from the bathtub.

CHEMISTRY:
I held my breath, then blew. A firm grip on my neck. Too much force yet so delicate. After a playful tug on my ear the seek ended. My bottom lip met 25's. That moment seemed forever, but was interrupted as the clumsy lab student jerked me off and all emotions went down the conical drain.

The Writers’ Workshop “Keep on Writing”

Wiring Heartlands!

“I know everyone of you (character-wise), only that I cannot match your works to your face.” This quote came from Mrs Shum at last year’s Creative Arts Programme pre-camp briefing. She claimed that she could understand how every one of us was like as a person merely through reading our works. I did not believe in that. How much can a piece of writing say about a person? Nevertheless, this sentence etched itself in my mind and as I officially started my writing journey, I think I began to see the meaning enshrined behind it.

The Creative Arts Programme is an annual camp organized by the Ministry of Education, Gifted Education Branch. Every year the programme sees a new batch of budding writers who gather in a one-week camp where they can interact with others and through a series of workshops, hone their writing skills and appreciate other forms of art (visual, musical, theatrical etc) other than the literary kind.

After becoming a CAP-er, I began to write. Really write, write for leisure, and write for personal expression, not just for schoolwork.

Though I wrote in Chinese (I was a Chinese CAP-er! ☺), it gradually dawned upon me that yes, writing is more than a series of words connected in a coherent way; it has much more to it. Writing is a very acute revelation of the individual. Artists and writers create their works, often at the risk of removing the masks that society has forced us to shape and put on for protection.

Writers inject their true emotions and deepest thoughts into their works. Sometimes the writer’s identity is subconsciously reflected in the language aspect as well, in tone, diction, syntax and others. It is only when we write with our heart that writing finds itself a new meaning and quite a special one at that.

Writers are emo(tional) and writing is cathartic. I somehow find that people who write own a higher sensitivity to the world around them and are very easily touched or affected by even the smallest happenings, for instance, a leaf falling. This is perhaps attributed to the nature of writing where writers shed their outer disguises to let true emotions flow. The day we lose the ability to become touched is the day when we cease to be able to write.

Furthermore, writing wires heartlands! If there is one medium or channel via which people connect most effectively, it is language! Writing wires us to other people and other things and from that connection generates electricity, sparks and ideas.

Therefore, writing is dangerous. It exposes you unknowingly, leaving you no shield to defend, no mask to hide. It exemplifies our emotional self. We become powerless when we write, our naked identities surface and all efforts to conceal in the harsh realities of life go down the drain.

However, though we become powerless and vulnerable in this aspect, we actually transform into a more powerful person. This power lies in the ability to love, and to express in a new kind of space.

The pen is undoubtedly the greatest sword.

Care not about the risks involved in this perilous journey. It is the satisfaction and enlightenment that matters. Follow your heart, listen to your soul, and WRITE!

Written by Hui Ning 315

A beggar's request

Why write?

An empty page, white, lined, complete in its emptiness- it brims with promise of tomorrow. Pen and paper were conjoined twins from the start of their birth; they were always one and could never do without the other. Combined with the yearning soul, we begin to write.

Raining upon us all is our selfish desire. It burdens us. We read, when be begin to discover, we write when we begin to remember and we create when we begin to want. It is a compelling desire everybody faces. We wish to do something, we wish to feel accomplished, and in wishing so, we record. We record to leave a mark of ourselves behind. We write not because we want to, but because we cannot help but want. We cannot deny our souls the reflection of its endless craving.

Writing is something inexplicable to many; it is as essential as air and comes to them like walking comes to babies. To others insecurity and limiting beliefs prove too high an obstacle to scale. They believe that writing is saved purely for purposes of work, administration and communication. They forget- that is exactly what writing is.

Writing a short story, is a desire upon the part of the author to create a world beyond his or her own although they may believe they are helping others forget themselves and take on an escapade to forget and remember. It may be colored with fancy words or layered with expectations and a commercial, simplistic want to gain and to exploit, but stories are essentially information. No matter how seemingly difficult or frivolous it may seem, stories are an effort upon the author’s part to convey something, perhaps something autobiographical and personally endearing or simply a tiny insight into a more fulfilling, promising way of looking at life, or maybe even knowledge disguised as forbidden fruit.

