Figments Volume 13 - That's Hot
Singapore Polytechnic
500 Dover Road Singapore 139651
T:6772 1170 F: 6772 1955 E:lc@sp.edu.sg
| Figments Volume 13 - That's Hot |
Department of Language and Communication Singapore Polytechnic 500 Dover Road Singapore 139651 T:6772 1170 F: 6772 1955 E:lc@sp.edu.sg |
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Secondary Schools - Short Stories 1ST PRIZE The long-dormant volcano awoke and let out a terrible yawn, a groan that echoed around the lesser mountains and caused the nearby city to quake. Pregnant for hundreds of years, it was finally time for her to give birth. With a mighty heave, the leviathan of molten stone violently shot her young into the star-sprinkled sky, spreading them for many miles around. The little lava drop opened its eyes for the first time, only to look away in terror. All around, yellow-clad humans turned on the tube-like extensions of their arms and doused the little lava drop’s siblings. The deadly water extinguished the life-sparks of the volcano’s spawn, causing them to harden into grotesque death-sculptures. The little lava drop shed tears of pure fire at the demise of its siblings. Mere meters away, a crimson juggernaut stood, the annihilator of countless fires. Tubes spewing liquid death were connected to its water pump, perched atop the fire machine’s back like an abnormal growth. The little lava drop gazed in unparalleled fear at the doom-bringing fire truck, even as its mother sent a chunk of flaming stone crashing down on the vehicle. “Flee, my children!” the volcano rumbled. Without hesitation, the little lava drop rolled off toward the city, leaving burnt ground behind it. As the little lava drop traversed the terrain, it felt the cool ground sap away the heat that was its life. All around the molten speck were towers of rusty cars, empty bottles and half-eaten food. The little lava drop realized that it was in a garbage dump. Suddenly, a soft clacking noise caught the little lava drop’s attention. It saw faint sparks coming from behind one of the rotting piles. Excited by the presence of heat, the little lava drop rolled eagerly towards the source. * * * * * The beggar dejectedly placed his improvised flint-stones onto the ground. He had tried to light a pile of old newspapers and dry twigs, but he had merely managed to singe the edges a bit. Lying on his old jacket, the beggar let out a sigh of sorrow. He was certain that he would not see the sun rise tomorrow – the freezing night would have claimed him by then. * * * * * The little lava drop paused to think, scorching the ground beneath it with its intense heat. After a moment’s hesitation, it barrelled forward, looking very much like a bright red insect beetling across the soil. It struck the pile of newspapers with fiery force and set it alight. Nestling in the heart of the flames, the little lava drop felt its vital heat being sapped away bit by bit as it was stolen by the less intense fire, but it rejoiced deep in its molten heart, knowing that the human beggar would not perish tonight. “It’s a miracle!” the beggar fingered the small stone lying in the smouldering pile of ashes. The little volcanic rock cracked its eyelids open and attempted a smile, but instead sent a spider web of cracks across its stony face. “Wonder what started the fire off…” the beggar smoothed out his beard, put on his tattered old coat and strode away. * * * * * A pure white seagull hovered gently over the garbage dump, seeking out its quarry. The slight wisps of smoke escaping from a pile of ashes caught its ever-vigilant eye and it swooped down, knowing somehow that its target was somewhere in there. * * * * * The little volcanic rock wept tears of dust that ran into the ground and intermingled with the dirt. It knew that its life was almost over; that it would soon lose the thin thread of heat that was keeping it alive. As if on cue, a shining white angel, radiant in the sunlight, came to take the little volcanic rock away. The angel lifted the little stone in its beak-like mouth and flapped its feathered wings, rising rapidly over the city. As the angel climbed higher and higher, the little volcanic rock felt the last vestiges of its heat being stolen by the piercing wind. As the little volcanic rock’s molten heart finally solidified, it closed its pebble eyes for the last time. The little lava drop awoke amidst masses of fluffy clouds. It had changed since its death on earth. The little lava drop’s new limbs stretched for miles. It could cross continents with a single step and anything that it touched was carbonized. Its new body surged with raw energy and its tiny molten heart was now replaced with a ball of perpetual electricity. The little lava drop’s eyes saw everything. Its new voice roared with authority and its mind surged with knowledge. “Little lava drop,” the heavens boomed, “Your great sacrifice has not gone unnoticed. The human beggar’s life has been saved by the little bit of