gentlemen (v2)

You can't expect her to know when to stop. They hand her the clear potion and she downs a shot for every boy who has given only to take away. She sells it like the worst kind, but she can’t stop, there's no point. Your soul can't regenerate: once a piece is lost it's lost forever, clinging to the feet of yet another, someone whom she thought would last longer than the moment.

She thinks of the 6ams; she rolls over, her head nestling against his back, and he stirs awake to find a stranger wanting more than he paid for in her drink. Walks out the front door, and she glimpses a shred of herself stuck onto the underside of his shoe; he drags her soul out to the sidewalk.

Him is a thousand hims, a collective; they once had names faces memories that made your spine chill, shiver with heart-trembling intimacy. But the more she remembered, the bigger a piece of her they tore away. It doesn't heal: the rip remains red and raw.

Shots make you numb. That's the only way. Here's one for the boy who explored the whispers of the bushes with her when she was fifteen. Who smoothed over every rise and filled every crevice. Who moved with her every breath.

Here's one for the boy who held her hand and said she had more beauty than she thought. She thought he was like the rest, who wanted her before they would look at her seriously, so she gave him what they wanted. He had run away in the night; she heard his sobs when he awoke and realised it was done. He still took a piece of her when he left - a bigger piece than the rest.

She’s on the floor now, the marble that feels like home. Shapes are bending over to take an amused look. Go on. Look. she wants you to join her. Show her you won't walk away.

Touch her. She wants it. Look at her eyes. Touch her, give her the electricity of hope. Stop refusing, she's scared, like you don't want even the least of her anymore. You're making her worried. You're making her cry.

Just Different

A crisis from the past hangs over the family, and it shaped who its members have become. Another event has happened recently that reminds the members of the past crisis. But they have learnt never to talk about it explicitly - it brings too much pain. You should show your characters to have complex personalities - more than one big trait.

The dinner table. Every night, it almost feels like an extended family reunion. Dad lays out the cutlery. “So, who’s saying grace?”

“I’ll do it,” Sandra offers.

“No.” Mum interjects a little too quickly, widened eyes. Pause. She reassumes her posture, looks down. “I’ll do it.”

 Dad looks down quietly. Sandra stares at her mother with a laser gaze.

“Our Father, thank you for keeping us together as one family, covered by Your blood. Let Your righteous love be in this household. Bless the food, and our time together. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

The sounds of cutlery against porcelain. It is silent for a long while; no one looks up, forcefully absorbed in the way a meatball always evades you just as you think you’ve got it, and pounces into a cushion of pasta for refuge.   

“Honey, could you pass the salt, please?” “Sandra, could you pass your mum the salt?” Sandra slides it across the table. “I said you.” Mum doesn’t touch it. “But she was closer to the salt.” “What, now even the things I touch contaminate you?”

Mum resumes silence. Dad seems to be intrigued by the food.

“Mum, I’m still a Christian, you know, you can still talk to me.”

Continues chewing. “There’s no point talking if you’re not going to listen.” “Well, at least you can tell me what’s going on?”

“Don’t call yourself a Christian. Don’t call yourself a follower if you’re not following Him.”

“But I love God! And I’m trying! I’m trying to be the best person I can be!” “No you’re not!” Fork clumsily scratches against porcelain. “You’re not trying.”

“Sandra,” Dad begins in a firm voice, “you know that no matter what, we still love you, and we’re there for you no matter what-“ “Oh, stop patronizing her,” Mum interjects.

“Mum, what if you just tried listening to my point of view, stop freaking out, I’m still the same daughter, nothing needs to change-”

“YOU’RE NOT TRYING!” Silence. She takes a deep breath. “You’re still the same daughter? How much have you been keeping from me? Was I wrong when I thought I knew you? How much about my family don’t I know? Why does it always have to wait until it explodes like a bomb?” “Mum, stop it. There is no bomb.” Pause. “Nothing has changed, I’m still the same daughter you know, and I still love God, and I’m going to still be your daughter.”

Silence. You can tell Mum is unconvinced. “Why couldn’t God just give me fine, normal, God-fearing children, why is the devil taking away the family,” she mutters. Sandra flinches at ‘normal’. “Mum, stop it. What are you talking about. I’m still here.” “YOU MIGHT AS WELL NOT BE.”

“Mum I don’t get why you’re so worked up. It's just one aspect of my identity. I just love someone different, there are so many other things that make me who I am – for one I’m a Christian-“

“Don’t taint that word with your filth.”

All the years of Mum’s passing of judgments at passers-by, of divine threats, of ridiculously intolerant stances, are gathered in Sandra’s eyes and hurled back at her with a single, hard stare. Then she gets up. Grabs her slingbag. Leaves the house. The reddish-brown door swings close with a force.

