bis in die.

breath of solitude (ed)

2008-11-27T05:19:00.001+08:00

prose - the breath of solitude (ed.)

imagination will kill me. even if it does not do so by its own hands, one way or another, it will lead to my end; even though- even though it is, alas, now, my only means of surviving this suffering that drives me madder with every passing day.

i am dreaming, thinking of you, day and night. even were i reading a book (for Crime and Punishment is what i'm reading now) my thoughts seldom fail to wander, through some well-placed bait between the words that line the pages, away from the text at hand, to a more distant subject matter - you.

now, every minute detail of what i do carries your breath. i put on my earphones to distract myself, but imagine myself in school, seated, putting on my earphones, and you coming up to me in inquiry - what was the song i was listening to? oh, you liked that genre too, and here, shall you recommend me other artistes to listen to as well? yes please, why not, i say, and i look at your serious face, though smiling, as you write down in your handwriting - your handwriting that i immerse myself in all the time - those names on my piece of paper, the piece of paper that i shall treasure, treasure so much that i--

the change of song jolts me awake again, and back to my book i go, yet oh, that is but in appearance, for my mind still rests with you and refuses to come back to me.

and that would not be the end of it. we go to a picnic; we do, but where, and when, i do not know. perhaps here, perhaps now! -- but more likely, perhaps never, and nowhere at all but inside my mind where i am free to let my imagination, wild as a horse, range and roam, chewing the grass on the lush meadows under the pale blue sky, the pale blue sky that watches forbiddingly, guarding suspiciously, lest the horse should take wings, let them sprout, and attempt to break free of its hold, of its confinement, and come out into the open.

no, the sky is pale, and it covers the unknown beyond it, ce que nous ne conaissons pas et avec lequel nous ne ferons jamais la connaissance.

but hark, what stops me, pray tell, what at all does stop me from thinking, in the dead of the night in the calming safety and repressing comfort between my bedclothes, as all the rest of the world around me falls into the darkness that envelopes them under their own eyelids, about you? for they are consumed by their own, and they cannot see, they cannot see what runs in my mind, what jumps, what takes flight and soars.

but there we are, as though every one could see, there we are on the side of a hill, against a quilt checkered in red and white, although the colours appear dimmed and diminished by the dark of the night that is barely broken by the smiling moon. we do not speak, and i am in your arms between your legs, lying against your bodily warmth, that which tells and reassures me that you are for real, and not merely a dream - although what a fig! you are but a dream. the moon shines on us benevolently, and you give me a light kiss on my cheek--it was the left--and ask if i were happy, although why you do i cannot fathom, for what could make me happier than being with you, only you? but were you the best of all my loves, you whisper into my ear, softly, softly, as though there were a thousand ears around us, ready to listen in and catch a word, any word at all, that was exchanged between us, so as to bellow it to the world and betray our secret, although what secret is there, for we are true and honest to each other, you to me in your embraces and loving smiles, i to you that you were not the best of all my loves - for you were my only love.

and did the moon shine ever more brilliantly still! the moon, in its entirety, with its craters and its peaks, became our love, and indeed was it our love that it showed - with the secrecy (oh travesty!) of the shadows, and the pride and joy of the peaks, riding high, striving even higher still, in a bid to wrest free, of all that bound it and restricted it to the ground. but it could not, you see, it could not, like the grass could not, struggle though it may, tear away from that which anchored it to clearness of vision and rationality of thought; it could not, like the grass could not, tear away from that which gave it life, gave it identity, and made it what it was - as the grass withers and dies and is no longer grass when severed from its roots that hold it in its place, and the mountain no longer a mountain but merely a piece of rock when broken from its base, neither shall love be love any longer if torn from the soil that fertilised the budding seed and brought it alive, but a mere fragment, a mere shadow of what it once was and could have been.

just as trees do not leaf nor blossom without their anchors, a young love removed from its place shall stop in its tracks, not growing anymore but withering, and disappear shall do the fruits that come from it, and there will be one less place of shelter where the world's lost souls can take refuge from the storms of life that rage mercilessly without end, the storms that destroy.

how should i tell you, then, about the place that you hold in me, the piece that anchors all of me steadfastly together? we might be at a party, though for what it would be eludes me -- but there would be spirits, spirits of the kind that linger, spirits of the kind that inspire, spirits of the sort that are drunk, spirits of the sort that encourage and embolden my frail presence. there will be no engrossing yellow flower on the wallpaper; there will be no fascinating eighteenth century golden pocketwatch that arrests our attention, and even if it might be but a hasty breath breathed upon the petals of the flower, or but a turn of the head at the resounding tick of the second-hand on the pocketwatch, i would take you by the hand, aside, to a corner where no one will hear us, and i will tell you, that i love you.

i cannot wait

2007-12-01T03:35:00.000+08:00

prose - i cannot wait

i cannot wait for tomorrow, the tomorrow, our tomorrow, that particular tomorrow that will descend upon us like a rush of invigoration that is the water of the morning light as we are still burrowing away at each other, through a screen, with veiled seductions and slightly less veiled attraction all the night.

i cannot wait for tomorrow, where under suitable cover in the shadows of either a stairway or your bedclothes i will look at you as though you had never been closer, though perhaps you had been, and perhaps you had not, and only that the memory eludes me because my mind slips from the past tense to the present just like it slips from your breath on my neck to those fingers that are naughtily undoing the front of my shirt, getting entangled in the streams and streaks, nine times intertwined, of love, lust, affection, arousal, hope, hesitation, anticipation, anxiety, shame.

i cannot wait for tomorrow, when i in your ears and you in mine will say the empty words that to outsiders carry but the sough of a winter breeze but to us are as a child is to a bereaved weaver, when i in your eyes and you in mine will see the trough that bejoins us and in which flows our nourishing sweet treacle, when in your ears under the soft cover of the movie's soundtrack, i will whisper, "i love you".

_

2006-05-21T11:37:00.000+08:00

assorted snippets

Dans le forêt, il n'y avait pas de lumières qui me soutenaient reveillé.
郁森—いくもり—comme titre

Billowing

2006-01-09T04:15:00.000+08:00

prose - Billowing

My windows have curtains, put there for a false sense of control—drawing and opening them, I decree the amount of sunlight, and wield hegemony over my room. They are my borders which the wind breaches nevertheless, the constant breath of the land seeping through the weaving of the fabric and ballooning its ego, denting mine. While I draw the curtains tight across, I have left the windows wide open.

