SUBMISSIONS

Submissions are accepted on a regular basis, year-round.
Can include, short stories, essays, poetry and prose.
Must not exceed 3,000 words.
Must be written by a current ESA student, or alumni.
Submissions are accepted: e.s.say.says@gmail.com

Friday 24 April 2015

''The function of writing is to explode one’s subject — transform it into something else. (Writing is a series of transformations.)''
Susan Sontag

Friday 10 April 2015

Happy Friday!
Keep on scribbling:) Only two more weeks to go before we close up shop and send in the book to be published!

E.S.Say Creative Writing Team
Narrative Essay #1: Summer of a New Century
Elise Wang

In the summer of a new century, I cut my hair and turned in to a boy. 
Not literally, of course. But to the everyday passerby or curious eye that ever graced a photo of me taken during those special months, and to myself today squinting down at that midget me feeding pigeons on a blue plastic stool: I was a boy from my do to my shoes. And on the occasion that I did wear a dress, it was the lovely girl-turned-boy-dressed-like-girl situation. I don’t really remember, but I don’t think I ever minded though. To be Chinese, an only child raised by grandparents in a city under renovation, there weren’t many gender-specific kids’ toys or clothes to choose from, apart from dresses. Unlike up here in Toronto. So that totally avoidable phase came and went at the speed of hair growing, and I was okay.

My first favourite hat was an upside down Happy Meal box. Even at the tender age of three I was collecting things and finding new uses for them, and I guess a new home at that. I saw shining potential in the most disposable of everyday objects, and grabbed hold of bliss in every fleeting moment. I used a wash pail as a prayer nook, my stuffed toys as a barricade.
I had another hat, it was handmade by my lao lao (the way I address my grandmother from my mother’s side) with an indigo-yellow plaid fabric. It was a beautiful plaid pattern. The same fabric was used to make the pillowcase for my beloved tea pillow. A tea pillow is a small fabric pouch about the size and shape of an envelope, filled with dried tea leaves. Tea leaves are naturally cool to the touch, so playing with the pillow would have a kind of calming, therapeutic effect on me. At first it was just a new addition to my sleeping arrangements in the summer. Then somehow, quickly, it became the one possession I held on to most fiercely.

My first soup kitchen was a restaurant. My grandparents and aunt took me there one winter afternoon. It was the one at the corner of the street, the one that boasted huge barrels of tasty, steaming soup on every table taking up most of the space. These peculiar pots were heated constantly from underneath so that the soup was always hot and ready to eat. An attraction in itself, the soup barrels served also as centerpieces and heaters for the hungry guests seated around their respective round tables that winter afternoon. We started with soup. So warm, the perfect appetizer. I had donkey meat for the first time that day. I don’t remember which of my relatives it was that decided on this main course for me, but I can still recall exactly how it looked and tasted. Wrapped in flatbread, it was pink, moist and surprisingly delicious. I would have liked us to stay that way. Just us, laughing around the big soup barrel on that bright winter day.

I loved birthdays in China. Every third of January I would find a yellow paper crown on my head and a cake on the living table, smothered in whipped cream with chocolate sauce dripping down the sides. I would slice the cake once with a plastic knife and my family would jokingly allow me to attempt to eat the whole thing by myself--to my delight, of course. When my hair was long enough to tie up again, my aunt or grandma would give me little pigtails in red ribbon left over from the cake box, as many as the year I was turning. They started looking pretty funky by age four. It’s quite a shame I never got to see what five pigtails would look like on my head.

