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Editorial 2007

Dear Graduating Students,

Welcome to this 2007 edition of Zephyr. As the managing editor, this issue is dedicated to all aspiring and budding writers among you Cjians for your unswerving and unwavering efforts to challenge convention by being daring to be experimentally creative in composition and expression.

The Editorial Club was genuinely ecstatic and with good reason given the enthusiastic response and impressive level of participation in the creative writing competitions we organized in the course of an exciting and busy year.

Nevertheless, in every gene pool of writers however talented, there will always be a number of individuals who will deserve to be singled out for special commendation and praise for demonstrating that extra verve and vivacity in their writings. This natural ability to incorporate the 'oomph' factor without altering or corrupting the aims and ideals of literary art is pivotal in making their work stand out from the rest.

It is with this view in mind that Zephyr is produced - to compile a collection of well written prose and poetry by those scribacious students of CJC in the hope that their scribendi will inspire novel and provocative postures and perspectives among its readers. As in previous years, the entries .making up this compilation are interestingly and imaginatively well crafted and narrated that the readers' response is bound to be (or so we believe anyway) one of admiration tinged with envy.

Forthe reader, the benefits of reading a well told story or an inspiring poem are strikingly and impactingly evident. Through reading writing of this nature, the reader will be intellectually captivated and stimulated to think more critically and form insights more judiciously. As Napoleon Bonaparte said, "The human race is governed by its imagination." Indeed, this issue of Zephyr seeks to activate and invigorate the minds, hearts and souls of all of you-you dear Cjians!!!

On a more personal note, I would like to thank our literary advisor and chief adjudicator, Mr. David L. Fahy, and also my fellow student members, which of course includes the outgoing JC2 members of the Editorial Club, and more especially Anthony Tan, our new current in house Literary Editor, and his predecessor Emily Harries, for their time and effort in assisting with and contributing to the organization, evaluation and final selection process for this issue of Zephyr. And not forgetting Ho Pei Ying for the cover design.

Finally, on behalf of the Editorial Club, I would like to extend my gratitude and appreciation to our principal, Brother Paul Rogers, for his encouragement and support.

Read and Enjoy!

Ben Chester Cheong President CJC Editorial Club

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Contents P'oetry • Poetry

3 The Lovers' Lament Jonathan Goh (2T12)

• Prose

5 The Ultimate Teasure - (A Fantasy Childhood) Kyle Ganapathy (2T02)

8 Pug & Harry Jennifer Anne Champion(2T02)

13 The Ongoing War (Addiction) Jackie Tan Yen (2T13)

• Poetry

15 Duel Jonathan Goh (2T12)

16 On Philosophy and God Fah Bernadette (2T03)

16 A Stubborn Valentine Emily Harries (2T11)

17 The Night Ophelia Died Lim Chuan (H05)

18 The World Is Round Sharmaine Toh (2T11)

19 Penance Dinesh Sabapathy (H04)

21 Siete, Sect, Sette, Zeven, Sieben, Tuiuh, Schedem Class (2T07)

22 Confessions Ho Pei Ying (H09)

23 I am Old Now Amanda Dizon (2T03)

24 Superheroes Darryl Leong (2T19)

24 The Blind Yeo Crenshaw (H03)

25 No one else but you Medel Rheyza Lyn Carpio (H15)

• Poetry

26 Mirror Bryan Cutter (H26)

27 Ode To Brother Paul Adonara Mucek (2T07)

28 Untitled Fah Bernadette (2T03)

• Prose

29 Amber Annabelle Wong (H13)

31 As You Were Gentle, Gentlemen. Jennifer Anne Champion (2T02)

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Jonathan Goh 2T 12 Theme: Love

The Lovers' Lament

The Following is composed to be sung as a song with two singers, a male and a female, to the tune resembling Westlife's 'My Love'. It relates the trials of the Avenger and his Wife, and of

how their differing interests could nigh be reconciled. So even do the Men of the South still sing in the evening, recalling the story of love not meant to be. (Freya is female and Janus male)

Background: She is a lioness and he is a wolf, their marriage one that united the warring groups of canine and feline. Both are rulers of their own lands. Together, they are father and mother to

twin cubs; Felicia and Ferdinand. (Mother's custody) According to lore, they spent three quarters of the year in the Plains and wintered in their father's kingdom of the Northern Mountains until

the coming of Spring (similar to the myth of Hades and Persephone)

Freya: An airy den, an open lair, in fields that shimmer green What more else than this could I still be wanting? The endless fields beneath the skies are all that will be seen Where larks still sing and bees dart in the heather It's here, my love, my heart will stay forever Right here in the lands that I adore. In my every waking breath all my fancies take me there Where the skies are blue and peace dwells 'neath the Sun Over seas and from the coast lie the plains I love the most Where the eagle flies, it's here my heart will stay My love ...

Janus: Spring's weathered heath, her scraggly scrub that blade of frost will slay It's here I love; it's here that has my keeping The clarion call of carrion kite as it swoops upon the prey What other sound could be fairer to my hearing? The Wilds and Wastes are all that I've been needing Right here in the lands that I adore In my every waking breath all my fancies take me there To the Northern Lands, of mountains capped with snow Here my kin will be our hosts in the Peaks we love the most Where the wolf pack sings; won't you join me one day? My love ...

Freya: When blizzards end and white snow melts and sunlight rules the day When warm air blows and rivers are unfreezing When slumber ends, when grass is green and winter chased away I'll weather here, it's here I will be staying Alas, my love, I have no thoughts of leaving To journey from the lands that I adore Where life has defeated death is the place that I call fair Here the blossom lies upon the orchard glade Over seas and from the coast lie the Plains I love the most In the pastures wide it's here my heart will stay My love ...

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Poetry Prose

Janus: In Summer's warmth, in summer's heat that rouses all the prey When frost is gone and rabbits come arising The air is crisp and sharp and cold, it drives all sleep away Now sound the call and fall to our hunting The frantic chase; the thrill of pack and kill Is it not what you would savor still? Feel the rock beneath thy pads, to see the world go passing by To be strong and fell in these harsh lands we dwell The steady heartbeat of the chest, never needing yet a rest Side by side we'll run if you join me one day My love ...

Freya: In Summer's warmth, in noonday shine that holds all chills at bay When fruit is ripe and corn gold for the taking When flowers bloom and young ones play and tumble in the hay I'll weather here, it's here I will be staying Alas, my love, I have no thoughts of leaving To journey from the lands that I adore Though the Wilds might prove a test, I still deem the Plains as best Yellow honeycomb's sweet taste upon the tongue Here the larder's always full; in the flatlands that I rule Here my cubs will thrive, so here my heart will stay My love ...

Janus: When Autumn looms and North wind blows and shortened is the day When storms are nigh and sleet is fast arriving My halls are deep and strong and warm, my warriors bold and fey No harm can fall while I rule and am watching To fall to sleep; the winter's hibernating Dreaming of the deeds that heroes do Lie in tangles close and warm Sheltered and kept far from harm Hidden from the gale and snug with heat combined A loving nest around our cubs, to feel the breath of each small pup For the comfort here won't you return one day? My love ..

Freya: When Autumn comes and stars are dimmed and night and cold holds sway Hold you still and look to our Coming From southern lands, across the plains, though hell should bar the way Upon your Peaks, keep watch for our Reuniting With Summer past and Winter fast arriving I will seek for thee and venture forth We'll leave the lands with grasses soft for the caverns of the North We will meet again; from then our paths will stay

Both: Joined we shall begin our quest to find a land we love the best Hidden far away where both our souls may finally rest.