_

2005-08-14T22:17:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

quietly, i put a wreath of flowers around your face in grayscale

the Doppler effect

2005-07-30T23:32:00.000+08:00

prose - The Doppler Effect

He set down his wineglass as he picked up the photo, framed in a soothing baroque brown, from the side table, bringing it out of the evening sun in which it had bathed every day for the past thirty years. He ran his finger down where he saw the tape held the two halves of the torn photo together, feeling only a glazed layer of glass separating his skin from the roughness of the wound that struck straight between the two of them. He tried to feel sad, as he had thirty years ago when it had happened; he wanted to console himself that he still treasured her as much as he had all those years ago. The lead weight in him pulled him back abruptly from a fleeting moment of self-deception, and the brown frame returned to the tableglass as the rest of the wine tipped to drown a heart eager against shame.

_

2005-06-25T18:24:00.000+08:00

prose - (untitled)

Through the windshield shone the image of a sky cast in brilliant turquoise, split open near the thick black horizon, revealing brilliant mirrors that reflected the jeep's own headlights back at it in a brilliant parade of beauty, nature dazzling its awestruck audience of two.

_

2005-06-17T04:43:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

苍山背负石化翁,
石翁背负满青苔.
眸含抱负前直望,
...

inspired by a scene from 神雕.

an interesting fact about love is that when you qualify it, you quantify it; when you quantify it, you qualify it.

Je ne vous prie que

2005-06-02T17:32:00.000+08:00

translation - Je ne vous prie que

Je ne vous prie que de me regarder, de m'occuper, car un jour où je deviendrai la cendre - non, pas la cendre; elle a encore la forme et laisse des traces, et elle tient aussi la connaissance - un jour où je deviendrai une tinge de vapeur qui dissipe sous la caresse du vent, vous ne pourrez plus me rétirer, et je ne pourrai plus vous occuper. Ce jour-là, vous n'aurez qu'à me laisser aller, et moi aussi, je n'aurai qu'à vous laisser aller n'importe où vous veuillez aller.

originally a speech by 賈寶玉, from 紅樓夢, in chinese.

Oiseau, va voler

2005-05-16T04:36:00.000+08:00

sonnet - Oiseau, bleu, bleu comme les cieux, va voler

Oiseau, bleu, bleu comme les cieux, va voler
Into the heavens’ lining, where they swear
Their love. Two lovers, pigeons under roofs,
Slept, nursing, on their bodies, nesting warmth,
And clinging on to ends of dreams as yet
Unreached, subtracting distance from their debt
Unpaid, undoing time’s raw knot in time
For punishment where dearest was their crime.
From stones of wrath their fortress they declare,
Absolved of sin, of guilt and fault to bear;
Love is so blind to catch a needlestick
Where needlesticks are wont their worst to count.
And by the moon they cross their hearts to sleep,
Thus that though they should die, they shall not weep.

for a pc assignment.

_

2005-05-01T15:16:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

In the midst of the pillars of grey that extended upwards in proud, brave shows of expanding pockets of empty in expanding minds among expanding waistlines and that extend upwards to scratch (or poke) the horizon's belly, nature lay low, in an oddly-shaped pocket of richness that stood out for its verdure and isolation. Nourished by the rivers of grey that bounded it to its triangular, triangulated existence, and on which grains of smoothened debris and detritus exhibiting multiple dashes of the rainbow frequently floated by at high speeds, following closely the paths designated to them, the grass never reached across the banks to the other side; the trees never grew taller in the fierce competition for sunlight. After all, the rivers that nourished them nourished the green-backed waters flowing through a different sort of system just beyond their banks; the very green-backed waters that cast rain and gave generously to the sparsely wood, and that provided the honey to which the worker bees were drawn, the honey in which the pillars of grey soaked.

The tall, towering majesties never crossed the rivers towards the green. A different sort of racism, or perhaps the concrete feared water, as cats do.

_

2005-04-29T23:28:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

the bird chirps. perched on the black bough cast dimly against the night sky and youngly illuminated by the twinkling eyes gazing from beyond the heavens' lining, the eulogy of a fallen leaf drifts, slowly, but aimfully, onto a cold, silver windowsill.

the wines of loneliness

2005-04-04T17:08:00.000+08:00

prose - the wines of loneliness

I didn't want it to hurt. I hadn't expected that it would hurt. It's been two months of inury, and perhaps, disambulation and deconstruction of the reality around which a perception had aleady been built, and the third month has just begun.

Why do I cry? The air smells of the familiar fragrance that always leant near in heralding the arrival of rain, in those days when the rain meant that we would sit together in a room and watch the drops spatter with reckless abandon across the glass panes that shielded us from them. Now I sit alone in the reverberation of a chair scraping against the cold, hard floor; the space where you used to be has been replaced by a surfeit of inexistence, of nothingness, of emptiness, and you are over there, not a part of us, but a part of them.

The skies look like they are about to fall. Dyed grey by the concrete of the buildings that extend forever upwards and attempt to scratch their bellies, they show me forever a face that frowns in sullen inimity, and even the rare smile looks ridden with the bulletholes of contempt. Are they smiling? Do I see a sliver of sympathy?

Why do the tears not stop when they are asked to. Under the fleeting consciousness of the falling heavenly grace, a someone lies, drowning himself in the wines of loneliness.

How high will the sycamore grow?
If you cut it down, then you'll never know

und geht die sonne

2005-03-03T20:37:00.000+08:00

prose - und geht die sonne

i stepped into the pool of Memories today. not by accident, no, ~~you never do anything by accident~~. i knew what i was doing - it was calling out to me, and i merely responded by immersing myself in the fluidity of the past that shifts around with each subtle replacement of a word in a blog entry, and appreciated it very well.

i only sat on the steps of the pool at first; a little trepidation there was at the thought of striding in all the way, even though the water reached barely my chest - not enough to drown me. but the clear mass of black that lay at the bottom of the pool and which had each particle a distinct form held an unusually strong attraction for me. i bent lower, and lower, and lower to peer through the blue that shimmered like an irresolute sheet of glass at the solid black.

before long, the tip of my nose felt a dash of chill - yes, i knew it was the flowing water - but i had bent too far forward to pull back; i fell forth, headfirst, floundering, flustered, towards what i had been seeking - and suddenly i didn't feel like i wanted to seek it out anymore.

it was a quiet pool, and small, without rivers to connect it to the stormy ocean where everyone else's memories surge into a cacophony of howls, and the air was calm. yet i slipped and fell in the calm and quiet, headlong, caused by a folly to be called no one's but my own, and my feet found no momentary footing on the sliding steps, despite the clear waters that admitted the sun as one of their own.

the sight was wonderful to behold: an expanse of soft, impressible blue, trying to trick my depth perception by their multifarious shades. the waters swirled slightly around my eyes, and as i turned myself around to face the sky (however submerged i might have been), i noticed the sun shimmering and distorting in a different dimension of colour, as though trying to tame its tears lest they escaped in a mirroring of what was within.

_

2005-01-28T16:24:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

...as the leaves that were swept off the treetops in the prevailing broom-like motions of the wind were blown apart by the gusts of oncoming cars, vans and other vehicular means of transport, headstrong as they were. The displaced springtime tears of the trees were considerably more welconmed by the pink of human flesh, incongruous as they might be coloured.