Essentially, writing is an endeavor toward satisfaction. When a complaint letter is written and pressed within its pristine envelope, the author feels happy knowing someone is getting his/her just deserts. When an apology is written, they author feels hopeful for a better relationship or simply a better day tomorrow. When a post is blogged, the blogger is burning with the pride that the post would be read. It may be easily confessed, but why else would one want to share their writing if not for approval? Approval by others and oneself is probably the single most driving force of writing.

One may write in a diary in hope of documenting the past for fastidious editing in the future or peals of laughter to come, but in doing so, you’re seeking some form of approval from one’s future self and hoping that one’s future self would remember and learn again.

We write because of the weight of everything in the world. The flirting insecurities, the endless questions of why and how, the burden of expectation and the countless fears of failure, death and all things mortal or otherwise- writing allows us to carefully lay them out before ourselves in structured, coherent words. They bring to live the chaotic thoughts thrashing it out in our tiny insignificant heads. They breathe life into our hopes and fears. And yet, it is the self-same reason that makes writing the most trying endeavor on Earth. The soul of our words carries our vulnerability, and bare we are when we enter the battleground of display. When furiously met or disappointingly met, writers become mothers whose children have been bent and ground to dust. Their anger and frustration and utter disappointment is the most dangerous emotion that anyone could face, it could destroy.

And despite it all, we continue. We write. We are far too in love with life and beauty to give up our mimicry of it. We cannot find it in ourselves to give up the opportunity to soar because of our fear of falling. This is the indomitable human spirit, the ambitious little ants that thrive within us all that compels us to write.

Minyee

Not-so-55 fiction! :)

Boy on a mission:
It was red, but darker than he expected and…srickier. It didn’t gush, to his slight disappointmentm, but trickled rather, in monotonous, rhythmic drops, muffled by the carpet-his accomplice! There was a smell too, rusty and warm- if one could smell temperature, and sickly sweet. A small triumphant smile crept up, lopsided. Wait. It wouldn’t do to get complacent now. He still had to set the jell-o in the fridge.

This fallen world:
The light ( or the lack of it?) hurt her eyes. She plunged her needle into the pile of crocheted wool lying limply on her lap- too carelessly, too unforgivingly-she bit her lip as a drop of life blood emerged, she deserved it. She raised her bleeding finger to her lips, dropping a light kiss on it, the way her mother used to when she fell and scraped her knee. Darkness of an adultcentric society engulfed her as the light of innocence was snuffed out. Bedtime.

Soulless:
The heat was sweltering and the streets were dusty with red specks, sent swirling into the air, time and again as the carriages trundled past. His knees were bruised and raw from kneeling on the gravelly sidewalk. Oh. How he hated this with a vengence. Sweat trickled into his eye, stinging it, squeezing out reluctant tears. “ Dah-ling! Look! He’s crying!” The jarring clash of coins, unwanted, yet needed. Food for the day, no dignity for tomorrow.

Unlike me:
He sucked hard, concentrating with a will that narrowed his eyes to slits. He sucked with great effort toom, moving his xheeks in and out rhythmically. Fluffy, dark green and moist. Mm. He moved his jaws ( did he have any?) His face was pressed up against the glass. People gazed at his shifting, chomping mouth. What were they staring at? He bulged his eyeballs out at them ( for them?) He was no anomaly. He felt like a fish in a tank. Then again. He was. A sucker fish, I mean.

Done by: Tiffany!

IF YOU ARE SEEING THIS
Tap-tap, clack clack clack, I hear her heels making contact with the black marble. I stare patiently as I wait for my dutiful informant to whisper the dark secrets of my friends and foes, their dirty past, their hidden fantasies. Rendezvous: when and where. Then I remember what I came for, rgs.writersblock@rgs.edu.sg. Tap-tap-clack.

