|
INFORMATION
Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'
Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling
or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.
CONTACT
FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves
CREDITS
Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
|
Under The Lights.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 8:21 PM
The sun had disappeared by the time her muddy boots met firm ground. The weather had undergone a metamorphosis: it was no longer sultry and sticky; the night’s cool breeze embraced her exposed areas of skin. It was refreshing, to be lured away from…but she had come here for a purpose. The dark, saturnine pallor of the sky reflected what seemed like archaic emotions: semi-love, semi-hate with a strong stain of regret. She suppressed the rising tide of trepidation trapped like a frantic bird in her chest and hurried on, dithering only occasionally, unsure of her next step. So much had changed.
It was partly her fault she felt hidden emotions awaken. Her life had been stable, but dreary. These years had been fulfilling, with a small town surrounded by the countryside. A cosy little nest where good things grow. However the past still refused to leave her. It amazed her how it could stalk her, a beast in the night intent on one victim. It frightened her to the point of paranoia, drained her of her energy, wasting away her sleepless nights. It showed: her students at the university had enquired if she had been in poor health lately. The past itself had vanished, but the traces the lingered in her unconsciousness and manifested itself even in everyday events were sufficient to arouse the sleeping memories that would bring it all back.
Really, Madeline, she chided herself, till now you’re still so frightened. She should not be, but as she pushed away another leaf frond, took another step, the picture of the past was coming into sharper focus. It was true; her fear still immutable, resisting erosion from time. It struck her as an old actress whose celebrity status had since flickered and died out, returning to her stage of old, now ruined, missing the razzmatazz, the atmosphere, the clamour of an encore, yet addled by change. It was like that, the only thing different being the intervention of reality. Hers was not a stage. The recapitulation was a stinging slap to her face.
She was on tenterhooks, of the house where she used to live in, the scene replaying forever in her mind, an endless cycle that would send her sprawling, down the path to insanity if she did not set her mind to put a stop to this. A night to remember, or one to grieve over. She wondered vaguely how it would look like, after her absence. It could be a contrivance, a trick, an illusion conjured out of the blue by a passing imp. Yes, she could believe that, too, only that someone had swapped the cards of her life with blithe satisfaction. A hedonist, yes. No wonder she was suffering.
She stepped, easily, over a stone in her path.
Oh Guela, if only you could see me now. Her thoughts dripped with rancour but this shielded her from the dismal thoughts that would cloud her mind, rendering her catatonic. Her husband was nowhere near her, unsurprisingly. She remembered his artifice when they were children, racing each other through the streets and alleyways, though they were reminded for the nth time: only paupers muck about. They became friends when their parents were running their own businesses. She was only nine, and her troubles cast in the wind so they bothered no one. He, too, was nine, with an adventurous spirit and a lanky frame that fitted him through most narrow spaces and doors left ajar. Technically children of higher social status had music education and were generally known to have tastes for aesthetic appreciation. However, in addition to that, there were ‘free’ periods where they each slipped out from their residences, meeting in the city square and had adventures of their own. Madeline refused to be a confined child. As far as she was concerned, she was a free maiden. He threw pebbles at her window whenever he passed.
They parted when Guela’s family moved away, but were reunited in a chance meeting in a grand party. The mischievous lad that had accompanied her had transformed into a remarkably handsome, mature adolescent, with sharp, well-moulded patrician features. There was no denying that she had changed; lost her playfulness, gaining graces and decorum. That mask of insouciance he wore the night they met obscured a sedulous, caring youth, charming her once again with sly satire and witticism, ever felicitous of words. She, too, was her own word-meister. His passion for music bestirred her to once again take up singing while he played compositions of his own on the piano.
Their typical, rather ostentatious dressing permitted nothing more than perambulations down the streets. Soon it became evident that their jovial times together had moved to—her mother’s words—‘greater things’. He began courting her tirelessly, plainly for ‘the romantic interlude between introduction and marriage’. Replete with poetic pleas and declarations that though a tad overdone (and that he bungled it on his first attempt by forgetting the words halfway through), it pleased her to no end; he was often rewarded with a shy smile and blushing cheeks. But she was just lucky to be treated like a precious member of the family rather than a possession, an object under the scrutinizing gazes of the city’s snobbish mercenaries.
As they knew they would, they were married on a sweltering summer afternoon in July. As the aristocratic families would have it, complete with a florid banquet comprising of guests by the hundreds, most of which they never knew. All thoughts of excess and barbaric lavishness were vanquished at the ceremony. Perspiring profusely in her wedding gown they exchanged vows and at the kiss she knew her life was changing forever.
A far-fetched romance, some would exclaim, ‘tis not true. She would only smile, like a magician who still keeps her tricks, and look away. She wished, earnestly, that none of it had come to pass.