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Kyle Ganapathy 2T 02

The Ultimate Treasure - (A Fantasy Childhood)

I walked into the dusty living room of the old house with Richie following closely behind me. "I can't believe we grew up in this house." I said as my feet dragged you couple of dust bunnies along with them. Richie looked up at the cracked ceiling and the gaping hole which used to be our skylight. "It was a full twenty years ago. There are so many memories here. Of mom and dad too ... " he said wistfully. Our parents, sadly, had passed on some years back in their apartment in Sacramento. It was a faulty gas pipe. The rest goes without saying. The only consolation was that they went together, not leaving the other to live alone in misery. Richie, my older brother and I promised them before they died that we'd one day revisit the house we lived in as children and rebuild it. They wanted us to raise our families here like they did for us before. At this point it looked too dilapidated to restore it to its former architectural splendor. "Just look at how badly the walls have been corroded." Said Richie as a piece of dry wall crumbled between his fingers. I kicked away some broken shingles that had fallen from the roof. On the wall there was some faint writing, written in a cheap ballpoint pen. It was almost illegible but I could make out what it said. "The quest's beginning." I read it out loud. Richie heard me and walked toward the wall. "Hmmm ... The quest's beginning? Did you write that?" I couldn't remember if! did at that point but the next object I saw jogged my memory. It was a wooden sword. Not a particularly well made one. In fact it was just two pieces of wood nailed together at the centre. It wouldn't seem to be a very significant item but just seeing it reminded me of the times me and Richie played with those swords for hours on end, imagining we were pirates or knights on mystical quests. I picked up the sword and turned to Richie. "The quest's beginning! Remember?" I exclaimed, brandishing the sword at him. He thought for a while and grinned as he too remembered the games we used to play. "And the ultimate goal was ... " Richie rushed through the door archway leading to the kitchen and he stared up at the cupboard. It's doors were hanging by off its hinges by now. On one of the doors was more writing. We squinted to make out what was written on the mahogany background. "The ultimate treasure ... " I wracked my brain trying to remember what it was that we cherished so greatly. "Cookies!" said a high pitched and squeaky voice from behind me. I turned around puzzled. Standing where Richie was a moment before was a small child who was only as tall as my knees. "What the heck?" I gasped in disbelief at my own voice which was now as squeaky as the one I had just heard. "What's the matter with you brother? It's me! Richie!" he said as he grinned from ear to ear. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief wondering what on earth had just occurred. Walking past a mirror I saw myself. The freckles, the huge ears and the buck teeth stared back at me as if I was watching a video of myself as a child. I was startled but amused at my appearance. "Holy cow! What happened Richie?" I clasped my hands over my mouth as I said that sentence. I had the same speech impediment I had many years before. Richie laughed heartily at me and scampered past me, toward the wall. "Fancy a little quest?" he asked with his eyes bulging in excitement. Before I could answer, he snatched up the sword and threw it to me. I fumbled it and crouched to pick it up and as if it wasn't enough that we had been transformed into what we were twenty years ago, I looked up to see that the house had changed as well. Beautiful white walls with silk draping over the windows surrounded us. A purple carpeted floor caressed the soles of our feet. It was exactly the same as I remembered it to be. The resemblance of the entire place to the house I grew up in was so strong that I could almost smell the pot roast our mother would cook on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I could almost hear the faint sounds of the television from the night time football games that our father watched so religiously. For the first time in a long time, I felt at home.

I fell in a daze onto the plush carpet. Richie stood over me like a dentist looking into his patient's mouth and poked me with the wooden sword. "Come on you lazy donkey! Get up and join me on my mystical quest to find the most delicious treat in the world!" he said enthusiastically.

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Prose Prose He pulled me up and I followed close behind as we walked down the living room. "I'm glad you've decided to join me brother! Be very careful though, this place is dangerous." I chuckled in excitement at the idea of the quest and followed Richie as he sneaked around the couch. A sudden thought entered my head. A memory long lost. It was a feeling of impending danger as if something was going to leap from behind the couch and eat us alive. "Uh oh ... " I said in a quivering voice. "What's the matter?" "D-d-dust Bunnies!" I stammered. Sure enough, out from behind the couch crawled a fluffy ball of grey dust. It bounced around like a balloon and came to rest at Richie's feet. He smiled at me and told me not to worry as he stuck out his hand to stroke the dirty looking thing and just as his hand grazed the atmosphere of silt around it's head, it lashed out at him with jaws the size of cooking knives. Richie screeched and so did I as I started running for my life. The horrible beast snapped at our heels as we ran, screaming with every step we took. "Into the cave! The cave!" Richie yelled as he ducked into the pantry closet. I skidded into the dark beyond right after him and shut the door behind me. A loud thud and a whimper soon followed as the dust bunny came crashing into the oak. I was panting like a thirsty dog, leaning against the door. "Well that wasn't so bad." I said in between my deep breaths. Richie picked up a torchlight that was nearby and turned it on. It wasn't just a pantry closet. It was indeed a cave. A huge one at that. The limestone walls rose high and past the darkness that shrouded it. There were crayon drawings of dinosaurs and cavemen all over the walls. We walked stealthily across the incredibly slippery floor, almost falling over a few times. Behind a colossal stalactite was an even larger bag of potato chips and below it, an overturned shaker of pepper. Drops of pink liquid fell onto the chips, emitting musical notes with each ruffle it ran over. "It's beautiful." I said, running towards it, slipping repeatedly in the process. I looked up to see that the liquid was springing from a network of fresh, running Kool-Aid. The light filtered through the coloured drops, filling the cave with an aurora of magnificent proportion. "Wow ... " was all I could say as I looked on, open jawed. I caught a whiff of pepper which irritated my nose. "Don't sneeze!" cried Richie as he forced his pudgy finger under my nose. "You'll wake up the bats!" I tried to stop myself from sneezing but upon breathing in another nostril full of pepper I sneezed with the force of the Zephyr winds. It echoed tremendously through the caves and it took a good minute before all was silent again. "Now you've done it." Richie sneered as he looked at me grimly. I looked around, afraid that at any moment the bats would descend upon us. "Well ... it looks clear. Maybe I didn't wake them." The second I had finished that sentence, ear splitting screeches resonated from within the cave and a swarm of bat shaped macaroni darted in our direction. "Time to run again!" Richie said, already with a 10 foot head start. We ran as fast as we could, constantly falling over and sliding all over the floor. The screeching grew louder and louder until I couldn't stand it. I ducked and held my tiny hands over my huge ears as the cloud of yellow pasta flew over me. From below me I was pulled into a tiny crevice. "Aren't you glad you've got me around?" said Richie with a toothy smirk. We stepped out after the bats had vanished into the shadow of the caves and we quietly trudged toward what seemed to be a light. We squealed in unison as we saw an opening in the cave and we rushed toward it as if we had just missed the ice cream truck. Bursting from the darkness, we fell into a chasm of pure white light which blinded us momentarily. I cried out in fear for quite some time only to realize that we had already landed safely on bean bag chairs. We had landed in the basement. Around us was a huge mess of old clothes, newspapers and sealed boxes. The ceiling was covered in cobwebs which shimmered gold in the sunlight that entered from the window. I coughed after inhaling a lungful of dust and walked uncomfortably toward the staircase. It was broken in the center and we could not climb past the first five steps. "What do we do now?" I asked as I waved my hand wildly in front of my face. Richie thought for a while and looked up at the cobwebs. "The golden ladders!" He exclaimed as he ran into the middle of the room. "You don't mean the ... "