Still, I wouldn’t complain about that. My favourite haircut to this day would be when I met my parents again and turned five in Singapore. Strangely for me, it was a bob cut. (I’ve always had a slight fear of cutting my hair too short and have successfully kept it long since then.) On the day I arrived at the flat, they had a room complete with Lego, a spare bed, computer desk and plenty of floor space ready for me to move in to. Like a new tenet I immediately got to work, starting from my den, ooh-ing and ahh-ing my way through every inch of the little apartment. Peacefully, matter-of-factly, as if I’ve done this a thousand times.
I was a resilient one, my family would tell me in Chinese years later. It turned out that I had marched on ahead in to the passenger area with even a second glance at my elderly guardians, the ones who laboured day and night to raise me well, and with the same face I stepped in to the strange whitewashed apartment after hours of sickness on the plane. I never once shed a tear. Not for stomach pain, not for the family I left behind. Still, I wouldn’t consider myself a resilient one. I was just fast at getting used to things. Too fast, that being one of the few things I was quick at.
Mom and dad got me a little sleeping mat so I can take naps wherever I wanted, while they were working away on their PHD’s and things. The only place I ever wanted to nap, however, was halfway under the spare bed. Whether my head was positioned inward or out, I can’t remember. All that mattered was a safe, dark place I can count on to hide me.

I always looked forward to going to that one Kentucky Fried Chicken because of its little indoor playground. I would finish my food quickly, which I never do, just to run and claim the ship's wheel, the lookout post, and finally the jungle’s secrets all for myself. (It was a big, but pretty empty restaurant.) The air conditioning was always on full blast, but that was the one time I would happily endure the cold just to bask in the glory of steering my own magnificent ship a little longer, until mom got tired of waiting and beckoned me. Then I would reluctantly slide down the ship’s side and silently bid goodbye to my jungle friends, already anticipating my return. That little playground was as tiny as it was dear to me, but size didn’t matter when I was up there. Because up there, it felt like nothing could possibly get to me. I was free, free to go anywhere and be anything. The world was hushed and still and all was well in that glorious moment.

On the first day of kindergarten, I proudly donned my matching oversized Pikachu T-shirt and shorts, paired with my Winny the Pooh water bottle and backpack. The kindergarten I went to was a free-standing, faded blue building that had a centipede problem. The program was fun, and people were nice, and I got to be the master of ceremonies for our new year’s concert at a big venue. It was great. Looking back, I still have a hard time grasping the fact that the little girl opening the show on that massive stage was me. But still, the bathrooms in the kindergarten were—oh dear. School toilets were squatting toilets, and many of the times that I dared to venture in to one of the unlit stalls, there within and around the bowl would be—as I gravely imagined—one or two or three, crawling or twitching. Perhaps it was because of the constant humid weather. I didn’t always see it, but there seemed to be at least a few at any given time, like a terrible sign.

We had a sunny yellow half tent that we took to the beach every now and then. I always smile when I think about our funny yellow tent, the way it looked like the sun or a lemon that someone had clumsily sliced in half and had the insides hollowed out. I was self-appointed treasurer, always making sure that the mesh pockets were stuffed with SunMaid raisins and yogurt drinks. Even though the tent provided little in terms of coverage or shade in the daytime, to me it was a momentary haven. Separate from the chaos all around, it was like a secret that tasted like sweet yogurt, shared only by the three of us.
But that was just the beginning of our coastal adventures. There was Sentosa, the ultimate fun park by the beach, where the majestic Merlion (I never once thought a lion with a fish tail was anything out of the ordinary) stands guard to this day. My best friend Yi Fu and I, we got buried side by side once, like mummies in the sand. A photo of us is the only memory I have of that ever happening (maybe because I was trying too hard to be like an actual mummy). Both our eyes were closed, but he had a serene expression and I looked like I had died swallowing a lemon. One of the many things I didn’t know at the time was that it’ll one of the last. And that ten years later, there would be very little I wouldn’t give up to be buried with him in the sand again.

When I was told we were to leave by Christmas for a country called Canada, somewhere cold and far away, I carefully packed my things. If only I could hide a few of my friends in my suitcases, I thought, we’ll all come out on the other side laughing. Instead, I gave the baggage check personnel at the airport a pleasant surprise. What they discovered inside every suitcase was a sleeping stuffed animal—and if one looked closely enough, among the animals was a little plaid pillow, tucked neatly between the piles.  
Davrielle (Dove)

Its hard to eat
my pants keep falling down
my shirts have gotten baggier since the last time I checked
Im worn out and worn down
I worm out and worm around
I'm not warm like I used to be
Whats wrong with me, wheres my synchronicity
Why am I meloncoly
With all the blessings around me
what happened to optimism
time and time again it loosened the curses hold on my throat
the nooses
its a nuisance
how time and time again
you sit your keester down on my lap
expecting to hear me tell a story
my story has been told and its worn
the pages are frayed and yellowed
the bone marrow is seeping out of its spine
The book is dead ok?