_

2005-01-24T22:07:00.000+08:00

prose - (untitled)

The evening began as it always did in the summer, a sea of red sinking into the city skyline, leaving behind a shade of blue more oft-seen of the dark corners of people's hearts than of the sky.

On the ground, turning the corner on a cobbled street, hands full with newly-bought groceries and head full with the newest gossip, was _____ _____. She nudged her shawl a little with her chin, in case it should slip off her shoulders, and the stairway cast a dark gloom over her lily-white dress and deep hazel hair as she entered her apartment block, and made her way up the stairs, noting on her way up that there was no mail for her today, nor for her brother.

Her brother did not live with her, although he often registered his sister's address as his own, for reasons pertaining to certain secret, underhand dealings and connections about which he was helpless, and could not, indeed, be helped.

(scrap)

2005-01-22T14:42:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

when the sun beats down through the dark blue-tinted glass panes of the windows and casts its bright shadow on the floor at my feet, i look up in an embrace, stepping forward so that the orange glow might flood my breast, and the warmth of the brightest star envelopes me, overwhelms me, much as your warmth envelopes and overwhelms me.

_

2004-12-29T01:15:00.000+08:00

prose - (untitled)

"I like the owl," he said simply, aloud, almost in a muse, smile dropping till it coudl barely be discerned. "Wise, can fly..." he added absent-mindedly, trailing off as he seemed to lose himself in his thoughts.

Joanna eyed the man keenly. He was rather old, no longer young. Fifty-seven years old, the papers said. Yet his age was betrayed more by his tranquility of mind, his maturity of thought and his carefully considered utterances, rather than by concrete traces one might expect to find, by way of sight, on his face. He had no wrinkles. Instead, his eyes shone with considerable alertness and zest for life for his age, something which Joanna found irresistably intriguing.

"Oh," he said suddenly, with a start, awakening from what had been occupying his mind, inadvertently startling Joanna quite a little. "I'm sorry," he apologised, with a slight chuckle, "got a bit carried away by my own thoughts there. They're a bit like waves, you know, once you're caught in them, you're swept away, and you can't help yourself but be carried along with the tide."

Which waits for no man, he thought, but kept this last bit to himself.

Joanna smiled, more for reasons of her own than anything else, and proceeded to direct him back to the more important matters at hand.

bangkok sights

2004-12-16T17:32:00.000+08:00

prose - (untitled)

The discoloured sun shone into his eyes as he wiped sweat from his brow, and along with it a substantial amount of dirty, grey grime. The flowers planted by the side of the road were similarly punished by the day-glare, stooping and slouching in their dull resplendence as rays of red and rage beat down on the city.

inspiration from the sights of bangkok.

the breath of solitude

2004-12-07T17:53:00.000+08:00

prose - the breath of solitude

imagination will kill me. even if it does not do so by its own hands, one way or another, it will lead to my end. even though- even though it is, ironically now, my only means of surviving this suffering that is driving me mad with every passing day.

i am dreaming, thinking of you, day and night. even were i reading a book (oh, Crime and Punishment is what i'm reading now, the aptness of it) my thoughts seldom fail to wander, through some well-placed bait between the words that line the pages, away from the text at hand, to a more distant subject matter - you.

every minute detail of what i do leads me to think about you. in putting on my earphones, in a valiant, but ultimately failed, attempt to distract myself further from you, i imagine myself in school, seated, putting on my earphones, and you coming up to me in inquiry - what was the song i was listening to? oh, you liked that genre too, and here, shall you recommend me other artistes to listen to as well? yes please, why not, i say, and i look at your serious face, though smiling, as you write down in your handwriting - oh your handwriting that i immerse myself in all the time - those names on my piece paper, the piece of paper that i shall treasure, treasure so much that i think not even twice about recopying the entire page of words to hand up as my essay, just so i could keep that very page you wrote on in that very same state, unblemished by further, contaminating markings.

the change of song jolts me awake again, and back to my book i go, yet oh, that is but in appearance, for my mind still rests with you and refuses to come back to me.

and that would not be the end of it. we go to a picnic. we do, but where, and when, i do not know. perhaps here, or there, but more likely, perhaps never, and nowhere at all but inside my mind where i am free to let my imagination, wild as a horse, range and roam, chewing the grass on the lush meadows under the pale blue sky, the pale blue sky that looks on forbiddingly at the horse, guarding suspiciously, lest the horse should take wings, let them sprout, and attempt to break free of its hold, of its confinement, and come out into the open.

no, the sky is pale, and it covers the unknown beyond it, ce que nous ne conaissons pas et avec lequel nous ne ferons jamais la connaissance.

but hark, what stops me, pray tell, what at all does stop me from thinking, in the dead of the night in the calming safety and repressing comfort of my own bed, as all the rest of the world around me falls into the darkness that envelopes them under their own eyelids, about you? for they are consumed by their own, and they cannot see, they cannot see what runs in my mind, what jumps, what skips along.

but there we are, as though every one could see, there we are on the side of a hill, on a piece of cloth, checkered in red and white, although the colours appear dimmed and diminished by the dark of the night that is barely broken by the smiling moon. we do not speak, and i am in your arms between your legs, lying against your bodily warmth, that which tells and reassures me that you are for real, and not merely a dream - although what a fig! you are but a dream. the moon shines on us benevolently, and you give me a light kiss on my cheek, it was the left, and ask if i were happy, although why you do so i cannot fathom, for what could make me happier than being with you, only you? but were you the best of all my loves, you whisper into my ear, softly, softly, as though there were a thousand ears around us, ready to listen in and catch a word, any word at all, that was exchanged between us, so as to bellow it to the world and betray our secret, although what secret is there, for we are true and honest to each other, you to me in your embraces and loving smiles, i to you that you were not the best of all my loves - for you were my only love.

and did the moon shine ever more brilliantly still! the moon represented, in its entirety, with its craters and its peaks, our love, and indeed was it our love that it showed - with the secrecy (oh travesty!) and the privacy of the shadows, and the pride and joy of the peaks, riding high, striving even higher still, in a bid to wrest free, of all that bound it and restricted it to the ground. but it could not, you see, it could not, like the grass could not, struggle though it may, tear away from that which anchored it to clearness of vision and rationality of thought; it could not, like the grass could not, tear away from that which gave it life, gave it identity, and made it what it was - as the grass withers and dies and is no longer grass when severed from its roots that hold it in its place, and the mountain no longer a mountain but merely a piece of rock when broken from its base, neither shall love be love any longer if torn from the situations, which are its soil, that fertilised the budding seed and made it possible at all, but a mere fragment, a mere shadow of what it once was and could have been.

how should i tell you, then, about the place that you hold in me, the piece that anchors all of me steadfastly together? we might be at a party, although for what it would be eludes me, but there would be spirits, spirits of the kind that linger, spirits of the kind that encourage and embolden my frail presence, spirits of the sort that are drunk, spirits of the sort that encourage and embolden my frail presence. there will be no engrossing yellow flower on the wallpaper, there will be no fascinating eighteenth century golden pocketwatch that arrests our attention, and even if it might be but a hasty breath breathed upon the petals of the flower, or but a turn of the head at the resounding tick of the second-hand on the pocketwatch, i would take you by the hand, aside, to a corner where no one will hear us, and i will tell you, that i love you.