“Now what, dear? Our daughter has just left the house! Are you chasing the whole family out one by one? What do we have left?” Dad bursts into aggressive tones.

“It’s not my fault they are what they are!” “It’s probably just a phase, you know girls have these experimental phases at that age, and the girls' school she’s in, you gotta give her some time!” Mum flinches. Sighs. Her elbow rests on the dining table and she runs her fingers through her hair.

“Now what?” Dad continues. “We have no children left?” “What, it’s my fault?” “Have you thought that maybe, if you weren’t so ugly in your religion, none of this would have happened?” “Well God isn’t some nice softie, he’s got some rules to follow!” “But our command isn’t to judge! It’s to love! And look at what you’ve done!”

Mum puts her palms to her forehead, she is worn out. She sits deflated, defeated, a tired stray dog at the end of the day.

“She said she’s still out daughter, right? She’s coming back?” “Yes.” “And she’s still a Christian?” “Yes.” “Okay.” She breathes. “Okay. Then we haven’t lost her.”

Seven blocks away, Sandra hides in a different bed, her face wet with tears. A hand is stroking her hair. A kiss on her forehead. She knows she is not alone. She is writing a letter. “Dear Tim,” it reads, in shaky handwriting. “I used to blame you, I used to think you were a terrible person, but now I understand. It’s hard to keep your faith in a household like that. Mum has only become more edgy. But I don’t blame you. How’re you holding up? Maybe we could meet sometime?”

Lying

In ten minutes, write a piece that starts with "She loved his lying".

She loved his lying. She looked forward to the lunch breaks, the ‘ping’ as she walked through the doors, his cheerful compliments. “Hey, Kare Bear,” he said today. “Look at that dress, you hot shit.” She smiled a little too widely. He always called her Kare Bear. Anyone else who tried to call her anything other than Karen would’ve gotten a cold hard stare in response, let alone Kare Bear, but this one was cute. Just this one.

“Okay, so is it a BLT or a Cold Cut Trio today?” he looked up, a six-inch Honey Oat bun already in his hand.

She knew it was just customer service. Compliments and light chats never cost anything, and it got people coming back. Well, it got her coming back. Everyone else just thought she liked Subway. She couldn’t tell them. Who would be desperate enough to cling on to an acquaintance who said nice things to you just for your money?

“How about tuna today,” she said.

“I’ll give you a free drink if you’ll do your hair like this again next time. Damn, I’m a sucker for ponytails.”

parcel

Describe a setting where something dramatic has very recently happened. The narrator is alone, there for the first time.

An unusually large man arrives at a modest-looking two-storey house, straightens his tie, and knocks. A pause. He knocks again, louder. He tries the door once, twice, and breaks the handle. Well, that solves the problem.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, considering the warmly-lit corridor, before stepping inside. An inviting red rug with gold and green patterns leads him to just the right room. The man smiles. In his left hand he holds a battered grey cardboard box, which he opens in preparation to reveal a messy chocolate cake with green lettering. Hey, he tried. He forgot the candles, but where he comes from, they don't use candles for fire.

He’s probably inside, sleeping, but this is the most important day of his life, the big reveal. The man pats his coat pocket, the precious letter concealed. 

This door is unlocked. He flicks on the light, a naked yellow bulb. Empty.

Too large for normal homes, the man puts his free hand to his fuzzy black beard and stoops to get through the door, and stands to review the triangular room. The old brown quilt is neatly drawn over the bed, and a pair of shoes are lined up beside it. Where would the boy be without his shoes? On a row of shelves lies a messy array of typewritten documents and a broken radio, a few rusty model automobiles, a few books too thick to belong to a child. No photographs or wall decorations, nothing distinctly his. The objects on the shelves must belong to other members of the family. The room under the stairs is often a storage closet, after all. And this is a poor boy, loathed by his very own pseudo-parents. He knows, even though he has never seen. He has his ways… This empty bird cage, though, will be very useful in no time at all. 

On the other side of the cramped room is a small old TV – definitely not the boy’s. A few horse and soldier figurines. One has fallen to the floor. The man crouches to take a closer look, and sees a squashed spider among the toys.

Well, this was a wasted trip. The large man, tired of hunching, leaves the cake on the floor outside and takes a seat on the bed. A loud groan, and a snap: the bed gives way. It is now a big mocking V, both ends pointing down towards the befuddled mass of a man. He can’t get up. He notices a few black dots moving up the pillow. Reaches for it – notices it is wet. A leaky ceiling? Tears? Was the boy crying? Grabs the edge of the quilt, pulls it towards him – he uncovers a group of small scurrying spiders, then a clump then a mass, all fleeing in terror. Fleeing from where? The spiders scurry in a never-ending stream. They flow down the bed posts to the floor. They crawl onto his mountain-like feet – he’s alright, he loves spiders. After a struggle, the big man manages to free himself from the mattress. He removes the quilt. A squashed black notebook beside a crumpled brown envelope.