And while your at it. TIe me down
First you feasted on my laughter
how you loved how the melody of it
peirced your ears and how you longed for that song
to come out of you and your own self worth
But it didn't and you hungered
and for anyone who listened who wanted to satiate the beast
Like a for sale sign, it's only going to be up for so long
Any takers?
I took. I took to you like a moth to the flame
I didn't know it but I was the flame, yet I got burnt
So tell me I'm crazy and making it up while you keep feasting
Eat, mange, absorb, consume 
First the laughter, then the crinkle in my eyes as I smile
Genuine
Then the ring on my middle finger, symbolizing unity and perfection
Ravage, devastate the yearning in my heart when I realize he was just like me and I was just like him
Gnaw and corrode and shoot the poison straight into my veins 
like the heroine I crave for
Like the attention I give you
Like the monster you are
ROY G BIV

Sienna C


Part I: Wisdom

Purple, pink, brown and red
I cannot risk going to bed

White, black, grey, and yellow
You can find me, if you bellow

Black, white, yellow, and grey
I can't wait another day

Pink, purple, red, and brown
You can try to leave this town

Part II: Strength

My yellow- no mustard- sweatpants turned into grey limbs. Mustard legs swapped for grey pumas. Why do I dislike bright red? I'm going to use that bright red pen, or that red notebook. My shoes went from brown-orange-blue paisley to coal and olives. My love for colour will never fade but will wait another rainy day.
I would wear orange to be heard and green to be felt. But seen? Leave it to monochromatic days; days or people, depending on how you paint on the threads or mix up the paint. We used to have the same favourite colour but now we check in with each other to ask what changed. Fluoro- purple seems out of place but when I find it in the natural sanctuaries, it feels right. I keep forgetting if she's dark blue or green. But we can exchange tinges again, when the weaving takes place.
I was travelling in a pack of puffy black and grey masses, swirling and squishing onto stairways, down to sooty subway mice, and “standing behind the yellow line at all times”. We load onto buses with phosphorescent eyes.
I see neon orange towering, still lowering their eyes. I see inky hat and graphite eyes, sister with a muddy blue backpack. Wade on, stay put until grey legs aplenty pile off. What's left is patchy maroon-green-blue-orange auras, plundering across the frosted asphalt.
Peaking behind shadowed bangs, eyes meet yellow gently hunched; deep sun sweater and rectangle eyes, then curved over again. Perplexed or bemused- is that the same hue? He responds in a different muddy blue.
Eyes meet steely white and fluffy silver, clunky paws, treading violently.
Eyes meet dark drops dissipating: one sketched and lean eggplant purple, one a toe-tapping, hand-bopping red race car.
Eyes meet towering golden slumbers and navy slouches.
Eyes meet lavender and green apple trying too hard to let the other be liked more.
I'll stick with blue, as they seem to dilute to anyone’s needs, like sticky putty or a welcome mat at your best friend's house, the one you never noticed.  One cat was red, out of seven. The sun was opalescent. And eyes met doorbell, met grass stains, met real food and real love.
We will always retell our colours, not because they will wash away, but because they can fade from overuse. And overuse may not be the cause either. Just a transference, a presence so bright and dense that we've catergorized it as dull. There's no way to mix your internal colours, and there's no way to stop the colours around you from mixing.
The rainbow is really a full circle, so is your cycle within the cycle of others.
You cannot colour in or outside the lines, if you haven't drawn them yourself.

