For One Night --- A Prom Story

She swore she could have killed Melanie.

"Hey darling. You know what? Let's go shopping tomorrow!" excitement burst through every word in Melanie's voice.

"Do you have any idea what time is it?" she groaned and a string of curses were buried in her pillow.

"Yes or no? C'mon darling, we need our prom dresses. I'm thinking white since it's the new pink, and yellow makes me look fat......"

Suddenly, drowsiness faded from her eyes. As they struggled to adjust to the dark surroundings, she thought of the ticket in the drawer.

It wasn't exactly forgotten, neither was it remembered. A hundred bucks for a piece of laminated paper imbued with every shade of blue was bloody expensive. Thanks to Melanie, she was broke.

"Kendall!"

"Erm yea?"

"Are we going to get our dresses or not?"

She hesitated. Mom would gladly give her a blank cheque, maybe even call up Carven Ong to design a dress. Dad wasn't happy with it, but he said he would skin her alive if she didn't enjoy prom.

"Sure."

~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was black.

A simple knee-length dress without lace or rhinestones. A plain cocktail dress.

But it was gorgeous.

She stared at the mirror as Melanie squealed at the sight of her, literally singing praises of how it suited her and how hot she looked.

"You're getting this dress. I'll even pay for you!"

Rapture waltzed in her heart and a little smile appeared on the curves of her lips as she told herself, "That's you in the mirror."

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dad smiled when he saw her walk down the stairs. With a little foundation, some teal eyeshadow and sweet pink on her lips, she shone as radiantly as her petite earrings and Mom's diamond necklace.

They did not talk in the car.

She didn't know what to say to Dad. What exactly should you say to your father when he's driving you to your prom, knowing that his daughter will be slow dancing in some random boy's arms, and his arms might accidentally slide down.

There were so many things in his mind, where should he start? No alcohol, no making out, no dirty dancing, no thinking of losing your virginity before you're married. These were for her own good, yet he wondered whether he was going to be a killjoy stuffing her ears with rules. After all, she was supposed to have fun during her prom.

They reached the hotel.

"Erm... could you pick me up at 11?"

"Sure."

"Ok... bye, Dad."

"Have fun, sweetie."

She pushed the door open. I should at least tell him, she thought when her foot touched the ground.

"You know, Dad. I'll take care of myself. You won't need to worry if I'll end up pregnant or drunk, I promise I won't. Just some dancing and maybe fooling around with Melanie and the others. I won't drink --"

"You're a big girl, Kendall. I know you can manage yourself. Go have fun. Dance, flirt, I don't mind if you kiss a boy. It's your prom. Anyway, it's just for one night."

It was as if the whole world stopped spinning when her arms wrapped his neck. "Thanks, Dad. I love you," she whispered. He patted his little girl's hair, "I love you too."

Then he saw her disappeared through the glass doors.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Melanie looked as if she owned the dance floor, strutting her stuff and laughing with all the others. Then the deejay invited all the couples for a last dance on the floor, a slow jazz fraught the ballroom.

He walked across the room towards her and asked, "Hey Kendall, do you wanna dance?"

She looked up into his hazelnut eyes and smiled. He led her to the middle of the floor and they swayed slowly to the music.

"So this is it, the end of high school," she said.

"Yea, time flies, doesn't it?" he smiled.

"What are your plans after this?" there was a little sadness in that question.

"My parents are thinking of sending me to Australia, it's either Medicine or Dentistry for me."

"Oh," she prayed that he couldn't hear the tremble in her voice.

"What about you?" which part of the world would she be?

"I'll still be here... then maybe I'll try applying for Oxford, or maybe Leeds."

"I'm gonna miss you," he looked into her eyes.

"Me too," she tried to hold back her tears.

It was slow like the dance, a little pressure, that's all. There was nothing between them, they were just friends. Maybe a crush, perhaps just lately or perhaps it was always there.

For one night, they were more than friends.

She was sure that she'll remember him for the rest of her life and maybe they'll meet again sometime in the future, as friends.

And she was sure Dad meant what he said, he wouldn't mind her kissing a boy. After all, prom is only one night and for one night, she'll have fun.

P/S: Inspired by my friends who went to their proms and had fun. Thanks for sharing your 'interesting' experiences with me. This is dedicated to all the girls out there, whether or not you've been to a prom.

My Mother

This was written as a group work assignment given by Mr. Sean during one of the marathon-like extra classes.

Inspired by my dear friend and confidante, Cindy, who happened to be my partner for almost every group work in Mr. Sean's class for 3 years.