_

2004-11-30T21:10:00.000+08:00

poem - (untitled)

The brown cobbled stone steps,
Slipping, sliding,
As the feet of the fallen tread softly and gently
On their rough surfaces, on their way down.

When the skies overhead darken and
The eyes of the bereaved open,
The candles lining the way down come alight in the hollow breeze
And become torches

For the fallen,
Lighting up the empty souls on their way down,
Singing, singing a heavenly prayer,
A devout hymn

To a god of whose protection they are bereft,
Following the sullied coattails
Of the light-bearer with whose every step they are led
Into perdition;

To a god of whose protection they are bereft,
Following the sullied coattails
Of the light-bearer with whose every step resounds
The distinctive chime of perdition.

(scrap)

2004-11-07T13:35:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

and then we're left out there in the freezing cold, as the door to the fireplace closes in our faces, and the icicle grows by another centimetre.

(scrap)

2004-11-01T18:51:00.000+08:00

scrap - (untitled)

But on my bed I feel cold
And I shiver
Despite the warm embrace of my blanket
Because my blanket isn't you.

the cruellest person

2004-10-29T19:21:00.000+08:00

prose - the cruellest person

(dedicated to ber.)

he is an angel, and the cruellest i know. i've waited the years away, kneeling on the barren brown land, cracked and thirsty, hoping for an elusive drop of rain to fall from the heavens. yet ne'er a cloud had appeared to obscure the sombre sun, nor the sallow stars in the night sky, and the horizon leaves me far behind every day, leaving me shut up in distraught abandonment.

you are an angel, and the cruellest i know. you descend from the heavens to earth where i wait in near-despair, and breathe life into me. but in your absence, i slowly wither and dry as the parched earth fights with me for the few drops of tears that heaven occasionally sheds over us. yet on my deathbed you come down again, and you breathe into me once more, just enough to keep me alive. but i'm dying every day, and every time, dying takes a little more from me.

it takes more than my heart can replenish each time, and it's left a hole in me, a void, an emptiness that awaits you to recover. i visit loneliness every day, deep undersea in my heart where it resides, and every day i find it's grown a little bit more. it growls from its cold cave in agony each day from a heavy heart, and the groaning weight of grief grates deep, grinds hard, into me.

(scrap)

2004-10-01T00:00:00.000+08:00

(scrap) - (untitled)

When school's over,
I'll go to the playground and swing on the swing,
High and free.

When school's over
I'll go to the playground and swing on the swing
High and free.

arrival

2004-09-11T13:11:00.000+08:00

prose - arrival

the minute-hand of the clock on the wall ticks to one-eleven pm, a hot time in the afternoon for anybody to be standing at the train station in a dark suit replete with bowtie, cigar, briefcase and cane;

the locomotive approaches from a distance, as all can see, smoke billowing from the engine like vapour from a hot spring, and as it gets closer it gets faster, speeding along the tracks to another destination, ignoring the little wayside station where the man in a dark suit replete with bowtie, cigar, briefcase and cane is waiting;

he seems not to care, not to care that the train slows not, not to care that he can board it not, not to care that he is supposed to step forward not, and his eyes are aglazen and his resolve is hard as steel as he takes another step forward;

his body melts slowly into the ground, melding with the track and the soil of the little deserted station, as the vines grow longer and the grass grows taller, around and around the station, just like an organic covering swallowing up the human construct, just like the ground swallowing up the human construct, the human body returns to whence he came, and the trains pass by the station no longer.

opening whistle

2004-09-03T21:28:00.001+08:00

prose - shades/ofdespair. opening whistle

the stationmaster flashes a hand signal, the conductor sounds the train whistle, and white smoke tainted by greyish hues escape into the skies above, as the steam locomotive churns its wheels and pulls out of the lonely station, and the smartly uniformed stationmaster lets his hand hang down limply, giving a sigh of forlornness as he watches the last caboose breeze past the edge of the platform. overhead, birds without wings fly, and fall, into shades of despair.

(inspired by Adlestrop.)

After Brotherhood

2004-07-19T18:14:00.000+08:00

poem - After Brotherhood

how many streams carved of tears can you count,
dried up on the sallowed cheeks of my face?
how many agonised screams are struggling,
to break free of their captive oppression?

how many rivers must be worn by blood,
before you can at last recognise me?
how many arduous days have passed by,
with the blast of guns ringing in my head?

broken

2004-07-12T23:12:00.000+08:00

poem - broken

one wing broken.

grey holy fury, arise, and thou
shalt witness the fearsome might
of the blood-red bedevilled soul,
seething, weeping, in agony, in sorrow.

holy fury, grey thou shalt stay, yet
no less vengeful than purity, nor dismay,
for thou hath crimson in you, a will,
to see the numbing pain numbed itself.

two wings broken.

tear this world apart, limb from limb
and wing from wing, just like you did the
pretty purple butterfly that stopped by your windowsill
every single day.

tormented, agitated, wrought soul by fire
how we see that it's your heart's desire
to live, eat, breathe, drink, savour revenge
and delight in perpetration
of eternal damnation.

three wings broken.

voices sound like a telephone call in your head
incessantly, never-stopping, not seeming like it will all end
someday. they say you must be hearing things, yes
you are - you are hearing the voices of the titans clashing ferociously

a headless scream, a heartless roar,
an earthen vase falls to the floor;
that sinking feeling, that drowning fear,
this worn-out body lies tired right here;

tap tap. fourth wing broken.

do you have any more?

a fierce argument with my dad leads to this. which looks better on paper since the scrawl helps to bring out the mood too.

turning the key.