She bit her lip as she rounded yet another tree, ruminating on the events.
They moved away from everyone else, settling on a mansion atop a hill, where the city lights were seen at night from the third floor windows. The mansion was neither impressive, nor intimidating, but it looked on the city as a kindly guardian. He helped with managing the business affairs back with his father, and life was led well. She made sure that every night, when he returned, drained and occasionally frustrated, she would be at the door to welcome him home, a listener to his woes, a sagacious and caring wife. She felt that this was the least she could do. She bore him three children. She felt this was the pinnacle of her life, abloom with promising things.
Sublime youth, she was only sixteen, back then.
But then, he tired of her.
The reason was unclear, and she was left in the dark, as his homecoming hours dragged on to the wee hours of the morning. She lacked the stamina to wait that long. Sometimes he would not even be home at all! Gradually his affected gestures became more noticeable. She did not deserve this: his laconic replies, when tender-heartedness turned officious. She brooded, even prayed about it, puzzled at his sudden change of character. Her kind and loving husband was not supposed to treat her this way. She tried to read between the lines, to uncover what had gone wrong, but it was onerous to do it daily.
At the end of the day, when he apologised to her, if at all, that seemed to wipe the records of hurt away. She reflected on it. I was such a fool.
Her fists clenched as the trudged up the path.
She swore under her breath she would never commit the same mistake, never again.
That night, she had returned after visiting some relatives to find Guela in the arms of another woman. The woman’s skin, she perceived had been originally porcelain white, but now it had a mottled texture. Her dressing showed more skin than what public company would have allowed. He, however, neither looked at her nor attempted to issue an explanation of the situation.
The explanation would be poorly-constructed, given such a scene. But still, she would have appreciated it.
Where had she gone wrong?
She had departed, now she came to revisit her past, its shadows haunting her for the past fifteen years. She had no wrongdoing that day, but still…
She paused, at last, in front of a clearing. The fountains and garden paths had remained intact, the gates swathed in wild plants from neglect. The ground was burned black where house once stood.
She had sat the curtains on fire when she fled.
She had watched as the tongues of flame licked into every room.
She had stood at this exact spot, casting her eyes on the orange glow from the windows, the frantically darting shadows within.
When she remembered her children, it was already too late.
She found a comfortable spot to sit down. A clump of yellow flowers grew a few feet away from her. It reminded her of one of their escapades. He had taken her, once, up to a hill where nature had conquered. At that vantage, one could see the city artfully lighted. Like a birthday cake. The golden glittering lights were beautiful, as the yellow marigold in her hand. So was the youth who had given them to her.
And something else, which she now removed from her coat pocket. A blade of about five centimetres. He had given it to her that day, telling her not to be downtrodden, promising better things for the future. He also said if she used it to end her life, it would be as if her blood was shed by him.
He had given her a reassuring pat, as they sat beside each other to watch the city and the stars above.
The knife nestled in her right palm. His promises had gone to waste, like the wine they had drunk during the banquet. He was wrong. There were no better things.
She gripped the handle tightly, his memento to her, for their better days. Despite his faults, she still missed him.
With a swift linear movement she thrust it into her heart.
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
|
Under The Lights.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 8:21 PM
The sun had disappeared by the time her muddy boots met firm ground. The weather had undergone a metamorphosis: it was no longer sultry and sticky; the night’s cool breeze embraced her exposed areas of skin. It was refreshing, to be lured away from…but she had come here for a purpose. The dark, saturnine pallor of the sky reflected what seemed like archaic emotions: semi-love, semi-hate with a strong stain of regret. She suppressed the rising tide of trepidation trapped like a frantic bird in her chest and hurried on, dithering only occasionally, unsure of her next step. So much had changed.
It was partly her fault she felt hidden emotions awaken. Her life had been stable, but dreary. These years had been fulfilling, with a small town surrounded by the countryside. A cosy little nest where good things grow. However the past still refused to leave her. It amazed her how it could stalk her, a beast in the night intent on one victim. It frightened her to the point of paranoia, drained her of her energy, wasting away her sleepless nights. It showed: her students at the university had enquired if she had been in poor health lately. The past itself had vanished, but the traces the lingered in her unconsciousness and manifested itself even in everyday events were sufficient to arouse the sleeping memories that would bring it all back.
Really, Madeline, she chided herself, till now you’re still so frightened. She should not be, but as she pushed away another leaf frond, took another step, the picture of the past was coming into sharper focus. It was true; her fear still immutable, resisting erosion from time. It struck her as an old actress whose celebrity status had since flickered and died out, returning to her stage of old, now ruined, missing the razzmatazz, the atmosphere, the clamour of an encore, yet addled by change. It was like that, the only thing different being the intervention of reality. Hers was not a stage. The recapitulation was a stinging slap to her face.
