Voices: creative non-fiction

                                                                                      



For those unfamiliar with the term, creative non-fiction is the hottest thing in writing programs across the US. It encourages risk-taking, innovation, and new approaches to thinking and writng.

A student from Singapore who has just finished her first year at University provides us with an outstanding example of the genre.

We are lucky to have her share this montage of images, people, and places; she lets us see humanity in ways we may not have thought of.

Thank you Constonce.

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The wheels below the floorboards rumbled along, in an ever so monotonous motion. I thought despite being this early in the morning, riding on one of the oldest but most established subway lines should mean that the train would be crowded with people, but it wasn’t. Just a few individuals buried in their coats, others leaning against the sides of the glass doors. I shuffled my feet uneasily while I wondered why people would choose not to sit amongst the vast number of empty seats when they’re available. It was an eerie feeling, sitting alone on that bench as other people stood or lumbered across the coach. Aware of my own shameful isolation, I averted my eyes from my surroundings to stare at the more welcoming floor.

Waking up for morning shifts has always been hard for a manual worker at her age. These wee hours were bustling with activity during the week, and yet quickly drop down to dead silence on the weekends, save for the older demographic who can’t sleep during these hours anyway. But this morning there seemed to be an exception; it is not often she sees a girl, at that young of an age riding to some place this early on a Saturday. Maybe she’s going to visit a friend or a relative, for most places are closed at this ungodly hour. She does seem to be tired but her eyes are stiff in a cold stare. The old woman muttered something about youth these days having energy for anything while she pondered back to when she too looked forward to every routine-day with vigor, and smiled to herself. It's these early mornings like this when she’d most need to provide her own entertainment.

I wouldn’t have called myself excited. I had been anticipating my graduation since a year before High School ended. Now departing from everything familiar didn’t seem like a shock but, it felt hollow. It was hard to hold onto anything when time flew that fast, when it burnt through pages of calendars. A cold fire whose flames licked, away, at the remains of my repose. Perhaps it would have been easier had I known what I wanted, and being the jack-of-all-trades but the queen of none didn’t really help me with resolutions. Others can complain that it’s agonizing when one does not have a choice; and yet here I was with an ocean full, and I’m plagued with indecision. Every blossom in this bouquet was as beautiful as the other, yet I don’t know which was embedded with thorns. The thorns of a mother’s disapproval, or financial instability, or a lifetime of loneliness, or regret. But how could one be even concerned about pierced fingers when these flowers are just about to wilt?

---

The mother of two impatiently fidgeted with the bottles of infant milk that seemed to have taken root at the bottom of her oversized satchel. When at last they broke free, she handed them to the greedy moochers in the stroller before opening up her map to the enrichment center. She never did like reading on the train, even if she ever had the rare chance of sitting down. As the train began to fill up over time, the mother found it difficult to keep her balance, sidestepping the other commuters that weaved clumsily around her. At the same time her legs began to tire, one of the twins began to wail for God knows what, while more people began to cluster around her with every passing station, diminishing every chance she has to find a good seat. And then unexpectedly, a bump on the tracks throws everyone in the coach off-balance. The mother watched in dismay as an infant bottle flew from under the stroller’s hood and splatters milk on the lap of a girl next to her. In frantic panic the mother pulled out a box of tissues and proceeded to wipe the mess off the girl’s skirt, saying light-heartedly she felt sorry for her to had been the first victim of the day. But the girl remained quietly still; unmoved by the jerky train-tracks that sent everyone clinging onto poles; unmoved by the lukewarm slosh that dripped down the girl’s skirt. Only when the mother hesitantly patted the girl’s shoulder did the girl suddenly jerk head up in shock and stared wordlessly at that weary woman scrutinizing over her. Half confused and half-frightened, the mother cleared the last of the spills, backed away hastily, and pulled her stroller to the other side of the coach where finally an empty seat awaited her.

If this train wasn’t going through an underground circuit perhaps the outdoor scenery would have been able to distract myself from the begrudging echoes within me. The dark walls of this train tunnel only proved to be the perfect medium for my inhibitions to take root and sprout, curling their tendrils around each other, swelling into an ever-mesmerizing chaos of vines and weeds. At first I could distinguish what lay before me. Reprimands of childhood memories that refused to die. Teasing flashes of golden memories. Then, the voices became louder and louder.

They were lawyers, throwing bitter insults and squabbles across the unruly courtroom, while the judge slumps dead in his high chair.

They were old women, furiously lamenting at the top of their voices about every unforgettable disappointment from their brief youth.