*~*~*

Clad in bright green velvet, my mother glided across the courtyard like a butterfly with gossamer wings. Her head bowed, footsteps as light as feather, like a fairy princess. In front of her was my father, portly and exuberant in vermillion red.

My mother was always behind my father. A woman must never walk in front of her husband, her father and her brother.

She married my father at the tender age of fourteen, as bashful as a schoolgirl. Coy, but at the same time vivacious. I could read the pain in her eyes before sunset, I could picture but never able to put myself in her shoes, thus I never understood the story behind her dark grey irises.

We were having important guests that night, my grandmother’s birthday was always a subject of discussion in the town. The mayor, the deputy prime minister, and even the Seventh Prince were invited. From afar, I could make out dots of fuchsia and damask, saffron and amber, silver and gold in a riot of colours in the Grand Dining Hall.

The moment my father reached the Grand Dining Hall, the guests clapped and praises as long as litanies came pouring. With my mother following, my father kneeled down in front of my grandmother, wishing her everlasting health and youth. Grandmother smiled from ear to ear.

Mother kneeled. “Hmph!” Grandmother turned her head away. Cheeks now as red as Father’s suit, tears started to well up in Mother’s eyes. The women whispered, the men snickered. Father looked oblivious to the fact that his wife was disgraced in public. “Forgive me, Mother,” Mother said softly.

Being a woman of great beauty, there were many suitors since she turned twelve. A poet once described her as “the falling petals of plum blossoms, the quintessence of pulchritude”. Rumours of clandestine lovers and broken promises lingered even after Mother married Father, against her will. A feng-shui master predicted that she will give Father nine sons, and each of them will pass the imperial examinations. Grandmother started to shower this new daughter-in-law with jades and silks, bird’s nests and bear paws.

That was Mother’s zenith. Grandmother praised her demure and loyal daughter-in-law whenever she met friends and relatives. Yet Mother was never proud, but always modest and very approachable. People love her excitable personality, servants adore her easy-going persona. Docile like a rabbit, Father once told Mother, “You’re a much better wife than my third one,” which brought Mother to sobs. She cried in front of me that night, being only a child, I neither understood nor know what to do.

“Such a demanding wife, worthless!” Grandmother huffed. The whispers took on a crescendo, the Grand Dining Hall was cacophonous.

All of a sudden, Mother stood up, grabbed me from my nanny. With her back against the clamorous group of people robed in luxury, “I’m leaving this house,” Mother threw it coldly, allowed the words to sink in.

Grandmother shrieked the moment Mother moved a muscle. “My heart! My heart of hearts! My love! Stop her!” Then I saw male servants pulling Mother’s rich robes, her hair a mess, tears still streaming. They came with sticks as thick as a child’s fist, and started beating her back and legs.

Was it her determination, or was she stronger than I thought she was? She did not quiver, her knees did not buckle. She shielded me with her petite body. “Don’t harm my grandson!” Grandmother wailed.

A rough hand grabbed my wrist, tried to haul me away. Mother’s fist drew blood as his nose broke. She hugged me tightly and broke into a run. Call it a miracle, we were out in the unfamiliar wilderness in a blink of an eye.

“Where are we going, Mother?” I asked, naïve. She was taking me to the pavilion by the lake, or the Lotus Gardens, was she not? She smiled at me, then I noticed beyond the bloodshot eyes were indescribable euphoria. I never saw the real colour of her skin, I recalled it was a pearly shade of white last Mid-Autumn Lantern Festival, under the moonlight. Now she looked sallow, her skin a yellow shade of pale.

“To my Father’s house, you are now a member of the Lee family,” she replied when we reached a quaint manor, smaller than Father’s mansion. Mother knocked on the door with all her might. A creak, the door opened, “Mistress! Master! Madam! Mistress is bleeding out here!” a servant girl shouted at the sight of Mother, crimson red in her robes and at the side of her mouth.

She collapsed. A smile graced her face. Though battered yet unusually beautiful. In lieu of the luxuries she might enjoy in Father’s house, she rather raise me herself, to make me a man. “You won’t be like your father, a glutton and a weakling, no facets of him show a trace of noblesse oblige. You are to be a man. With these women in this house you will always be pampered and spoilt. I will take you away, someday,” she promised me that night when Second Aunt told Grandmother a lie, that Mother had asked Father to divorce his concubines. Grandmother started to show dislike towards her. She tried to explain but to no avail.

With her last breath, she told me, “Be a man.”

And she was gone.

Mother was a woman of great beauty with a wonderful heart. She was also an ordinary woman, who wanted her son to be a man.

*~*~*

Copyright reserved, under Cindy Bong's name.