His heart jolts.

Tentatively, he bends down to pick up the envelope and straightens it out – there, neatly printed in old-fashioned lettering, spells out the boy’s name and this very address. On the back, there is only an outline of a basilisk.

His hands shake. Crushes it into a ball. He flips open the black book. Blank.

His fears rush to the surface. Who is intending to harm the innocent boy, take away his life before he has it?  The man clumsily fishes for a thin feather quill in his pocket, makes a little blotch.

The ink dissolves, but in return a string of black scratches fade onto the paper, that come together to form words, letters.

I see you have found my diary, Hagrid.

prevaricating

VERY BIG DISCLAIMERS NEEDED:
1. In this piece, I am using a whole lot of words and references wrongly. It's intentional. 
2. This does not actually happen at Yale-NUS, thank God.

I might as well tell you how I went about doing this piece. I thought of a few pretentious words we've learnt in Literature and screwed with them, and I also basically very lightly skimmed through a couple of An Anthropology of Literary Culture readings. You'd be surprised by the number of five-syllable words on a single page.

Something is going on, and no one knows what it is - Write a conversation (in dialogue) in which three or more characters are discussing or arguing about what exactly is happening. 

A pause as everyone stares at page three hundred and twenty-five – or rather, as page three hundred and twenty-five glares mockingly at them. A tense silence. They seem to be deep in thought, but their darting eyes give them away. The Anthropology of Indian Literary Culture professor isn’t in today, but façades don’t have off-days, and they know that a single moment could ruin all that they’ve spent years building up. Man, this is a difficult poem to decipher. But the aim of the game is to make the rest think they’ve got it wrong, while you struggle to understand the piece yourself.  

Stephen clears his throat. “What an intriguing piece of work.” Gazes, like lazer beams, immediately turn to point at him. “In the second quatrain the poet’s parallactic arrangements juxtapose the flourishing cosmopolis of Persia and his own vernacular beliefs in such a poignant manner. One can sense the bathos that he evokes with these discordant themes.”

“I disagree with your inferences, Stefan,” Anastasia interjects. “You see in line forty-two, he mentions monsoon winds and creepers, and in the puram poetry this signifies the separation of love, you see, we cannot take the discourse at face value, we must do an ethnoexegesis to step into the world of that era, so that they can be mutually intelligible to us…”

A beat. Bill, who only answers to his middle name Preston, stands up: “Anastasia, I think you have made a hamartia here. You see, the problem is, you refer to this as puram, but I would consider this an ula instead, in which case your technical interpretations do not apply. I agree with Stephen: we see the impersonality of the city as opposed to the vulgar village, and he rebels by producing literature in his native Tamil, in a heteroglossic environment where one does not violate the determined functions of his non-chirographic mother tongue; we see his breaking of the social contract, his fight for cosmopolitan vernacularisation-“

“Actually, Preston, I believe that my puram references are highly relevant. Haven’t we read Ghandi and Rousseau, to understand something we must get to the very beginning of its history? The perusers of the ula were intimately familiar with these symbolisms; we must avoid driving ourselves into a cul-de-sac by incessantly avoiding these fundamental cultural implications.”

A beat as the rest of the class scrapes the bottom of their brain-cradles for any other five-syllable word that has yet to be used. “Perhaps we may be over-Orientalising the passage,” Gabriella suggests. “You see, the universality of the human condition transcends these geographical and temporal boundaries. Perhaps we can appreciate this poetic indeterminacy, and treat our own inferences as equally significant. I marvel even at the mere act of his poetic composition; even in a culture of orality, one participates in the psychological necessity of artistic reflexivity.”   

“Um, ‘scuse me,” a small voice pipes up. The class freezes. It’s Molly, the stupid freshman. Shit. She’s going to blow it. She’s gonna blow it.

“So, I’m sorry to interrupt, but could someone please tell me what’s going on in the poem?”

Silence. Great. She blew it. Fidgety eyes across the rooms, coupled with silent lip-biting irritation: the cover has been blown. Every single soul in the room pleads with all their heart for someone else to bring up another topic, or for the bell to ring.

“Um,” – all eyes on Aleithia. – “one distinctly infers that the poet has journeyed from his Tamil hometown to Persia, and as you can see on line fifty-two, his cultural distresses are made evident when his thoughts wander to the inimitability of the Qu’ran…” A silent sigh of relief across the room: gazes begin to relax, panicked expressions are once again replaced with pensive ones.