They were children, abandoned, crawling in the darkness, sobbing as they searched in vain to find each other, blind to everything but their own despair.

Suddenly, before me another train rushes by on the adjacent track in the opposite direction; it’s flashing movement pierced painfully into my mind while my eyes stayed transfixed at the distant crowd that was too, was trapped within doors and tempered glass. They stood, or sat, eyes directed everywhere but to mine. I attempted to make eye contact with someone. Anyone. But to no avail.

…And all I was aware about as the other train sped off in the distance were those tormenting voices that slowly, dutifully, returned to my consciousness.

---

      He marveled at the wonders of modern technology held in his palm. Previously he bought a netbook so that he could finish some of his reports while he commuted, but his new smartphone rendered his need to carry a laptop bag unnecessary; a significant relief to his perpetually strained shoulders. Besides, he could really use this otherwise dull time to play a game or two.

 While he was scrolling through the app library like a toddler picking crayon colors, he heard a phone ring, coupled with the vibrating buzz that seemed to originate in the pocket of a girl next to him. The man pondered about what ringtone his new phone should have that would suit his sophisticated self, but his thoughts were interrupted when he noticed how the girl next to him has yet to mute her annoying phone. Asleep, she must be, holding her head in her hands.

In an attempt to wake her, the man called on her. Twice. Three times. He tapped her on the shoulder. No response. At first he thought maybe that it’s best to painfully wait till her phone stopped ringing. But then he saw tears starting to drip without warning through her fingers. He called out louder still, nervous as he realized everyone around him is staring at them both. At that moment the train arrived at his station. Hesitatingly, he looked back and forth from the doors to the girl before he grabbed his things and left the train.

What was a small chorus became a blaring orchestra of sound. All sides of this arena resonated with an uproar made of countless disputants; a hoard of colourful specks that bounced en masse in an erratic motion. Each speck a squabbling spectator, throwing out punches of angry flashbacks and images that I dread to remember. Every breath I take is a suffocating gasp filled with guilt. Every unintelligible scream thunders through my skull and shreds through my ears. Please stop, just stop now, PLEASE-

---

“Excuse me miss”

She stared back at me with puffed eyes as I tilted her head upwards.

“...Umm, I just wanted to let you know, your phone has been ringing for the last five minutes.”

“Ah- …...oh. Ohh, I’m so so sorry.”

“Yeah.... I thought you were asleep or something but you were crying, and we weren’t sure what to-”

“W-Wait, it’s 10am already?”

“....well, yeah.”

“....I was suppose to be somewhere hours ago!”

“Where?”

“.......umm......I think it’s....Ruthenberg University?”

“...Umm….I go to that University, and you are on the wrong train”

“......You can’t be serious. Surely this train goes to Ruthenberg University?”

“This train goes on a circular route around the city outskirts. I believe you are talking about the Northwest Line.”

“......I-....I was stuck on the wrong train for 3 hours?”

“Really? Man you were….you were here for a while weren’t you.”

While she sat frozen in disbelief, I turned towards my bag to bring out my cell phone.

“WAIT!” She grabbed my arm. “Don’t go yet. H-how exactly should I get onto the Northwest line?”

“Ruthenberg University is where you want to go, right?”

“Yea-Well, sure. I guess”

“What do you mean you guess??”

“I mean....I don’t know. There are so many places I wanna go.”

“.....So....you don’t want to go to Ruthenberg U.”

“....I don’t know”

“....You should.”

“What?”

“You really should know where you’re going. I mean, why travel anywhere if you don’t have a destination. I wouldn’t have even stepped into a train if I were you.”

“Time doesn’t wait for you if you stay rooted with hesitation on the spot.”

“Yeah but neither would it wait for you if you travel in an endless circle and never move on.”

She looked down at her feet, speechless.

“It’s funny how you want to take so many routes at once and yet you’re stuck on a train that only goes in a circle.”

“....heh”

“I think you should go talk to people who would know about train routes and destinations.”

“Where can I do that?”

“Well, we’re arriving at the Interchange station next. If you get off there you should be able to figure things out. Plus, it’s on the way to the Northwest Line.”

“....Yeah.....that’s right.”

She looked at me again, and crinkled her lips into a smile, like she was working unfamiliar muscles.

…

The train slowed to a stop.

“Hurry. You don’t want to miss this one.”

As the doors flung open, she sprung to her feet, and strode out of the train and onto the platform. I watched, as she looked frantically around before running up the stairs to the exit, never once looking back.