P/S: Don't be startled, darling. I wrote this for you. Sorry I couldn't keep my promise, but I promise I'll finish it before both of us die. XD

票根

The Chinese essay that won me the trophy. I promised Pn. Yeap I'd post it in my blog.

*~*~*

我喜欢收集。

邮票、音乐盒、信纸、海报、发簪、卡通模型。。。你所想像到的，我都有。难怪妈咪成天对我唠叨：“你的房间和一个山洞没什么不同，半斤八两。”

我并没有否认。对，的确是山洞，一个收集满世界各种奇珍异宝的山洞。

我收集，不是因为它美丽或罕见。之所以收集这些零零碎碎的普通东西，是因为想收集每一样东西背后的故事、回忆。

我，是专门收集回忆的收藏家。

回忆如吉普赛女郎的水晶球，晶莹剔透却神秘；又脆弱。晶莹剔透因为它的确曾经发生过；神秘因为它具有梦幻与现实的元素；脆弱因为它很容易被冲淡。

收集了能让我凭物追思的东西，心里增添了一份安全感。

我收集的众多杂物,每个所带的回忆只有一种感觉。唯有那张薄薄的票根，如一碗融合甜、酸、苦、辣、咸的五味热汤，一个人所能体会到的情绪都存于这与众不同的回忆里。

依稀记得自己傻傻地望着将带我飞往中国广州的机票，站在两位陌生的队友及只见过一次面的带队官员旁发愣。那是我第一次在没有父母陪伴的情况下，第一次身为国家代表出国。

在兴奋与担心交叉之际，我凝望机票，在思想的空间徘徊。这张票将带我飞过世界最高的山峰、飞过世界最深的海洋，到一个怎样的地方？

票根上的五颜六色线条及字眼，使我忆起东盟各国拥有不同背景的学生代表。还有它的滑面和皱起的部分，回忆的海洋顿时浮现了旅程舒适与难受的时候。

我是个粗心的女孩。票根上自然多了很多大小不一的斑点、被水模糊了的字眼。

那在浅红斑点里模糊了的登机时间，是在凯里的苗族村喝的迎宾米酒。咱们一团充满好奇心的热血青年，早在车上说好要比赛看谁最能喝。个个因为酒太辣，喝了第一杯就服输了。最后只剩我、两位贵州女生、两个泰国男生及六个贵州男生在比。三个女生始终还是不敌八个大男生，我喝了第三杯就受不了吐了出来。一层隔着我们的冰墙，在米酒的辣和我们的笑声中，不知不觉地融化了。

中间几滴透明的油渍，是贵阳街边吃的咸炸鸡。应该是自己想太多了，感觉上我的队友，昵称八爪鱼，比较受欢迎。她称得上是闭月羞花的美女，脸上常挂着友善的笑容。好多学生都喜欢和她走在一块；男生也想认识她、和她做朋友。在她旁边走着的我，感觉好像被大伙儿忽略了，心里不是滋味：妒忌，也有点被冷落的伤感。夜阑人静，眼泪再也忍不住留下来，咸的、涩的。

其中一个是黏糊糊的金黄色，是吃麦芽糖时沾到的。哈尔滨的麦芽糖是我吃过最甜的。甜蜜，是他撑着伞，我俩在绵绵细雨中并肩漫步在四季如春的太阳岛花园里。有时，我们会小声说、大声笑；有时，我们静静地欣赏风景、腼腆地偷望对方。虽然只是淡淡、纯纯的好感，却足以在脑海里留下深深的烙印，回想起来满脑尽是甜滋滋的味道。

那难看且恶心的浅绿，是妈咪吩咐我喝的苦瓜茶。起程之前我已生病了，喉咙也沙哑了；庆幸的是在演讲当天声音好了很多，喉咙却还隐隐作痛。妈咪花了整晚说服我、劝我乖乖喝了那苦涩的苦瓜茶。我们三个国家代表每晚坐在一起准备讲稿、熬夜上网找资料。隔天在贵阳清华中学的演讲，老师及学生代表们都连声赞好；喉咙也奇迹般地无痛无痒。我总算真正体会到古人所说的“先苦后甜”和“苦口良药”。

角落的乳白色，是酸奶冰淇淋。离开贵阳之前，贵阳的学生请我们吃当地著名的酸奶冰淇淋。当天，舌头咀嚼的和心里的味道一样。十二天就这样过了，我们曾天真地以为：我们会永远在一起玩、一起闹。天下无不散之筵席，酸酸的离别气氛笼罩了整辆巴士。到离境处外，鼻子一酸、泪水不听话地留了下来。我们二十七个青年抱着对方痛哭，说了好多句“我会永远记得你们！”。老师们见了，眼睛也湿了。

