WE DID NOT WIN IN THE INKPRESSIONS WRITING COMPETITION.
REALLY.
1st?
From Raffles Girls.
D:
Here's the story.

The Journey

“Four months, Ms Reema,” Dr Anand shook his head gravely. Reema shot him a quizzical glance; apprehension built up in her veins. Her stomach constricted into a tiny knot and then came the blow.

“You have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer…” Dr Anand’s voice trailed off.

The words hit her hard. She wanted to scream but the impenetrable layer of icy horror deep within robbed her of her speech. Blurred images flashed across her mind as the ugly truth sank in. Her heart smouldered in resentment; her eyes gleamed in fury.

For the talented 27-year-old law student, the lights had turned green early in life. She was a legal genius. She had everything. Career, success and wealth had spread their powerful tentacles and transformed her into someone quite different. Devotion to materialistic pursuits had left little room to savour life’s simple joys. Slowly and silently, she had been sucked into a downward spiral. And then, the verdict had been pronounced. Surely, there had to be a way out! Life seemed to beckon...

“Reema! Reema! Come fast! Don’t you remember? My doll, Pinkie, has to be married off to Prince Charming! Imagine her wedding without you!” chirped seven year old Savita, breaking out in spontaneous laughter. Two decades later, the words of her childhood friend resonated loud and clear in Reema’s mind. She smiled at the sweet recollections – playing marbles with village boys for hours together, dancing in the fields with wild abandon, rushing eagerly for the guru’s enthralling lessons…

Suddenly, she understood. The myriad colours of life’s kaleidoscope revealed themselves fearlessly. Her wins and losses, that once seemed so important, no longer mattered; her strongest opponents faded away; her acquisitions shrivelled into irrelevance. All that mattered was hope, love and life. She wanted to embrace life in all its fullness and embark on the journey - the journey to her inner self.

The train pulled into the sleepy station of Gorakhpur in Northern India, in the wee hours of the morning. Reema took a deep breath. Dotted with tiny huts, the familiar landscape of her ancestral village welcomed her with outstretched arms. The fresh country air filled her senses. The riot of hues amidst the lush green rejuvenated her soul. The warmth of the charming flower-girl mesmerised her very being.

Reema laboured up the cobbled steps of the dilapidated village temple. “The elements have taken their toll,” she thought to herself, as she bowed in humble reverence. The temple had a divine aura, exuding serenity and vitality, unreservedly, to all its patrons. Reema was no exception. With a fresh lease of life, she could think more clearly.

One after the other, the incidents of her life presented themselves. The countless chapters of love, laughter, hope, courage and compassion unfolded their magic. Reema had never been happier. She sat still on the steps of the temple in a trance. Who could have known that she had successfully completed her journey, only to embark upon the next...?

I find it full of meaning...
Quite you know, good vocab but not creative enough.

2nd...
Kuo Chuan Presbyterian Primary.
Nvr heard of it b4.
Here's th essay.

The Journey

As I held my daughter’s hand and walked past the old oak tree, I told her the story of the five-minute walk from my house, to the house of my best friend, Winston. I walked it almost every day, past the old oak, stepping carefully on the cracked sidewalk, stopping briefly at the corner where the red wildflowers grew, and ending at Winston’s house – the brown brick home with the bright blue door.

I first stood at that door with my mother, who insisted on taking a basket of cookies to the newcomers and their son. I was reluctant to come – a six-year old girl doesn’t want to be friends with a boy – but my mother was adamant about making them feel welcome into the neighbourhood. Soon, though, Winston and I became great friends.

Every day, I walked that road to his house to meet him before we continued
to school together. As teenagers, we started to face the usual teasing from classmates. People would call us a couple, and it never bothered Winston. I was more sensitive, though. One day, I walked past the oak tree with heavy feet. The wildflowers were in bloom, but had no colour for me. Standing in his front yard, Winston saw me hesitate – so he jogged up to me, slung his arm around my shoulders, and completed the journey with me.

When I was twenty-one, my father suffered a massive stroke. I ran to Winston’s house right after calling an ambulance - making the journey in two minutes flat. After my father’s funeral two days later, I ran to Winston’s house again, sobbing to him that there was nobody to give me away at my wedding, which was in two months. He promised to do the job.

