Yours Truly

My photo
is behind you.
I am a confused, dangerous little girl. And I bite. Fear me.

Monday, June 28, 2010

I call it Nothing. Literally.

I had to do corrections. Yep, I'm only doing it now. I'm sorry. And I know, it sucks. But too bad. Posting up for future memories when I can read back all my past writings and laugh at how lousy I was.

(First Term Examination March 2010, English | Section E: Question D, Write a story beginning with: "It was pitch dark. I saw a figure darting across the compound of the house..")

N O T H I N G .

It was pitch dark. I saw a figure darting across the compound of the house, barely making a sound. The little moonlight there was illuminated the soft grass that was flattened by the figure’s swift feet, making it easy to follow its movements. The figure pressed himself (or herself? I couldn’t tell) against the wall of that blue, silent house, looking furtively around. As I crept closer to get a better view, I saw that the figure was a girl.

I paused. I knew her, I thought to myself. She looked different with her hair cropped and cut short. She was also swathed in clothes as dark as the night. My head felt fuzzy as something nagged at me, telling me that she was not usually like that.

The last lighted window in the house flickered off, and at once she was on the move, taking a hairpin from her hair expertly and positioning herself by the door. Her hair fell to one side, obscuring her face from my view, but I could still hear her muttering to herself repeatedly the same words while she tried picking the lock. “Please, please, please…” she murmured, as soft as the breeze.

I heard the satisfying ‘click’ and the door swung open smoothly. She tensed. After a few hesitant moments, she peered into the darkness of the house. Nothing stirred; nothing moved; nothing was out of place. Her form visibly relaxed and she slowly stepped into the silent house. I stole in after her as the door swung shut due to the weight fastened to the top of the door. There was another soft ‘click’ as the door auto-locked itself. The only source of light now came from the windows, a weak silver glow that barely reached more than three feet. I felt safe; she couldn’t possibly see me.

She treaded delicately across the smooth floorboards, seeming to know her way around even in the darkness of the house. A sudden stumble made me conscious that she was fidgeting, and her hands were trembling. I wanted to stop her and ask, “What are you doing here?” but when I opened my mouth, not a sound came out. I could only follow her quietly, like a ghost.

The stairs creaked faintly even though her footsteps were light. I walked up by stepping on the very sides of the stairs and they didn’t make a sound as I ascended them after her. When I reached the corridor, I saw her standing in front of an open door, staring into a room with a forlorn expression on her face. I waited until she had turned from the room and hid her face in her hands before I left the safety of the empty stairs.

I snuck up behind her and peeped into the room. I saw two figures sleeping, with dark circles under their eyes. They were Dad and Mum, I realised. Why did they look so tired, so sad? I started making my way in but she abruptly walked off, down the corridor. I felt torn in between. I glanced at my parents, and the girl. Who was I to choose? I decided to follow the girl. After all, she was the intruder here, in my house. I’ll check on my parents, later.

She stopped in front of another door. Twisting the doorknob gently, she eased the door open. I saw a tiny silhouette, tangled up in the bed sheets. My little brother, Tommy. He was thrashing wildly, his breathing heavy and his face contorted in anguish. “Sis, sis!” he called out desperately.

My heart broke. I discarded the wisdom of hiding from the girl and rushed to my brother’s side. “I’m here, Tommy. Big sis is here. Calm down now, calm down…” I stroked his brow soothingly.

It made no difference; his arms still flailed about, almost striking me across the face. Suddenly he bolted upright with a gasp, wide awake. He was panting. He looked straight at me before covering his face with his hands. He started to sob, “Sis…”

“There, there. What is it, Tommy?”

“I miss you…”

“Aww, it’s okay, Tommy. It’s okay.”

“I wish you were here.”

“I’m here now, Tommy. I’m here now,” I smiled and leant in to give my eight-year-old brother a hug, but suddenly he ducked back under his blankets as his sobs filled the room. I felt helpless, powerless, weak, and suddenly very, very vulnerable. It was taking me all my strength to not just break down and cry with him. A muffled sniff escaped my lips as I tried to hold it in, my hands flying to my mouth in hopes of stifling it. I whirled away from my brother, and saw the empty doorway; the girl had vanished.

I cast one long last look at my brother, and choking back a sob, I hastily made my way out and headed down the corridor once more.

A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor. Light seeped out through the small gap. I slipped in and saw the back of the girl who was rummaging around the drawers. My drawers. This was my room.

“Hey!” I called out. “What are you doing here?” Finally the words were out. She made no motion that she had heard me. I stormed my way across my room and was about to wrench her around to face me when I saw her looking at a photograph in her hands. It was of me…and her. Back when she had long hair and colourful clothes. Back when we both wore bright smiles on our faces. An unexpected pang of nostalgia hit me, and I reached out to touch her now short hair. She hardly flinched. “Christine…” she whispered softly. A tear landed on the photograph.

“Lily…” I whispered, suddenly remembering her name. “What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

A short silence.

“Why did you have to leave?” she demanded harshly.

I was taken aback by her sudden outburst. “What…what do you mean?”

She groaned in frustration and stuffed the photograph into her back pocket, resuming her frenzied search.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, feeling very confused.