Part III: Beauty

The beautiful purple triad, gleams then
disperses

A cupful of hopes and muddy green
collapses

The clouds bunch tightly to hide and
evaporate

into a void where no colour exists

dare not to

Friday 3 April 2015

Business is booming!! Keep up the great work everyone. The final countdown to publishing is on. We will continue to be having some bakesales so as to raise enough money for the book.

Have a good friday,
E.S.Say Creative Writing Team
Canterburian Tale
Elise Wang

So here’s another story off the shelf,
A tiny tale not unlike any else.
But if you’ll kindly settle down to hear,
Some things are closer than they might appear.
The tale begins one snowy afternoon,
She came out dead, engulfed by mother’s womb.
No breath but swollen wounds upon her skull
No life’s first cry resounded there at all.
Do miracles exist? She would not know
If not for one that came and saved her soul.
A bouncy little caterpillar girl,
She loved exploring in her little world
Of sand and sun and dandelion fun
With tiny hands outstretched then she would run.
Big forehead, small ears and a crooked smile
She did not care, and giggled all the while.
Then came a time when caterpillar girl
Built her cocoon and bent in to a curl.
So little did she know what lies ahead,
A journey on a path few dare to thread.


The walls came up and swallowed what was just
The shadow of a girl, no one to trust.
So every night to keep the surge at bay,
She traced perceptions of herself that day.
They made her feel as if she was a bluff,
Always too much, then not ever enough.
For out the fullness of the heart we speak,
They say, but what about the girl so meek
She couldn’t say a word although her soul
Was filled to overflowing, no one knows.
So day by day the shadow of a girl
Tiptoed along a tightrope, fear unfurled
Along the edge of broken sanity,
She tried escaping from humanity.
But this was not the ending, just a page;
The next would free her from her lonely cage.
That miracle one snowy afternoon
Swooped down and rescued her again from doom
And gently nudged her back in to the light
Where she was filled with purpose, taking flight.


She’s still the preppy thriftster like they know,
Who’s kind and clumsy, not one with the flow.
Still mumbles, sometimes talking to herself,
Dances around her room like no one else.
Caffeine and tea are two of her kind friends,
And bubble tea will not be out of trend.
And weather still dictates her kind of mood
That day and her favourite thing is food.
She’ll snooze no matter where she needs to be:
Her one bemused relationship with sleep.
Dark chocolate, crepes and sushi are to keep
She counts her favourite food instead of sheep.
Her parents are well-spoken, short but she’s
Not challenged vertically, but verbally.
Directionally too she might agree,
If left alone she’ll wander off to sea.
And what she really needs is balanced life,
But thoughts so heavily weigh down her mind.
If she could fly away in a balloon
She would indeed, and not return till June.


A year ago she stood upon this floor,
Two monologues she spoke behind this door
Of Romeo and dear sweet Juliet,
Two star-crossed lovers’ deadly pirouette.
She’s on her own a broken fairytale
A silent film that writhes and cries and flails.
But now she sees the good in every bad,
Her open palms catch joy when she is sad.
Life’s bittersweet, but that’s what makes it good,
A box of chocolates so divine none should
Refuse, she finds the tiny miracles
In every waking moment spiritual.
She is the moon, but now positioned right
Beside the Sun, she now reflects the light.
She looks around now all that which she sees
Is vibrant beauty up and down the streets.
Because of pain that she had known so long,
She pours herself in making others strong.
And everyone no matter how they seem,
Has loved, has lost, has feared, has hoped, has dreamed.


So there’s another story off the shelf,
A tiny tale that’s unlike any else.
No head, no tale will ever be the same
And it’s my joy to stand here and proclaim
That we are each a wondrous work of art
Of which not all will seek to be a part
And reach to look beyond the open page
To understand and dare to be amazed.
If I could travel back three years in time,
I’ll tell myself these words without the rhyme:
You’re wonderful, no, just the way you are,
No need to chase around a shooting star.
For in this world there’s no one that can leave
Your mark that yours alone, can you believe
That every morning angels sing your song
To bless your heart, the battle has been won.
Don’t be afraid to stretch your arms out wide
And catch the little miracles come by.
Let oceans of tomorrow come what may,
But dare to spread a little love today.

