The Carousal

Summer-- kids licking
ice lollies run around at the fair.
The wood
beneath
their feet is being
blistered by the afternoon sun.
Families form a long, snake-like queue
to
The Carousal.
Its horses seem alive,prancing
merrily.
Long, flowing manes
whipping
their faces as
The Carousal
goes round
faster! and
faster!
You can
almost
see their muscles
rippling
throught their sweaty coat.
And when the ride finally comes to an
end
, the children, disappointed,
climb off their respective mounts
(awkwardly)
Leaving
the horses in their
sticky, sweaty, but
joyful! glory.
They wait obediently for the next batch of riders,
and for
The Carousal
to start up again once more.


Fall-- it is the
beginning
of their long wait.
The boisterous children,
frantic adults and
the summer sun
have long disappeared.
The leaves of nearby oak trees turn the
colour
of a well-lit fire.
Oranges, reds, yellows, and a hint of magenta dance with the wind.
A chilly autumn wind
s w e e p s
around the now deserted funfair,
causing the old caretaker
("Morning, Mr. Birch.")
to turn up the collar of his battered coat.
The many dead leaves scatter as
North Wind arrives, and as they make themselves scarce,
they make an unusual noise:
skritch. skritch. skritch.
The Carousal
is now frozen.
Their manes, muscles no longer flowing,
looking as if they were abruptly stopped in mid-trot
(which of course they were).


Winter-- people hurry past the
funfair, heads
bent
low. They pull their bowlers over their eyes,
and turn the necks of their coats
up against nippy North Wind.
The Carousal
is covered in a
big, white
blanket of snow[flakes].
The shiny bright eyes of the horses
peeking
out. The horses are freezing,
cold, cold, so cold...
Their paint cracks. It seems very much like
The End, but
the equastrians must endure.
The oaks are now bare,
looking like hands with gnarly fingers.
*shudders*
Reaching out...
And GRABBING!
A tiny nest,
wedged between three branches,
holds a robin,
killed by the cold.
It is lying on its side,
eyes wide open,
ice creeping along its body, like
ants
on a carcass.


Spring-- grass
begins to push out from the
melting
blanket of snow.
All the animals are aroused from their months of
hibernation.
The trees are covered in their
glossy clothes
again, and sparrow busy themselves
with the building of their nests.
And soon,
the sun is shining through a canopy of leaves,
a cloudless sky reflects off the surface of a
still
lake, and old couples walk hand-in-hand,
enjoying nature in a way nobody else can
'till their final years approach.
Mr. Birch, together with two "young 'uns",
stagger
under the weight of some cans of paint,
picked up from a nearny hardware store.
They get to work:
prying open the paint cans, and
dipping their
stiff
brushes into the creamy substance,
getting
The Carousal
ready for the upcoming opening of
the funfair.

This cycle is unique.
It starts at the end,
and ends at the
beginning.

Whiteboards.

I can tolerate many things in a filthy classroom.

Sure, I can leave dirty, snot-filled tissues lying on the ground, black from the underside of classmates' shoes, and not flinch.

I can toss my bag on the rubbish-strewn ground, and not have a care in the world.

I can even glance at the always overflowing wastepaper basket standing in a corner of the room, and not lift a finger.

But the one thing that really, REALLY gets to me, is...

A smudged, scribbled-on (one could say vandalised) Whiteboard.

You want SPOTLESS, SQUEAKY-CLEAN whiteboards, with erasable markers which tips are nice and sharp, and never need to be refilled?
Do you want Whiteboards which actually have lights above and beneath them, for added effect?

GO TO THE LEARNING LAB. I swear, the boards there are the absolute best in town.

The Whiteboard is the medium for teachers to educate us on History, Literature, Maths... The list goes on.

Sure, some of the more high-tech teachers come armed with a laptop, and pull the screen down to start the lesson, but who wants to stare at some typed words (such as this) instead of a Literature teacher's flowing, moving words that actually capture your very short-spanned attention?

As long as we take good care of our boards (read: not scribble, "OMG SO-AND-SO OF SO-AND-SO TEAM IS SO BLOODY HOT LAH!!!", or leave big splotches of marker ink on it, or leave HUGE, unsightly bluegreenred smudges on it), I am sure learning will actually be a fruitful and very enriching experience.

But DAMN, I still fall asleep during Chinese, thank you very much.

Hung Up? Hungover.

I remember how Natty wrote that if you think in colours, your thoughts would be so much clearer.

This morning, after eating a huge breakfast, I set off for tuition.

That's when it started.

The throbbing pain in my temple seemed to grow with every jerk the blue, streamlined Jaguar made at each traffic light stop.

When I sat down at my usual front row (hey, I have BAD EYESIGHT) desk, the flourescent lights seemed to glow so bright that they seemed like those mirrored, '70s disco balls.

ShimmershimmershineshineGLOWWWWW.

My head throbbed even more.

I covered my eyes with my hands, but I could still see the Light.

Too bright, too bright...

I found myself pressing the palms of my hands into my eyes, so that little stars erupted before me.

When I finally lifted my head up, I saw little spots of colours,
PurpleYellowBlueRed,
creeping on the wall,
the ceiling...
Aaaaah, the Light!


Never, I say, NEVER feast yourselves on Kaya toast, Milo, soft-boiled eggs, porridge and dim sum before going for a long ride in your dad's Jaguar to tuition.

Silence

The Silence.










It's unbearable. [You don't seem to care anymore.]

Mummy, Daddy, the Shopping Centre, and Me.

