SHARE YOUR STORY AND BE REWARDED
People interact and stories are exchanged every day: during work, at home, in the supermarket, while waiting for a bus. Afterwards you think ‘what a remarkable, interesting, typical encounter. I must remember that’. But do you? You should write down these experiences and share them with others.   On this site you can enjoy unusual short stories on everyday life in bustling and unique Singapore! Do you believe you can write? Do you want to share your story? Send your contribution to us now and it might soon feature in this e-magazine.
 

Lucky mole
Author: Timothy Yang

Everyone has a story. But we close our eyes and pretend to sleep and turn up the volumes in our Ipods and bury our noses into books and refuse to acknowledge their existence because they mean nothing, absolutely nothing to us. Because we don’t know their story. I was 26, and had just come back after spending a 5 years overseas studying. I soon found myself employed at the Singapore General Hospital, and I would take the train from my home in Kembangan to Outram in the morning and then when I went home I would take the train from Outram back to Kembangan. I saw many people on the train. There were many Chinese girls on the train. They all have their own story, but I will tell you this one’s. It begins like this.

I once saw a Chinese girl in the train. She was very pretty, and she had a mole on her face. It was a smallish sort of mole above her right eye-brow, and it stuck out like a ripe pimple and I wanted to reach over and pluck it off. When she was a baby, a soothsayer had told her parents, “The mole is good luck.” So her parents had been very happy. Indeed, the mole seemed to bring her luck. Her brother had died of pneumonia when young, and her aunt’s family was killed in a car accident. But she had been healthy and come through her childhood unscathed. Her father lost his job in the financial crisis in 2009, but she had won a scholarship to a prestigious university overseas. MORE

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Past and future
Author: Anonymous

She has a faraway look in her eyes, distant and weary, yet the firm lines around her eyes betray her determination.  We know that she has, by all means managed to venture beyond the predicted level of human understanding for her age. The age of rebellion, of severing ourselves abruptly from the roots we hold so dear. We also begin to comprehend that that look is familiar, that we too have been there before.

Most of us have, in one way or another take our inspirations from a special someone that has made a gigantic impact in our lives and like young children always do, that would usually be our parents.

Both her parents were architects and in her child’s eye pleasing them embodied the universe. She drew shaky forms of buildings that towered the skies and dream houses that ensured a privileged lifestyle.

We often think that those innocent and carefree days were the times we respected and embraced our roots most attentively only to realize further on that we were half-formed seedlings waiting to be influenced and shaped.

Then the hard times came, the need to grow up fast and hard, to adapt to the changing ways of the world she could never call her own.  She could never recall the day her mother announced that they were living the country, to be thrust into a new world that was in everyway different and incomprehensible; she could only remember that that day ended in tears and brief farewells.

Like most teenagers, life was dictated by the ground rules set by society. The willingness to draw attention and the thrill of rebellion itself was the path to self-actualization and individualism.

What was truly the source of our inspiration then? The false, pale imitation of reality painted by the celebrities and the society that preached individualism which only resulted in painting...
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