Bad Things Happen
Marina Gabriela


The black wings


The soul
to keep


The flutter


Broken
leaves
Short Story: Epiphany  
Aden Solway.

She had been waiting for a little over an hour, when a tall burly man with a red matted beard, and black glossy spectacles greeted her. He briskly shook her hand, and stared so deep in her eyes she thought he might fall in. she noticed the complete and gentle crispness of his white shirt, and wondered how it maintained its nearly perfect state as it laid beneath the man’s thick padded leather jacket. He wore his fitted cap with the utmost reverence, like an admiral of a fine fleet. Unfortunately, this was not the first time she had seen his pristine attire. She had met him once before in similar grim circumstances.
He nodded, and led her through to a series of winding hallways and stairwells decorated exclusively with pictures of missing children, and intricate blue crests. She approached a silver stainless steel door that after many moments of fumbling with his keys opened to reveal a small white room. He gestured for her to enter; she reluctantly did so. It was smaller than what she had imagined - much smaller. The clinical, white walls emphasized the nature of the occasion. A portion of the wall was polished glass, and beyond it was the ominous whizzing and whispering of indistinguishable figures.


Within the room was an ordinary four-legged table, accompanied by a man. His rough appearance made him look as though he had walked day and night through an unimaginable hell. His clothes were as limp and torn as his skin, which hung loosely on his face, badly bruised and blackened, as though he had a lifelong career as a coal miner. Despite his defeated, and weathered appearance, there remained the slightest spark of wicked mischief in his eyes. She took a seat, and heard the door “click” behind me. They sat in silence for too long; she eyed the perimeter of the room, cleared her throat, and spoke.


“I have never seen you like this,” she said. A large pearl of sweat ran down her temple only to be brushed away by her equally sweaty palm. She felt a cold breeze brush against the back of her neck, which sent shivers down her spine and set her hairs on end. The smell of lacquered oak reminded her of her dresser in Sister Constance’s Attic, a space that she had explored and slept in most of her childhood. She could still so vividly remember the smell of the decaying roof, the tar that held the floorboards together, and the sound children playing and bicycles whooshing by outside. Despite its size the attic had an alluring charm. She cannot remember all of its details, but some things she could still recall, like the Latin words “passibili inducit in salutem” loosely translated to “suffering brings about salvation” that were inscribed in glossy red paint above her bed. She had seen those words so often that they made their way past her eyes and into her heart. They have become a personal mantra of hers that she held. She had long wondered what had come of kind Sister Constance and her home. Oh kind Sister Constance, who had taken her under her wing with such enormous grace. I remember her generosity so clearly - on her birthday especially. Sister Constance would pretend to forget all about it, and go about as if the day was nothing special at all, causing the girl to mope around the attic reading and drawing pictures with a scowl upon her face. Just when she had given up all hope, she would hear Sister Constance calling her name. As tears of joy ran down her face, Sister Constance would surprise her with an assortment of small gifts and a rosy smile – the gifts usually consisted of a piping hot sweet bun and bundle of new candles for prayer. But those were all tokens of the past, cherished, painful memories of her childhood, which she had chosen to forget.
“I’ve been feeling out of sorts since last Friday, when I heard about your appeal,” she had began to say.
“Stop, I get it!” he exclaimed.
She paused and continued, “It’s not whether or not you get it,” she said
“It’s complicated, I don’t expect your people to understand,” he said with complete apathy.
“You ruined lives!” she exclaimed. “That isn’t something you can provide an explanation for,”. She took a deep breath and allowed the air to fill the chambers of her lungs. “Never mind this,” she said, “You know they have asked me to come so she can discuss what we are doing for the time being, until we can…”.
“You know how I feel about this,” he says, as he purses his lips until all that can be seen is a sliver of pink.
“Can we at least talk about this?” he asks with cheerful plea. “Listen” he says with a sense of distress, and deepening anger in his voice,  “we both know already know what I’ve done, and there’s nothing we can do about it now – so you can bask in your hollow shell of self pity all you like and you can label me a tyrant, but know that in the past many among the highest society considered me a martyr. My deeds were meant to be noble, and for the greater good of humanity. I’ll have you know… ”
“Know what?!” she interrupt abruptly. She had heard enough. He immediately looked to the glass wall that stood two feet beside him. He paused, coughed, and hinged his body slowly and carefully towards hers attempting to meet her gaze. She couldn’t, or perhaps, refused to look up from her lap. She felt his silvery eyes were piercing her being with a vain coldness, anchoring themselves in me, weighing me down until I thought I could bear no more of his barbed scrutiny.


