Yesterday my class was doing Softball as Physical Education. (I was catcher.) The first to third bases were loaded and we were not doing well. The batter hit the ball and it flew (a small distance.) The pitcher caught it and threw it back to me (I was closest to the home plate). Unfortunately, his shot went wide and I tried to dive for the ball (goalkeeper-style). I missed and nearly broke my hip upon impact. When I got up, the ball was wedged firmly between E’s legs.

Now E was from the opposing team and was their reserve, but he had strayed too close to the diamond. No offence to E, but he was a fat pale kid with a face that made you want to slap him. With the ball wedged between his legs, I was ready to smack him with the softball bat. And he was DOING NOTHING TO GET THE BALL OUT. He was just standing there stupidly saying ‘heheheh did you see that the ball went between my legs heheheh’

I went ‘E PASS ME THE BALL NOW’ but he didn’t react, just giggled like he was drunk. So I had to prise the ball from his pale thighs and step on home plate. By that time, we had conceded three points and a home run.

I was extremely pissed for the rest of the day.

Hi all haven't been posting often (the bane called school) but today this happened and I'm questioning my decision so hope you can offer your take :)

So today we had to build a trebuchet or a catapult using materials given (i.e. ice cream sticks, glue, tape, etc.) in groups of 4. Each group gets a computer to look up instructions.

My group had prepared diagrams yesterday so we didn't need the computer (but one guy used it for coding. He likes coding.) at all. Then L (not his real name) came to our computer and entered a website with adult content (even though he's underage) into our search engine while we weren't paying attention. The rest of the group was testing our catapult outside the classroom and only I was there.

I shouted for L to close the website and he did. But I felt that what he did was extremely wrong (and not on his group's computer no less) so I reported it to the teacher privately. L got in serious trouble and for the rest of the day kept his head buried in his hands on the table. (I was feeling kinda bad by then) Not only that, the teacher called out me and a few other people (L's friends and his groupmates) to explain what happened.

At the end of the lesson L's good friend P approached me. He asked if I was the one who had reported L because I was near L at that time. I denied (I'm a fairly good actor) and made a huge show of being wronged. P tried to calm me down and explained to me that L 'meant it as a joke' and 'now's he crying because he's in trouble now'.

I felt kinda guilty. It didn't occur to me that L meant it as a prank and now he's in hot water because of me. But I also kept in mind that P could have lied.

When the day ended, L seemed back his normal bubbly self. (Maybe a little too forced bubbly-ness?) But I sought out my Philosophy teacher and told him everything. I then asked him if I had done the right thing. He said that even if L meant it as a joke, I had the right to protect my groupmates and report as L used my group's computer (and without the incognito function). If the school found that website in my group's search history, my group (and not L) would get in trouble. Thus, he concluded, I was correct to report this incident.

What do you think?

So a few weeks ago my mother made cream puffs and durian puffs. Now my younger sister loves durian but hates cream; my brother loves cream but hates durian, and I guess I'm ok with both flavours.

Back to the story: So I took some cream and durian puffs and went to read while eating. My brother saw me with the pastries.

He said, 'What is that?'

Then I got a very twisted idea.

'Cream puffs. Would you want some?' I said.

He said yes and I gave him a cream puff.

I asked him if it was nice. He nodded. After he had swallowed it, he asked for another cream puff. (I had predicted correctly that he would want seconds. My brother is equally greedy and shameless.)

This time, I gave him a durian puff. (Remember, he hates durian.) Unfortunately for him, the durian puff and a cream puff look exactly identical. The only way I could differentiate them was when my mom told me that cream puffs were at the top of the container and the durian puffs were at the bottom, separated by those clear plastic trays for food.

Without questioning it, he took it and put it into his mouth.

I had been trying to hide a crazy grin. Then his face morphed into one of curiosity and suspicion.

After that, it just deteriorated into gagging and face contortations.

If you'd seen his expression, you'd have burst out laughing, which I did.

He spat the chewed durian puff out onto a plate, but my mother forced him to eat it.

Even now when I recount it I can't stop laughing ahahaha

So I was sitting on my couch when this dude wearing a black hoodie popped up next to me.