On my wedding day, I made the journey to his house in my dress and veil, treading carefully over the cracked sidewalk in my heels, picking some wildflowers along the way to tuck into my bouquet.

After my honeymoon with my new husband, I visited my mother at my childhood home. I was going to drop in on Winston in about half an hour, when I received a phone call from his fiancée. She said he had been hit by a car and had died instantly.

It was a grey Saturday when I walked to his house one last time. The oak tree stood silently, and a light drizzle wet the cracked sidewalk. Only the red wildflowers stood tall and straight. I picked some to drop onto his coffin.

After that day, my mother told me, the flowers didn’t bloom there anymore.



Now, with my daughter, I stopped at the corner, smiling as I saw the red wildflowers standing with their heads high, in full bloom.

“Can we pick some, Mummy?” my little girl asked me.

My heart was full of emotion, but I managed to speak.

“Let’s leave them there, darling,” I told her. “They’re home now.”

THIS STORY SHOULD WIN!
It's just so.. so..
Beautiful.
Touching.
3rd...
Ai Tong Primary.

The Journey

“Hey, look at this old photograph!” I held up a dog-eared photograph. “It must be at least 60 years old!”

My grandmother glanced at the “treasure” I had unearthed from her drawer. The photograph was yellow with age and showed a young man, carrying a bunch of chickens, standing next to a shyly smiling young woman.

“Can…can it be?” Grandma scrutinised the photograph through her old, tired eyes. “I can’t believe it. After all these years…” she said softly.

Then she smiled, “Come, granddaughter, let me tell you the story behind this photograph.”

The man in the photograph, Abdul, had met Siti, a girl from Kuching, Sarawak, in Singapore. When Siti returned home, Abdul promised to visit her two months later, after he finished his studies, to ask her parents for their daughter’s hand in marriage.

A cacophony of clucks and quacks greeted Abdul as he stepped into the Malaya Airlines twin-prop Fokker plane. Passengers then were allowed to travel with their domestic animals. Abdul found himself sandwiched between an elderly woman and her eleven chickens.

“Young man, is this your first time flying in a plane too?” the old woman asked amiably. Then she added worriedly, “Will the plane crash? I am very frightened.”

Abdul assured her that the flight would not be so terrifying. The old woman appeared to be somewhat comforted but still remained a little jittery and flustered.

As the plane took off, the old lady fretted, “What if the plane crashes? Will we all die?”

It took all in Abdul’s power to soothe her. “Granny, nothing is wrong. The plane is not going to crash, it is just taking off.”

Fortunately, the old woman calmed down and remained composed for a while until the plane hit a patch of turbulence.

“Anak, saya takut … saya takut!” she cried in great consternation, holding on to Abdul’s arm. Her eleven chickens, in turn, grew agitated, scrambling over Abdul, strewing stray feathers upon him like a coat of snow.

Abdul finally emerged from the plane, helping the old lady alight while carrying an armful of clucking chickens. Siti and her parents were waiting. Siti smiled warmly at him and embraced the old woman accompanying him, “Grandma!”

“Ah, Siti, so this is Abdul, is it? He’s a very nice boy, helpful and kind. You’ve made a good choice. You two must get married immediately!”

Siti’s parents nodded happily at their prospective son-in-law. “Come, let’s take a photograph!” Siti’s father said. And that was how the happy couple’s blissful moment was captured forever on film.

“How do you know all this, grandma?” I asked.

She laughed an almost girlish laugh. “I am Siti and your grandfather is Abdul,” she said slowly, looking lovingly at the old photograph. I thought – she must be missing grandpa who had been dead these fifteen years.

Grandma turned away from her reverie and smiled, “Let’s go and have lunch, shall we? We’re having ayam penyet today.” And we looked into each other’s eyes, and laughed.

Erm, like not really related to th theme...

Now!
Consolation...
Kuo Chuan PresbyterianPrimary... Again.

The Journey


A single journey of self-discovery is worth a thousand lifetimes of unquestioned existence.

The mall was packed on a typical Saturday afternoon. My foul mood did nothing to brighten my day or my mother’s. I had thrown a monumental tantrum about being forced to go shopping. My mother had simply kept silent, her eyes drooping at my infantile outburst. In my anger I let go of her hand, and was swept up by a wave of people. Suddenly I found myself elevated. I was on an ascending escalator jammed with people.