warmth that you once had. Now I shall give you more power than you can ever use.” “Rise.” The little lava drop felt itself rising higher and its body spreading throughout the entire sky. “I give you a new name,” the heavens spoke, “I name you Lightning.” “And you shall live in the skies forever.” Aaron Toh Ming Wei 2ND PRIZE What is hot? Me. I am hot. I am the hottest thing that you will ever see. Really. Just ask every single boy in my school and they will tell you that I am the hottest thing alive. I am awesome, I am. Glossy lips. Thick eyelashes. Honey skin. Hair as soft as a duck’s down. Great legs and body. I have it all. See that guy walking past outside the classroom? He likes me. And that guy sitting in front of me? He likes me. Even that substitute teacher glances my way every now and then, and she is a ‘she’. No matter, it does not bother me. I like the way she blushes when I catch her looking. She herself really is not much to look at. Probably only three years my senior. Look at her. White, pasty complexion, face dotted with pimples the size and colour of Mars… maybe she was an Egyptian in her past life, and she never really got over the plague of the boils… stumpy legs, grey socks pulled up to below her knees. Huh. What a dork. Do you know what else is hot? Or who else, rather. Chris Thomas. Now that’s hot. I can practically feel the heat pouring in waves off him, even though he sits all the way across the classroom. Sniff. Sob. The distance between us is like the Green Mile, or the Never-ending Story, or even a political speech – long, unbearable, the end hopelessly out of sight. His hotness is irrefutable. Oh gawd, I want to run over there and bury my face in his gorgeous chestnut hair. I want to soak up his intense green eyes and run my hands over his deathly delicious pectorals. I long to be able to rip off his shirt and gorge on his beauty, drink up his six pack. But I cannot; I am constantly reminded before screaming in indignation. I, after all, am the hottest girl in the school! I should be able to grab hold of whosoever I wish! It is my agonizing duty to report that as I worship him from afar, he has his own goddess. Her. Lauren. I do not know her last name. Because it is not worth knowing. Because I do not care. Because I do not mix with those of her status. Call this ‘hauteur’ or whatever. If that is what you think, then you are a nerd, and you cannot possibly understand. Probably because you are not hot. I too have a word for people like you. ‘Jealous’. So there. Lauren is so not hot. I honestly do not know what he sees in her. Stupid red-head. Look at that frizzy, curly hair lying in disastrous tangles down her back. Observe that face, doted with freckles like sand on the beach. Cute, they call her. I say ‘hideous’. That is what she really is. Nerd. Straight ‘A’ student. So plain, so scrubbed. So…clean and innocent. How I hate her. The only reason Chris Thomas likes her is because they have been best friends for ages. There. Did you see that? Did you see that glance he sneaked at her? That is it. I do not care anymore. NOBODY looks at another girl like that when I am in the room. ESPECIALLY when that girl is a little smarty-pants. I am so much hotter than her! Evil bitch, you do NOT know what you have gotten yourself into. * * * * * Do you know what the hottest thing is ever? We are. Chris Thomas and Leilia Knight. Voted Belle and Beau of the senior’s ball this year. Voted hottest couple in the school year book. I love the envious glances we get when we stroll down the corridor together, arm in arm. And, as an added bonus, I am now a straight ‘A’ student. Turns out that if you act like one, you become one. See, that is how I got Chris. I became Lauren. Dropping my eyes shyly every time he looked at me, which, being a guy, he did often. He cannot be blamed for looking at a girl so fine now, can he? I played with his ego a bit, widening my eyes in admiration at his atrocious sculpture in Art class, whining that I could never have his talent in math. Lauren made it easy. She just backed off, and watched as I stole my boy from her. At least now she knows her place. I have only just gotten Chris to stop talking about her. Said it makes me uncomfortable. I heard they had a little spat the other day, but what do I care? I got what I wanted. It really is a good thing that they are not hanging around each other as much anymore. Anyway, it is against the laws of nature for such a hot guy to hang around a not-so-hot girl. So really I am doing society a favour by not mixing the breeds and contaminating the pure strains. I was very careful not to antagonize him as well. I just… put together the elements, and he pushed her away all by himself. Oh Chris Thomas. How can one boy be so hot? But wait. Double take. Head swivels around. Eyes meet. Samuel Spencer, the new kid. Oh gawd, that’s hot. Camille Alyssa Harris Entering the number combination that released the coolant had become second nature to