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"Yes the cobwebs." He excitedly replied. I had always been known to have arachnophobia and acrophobia and I was totally afraid of the webs that dangled like suspended ghosts from the ceiling. "Don't tell me you're afraid." "B ut what if a spider gets us or we fall?" I began to step away from the wisps of thread that twirled around me. "That won't happen. Besides cobwebs are abandoned webs!" he reassured me as he started up the ladder which now shone a pure gold in the sun. I stayed on the ground, twiddling my thumbs is anxiety. Richie had already made his way to the ceiling and was now crawling upside down much like a huge black widow. I hesitated more as I saw him flawlessly swing across the ceiling. If everything had remained constant, I probably would have remained there the whole day but as I took another step back, a great shadow fell over me. I turned around slowly and found myself staring into the face of an enormous spider that had at least a hundred eyes and twenty legs. I was too scared to even scream. I stood there paralyzed with fear. Richie turned back and saw the giant arachnid in front of me. "Oh no! Climb up the ladder quickly!" he shouted at me. I backpedaled in the direction of the ladder but tripped over a box of detergent, spilling the suds all over the floor in front of me. "Hurry!" Richie called out to me again "He's going to eat you!" Helplessly, I tried to get up but was pinned down by the beast's front legs. Just as it was about to strike, Richie, like a superhero jumped from the ceiling onto the creatures back. It flailed wildly as he held on to its back hairs. I grabbed the detergent box and tossed it into the monster's multitude of eyes, blinding it for a moment. Richie grabbed me by the arm and started up the ladder once again. The spider followed closely, shaking the cords of the web as it climbed. We pulled ourselves up as fast as we could and as Richie's fingertips grasped the mess of web on the. ceiling, the ladder gave way, sending the wretched creature down into the abyss of paraphernalia. We swung onto the top ofthe staircase and went out into the hall once again.

We fell to the floor, as tired as battle worn soldiers and rested. "That was a close one huh?" I said to Richie as he sniffed the air. "I think I've found it! The world's greatest treasure is within our grasp! Let's go, no time to rest now!" he cried out in joy. He pulled me up violently and we ran toward the kitchen at breakneck speed. We screeched to a halt as we met the apparition of our parents in the kitchen. Our mother turned around and smiled at us and our father did the same. We didn't believe our eyes as we stared into the china blue eyes ofthe two who brought us up from birth. Richie smiled but his smile soon turned to a frown as his eyes filled up with crystal-like tears. I felt a great sadness in my heart, like I had missed them for so long and had finally come home. We dashed forward, lunging toward my parents with our arms open. Instead of my mother however, I clutched nothing but the emptiness of thin air. I looked around the room, totally puzzled. It was back to its derelict state, the cupboards hung open, the walls were cracked, the windows were smashed and no more did the silk draping grace its sills. I checked my hands, my ears and my teeth and everything had returned to normal. I turned back to look at Richie who was back to his adult self and equally stunned, tears rolling down his cheeks. I walked up slowly to the counter and sat down on it. Richie vigorously wiped his tears away and cleared his throat. I looked at him and he shrugged his shoulders in sheer confusion. We sat around for a few minutes in utter disbelief at the events that just occurred. "That is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me." I said to him. "Strange yes. But I'd gladly go through it again." came his depressed reply. I looked up again at the cupboard where the writing was before. The ultimate treasure, it still proudly read. I opened the small door and it came off in my hand. Tucked into one of it's shelves was the old cookie jar that our mother used to put her freshly baked cookies in. I pulled it out of the web covered cupboard and showed it to Richie. We opened it together and inside was a tiny little note that simply read, "Your childhood." Richie and I laughed scarcely as we read it together. It was as if our parents had planned it all along. This quest that we would have after years and years would lead us to find out what the ultimate treasure really was. Our childhood. And it so happened that on a beautiful summer day, we were able to live through those wonderful times just once more. The quest was over. We had found the ultimate treasure.

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Prose Prose Jennifer Anne Champion 2T02

Pug & Harry

His clandestine efforts were as riddled with flashes as the body that lay below the soft brown earth.

Shovel.

You have five minutes.

Shovel.

No "please with a cherry on top"?

Shovel.

Four.

Shovel.

And if I say no?

Shovel.

Three.

Shovel.

Stop counting. You're ruining my punch line.

Shovel.

Two.

Shovel.

Those sound more like counting seconds, then minutes you know?

Shovel.

One.

Shovel.

Pug could have at least been smart enough to find a way to take care of this damned mess instead of leaving it to Harry. Waste of a perfectly good Thursday night. Harry never liked missing his habitual Thursday poker.

Of course without Pug, Harry would have been a player short.

There was a finality in the grinding sound of Harry'S shovel through the fresh mound; like a homily. Just as Pug would have liked it; brief and without too much ceremony or explanation. It was then that Harry wondered how Pug would have really wanted things.

It was then that Harry rested his head on his arms over the handle and wept.

"I don't like this anymore than you do."

For all her obstinate facial expression, her grip was firm.

Before Harry had a chance to reply, he felt his Vodka addled feet hit the wooden floor. It felt more like concrete. His feet followed an intricate pattern based on neither stepping on her feet nor his. The light was far too bright in the center of the room, and this stranger's fingers far too unwelcomingly stiff.

8

"You're going to have to at least hold her by the waist!" shouted his brother, jolly with far too much wine. His newly wed wife giggled and clapped along to the time by his side before falling off her own.

Amidst the loud cheer, Harry found solace ironically in its cause for it. The obstinate pair of eyes in front of him was the only still object left in the room. They scrunched back at him like freshly wrinkled butterfly wings that had not dried yet. If she relaxed them, they would have been almost captivating.

"Are you going to finish that?"

Harry looked up from his paper. His cigarette lay lit and resting on the ashtray. He had been too worried by the headline to pick up where he had left off.

DRUG RING DISCOVERED.

"Do I know you?"

She had already pulled up a chair and made herself comfortable, cigarette in hand. There was a ring of maroon around the filter. Cheap stuff; oil seeping through the paper.

"Don't you recognize family when you see it? I'm Carrie's sister. Which makes you the ever affable and generous brother-in-law. I'm skint on these today. Sorry," she said, tapping the lone stick's end.

Scrunched up, obstinate eyes.

"'Oh."

And having nothing more to say to this invasion, Harry returned to his paper.

"You ought to lock the door."

Harry scrambled to his feet. What the shit was she doing here?

"I won't tell if you let me at it."

Being once again positioned as the ever affable and generous brother-in-law, Harry had no choice but to comply. Now not only were her eyes wrinkled, but her nose as well as she snorted a generous proportion of his private stash.

"So in the grand scheme of things, which end of the food chain are you?"

"In the middle."

"So you yank a few chains or else get your mainline tugged?"

"More or less."

"Lifetime benefits?"

"Lifetime sentence."

"Of course."

In the silence that followed, they sat leaning against the wall, contemplating the fading twilight.

"So who's your boss?"

"Are you always this talkative?"

