un t r u t h

N O N S E Q U I T U R

creat ive wr i t ing c i rc l e ju ly ed i t ion 2018

By oft repeating an untruth, men come to believe it themselves. — Thomas Jefferson

On this issue’s cover is a picture of a statue of Veritas, the Roman goddess of truth, a representation of the importance between veracity and falsehood. This July,

non sequitur delves into the theme of untruth, questioning perceptions in our lives and assumptions we make.

What untruths have we convinced ourselves of ?

Dear Heart, by Ray Yang

You have yet to see the worst of the world. Believe me, it’s coming. Think for a sec-ond that you understand all it has to offer and you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed. * If I could hold you in my hand you’d be

• Light in my grasp. A silver cloud hangs overhead like fatigue— it weighs you down. But your burdens are light. You have yet to know the weight of an anchor, and before it throws you overboard you are still paper. You are not yet lead or gold.

• Smooth to the touch. Heartstrings, woven silk threads in a tender criss and cross— the fabric not bold enough to shine. But your only ridges are your edges,

and they’re polished to a glow. And your scratches haven’t bled enough to show you scars. You are not yet a warrior.

• Large in my palms. A makeshift apartment of chipboard walls. Cardboard boxes with memories. But your house has room for more. And before you open the doors you are not full of knowledge on how to love more and more and more. When you do, you’ll be a home. * And I hope that one day, when you have less reason to be whole, you’ll learn how to put yourself back together.

sunlight dance by Cleo

I see the sun.Blazing, brilliant. I see you walking around, a glow all around you, squinting as you walk along with feet dancing on the pavement. Your shadow stretches out, reaches out, out to infinity and eternity.I don't know what to say, head down eyes up sneaking glances at you. Apparently, neither do you, you who are never at a loss for words.I hold my breath."What do you see?" I'm startled into looking up, but that wasn't you. Two girls, standing at the side, on the grass patch, heads bent over a phone.Do I inhale or exhale? Whichever way, I'm breathing relief. We're not alone, not by any stretch, faces all around and the undulating sea just be-yond with shouts and screams and joy. We're not in a bubble of silence. But we are. We are. All my senses are attuned to you, as my lungs are to oxygen. Narrowing down to a single beam of light that puts the sun's shine to shame. Your feet continue moving in that intricate dance of one-two one-two, step over a dimple in the tar and one-two, one-two. One-two one-two, keeping time with my heartbeat.

I wonder yet again. Think back to the montage of memories that swept me up in a whirlwind, lifted me off my feet, and never really let me down, not even now.

This was a mistake, I’m thinking now, my clammy palms wracked with fine tremors. I hide them behind my back.

I’m so wrapped up in my churning thoughts that I don’t notice we’ve stopped until you brush your fingertips against my arm. A barely-there brush, perhaps just to get my attention, perhaps more, I would have thought more of it once -

“You wanted to talk to me?”

We are alone in our spot, the one in my memories worn bare by my constant tread-ing back to it. The spot where, I believe, I fully fell in love with you. And I’m falling all over again in this here and now, I think, perhaps that's what’s causing my sense of vertigo.

No turning back.

“Yes. I did.”

The screams and shouts drift from afar and press all over me, into me, through me. A prayer and a nightmare.

Your eyes are hooded, veiled by sweeping eyelashes and half-mast eyelids. Once upon a dream, your eyes would have never left mine.

Crashing ocean waves, thunderous as my heart. The sun glitters off the deep blue surface, a glint that strikes me so sharply. It’s reassuring - a promise.

I take a deep breath, decide to take the plunge, but before I can utter a word, you’re taking a step back, eyes going wide, wide, wider still, ‘til they seem to nearly overbrim your eye sockets.

One-two one-two, stepping back and getting farther and further, and I try to reach out but I can’t grasp you, not like I did before.

Your eyes are glittering, like sunlight dancing on the edge of your soul. Am I drown-ing? I don’t know what happened, what incited such a sudden reaction, and for the life of me, it scares me.