So I just went downstairs for dinner, and my little sister, Elizabeth, was sorting through these pieces of paper.
I went to take a look at her drawings, and I saw one particular piece of paper with a HUGE blue blob of paint on it, which was surrounded by several tiny little blue dots, some of which merged with the big blob.
When asked what this picture was of, my sister replied, "Mummy, Daddy and me going shopping!"
When asked to explain how on earth the blue dots resembled them, Elizabeth pointed to three very small, very inconspicuous dots and said, "These are Mummy, Daddy and me."
Then she pointed to the HUGE blue blob and said, "This is the shopping centre. And the other blue dots are the other people going shopping!"


Abstract art.
It makes my head spin.

WE HATE VIOLIN-- AND WE'RE PROUD OF IT!

for Ristine--my fellow violin loather

"NONONONO!"
Your violin is unceremoniously snatched away by your irate violin teacher.
"That's not the way to do it!"
Hell-LO.
THIS IS ONLY MY FIRST WEEK PLAYING THE NEW SONG.
"Like this."
The teacher lifts the bow, and brings it down on the 'D' string (soundlessly, unlike you), starting to play a wonderful melody that is ear (nevermind EYE) candy.
You stare at her with a heavy heart, knowing that even if you practice a millionbilliontrillion times, six hours a day, you'll never be able to play like that.
The tune ends, and your teacher hands you the wooden instrument, which had lied limply in your arms, only came to life when our teacher touched it oh-so gently.
"Like that."
Your shoulders sag as you take back the violin, and start to play the dreaded tune, (which sounds dreadful as well), the horrible screeching punctuated by your teacher's moans,groans&instructions.
You glare at her. You can't stand her, but how can you hate someone who produces such melodic songs?
After 45 minutes, the skin on your fingertips starts to peel away due to the huge pressure you apply on the strings, your shoulder and neck muscles begin to ache, and the palms of your hands start to become so clammy that you're afraid the violin will slip from your grasp and fall to the ground, shattering into a million&one pieces.
Hey. That ain't such a bad idea after all.
Finally, the magic words:
"See you next week."
Free at last!
You stuff you violin back into its case, zip it up quickquickquick, and race out of the music school, nearly banging into the Spanish piano teacher ("Ay ay ay!").

Your handphone rings.
Ooooh.
It's him!
Hey.
"How was your violin lesson?"
The usual.
"It looks so easy! How can you screw up your pieces all the time???"


Hey.
You play the piano.

One to Twenty.

Hello all! (:
Yes, this is DQ aka Laura N!
Well, this marks the end of this series of poems about Her.
Yes, she did give up in the end.
(But on what? Even I do not know.)
Does her Love for him still exist?

Only she knows the answer.

I was unable to continue writing from Twenty due to the swirl of emotions,
her overpowering Love for him
and a tad too much Merci chocolate.

But maybe a Happy Ending will be in store for her in the end.



I wish her all the best.
It's been great knowing You.

TWENTY.

She stared at her empty flat.

Twenty weeks had gone by.

SOLD. read the sign on her front door.


When she had been packing her things up, she had found a box at the bottom of her closet.

It had belonged to Him.

Of course, she went through them.

Pictures of them at the park, carnival, movies...

Of them.

Together.

It seemed as if she was being transported back in Time.

All the wonderful memories were being shuffled in her hand.

Like one of those newfangled digital cameras, she flipped through them, one by one.


She raised them to her forehead, and pressed them there, absorbing all the good times they had together.

She wanted them to remain etched in her mind,

permanently.


For later reference, perhaps?



Later, on her way out, she stopped by the dustbin.

She ripped the photos into halves,


(sccccccrrrch)



quarters,



(sccccrch)


eights.

(scccrh)


And tossed them into the air.





Like snowflakes, they fell

one by one, into the gaping jaws of the plastic-bag lined bin.




To forgive,
to






forget.

NINETEEN.

Each moment without him is TORTURE

pure torture.

"Forgive and forget" went the Old saying.

And that is what she intended to do.

Forgive,

and







forget




.















Anyone still there?

EIGHTEEN.

She's TIRED.

[OH-SO TIRED.]

Of what?

Of Love.


Oh.

SEVENTEEN.

She went to Popular the other day (to buy a drawing pad)

and found the starkingly white (BRIGHTBRIGHTBRIGHTSHINE) paper intimidating.

Any normal person would have shut the book and put it back on the shelf.

But she slammed it shut and threw it across the room instead.

In the end, she purchased a not-so-bright (but still white) binder.

And spent the rest of the day doodling pictures of Him in 2B, only to rip them out and flush them down her toilet.

There goes her resolution to not waste so much water in order to save more money.

SIXTEEN.

You must be joking.

She raised her downcast eyes to meet her most bosom friend's.

They hadn't met for a year now.

(She and Janice were in the same university in England, but Janice had chosen to stay there while she returned to the Garden City.)

Look, why don't you move in with me for the timebeing and-

But what about him?

Exactly, what ABOUT him?

(Janice was a firm feminist.)

She could never have explained her Love for him.


(It was just there,

And always would be.)


I Love him.

Too much for me to let go.


Janice sank into her chair, gazing at her friend in disbelief.

What's happened to you, Nina?
You've changed.

She picked up her Gucci leather handbag, her crisp suit creasing as she got up.

You've changed.

Downing her martini in one gulp, Janice shot her a look, and walked out of the pub, Fendi high heels making clicking noises on the tiles.


And she was left alone in the Darkness (not counting those ridiculous mirrored disco balls hanging from the ceiling) once more.