"No, I'm always June. I don't think I've been anything else."

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Prose Prose "What are you doing here?'

"Invading your space, clearly. I take immense joy at your discomfort."

You had to admire her bluntness.

"June's too pretty a name for you. Too lady-like. You ought to wear a prissy bonnet and have a cup of tea about you always."

"Well I love my tea as much as the next person. Darjeeling, darling, Darjeeling."

"Whatever fancy shit that is, why don't you take it with you and leave me alone?"

Her eyes didn't falter. Instead they sparkled with strange intent that Harry was not sure he felt entirely comfortable with. .

"What would you suggest then? Instead of June," she said softly.

Hpug,"

"Pug?"

"Like the dog. Your face is scrunched up like one."

"I suppose there are worse names."

"Like June."

"What have you got against feminine archetypes?"

"They barge into my room and never seem to leave me well enough alone."

"Well isn't it lucky then that you've christened me 'Pug'? You can't say it brings up images of pretty bonnet­wearing ladies."

The light was barely enough now to make out her Pug-face but Harry was sure that it still held up its look of obstinacy.

"Shut up and let me do it!"

Harry had not planned on making quite that much noise coming in. His left shin stung under cold water. She handled the knifing like a world war II veteran nurse; utilitarian, deft and without any hope for gentleness.

"Thanks," he muttered, making for the stairs,

"Absolutely not! You are not moving from this kitchen with that leg."

He stared at her with barely kept malevolence.

"Poker?"

She turned her back to him to rummage for a pack of cards in the kitchen drawer without waiting for an answer. Stumbling towards the kitchen island, he grabbed the cards from her and began to shuffle.

"It was that ring wasn't it? They call him the Tycoon."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"He doesn't exactly believe in employee welfare does he?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Did they find you out?"

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There was a pause. For the first time her eyes did not scrutinize him. They stood wide and earnest.

"No."

''I'm glad. There'd be a lot of paperwork to do if you were."

"Lay them out. Flush."

"Royal flush. I think? It's the same combination as Bond in Casino Royale."

"Very good Pug."

For the first time, he smiled at her.

"You have 10 seconds to get out."

She stood at the doorway, eyes wrinkled like the discarded clothing on the floor.

Daphne had a little trouble covering her bill that month. They did not ,call them coke whores for nothing. Harry lay still on his bed, staring at the ceiling while she scrambled for her shed articles. Pug had an intimidating effect that did not inspire too much questioning from most people. Daphne left in silence, not daring to look at her.

"She's just another end of the food chain."

"I don't want to hear about it."

"Then why do you care what I do with my business?"

"Because your business is causing a sizeable amount of damage to the floor, which I just waxed this morning by the way!"

"Bullshit. No one goes into this room, let alone cleans it. I'd know."

"What do you know, Harry?"

"I could make the same point for you."

"Not enough. I don't know you enough to dislike you. Which is perhaps the only reason I stick around."

What on earth was she talking about? All Harry knew was this was one of the rare moments that Pug did not have her Pug-face on.

"You're an enterprising man. Surely you can see he's more trouble than he's worth."

The Tycoon laughed, letting out a stream of Cuban cigar smoke. He did not usually make house calls. But Harry's limp had not gone unnoticed in the community. It was only a matter of time.

"Are you a gambling man, Mister Tycoon?"

"Call me Mo, sweetheart."

"I win, you walk out of here and never have associations with Harry again. You leave him in peace, alive and in one piece."

"Don't be daft, June."

"The lady's made an interesting offer Harry."

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Prose Prose ''I'm not letting a woman handle my affairs."

"Women rarely can. But cards are already on the table, Harry."

Sure enough, she had almost too eagerly dealt them out, and now held hers with concernment.

"Flush. And I think it's safe to say one of you should start running. Call it a grace period for loyal service."

"Royal flush. Are you a man of your word?"

"I've said none so I suppose I'm a man of no words. But ['11 give Harry 5 minutes."

For a moment, Pug did not have her scrunched up eyes. They were wide with horror. Then, they returned, as obstinate as the first time Harry had seem them.

Harry picked up his shovel.

In moments of danger or panic, Pugs are known to be protective.

He pressed his fingers to his lips and laid them on the head of the mound.

"I'm sorry June."

He limped back to the car park a mile off, ditching the shovel in an open drain. It was time to find something new to fill up his Thursdays.

END

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Jackie Tan Yen (2T13)

The Ongoing War (Addiction)

Thirteenth of August, five in the evening. My preliminary examinations are so close that I am sure that if it had corporeal form, I would feel its smelly breath on my neck. My mind has released all the information I have painstakingly attempted to memorise, to my utter frustration. I look up at my mirror in front of me to glare angrily at myself. The sun is beginning to set, the amber glow from the surrounding twilight falling upon my face, illuminating half of it, while keeping the other half in shadow, due to the angle of incidence. Oops, too much physics.

As light fights to illuminate the whole of my visage, darkness fights just as hard to keep its territory. This war is waging in my mind, as my attention is drawn towards my Nintendo Dual Screen Lite (NDS Lite) portable gaming device.

The jet -black shell of my NDS Lite beckons me, sparkling in the sunset glow, a wonderful effect that is augmented in my mind by my hunger to touch, activate, and play it. I cast my eyes upon this oh­so-wonderful image, a heavenly cuboid star sparkling with a brilliant yellow-orange luster, no, no, a dark demonic box from the depths of hell. Wait, what does it matter? I want it. I really, really want it. In the mirror I see, out of the corner of my eye, the darkness spreading across my face as I turn my head away from my notes and reach out towards my desire.

No! I snatch my hand back and tear my eyes away. The light reclaims its half of my face, as I look back at my notes. I recite what I want to commit to my memory, a mantra containing the facts I must remember. I continue to murmur incomprehensible sounds which only make sense to my subconscious mind. Facts about cell mitosis meiosis, anaphase and telophase float out of my voice box for my ears to snatch out of thin air and thrust into any unoccupied square centimetre of grey matter. My ears do grab the drivel I spout, but all my grey matter is occupied ...

On my NDS Lite! The darkness presses its attack. I want to turn the system on and lose myself in the virtual worlds, where I can manage antediluvian empires and wage interplanetary wars at my whim and fancy, where I can wield and manipulate arcane energies with merely a few flicks of the stylus, where I can be in full control of superpowered individual by just pressing a few buttons. I thirst for the adrenalin rush of the fast-paced games. I hunger for the feeling of my neural pathways crackling with electricity as I think my way through the slower games. My eyes glaze over, and I drool in joyful anticipation as I snap open the lid of my NDS Lite and reach for the switch that will plunge me into the worlds where I control everything, beyond redemption of the voice in my head which is now softly whispering, "You must not ... You must not ... You must not ... "

"YOU MUST NOT!!!" Common sense, hyper-charged by necessity, roars with all its remaining energy in an eleventh-hour gamble to get my attention to where it is supposed to be. The gamble succeeds, the darkness recedes and I awake from my madness. Light is back in the game but unfortunately, it has almost no energy left to fight However, it has awakened me enough for me to realise my true duty. I cling to the light, my ally in the war, struggling against the darkness, concentrating only on my notes. The darkness waves a white flag and fades away. I sigh in relief and pick up my notes, textbook and pencil and resume my revision.

Nitrogen cycles . .. Eukaryotic cells .. . Prokaryotic cells .. . Median Septum .. . Death to all enemies ...