2004-07-12T21:59:00.000+08:00

prose - turning the key.

i turn the rusty bronze key in the keyhole and attempt to open the door. the lock creaks, but i succeed. i manage to slide the old wooden door ajar, just wide enough for me to get into the sinister house, for the flimsy thing looks as though it would have no qualms about falling on my head any time.

i slowly creak the door shut behind me with my fingers, staring all around at the sight that greets me, mouth agape in awe. brightly shined chandeliers glint a mellow orange glow about the dim hall, and intricately carved pillars and walls painted by the deftest hands one could possibly find.

i stop and stare in wonder.

midsummer movement

2004-07-12T16:46:00.000+08:00

poem - midsummer movement

never shall i rest again, until, until –

(it was the first of this; compare yourself
to that screaming thing under the tree there.)

will i go? – do i, will i, do i want to
go where i can (i will), shall i? – must i,
but i find no place i can go – i will, won't i,
for i must, and that i do, will, want,
shall, do; won't, not, shan't, not.

orchestrating the ensemble of a midsummer's movement
under the shade of the apple tree's boughs, and
empathising with the sorry plight of that old lad who
fell out of the leaves having climbed it mischievously, and
waving to the neighbours while you have a
barbecue without inviting them over too, and –

– until then.

inspiration from an article about a family who had a barbecue and their house burnt down. (don't ask.)

forgotten

2004-04-26T12:00:00.000+08:00

poem - forgotten

The light heavy steps he takes resound, thunderous
Masked from the civilitude of the red brick blocks
Making up the underpass around him.
He plods on, each setting of his foot on the tiled floor
Marking a milestone in his journey
From the town centre back home,
Moving from blaring television screens in crowded coffeehouses
To earsplitting screeches from the loud party downstairs
In the grass turf, abode of the cicadas and earthworms.

He moves along at full height – he refuses
To let his back loose from its straightened position,
A slight hunch begot from his invisible burden
Resting on those weary shoulders no longer,
A pair of arms atrophied from the lack of of affection and obsession.
Every night he treads the same road home,
And the streetlights benevolently illuminate
His countenance, light brown and well chiselled with lanes of memory,
Cast over periods and choppy patches of toil
Under the sun. Jet-black sunken eyes long
To tell his story, and pale quivering lips yearn
For the briefest touch of an evening breeze
To bring him a warm greeting, a smile, like he
Has not seen in a long time,
Not since the young swallows learnt how to fly.

inspiration from the sight of various hawker centres and coffeeshops from the air-conditioning of the train.

The Moth

2004-04-08T12:00:00.000+08:00

poem - The Moth

the moth does a handshake with its wings. gleefully
it sings as its wings stir up a slight breeze.
a gentle flutter
sends a shower of glitter slowly falling from its wings.

the moth flies into misunderstanding one day. unknowingly
it sings as the flies encircle it tightly.
a mismatched dance step
sends terror its way as the flies seal its escape route.

the moth lies still in horror. on the cold, hard floor
it cannot sing anymore
its legs are spread wide apart, in a scatter.
it hadn't moved since then-
since something white struggled free of its body
and fed the wings to its voracious appetite.

embattlement

2004-04-08T00:00:00.001+08:00

poem - embattlement

I/the flower.

endless rain hit the ground softly,
battering the young bud, depriving it of its breath.

who heard its screams, who heard its cries
for mercy, for pity and for help never come?
who saw its frailty, who saw its smile
embittered, grief-stricken and plastered with sound?

the sound of pathetic weeping echoing through an empty corridor.

II/the girl.

merciless lashings came her way,
landing blows upon blows on bruised body, snuffing her out.

where fell her pleas, where fell her tears
scarred, resentful and full of sorrow?
where lay her hope, where lay her faith
to man, to woman, and her lord above?

her lord with nary a shard of pity nor grace, black heart constricted by rotten vines.

III/a clown.

semaphore signs masquerade as the backdrop,
a painted face, white and red, makes its debut on stage.

why came the shouts, why came the cheers
raucous, riotous, cacophonous, scornful?
why too the mockery, why too the laughs
from adults, from children and from behind the curtains?

the curtains that disguise the many faces of ridicule.

oh i'm proud of myself.

Doors Shut

2004-04-08T00:00:00.000+08:00

poem - Doors Shut

Close the doors and shut the windows
Clutch your ears with a temerity no one knows.

Block out the noise, block out the sounds
Pace around in your room a few hundred rounds.

...

Stinging with pleasure, stinging with pride
Yes it's coming at you and there's nowhere to hide.

There's no place for fear, there's no one to hear
Any of your screams nor to see your tear.

It's coming at you, a striped football sock
Black and yellow, not something to mock.

oh the utter silliness of it.

A Missed Jump

2004-03-09T06:24:00.000+08:00

poem - A Missed Jump

a wide voice speaks your name
through a microphone,
an ominously beating heart
and you're up.
there's nothing on you but a pink
tightfit blouse and some pink
tightfit pants, clutching at your body,
fearful, scared, vehement
refusing to let go.

"i can do it," you tell yourself,
furiously trying to dry your hands
between desperate gasps for fresh air;
the gym has no wndows. no windows!

a furrowed brow crosses your face
and despite all that you're armed with (what?)
you look naked to everyone else.
a furrowed brow crosses your face,
and you begin, in rhythmic motions
timed to the beat-
one, two, three, four,
a backflip and an airborne somersault.
hunched into a discomfiting crouch,
a strand of loose thought you can feel matting to your face
like a fly to the paper
and you to the ground.
a misjudged descent, and a fall
timed to the precision of your
heartbeat, fast, furious, ( ) scintillating.

you were unceremonious there,
a jerk in your step as you landed
on a fractured knee
rested all your hopes.
-it's but a forsaken glory,
aye, one that brings naught but grief.

Don't sob, cry neither,
Don't let the stinging tears escape
from the catch of your eye,
lest the morrow burns you a hole
in the mortal sepulchre,
and consigns you away.
Don't cry, you hear me? it's not
the end of the world-
yet
Don't cry, remember that;
it'll be all you have left
on the brink of th'impending night.

curtains

2004-03-07T12:00:00.000+08:00

poems - curtains

a titillating desire for real,
scratching in agitation outside the door.

one; two;

thin menaces of lines bare
themselves on the tortured wood,
writhing gasping screaming-
"help, help, get me off here."

ritardando

breaths in staccato rhythm
and a crouching figure trembling
on the yellow armchair in the corner;
have you looked into my eyes yet?

一番親しい友人

2003-11-29T08:00:00.000+08:00

prose - 一番親しい友人

私は小さい頃から人と話すのがあまり好きではなかったので、友達もなかなかできませんでした。そのため、私はずっと独りでした。

しかし、それは四年前中学校に入った時に変わり始めました。あの時、私は英雄と言う人とクラスメートでした。英雄さんはいつも隣の私と話していたのでやや嫌でした。

それでも、英雄さんが沢山手伝ってくれて、色々笑わせてくれました。一番珍しいと思ったのは、私の気持ちを解ろうとしたことです。ですから、私達は段々仲良しになりました。

知り合って来た四年間は、いつも晴れた訳ではなく、時々拘りで揉めたこともあります。ただし、二人共相手以外に自分に似合う友達は見付からないと思い、喧嘩が私達の友情を壊したのでなく、逆に二人を親しくしました。

一番親しい友人－それは誰よりも英雄さんがはまりますね。

The composition I wrote for my 'O' Level Japanese exam.