‘Whoeryou?’ I slurred. (My head was still ringing from all the alcohol from yesterday’s orgy.)

‘Hi, Jack Clove,’ the dude said cheerily, ‘I’m the Grim Reaper.’

As I said, he wore a black hoodie, black jeans, black sneakers, and had a black iPad tucked under his arm. His hood obscured his eyes and nose, but his mouth was curled back in a very human grin, one that you could find on some relaxed beachgoer. His skin was deathly pale - whiter than his teeth, which were already blinding.

‘Ok, Mr Grim Reaper. What’re you doing in mai house?’ I wondered if I was hallucinating.

‘I’ve come to claim your soul. Your time is up,’ he said again in a bright tone. ‘In about an hour, I’ll take your soul and present it to the Lord for judgement.’

‘So, may I ask how you would like to be found dead?’ he continued in that calm tone. He switched on his iPad and tapped it several times. A holographic projection popped up, suspended in the air above his iPad’s screen.

‘As in, how would you like your dead body to look like? Creepy grin, tortured grimace, open eyes?’ he offered.

‘Um . . . I think I’ll like to die lying down.’ He nodded and tapped something on his iPad.

Apparently, the Grim Reaper had judged right, because in an hour we had sorted everything out: I would be found lying down, eyes open in terror, mouth twisted in a terrified expression, hands and legs splayed. Strangely, I didn’t feel panicked that I was going to die. Maybe the Grim Reaper had an infectious atmosphere of zen.

‘Alright, Mr Clove. Now, I’m going to take your soul. It won’t hurt at all . . . who am I kidding? It’ll hurt a lot.’

He rose to full height, and his iPad flashed, elongating into a long staff with a long, curved blade on one end. He brought down the scythe, and in one slash severed my soul from my body.

Did it hurt? Yes. Imagine a turtle being pulled out from its shell, and you’ll have a brief idea of how it feels.

Once my head stopped ringing and I no longer felt nauseous (which took a few hours), I noticed that I was still in my house, except that I was sitting on something that looked like me.

Oh, wait. It was my dead body. Exactly in the planned posture.

Before I could scream, throw up (can spirits throw up?) or faint, a calm, familiar voice spoke next to me.

‘Don’t panic, Mr Clove. You’re dead. There’s nothing you can do about it.’

Instead of the figure in a black hoodie, I saw what the Grim Reaper looked like for the first time.

He was cloaked in a black hooded robe, the same scythe in his hand. Except that the scythe now burned with blue fire. His face was exposed - a skull with pools of red for eyes. Looking into them, I saw all the dead souls he had collected over the millennia.

Again, I didn’t feel scared. Just a strange sense of calm.

‘Now, I’ll bring you to judgement. Follow me.’

He was right. I was dead. No changing that fact. I trailed him closely, heading for my judgement.

. . .

A few days later, a tall teenager dressed fully in black came into the library - black hoodie, jeans, sneakers. His hood was pulled back, revealing startlingly warm brown eyes and artistically tousled black hair. He pulled a book from a shelf and started reading it. Barely half an hour had passed when he felt a buzz in his pocket. Taking out a black iPad, he scrolled through the screen’s contents briefly.

He sighed. Don't I ever get a bit of rest?

He switched the iPad off, returned the book back to the shelf and left the library.

The book which the teen had read was called Death; An Inside Story: A Book For All Those Who Shall Die by Sadhguru.

'You're not good enough.'

'You're a nerd.'

. . .

But you can't satisfy everyone in the world. Even those idols and stars are criticized.

I admit I have faults. But everyone has them. If everyone was perfect, life'd be boring.

So, who are you to say I'm lacking, when you're lacking too?

I may not love myself. But I know who I am. And you'll never change me.

Mere waves cannot topple a cliff.

We are just like islands, countries on a vast, open ocean.

And that ocean is filled with naysayers, who want nothing else to crush your spirit.

Yet islands do not sink under oceans.

The motives of naysayers have intrigued me for long.

Why cut down others?

Maybe it's because they're insecure. To console themself they're not that bad.

But by doing so, they selfishly burn down others.