Alex Last. He had lived on Station B-134 for nearly three months. He knew almost everything there was to know about the station, from the way the stairs on the third level creaked loudly, to the emergency sequence that flushed the station with coolant. Such things were necessary here on Station B-134. Situated relatively near the planet Mercury’s heated surface, you had no time for forgetfulness. The smallest mistake could cause a cataclysmic disaster, sending the station hurtling out into the many populated stations that littered the solar system. Alex had handpicked the staff; all were efficient, well-disciplined and trained for all possibilities that might occur on the first rock from the Sun. Despite the large amounts of coolant constantly flowing through B-134, the heat from Mercury and Sol itself was present in every nook and cranny of the station. About 95% of B-134 consisted of the coolant tanks, providing a suitable environment for the remaining 5% where Alex and the others live. In this land of eternal sunshine, there was nothing much really for Alex to do. Apart from constantly monitoring the orbit of B-134 around Mercury, keeping the planet between them and the Sun and babysitting the occasional eager scientists ready to poke and prod Mercury. Every few months a shuttle from New Berlin would bring B-134 coolant and supplies. New Berlin was the nearest civilized station in the vicinity, save Earth. NB, as it had come to be called, was orbiting slightly off Venus. Ever since the technology had become available, NASA had been happily colonizing as many planets in the solar system as possible. There were currently four communities living on Mars, 16 orbiting Jupiter and a whole lot of junk from all the colonies floating around Saturn’s rings. Alex stood on the bridge of B-134, watching the Sun peek around Mercury and spill golden light across the bridge and onto Alex’s face. He loved moments like this. Every few weeks, there would be a miscalculation in speed and B-134 would disappear behind Mercury, only to slowly reappear before the Sun, allowing the inhabitants to watch the sun rise. He had a family back on Earth. His little Alexis, who had just turned one, and his wife Denise. How he longed to be back with them on Earth. But things weren’t as cheap as they used to be. He remembered the days when five thousand a month was a good salary. Nowadays, thanks to inflation, you had to earn at least a quarter million a year to get by. That was why he had taken the Mercury job. Tedious, boring, somewhat lonely (the staff weren’t very talkative), occasionally unbearable but it paid well. He was cashing in close to eighty-five grand a month. All the better for Alexis, he reminded himself. That was why he was up here. His resolve returned and he decided to have a brief walk to clear his mind. He headed towards level three, the stairs creaking loudly as he crossed them. He donned the ‘naut suit and hit his head putting the bulky helmet on. He winced and rubbed the area before sealing the helm. That wasn’t the first time it had happened. He entered the airlock and secured the special heat-absorbing power suit. It had been cooked up by one of those crazies back on New Berlin. It was supposed to transfer the massive heat energy of Mercury and convert it into energy to power the suit’s coolant plant. It was experimental but had been used successfully by Alex the last time the shuttle came by. Alex keyed the time-release code for the blast doors and prepared to enter the number sequence. Half-thinking about Alexis toddling around on her birthday, he watched as the first blast doors slowly yawned open. As the first blast of heat hit him, he wondered why the coolant hadn’t been released. The coolant. He started panicking as he tossed aside mental images of him playing with his daughter and tried to remember the number sequence. 6…8…4 He hurriedly pressed the keys on his wrist as the second set of doors began to open and Mercury’s heat drifted in. 4…2…6…8 No, not that again. He cursed mentally as the second set of doors opened fully and another blast of heat radiated through the third door. He screamed as the keyboard melted away and the third and final doors began to open. The helmet began to crack and his oxygen tank hissed as it exploded. The final set of doors opened and Alex was sent tumbling out into space. The temperature of Mercury was currently about 110K. Alex didn’t have time to think or pray or even scream. He was burnt to a crisp, his unused coolant tank emitting steam that marked his way across the heavens. * * * * * Approximately 30,461,538.456 miles from the super-heated remains of Alex, a small girl was perched on an observation deck on Earth, watching a small flash of light that blinked on Mercury. She turned to the woman next to her. “When will Daddy be back?” David Aw Jingwei CONSOLATION PRIZE He hated the cold gruel he got every day. He hated having to close his eyes and gulp down the murky