它岂止是飞机票的票根，它也像一张戏票的票根。十二天的旅程，像一个电影的预告片。人在生命舞台的百态，在短短十二天于眼前飞过。旅程中所学到的，如票根上的颜色般，鲜艳、耀眼。

票根上的红，是火热的爱。我们了解，爱没有界限。爱，有对家人的爱、对亲人的爱、对朋友的爱、对情侣的爱，还有对自己的爱。珍惜所有爱你的人，爱所有珍惜你的人。

票根上的蓝，是团结。团结是力量，不分国际、不分种族、不分背景、不分你我。手连手，共同努力创造美好的明天。

票根上的黄，是对国家的尊敬及崇拜。爱国，因为它是哺育你的母亲。爱国，因为它给予你与众不同的身份。爱国，因为它是你的家。

票根上的紫，是未来的神秘感。明天会是怎样的？谁也不能一口咬定说明天是晴天、雨天。但是，无论天气好或坏，人理应开开心心地度过。怎么说，还是比成天愁眉苦脸好多了。

这张票根带我飞过世界最高的山峰、飞过世界最深的海洋，到达一个陌生的地方。它把我带进二十六个陌生人的生命里，与他们牵手跑了一段短暂的马拉松。它是一个万花筒，看到世界与人生美丽的一面。它是一本课本，千金难求的知识尽在里头。

它只是一张普通的飞机票的票根。但它带给我的回忆与意义，却比钻石更宝贵、比春天更美丽。

*~*~*

Hope you guys like it. It's a roman à clef, which means it's fiction inspired by real life events, which also means it's a partial fiction, partial memoir.

If you want an English version of it, kindly leave word at the chatbox or leave a comment.

I Can See the Stars

Cold wind planted kisses on my cheeks.

I stood alone outside, looking at the garden. The pine tree planted by our landscape designer stood straight like a lonely soldier. The garden looked naked without grass.

My arms and thighs ached after a day's work. I was in desperate need of a hot bath, a 30 minutes massage and some manicure as well as pedicure.

As I inhaled the cold breeze, the coldness imbued my lungs. It felt like I was chewing a mint candy. Refreshing.

Then I tilted my head.

I've never saw so many stars in my life.

It ain't a big deal, just stars. I wrote them in most of my essays. I described them as diamonds in the sky. It was suppose to be a simile or some metaphores to make the language beautiful.

The scintillating dust scattered in the dark sky, the stars articulated into a phantasmagorical scene. Ethereal like a dream but vivid to the eyes, quoting from my description of Capri.

I pulled Damien to my side and pointed the sky. He gasped, "Wow... it's pretty. It's like God spilled a jar of water there, and the water sparkles..."

"Excuse me?"

"What?"

"Since when did you become so poetic?"

"I'm a romanticist, sis."

"Uh huh..."

Stars never failed to amaze me. How they manage to shine in the expanse of darkness, and still able to appear so obviously to the naked eye.

The moon was absent from the firmament. But the night was gaudy, thanks to the stars' magnum opus.

In the dark, I can see the stars.

A Love to Die For

He fished out a packet of Marlboro cigarettes along with a cheque book.

Whilst he scribbled in a scrawl manner, the bathroom door swung open. She stepped into the room, only with a white towel to shroud her nakedness.

"Here," he handed her the cheque, "I'll call you if I need you."

"Sure," she examined the digits on the cheque, playing with her wet silken hair.

Before leaving, he offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.

"Oh, I forgot. You prefer Dunhill," he opened the room door.

As he was about to leave the room, she said, "Yes, Dunhill cigars."

He stopped at the entrance, turned around to face her and spitted out venomously with a sneer, "Cigars for a prostitute... an odd match." And the door slammed shut.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

People, usually men, eye her oddly. She can't help but notice a scant of lust in all of their eyes. Shrugs, puts out a nonchalant posture, she continued walking home.

She lived alone in an apartment, right in the middle of the City Square.

From her bedroom window, she could see the inhabitants of the Big Apple rushing to work.

From her bedroom window, she could see the vista of the setting sun.

From her bedroom window, she could see callow teenagers blowing kisses to her.

From her bedroom window, she could see gory car accidents.

From her bedroom window, she could see him, who stayed in the room directly opposite hers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Neighbours stood outside her apartment door, trying hard to peer into the messy house.

Police were searching her house, from the ceiling to the floor.

After an hour of investigation, the police left. But the yellow banners still remained.