I grasp your hands. But you shake them out of my grip, head shaking softly from side to side. Your mouth moves in a sotto voce whisper-prayer of nonononononono.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to go. I can’t be here. I can’t. I - “

“Why? Please just tell me why.” I feel a fracture beginning to tear its way through my heart, a riptide.

Hair falls into your face, obscuring you, as you hang your head. “I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” I plead, voice rain-soaked and threadbare.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

Stunned - silence - hangs - heavy - in - the - air. A damp, thick fog of absolute in-comprehension, because you can’t possibly mean that, I heard wrongly, I know I did, you’re just saying that. Empty, empty words.

But those dreadful, dreadful words diffuse into the air and reach their tendrils out to wind, coil around me. Dissonant, discordant, jarring. I - Love - Anymore - Don’t - Love - You - I - Anymore - You - Don’t - Love -

And I can’t put them together, don’t want to put them together.

So I stare. I can only stare at your retreating back, stiff and straight, no hint of the havoc you just wrought on my world. Why are you walking away? My head is spin-ning, I’m seeing stars, you said you loved me, you said you’d never leave me. Was it all a lie? Untruth upon untruth?

You walk away. You look up at the sun with tears glimmering in your eyes. Blink, blink, blink, but they stubbornly stay. You see, painted in the light of the sky, the two of you dancing, under stars and kitchen lights, over coffee and laughter, you see your entire future laid out, mapped along with the constellations. How could you have let that untruth slip off your tongue, cut through the air, dagger-sharp? Let go of every-thing that was bright and brilliant, that illuminated your life?

You close your eyes and you’re blinded by the sun.

Amadeus by Lee Qing

I. Was it Salieri, in the music room, with the poison? Pushkin would think it so. And yet, that couldn’t be further from the truth. A fairy-tale spun out of convincing evidence of an envious man and a wunderkind tailored to enthrall the audience.

II. No, I swear it wasn’t me. Don’t listen to that man’s stories. Yes, that was not the truth. One wrongly accused of something he never did stuck in a false plot of betrayal and jealousy that now plays upon the stage.

III. My poor friend. Although… I wonder if he actually is telling the truth. At any rate, he’ll be remembered as such now. As the former prodigy watched from the wings he reckoned that his friend would be lost to time, replaced only by what he isn’t.

Untitled by Averie

unless you breathe words, and not destruction and pain, your threats will not be able to enter redemption. until the sun sings morning dew, tether me to my blessed hues of spoken truth.

the mind’s passion is all for singling out obscurity has another tale to tell

—adrienne rich

begin again by Averie

fragile, tender, sore poetry, and the blue blows of your writing on me. you melt my sodden, pearly eyes, my hardened, eggshell skin, with parting words filled with glee. you kiss my air, as if it was only fair, for you, to be with me.

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We have not touched the stars,

nor are we forgiven

—richard siken

I won’t be sorry, sorry by Sunny

To whomever it may concern, I would just like to start out by saying that your essay question sucks.

My fingers hover over the backspace key. Was that too harsh? Probably.

To whomever it may concern, I have a question about your essay question.

That feels wrong too. I sound like I’m trying to suck up to them. They’ll say I’m not independent, not creative. Perhaps a letter isn’t the way to go. I should actually try to write the essay. I click on the college website tab open on the laptop screen, glancing at the clock at the bottom right corner. 11.55 P.M. I started this at 7.30 P.M. The application essay question glares back at me, mocking me: Recount a setback or challenge that you have experienced.  How has the experience benefitted you?

I can feel the light from the laptop burning the back of my eyes. I rub them instinc-tively. Suddenly, the light gets significantly dimmer. I glance at the corner of the screen, expecting the worst. Low battery. I sigh, getting up to find my charger. As I stand, I notice my reflection on the now dark screen.

I look good. I am pretty, that’s not up for debate. I just got my eyebrows done. My hair looks like it came straight out of a L’Oréal commercial. My makeup is flawless. And therein lies the problem. See, I’ve had everything going for me since the day I was born. My parents are unarguably rich. We live in a nice house in a nice neigh-bourhood in a nice city in a nice country. I go to a good school; most of its students end up in Ivy League universities. I’m a straight A student. I have friends, and peo-ple like me. I’m arrogant enough to not notice the ones who don’t. I haven’t had a day in my life when I struggled to fit in, or worried about money or food.