contents which smelled like spoilt cabbages. But what could he do? He could not possibly go to Father Reilly and ask for a change of menu. It was optimism to the point of foolishness. Besides, a good flogging would soon follow his request, should he even ask. Sighing inwardly, he grabbed the dented plate, spilling some of the tasteless porridge. It had been like this ever since he had opened his eyes: dark corridors, smelly toilets and the extremely cruel Father Reilly. Nobody dared to stand up against Father Reilly, not even the braver boys who towered over him. He was vile and would not hesitate to whip any boy. Nobody came in from the outside world so the boys could not ask for help. In fact, they did not even know how the outside world looked like because they had never stepped outside once in their lives. All the boys had numbers pinned onto the rags they wore and never washed. Father Reilly always called them using these numbers. Ten was a dreamy kind of person with sleepy looking eyes and a rather oblong face. However from him radiated such an intensity one might have found rather puzzling. He was always thinking. Even when all the boys were sleeping on the wafer thin mattresses, Ten often thought about his parents and what real name he would have had. Such was the disparity of the situation: since he could not resort to physical violence, he often enjoyed thinking about the various ways in which he could make Father Reilly submit to him. It really cheered him up whenever he was abused by Father Reilly. One day, when Ten was lying on his bed, a thought hit him. If he really detested this place, why not escape? Soon, Ten’s grey matter began working overtime on brilliant runaway schemes. Ten came to a decision. It was going to be on the second day from now. He also decided that up to the day of his escape, he was going to be circumspect and not give himself away. Father Reilly had a hooked nose that could smell trouble a mile away. He smiled at the thought that the flamingo did not realise rebellion was brewing right under his nose, if one could call it that. “Ten!” came Father Reilly’s shrill voice reverberating throughout the building like a banshee’s cry. Ten ran down the steps to the basement smiling. He had been smiling a lot lately due to the fact that he had been perpetually thinking of the escape. However, there were a lot of hurdles constraining his plan but he was sure that they could be solved. His topmost problem however was solved by the flamingo himself. “Ten, I need you to nip down to the backyard and feed the ducks. The feed is on the table,” said Father Reilly not looking up from the radio he was fiddling with. Ten’s immediate thought was, ‘We have ducks!’ but said: “I thought we are not allowed to leave the building, Father?” Father Reilly started to screech at Ten for not listening to instructions. Ten scooted off, cutting Father Reilly’s rant short, skipping two steps at a time and he finally reached the door that was always locked. He spotted the key hanging behind a bust of Saint Patrick on a rusty nail. Seizing the key, he thrust it through the keyhole and turned the lock. The next moment, he doubled up because his lungs, which had been used to the musty, non-circulated air in the building all his life, was assaulted by the fresh, spring air that rushed through Ten’s windpipe. After a moment, Ten abandoned all his escape plans and simply ran to the garden gate, his legs poised for jumping if need be. However, he did not notice the inconspicuous metal structure fixed above the gate. He collided with it painfully, midway through his jump over the fence. He stood up slowly, wincing and hoped that Father Reilly did not hear the racket he had made. He turned to go back but suddenly his eyes caught something. The gate was not latched. Father Reilly, in his haste to return from shopping, had forgotten to latch and lock the gate. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ten just ran straight through. The orphanage had never held any fond memories for him. All he remembered was suffering and abuse inflicted upon poor children like himself. He vowed that he would avenge his friends. Ten ran for miles and miles, savouring his newfound freedom. He soon found that he had been living in a place called Wisconsin all his life and, for the first time, he saw how other people lived. He saw posh apartments, luxurious mansions and modern suburban bungalows. He yearned to live in one of them but that was a silly thing to think about. He had to find food. He stopped and sat on a cobbled street pavement mournfully, regretting his rash decision to run away. At least he had gotten cold gruel at the home. “Now let me see. What is a little boy like yourself sitting out here on a chilly afternoon?” Ten looked up to see a motherly looking woman with twinkling blue eyes looking down at him. “I…I…I ran away from my home madam,” stuttered Ten. He then told her all about his plight. Mrs Parsons was