Self-image, like its name, is only an image.

Do you know who you are?

If you do, then you've wasted your time reading this.

'Jane, could you come down to the kitchen？' her mother's familiar voice calls from the kitchen.

'Coming!' she bounds down the stairs.

She is down when the cupboard at the foot of the stairs opens and a pair of hands draw her in.

'Don't go into the kitchen; I hear it too,' her mother's voice whispers into her ears.

So I was bored one day and decided to surf the Internet. I Googled the name of my Science teacher and found that he actually writes poetry as a side thing. Here are some of his works:

(Warning, it's a bit long)

1. The Beginning of The Beginning of An End

A final crease, then a gentle puff,

this origami lion can then prance and prowl

on piles of paper, shredded and fine,

above a manual, round and round

a cup of coffee, sour and chilled.

Just the harmonised movement

of an index finger and one plump thumb –

one firm pinch, just one firm pinch –

marks the beginning of the beginning

of an end.

It’s a pinch I dare not pinch.

With pink swans soaring across

its cyan skin, this lion is strange indeed.

Well, let him explain, let him purr

about how his predecessors failed,

with their broken limbs and deformed faces,

how they wasted the sun-coloured papers,

and now have a destiny in the bin:

above a rotting apple core and

the crisp foil of packaged chips.

Let him boast about his second life,

from forest to factory, then factory to flat,

from plant to paper, then paper that prowls.

Let him dream his dreams of stalking,

papery paw by paw.

And let him suffer – roar –

as one thumb and one finger hesitate.

One last pinch and this lion will be done,

ready to edge round a mass grave,

mocking paper that failed to be.

If I pinch that final pinch,

it will leap across a ravine of books

and never be mine again.

This marks the beginning of the beginning

of an end and the cyan lion is pleading so.

(found on http://www.weareawebsite.com/tan-xiang-yeow.html)

2. A Hearty Drink

Heat spikes your skin. You thirst.

You order one glass of organic juice,

Swallow, then complain it isn’t cold.

So you dig out your heart of icy stone,

That umber bitter seed.

You slide your organ into the glass.

It plops. It splatters – melting – flakes,

Turning your drink a candy-pink.

You sip and lick your lips.

It slicks down your throat.

You moan then see my face

And you offer your juice to me.

(found on http://www.weareawebsite.com/tan-xiang-yeow.html)

3. ART THERAPY

The key is to construct a self from scraps. Be it an origami lily with

a credit card bill, or collage pieced using childhood photos. Think

of a lost puzzle piece, its edge bent to fit. Think of a home

as a blueprint, with a toilet tap that keeps dripping

even when tightened till the forearm aches. Think of

window blinds as rebars, a ribcage as an iron scaffold.

Think of father at the balcony, eyes closed. Before him, the city

sprawling like his firstborn child, excited with a crayon stick.

(found on https://www.rattle.com/art-therapy-by-aaric-tan-xiang-yeow/)

(All of the following are found on https://www.nac.gov.sg/dam/jcr:8b15ce91-0754-4e59-b6c2-2ba9433e21a2)

4. Circulatory System:

There are 96, 000 kilometres’ worth of blood vessels in the average adult, from aorta to arterioles to venae cavae, a closed delivery system which begins and ends with the heart. A week ago, a colleague was almost slapped. Blood from ruptured capillaries is the first contusion and it, too, does not last. Any angiogram can summarise this: vessels dilate, contract, wave-like, regardless of the next thrombosis.

5. Digestive System:

If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t have cheated. Screamed fuck in front of the class when caught, that was how deeply she cared. Her expletives hardened into flint. Would leaching with vinegar make it more porous, bendable? It would have rested uneasily in the stomach if not for peristalsis. A digestive canal convulses, a muscular snake wrapped neatly in flesh and skin.

6. Reproductive System: Can we please have sexperiments in school? I look at her, that’s the sperm which won? One sign of puberty is dreams: stains on pears and testicles like Christmas bulbs, pendulous. Skies, rainbows, blushed mulberries, explosions of clouds. Maybe even an urh-urh-urh-urhhh. Has been a long while since they are excited by notes. No one crumples paper into balls.