She was on tenterhooks, of the house where she used to live in, the scene replaying forever in her mind, an endless cycle that would send her sprawling, down the path to insanity if she did not set her mind to put a stop to this. A night to remember, or one to grieve over. She wondered vaguely how it would look like, after her absence. It could be a contrivance, a trick, an illusion conjured out of the blue by a passing imp. Yes, she could believe that, too, only that someone had swapped the cards of her life with blithe satisfaction. A hedonist, yes. No wonder she was suffering.
She stepped, easily, over a stone in her path.
Oh Guela, if only you could see me now. Her thoughts dripped with rancour but this shielded her from the dismal thoughts that would cloud her mind, rendering her catatonic. Her husband was nowhere near her, unsurprisingly. She remembered his artifice when they were children, racing each other through the streets and alleyways, though they were reminded for the nth time: only paupers muck about. They became friends when their parents were running their own businesses. She was only nine, and her troubles cast in the wind so they bothered no one. He, too, was nine, with an adventurous spirit and a lanky frame that fitted him through most narrow spaces and doors left ajar. Technically children of higher social status had music education and were generally known to have tastes for aesthetic appreciation. However, in addition to that, there were ‘free’ periods where they each slipped out from their residences, meeting in the city square and had adventures of their own. Madeline refused to be a confined child. As far as she was concerned, she was a free maiden. He threw pebbles at her window whenever he passed.
They parted when Guela’s family moved away, but were reunited in a chance meeting in a grand party. The mischievous lad that had accompanied her had transformed into a remarkably handsome, mature adolescent, with sharp, well-moulded patrician features. There was no denying that she had changed; lost her playfulness, gaining graces and decorum. That mask of insouciance he wore the night they met obscured a sedulous, caring youth, charming her once again with sly satire and witticism, ever felicitous of words. She, too, was her own word-meister. His passion for music bestirred her to once again take up singing while he played compositions of his own on the piano.
Their typical, rather ostentatious dressing permitted nothing more than perambulations down the streets. Soon it became evident that their jovial times together had moved to—her mother’s words—‘greater things’. He began courting her tirelessly, plainly for ‘the romantic interlude between introduction and marriage’. Replete with poetic pleas and declarations that though a tad overdone (and that he bungled it on his first attempt by forgetting the words halfway through), it pleased her to no end; he was often rewarded with a shy smile and blushing cheeks. But she was just lucky to be treated like a precious member of the family rather than a possession, an object under the scrutinizing gazes of the city’s snobbish mercenaries.
As they knew they would, they were married on a sweltering summer afternoon in July. As the aristocratic families would have it, complete with a florid banquet comprising of guests by the hundreds, most of which they never knew. All thoughts of excess and barbaric lavishness were vanquished at the ceremony. Perspiring profusely in her wedding gown they exchanged vows and at the kiss she knew her life was changing forever.
A far-fetched romance, some would exclaim, ‘tis not true. She would only smile, like a magician who still keeps her tricks, and look away. She wished, earnestly, that none of it had come to pass.
She bit her lip as she rounded yet another tree, ruminating on the events.
They moved away from everyone else, settling on a mansion atop a hill, where the city lights were seen at night from the third floor windows. The mansion was neither impressive, nor intimidating, but it looked on the city as a kindly guardian. He helped with managing the business affairs back with his father, and life was led well. She made sure that every night, when he returned, drained and occasionally frustrated, she would be at the door to welcome him home, a listener to his woes, a sagacious and caring wife. She felt that this was the least she could do. She bore him three children. She felt this was the pinnacle of her life, abloom with promising things.
Sublime youth, she was only sixteen, back then.
But then, he tired of her.
The reason was unclear, and she was left in the dark, as his homecoming hours dragged on to the wee hours of the morning. She lacked the stamina to wait that long. Sometimes he would not even be home at all! Gradually his affected gestures became more noticeable. She did not deserve this: his laconic replies, when tender-heartedness turned officious. She brooded, even prayed about it, puzzled at his sudden change of character. Her kind and loving husband was not supposed to treat her this way. She tried to read between the lines, to uncover what had gone wrong, but it was onerous to do it daily.
At the end of the day, when he apologised to her, if at all, that seemed to wipe the records of hurt away. She reflected on it. I was such a fool.
Her fists clenched as the trudged up the path.
She swore under her breath she would never commit the same mistake, never again.
That night, she had returned after visiting some relatives to find Guela in the arms of another woman. The woman’s skin, she perceived had been originally porcelain white, but now it had a mottled texture. Her dressing showed more skin than what public company would have allowed. He, however, neither looked at her nor attempted to issue an explanation of the situation.