The escalator rose; so did my panic. I was only a child, separated from my mother, lost in a sea of faces. At that moment I realized the irony of our human race. People were in abundance, yet I never felt so alone. I peered over the handrails to spot my mother’s bright orange dress. I had always thought of her favourite dress as too stark and conspicuous. But now the sea of shoppers below was teeming with oranges, reds, mauves, and a multitude of hues that overwhelmed me. I was fascinated by the palette of colors, and humbled by the variety of shades on display. Like a quaintly choreographed fashion show, hundreds of men, women, and children strutted along to the mild music I now began to hear over the mall speakers.

I knew the mall played songs but I had never stopped and actively listened. The music was by Holst. My parents often listen to classical music and I was transported to the evenings the four of us spent at home on Saturday, talking about life. I never participated, considering these discussions irrelevant to my pampered lifestyle. I remembered that it was Saturday, and ached for the comfort of home. I reflected on how an escalator was much like my own life – an endless routine of ups and downs, always moving but never going anywhere.

My reverie was severed by a change in momentum. The escalator was leveling. I stared at the threshold swallowing every step. People began to hop off. I felt like I was about to be swallowed along with my step. I missed the security of my parents, ready to rescue me from anything. I missed my mother terribly and regretted losing my temper with her. Suddenly I felt myself being pulled forward. I abruptly stepped off the escalator onto solid ground. My mother was holding my hand and leading me as if nothing had happened.

My relief was palpable and I hugged her tightly. She smiled quizzically at me. She looked into my eyes and must have seen something beyond them because she told me that I was an affectionate young man. Young man, not boy! I looked back at the escalator and thought, “Life really is a journey of discovery at every step. You never can tell how a journey begins, and where it will end.”

Mine began that day on an escalator which took me somewhere special.

This story mixed th theme with a common story.
Lost at the mall.
LOL
:D

Consolation!
Raffles Girls.
Again.

The Journey

“Mummy...”

She spun around, dropped her suitcase, and sprinted towards the distant voice, thinking, Christabel called me. But there was no little girl waving, as there had been so many times in her dreams.

“Hello, Mummy, I’m Christabel.”

The voice took on a taunting note. She covered her ears, trying to shut it out.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

The taxi-driver leaned out of his taxi’s window, concerned.

“Um, yes,” she stammered confusedly. “Take me, um – here.” She pointed to the address on the scrap of paper.

She climbed into the taxi, her jetlagged body sinking into the soft leather seat. She pressed her face to the window, searching futilely for the small child who had appeared so often in her mind’s eye.

Her life in the past ten years had been a fruitless hunt for the little girl snatched from her. Her estranged husband had won custody of their daughter Christabel in their divorce proceedings and then surreptitiously left Singapore with Christabel. She could recall every detail of the endless journeying, the painful memories and nightmares, the frequent hallucinations. At last she had tracked them down, but she dared not rejoice yet. There had been too many false leads before.

The cab pulled up in front of an inconspicuous-looking residence on a cul-de-sac. Her heart missed a beat; her intuition told her that she had come to the right place at last. Mechanically, she paid the cabby and got out, trembling.

There was a girl sitting in one of the porch-chairs, a pretty girl in T-shirt and jeans who glanced with idle curiosity at the figure with the battered suitcase. She stared at Christabel, now transformed from a chubby toddler into a beautiful girl. All the conflicting emotions she had experienced over the years – joy, grief, anger, despair – surged up in her heart.

“Christabel,” she whispered. The girl looked up, startled.

The world began to spin. The house, the trees, the girl in the chair, all blurred and turned fuzzy. She looked at Christabel, her haggard face twitching with feeling, as the tormenting voice in her head repeated the familiar words: “Hello, Mummy. I’m Christabel.”

She stood there, remembering the ten-year journey that had led her here, gazing at the lovely young girl. Suddenly she understood why she had to take that anguish-filled journey – so that she could feel this torrent of affection that made her want to laugh, to cry, to give her daughter all the missed hugs and kisses at once.

Christabel smiled, and recognition crossed her face.

“Hello, Mummy,” she said. “I’m Christabel.”

Her head started to whirl. The girl got up and ran towards her. She threw her arms around her daughter and touched – nothing.

She came to herself with a start. There was no little house. No girl on the porch. She was surrounded by white walls and uniformed nurses. She fell back weakly onto the bed, gasping.

