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