Recount a setback or challenge that you have experienced. How am I supposed to do that? Out of the thousands of valedictorians in the world gunning for the same spot in this university, how do I stand out? It’s never about the grades. So many more people are smarter than me. That, I acknowledge. It’s about your story. It’s about the tear jerk-ing, cry-worthy, flower-blooming-from-the-concrete kind of story. Who’s going to give an entitled girl with all the advantages and no struggles a place in a top universi-ty when there’s another girl who’s gone through hell and back and still achieved the same grades? Privilege doesn’t get attention. And I need attention if I want to get in.

It sounds cruel, insensitive even, what I’m about to do. But if you don’t understand what I’m going through, well, you won’t understand what I’m willing to do. I’ll ad-mit it. I’m desperate. But at least I’m going to get my education. Hopefully.

I sit back down with my laptop plugged into my charger. The screen wakes up. I crack my knuckles like I’m in a movie. Let’s do this.

I always felt like I didn’t belong. Picture this, if you will. A girl, sitting by herself during recess. A girl, doing her homework in class without another student in sight. A girl, hiding in the library to avoid rumours. A girl, lonely. A girl, who has never belonged. That’s me.

Sounds pretty good to me.

Untitled by Eunice

                                                       facade she smiles,

demonstrating a concept in class

which impresses the teachers—

a row of gleaming white teeth

“what a beautiful model student!”

opposes

her flawless ideas prominently displayed

in the large school hall

where she carefully enunciates her points

and speaks of grand plans—

this Jere Monee with big dreams,

oh what scholarship will she be getting?

The world is at her feet,

and she is standing upright,

a maniacal glint in her eyes

that ambitiously hints at a Sisyphean task

and makes classmates aggrieved.

with a sinister sharp edge

she glares superciliously at anyone who

and leaves them squirming in dismay.

an atmosphere of tension reigns

like a dictator overlooking forced prisoners,

we think she has delusions of grandeur,

this intolerably solipsistic gal

oh how shall we destroy her ego?

this unstable, fast crumbling platform

threatening her own existence.

If you don’t have blood on your hands

by the end of this you weren’t listening.

—shira erlichman

To _______, by Estella

How afraid were you of us finding out the truth

So much that what started out as a burning matchstick, is now a burning house.

Ha, I didn’t see it coming either, the preposterous truth. As they sat me down and went through each seeming fact about you, one by one.

“She doesn’t dance at all, she stopped since she was 6.”

To watch as your carefully constructed castle broke apart bit by bit.

“The home that she always talked about? It was never there.”

To learn that I was looking at an imitation of desire.

“Her parents are on talking terms and together, living under the same roof.”

To have the mismatched stories link up because the contrasting narrative was a lie.

“The close dance friends that she always talks about? They never existed.”

Then what did?

Odd how the culmination of the small truths formed the hammer that knocked down the walls, leaving only dust in its wake.

Yet, only one pillar amongst the ruins stands untouched—your crippling depression.

Because of that, I became a part of the game because you had believed that I wouldn’t listen to the ones painted to look like monsters.

And I stayed in the game because you had few bridges left that could be burned.

Then, I too put on the naive smiling mask, forcing myself to pretend to swallow the usual hallucinogens you fed.

Every word and move became conscientiously calculated, to fake the cards I held.

Looking back, there is a tinge of regret going to that meeting.

Perhaps it is better to kept in the dark than to see the truth. To be ignorant than to be enlightened.

Because now, the girl whom I still thought I knew no longer exists but has morphed into a faceless stranger.

And I have become a liar too.