And in a cruel continuance of the dream, the little girl smiling at her from the mirror lifted a hand and waved.

Heart warming...
Hahaz.
Last consolation...
Anglo Chinese Primary...

The Journey

Martha carefully avoided a sharp stone. The journey so far had been arduous, but she knew that it had to be undertaken. Her father was waiting for her, at what he had called the ‘Haunted House’. The two words brought Martha briefly back to the past.

It was just two days ago when a huge oak had fallen onto her straw hut, instantly demolishing it and crushing Martha’s mother, who was still inside. Martha had been just outside, waiting for her father to come back from hunting, when disaster struck. The second her father reached home, he had told Martha to stay put and eat the animals he had brought back while he looked for a temporary home. After waiting for ten days, Martha finally saw an eagle swoop down and drop a message before flying off.

The message was from her father. It told her that he had found a house a few kilometres away, and gave her directions to go there. The last sentence on the crumpled paper was chilling: These are the directions to the Haunted House.

So, five days later, Martha was still walking. She growled angrily. Could it be a trick? The instructions had told her to walk in a straight line towards the northeast. Yet only her father could have sent that letter; no one else knew that they had found a worn-out compass on the forest floor. She nimbly ducked below an overhanging tree limb. The sky began to turn dark. The lush green turned a deeper shade. This was the time of the day when Martha became afraid.

All of a sudden, she saw a long, cubical tube poking out beneath the foliage. Billowing out of the tube was a huge, dense cloud of... Martha scratched her head, irritated. What was it called? She cast the nagging thought aside as she loped towards the strange scene. A delicious smell wafted into her nose. This must be the house, she thought, that Daddy was talking about. I don’t see why it’s haunted. Edging cautiously towards the old building, Martha peered through the settling haze.

“What shall we do?” a frail, high-pitched voice sounded. Martha froze. Her father did not have a voice like that; his was firm and deep.

Creeping closer to the door, she thought, Voices! Perhaps that’s why Daddy called the house haunted. She crouched beside the door, yearning to hear more.

“Just leave it alone, Grandma,” a young voice squeaked. “Besides, it was terrorising me on my way here.”

Martha moved backwards, knocking over a trash can in the process. A deep voice immediately boomed, “Who’s there?”

Martha heard footsteps thumping towards her direction. Her heart skipped a beat. Panic filled her. Then the door swung open, revealing a muscular human hefting an axe. Behind him was a girl dressed totally in red. Martha’s father was on the floor, his stomach morbidly slit open.

Martha looked away, swallowing. The human with the axe grinned at her.

“Your journey has ended, wolf.”

So Martha is a wolf...
Oh!
Wow, full of suspense!
Nice!
Secondary school one, theme, CROSSINGS.

Crossings

The little boy watches in open-mouthed amazement as his two friends put thumbtacks onto his teacher’s chair and smear glue onto the table. Audacious and daring. He wishes he could be like them. But he’s always been a coward.

The boy bites his lip. Should he tell the teacher and lose his friends’ trust? Or keep the secret and face the teacher’s wrath?

No. He can’t tell. Friends always come first before teachers.

As the teacher sits down and screams, and everyone in the class bursts into laughter, he smiles and knows that it was worth it.


***

He’s older now, taking an examination. A friend sits beside him staring at his test paper, trying to look at the answers.

The boy frowns. His friend shouldn’t be doing that. It was his fault that he didn’t study. And yet something tells him that he doesn’t want to see his friend fail, to see the disappointment and sadness etched on his face, to see him branded a failure.

Carefully looking out for the teacher, the boy tilts the paper ever so slightly so that his friend can see the answers.

He shouldn’t be doing it. But he’s done this for friends before, hasn’t he? It’s always friends before teachers.

The friend starts scribbling, not saying anything, but he looks up and there’s that unspeakable gratitude in his eyes.

***

Five years on and the decisions are not as simple as they used to be. He smiles to himself as he thinks back thirteen years ago to when he was only worried about a prank.

He looks down at his well worn jacket and pants and wonders if the men at the recruiting office will think that his dressing is too sloppy for a would-be paratrooper. He hopes not.

Someone enters and he turns, but it is only his mother. She sighs and looks at him, in his best dress, off to war like so many other boy: boys sometimes younger than him; boys who never came back.