A Darker Shade of Red

2003-09-16T20:10:00.000+08:00

prose - A Darker Shade of Red

Nicolas looked at the bumpy brownish-red lines on his left arm, and then the fresh, dripping red one next to them, trembling slightly. He had done it again, but this time, unlike past times, not a single strand of emotion tingled within him. There was none of the anger, hatred and despair anymore.

He had been angry – angry at himself for disfiguring his Nature-given body; he had been full of hatred – he hated Jérome, Guillaume and all the rest for making him suffer so much injustice; he had been despairing – his life seemed too meaningless for him to continue anymore.

Yet none of these stirred within him any longer. His heart was calm, like a lake, quiet surface glimmering and sparkling extravagantly under the intense tangerine glow of the sun, slowly sinking into the far side of the horizon.

His house was quiet – that he liked, since it allowed him space and time to think without interference. On the other hand, the eerie silence ricocheting off the walls and finally hitting him hard in the eardrums also meant that his mother was still hard at one of her three jobs, trying desperately to cobble together enough money to live till the end of the month, at least – this he did not like.

Nicolas wanted someone to talk to, but to whom could he? He wanted his mother home, but even then she was usually so tired she went immediately to bed. As for his friends – Jérome and Guillaume had been friends to him once, but no longer. It was already the third time that they had humiliated him in front of the entire school, ganging up with Christophe and his barbaric lackeys, who were always looking for someone new to pick on.

So what if he was a gay in a Catholic school?

As his thoughts reached this point, Nicolas felt waves simmering beneath the surface. "Ah yes," he thought. "My emotions are finally coming back to me."

He sat at the edge of his bed, teetering. The choking envelope of silence was only broken by the soft vrooming of a dirt bike some distance away. His eyes, having stared at his toy bunny for so long, felt tired. They were getting droopier and droopier… until his eyelids made contact.

In that instant, it seemed as though an explosion had ripped through Nicolas’ mind, blowing apart his room in a burst of black and red. Thousands of words came flying at him as scenes of himself being dumped a whole bucket of cow manure on at their school’s annual fair, being made to eat food trampled upon by Christophe, and today, being stripped naked of his clothing right out in the school grounds during lunch came hurtling towards him, stealing his precious breath away from him as they went.

Nicolas awoke abruptly, gasping for air. No, he could not bear to revisit those scenes of terror, fear and humiliation any more. The acute torture they inflicted was too much a burden for his already-fragile mind. He was desperate for consolation – for something to help him relieve the trauma he suffered – but he fought the urge.

What use was it to euphemise something that had already happened, in plain view of everyone, be it male or female?

He had tried to salvage his friendship with Jérome and Guillaume, and more than once at that, but al they had done was to ridicule him further, calling him rude names that burnt right into the core of his heart. It hurt, still did, and there was no reason to believe that it would go away any time in the future. Only on that day did he realise how fragile friendship could get. To think he had treated them as his very good friends. Had they been having him on all the while?

Nicolas took out his diary and began to write. It was a small black book with lines on the pages and nothing else, for that was all he could afford that day he decided to get a diary. Today’s entry would only be two short lines – “I’ve been sleeping for a thousand years. I’ve got to open my eyes…”

Closing his diary abruptly, he clambered onto his windowsill. The waves he had felt simmering beneath the surface of the lake in his heart were now gone, but the orange glow was still here. He let his legs dangle out of the window, as usual sitting precariously on the edge.

“One push,” he thought. “And that would be all it takes to save me from the emptiness I’ve been living for…”

It was but a slight push with his fingers, but that did the job. As Nicolas lay unmoving on the grey tarmac six storeys below, the pages of his diary fluttered in the cool autumn breeze.

prelims essay. "Elegiac indictment of solid prejudice & teenage bullying – you’ve sympathetically elicited sympathy for your deluded protagonist," said warrenmarkliew.

Haunt

2003-08-02T08:10:00.000+08:00

prose - Haunt

It was happening again. Always, just past midnight, when all was supposed to be serenely silent in the homely suburb of Damascus, Hija would hear loud noises erupting angrily from the room next to his. Usually it would be just furious, bitter voices pitted against each other, desperate to gain the upper hand in the quarrel, but today, those voices were joined in their rave party by an assortment of other sounds, all of which had the distinct clang of hard metal.

Hija’s parents had never had a peaceful night together. They had married out of the wishes of their parents, for the sake of a merger between the two conglomerates they ran in Syria, and were itching for any and every opportunity to break free of their loathsome bond, which held them like a puff adder does its prey, stifling them. Their family backgrounds and upbringing were starkly different, which was the root of most of the problems in the house.

Initially they only bickered slightly, over major issues like the place of residence after marriage, of Hija’s education. Recently, however, after Hija’s father had been discovered to be having an extra-marital affair, every night seemed like a torture to Hija. His bed was no longer warm, no longer cosy, and only the tear stains on the rosy pink cover containing his fluffy, soft pillow bore any witness to the grief he endured practically every night.

Hija looked out of the window, past the orange streetlights illuminating the otherwise-murky streets, at the night sky. He thought he had heard a vague, muffled scream from somewhere, but shook it off, attributing it to his imagination. There were three stars in the night sky he could see in his position, yet if he shifted a little one of these would be out of sight, and another could be seen shining faintly yet resolutely some distance off.

At least Hija felt calm looking at the stars; it was rare for him to even smile. This night, however, he closed his eyes, picturing the night sky in his mind as he slowly drifted off to slumberland.

Yet the image of the night sky did not last long in his mind. At the same time as he felt sharp piercing bouts of pain coursing through his mind, the scene before his eyes splintered, turning into horrific streams of red and black.

Hija awoke with a start, perspiration dripping from his forehead onto his pillow, marring the tear stains on it. Slowly, but surely, unease crept up his legs, and made valiant grabs at his heart, its venom of fear seeping into his body, through wherever it touched.

He could not stand it any longer. It seemed as though curiosity and blind bravery had overpowered his better judgment; without any conscious effort, he flung off his blanket, got out of bed, put on his slippers and trudged wearily to his parents’ room. He could not figure out why he had decided to walk there; his slippers could in all possibly have sprung minds of their own – the rabbit heads on them might, one could never know.Voices filtered out of the room through the slightly ajar door, though now he could distinctly hear his mother shrieking through her sobs in a quavering voice while his father hurled vicious insults at her.

Hija flinched uncontrollably.

Even as the night wore on and his shirt became rather soggy, there did not seem to be any respite from it all. In fact, the voices were getting increasingly agitated. It did not take a genius to realise what had happened when sudden silence flooded the house after the sound of flesh meeting flesh.

