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. [:
Showing posts with label 55 fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 55 fiction. Show all posts
Monday, August 11, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
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.
- 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.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
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
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
Friday, August 8, 2008
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
---
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
Thursday, August 7, 2008
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: )
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!
[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
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.
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)
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
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.
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.
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
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
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.)
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.)
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)
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!
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
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
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
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
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
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
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