As his torso inched closer to her, she began to grow increasingly distressed. He proceeded to move his hand beneath the underside the table, and planted it onto her lap in what he considered to be a comforting manner. She did not take this action as the paternal gesture he had intended, rather she felt crushed beneath his hand, as Atlas had been while he held the weight of the Earth. Her thoughts became suddenly hazy with grief, as tears swelled and faintly bubbled in her eyes. She felt as though her mind had been ripped from every binding of her body, and even when tears finally broke away from her eyes and carefully ran down her cheeks, they did not feel like her own.


Her mind was transported to a more tranquil setting, in this case a nostalgic summertime afternoon, when she had ridden the train to visit a friend in the east. She often reflect on this picturesque scene and wonder if it had in fact really occurred, or was it only a playful illusion of her wandering adolescent mind? These illusions often blurred reality with the stories from her romantic novelettes - the unfortunate side effect of rigorously reading before bedtime. She continued to recall the faint impression of the view she had so passionately acclaimed. It consisted of what was once a vibrant and lively emerald pasture carefully divided by a wavering rivulet that ran far beyond a pair of rolling hills. She had always questioned the rivulet’s origin. Had it been a product of a runoff from the distant snowy mountain range? Or an underground spring that graciously spread its treasure across the field that lay before her? Whatever the explanation, she had paid little attention, as she was more concerned about her arrival at the journey’s destination.


She took a deep breath, and choked on her words as they came, “Don’t touch me,” she said softly with the remaining voice she had retained.
His ears perked up, “What was that, Amita?” he asked with the pose of a righteous man  - something he was far from.
“Could you please lift your hand?” she said. His face became instantly red with anger, so ripe and swollen that it looked as though each vein would burst with even the slightest pinprick. While at first hesitating, he acquiesced and began to retract his hand until it was well rooted in the burrows of his pocket.
“You understand what situation I am in, Amita…”
“Yes of course I do, and for that I am giving you the opportunity to repent,”
“Repent!?  Why the devil would I do that? I have done nothing but lay down her life to aid our nation. You are the true scourge of the land, those… people like you are why…”

However, he was unable to continue whatever he had intended to convey, interrupted by a stocky shadow that banged his fist against the glass from beyond the window. “Excuse me, but visitation time is now over,” said a figure behind the glass. She stood up immediately from her chair, unaware that she had knocked it back several feet, smashing it to the ground. “I have to go,” she said, as she turned disregarding the fallen chair. She walked to meet the man with the spectacles directing her to the door. All the while, the man sat in silence, and she could see in the corner of her eye him watching her with his cold eyes as she made her way back down the narrow hallway, his voice echoed from the room. She couldn’t understand what he was attempting to say. Profanities she had thought, but as she drew farther away, she sensed a disturbing cheeriness in his voice. She turned to meet his eyes one last time as the door clicked behind her. Had he completely disregarded the significance of their encounter? He had treated this interaction as though it was a casual conversation between two friends – which they once were. How could he feel that way? Had his mind been enveloped by that of a rabid animal? And even when he was hopelessly cornered he would still continue to thrash about and continue to bloody his claw. It had left her with an immense pain in her heart, and only when she had made her way home and laid in her bed examining her copy of A Beauty in The Eyes of None, that sat at her bedside table, did she realized that it was not pain that she felt for the old man, but a deep and hollow pity.