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
Thursday, August 7, 2008
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
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!
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
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.
“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
"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
55 fiction pieces
Moving On (Genre: Mystery)
He jolted into consciousness. An invisible force was propelling him to march stiffly onwards, an urge his traitorous legs obeyed. Unable to stop, unable to even relax, he wished for salvation – and got it when a ravine yawned before him.
The little boy looked up in surprise when his toy soldier fell off the table.
Tricked into the Job (Genre: Humour)
It was an utterly, completely, totally horrendous occupation. He abhorred every single nanosecond of it. At first he thought the description sounded interesting, now he understood the true extent of manipulation. Really, he should have known much better than to believe flowery language. Next time he’ll read the fine print, the Loch Ness monster vowed.
Forever (Genre: Romance)
They were too young, too focused on academics for a relationship to work. The brush of a shoulder against another. The ghost of a smile. The whisper of a touch. The shadow of a wink. The lingering of eyes on each other. But for that one chance later on in life, she would wait forever.
Ying Fangting, 314
He jolted into consciousness. An invisible force was propelling him to march stiffly onwards, an urge his traitorous legs obeyed. Unable to stop, unable to even relax, he wished for salvation – and got it when a ravine yawned before him.
The little boy looked up in surprise when his toy soldier fell off the table.
Tricked into the Job (Genre: Humour)
It was an utterly, completely, totally horrendous occupation. He abhorred every single nanosecond of it. At first he thought the description sounded interesting, now he understood the true extent of manipulation. Really, he should have known much better than to believe flowery language. Next time he’ll read the fine print, the Loch Ness monster vowed.
Forever (Genre: Romance)
They were too young, too focused on academics for a relationship to work. The brush of a shoulder against another. The ghost of a smile. The whisper of a touch. The shadow of a wink. The lingering of eyes on each other. But for that one chance later on in life, she would wait forever.
Ying Fangting, 314
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