I am confused for only a split second and before 1 can even utter an "Uh-oh", the darkness carries

13

Prose Poetry out its ambush and attacks me while I am still off-guard, pounding me with a vengeance. Images flood my mind: My latest victory in Age of Empires, the new abilities I just obtained in Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin, the arcane runes I mastered just recently in Lost Magic, and many more which fade after a second, but delivering a lasting impact on my surprised brain.

I grasp both sides of my head. I will fight back. I will win this skirmish. I will not succumb to temptation. I will study for my preliminary examinations. I will memorise all my facts ...

No, I will switch it on. I will play one of my many games. I will embark on journeys that can never happen in the real world. I will let myself enjoy the games while I still can until new ones come out...

I must learn all the things I need to know for the examinations. My future is decided by these examinations. I must work. I must show my academic strengths to the school. It is now or never. I cannot retake the examinations. To do so would waste time which could be spent constructively. I must work ...

No, I will kill more enemies who wage war against my planet. I will train all my characters until their levels are raised exponentially. I will find my way out of that latest dungeon I entered. I will achieve a new high score. I will get new games! I must play ...

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!

I am too exhausted to fight anymore. Seven-thirty in the evening. There is no purpose in trying to continue anymore. I pack up my things and throw them wearily onto my shelf. I bathe with as much vigour as a zombie. I collapse onto my bed when my hair is completely dry. One half of my face is illuminated by the fluorescent light above me which I am too drained to switch off. The other half of my face lies in the shadow of my pillow. Light and darkness have signed a temporary truce; the forces warring within me have declared a momentary stalemate. Tomorrow, I will try to study again. Still, I feel that it is a meaningless effort. It does not matter if another draw is declared or one of those forces wins, at the end of the day, I will still be tom down and destroyed by the war, unable to pursue either course of action, so it will be a draw anyway. Whoever wins, I lose.

14

Jonathan Goh 2T12 Theme: Mirror

Duel

As part of a snatch of lay meant to be included in the soon to be published chronicles of Deleran, documenting the fight of Janus the Avenger and Lord Darkwing; of how each

was a part of the other and neither could triumph.

On the Plain, beneath the sun, two warrior lords did fight Rock gave way before their blades; all wondered at the sight

Earth protested mightily when it was nicked and scarred Furrows dug formed rivers wide; since then the way they barred

The fury that was unleashed did shake the mountainside And all the creatures of that place took to holes to hide

Though all around them were at war, Men and Beasts stood still In awe, in fear and reverence of the pair's great skill

One wore a cloak of a shade that shamed the blackest night His furry pelt which showed beneath was ofthe purest white

The other favored garments which color seemed to lack His wings and fur all askew were of the darkest black

As one though were the glares of rage etched into each face It was clear that neither side would even budge a space

Both had death clenched in their paws, both fighters would not yield Each felt sure that at the end, HIS side would win the field

Silver swords clashed with golden spear as all the rest gave place Of the other each had a fear, of defeat and fall from grace

None could run from such a fight, so on the duelists fought All trembled before the sight to see the chaos wrought.

For four and twenty hours fought the pair in bloodlust haze At what would happen next the watchers gaped amazed The Avenger on his sword hilt did lean for breath a pace

And like wild beast drove mad by wounds dove at Darkwing's face Mighty was the ring of steel against the Golden Spear

That all around them backed away, shielding then their ears. And Astral's True Avenger was spent from his last stroke He fell upon his knees as falls the lightning smitten oak

The Dark One gave a cry of glee, readying his death blow Couching low his fabled Spear, he made to strike his foe. But lo! Of the endless duel was too the Dark One spent His spear was leaden in his paws and his back was bent.

From his wavering grip fell the Spear none else could wield Joined a moment later by its master on the field

Two armies stared and looked upon the weary fallen pair. Who in their pride had faced their foe and did their skills compare

In same like pride did the cur challenge water's mirror For want of his reflection's bone and soon was he drowned after Take warning then, for no Man can triumph over his reflection

For they are one and are the same, t'will drive one to distraction.

15

l oe ry Poetry Fah Bernadette 2T03 Theme: The End

On Philosophy and God

Your ascetism astounds me, a maze Of inadequacies; some hidden Need. A Philosopher you are not, but merely a Scribe. An awkward Icarus on whitewashed wings. Stumbling in flight like a dying bird. Make no mistake; the picture is within your proposition, but Treat of yourself of your self is something, somewhere else For you this continental banality, this Well-traveled geography of thought, there are no roses But a premise. When will you realize that you Are the smallest speck of obfuscated pigment in The grander scheme of things? Where of you Could not speak (and never could have spoken), You refuse to remain silent, marching through The crack, on the lane to the land of the Dead.

And all that remains of you is a Thought Drifting onwards in the transience of a July sun.

***********************

A Stubborn Valentine

Dress me up in your mother's clothes Show me the worm-eaten path to your heart I'll cook you foie gras, I'll make caviare Just let me know how to make your love start.

I'll let you wear nappies, I'll smack you in bed, I'll hit you with rolling pins over the head Or maybe I'll blush and play hard-to-get Perhaps I'll learn to play Russian Roulette

What do you want? Sin? Veiled desire? The hand of the chef, the daredevil's fire? The chance to play Daddy to darlingest Mum? (Striking a blow for dear old Sigmund?)

Whatever you need, I'll do it, I swear. There's more to me than you'll ever see. I'll yell from the hills, I'll wear pretty frills As long as I get you I know I'm home free.

16

Emily Harries 2Tll

] 1

The Night Ophelia Died

The room is dark, it's cold and dark, There's no life within these walls.

Unearthly sounds, enjoy the hounds, Walking through these hollowed halls.

A voice is heard. A Banshee's song. Face in the fog, stare hard and long. Deathly poison. A Banshee's kiss,

To save a life, just utter this:

It's a scream, say it's a scream, Ophelia stabbed herself.

Two doors down, the ashened room, Ophelia stabbed herself.

Blood-red stains. The walls. The floor. He tore her heart asunder.

No more heartbreak, no more sorrow, She buried herself under.

The essence of life is turning black, As dark as the darkness. Black. This flower will never bloom.

Empty shell. Empty room.

It's a scream, say it's a scream, Ophelia stabbed herself

Two doors down, the darkest room Ophelia knifed herself.

The puzzle. Finally complete. Found: Last missing piece above.

Tears. Torture. Torment. So suffered. A love so lost, albeit, still love.

Everyone had left her side, And after the long divide,

A broken heart, a lonely face. The blade. The blood. The warm embrace

It's a scream, say it's a scream, Ophelia stabbed herself.

Two doors down, the lifeless room, Ophelia killed herself.

Eyes of light, no sleep tonight, Take the last breath now.

Staring. Looking. Deeply piercing. It will be, somehow.

Scorn. Angst. This bitter feeling. Fair maiden's wrath. Never leaving. The wind. The dust. Nothing here.

Nothing. Save for Ophelia.

It's a scream, say it's a scream, Ophelia stabbed herself.

Two doors down, the whitest room, Ophelia saved herself.

17

Lim Chuan IT05

Poetry Poetry Sharmaine Toh 2Tll Theme: The World Is Round

The World Is Round

The world is round?

What a preposterous thing to say.

A philosophy blasphemous in every way

Yet now, the basis of every day.