7. Immune System:

Hematoma: a small pool of / blood, walled / off. Endocarditis: the infection of valves; bruises / behind skull / fractures; bumps, firm, raised, multiple, occurring without / injuries. Someone will say that you’re not fit to teach. A wasp fits into a fig. A tiger should be fit. Some are fitter than others. Some leak more easily. Flesh does not forget its traumas.

8. Respiratory System:

My thoughts are dragged up timbered veins of the lungs to bronchi arches, then the trachea walkway. In air sacs linked by these pathways, we trade carbon dioxide for oxygen, a more determined poison. Time and time again, it wears the body out. I breathe in air my student exhaled, conscious of the effort behind a meaningless apology.

9. Optical System:

What an eye holds captive will never see light once more. It turns electric, an impulse. Slapping till you learn to lunch with me, she said. Sound of rubber against parquet, palm against face, red face to red face. An eye for an eye, the victim’s mum quoted, as if these organs could regulate justice. All they do is to swivel sunlight to textures, others to self.

10. Renal System:

The purpose is to filter out excess fluid. Some is reabsorbed but most, expelled as urine. Like how you predicted her disease and thanked bacteria for expelling her. From this seat, this classroom, this school, our collective gene pool. Someone else should have intervened. No one did. An equivalent silence when they say you should have averted it. The message is this: if you are dissatisfied, leave.

11. Endocrine System:

After repeated exposure to the same tired stimulus, one is desensitised. Whenever she plays truant/ at the playground/ with dildos/ after a school day/ in her uniform, someone must be faulted. Why we touch and what touches us no longer align. We rest earlier by plagiarising police reports. There can only be so much discomfort before the body adapts.

12. Lymphatic System:

Leaked fluid from blood vessels are pushed back in. Ions, haemoglobin, cell fragments, broken pieces are repurposed. No easy escape even when the boundary is porous. An adolescent cell is patched to the point of rebellion before an excision occurs. Every organism keeps itself alive by extracting value from damaged parts.

13. Exocrine System

Before we become skin creatures, we were scaled, feathered, furred. Our fingernails come from claws. Those animals we grew out of are beneath, present. We are more similarities than differences which is why we remember not to bite. The law states that the weakest is answerable for a student’s bruise. We survive though the musical flow, gently pushing one another towards an indifferent maw.

14. Auditory System:

Sound waves rarefy in air to reach the ear then pulse along axons to the midbrain. Each particle does its part so steadily we forget meaning has diffused. What you say is to raise your girl for you. What I heard is a cry, a whimper, a pause. A key stakeholder, you say and I repeat, as if you were holding a stake to thrust at the heart.

15. Cardiovascular System:

Please, teacher, her father ran away, gangsters sprayed O$P$ on the door. I’ve to work all day long and my son has his meals on time but my daughter tells me she doesn’t love me because I don’t love her. Time is love but is love, time? My head can’t take this. Neither can my heart. Their grandfather just died from a cardiac arrest. Please keep this secret, please take care of them.

(O$P$ means ‘Owe money, pay money’)

16. Nervous System:

All she has to do is to sit by the window and stare. No need to apologise after slapping the mug away. It’s a coordinated response between brain and spinal cord, simple as that. Nerves, unnerves, unnerve nerves, the same signal loop in worms some 500 million years ago. We move on. We have to move on. We forget to stare while she stares.

17. Muscular System:

You have to do it, the principal emailed. So you do it, imagining yourself in the kitchen, a cleaver pushed towards you, tendons tight, veins visible, pressure against the tilapia’s gills. You feel every muscle tighten, demanding more. You offer an apology. The fish does not accept. You wish there were eyelids to stroke over its glazed gaze, to cover like how hers was covered.

18. Skeletal System:

We start with 270 bones. They fuse to 206 by the time we can earn a living. It’s hard to have faith when the skeletal architecture merely holds everything in place. Harder still when we know there’s loss embedded in growth. Perhaps easier to teach the rhyme in calcium/crematorium, oath/loathe. As easy as tying shoes to the window grille before something cracks against ground.

At this point I never knew Science teachers could be so cool.

(Master, teach me!)