The explanation would be poorly-constructed, given such a scene. But still, she would have appreciated it.
Where had she gone wrong?
She had departed, now she came to revisit her past, its shadows haunting her for the past fifteen years. She had no wrongdoing that day, but still…
She paused, at last, in front of a clearing. The fountains and garden paths had remained intact, the gates swathed in wild plants from neglect. The ground was burned black where house once stood.
She had sat the curtains on fire when she fled.
She had watched as the tongues of flame licked into every room.
She had stood at this exact spot, casting her eyes on the orange glow from the windows, the frantically darting shadows within.
When she remembered her children, it was already too late.
She found a comfortable spot to sit down. A clump of yellow flowers grew a few feet away from her. It reminded her of one of their escapades. He had taken her, once, up to a hill where nature had conquered. At that vantage, one could see the city artfully lighted. Like a birthday cake. The golden glittering lights were beautiful, as the yellow marigold in her hand. So was the youth who had given them to her.
And something else, which she now removed from her coat pocket. A blade of about five centimetres. He had given it to her that day, telling her not to be downtrodden, promising better things for the future. He also said if she used it to end her life, it would be as if her blood was shed by him.
He had given her a reassuring pat, as they sat beside each other to watch the city and the stars above.
The knife nestled in her right palm. His promises had gone to waste, like the wine they had drunk during the banquet. He was wrong. There were no better things.
She gripped the handle tightly, his memento to her, for their better days. Despite his faults, she still missed him.
With a swift linear movement she thrust it into her heart.
linkLabels: * prose, prose:fics, writings
|
ABOUT ME
Charmaine/Emmy: FCPS, RSS, ___. Satire buff. Anglophile, pedagogue, nefarious grammarian-in-training and hedonistic pedant. Dreams of a pathologist office smelling of soap, disinfectant and disease. (Who forgets autopsies?) I'm a student and satisfied with it, and I'm not eligible to be a writer. Writers are sensitive, creative and they think out of the box but I'm more of a structured person. Then again everyone writes so writers are an exclusive category for published geniuses that do not include me. I like the glories of academia, medicine, reading books, dreaming and writing. I'm that sort of person who would rather party than study, whom one would make happier giving a medical journal/national geographic mag issue than, say, a fashion magazine. (I do read fashion mags when they come to me, but they aren't a necessity.) I'm boring/intriguing like that.
I am a step to University at the moment and I'm treading carefully in case I slip. I'm uncertain if I'll ever find a husband but that doesn't bother me much. This blog collects all my satisfactory writings.
Notes on writings
I don't usually curse, if at all, but at times for a piece of writing to be plausible certain undesirable elements have to be inserted to add reality to it. We all have seen our share of crude characters and for this, it would just be me writing about one. It's a little like writing about lust; written about, divulged, but never encouraged. To put this plainly: if it carries to reality, it is wrong. But since it isn't
technically reality, in my perspective it isn't.
I support pairings and I understand the norm do not. However I see no necessity to apologise for my head.
'You can't cut my heart into sections'
More books, more shelves.
Christianity, which in my perspective hinges less on modern-day hocus-pocus than the immutable truth.
My Chemical Romance.
Pathology.
German tank models.
Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson.
Vienna Teng.
Heath Ledger.
The Third Reich.
Bubble Tea.
Wishlist:
National/Victoria JC
Cambridge University
MCR album (2010)
A spiral-bound, shorthand notebook
Grimm's Last Fairytale (Haydn Middleton)
The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls (Emilie Autumn)
Young Adolf (Beryl Bainbridge)
Suspended Animation: Six Essays on the Preservation of Bodily Parts (F. Gonzalez-Crussi)
A Not Entirely Benign Procedure: Four Years As A Medical Student (Perri Klass)
Fry and Laurie 4 (Stephen Fry)
Mein Kampf (Adolf Hitler)
Emilie Autumn's The Opheliac Companion CD
Hannah Fury's The Thing That Feels CD
|
NETWORK
I'm not too fond of alphebetical ordering.
Watson's Woes
Huddy Daily
SCHOOL:
Pearly
Ming Xuan
Cherie
RS choir
Marilyn
Mdm Haslinda
Keen Hoe
Arini
Sherilyn
Peishwen
Jasmine
Cheryl
Si Ying
Wei Loke
Liting
Sarah
Shi Mei
Michelle
Rui Xian
sadlydotcom
Derrick
Joey
Cynthia
June
James
Wendy
Vinus
Shi Yun
Yi Hui
COMRADES:
Jacy
JCOC:
Victoria
Canida
Sean
Medalene
Kareen
|
ARCHIVE
January 2010
|