Hence Galilee's supposed defiance

Established, with the universe, an alliance

In the radical contraption - of science.

(Science reminds me of you)

Science and progress, in philosophy's art

Do not speak as clearly as the heart.

(And you taught me that,

When our world was fiat.)

But now my world has dimension -

Everything's a cycle, so they say­

And I'm wondering why you left.

Watching you walk away

And if you keep walking on, away,

I'd walk the world 'till the last day

(And still never be with you)

I know now - the world is round

It spins, spinning, out of control,

Please, will you give me something to hold

(Since you took the old world from me)

Yet, in the spinning, the world is still -

Under my feet, my world stays still -

And this stasis continues until

Overcome. The weakness of the will

Makes time stay still in pain

And one year passes again.

Silence, says the sound.

Unnoticeable, the rotation of ground -

They tell me the world is round.

18

Dinesh Sabapathy lT04 Theme: The End

Penance

I deserve to be shot I deserve to be ground into dust and blown away

Never to be distinct again.

Take me away until the day

I meet my end To become death 's friend

Lightning illuminates night's dark face, strike me I yearn. But the searing white bolt of fate passes me harmlessly by.

There shall never be peace Until my pain does cease.

Not even a prophecy from the sisters of fate May tumble this insurmountable mountain of your hate.

I am undeserving of the hand of life; your hand. I need to welcome a fate worse than death, for that is what I deserve.

My destiny in life is to lapse into the shapeless generality of the shadows, Never to be seen except by those to whom I choose to reveal myself.

Cloak me from sight Hide me from daylight

Call me a traitorous knave And dump meforever in a grave.

I need suffering and countless hours of torture, to purge me of my remorse, A thousand tears to be shed to remove my aching heart of its guilt, And a hundred carvings of my body to set my weeping soul free.

Don't allow me to escape Take me back to the cape Back to the devil's haven

Torturer's tavern.

I am not who I am, I am the lonesome figure who cuts a swathe of destruction in the night.

I am the wanderer who walks the forbidden road, I let my feet carry me.

The night asks me who I am and there is only one answer.

My identity The true one .. my entity Hidden for none to see

Being revealed now, a big secret, huge as the sea.

19

Poetry Poetry There is always the truth and I look into the eyes,

Windows of night's soul And answer in silence:

A complete answer No half truths, only respect as it is given to the gaffer.

Too many lies, Too many ends, leaving me high and dry.

I am only, just as it is, The soldier of heinous crimes.

I am the tainted one, the man who bleeds from wounds self-inflicted. Jealousy is a disease and forgiveness for myself, ... never

This is how it has been and forever shall be, Amen.

I now realize that resolution Lies in redemption.

This is the end The last stick of the fence. What now remains is a yawning den.

20

Siete, Sect, Sette, Zeven, Sieben, Thiuh, Schedem

I dedicate my first random line to you In ancient times, this star was known as Cor Leonis, the Lion's Heart There are some things that I want to say that I know need not be said.

You are the voice I hear at night, And that's when I know I'll be all right.

Everything you say will be recorded and will be used, As I retain the right to modify and use it to my advantage.

Then I think you found out that I wasn't dead. When I accidentally breathed while you were watching, I jerked upright and said,

"Boo!" Okay, I don't know why I put quotation marks on that but yea.

But then again, it's me we're talking about. I promise to train my hardest, harder than I've ever trained before.

So ... I am on HIATUS people ...

You fought a winning battle until something of a different league came along Don't stand over me sneering about your fake injuries

Whatever happened to the promise that was made? But you made me choose between the two

Even horses get a better deal than me. Mi soledad, life is elsewhere It will be windy from now on.

I want to go home. I want to eat doughnuts.

I want to sleep peacefully. I want to smile and be positive.

I want to walk slowly, gazing at the stars up above. I want to be happy and smiling cause I'm not in love with anyone.

But FairytaIes don't always have a happy ending, do they?

The Roy Haynes needs a replacement After tomorrow no one will see the pain Do you have an extra pair of handcuffs?

Because we are going so fast it's like a wild adventure. So just hold on tight for a while, it's in the making!

Just believe in me, I will make you see. More solitude than company

Never going to quit without trying, It is our class, and to us,

Nowhere else possesses such a perfect composition and balance that we hold. We earned for ourselves the special bond shared,

The trust placed and friendships that will never fade. We are the best, we are the coolest, we are the only.

We might be in, we might be out, but leave a message and you might find out!

We are 2T07.

Why are we writing this? Why not?

Class 2T03

This is a poem made up of random lines from the brilliant members of 2T07 -we have 7 main stanzas, and each has 7 lines; while the title - made up of 'seven' in 7 different languages, represents our diversity. Every member of the class contributed 3 lines and these were put together in as much of a logical fashion as was possible within the short time frame of one and a half hours.

21

Poetry Poetry Ho Pei Ying IT09

Confessions

Don't you have something you would like to tell me?

Me? No.

No? What about that particular thing I heard you talking about?

Thing? What thing?

You know, that thing.

Oh you mean, that thing!

Yes! That thing.

What's wrong with wearing socks on the fiipside?

No! Not that thing! The other one.

The one about my fascination with Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Ugh, you like him?

Well, he is pretty cool.

Right... Anyway, I wasn't talking about your odd fascination.

No?

No. I was talking about the other thing. You know, the one where -

Oh. Are you referring to my old-people-dancing classes?

What?

Yeah. I quite like ballroom dancing. You have a problem with that?

Ballroom dancing is not old-people-dancing.

I'll have you know I'm quite proud of my dancing skills.

Actually, I wasn't talking about your ballroom dancing. I've been meaning to ask you if -

No wait. Don't tell me. Are you talking about the time when I took an extra five cents from the auntie in the canteen?

NO!

22

My room is sparse­It always has been Tied to the past. I lie alone, A bed for my throne A Queen of simple pleasures. Sweets to my left, A lUxury of youth. My bony hand quivers­Just short of the candy. Perhaps, I deserve them no more. I am old now. My smile is bare But filled with life yet. But that, too, is diminishing Before my own eyes. Myself is all I can see. All else is a blur-But memory is vivid. The shades of war, Dull but unfading. The first colour photograph­My beloved son. hold these dear, Though my touch is numb. Though I grow old, My mind is young. But Death does not see­She comes for me, Takes my hand gently, softly To peace in eternity. And perhaps, I do not mind. For I am old now. I belong to a world Of a different kind.

lAm Old Now

23

Amanda Dizon 2T03 Theme: The End

Poetry Poetry,

We kill the monsters that attack man. We rescue people from the tidal wave, even helping those in the crumbling land.

Superheroes

"Thank you," they say. Twas one more day we save! Through education, they have the knowledge to build automobiles, which bring them places, much faster. That's their privilege and no one in this world could give a damn! The earthly statues, my homes, they get cut! The legless swimmers, my friends, they get hauled! The beauteous lands, they dry, have they no heart? The waters - get saltier. Are they appalled? Behind our actions, there're no conjectures. Why do we fight to protect these creatures?

Darryl Leong 2T19

***********************

The plastic blind hangs in the window In the room without a door Light through its slits

The plastic blind hangs in the window In the room wanting a door

And light on the dark floor

Yeo Crenshaw IT03 Theme: Light and Dark

The Blind

A shadow on the floor

Dark through its light

24

,

!

Why don't you step up? Step into the light. Especially if you know you can do better.