A little boy pulled sleeve of an old woman beside him and asked, "What does the yellow banner say?"

"It says 'Crime scene, do not cross', dear," the old woman replied.

"What's a crime scene, granny?"

"A crime scene is the place where bad things happen, dear. Come on, let's go home."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Gory case, detective. Very gory," an officer shook his head in disgust as he looked at the pictures taken of the victim in the crime scene.

The detective nodded solemnly, "Yes, Bruce. Never seen something like that before, might gimme nightmares."

Suddenly the door of the detective's office swung open and another officer stood there, gasping for breath, "Good news, sir. We found the killer."

The detective jumped from his seat, "That was fast. Rick, continue on the lab report. Bruce and I will do the questioning."

"Yes, sir."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The suspect was a handsome looking man, in his mid twenties.

When the detective and Bruce sat down opposite him, the suspect said, "I know I'm the only suspect you've got."

"Gerald Randall, right?" Bruce ignored his statement.

"I know who did it," Gerald said calmly.

The detective and Bruce raised their eyebrows, "Who?"

Gerald chuckled, still calm, "Why, me... and you, detective."

"Better watch your mouth or I'll--" the detective raised his fist but Bruce stopped him.

Gerald continued, "You see, Carrie stayed directly opposite my block. I watched her rising from her bed, combing her hair and sometimes... fooled around with many men.

"Of course, she watched me too, every evening. She thought I didn't notice but... haha, I do. I always knew. Even on the day before the murder took place, she was watching me."

"Your motive was to stop her from stalking you?" Bruce inquired, the detective remained silent.

"Haha... not that, sir. I actually liked it. My motive was to cease her sufferings. She was suffering, so much. Blood was pouring out like a crimson waterfall from both her elbows, someone chopped her hands off.

"She was still breathing, although she was almost decapitated. She was crying too. Tears mixed with blood, it diluted the scarlet of her blood. I went in and found her looking at me, with the same longing way she used to watch me."

Gerald sighed, "But this time there was another message in her eyes, she asked me to kill her."

Bruce asked, "According to what you've just said, someone else attempted to kill her but failed. Do you know who that person is?"

As if he couldn't hear, he changed the topic, "Can you spare me a cigarette, detective?" he smiled at him amusingly.

Frustrated, he threw a packet of cigarettes on the table. Gerald took one out and lighted it. He closed his eyes and blew the smoke out, "Marlboro... you have taste, detective."

"Stop playing games. I'm not the one who killed her," the detective stood up abruptly, pulling Gerald's collar.

Gerald didn't speak, but looked at the detective with contempt.

"SHE KILLED HERSELF, SHE'S THE ONE TO BLAME!!" the detective shouted. Bruce held him and kicked the door open, "Guys, grab hold of the detective!"

The detective shouted inhuman screams as he planted his fingernails in his scalp. Gerald continued smoking, smiling.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He hit her head with a vase when she was smoking the cigar.

She fell on the floor and moaned, "Bastard..."

"You asked for it... I didn't want to do this... you forced me!" he shouted, pacing in hurried steps around the room. "You go around sleeping with other men, what am I?!"

"Why do you care..." she tried to get up and he stabbed her hand down to the floor with a kitchen knife.

"Trying to get up? You're a lowly prostitute, STAY DOWN!!"

Silently, she took the pain, bit by bit. But she still tried to stand up.

He laughed with ferocity, "We'll see if you can stand up without hands..." he proceeded to cut her hands from below the elbow.

Tears of pain burst out, but she refused to moan or scream. She was a proud woman.

He threw her bloody hands on her bed, "Tell me you love me," he said in a gentle tone.

She kept quiet.

"Since you don't wanna talk, why not I help you get rid of that voice box that you REFUSED TO USE?!"

"You're a son of a bitch, filthy police--"

"I don't want to hear anything else from you just tell me that you love me! Say YOU LOVE ME!! SAY IT!!"

"I hate you..." she added salt to his bleeding wound, he cursed her, with tears.

"If you refuse to say you love me... I refuse to let you tell anyone you love them!!" the knife sank into her neck. Rage was so puissant it gave him the strength to cut through her bones......

Gerald witnessed the whole scenario, but he did nothing to help. Instead, he waited till the killer left.

The door was left opened. The vase was missing and so was the knife.

Her eyes watched him as he toyed with her long bronze hair, taking in the scent of her hair. He didn't mind the putridness. Smoking her cigar, he took her life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The day the detective was sentenced to death, Gerald's throat was slit in his own room.

No weapons were found. The only evidence the police found was a cheque, with the fingerprints of both the detective and Carrie.