Incensed voices seemed to culminate in a violent explosion as Hija felt the door tremble slightly. Yet even as he sighed, silence cascaded like a black drape over the house once more, broken only by a weak gasp for air.

Fearing the worst, Hija pushed the door open. There were no friendly faces (no matter how contrived) that greeted him as the wooden plank swung inwards, unlike the usual days when he would somehow manage to quell what barrages of words his parents had in their throats ready for each other at the slightest provocation. Instead, what did was a scene that inspired the bloom of the multi-coloured flowers of terror, fear and helplessness.

It was a scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life – his mother kneeling on the floor, bent forwards, clutching her abdomen in shock and abysmal pain as blood flowed nonchalantly to the floor along her slender frame, creating a petite puddle of deep crimson, while his father was at the same time holding a knife, blade stained an anguished red with hate and fury.

At once, Hija noticed something missing from the fruit basket. It was all too much like what happened in television dramas; he did not quite understand at first, for he was after all but twelve years of age. But the longer he stood framed in the doorway staring at the subtle gore languishing before him, the stronger the waves furrowing in him were, eventually sending him leaping down the stairs and out of the house, face contorted with fear, screaming, terror-struck, for help.

Yet it was but a lone voice, attempting futilely to break out of the thick curtain of false serenity and calm. Not even a single light flickered on as Hija flailed madly down the street, and away into the murky silence.

i'm not even sure myself if hija is an arabic-sounding name. but i'm proud that i got 88% for this common test essay.

将破碎的爱一片片地溶解在怨恨里

2002-06-11T12:00:00.000+08:00

poem - 将破碎的爱一片片地溶解在怨恨里

爱情是一片玻璃
经过高温与高压
才将两颗不相识
的沙子结合为一
却又那么地脆弱

怨恨是一锅硫酸
无论将什么放入
它都能一一化掉
就像从来没有过
却很容易能打翻

爱情力量强大，
它能使得两个素不相识的人
把一生积来的怨恨硫酸
毫不犹豫地向窗外倒。

但是怨恨的力量更强大，
它能使得两个曾经彼此情投的人
将破碎的爱一片片地
溶解在怨恨里。

又見彩虹

2002-05-12T23:03:00.000+08:00

prose - 又見彩虹

-第一章：雨祭-

已经五个月没下雨了。只见村里一片枯棕色，树木脆弱得几乎见风即断。从屋里往外望，干裂的深褐色田地尽收眼底，放眼一看都是一片凄凉。弟弟嚎啕的哭声响遍整个村子，在一片寂静之中显得特别震耳欲聋。

我只静静地蹲在屋子一角的泥地上，看着爸爸急急忙忙地从灶房里端出一盘红烧猪。只记得爸爸在两天前把存了一年多的积蓄，大半给拿了出来，再凑合其他同村的积款，到隔壁村去买了一只肥嫩的猪回来，准备向老天爷求雨。现在，干涸的集合处上摆了个祭台，一切准备就绪，只待爸爸把烧猪摆上去。

爸爸掀开了挂在门上的挡风布，匆匆忙忙地跨出门去，只剩我和腕里抱着弟弟的妈妈在屋里。妈妈走到桌边的板凳去，坐了下来。日夜劳碌，已使得妈妈的手变得粗糙不堪，有些地方还脱了皮呢。望望妈妈的手，再望望窗外紧张的爸爸，不禁想到，我们这些孩子，一天天长大，父母却一天天衰老。

「勤啊，你就快要上学啦。再过几个月，爸爸妈妈就把你送到长欢市里的小学去读书。唉，却…却不知道我们还有没有钱过生活啊！」

妈妈对我说着说着，眼泪竟向一颗颗闪亮的明珠，从眼角溜了下来。我第一次见到妈妈哭泣，一时之间也不知如何是好。心里急了，一股儿冲到了妈妈怀里，大哭了起来。过了半晌，感觉到妈妈的手轻轻抚摸着我的头，我才渐渐把头台起来，眼睛泪汪汪地望着妈妈，轻声道：「妈，不如…不如我不去上学吧。这样，我们大家都可以过得比较舒服一点儿哪。」

「不，不行！你一定要给我到学校去，去读书，以后再赚大钱养家。爸爸妈妈就是因为以前没机会上学，现在什么工作都不能作；现在我们拼命赚钱，为的就是要供你们两兄弟上学呀！我和你爸爸决定不多生，是为了要把钱集中在你们俩身上啊！你不去读，就是辜负了爸爸妈妈的期望！现在苦了一点儿不打紧，只要以后我们的阿勤赚钱把我们大家养得舒舒服服的就行了！」

锣声一响，我和妈妈一齐步出屋子，参加雨祭。这是我们村的传统：每四年，当降雨量减少时，我们都会到邻村去，买一些鱼肉菜，然后在八月十五之际把它们摆到祭台上，向雨神求雨。今年雨祭，我却一点也没去注意，只是迷惘与惆怅在我心里犹如旋涡般涡卷，盘旋，搞得我头昏脑胀。一不留神，竟然错过了整个雨祭。

-第二章：降雨-

已是雨祭后的第三周了。我静静地走在裂得凹凸不平的农田上，静思着。懊恼。“唉，这一次干旱到底要持续到甚么时候哇？这场天灾，可把无辜的农民给害惨了呀。老天哪，为什么你这么不公平呢？我们只不过是这世界上渺小的点罢了，并没有做什么伤天害理的事呀，为什么你要惩罚我们哪？”我暗自呐喊，心里淌的泪都快流出来了。来到村门外，心情沉重，我便瘫在木栅上，一脸苦恼。载满沙砾的风吹到我的脸上，弄得我一脸尘沙。我叹了一声，站起来拍了拍屁股上的尘埃，便转身往家里去。

望着满是尘土的屋子，从嘴里漏出来的又是一个哀叹。把挂在门栏上的布匹掀开，竟然又被灰尘给呛着了。满心的忧愁霎那间转变为气恼与怨愤。为什么非得是我村受尽干旱的怒气不可？想着想着，我已不知不觉地坐到了床上。打了一个哈欠，昏昏沉沉地倒下去，睡着了。

不过好像也并未睡多久，就被妈妈急喜参半的声音惊醒：「勤哪，勤哪，快起来呀！下雨了，下雨了！起来看呀！爸爸已经把弟弟抱到外头去啦，全村就只剩你一个了！」

一听到「下雨了」三个字，我眼前一亮，赶紧蹦下床，跌跌撞撞地奔到门外，看到雨滴从天而降，惊喜的泪水不禁从眼里涌出来。我的步伐渐渐慢了下来，到最后原地不动地站在一块原本乾裂了的土地上，将头仰起，把眼睛闭起，细细地感觉雨滴打在身上甜滋滋的感觉；上一次得以这样享受已是数月前的事了。同时，脚下土地逐渐松软，使得我顿时兴奋了起来。