He looks at her, pale and fragile, and wonders for the third time in his young life whether this is the correct choice – mother or country? He knows that as an only child, he has a duty to survive and to come back home.

His duty must come first. He must defend his country. Drawing his mother into a hug, he turns and walks out, never seeing the tears she sheds as he leaves.

***

Two years. It’s been two years since he last saw his mother. And now he wonders if he’ll ever see her again.

Bullets whizz above his head. He ducks, thankful that the blood on the ravaged ground is not yet his. Beside him a soldier falls, clutching his throat. The bullet is just visible beneath the layers of reddish skin and flesh. The boy’s stomach churns but he crawls on.

His mind goes back to events fifteen years before. To think he was once worried about incurring a teacher’s wrath! Most likely she would have made him stand outside class and pull his ears. This time, if he makes the wrong choice, his punishment will be a bullet in the head and death.

Someone screams for help and for a medic. Disregarding his own safety, the boy crawls over. The trooper is barely conscious, his guts hanging out. The boy studies the man’s face and realizes it is one of his friends who, so long ago, played that trick on the teacher.

His life or his friend? Yet another choice. And yet it has always been his friends before anything. The boy grabs the trooper’s collar and begins to drag him to the aid station, standing up as he does so, the screams of the wounded man ringing in his ears.

***
He didn’t make it.

The medics found him, broken and bleeding, his hand still fastened onto the wounded friend’s collar. They took the wounded man in first and managed to save his life.

But when they came out for the boy, he was dead.

He never got a chance to find out what would have happened if he had gone on and left his friend. Never found out what would have happened if he had stayed at home and not gone to the war, or had not helped his friend with the answers, or had told the teacher about the prank.

The boy had faced many crossings in his short life. He had crossed over from a good boy to a bad one, from an innocent child to a cheat, from a coward to a man, and from a man to the bravest person a man could ever hope to be. For, in the end, he was no longer a boy. He did not die a boy.

He died a hero.

This is 1st for th Secondary ppl...
Nice story!

Last one...

Crossings

I herded about a hundred people into a shipping container and shut the cold metal door in their faces. They did not matter to me – I did not know them and they knew me only as a person who could help them get to their next destination. They paid me to get them across the border and that was what I would do, no more, no less. Illegal, you might think, but I prefer to think of it as a way of getting money; perhaps, a job that feeds off the desperation of humans, who are willing to do or give anything to get across the border.

They met us in dark corners, alleys and there we made the deal. They would hand over what money they had – the money they received from selling what was left of their meagre possessions or from selling precious family heirlooms that were a maybe a hundred years old, with the hope of starting their lives anew, in a new country, a new land. But why run to a foreign land? I smirk when I think of the homeland. What were once green fields are now barren plains of dust, capable of bearing nothing but landmines, and the once sparkling rivers that quenched the thirst of a village were now trails of dark sludge, incapable of supporting life, only death. That is why they approached my friends and me – they wanted to cross the line of checkpoints and barbed wire, for the hope of a new world and green fields they dreamed of.

As I think of the hundreds of people in that trailer, I wonder: what were they thinking when they gave up that money? They probably never predicted the hellish road ahead, being squashed in car boots and packed into trailers like cargo, illegal cargo, and contraband. We could not provide documents for them either. Then again who could? They were uneducated illiterates who were born in villages and shanty towns. All they knew was that they would be free after this, if they were even able to make it.

If there were people whom smugglers like me hated, it would be the authorities. They tried to catch us and the people we were ‘smuggling’. They foiled our plans and dashed the dreams of our travellers. So we travelled under the cover of darkness, squeezing the people into places no one could ever guess. One could learn to be a contortionist overnight just trying to hide from the police. Once in a while, some did get caught but it was none of our business and we would just slink away quietly, ready to do business yet again.

Suddenly, I heard someone banging on the walls of the metal container and I hit back as a warning. There was no time to stop since we were already near the checkpoints and the sight of a hundred people squashed in a shipping container would raise some eyebrows, would it not? The hitting became rapid, stronger and the sonorous sound of flesh hitting metal fills my ears. As quickly as it began, it died off into nothing and we slipped into the checkpoints looking like any other trailer. I looked at the officer, a fat balding man, as he allowed our trailer to pass through. If he ever found out what was in the container he would probably lose whatever hair he had left in a second.