She made no reply. She searched through the boxes, the cupboards and even the bookshelves, replacing them neatly in their original places once she was done. Out of the blue, she gasped. She had found it finally. She held it up, letting it catch the light and send glittering patterns dancing across the room. It was a small bracelet, with a clover-shaped crystal charm. Something in my memory clicked, and I recognised that bracelet with a jolt. My hand flew to my wrist.

“Why did you take it off? Why…?” she asked quietly.

My hand felt nothing on my wrist; it was bare. I was flabbergasted. Why had I taken my lucky charm off? “I-I don’t know…” I started to reply, but she cut me off mid-way.

“And now you’re gone!” she hissed sharply. Her words crashed onto me like a tsunami.

“I-I’m not gone! I’m still here, Lily! Hey!” I yelled, trying to drown out her accusing voice, but it was too late. She was gone from the room, the room which was pitch black once more.

I yanked the door open and flew out of the house after her, calling her name desperately. Only the soft rustling of the trees answered me. Feeling at a loss, I turned back to the house…only to face a closed door. It came as a bad shock when I realised that I had just passed through that locked door. A sick feeling rose up in my throat. My heart was pounding.

“No…” I whispered, horrified. “No…!”

I placed a shaky hand against a tree. It stayed for a moment, then it sunk into the tree. A cold terror seized me and a sharp scream burst from my lips, piercing the dark and silent night. I wrenched my hand free from the tree and crumpled onto the silvery grass, screaming and weeping.

But no one heard a thing.

Nothing stirred; nothing moved; and nothing was out of place. Except for a photograph, a charm bracelet, and the girl who once used to live in that blue, silent house.


(1,374 words)
Christine Ling
4 Science 1

But besides that, Karen Michelle Wong Leh Song (did i get it right?) is 15 years old today, Rebecca Gemma Su Xin-Fong is 16 years old today, Pamela Tan idunnowhat is 17 years old today, and Olivia iforgotwhat Lee ialsoFORGOTwhatbutithinkit'sHUIPINGbutinotsure is 18 years old today; that old woman :D hehe. I ♥ you guys. Happy birthday.

Sunday, June 27, 2010



happy birthday! :D she be too cute.

and also my dear cute classmate, annie ng! happy birthday! she's so cute xD

and also, there was one more.........

i think it started with an a, too. A......a...................

oh, i give up! He's known as GUMIS anyway ;DDDD whoopsie da! TEEHEHEE!

happy birthday to u too buddy! but he's not as cute as mummykins or annie x)


there u go u bimbo. yay for birthday posts!

Sore Feet

just for the hell of it and for the sake of an update.

TOPICS from Ms Susie:
  1. Books
  2. Storm
  3. Songs
  4. Fruits
  5. Shoes


I think I was a fruit in my past life.

I am a strict non-fruitatarian. It’s something like a vegetarian, except it’s fruits and I eat everything but fruits. I’m not too sure about a humanitarian and what they eat, though.

But moving on, I really think I was a fruit in my past life. I have random urges to hunch over like a banana and just crouch in a lovely, beautiful fruit bowl, looking all yellow and pale.

I try especially hard to look pale. I’d squeeze my eyes shut, hold my breath and not move. On more than one occasion I have opened my eyes to catch my mother looking at me strangely. Upon being asked whether I look pale and yellow, she’d tell me that I look blue and crazy.

I never show my disappointment though. I’d just go up to my room, take a book down from my shelf, jump onto my bed and bawl my eyes out. I tell people that I’m reading a sad, sad story.

But anyway, I’m considering asking that Edward Cullen guy to teach me his pale and glittery trick. I hear he’s so good at it, he does it unconsciously! That’s so cool. It’s almost like he’s a shiny fruit by nature.

Moving on! On certain days, I’d go out to the garden and sing songs to our fruit trees. According to the grapevine, it makes them grow faster. But I just like making them feel the love.

“Hush-a-bye fruitzy, on the tree branch,” I’d sing, and then when I reached “and down will go fruitzy, stalk, leaves and all!” a fruit normally drops down immediately! Although by then you’d hear a voice from somewhere inside the house (or a nearby neighbour) screaming, “Whoever you are, stop singing! The clothes are out drying! Dude, PLEASE.” And then, as if on cue, thunder will suddenly resound across the neighbourhood and rain will come pouring down.

“It’s a storm!” I’d cry out dramatically and picking up the fallen fruit, I’d huddle over it protectively and run back into the house.

But that’s that. Let’s move on, shall we?

I simply cannot stand the sight of someone eating a fruit. Especially apples. When those teeth sink into a particularly juicy apple and I hear the loud crunch that echoes in my ears and head… I can just feel my heart twisting in turmoil. There goes my beloved red friend! Gone forever, on a journey down through someone’s gullet. Goodbye, goodbye. I hope he finds his soul mate down there.

Speaking of soles… I think I can hear my shoe squelching with each step I take. It must have been all those storms! Oh, fiddlesticks. There goes my school shoes. I can hear its cry of anguish and its pleas to be released from this misery! Oh how my heart writhes in agony! I wish I could help you, my friend. I really do.

But it’s okay. I shall move on. I heard it’s good for keeping people sane. Haven’t you?

Oh, hey! Hey there. You know what?

I think I was a shoe in my past life.


i don't think i know how to write anymore. and did you notice anything about the topics in what i wrote?