远处传来一把熟悉的声音：「勤哪，快回来呀！你再站久些会着凉的！」

是妈妈。那亲爱的妈妈，出自关心，又再开始向我唠叨了。不过我不介意，因为如今的心情的确是让任何困难都迎刃而解。我漫步倒回屋内，身体湿淋淋地瘫在床上，不过这次不是因为懊恼，而是因为兴奋过度。妈妈走了过来，把衣裤披到床头，温柔地道：「快把衣服换上吧，勤。否则会着凉的。」

把衣服换上的我，又再次躺在床上，闭着眼睛，渐渐进入梦乡。今天特别累，大概是由于一整天大悲大喜的关系吧。

-第三章：洪潮-

一觉醒来精神正爽快的我，一个人在村外独自盘膝而坐，陶醉在轻轻的降雨和河水的潺潺流声里。望着无声的花儿，感触良深。摘一朵嗅一嗅它的芳香，一怔。暗暗自责道：「这么美丽的花，如此脆弱的花，两根手指头竟然就这样地把它的生命给扼杀了 - 好不该呀！」

呆呆地望着那朵被我两根手指无情地杀害了的花，呆了半晌，猛然一惊。背上雨滴越来越大，冲击力也越来越强大。我盯着河水看，它已不再像适才那样平静地流着，而是开始流得急了。河水流得急，一会儿便会涨位，然后—然后—可不就冲破堤岸，那，整村不就淹没了吗？惊呼，连忙往村子跑去。

「要淹水啦！要淹水啦！」我慌慌张张地喊道，原地打转，搞得我晕头转向。

「嗳，别急，冷静下来再慢慢说清楚，这到底怎么回事？」张阿姨说道。

「河水...河水...河水...涨...涨...涨位了，快泛出来了...危险...得快逃！」我气喘呼呼地嚷道。同村们似乎感受到了我语气中的焦急与彷徨，但反应却出奇地冷淡。

「噢，是吗？好，我们会注意的。」

「嗳，我可是好心好意想通知大家一声，怎么你们都不相信我啊？」我理直气壮道。

「好好好，那我陪你去瞧瞧，看看有没有事情，那总行了吧。」隔壁王叔不耐烦地说道。

我高兴地点了点头，便拉着王叔的手，一直拉倒小河边儿。谁知，到了小河边儿，才哑然发现，河水流速已放缓，水位也似乎没有变动。见此景，我手握拳头，一动也不动地站在王叔身边，呆若木鸡，一时不知如何反应。

「那，看吧。都说没事的，你就不信。好啦，现在总能回家了吧？」说着，我们已回到了村子去。

我一番好意想协助大家避难消劫，却竟然遭到同村们的白眼！这一事令我非常气愤，我二话不说，只是迈步向屋子走去。我气恼地拿起了枕头往床上砸，暗自呐喊了一声。我越想越不甘心，最后什么东西也没拿就气冲冲地走出了屋子，走出了村子。

我这一走，便走到了邻近的山窟里去。我在这个山窟里从小玩到大，对山脉里的洞窟「迷宫」非常了解，并给它取了个名，叫做「勤之洞」。当然，这便是以我自己命名的。我躲到了里边去，瘫在石墙边，呼呼大睡起来。也不知睡了多久，一觉醒来，休息了半晌便出去觅食了。起初踏出山窟时，也没去注意周围啥事，只知艳阳高照天气晴朗。山上长满了果树，所以食物就不成问题。摘够了水果后，一眼向村子那方望去，竟一片蓝，水流的哗哗声也不绝于耳。由于山窟里一片寂静，再加上离村子又远，起初我还没去注意，但揉揉眼睛一瞧清楚，才发现整个村子竟然在我离开后不到一个小时被洪潮给淹没了！

骇然受惊的我，几乎把手中捧着的果实都撒满地。「呀！」的一声，我赶紧把果实倒在地上，然后三蹦一跳地赶回村子里。只见山脉下的平原早已变成了海洋的殖民地，水位还在一直上升。我急了，想回村子里帮忙同村们，眼前却摆着一个无法横跨的阻碍；想回到山窟里，却放不下心来。在我气急败坏之时，雨更是越下越大，似乎是想挑衅。

最后，我还是选择了躲回山窟里，理由是：待洪水一退，我便冲下山，到村子里尝试寻找生还者。

-第四章：发现-

不知老天是否特别爱开我的玩笑，那一场雨竟下了足足三天三夜。第四天降临时，天刚破晓，我便已站到了窟穴洞口去，期盼着雨停。果然，皇天不负苦心人，雨势开始转弱，我也顾不得一切了，只拼命地往前跑，往前跑。

也许是我心急吧，我竟然在不知不觉中回到了袁家村。踏进村内，眼前一片狼籍。木屋子倒的倒，歪的歪，树木连根拔起，农田的土地几乎被洪潮给尽数冲走了。面对眼前一切，我也不知该如何反应是好，只呆呆地站在村门外望着，望着。

一阵嚎啕大哭。袁家村全村四百二十个人，如今只剩我孤苦伶仃，我又何尝是滋味？半个小时过了，眼见的确并无人影，我也怀着伤感走了。但刚想起步时，身后忽然传来了婴儿的哭声。全村只有我弟弟那么一个婴儿，我非常确定，那便是我弟弟的哭声。我转身向林嫂的屋子奔去，把倒塌的木板掀起，不错，声音的确是从这儿传来的。我开始挖掘，往声音来源拼命地挖。

挖着挖着，汗珠像断了线的珍珠，一颗颗从我额头上落了下来。突然，手指头似乎触碰到了一个柔软的物体，又是拼命地挖掘。不错，是我的弟弟！鸣呼，狂叫。继续挖。这次我有个预感，将会把从不让弟弟离手的妈妈也一齐掘出来。这次，手指碰到了布料。再挖。女人的手！女人的一双几经劳累的双手！不错，是妈妈的手！

惊叹，喜泣。妈妈醒了，她看到我的脸了！「妈！」紧紧地拥抱，毫不松手的拥抱。雨，仍然下着。

-第五章：彩虹- ~完结篇~

「妈，还好吧。」我问道。妈妈靠在山窟的石壁上，我们生火取暖，同时尝试烘干我们被雨淋湿的衣服。外边还下着毛毛雨。

「嗯，我还好。没事，你采果去吧，你一定饿了。去吧。」

「那我先走了噢。小心身体。」语音未落，我已健步走向洞口去，准备采果。我攀上山，沿途采集果实。采得多，保存不住。采得少，日后得再费力采。采着采着，我也已来到了山顶，望望袁家村的原本所在地，只觉得一片凄凉。凉风吹拂着我的头发，仔细一看，天边就刻着一道彩虹。

華崗文學一等獎之作。真自豪。不過，中三寫的東西，難免有點幼稚，故事情節簡化。