WHY WRITE?
Why write? Writing is merely a form of speaking, in a more literal, physical, ink-out-of-pen-conveying-one’s-thoughts manner. Your thoughts, instead of traveling to your mouth, travel to your hand and to your bic pen, to the nib, and the ink touches- here. You ask why write, I ask, why speak?
Of course, speak. It is the most duh thing we have known since the start of time, the first sign of civilization since eras ago, when the cavemen and barbarians uttered the first measurable signs of communication, measured in alphabets and words and punctuation, numerals. Writing to them was scratching on stones, rubbing twigs on papyrus, the like. Recording their moments of extreme elation, tumultuous tribulations and lusty fantasies was of life and death consequence to them. Maybe I am exaggerating a little. I AM SO HAPPY! And in my haven of sheer elation, I pick up my pen and slash in broad strokes on the nearest surface, just to expand my energy, to show how energetic I am, how infallible, how brave! Indeed, writing is a physical record of us, our emotions, our existence. What is spoken is lost to the wind, forgotten to our minds in a matter of seconds, like goldfish with short term memory. Thus we write not only to express ourselves, but to make sure we are remembered – some proof to confirm our pathetic living existence, spontaneous epitaphs to remember the laughs we lost, the words which will never be uttered in the same speed, or intonation, ever.
Have I mentioned that I study Shakespeare? Most recently, The Taming of the Shrew. Gosh, the fact that some ancient version of English used in the Elizabethan era still carries influence today amazes me. So much that we study, analyse and engross ourselves in Shakespeare’s plays. I mean seriously?! Many consider Shakespeare a genius, a collection of incomprehensible plays, which would be remembered in the next generation, and the next, and the next and so on. Language does not matter. Whether it be the scratchings of a caveman, the musings of an Elizabethan playwright or the brainchild of J.K. Rowling, if it is evocative, profound or simply everything nice, it will be remembered. Written words are a sort of history, a commemoration of ideas. We write because we want to be better at writing, and when we are accomplished, perhaps we will achieve the goal of having our very own fictional gay wizard passed down through the centuries by word of mouth, or runes on walls.
Writing is a memory of us and ourself. The plus side is, you might even get rich doing it! And I mean, really rich. (Think J.K. Rowling)

DINNER
Yesterday, they inspected my size, colour and build. They took their silver razor blades and set them upon my lovely face, carving my hazel eyes out. Frozen, the silent scream could not escape from my throat. Like the evil witches they were, I was mercilessly lowered into the blazing cauldron. "Yum, potato stew!" He chimed.

CRIPPLED
Yes, they free! The taste of the sweet wind caressing their skin, the fresh, soft grass being compressed under them, oh the spirit of life lifted them higher, higher, until they were almost flying. They still savoured the victory of the irreversible strings of ownership being cut - forever separted from their

Fifty Five

One.
“Raise ‘e anchors!”
The mast stands tall against the sky. You were the Captain and I am first mate, the finest on the ocean blue. Mermaids line our brig and falling stars set the sky alight.

But as you enter the garden gate, collar-stiff and briefcase astride,
Time the Sea-Maiden retire to Davey Jones’ Locker.

55 Fiction :)

1. Proposal
"You are the dearest love of my life. I will never leave."

Armed with a bouquet of flowers, this was the crucial moment. He took a deep breath and knelt down. It was finally time to move on and take a step further.

Looking him in the eye, was his girlfriend's photograph on her grave. (55)

2. Short-term memory
I love you to death, I don't want to ever forget you. You're my sun and my moon. My love is high as the sky, deep as the ocean. But I hate myself, I hate the word "short-term". It describes me too perfectly.

Wait a minute! I know you! Have I said I love you? (55)

3. The Olympics
At 8pm, of the 8th day, of the 8th month, of 2008, history will be made. The Beijing Olympics would be officially opened. The stadium was humongous, the noise and the crowds were overwhelming. Finally, athletes would get the glory and honour they deserve. This is unfair.

Animals should hold Olympics and get glory too! (55)

by Joyce 314