 

Untitled by Brendan

Brian is 16 and his irrational teenage brain wonders what it would be like to break onto the roof of his apartment block. The first night of this revelation, preparations are put into place: One large pair of wire cutters, check. Two friends, check. Food and drinks to bribe said two friends into coming with him, check. That night, Brian

sleeps and dreams of flying. May is 15 and her pubescent brain, a strange cocktail of hate and hormones, has contemplated suicide for the first time. It'll be easy, she tells herself, better to be dead than living this hell. Her thoughts are punctuated by the shouts emanating from her

parents' bedroom. That night, May sleeps, and dreams she is drowning.Day two, the sun rises in ordinary fashion, but for Brian today is no ordinary day. The 12 hours between 6 in the morning and 6 in the evening whip by and by seven, there are three figures huddled in front of the cast-iron gate, body language exuding equal parts fear and excitement. Trembling hands squeeze the handles of the wire cutters and the rusty lock snaps like drywood. With the lens of the security camera slathered in vaseline, one by one, Brian and his friends shimmy past the gate and up the flight of stairs beyond, each one already envisioning the looks of admiration on

their friends faces when they hear this story.

Streetlights come on and illuminate May’s room in orange. Shadows are cast around the room but none are the shadow of a 15 year old girl. The house is deathly silent.

Up on the roof are two bottles of unfinished vodka, plastic cups, treadmarks left in the silt, and the lingering feeling of adventure. Or was it excitement? Or fear? Really, these feelings all become indiscernible from one another when you do something you're not supposed to.

They found her body the next morning, they did, with a blood alcohol concentration of four percent, lying on the sidewalk in front of her apartment. Further investiga-tion found that the gate opening up to the roof had been tampered with, but the fin-gerprints on the wire cutter did not belong to her. Security says they had not noticed anything as the cameras had been tampered with unbeknownst to them. The footage was unviewable. They claim it was the fault of dated hardware. Something to do with dusty microchips causing blurring of the footage.

the dislocated world by Lew

a man wakes up to the sound of distant traffic twenty storeys below and distorted rays of a sunset warping through glass windows. remembers nothing except one fact: the last ten years have been a dream. consider this: living, struggling, then jettisoned back a decade, any recollection of who you’ve become in those ten years gone. now was a lifetime ago. the photographs along the wall show nothing. a catalogue of stories repeating again and again until it is sound only. someone will remember these differently. but this is how you remember them: your reflection, in the camera lens before the shutter went off. it captures a ghost. you don’t know where it begins and where you end. what does that make you? dead without being dead. a ghost is just another name for a thing out of place. an existence reborn incomplete.

the warm light illuminates the apartment in streaks of amber and flame,

and like a place built from memory

the dark and the shadows obscure that which you do not remember.

there are days where he is still relaying floorboards over the bloodstains. he is painting sunlight on decay. some days he is glad he carved his way out of the dark. some days he learns the light is just as terrifying.

Year Of The Dragon by Jeriel

Ahma had said it a thousand times, but she never tired of saying it.

How's my favourite dragon baby?

Kai never tired of hearing it, either. It was as endearing as Kai loved dragons—and he did, with his invincible three-year-old childishness. I’m a dragon. As Ahma, his grandma, loved telling him, he had legions of dragons at his command. Water, fire, earth dragons—even wood and metal dragons, said the big Chinese Zodiac book she would read to him as he sat on her lap. Ahma knew all about the Zodiac and its histo-ry, Kai’s favourite story—The Great Race.

But of the whole book, Kai would always flip to that page, his favourite, with the big red circle. He adored imagining the twelve animal shadows come to life as Ahma slowly moved his hands to trace their outlines on the paper. Ahma always said to start from the top and go clockwise, to read along with her in the English she learnt from Kai’s mother, her daughter, long ago.

“Say it slowly.”

He would read along in his most enthusiastic voice, soft but high-pitched, innocent but focussed, mispronouncing his r’s and s’s.

“Your sister’s year. Rat.” ‘waet.’

“This is your brother’s. Ox.” ‘o-ks.’

“Tiger.”

‘tigo.’ “Again, Tiger.” ‘tigo?’ “One more time, Tiger.” ‘tiguh.’ “Good!”