As we arrived at the promised dropoff point, I found it strangely quiet – almost eerie. Pulling open the bolts of the metal doors, I swung them open and was greeted with the sight of a hundred sleeping people. A body rolled out of the trailer and lay still upon the ground. It was not the serene face of a sleeping person I was looking at; it was the face of a corpse.

They were dead – all of them.

My heart almost stopped beating as I stare into the container that once carried a hundred lives, hoping for a new world and brighter future. I turned and ran away from the container that smelt of human waste and rotting flesh, from the hundreds of lifeless, vacant eyes that now stared at me. I pick uped my pace, knowing that I had left behind a hundred people whose dreams I had just broken. I did my job –

I helped them cross over, not to a better future, but to the next world.

BEAUTIFUL STORY.

This one is nice, sry, one more.

Crossings

“Come on, Lisabel,” I urged myself. I forced my foot closer to the river. Suddenly, with a tremendous force, memories of Ammelie start flooding back and I jerk away, and the inviting waters turn into a snare of death.

Ammelie was the closest thing I had to a sister, and I guess she felt that way too. Aunt Judy had adopted us both. We looked as different as night and day, but we were virtually inseparable. We shared everything from secrets to clothes, and would do anything in the world for each other. And we both loved one thing - the river behind our house.

It was pretty wide, with icy water and a little bridge for you to cross. On our own we learnt to manoeuvre through the maze of rocks and never got injured. Sometimes when we were feeling brave, we ventured into the waist-deep areas but never farther than that. The banks were equally interesting; we invented fantasy names for the critters residing there.

That fateful afternoon was especially hot, so we decided to head down for a splash. “Don’t forget, I’ve cooked dinner,” Aunt Judy reminded us with a smile.

Awhile later, Ammelie was lying on the grass and I had my feet in the water. She was unusually quiet, then abruptly got up and stepped over to the river.

“What are you doing, Mel?” I asked, brows furrowing in surprise.

“I’m going for a swim,” she declared, slightly exasperated.

I jumped up and grabbed her arm. “Mel, you know we don’t swim here. It’s dangerous!”

“I’m already 16, Lisse, I can do what I want,” she said haughtily. She apologetically added, “We’ve known this river for ages. I won’t get hurt, I promise.”

I trusted her. After all, she was older than I was. But she never kept that promise. Ammelie slipped on a loose rock and hit her head. The image of her slowly losing consciousness was forever etched in my mind, her body sinking in the rushing rivulet and blood oozing out of the deep gash on her forehead. I tried fishing her out of the water but the current was too strong. I ran for help, but by the time I returned with Aunt Judy, she was lost.

Her body was found somewhere downstream. I was so shocked I couldn’t cry. I was just numbed. I went through a cycle of grief, self-reproach and pain many times, and ended up in a place called “Let’s try forgetting though it’s hard.”

That’s why I started going to the river again. Without Ammelie it was eerily quiet. I never used to go there alone, but I guess I would have to get used to it. Every day I tried hard to step onto the bridge, but so far they had been failed attempts.

Footsteps interrupted my train of thought. Aunt Judy emerged from the shadows.
“Hey.” She greeted me, in her casual manner.

“Hi,” I replied, unable to say more.

Aunt Judy smiled ruefully. “I knew you’d be here. I wanted to share something with you which I think will help you find some closure.”

Closure? Yeah right, I thought. But I still listened.

She continued. “Before Mel left, she shared with me her feelings about death. I suppose you and she had never discussed this, but she said she didn’t want to ruin the perfect picture you had of life.” Aunt Judy chuckled. “She really cared about her younger sister but I guess you are quite unprepared as a result. So she asked me what the end would feel like, and what was after. I tried to explain to her the concept of heaven. She probably felt something already, at that time, to ask me such a thing out of the blue. But Lisse, I want you to know,” here Aunt Judy looked into my eyes, “that Mel is going to a better place, and that it was purely an accident. I don’t want you to keep blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. Death, it comes and goes. No one can say they’ve truly lived unless they’ve died.”

“But I’ll never see her again,” my voice cracked as I whispered.

“Well, it’s like that. There’s always a lack of time. But she told me that you were the best sister ever, and she’d choose you over blood relatives.”

My eyes were brimming with tears. Aunt Judy took my hand and said, “Let’s cross that river.”