If you're Complaining Discriminating Scrutinizing Perhaps, you know how to do it better. Step up.

No one else but you

Perhaps you can contribute with more than that grumble.

You think you can do better yet, you keep on hiding beneath the shadows. If you think you can do it, why don't you do it? Aren't you proud that you can finally prove them wrong? Or, perhaps, you're afraid 'cause they were right all along?

I doubt so.

You are Brillant Great Talented Gifted

But why hide in a sanctified comer?

Medel Rheyza Lyn Carpio IT15

Why are you not shining your light upon the world of "immense" darkness?

Why don't you take that small step? Then, make a difference in the world? Tum the "crappy" world on what you think it should be. You are more than what you think you ought to be.

Make that "impossible" possible

It this is not "it," then what is? If it is not now, when can it be? If it is not you, who will it be?

Why not?

25

I

i

Poetry Poetry

I am a slave Incarcerated for my resplendent lustre Locked away for my truthfulness I lie affixed upon the wall of my prison

Upon the other walls lie my fellow convicts Portrait, the plain-faced liar Abstract, the muddled freak And Clock, the timeless warden

Every so often I get a strange visitor A pale visage will peer into my depths And bound by my vow, I must,

With ruthless integrity Expose every subtle nuance The grotesque beauty The exquisite horror

The reactions I provoke are queer Sometimes they look closer As if looking for something

However, on many an occasion, They will frantically attempt To adjust their contorted facades Into something more aesthetically pleasing Only to have their elastic features Come a-bouncing back once I'm not there

After that, they may drop a gift or two Precipitation ranging from A fine mist upon my cyclopean eye To a torrential monsoon And once, even some viscous green slime

All gifts thrust forcibly onto me, However, there was this once, I had been bequeathed, Wrapped up with a ribbon, A 10,000 megavolt smile

Mirror

Which blinded me to my existence in this dread place And it seemed that being a slave wasn't that bad after all

26

Bryan Cutter IT26

Ode To Brother Paul

Oh Brother Paul, the big man in white, You go round giving us students a fright. You're the king and you do rule, 'Cos you're the principal of our school.

Each morning you arrive at the crack of dawn, Catching us students looking so forlorn. With our shirts untucked and socks out of sight, We try to put up a feeble fight.

Come assembly and there you are, Watching us line up, near and far. During announcements we chatter away, Only to be caught for detention that day.

All throughout OUR school day, We wonder what you do with YOUR day, We hear rumours; some might be true, Of all the many things you do.

Reading blogs and Friendster websites, Checking up on all we write. Gathering info on all our alumni; All those big shots who have made it up high.

At the end of the day there is still night study, For those who're planning is still quite muddy. Still, you come down to check on us, Quieting down any big fuss.

I suppose, after looking back and all, The order for a principal is quite tall. You've got to work through day and night, Keeping the grades of students in sight.

We take it for granted that you are there, Keeping us from pulling out all our hair. So when you scare us, I guess it's alright, 'Cos you're just there to help us win the fight.

So here's the thanks that is long past due, So for all the misery, thank you. 'Cos we now know it is for the best, 'Cos now we all can pass life's test.

27

Adonara Mucek 2T07

Poetry. Prose

Untitled

It happened again, while they stood at his door.

The neighbours were smart, they already knew, and

Turned up the sounds to drown out the silence;

Drew their curtains across dusty windows,

Shut their gates, locked and barred, He

Always, always had a smile like sunshine but

A tongue that cut too deep sometimes, like how his

Nails often would.

Fah Bernadette 2T03 Theme: Why did you go?

She wouldn't stand for it, clothes cluttered in musty boxes,

Strewn across the corridor, five years worth of dust and old

Wards. Stamped her feet, palms crashing across an unshaven face, his

Spit biting her eyes, running down her cheeks.

What could/would/should they do, other than play along,

Throwing her set of his keys on the living room floor

Next to her/her? earrings from the night before.

His last sight of her will be her tom sundress;

Dior, he spent a whole bloody month's pay on that, but

Frankly my dear, he couldn't give a damn. He couldn't love her

Like she couldn't love him, a four-letter word he swore never to

Say. He knew she'd say yes, ifhe'd run after some fleeting silhouette,

Chasing Nabokovian butterflies. But

That could be done tomorrow, after he skirts around the

Broken glass, dead telephones, Dior dresses sunbeam smiles,

Varnish on a funeral pyre, stepping and bleeding from

Her set of his keys on the living room floor.

28

Annabelle Wong (1 T13) Theme: Addiction

Amber

The carving knife looks deliciously tempting in its steel lustre. Lying passively flat on the dark granite counter, its quiet allure seems magnified. He blinks once.

She set down her pen, and hastily folded the piece of paper once, twice. Her feet padded soundlessly against the carpet across the shadowed corridor, past the top of the stairs. Standing outside his room, she could make out a vague, motionless shape on the bed outlined by the moon, which had a curiously ruddy tint.

Six in the morning; and she felt like a thief. She was seized, suddenly, by a dreadfully familiar mixture of guilt and fear, as though she had plunged through the hypothermic ocean of a particularly vicious winter. The crickets outside sang in muted harmony as she found herself suspended in a crippling state of uncertainty. No, she needed to hurry. Her white cotton nightgown fluttered against her knees in the night breeze from the open windows as she crept across the room. Finally, stopping at the dresser, she deposited her note.

There was something almost funny about the way she didn't know he was watching. He could imitate the stillness of corpses, so utterly convincing in his display of slumber. It washed him over with a veiled peacefulness he could hardly understand. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to laugh at that particular recollection. It hurt. Phenomenally. It hurt how she had to slip away in that manner, right through his fingers paralysed by the venom of umequited love; and the realisation thereof, which came viciously like a hard slap. What about him? The bright edge of the knife glints, making him blink again.

Back in her room, she sighed in relief. Thank goodness he didn't wake. She gathered a few sets of clothing from her wardrobe and stuffed them into a black duffel bag. She opened the drawer where she had hidden, just the day before, two loaves of bread and a bottle of water, knowing he would never look. Those items went in too, along with her treasured book on horses and a framed photograph of him outside in the vegetable garden. Changed out of her nightgown, she slung the duffel over her shoulder and, squeezing her eyes- an astonishing shade of amber- in a long blink; took one last mental snapshot of her pink-walled room from the doorway before turning to leave.

He should've known it was too much to last. Perhaps it was all a mistake. Yet he would never look at the world the same way again. A rash decision fuelled by desperation and some insanity, no doubt. The daughter his late wife could never give them, his only absurd link to the past. But it wasn't fair to her. That was why he couldn't stop her. Amazing already, how she hadn't escaped sooner. To that premature morning hung a sort of hazy expectancy into the blinding future, still too raw for comprehension. His heart is full and scintillates with-

As she stepped off the front porch and onto the dirt road, she never turned to look back. She knew she couldn't. Seven o'clock. The dishwater clouds of morning twilight were scalloped at their hems with pale gold, suspending- it seemed, infinitely- in the weightless ghost of lapis lazuli. A young, playful breeze tossed her fair hair around as she pulled her sweater around tighter and strode briskly to hide her shaking. All she had was the uncertainty of this gamble to keep her going. Surely, she could locate her family once she reached the suburbs, at least. She would walk as much as it took. No, she couldn't let herself fall back on the perverse refuge of captivity. If only she had given the house just one last look; before disappearing into the rustic assortment of colours approaching fall had gifted upon the trees, she might have spied a thin white face at the open window of the second storey.