“Rabbit.” ‘wabbit.’ “Very good!”

“Your favourite! Say Dragon.” ‘Dagon!’ “Very good! Very very good! “

Ahma would applaud, an enraptured audience member of an exhilarated performer. Kai would burst out in gleeful laughter and bounce on her lap when she tickled his sides. She treated him as though he were her own child.

You have a bright future, my dragon baby. You’ll be the brightest, okay?

Kai’s parents would watch with wonder—old Ahma, whose first language was not even English, could teach their son to read, have so much control over their mischie-vous little boy. Not even his English teacher mother could.

Sometimes they would try replicating Ahma’s magic, but Kai always wanted Ahma to do it—nobody else would do.

Beyond that, Kai’s parents never really cared for the Chinese Zodiac.

■■■

Except when they punish him—clashes that would set his youth apart from his childhood.

Mother thunders into Kai’s room in a fit of teacherly policing. He sits quietly at his desk, sketching intently on a small card. Her eagle eyes petrify him, petrify the half-drawn dragon. A rude pencil line cuts across its body from Kai’s frightened jolt. Kai knows he is dead- and so does the dragon. He stuffs the card, his protective charm, in his pocket before she drags him to the living room and starts enumerating his sins.

“Drawing, drawing, drawing… Why don’t you study? Why can’t you focus? All you have are C’s and D’s, but you still keep drawing! Your exams are next week!”

Father joins in, almost obligatorily. His glassy eyes and jaded tone tell Kai he doesn’t want to be part of this tired old dance, this old sibling-comparison game, but he joins in so she can’t taunt him by calling herself a “single mother”. Cat dad relents to tiger mom once more.

“Kai… Your korkor does well because he works hard.”

Just like an ox, Kai hears Ahma say.

“He always puts in the effort.” Father sighs through his nose, smiling harmlessly. “Can you work harder like him, hmm?”

Mother’s turn again.

“Look at your jiejie!” Mother points with her oft-brandished cane. “Straight A’s! She’s all set for Cambridge to study law!” Mother clears her throat.

“What about you?”

even when the dark comes crashing through

you will be found

Sue—the subject of mother’s compliments—pretends not to hear and continues typ-ing away on her laptop, stretched across the sofa. But Kai knows she betrays a smile every time, smirks on the inside, snickers at him.

He almost hears her whispering into his ear—You’ll never be as good as me.

Mother catches Kai’s hand in his pocket, fiddling with something.

“Give me that.” She stretches out a palm, a tiger claiming its victim.

“No.”

“Give me that. Now.”

“...no.”

She snatches the incomplete drawing from his hands, scans it.

“How many marks has the Chinese Zodiac given you, huh? All these silly supersti-tions! If you’re really a dragon boy, act like one!”

Mother’s claws are positioned at the corners of the card. She contorts it.

Kai feels his knees, his world collapsing beneath him.

He knows what she is going to do.

Kai opens his mouth to defend himself, defend his guardian.

“NO, don’t! Please…”

But it is too late.

■■■

Kai gathers the remains of his guardian.

Alone in his room, Kai desperately tries to revive his Dragon.

Unlike his drawing, no amount of tape could fix him.

…

It looks pathetic—its majesty, elegance, all gone. The time perfecting each scale, each horn, all wasted.

Kai doesn’t want to cry. Yet his throat chokes up. Tears well defiantly in his eyes.

I won’t cry… Kai is brave… Kai is a Dragon…

But at last, all the tears he couldn’t shed in front of Mother come pouring down.

This is so unfair… Why can’t I study like korkor or jiejie? They can study for 3 hours, but I can’t even sit still for 3 minutes… … I’m not smart like a Dragon at all…

Ahma… I need you now…

Kai feels betrayed, lied to—but by whom?

Even at home, Kai feels orphaned, like an outsider.

■■■

Father finds Kai curled up in bed: alone, lonely, clutching a crumpled jotterbook. On Kai’s table, Father sees Math equations with red crosses. Messy piles of half-filled worksheets—History, Chemistry, English- with little doodles lining the sides. The torn card stuffed under it all.