furious and promised Ten that she would do something about the abuse. “But first, I had better take you to my house and fatten you up. What has that man, who calls himself a priest, been feeding you? You look positively undernourished, boy.” Ten just smiled wryly at the thought of the cold gruel he got everyday. Mrs Parsons brought him to her manor house, gave him a bath and afterwards treated his bruises with iodine. Ten’s eyes welled up, and he did not know what to say. He thanked her but she replied that she had approached him because he bore a resemblance to the son she lost a couple of years ago. She added that she would like to adopt him. She said her husband would agree too. Ten looked around his newfound home in euphoria. Mrs Parsons also said that she would christen him as George, in remembrance of her son. Ten was lost in his thoughts when a wonderful aroma wafted to his nose. He looked down at the clam chowder placed before him, as memories of the orphanage started to fade. He smiled down at the steaming, aromatic stew filled with love. Now, that’s hot… Prabu Krishna The dark walls closed in upon me as the pillow cover became damp from my tears. Pain racked my body as I clenched my teeth, trying not to make too much noise. It’s alright, I thought to myself. These are minor burns, I’ll heal pretty soon. In my heart however, I cursed the searing pain, the fire, and my father. It was all his fault. He forced me to learn the “art” of fire dancing. For generations my family had performed fire dancing on the streets, the skill passed down from one generation to the next until it was my turn. I never had the interest, and was instead terrified of getting burnt by the angry red flames. These bitter childhood memories flooded back into my mind as I sat on the rickety old bus. I had left home to pursue my education and earn my own living. It had been four years with no more burns. I pondered about what I would say to my parents. After all, I hadn’t spoken to them since the day I left. What would I say to my father? He was already bedridden from cancer. I did not want to cause him anymore heartache. Stepping onto the cobbled streets, I was once again reminded of my past. It had been on these streets where my father performed with the other street performers. People had been mesmerized as my father manoeuvred the pots of fire ever so close to himself. Now, the streets were devoid of performers. Dirty beggars had replaced them. Was this the doing of people like me, youngsters who had deserted their family traditions for the pursuit of a better life? As I walked, I noticed the pitted surface of the soot-stained walls, a reflection of how the town’s prosperity had declined. Less and less people travelled through this town with the construction of the new highway. The town was now a far cry from its former glory. I finally reached the hospital. It was quite a new building, therefore not hard to find at all. The walls were clean and that was all that appealed about the hospital. The residents did not like it. After passing by rows of empty wards, I finally found my parents. As I walked in, the corners of my mother’s lips twitched to form a slight, brief smile. My father had turned away, a scowl on his face. I nodded in acknowledgment at my mother and started to speak with her. Suddenly my father interrupted, “Why did you come?” he asked. His cold voice hid his burning anger towards me. Fanning the flames, I replied, “Mom had me come down.” One thing led to another, and a fierce quarrel broke out. Just before everything exploded, my mother screamed, her shrill voice piercing our ears. I grabbed my bag and stormed out, eyes only glimpsing the form of my mother sobbing. A few days later, I received a call from my mother. I was still in town. This time, my father was dying. I made an important decision as my mother sobbed over the phone. At the hospital, my father was in a critical state. He did not have the strength to quarrel. Sitting next to the bed, I heard my father mutter softly. I leaned closer to him. My heart stopped for a moment after hearing what he had to say. I looked at my mother, her eyes pleading with me to accept. I decided to comply with my father’s last wish. Standing outside the hospital, dressed in my father’s performing outfit, I stepped out onto the street. As I performed, flames flew dangerously around my body. I glanced at my father who had been carried out to watch me, a thin smile on his face as his life ebbed away. Suddenly, his passion for his craft burned a permanent imprint on my heart. James Lee Jianchao CONSOLATION PRIZE It was snowing again. I stiffened, sighed and pulled on my thickest winter gear before stepping out into the knee-high snow. I had to brave the gelid winds to wade to the shovelled main road. I wrapped my coat tightly around me and edged along the side of the road as I made my way towards the town square. Snowflakes drifted lazily down from above, gently brushing against