29

Prose . Prose The slow sparkle of resignation. She had been the last and only shred of objectivity for his tainted existence, clung desperately onto with every ounce of psychological strength. He picks up the knife and does its bidding. Still gripping her letter, angry crimson blossoms invade the paper and then the chequered linoleum. A lukewarm serenity descends like soft sunshine as his consciousness slowly drains to one last flash of amber.

By the time you read this, I would have been gone. I know a letter could never suffice, yet it must do. I should begin by saying that I am very sorry. No; what I mean really is that I must apologise. It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. The mixture of pain and guilt, after deciding my path from this predicament, is far too intense to express even through words.

It's been almost three years. I still remember how frightened I was atfirst. I really thought you were going to kill me. The fear was so vivid; I was but ten. Yet, almost magically, you transformed that fear into something so inexplicably strange yet beautiful. Yet lately, I've been thinking. You love me like your own, yet I don't know if gratitude is appropriate, I really don't. Why do I feel so incomplete when you give me everything in your power to make me happy?

We shared some of the most enchanting experiences in my memory- how, in the dusky illumination of early evening, we went daisy picking behind the house exactly two summers ago, how we discovered ancient Greece and Shakespeare in the huge dusty volumes from your bookshelf, how you taught me to bake gingerbread biscuits last Christmas ... It's just virtually impossible to list all the wonderful times we shared.

I don't deny that in time to come, after you had taught me to trust, my sense of attachment to you ballooned and now I finally see it has gone out of hand. You never hit me or yelled at me and I have no cause for contempt. I need to make this very clear: I am not leaving because I loathe you. I don't. But, what you did is a different matter altogether that your love and care can never adequately justify.

This is also the crux of my dilemma. I'd slowly taken all these things for granted, because of your extraordinarily kind treatment. You have given so much in nurturing me that I feel so indebted.

So I find it extremely difficult to leave you. Still I know I must. My family is still out there, and three years is such a long time. I can't imagine what grief and worry they must have suffered from my disappearance. It shocks me to realise that I have allowed this to continue for so long, having always rested too comfortably in the assumption that I had no escape, though we both know this was untrue.

I can't go on this way. I can't live like this. My feeling trapped haunts inexorably. Liberty is something you cannot truly give me, simply because of your position. And I need it more than comfort. I don't blame you one bit; I even forgive you.

I hope you will someday find true happiness.

30

Jennifer Anne Champion 2T02

As You Were Gentle, Gentlemen.

Child, you'll find it filled again. And then, maybe when there is that final peace at some point, maybe even happiness will return; if you were ever happy before that is.

It is paradoxical that to enjoy relationships you really have to put yourself in it and yet to take caution that in the event (and it is always the event) you have to rip yourself away (whether you like it or not), the emptiness will resume, possibly more painful than ever.

So what choices do we have then? Immeasurable security but impermanent happiness, or sterile safety it would seem. Relationships are crossing the roads at red light. Sometimes you get to the other side, and you've 'arrived' somewhere where the grass is apparently greener. Sometimes you find yourself a bloody mess in the middle.

At a pace that can be politely described as gently ambling along, the double-decker makes its way down to its invariable destination. Personally, she's in no hurry. As much distance as possible from point A to B suits her peculiar fancies. The stop is always dreadful if there's something waiting at the end, or worse, nothing at all. The orange glow of passing street lamps land diffused through plastic glass, side profiling her countenance turned towards houses and trees she does not really see. Instead she is preoccupied with the unfamiliar glowing reflection staring back at her, eyes highlighted in wild ochre when the dark silhouettes outside cast their contrasting shadows back at her. No, not at her. Her reflection.

It is studied. She looks tiredly studied. Worn out from observing but she can't look away. Answers within, answers without; she cannot look away.

Miss Eve, she thinks to herself that everything she has ever thought of has been thought of before. Every movement contemplated and waxed lyrical. Spirits of braver individuals before her re-enact their choices. A block of flats whizzes past, two thirds of its lonely occupants watching Friday night variety game shows made specifically for those who wish they had something better to do but act like they are content. Height is not the issue as much as the technique. When there is nothing between you and the concrete but 15 storeys of air, it is hard not to think of dropping defensively downward; not to think about the difference of posture between landing paralysed and still breathing, and determinedly on a side that ensures instant thankful release.

She exhales.

No, she'd never have the guts to go through with it, nor the courage to move away from such tantalizingly sharp edges. Instead everywhere is the faint image of her past ghosts doing something possible; something unspeakable.

Miss Eve, she thinks to herself, "so pathetic". But wise enough to know the more pathetic sense in half­as sed attempts. No, she's an all-or-nothing kind of girl; a curious mixture of the end, the distant beginning and the roundabout middle of mostly nowhere. No end to this circle. No sides. But even sitting on the fence is taking a side; a side painful on the rear surely, but nevertheless a determined side, which for her is the most conviction she will ever muster.

31

: !

· Prose I

Finish what you have started.

A monster with glowering eyes stares back at Eve; the wild ochre in the sides of endless pupils pierce her backwards and forwards expectantly. Reflection on reflection through reflection past reflection.

Suddenly, there are arms flailing about for the stop button, an inconspicuous panic red. Feet flurry desperately down the stairs and out expanding double doors before breaking into an open run. The expanding distance between the twin roars of machine and heart, and back towards heart and runaway machine.

She inhales.

A crowd is already assembled at the pavement, but not gathered. There is too little warmth and too much curious and nonchalant aghast in the air for this to be a gathering. He lies exactly where she left him; gently splayed across rude road. The coarse grains sparkle, their surface cracks absorbing his essence where it chooses to run.

The course of true love never did run smooth. 1

The fall of men, starts with something blood red and ends ... well it never does, does it? Adam and Eve; Adam to Eve; Adam on Eve. Adam says that they'll have kids and a big white house somewhere discreet but still an undoubtedly desired and elite locale. They'll drive their spacious separate cars to their big jobs; climbing up to their bigger aspirations of success. He'll have an affair with a string of secretaries and compensate by financing extravagant yearly family trips to Aspen and Paris for her shopping. She'll pretend it does not matter (or perhaps by then it really would not) and devote her energies to nagging at their two sons who will eventually learn to hate her in the way that only true progeny can towards their original. He'll die an old man, with a legacy ripe for passing on to their sons. She'll plan a tastefully elegant funeral, with her best pearl set on and the appropriate air of aggrieved but put-together widow; quiet melancholy with a tinge of boredom. Eve made perfectly for Adam.

It is like being seated next to the airplane exit. So tiredly but meticulous studied her life has become at the age of twenty-three. Itchy fingers.

Her hand extended to push the lever. She'd never had the guts nor the courage.

She only felt the slow-oiled suspension of space and time; his tug, the ochre headlight, her push and graceful side-step, the sound of screaming brakes and flesh. And then a fade to black. There is heavy thudding, guilty heart or guilty footsteps she cannot remember or care for the difference.

If you love someone, you let them free. And if they love you, they come back.

Eve stares into her lover's dead eyes for the last time and laughs finally, long and loud like an uncomplicated child playing in an empty summer-bright field.

Machine stopped. Cycle complete.

I "The course of true love never did run smooth" - From Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream (Act I: Sc 11: 134)

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