Only Father knows Kai tries.

Kai is startled when Father sits beside him gently.

Father now sees Kai’s puffy eyes.

…

“Kai… I’m sorry.”

Kai tugs at his blanket. Looks down.

Is that shame Father sees in Kai’s eyes?

“I… know it’s been hard on you.”

...

“I’m sorry… I can’t stop Mama… She has high expectations, you know?”

…

“Do you know why she’s so strict?”

“...Why?”

Father bites his lips, exhales. He doesn’t know where to begin.

“You know… your Ahma changed a lot after you were born.”

When Kai shut his eyes tightly, Father knew he had touched a sore spot.

“I’m so sorry… I know you miss her.” “… Pappa… I miss Ahma… I miss her so much...” For the first time in years, Kai hugs him.

Kai is surprised when Father’s rough hands hug back.

Kai sobs softly into his shoulder.

At that moment, Father wished he had been a better Pappa.

■■■

“...Pappa?”

“Yes, Kai?”

“...Do you miss Ahma?” Father smiles and nods gently.

“...Ahma always told me I’m special... Do you… think she means it?”

“Of course, Kai.”

“…… But I’m not. Mama always says I’m stupid.”

“She doesn’t mean… Wait here.”

Father leaves the room and comes back with an old cardboard box, hands it to Kai.

“I think Ahma wanted you to have this.”

Kai peers inside.

After all these years, the book’s bright red title never faded, still screamed Chinese As-trology. Kai smells the yellowing, glossy paper. It still makes little squeaks when he traces his fingers over the timeless red dial, its familiar silhouettes. Kai knows where his love for drawing came from. Turning the pages wistfully, Kai remembers the grand illustrations of The Great Race: the Jade Emperor, the grand gate, and…

What’s this between the pages?

A letter?

Kai’s fingers tear the seal open gingerly.

The shaky letters are unmistakably Ahma’s. ____________________________________________________________________

My dear Kai,

You’re becoming brighter every day. You’re a special boy. I will never forget our time reading and drawing together. You have great talents. I hope you bless other people’s lives with them.

Remember The Great Race? The Dragon never came in first place, because it stopped to save a vil-lage from drought with its gift of rain.

You don’t have to be perfect. Use your gifts like the Dragon. Be kind.

Be filial to your parents, especially your mother. Maybe I was unfairly strict with her. But I cannot apologise for everything I’ve done. I didn’t get to go to school like her. I had to marry young. But she taught me English. If not for her, I wouldn’t be able to talk to you, Kai.

I owe her from the bottom of my heart.

I will teach you Cantonese someday.

Never stop learning. ____________________________________________________________________

“Pappa, what do these Chinese characters say?”

Pappa’s brows furrow.

“Hmm, it says…” ____________________________________________________________________

...Happy 11th Birthday, my Dragon.

With love, Ahma

____________________________________________________________________

Three years ago.

...

“I… I think she wrote it…. before she began forgetting.”

Kai remains silent. But at last, he finally knows.

■■■

For the first time, Kai writes a letter to Mother.

Mama. ____________________________________________________________________

. � . .

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� : � :� � ��

� . � �

.� . � � : � : �, � : � �

. � : �

. � : � : � . �

� . � :A �

� . � : �

� : � : � . � �

: ��

.

____________________________________________________________________

On the back of the letter, a dragon for himself, a rabbit for Pappa, an ox for korkor, a rat for jiejie, and two tigers—for her, for Ahma.

With rare certainty, Kai knows that this card—just like the Dragon bringing blessings and peace—will make Mama’s life better from now on.

And his own, too.

acknowledgements

WRITERS

TEACHER-IN-CHARGE

EDITING & DESIGN

PHOTOGRAPHY

Este l la Brendan

Jer i e l Lew

Ray Yang

Jer i e l Lew

Lew Frankl in Tan (a lumni)

Mrs Geetha Cre f f i e ld

Cleo Lee Qing

Aver ie Sunny Eunice

A N A C J C P U B L I C A T I O N