my pink cheeks. My teeth chattered in response. It was not too long ago when I would have given anything to get out of the sweltering heat of my hometown. The constant, never-ending sun rays would beat fiercely on your body, and cool weather was a rare luxury. It was not just the weather, either. There were merciless competition and constant pressure everywhere, be it in school or work, forcing you to be kept on your toes no matter where you were, or who you were with. Everyone was armed with awe-inspiring qualifications and experience. It was impossible to keep ahead. So I escaped to my ideal paradise: a wintry, unknown part of the world, complete with a modest university where I could pretend to study to keep my parents happy. Over here, nobody cared if I was a university graduate. In fact, nobody cared if I could spell. It was perfect. I reached the town square after fifteen minutes. Back home, anywhere further than a five-minute walk was considered far, and the options were between taking a bus and flagging down a taxi. Proper roads covered every inch of land spared from housing estates, and hiking could only take place in nature reserves. The town square was a wide empty brick area with a frozen water fountain in the middle. Storehouses cluttered the rim of the square, and people bustled in and out, hurrying to get out of the cold. People here always seemed to be short of money, and were too preoccupied in worrying about their next meal to stop and chat. On the way to the grocery store, I passed by the electronics store which, naturally, specialised in radiators. I glanced wistfully at the radiators behind the display windows as the one in my hostel was not in the best condition. To think in my hometown, the need for artificial heating never crossed my mind. The electronics shop owner eyed me warily, almost sternly, and I swiftly moved on. I joined the group of people trickling into the grocery store and found myself standing in front of the food cabinet, which was filled with various kinds of bread, including my favourite: hot cross buns. The freshly baked buns were sweet to the taste buds, warm to the stomach, and kind to the pocket. Paired with cups of steaming hot cocoa, they were a popular treat for the locals. My stomach growled as I recalled the delectable variety of food available in the cramped comfort of the hawker centres in my hometown. I actually missed the noisy chatter over the clinking of metal utensils, and the old electric fans that were futile in dispelling the heat. I considered purchasing a bun, but then, remembering my tight budget, decided against it. I picked my way through the tiny aisles, grabbing items off the shelves as I went along. Harassed housewives squeezed past me, arms piled high with their groceries. Each of them had a uniform look – pale skin, fair hair and dull blue eyes, with their long, thin bodies bundled up in layers of scarves and woollen coats. The supermarkets at home had more space and the aisles were better organised. It would not be uncommon to see women of different shapes, sizes and skin shades mingling together there, wearing comparatively minimal clothes to keep cool. Clutching my groceries, I stepped back outside, wincing as the penetrating coldness blasted me in the face. I weaved my way through the murmuring crowd and found myself outside the local pub. Men were sprawled over the rickety tables and chairs, drinking beer like water. I grimly noted that this had an unwelcome similarity to my hometown, perhaps this was a common trait amongst males. Then again, beer was another favoured method to keep warm. I was distracted by two children, snugly wrapped up, hopping up and down in an attempt to keep warm. Their antics thoroughly amused me, and the resemblance between them and the children in my hometown surprised me. The same innocence and curiosity shone in their eyes, although I daresay the children back home were much more spoilt and selfish. My thoughts, however, were interrupted as the children’s mother appeared behind them, to take them into her arms. I turned away abruptly as I did not want to encroach on the family’s sweet moment. My eyes glazed over as I found myself staring off at the landscape of this freezing winter world. It was as if there was a layer overlapping the scenery before me, and instead of the snow-capped houses in front of me, I saw tall, high-rise buildings glistening magnificently in the sunlight. I saw the lush rich greenery compressed between housing estates, the convenient transport, the multi-racial community, the little habits of the citizens… I saw home. Hot tears welled up in my eyes. Radiators, hot cross buns, multiple layers of clothing, beer, constant movement, what was the point? They did not work for me. Warmth for me lay somewhere else, far away, near the equator. I sniffed slightly. Home had my kind of hot. Charis Tan Min Privacy Statement | Disclaimer |
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