This time I was surer and more stable. Like a baby taking her first steps, I tentatively stepped forward. Sometimes I would hear Ammelie’s last scream, but this time I only heard the stream gushing over the rocks. I realised, as I crossed that bridge, Ammelie and I would always be a part of each other.

Really, last one!
This is nice!

Crossings

Silence echoed incessantly in the bare, undecorated room, broken only by short tedious gasps. Lying limply on the stiff white bed, bleached from countless washing, her laboured wheezing was unnaturally loud in the silent, empty room.

Her thin deathly face, etched with wrinkles from the painful wisdom of the numerous years, was adorned by thinning hair in every shade between white and grey. She eyed the bell beside her bed – help lay only an arm’s length away, yet would it be of any use?

Lying on her side, she knew that her time had come. Yet she still grudgingly clung to her last moments, unwilling to let go. Few truths were known about death and what lay after it – if there was an afterlife – and those who knew were not around to tell the tales. Throughout her life, she had mockingly ignored the notion of death, letting it be pushed aside by other concerns. However, life gradually caught up with her, and Death begun surreptitiously slinking into the darker corners of her mind, shredding whatever traces of humanity they could lay their claws upon.

Now, on the verge of death, she barely felt human – What would it be like when she died? Would she still be able to think, or would she simply fade away with her final breath? What would become of her after she died? What would remain of her? Would it all come to a standstill when she released her breath?

Fear clenched her heart; she was ill-prepared to die, though she had thought that she had resigned herself to Death’s intruding presence. She feared the unknown, feared the pain, feared being forgotten, feared losing all that made her human, and feared simply fading away. Above all, she feared Death, ticking away like a merry time bomb, and she feared Life, trickling away like the sand in an hourglass.

The crossing from life to death was never nearer, yet never farther from each other. She had to make that choice once and for all, yet she did not feel brave enough, not even for this last crossing.

Memories flooded into her mind…

She recalled the first time she had crossed a road alone, without a single person to hold her hand. She was only six then, walking across to her grandmother’s place. She quaked with fear for she once had seen the aftermath of a car accident – although her parents had tried to cover her eyes, they were too late – and it was not pretty. Her parents’ words echoed in her mind, “Look left, look right, then look left again. You’ll be safe.”

She remembered crossing the line of the cross-country race. It was her first race representing the school, and she was only eleven, participating in the national cross-country finals. The sun burned down upon the parched earth intensely, and she stumbled many times as exhaustion overtook her. Her coach’s advice echoed in her mind, “Just keep going, you will be fine.”

She revisited that bloodcurdling time she had crossed the precariously swinging rope bridge hanging high above the river canyons. At that time, she was only twelve, on a family holiday to the desert canyons. The bridge was so high up, so shaky, so scary. She had gripped the rope, her feet rooted to the swinging bridge, unable to move even one step. Her brother’s words echoed in her mind, “Just one step at a time.”

She reminisced about the time she was a teen, experiencing her first taste of love. They had fallen in love, she and the boy from next door, yet they were in that awkward position when love had yet to blossom into a romance. Shy smiles were all they exchanged. Deep inside, she had yet to trust herself, had yet to cross the bridge towards loving. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, “I can’t help you, dear. You’ll just have to believe in yourself.”

She recollected the time when her love died. His last words were, “I will wait for you.” She had been lost in blindness and rejection, surrounded by her own comforting lies, walled up in her dreams, away from misery. She was barely 44, with three children to care for, trapped between the bridge of grief, rejection and acceptance. Her eldest child’s words echoed in her mind, “Mom, you can cry. He is gone. Cry, and then move on. ”

“… You’ll be safe.”
“…keep going, you’ll be fine.”
“…one step at a time.”
“…believe in yourself.”
“…move on.”

So many bridges she had crossed in her lifetime.

Could she really cross this last bridge?

Suddenly, she heard a faint echo, a faint beckoning: “I will wait for you.”

With a faint smile on her lips, her haggard breathing stopped.

Nice! I mean, very meaningful huh!
Hoho, looong post.
Th MOE website say got 31 essays they highly recommended it but they didn't win.
But they never put who.
SIANZ.
u wa to look?
Heres th website:
http://www.moe.gov.sg/education/programmes/gifted-education-programme/high-ability-learners/english/
BYE!

Heidi(: