Annual Journal 2014

English Society A.A.H.K.U.S.U. Session 2013-2014

Annual Journal 2014 Creative Writing Competition: Top 3 & Honourable Mentions

Review of Past Events And more...

Contents 4

Editorial Foreword

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About Us Our Motto Our Executive Committee Members

12 In Retrospect...

18 Review of Past Events 21 Creative Writing Competition 2014 22 First Place ‘Bitter’ Mei-li Bacani

24 Second Place ‘Twins’ Soo Kwan Yi

36 Third Place ‘Homegrown Encounters’ Chloe Lam

39 Honourable Mentions

Editorial Foreword It has been a long year of arduous work and effort, from which we have endured, sacrificed and experienced. If one asked us if we have ever regretted being a part of English Society, we would assuredly answer no, for it was not only a working place, but a warm abode where we have shared moments of joyousness and affection. Yes, we did have moments of conflicts and bitterness, but rummaging the remnants of our remembrances, it was the sweetness that we would find. We hope this special relationship will remain forever, and through this Annual Journal, we hope we can share the happy moments and reflections with you.

Most importantly, the top 3 entries and honourable mentions of Creative Writing Competition 2014 are included in this Annual Journal.

Writing is a special gift to humans. Animals have speech, there is no doubt, but they cannot write—writing is a sophisticated process which often surpasses the simple goal of communication. Writing is also an art; it not only expresses emotions of the authors, but also mirrors our own, thus touching us with its pathos. While the word ‘creative’ seems to suggest the notion of freedom and lack of techniques, emotions can never be presented without skills. Music with random and novel chords may be called creative, but whether the sounds can touch our hearts is another question. There is a reason why endless generations still admire Mozart, Beethoven and so on—their techniques enable them to convey their musical ideas effectively. The writers in this competition do not just write freely, but with overwhelming techniques.

Last but not least, it is our honour to have Dr Page Richards from School of English as the judge for this competition, whose participation and generous support have been most precious.

Editor Timothy Chan Competition sponsored by:

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Our Motto

About Us

‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’ – Alfred Lord Tennyson, ‘Ulysses’ The motto of this session, ‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’, is derived from the blank verse ‘Ulysses’ written by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

The poem narrates the story of the character Ulysses and his desire to fulfil his intellectual potential and make the most of his life. This principle accords well with our aspiration to promote intellectual development and academic appreciation despite the challenges set by the boundlessness of the academic realm.

‘To strive’ indicates our willingness to fully contribute and commit to English Society by organising events and activities of the highest quality; ‘to seek’ and ‘to find’ refer to our confidence to follow the road we have paved in search of the aims of the Society in this academic year; lastly, ‘not to yield’ reflects our determination to never falter in face of challenges.

We have worked, and still will work, together closely in the pursuit of our aim. We are willing to take the challenges and follow our aspiration. With perseverance, the path of enlightenment shall be discerned and undertaken.

https://www.facebook.com/HKU.English

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Our Executive Committee Members Intended Major: English Studies, Translation Describe yourself using three words: Upbeat, talkative, opinionated Hobby: Biking Favourite book: The Lucky One Favourite movie: The Lucky One (2012) One thing you cannot live without: My phone Your biggest pet peeve: Crying infants Dream place to live/ travel in: Hokkaido and Greece Fun fact(s) about yourself: I always bite my nails

Eric Kwan Chairperson

Intended Major (Minor): Undecided Describe yourself using three words: Not a box Hobbies: Reading, writing, getting drinks with friends, getting drinks alone, going on Tumblr Favourite book: Late 20th century poetry collections Favourite movie: Basically all Disney movies (can’t pick just one) One thing you cannot live without: My eyebrow pencil (because brow-less) Your biggest pet peeve: When I’m in an elevator and someone presses the ‘close’ button while I’m getting out Dream place to live/ travel in: UK/ the Middle East Fun fact(s) about yourself: I really enjoy listening to metal, as in heavy metal music

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Jocelyn Li External Vice-Chairperson

Vivian Tam Internal Vice-Chairperson

Yolanda Yau General Secretary

Intended Major: English Studies, Linguistics ds: Describe yourself using three wor A self-conscious dreamer Hobbies: ntary work Listening to music and doing volu Favourite book: Pride and Prejudice Favourite movie: Pride and Prejudice (2005) t: One thing you cannot live withou Sincere people Your biggest pet peeve: Silence : Dream place to live/ travel in Denmark Fun fact(s) about yourself: reading but I I’m always clumsy; I don’t like have to

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Heidi Pang Financial Secretary

Intended Major: English Studies, Comparative Literature Describe yourself using three words: Friendly, rational, genuine Hobbies: Playing piano, swimming/sun-bathing, doing yoga Favourite book: Twilight Favourite movie: The Painted Veil (2006) One thing you cannot live without: Family Your biggest pet peeve: Noisy eaters Dream place to live/ travel in: Santorini Fun fact(s) about yourself: I sleep with three teddy bears every night

Intended Major (Minor): English Studies/ Comparat ive Literature (Landscape Studies) Describe yourself using three Simple, rational (at times) words: and responsible Hobbies: TV/movies/soap dramas, travelling, eating and doin sleeping, thinking, designing, g anything I find meaningful Favourite book: The Red Convertible (Short story) Favourite movie: Dead Poets Society (1989) One thing you cannot live without: MTR Your biggest pet peeve: ALL animals (even birds) Dream place to live/ trave l in: UK and Taiwan Fun fact(s) about yourself: I can be humorous if you enough; otherwise I am a know me long or well rather quiet girl

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April Soo Promotion Secretary

Intended Major: English Studies, Psychology Describe yourself using three words: Random, tough and rational Hobbies: Photography and listening to music Favourite book: 500 days of Summer Favourite movie: 500 days of Summer (2009) One thing you cannot live without: My camera Your biggest pet peeve: Pretentious people Dream place to live/ travel in: US Fun fact(s) about yourself: (i) I always google the playlist of stores because they have good music choices. (ii) I love staying and dining at home. (ii ) I love tanned skin.

Timothy Chan Publication Secretary

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Cynthia Tang Promotion Secretary

Intended Major: English Studies, Chinese History Describe yourself using three words: Happy, bright, energetic Hobbies: Singing, eating, shopping, watching TV Favourite book: The Devil Wears Prada Favourite movie: The Night at the Museum (2006) One thing you cannot live without: Phone Your biggest pet peeve: Insect Dream place to live/ travel in: Iceland Fun fact(s) about yourself: Once I laugh, it is difficult for me to stop Audrey Kam Programme Secretary

Charlene Lee Social Secretary

inor): Intended Major (Mcape Architecture) ds Translation (Lan ing three words: Describe yourself us Bubbly, giggly, feisty Hobbies: daydream Movies, music and Favourite books: nk, Think the Opposite, Whatever You Thi g Struck by Lightnin Favourite movies: 9), V for Vendetta (2005) The Blind Side (200 ot live without: One thing you cann Food eve: Your biggest pet pedom re bo Insects and ve/ travel in: Dream place to li ves Croatia and Maldi yourself: Fun fact(s) about pug I want to keep a

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Alice Hui Marketing Secretary

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In Retrospect...

A long year full of hardships and sweetness has passed.

In our hearts there are feelings we have always wanted to express. Below, our ExCo give a full retrospect of the fruitful year we all have cherished.

Eric Kwan, Chairperson Working in a society here is not like what you do in high school; sometimes you feel lost. You enjoy more freedom but meanwhile you bear a heavier load on your shoulders; You’re no longer confined by the restrictions set by your teacher. You, however, need to find your own way.

A team is never a solitary effort, and as always, there are many people who are willing to devote themselves. 11 of us have grown as a team throughout the past year. I am sure we all will keep the momentum going, with all our passion and enthusiasm.

Jocelyn Li, External Vice-Chairperson When I was in secondary school, I didn’t really care about anything. I neither participated in nor helped with any associations or clubs or houses, and now that I’ve left, I regret not having made the most out of my life there.

I joined English Society simply because I didn’t want to relive the same regret in university again. Originally I imagined English Society to be a group of likeminded students sitting together in a spacious cozy Society room and debating over Bukowski, and, while it sure didn’t turn out to be the case, it has definitely been a rewarding experience so far. I went from lone paper-shuffling pushover to

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someone who voices her opinions and stands firm on her viewpoints; who could lead, work alone, and work in a team; who could cooperate and compromise with different types of people; all while building genuine friendships with them. Because of my decision to be an ExCo member of English Society, I’m proud to say that my stay in HKU will be a memorable one, with highlights which will last for a lifetime.

Vivian Tam, Internal Vice-Chairperson My undergraduate career is already 25 percent over. Wait, what?

We all know the cliché saying of ‘time flies’ but it somehow feels different comparing to high school. Here, it is a battle against the clock before the craggy drop-off into the uncertainty of adulthood.

Last September, as soon as the bus pulled up to the brown Haking Wong building, I began my journey of becoming an adult, at least I feel like I did.

For the first few weeks, the newfound freedom captivated all the freshmen and it felt like a party that would never end. But I was also profoundly lost for I couldn’t find a place that I felt comfortable with or truly belonged to. This is when I heard about the Executive Committee member recruitment of English Society. ‘This is it,’ I thought to myself. I did not know what to expect but they say that university is a time of self-discovery, stepping out of comfort zone and getting your bearings. With my passion in the English language, I decided to give it a try. Little did I know this decision would bring about such an amazing experience.

The people that I met here are extraordinary and the learning opportunities are countless. Not only are my interpersonal skills polished, I also developed precious friendship with other ExCo members that I will continue to cherish for a lifetime. However, these do not come easy. With each decision comes great responsibility. No matter how many meetings you have to attend, how many hours of preparation you have to deal with, how many disasters you have to tackle, this is your decision and one should be responsible for that.

The experiences and memories are priceless. I am so glad I made the most out of my freshman year. Take chances. Open your mind. And most importantly, be grateful of what you have. Nothing worthy comes easy.

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Yolanda Yau, General Secretary Time flies. I suddenly realise it has been eight months since I officially became one of the ExCo of English Society. The brand new atmosphere in university prompted me to join the Society and experience more in my first year of study. Making friends is another reason. The Society has brought eleven of us together. I still remember the days burning the midnight oil to handle the 90-page Year Plan, preparing for our Inauguration Ceremony, transporting the heavy goods from East gate to West gate during our Bazaar for three consecutive weeks, taking part in the “production line” for packing Welfare Week products, and setting up the huge backdrop for Academic Talk, etc. Tough as they may sound, all these are the precious memories among us. Without them, my freshman year would not have been that eventful.

Heidi Pang, Financial Secretary ‘In changes we grow’. The first quarter of my university life has been a year of adventure and discovery.

I remember in the first week or so of my freshmen year, I was overwhelmed by the amount of freedom I had all of a sudden.

Trivial changes like from having to arrive at school at 8am, to arranging a personalized timetable for classes struck me that I had to engage in something meaningful, for a period of my life with this much freedom. I’ve always loved learning English, so I decided that perhaps I should try and become one of the ExCo of English Society.

I would say this decision has made my freshmen year so much more fruitful than it might have been. Apart from meeting 10 new people from different backgrounds whom I get to work and have fun with, gaining firsthand experiences in organising events is also memories that I would treasure for the rest of my life. We wouldn’t have known we would be capable of holding activities and providing welfare for our fellow schoolmates a few months ago when we were only secondary school students. Like most teams, our cabinet is not perfect and we have encountered problems and challenges in the past year.

But I have learnt that when everyone devotes whole-heartedly, there is nothing we won’t be able to accomplish.

Freshmen year was full of changes and choices, but ‘in changes we grow’.

Embrace them with an open heart and they may take you to places you’ve never been before!

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April Soo, Promotion Secretary Being one of the committee members of English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U., session 2013-14 serves not only our members, but myself as well.

Many freshmen, like myself, worry about socialising with people and participating in a new community when they first enter this university environment. This perhaps explains why they immerse themselves into various societies, residential halls, extra-curricular programmes and so on in order to speed up the process. Then, different people will choose different paths that lead them to distinct obstacles, partners, friends and situations. For me, I am exceptionally lucky to be a part of this session of English Society.

First of all, I have met friends whom I am going to treasure for the rest of my life, and hopefully vice versa. University is always portrayed as a miniature of the bigger world outside, where people are less likely to take care and think of one another before themselves. Surprisingly, this is not what I encountered.

My advice is to treat people with your heart and you will be rewarded more than what you can imagine.

Also, this is a place where I learn. Most apparently, I am motivated to learn how to use a couple of software programmes because the promotion secretaries are required to design for the Society. Yet, most importantly, I am motivated to learn about myself. At first, the unavoidable comparisons among teammates made me really frustrated about myself, mainly due to my own incompatibility. Later on, I either tried to push myself further to reach the expectations or I honestly admitted that I am just a different individual. Through learning about oneself, I also learn how to be brave, positive and self-encouraging.

I sincerely express my gratitude to those who have helped me through this journey. This is truly self-explanatory and self-discovering.

Cynthia Tang, Promotion Secretary In case some of you don’t know, this position is a bit special as it is the only position with two committee members. I really want to give a big shoutout to April for being the best partner this year. Thank you for comforting me when I was going through breakouts and respecting my ideas at all times.

I have been a Promotion Secretary for almost a year. Every design is a result of a pop-up inspiration and repeated amendments. It was especially hard when you knew you had to come up with a design that day but had no idea how to begin at all.

‘Designs are not free of charge’ – I would never have understood this sentence if I had never been a Promotion Secretary.

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Timothy Chan, Publication Secretary Very often I ask myself the same question: Why did I join English Society (or in fact any society)? As an introvert, I seldom get involved in any social interactions; there is no better place than home, where I can do everything alone. Therefore, when I told my friends and teachers that I had joined a society in university, they were all appalled. Some thought I was joking and simply refused to believe, until I showed them pictures of my ExCo friends and myself.

Although, to be honest, I found it hard to believe I have become one of the English Society ExCo. What motivated me in the beginning still remains quite an uncertainty to me, though I would surmise that it was a desire to challenge myself and meet new people, knowing that I cannot hide forever like a hermit, which prompted me to join the Society.

And it was not a bad experience after all, as I have made new friends—something not easily done in university—as well as gained valuable experience in social skills, management, editing, writing and so on. My university life would have been extremely bland had I not joined English Society.

Charlene Lee, Social Secretary Before joining English Society, I was timid and had low self-esteem. I even thought that I didn’t have the ability to organize and manage an event well. Yet, after being a Social Secretary, who is responsible for organising fund-raising activities, I have learned how to manage a large scale event—bazaar. I don’t believe that I can accomplish the tasks of purchasing and selling products, not to mention earning money. If I had not joined English Society, I would not have gained such a worthy experience. During bazaar, all ExCo became closer and closer since we stayed together and fought for profits for three weeks. All members devoted to this Society and were willing to pay full efforts to make our events perfect. I feel so glad to have joined English Society and met my lovely and funny ExCo. They coloured my Year 1 life. If I had to choose again whether to join English Society or not. I would say yes.

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Audrey Kam, Programme Secretary It’s been around nine months since the ten of us became one.

Sometimes it’s frustrating, no matter how hard we try, that mistakes keep creeping into our work, and our to-do list goes on and on and on and on… But, most of the time, ‘Jong’ is about endless laughter. More importantly, these people are more than committee members—they gave me my most cherished memories; they are and they will be my lifetime friends. Although we have distinct personalities, somehow we connect with one another. I’m so glad to have them in my university life, which has been freshened up by these adorable people.

There’re only a few months left till the end of our session but we all know there’ll never be a full stop.

Alice Hui, Marketing Secretary I lacked confidence before entering the university. Then I realised that only by taking the courage to try new things could I be more self-assured. Therefore, I joined English Society, in which I think I can explore my potential and find my place. It was an amazing process. Developing friendship with other committee members and organising events that promote our Society light up my first year of study in HKU. I am more willing to take up responsibilities and have become more sociable to connect myself to Society. We have been working hard and playing hard throughout the year, experiencing all the ups and downs. I would say being part of English Society is one of the best decisions I have ever made.

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2013 Nov Dec

2014 Jan Feb

Review of Past Events 27 Inauguration Ceremony The Inauguration Ceremony marks the commencement of our session.

We were honoured to have Professor Adam Jaworski from School of English as a guest speaker. This also provided an opportunity for our Executive Committee members (ExCo) and guests from different schools and societies to exchange ideas and be acquainted with each other.

10-28 Annual Bazaar Annual Bazaar was a fund-raising activity for our Society. It was one of the biggest events held by us, as it included a great deal of manpower, planning and resources. Every single day we got to school as early as 8:30 to transport products from our Society room to the bazaar location. It was a physically-challenging work. Also, most of the delicate packaging of our products was prepared meticulously by us one week before the bazaar. Coupled with the fact that it was in the middle of winter, many of us fell ill—but not our convictions to contribute to the Society.

24-28 Welfare Week Welfare Week is a week dedicated to the welfare of our members. Welfare packs containing myriads of products, such as stationery, snacks, magazine, cosmetic products, coupons etc. were distributed to members of English Society.

Special Offers unique to different days, such as cake pops, were distributed as well.

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Mar

17 Film Appreciation The film Shakespeare in Love, which is about the secret love life of Shakespeare, was screened in Global Lounge. Many joined the event after being attracted by the stunning visuals and sound effects.

17-21 Book Fair With the theme ‘Shakespeare and Love’, Book Fair was held to promote reading among students by providing an outlet in which books were sold with a discount. As the theme suggests, Shakespeare’s works, including plays and sonnets, as well as romance novels were available at our booth.

25 Academic Talk Academic Talk was held in Happy Park under the scorching heat of late March. We were honoured to have Professor Jason Gleckman to talk to us about Shakespeare under the theme ‘Shakespeare and Love’. Many joined the event, and there was not an empty seat left. With the lecture notes that Prof. Gleckman had prepared for us, we were able to follow the discussion with ease.

27 Academic Dialogue Mr Hardy Tsoi, founder of Hong Kong Theatre Works, and Ms Miriam Lau, lecturer of Hong Kong Community College, Polytechnic University, joined us in this lovely evening in which we discussed love and tragedy in some of Shakespeare’s plays. The discussion was very in depth, which ranged from the detailed talk on meter and rhyme scheme in some scenes to the more general sharing on theatre works. The audience was very enthusiastic, and many volunteered to perform in an impromptu acting.

Apr 22 Release of LINK: April Issue LINK is a bi-annual publication published by English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U. The theme for this issue is ‘Solitude’, which explores what solitude is, how people perceive it and introduces related artworks.

May Jun Jul Aug

13 Release of Annual Journal That’s exactly what you are reading now!

Still to come...

17 Orientation Day 21-23 Orientation Camp

Sept Oct

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High Table Dinner

TBA

20 Issue Release of LINK: October

First Place ‘Bitter’ Mei-li Bacani White mist rises from the cardboard cup, the warmth of the coffee trickling to her palms through the khaki-grey tissue. Her hands inch their way to her lips, bringing the cup with them but then just as slowly bring themselves down.

Indecipherable conversations pass her by; idly she catches snippets of Cantonese, quick speech with hanging syllables, Mandarin, clipped yet flowing. Usually she’ll amuse herself, picking out the different pronunciations between the two. Usually this activity amuses her, makes her feel less of an outsider but not today. She stuffs her ear-phones in her ears, raising the volume, Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Breakaway’ blocking any outside sounds. Blankly, she stares down at the pitch black drink, its steam fogging up her glasses, blocking her red swollen eyes.

“You live in Hong Kong? Why don’t you speak Cantonese!”

“Oh, you’re a Filipino…but you’re not a domestic helper?”

“You look like a local but your English is so good.” “…..Oh, I am sorry. Bye bye.”

Once upon a time, she would have exuberantly declare that Hong Kong is her home. She would proclaim that she loves Hong Kong and she belongs here. The happy conversations about Hong Kong with the taxi drivers. Her building guards’ smiles when she greeted them, “Jousàhn” or when she gave them red packets for Chinese New Year. Playing the cymbals for the Lion Dance. Riding the sampan, loving every rolling moment. Her indignation when someone says that Hong Kong is a part of China. The warm feeling from taking a bite of shao mia off the small wooden stake, dipped in soy sauce from the street vender in Causeway Bay, the quiet of the Central library, the weekend market in Victoria Park, Sunday afternoons on the IFC’s roof, chatting with the domestic helpers enjoying their day off.

“Hong Kong will always be my home. It’s where I belong.” Was that really only three years ago? That deep certainty, naïve and wrong as it had been, had been a comforting anchor. When did her conviction start to falter?

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When did Hong Kong start feeling like a stranger? Or was it she that has become a stranger to Hong Kong? Or had she been estranged from the start and was too blind to know it?

When she was about twelve, she got her first inkling that she was not a true Hong Konger. Her classmate told her class what someone had said about her when she was waiting for the school bus. “She said, ‘Don’t be like her. Don’t be English.’” ‘Them’ referring to international school students.

Her. Her hands clasp the cup tighter, a thin stream of hot coffee washing down her hand. She puts it down, carefully, ignoring the burning on her fingers.

Now that she really thought about it, that wasn’t the first time. When she was in kindergarten, her classmates spoke another language (Cantonese, she knows now) to each other. She had tried to mimic them but while her speech sounded vaguely like them, it was nothing but gibberish. She stayed in her little corner, in the very back. She wasn’t one of them. She still isn’t.

A particularly loud stream of Cantonese defeats the loud volume of her ipod. She raises the volume to the highest decibel, the lyrics of Tokio Hotel’s ‘Strange’ mocking her. Breathing through her nose, she turns away from the stream of people, and surveys the sea and buildings spread over the railing.

Was she less of a Hong Konger because her Cantonese was so limited? Was she less of a Hong Konger because she attended an international school? Was she less of a Hong Konger because her skin is not same? Was she less of a Hong Konger because she spoke English without an accent?

Was she less of a Hong Konger because her parents were not born here?

Was she less of a Hong Konger because her parents do not speak Cantonese? Was she less of a Hong Konger because she wasn’t born here?

Had Hong Kong ever been her home at all?

Her eyes becomes damp, her mouth tilts down. A faint struggling gasp rises up as she gropes for her coffee. Shadows are settling. Leisurely steps give way to hurry. The 5.20 boat to Discovery Bay casts off and begins to bob its way to the other side. Cold air brushes her fingers as she finally closes her hand over the cardboard cup.

She brings the cup to her lips.

Bitter.

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Second Place ‘Twins’ Soo Kwan Yi 1 My name is Jane, and I have lived with my family peacefully for fifteen years and five months. I have a twin sibling, he is everything I am not. The pronoun that I just used probably betrays our first and fundamental difference, he is a boy and I am a girl.

This is because we are not identical twins, we are fraternal twins. We come from two different embryos and that is about as different as twins can get. I used to be bothered by this when I was way younger, because what is the point of having a twin sibling if you cannot pretend to be each other, the way Fred and George Weasley do? For a not short period of time I was upset because I could never have a legit reason to yell at my mom “honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother”.

But actually, even if we were identical twins Ralph and I would never dare to talk to our mom like that. No, my mom is not scary, she is the gentlest kind of mom you can imagine. She is a superb cook, she read us bedtime stories (she still does now, on request), she comforts us when a movie gets too scary or that kind of stuff. Her only flaw, arguably, is that she has an obsession over her furniture. Notice again the possessive adjective I use here, it is “her” furniture, never “our”, now you have an idea about her obsession. The mission of her life, Ralph and I agree, is to make our home one of those show flats from the magazines she always reads. But who is she kidding, our, no, her flat is only 700 square feet, not 7000. However, my mother’s taste in decorating is acknowledged among friends and family. Her proudest achievement is the pair of “artworks” that is hung right between Ralph’s and my room, two framed sets of baby clothes and hats and socks, the first clothes that Ralph and I ever wore, his were baby blue and mine were baby pink. We suspect she didn’t wash them before framing them.

The reason we cannot talk rudely to our mother is because of our father, who I used to think is the scariest man in the world. He can kill us if we “disrespect” mom. I am not exaggerating. When Ralph and I were little dad got mad over the tiniest of things. When we were 8, Ralph and I copied from the answer key because we didn’t know how to do our Maths homework, and he stopped talking to us for a month. That month of silent treatment was not the worst time of our lives, of course, because we had each other and mom to talk to. The worst time in our lives was right before and after that month. He scolded us so loudly and we cried even more loudly so that the security guard on duty called and said the neighbours complained.

Now, about my fraternal twin and me. We are pretty different. He is a boy and I am a girl, as I have mentioned. He is quiet and I like talking. He goes to a prestigious boys school and I go a co- ed school. His favourite subject at school is English and mine is P.E. He likes playing the violin and I like playing basketball. I would say we both like reading, though his favourites are classic novels and occasionally Poetry as well, and I like Adventure and Crime. I realise I can spend this whole story explaining how different we are, but I shouldn’t. There are three important things we have in common, the same parents (obviously), a passion for Harry Potter, and we both love boys.

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2 My favourite time of the day is when all of us have dinner together, at 7 pm every evening. Usually after dinner mom will go watch TV, dad will sit in front of the computer, Ralph will go back to his room and read, and I will go bother one of them.

-”

“I did an ultimately stupid thing today at Starbucks,” I tell everyone on the table, “I

“What were you doing in Starbucks today? Shouldn’t you be studying today for your exam?

I heard you are having an exam in a week,” said Dad, who sat beside me, frowning while he ate his vegetables.

“Yea, I was studying in Starbucks,” I said.

“Yes she was studying in Starbucks, Jane, continue?” said Mom. “Okay, so I was in Starbucks today, where was I - oh yes - so I was in Starbucks today and I ate a lot and my belly grew really big, and I saw this post on Tumblr, people posted the funniest animal gifs and I wanted to laugh so badly but can’t because you know how crowded the place was, like, I was surrounded by people and there were like five guys sitting next to me, and I held my laugh in but it was so hard because my belly was so big, and finally the button on my uniform belt popped and I burst out laughing for one whole minute and everyone, like, everyone stared at me, and I laughed so hard that my belly was painful.”

“Oh, Jane,” Mom looked at me, bemused, “you need to act like a lady in public, you are not a little kid anymore.”

Dad just stared back to his rice, frowning like told you she isn’t studying in Starbucks.

“And I did the exact opposite thing,” Ralph said, to me. He lowered his voice so mom and dad knew he was not speaking to them and continued watching their TV. “I saw some Tumblr posts about The Fault in Our Stars and they were so sad. You made your belly painful, and I made my nose painful.”

I pouted at him and gave him a “poor thing” look.

“And I say this whole thing is rubbish!” said dad, out of nowhere. Ralph and I thought he was going to scold us for not studying properly for our upcoming exams so we went dead silent, but mom spoke.

“Well, they still have a long way to go. With so many Christians and what-not protesting so fiercely…”

“No, you know, those 33% people that support this same-sex marriage business are out of their minds. They don’t know what a family means. With this same-sex marriage business, we will have no families soon, how are they going to produce children? This homosexual love business is unnatural, human beings are not made this way.”

Mom lifted a brow, “well, yes, I agree with you. This isn’t natural.”

The lady on TV was reporting about a poll conducted by the University of Hong Kong, asking people whether or not they support the idea of gay marriage. Maybe times have changed. Mom and Dad talk like two pieces of fossils.

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“Well, but if two people really love each other -” I sounded like some stupid characters on some stupid TVB drama, “I mean - there are different kinds of people, yea? How do you know that being gay isn’t natural? Maybe it’s natural to them -” Dad stared up from his bowl, stared up at me, and mom too. Dad’s thick dark brows were tightly drawn together on the top of his tall nose, and after two seconds they loosened a bit, and he inhaled.

“Well, Jane. For so many centuries men and women made up families and society has functioned perfectly well this way. Isn’t that a good proof of how only heterosexual marriage is natural?”

“But you only see men and women getting married because men and men and women and women are not allowed to get married.”

Mom and Ralph stayed silent.

“That is because it is unnatural,” dad exhaled, and inhaled again. His whole body now turned toward me, “Now, Jane, the definition of marriage is the union of a man and a woman. If a man loves another man, or a woman loves another woman, and they want to be together, they cannot call their being together a marriage, this disrupts the society, you see?”

“Yes, Jane,” Mom now talked to me in the voice she used to use when she reached the fable of a bedtime story, “did your school teach you about gay marriage like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like what you just said - that gay guys and girls are different and can get married?”

My school taught me about gays and lesbians, not “gay guys and girls”. I didn’t even want to pretend I didn’t know they were worried that my school was teaching me “incorrect family values”. But you can never win an argument with your parents, and honestly I didn’t know too much about this whole same-sex marriage debate besides what was talked about in that one lesson on gender issues in Hong Kong.

So I just shook my head.

“I want to go back and read,” Ralph left the table, looking at his knees.

Mom and Dad stared back at the TV, which now showed a Legco member yelling some stuff, holding up a handwritten banner.

3 “Hi, Mom,” Ralph opened the door, “is dad home?”

“Dad hasn’t come home yet,” Mom’s voice came from the kitchen. “Is this your friend?”

Ralph usually comes home later than me. His school is in the mid-levels and mine is near home. As he walks in I spotted another head behind him, taller, with messy hair.

“Er - this is my classmate Jonathan,” said Ralph.

“Hello, Mrs Law.” “Hello, Jonathan!” Mom walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel,

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“how are you?”

“I’m good!” said Ralph’s friend, “it’s super hot outside!”

“Oh you boys were playing basketball?” Mom asked. I peeked up from my phone, why would Mom think Jonathan played basketball?

“No, no. I’m on the team, had a bit of practice and Ralph just waited.”

“And I see you even have a little basketball key-ring on your school bag!”

Moms are always nosy.

“Oh yes,” said Ralph’s friend with a smile, “yeah, nice thing, not one of your plastic toys. Nice solid metal.”

“So do you boys want to turn on the air-conditioning in the sitting room?”

“Er -” Ralph looked back at his friend. His friend’s head shook, “actually Jonathan and I will go to my room - Physics exam’s on Monday.”

“Sure,” Mom smiled, “Jane, go study.” She walked back into the kitchen.

“Hi, Jane,” said Ralph, walking into his room dragging his rock of a school bag.

“Hi, Jane,” said Ralph’s friend, “I’m his classmate. My name’s Jonathan.”

“Hi, Jonathan,” said I, smiled with my lips pursed to meet Jonathan’s demure smile, the kind that you give to perfect strangers who has just helped you pick up something you dropped on the street. Jonathan followed Ralph, carrying with one shoulder his schoolbag and a basketball.

4 After dinner, I went into Ralph’s room. I had bothered Mom when she watched TV the previous evening, so this evening I had to bother Ralph. His door was left slightly ajar, as it always is. When I stepped in, he was sitting on his bed with the laptop on his knees.

“Looking at TFIOS related posts again?”

“Yea.” “Don’t you have to study Physics?”

“Yea, I did that for the whole afternoon, that’s why I’m giving myself a break.”

“I never knew you have such good-looking friends, Ralph,” I said with a smirk.

For the first time since I entered the room, he glanced up from his laptop, at me, eyes squinting and mocking, “don’t even think about it.”

“And Mom actually thought you played basketball.”

“Yea,” he stared back at his laptop.

Seeing that The Fault in Our Stars was clearly far more interesting to him that I was, I had no choice but to stop talking. So I looked around and sat down at his desk (where all his Physics books were laid open, this guy really did study), and suddenly he started from his bed and reached for his desk.

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“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” his eyes darted over his messy desk, and then he shut one of the textbooks closed and grabbed the whole thing, which was bulging because all sorts of notes and worksheets were pressed in between pages. He tried to hold the book to himself but something fell out of. It hit his laptop and made the sound of metals clashing.

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing, break’s over. Close the door as you leave?”

I raised my brows and left his room.

5 The exam period was hectic. Since Ralph and I went to different schools, our time tables were different. I finished my exams sooner than Ralph. Jonathan, his classmate, came up a lot. They were not at all quiet in Ralph’s room, in fact they “ooohed” and “ahhhhed” quiet often. I was almost sure they were not studying but gaming.

Mom, being the next winner of the “Best Mom Award”, never gives up on trying to make Ralph and my friends stay for dinner. Jonathan had dinner with us once. He and I and Dad talked a bit on basketball. After he left, dad didn’t make any comment about the boy’s “weird hair” or his “immature attitude”. Mom even asked Ralph to ask him stay over for dinner again next time.

The next day, Jonathan came up again, after promising that he would stay for dinner.

Ralph and he gamed in the room again. The time came when mom asked me to tell the boys it was time for dinner, so I went up to Ralph’s room. In the moment I reached for the knob and was about to touch it, it jolted violently itself. The next second the door was thrust open and out came a hurrying Jonathan. He was clearly shocked that I was standing right in front of him. He opened his mouth but no words came out, his face was scarlet.

“Er - Mom said it’s time for dinner.”

“You didn’t hea - sorry, I’m leaving. I have - something - have to study at - home - ” Jonathan looked like a kid who was just caught copying classmate’s homework, he looked like he wasn’t sure when or what to speak, or whether or not he should speak at all. His shoulder brushed against mine in the narrow corridor and I felt how quickly he wanted to leave. And then I heard him tell Mom he wasn’t staying. Mom was asking why in a way that would make people want to yell “none of your business” at her. It all happened very quickly and before I even looked into Ralph’s room, he was already gone.

“Your friend is rude,” I said to Ralph. He stared at his desk, immobile, and said, “go have your dinner.”

“And you?” I asked.

Ralph never looked up. He just sat there.

Not wanting to be like my nagging Mom, I left him alone in his room.

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6 Ralph did come out, after five minutes. Pale were his face and his tightly pursed lips.

The empty stare he gave his desk was now transferred onto the dinner table. When Mom asked him to start eating, he picked up his chopsticks like someone was controlling his mind and actions, and he was merely a machine.

“What’s wrong with you, Ralph?” mom asked, in a very concerned voice.

“Nothing is wrong,” replied Ralph, in a roboty voice.

“That concert looks cool, said I, in a mission to divert mom’s and dad’s attention away from my suffering brother. I tried to comment on something that is on the television - a street concert in which everyone was wearing pink.

“There are a lot of people singing on the streets these days,” said Mom. My tactic worked, “I think it’s called busking?”

“Do you think they can make much money by busking?” I asked, continuing with my mission.

“They’re spreading their perverted message in public and making money at the same time?” said dad, half astonished and half outraged, “in broad daylight? What do they think they are doing? Turning young people ‘gay’ so they can have their ‘same-sex marriage’ right? The mere thought of these ‘gay’ people makes me shiver.”

The way dad uttered the word “gay”, like it was a filthy word that stuck on his teeth, that he had to spit out but could not because it was so filthy, made me felt weird. Dad always uses a weird tone when he thinks he is using an “informal” word. The way he offers his opinion always tenses up the atmosphere, and now Mom and I didn’t know what more to say on the topic.

I looked back at Ralph, who was staring at his rice but he was not eating it. Slowly his nose turned from pale to red, his eyes too, he still hadn’t moved. Mom turned her head at Ralph too, then at dad. Ralph dropped his rice and chopsticks on the table, everyone was shocked, including Ralph himself. He jerked his head up and his eyes met mine, although I didn’t know if it was intended on not. I saw some murky stuff in his eyes on their red edges. Mom gasped faintly.

Then Ralph pushed his chair back and left the table.

There was no “bang” from his door.

But dad pounded on the table. And a few seconds later mom, with trembling lips, teared up too.

7 Ralph’s door was shut. Locked.

Mom’s and Dad’s door was locked too.

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8 On Sundays our family always goes to “yum cha” for lunch. This Sunday, though, mom and dad asked me to get up earlier and go to church with them.

Ralph did not go with us. I asked Mom why he was not going with us, she simply told me Ralph said he needed some rest. In fact, these days Ralph seldom come out of his room. I thought I had not seen him for two days.

Our family does not go to church often. I think I know in the back of our minds that we are Christians, because we have some form of ceremonies at Christmas. In my blurry childhood memories there are fragmented episodes of mom and dad teaching Ralph and me to pray before meals. They held our little hands together before our chest, told us to close our eyes and thank God for the delicious and healthy food in our little colourful plastic plates and bowls. But I don’t think Ralph and I have prayed after the age of six.

Mom and dad have not demanded that too.

All the same, this Sunday, mom and dad decided to take us (me) to church. We didn’t know the crowd in church, though they all seemed to know each other. Church is an unfamiliar place for me and I didn’t think I liked this place that much at all. The crowd was loud with their chatters, as if they were attending some sort of reunion with high school friends. I followed mom and mom followed dad into the hall. At the entrance of the hall was a pull-up banner that said, “One husband, one wife; One man, one woman, One lifetime” (in Chinese, that was). It struck me as awkward that someone was declaring such obvious matters in such an explicit way, almost like teaching one of those oversimplified facts kids learned in kindergarten.

We sat with the crowd in the church for the whole long and boring morning. Mom and dad were listening intently while I fidgeted with my phone in my pocket. They were not very happy that I was not listening to whoever it was speaking on stage. Mom asked me to pay attention, so I pulled the girl who was solving crimes in Daydream Wonderland back to the church where I was, and focused on the man speaking on stage. “…it is not that we do not love them. We love them because God loves them, God loves everyone. But God does not like sin. If we truly love them, we must accept them as one of us, and help them mend their ways…”

I didn’t lose him again, instead I was lost in his speech. His speech was hard to fathom because every sentence he was speaking seemed right, and yet his message was full of contradiction. Mom was nodding her head beside me. I couldn’t understand my parents’ sudden intense interest in people who love people of their own sex. “… because when you love, you want them to be good. If your son is sick, you must take him to surgery even if it would cause him pain. If your son has stolen things from the convenience store, you must make him see that his way is wrong, and rehabilitate him. When you love…”

Another two sentences that sounded right but wrong. So apparently loving someone of your own sex is like stealing things from convenience store. What would I do if I had a son who stole things? I’d probably cry. Calling the cops would mean our separation, but then I can’t let him think that I tolerated theft. But after all I didn’t think I knew what it felt to have a son, not to mention how it felt to discover that he was a thief… having

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a son… What would mom do if Ralph and I stole stuff? She’d probably cry too. She’d probably just look at us and cry and not say a word. She did cry recently. And why was that? Why was that?

I guess that was how I realised Ralph was gay.

9 “Mom, can we talk?” I knocked on mom’s and dad’s room.

“Yes, sure,” we sat down across each other on their bed.

“So, I guess I know why you and Dad took me to church today.”

Mom’s eyes were on my knees, nodding to a tune she was playing in her head.

“How long have you known?”

“You mean why you were taking me to church or that Ralph is g - likes boys?”

“That Ralph - is - ” she did not finish her sentence, she just nodded, still not looking at me.

“Today? When I realised why you were taking me to church?”

“How could you not know?” she looked up at me. There were so many things going on with her face I couldn’t tell whether she was blaming me, or asking for help, or simply curious, or wonderstruck.

“How would I know?”

“You and Ralph spend so much time together - you - you’ve been spending your whole childhood together - and you couldn’t see, you couldn’t tell -” “What - you’re our mom -” That was a mistake. She just stared at me and her nose reddened, her eyes reddened after that, just as how she would react if she ever found out Ralph and I were stealing in my imagination. I was screaming “NO!” inside me but on the outside I just watched her eyes redden and her tears starting to come out.

She started sobbing.

“Mom -” I began my stupid attempt of explaining, “it is not like that. Like we stole things, or like we were criminals. It’s not that bad - er - I don’t know -” and honestly I didn’t, had no prior experience of explaining to a mother about the “deviant” sexual orientation of a brother.

“Well, Jane,” she calmed down a bit. “Dad and I have talked - Ralph may quit his school and go to your school next year. You please take care of him -” “What? No, Mom! It’s too late to change schools now we already know what class we will be going to next year! And if Ralph goes to my school he may not be able to study the subjects -” “That’s why we need you to take care of him.” I didn’t know when Dad came in, but he did, and that was what he said.

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10 “Ralph.”

There was no response from his room.

“Ralph.”

There was still no response.

So I just went in. He was sitting on his bed reading, and he turned his head to me when I walked in.

“Do you know mom and dad are planning to change schools for you?”

His eyes widened a millimetre, then closed as he lay down on his bed. I sat down on his desk, which was really tidy (I guess that was because he utilised these last days he spent alone in his room to clean it up), while there were almost nothing on it except a reading lamp, a few books and pens and a metal basketball key-ring.

“Jane.”

“Yes?” “I feel unhappy.”

“I know,” I nodded.

“I heard what you were talking about in mom’s and dad’s room.”

“You did?”

“Our house isn’t that big and the walls don’t really block out noises, do they?”

“Well, yes.”

“You don’t have to take care of me.”

I sighed.

“Do you think I’m a freak?” he looked at me, for the first time since I came into his room. He lay soft on his bed and his eyes looked as if happiness was drained out.

I looked at him. I didn’t know if boys liking boys is freakish, but Ralph was not a freak, so I said “no”.

And he closed his eyes again.

11 A week had passed and neither Ralph nor I dared ask mom and dad about Ralph’s changing schools. None of us was happy. Dad spoke and smiled even less than ever, Mom almost behaved like how she always behaved, except that her nose was always red. Dad didn’t really look at Ralph anymore whereas mom just stared at him all the time. That was not to say that mom could stare at him all day, just whenever he was not in his room which was where he spent most of his post-exam leisure time. He did not even go out with friends, his classmate Jonathan never came up. In fact I really doubted

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if mom and dad would even let him in. Not that he cared to find out, apparently.

Ralph and I used to have lots of fun after exams. Mom would sign us up for classes like ice- skating or tae kwon do for summer. But Ralph said he preferred reading this summer, to “prepare for the lessons next term, which may not be had in my current school”. When he said that his tone was so bitter that it was the only time dad looked at him for two full seconds that week.

Before we even finished dinner, Ralph went back to his room, of course.

“Jane,” Dad turned his head slowly to me, he looked up from his food to me, his eyes were fierce, “you have not take care of him.”

“What?” I was struck by his sudden accusation.

“Why aren’t you going to summer classes with your brother?”

“Because he doesn’t want to!”

“You should take him. You should take care of your brother.”

“I said he doesn’t want to, I can’t force him!”

“He,” said Dad, with his eyes locked on mine, “is in his room all day, this will not do.”

“Why don’t you tell him that?”

“Jane.” Mom moaned weakly.

“You have to take care of your brother, or else he will get sicker and sicker.”

I wanted to yell “what?” at him but fearing his temper I did not. I simply stared at him without a word.

“Don’t you glare at me like this, Jane. Dad told you to take care of your brother because it is your responsibility. You are siblings.”

“Why don’t you take care of him?”

“I am taking care of him, I am arranging school for him. But you need to talk with him. Staying in his room all day with only make him more and more unhappy, we don’t want him to feel that no one is there for him. But there is no one for him.”

“What did you say, Jane?”

“But there is no one for him, is there, Dad? You said you wanted to take care of him, but you never asked whether he wanted to change schools or not, you don’t talk to him and you want me to talk to him -” my mind was getting confused. “I will talk to him, but I’m not your spy, I’m not helping you -” “Jane, what do you mean you are not helping dad?” it was Mom. “That he was happy before. That he started to shut himself up in his room since you yelled at gay people at dinner, since you looked at him and cried, like he was a freak, since you went to listen to all those bullshit talks about rehabilitating gay sons - since you talked of changing schools for him, since you don’t talk to him -” I didn’t even realize I was becoming fluent with my accusations, that words seemed to come out of my mouth without first being censored by the part of my heart that feared Dad’s temper,

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“you want him to be your idea of not sick - to be you idea of healthy - to be healthy and happy, but you don’t see that he was already healthy and happy, before you wanted him to change -” “We don’t want him to change! The society wants him to change!” Somehow, mom was not very good at being logical when two or more people were arguing, or shouting (or in their words “discussing matters”) around her. “Who will be his friends like this?

No one will accept him if he is like this!”

“Forget about those people you don’t know! How do you expect people to accept him when his own parents don’t? He is suffering and all you care about - it’s like he bumped his toes on a piece of furniture and all you care about is whether your furniture is damaged -” That part of my brain that feared Dad’s temper should not have shut suddenly down in this fight because Dad banged his fist on the dinner table at the moment he bellowed “ENOUGH!”. Mom shut up.

“No!” I yelled back, “we need to stop what we’re doing now,” but ironically I went on yelling, “we need to stop doing this because none of us is, or ever will, be happy like this.”

And then I pushed my chair back without watching where it was going and stomped back to my room.

12 It was in the middle of the night when Ralph came into my room. I was staring at my computer screen blankly when he said, “I heard you guys arguing earlier.”

Ralph was always so straight forward. He either says nothing or he goes directly to the point, “I’m sorry because I know the topic is me.”

This time, I was the silent one.

This time, he was the one looking at me.

“Actually,” said I, “I don’t even know what I was talking about. I sounded like a mix of the social worker who taught gender issues in Hong Kong at school and some bullshit characters on the television. I guess there’s a bit of me in it as well, but I’m so -” But I was so afraid that Dad wouldn’t talk to me again, that Mom wouldn’t talk to me again, and that I was so confused because I don’t know whether or not I believed in what I just said to them, or whether or not I even remember everything I said.

“I love this story, The Fault in Our Stars.” said Ralph.

“Yes I know.”

“But it makes me terribly sad.”

“It’s a sad story.”

“But I’m not just terribly sad because Augustus’s cancer relapsed and died and Hazel lost him.”

“So why?”

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I saw from the corner of my eyes that Ralph was looking at a piece of dirt next to his toes, his toes fidgeting.

“It’s also because their story is writable, people love their love story, even though both of them are literally sick. Whereas, well, I don’t even know if my feelings can be a love story, or just a sick story, or just a sick case of a sick patient -” Ralph, I guessed, didn’t know how to finish his sentence because he was confused about his feelings as well, “well,” he said, “seems like it’s impossible for me to have someone that’s like Augustus to Hazel, or even Hazel’s parents to Hazel -” His speech came to an abrupt halt and he shut his eyes tightly and lowered his head and sobbed.

“But Augustus and Hazel don’t have the -” using the word “love” to a brother was too awkward even if he was my twin - “well, Ralph, you’re not sick, you’re alright. I don’t think I’ll ever know how you feel - to love someone others don’t want you to love, but I -” and I realised my nails were deep in my palms, “- I know how it feels to love a twin brother even when everyone is trying to change that brother, and Augustus and Hazel don’t know that.”

To say that I would love him no matter what to his face was simply impossible, it was too much like a cliche line from some crappy soap opera on TV, and it was not the kind of thing one would say to a family member even though it was truly how one felt, because a certain sense of awkwardness would be started up if people who always see each other said something that is usually only said between people who seldom see each other, and I just did this to everyone in my family in one night.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Okay,” said Ralph, “I’ll go to bed.”

Ralph left, and I lay on my bed thinking whether dad would talk to me tomorrow, or whether he was going to ignore me for the next months, like he did when Ralph and I were little, or whether he was ever going to talk to Ralph and me again. I thought of Mom, who might be crying in bed at this moment, who might be crying for the next few days, or weeks. And I thought of Ralph, who might be crying, or reading, or thinking of something else, or thinking what I was thinking.

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Third Place ‘Homegrown Encounters’ Chloe Lam i.

“Blooming?” The unimpressed interviewer raised one of his bushy white eyebrows. Yes, I wanted to say, but couldn’t manage. After all, how much did I know about the art scene (or, to him, the lack thereof) in Hong Kong to convince him of what he has decided? We, however, decided against each other after the interview. I walked out of the room reaching for my phone to call home. I told my mother that I won’t be going to the States for exchange, after all. She seemed relieved. ** The day we bought a stack of paper and went around the city making 10-minute drawings was rainier than we’ve originally imagined. With untamed curiosity and too much time, we joked about how one could decipher apartment after apartment based on little else but bravely hung laundry and views beyond open curtains. That would be a real experience. Catching a glimpse of a well-nourished lady’s Lucky Red undergarments, though, stopped us. Too authentic. We drew the harbor instead. ** At the Museum of Art, a middle-aged man came up to me with a camera in his hand, “Why don’t you take photo? This (he motioned at my drawings on the page) - so tedious.” Brows knitted, he seemed genuinely concerned.

“Oh it’s different!” I said. By this point his concern seemed to have extended itself to my mental health. He frowned harder. I fought the urge to explain the difference. “I’ve got some time to kill,” I smiled. He looked confused, “Oh,” walked away.

Before he left the exhibition hall I think I counted at least a dozen more shutter clicks. ii.

A Chinese friend of mine crossing the border to Shenzhen caught sight of two foreigners who looked

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lost and offered help. They quickly became the wolf to my friend’s little red riding hood because he had “what fluent English!” “what accent-less pronunciation!” and “what good vocabulary!” They told my friend that he “should really visit America”; they “speak English there.” To which he nodded and smiled. To which he didn’t—but could very much have—reply, “I’ve traveled to more countries than you may know the English names to.” ** The two form 4 girls I tutor told me they are best friends. They like certain things over others, together, just as they lift eyebrows and giggle in fits at certain things, together, over others. They loved Dylan Thomas once they’ve caught the description “be gay.” Unfortunately, their affection was swiftly denied the moment I told them it just means “happy.” They detested the idea of beauty immortalized by art in Sonnet 18 because “too deep,” but nonetheless reserved chuckling for how Shakespearean sonnet rhyme schemes end in “gg.” We’re moving on from poetry next class, but they would probably find it amusing that short stories have climaxes, too. ** To confirm he possessed a minimal command of Cantonese before meeting my parents, we sacrificed the potential of dinner romance in the name of practical urgency. “What if they asked what you do?”

I rehearsed. He wanted to say design, but it sounded like cut chicken.

The image of my boyfriend half-naked in a dirtied apron around his waist on the side of the road chopping roasted chicken into a Styrofoam lunchbox with a stainless steel knife the size of my arm was too much. We focused on dinner. iii.

My classmates and I went around campus relying on the kindness of strangers to get group photos taken one evening, before we part ways. Chance had it that the eager old man who signaled each photo with an impassioned Smiling! decided to then share his story. “What do you study?” He, too, he nodded, was an Arts student at HKU. That’s why his English was so good.

“Where did you have lectures?” He, too, he pointed, took classes at the main building. “Where are you going next year?” He, too, he insisted, left Hong

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Kong. “Before my graduation I boarded a plane to a better future. I’m only back for retirement.” ** Having been on the ferry for an hour of ladies’ screaming already, the sheer fortune of one such select individual shoving first hand then bosom and finally camera into my face in order to take a photo from the window I was seated next to was too much. I glared at her. She didn’t seem to mind the attention. Her hot pink scarf – drowned in perfume as she was – smothered me. “There,” I strongly motioned a line between us, “is something called personal space.” She stared at me, blank.

I repeated my motioning with words that I might not have entirely meant: “There is a clear wall between us. Respect it.” ** The Caucasian across from me on bus 23 pulled out a crumpled MTR map, searched, pointed—“Do you speak English?” I nodded, gave him directions to Tsim Sha Tsui. Boredom got us to the topic of democracy in Hong Kong. “What is your view?” I wanted to know. “It’s good. Where I’m from, we are a country of democracy—” “Ah but we’re not a country.” I was too quick to interfere. “Yes, yes, but one country, two systems!” Uncanny, hearing those words recited in a Swedish accent. The bus announced his stop in three languages and he “had to go now” and “nice chat!” was exchanged.

“Good luck with your project” was the final word.

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Honourable Mentions The following works were selected by our ExCo, which,, albeit not being in the top 3, brilliantly exhibit the creativity and mastery of their writers.

(All arranged in random order) ‘Sand’ So Chin Wang Grammarians say it is uncountable And I wonder If I would one day sit by it and start the one-two-three I was still skeptical of its uncountability Until I have started to build my own sandcastle The effort which they say is hard to be quantified But qualified Since then I nipped the idea of counting The tide comes Without a single sign of notice I realise the fragility of the once seemingly strong castle And am helpless in front of the collapse You suggest re-building it And I start it all over Till the tide comes again And shatters the sandcastle The truth pops up from the mirage It is not impossible to count But one is just too desperate to count any After the repeated failures

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‘Mr. Moose’ Matthew Foreman Harry was a troubled boy. His parents were brutal. Frequent beatings, groundings, slaps, mostly for no apparent reason. They frequently fought, often violently. The father, a raging drunk, frequently returned home inebriated, yelling and screaming. Of course, being merely eight years old, the situation at home had a profound effect on Harry, particularly on his personality. The lack of love displayed by his parents to him and to each other rendered Harry a social pariah. Other than going to school, Harry almost never left the house. Harry felt as if nobody cared about his feelings or thoughts. In fact, he was lucky not to be worse than he was.

At school he was a recluse, and he didn’t have any friends. Those who dared to venture near him received a face full of spit and verbal abuse in the form of incoherent yelling noises. The teachers knew that he was a troubled kid, and they knew better than to contact his parents, especially the father. The whole neighbourhood knew of the Johnson family. Not that Harry cared. He only knew two emotions: hatred and anger.

Mr. Moose was the school counsellor. He was a small, balding man, with thick spectacles and bushy eyebrows. A recent addition to the school, he was an unknown entity. Forever locked up in his little office, doing whatever it was that school counsellors did. He wasn’t from around the area. A mysterious man, with a mysterious life. His circular spectacles and balding head led many to think that he was a kind, friendly man, almost like an uncle figure. How wrong they were.

On a particular Thursday in the month of March, Mr. Moose was in school earlier than usual. It was drizzling outside, and the weather was atrocious. The patter of the raindrops on the window pane behind him was the only source of noise in the room. On his table laid a file, with the name “Harry Johnson” in big, capitalized red letters. Mr. Moose opened the file and read about Harry’s troubles – reports of his tantrums, his violence in the playground, his teachers’ assessments of his behavior. Mr. Moose stroked the words “HARRY JOHNSON” over and over again. With a slight smile, he closed the folder. *** “Harry Johnson will you please report to the counsellor’s office at once.”

The tannoy announcement woke Harry up from his mid-lesson slumber. Without saying a word or looking at anybody, he stood up and left the classroom. It was peculiar for Harry, as usually the announcements were to call him to the principal’s office for any misdemeanours, rather than the counsellor’s office. He wondered what he did this time.

Harry entered the counsellor’s office and was surprised to see that it barely contained anything other than an empty suitcase and a table in the middle of the room. At the centre of the room there sat Mr. Moose in his black armchair. On the table in front of him there was a silver plaque with his name on it. In tiny letters underneath it, were the words “IT’S THE OUTCOME THAT MATTERS.” Mr. Moose

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was beaming as Harry sat down. Instantly Harry liked him. There was something extremely likable about Mr. Moose, something that Harry never felt with anyone else before.

“Do have a seat, Harry, and don’t worry, you’re not in trouble!”

Harry took a seat without saying anything.

“So Harry, I hear that you’ve been a bit upset lately,” Mr. Moose said, “you can tell me anything you want, you know. Anything at all. I’m here to solve all of your problems.”

Harry remained silent. Suddenly Mr. Moose’s boisterous demeanour completely changed. He leaned forward and stared at Harry straight in the eyes.

“I know what is going on at home. I know that you are unhappy. If you tell me everything I can promise you that everything will go away. Your parents will love you and they will cherish you. They will never be angry for the rest of your life. You will always be happy,” he said in a low, quiet voice. Mr. Moose turned around and dropped the blinds. Outside the rain continued to pour. “What do you say?” Mr. Moose whispered. He extended his right hand and elevated his pinky finger. “Do we have an agreement?”

Suddenly Harry felt he needed to tell someone about his woes. Soon his face was flooded with tears, and he told Mr. Moose everything. The latter listened intently, occasionally scribbling down some notes but mostly nodded. After Harry finished, Mr. Moose smiled.

“Excellent, Harry. Absolutely excellent,” Mr. Moose said as he stood up. He stared outside the window for a few seconds. “Don’t worry Harry; Mr. Moose will sort everything out. Come by tomorrow, we’ll have a drink and talk about how to approach this.” Mr. Moose pointed at the door. Harry stood up and walked towards the door.

“Harry.”

Harry turned around. Mr. Moose’s face was solemn. “Promise me that you will never tell anyone that we had this conversation.”

Harry promised. *** The next day, Harry returned to Mr. Moose’s office. It was after school, and the school was deserted. Harry had told his parents that the school teacher wanted him to stay behind that day. Neither of his parents acknowledged him that day.

Mr. Moose’s room was unusually dark. The blinds were dropped and the only source of light was a table lamp. Harry and Mr. Moose began to talk about Harry’s family. What they were like, how they treated him, what he liked about them, whether they abused him. After about thirty minutes, Mr. Moose suddenly stood up.

“You must be thirsty,” he said, “wait here while I fetch you a drink.” Harry sat and stared at the plaque on the table. The words “IT’S THE OUTCOME THAT MATTERS” made him uneasy. But he trusted Mr. Moose. For some reason, he knew everything would be fine. The way Mr. Moose spoke was oddly comforting.

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Mr. Moose returned with a glass of opaque liquid. “Drink this,” he whispered, “it will make you feel happier.” Harry was extremely thirsty, so without questioning he downed the entire glass. Soon, they resumed the conversation. The last thing Harry remembered were someone giggling and the words “IT’S THE OUTCOME THAT MATTERS” on the silver plaque staring back at him. *** Harry woke up in a dark room. He tried to move his hands but found out that he was handcuffed to the bedside. Feeling panicky, Harry tried to yell but his mouth was sealed with tape. At the end of the bed sat Mr. Moose.

“Ah, you finally wake,’ Mr. Moose said with a beaming smile, “Please forgive me for these circumstances, I wasn’t sure how you would react when you woke up.”

He leaned forward and ripped the tape from Harry’s mouth as well as releasing him from his cuffs. “Now, you know that I promised you that everything will be better, right? I’m here to solve all of your problems.” he said. Harry nodded. Mr. Moose stood up and walked towards the door.

“Please make yourself feel at home. You are going to be here for some time yet! I will have to lock the door when I am out of the house, but I’ll be home in time for dinner!” Mr. Moose walked out of the room, whistling cheerfully.

Harry looked around the room and gasped. There were toys everywhere. A thirty inch plasma television hung on the wall, with several video game consoles on the floor in front of it. There were superhero toys and board games that were stacked against the wall. Puzzles, cards, books, and many other childhood delights.

He had never seen any of these things before. This room had items that most kids couldn’t dream of having. There were three suitcases in the corner of the room, and many items still had nylon strings attached, as if they were hurriedly removed from the suitcase.

It soon dawned on him that Mr. Moose was serious. He was to do whatever he wanted. Quickly, he turned on the television and connected the Playstation.

Some hours later, Mr. Moose returned and called Harry to dinner. It was roast chicken and peas, and Harry found it delicious. Over dinner they talked about superheroes, Harry’s interests, what he liked to do, his hobbies, his favourite teachers, and other such things. Mr. Moose talked about his childhood.

The days turned into weeks, and soon Harry lost track of the time he spent in the little house with Mr. Moose. Everyday Mr. Moose was gone for hours and returned at night to make dinner. By and large, Mr. Moose was a pleasant man, and Harry liked him immensely. However, there were times when Mr. Moose would act somewhat peculiar. He frequently giggled and often mumbled to himself. Every night, he would sit at the dining table with a thick journal and write down some notes, giggling and mumbling. He would also listen to the radio intently, which was permanently tuned in on the news. Harry had tried eavesdropping several times, but the only words he ever picked up from the radio were “MISSING BOY.” Mr. Moose was a weird fellow. But Harry trusted the man; something about Mr. Moose made Harry feel safe.

Then one day, Harry woke up to Mr. Moose shaking him awake. Barely having

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any time to register what was going on, Mr. Moose threw Harry his school uniform.

“Put this on,” he said quickly, “it is time.”

Harry slipped on his clothes and followed Mr. Moose into the dining room.

“Before we leave you have to do two things for me. First, you must promise me that you will never tell anyone that you were here. Can you do that for me?”

Harry nodded.

“Second, you must sign here.” Mr. Moose took out his thick journal. The cover had, in large letters, the word “PATIENTS.” Mr. Moose quickly flipped through the pages. There were hundreds of them, each page with a different name and a little paragraph underneath. Mr. Moose found the page he was looking for and handed it to Harry. Surely enough, the page had his name on it. Harry signed the bottom of the page. Mr. Moose cracked a beaming smile. He went to the kitchen and returned with a glass filled with opaque liquid.

“Drink this,” he said. And Harry drank. *** Harry awoke in his own bed, with his parents staring at him with concerned eyes.

“He’s awake!” his mother squealed and embraced him. Behind her stood Harry’s father, with tears in his eyes.

“I am so sorry Harry, please forgive us,” his mother cried, “I promise things will be better.”

And they were.

Things changed immediately. Harry’s parents stopped arguing, and started to take an interest in Harry’s life. His parents stopped yelling at him, and Harry was a thousand times happier than he was before. Mr. Moose had kept his promise.

Everything was better. Harry had never felt happier.

At school, he became more sociable, and finally began doing well in class. His teachers praised him, announcing their happiness at his change of attitude. Harry walked past Mr. Moose’s office, and wanted to thank him. As he entered, he saw that the room was empty except for the empty bookcases and the mahogany table in the centre of the room. There was nothing in the room.

“Mr. Moose resigned,” Harry turned to see the principal standing in the doorway speaking. “He said he had a better offer from another school that he could not turn down.”

Harry felt a wave of sadness. He wanted to say goodbye. Looking at the table in the middle of the room, something caught Harry’s eye. On the table there was an envelope, labelled “TO HARRY.” Harry opened it. In big, black, capitalized letters, there read the words: “IT’S THE OUTCOME THAT MATTERS.” Harry smiled and walked out of the room.

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‘Serge’ Lindsay Qian From the day Serge’s sister began to play the Nocturnes she loved so much on the piano, his agony began. Still forming in his mother’s womb, his senses were strangely distinct. The hard-pressed, solemn notes that echoed around the small room found their way into Serge’s ears and into the soft pile of mush that was his brain. How sad it was, feeling the music’s melancholy, and through the piano, bearing his sister’s sorrow. It must’ve been a deep connection between them. Coming from the same roots, they shared something profound, something unfathomable.

The apartment that sheltered Serge’s family did not receive sunlight well.

Occasionally, a ray of light would peek through the curtains, and his sister, Juliette, would stop her playing and stare at the dancing little spots that lingered in the sunshine. She would focus on that light for hours and hours, never taking her eyes off the beautiful creamy yellow that brought her soul warmth. When the beam diminished slowly as the day went on and expired, so would the tinker in her eyes. Faded and mournful again, she would retreat back into the coldness, searching for comfort in the dark.

Serge would have been a great boy, but he never lived long enough to see the real world. Only two months after his conception, he had bid farewell to the world. Thus, being the pessimist that she was, Juliette would carry the guilt of murdering her little brother for the rest of her life, thinking, almost certain, that the heavy vibrations of her dreary old piano had shattered his soul, and shrunk him back into the gamete that formed his very existence.

The wind carried away Juliette’s sorrow, but failed to bring her joy. As the seasons came and went, the burden did not whither away, but she found herself growing ever so fond of that one ray of sunlight that struck into her room at 3pm everyday. It was a religious ceremony, almost, and she eventually learnt to feel the warmth on her back before turning around to observe with her eyes. As she sat by her piano, pressing down on the same keys of black and white, making the same combinations and playing the never-changing Nocturnes of pain and desperation, she felt herself being dragged into the ground, down towards the earth where Serge lay. Take me with you, she would whisper, but he never replied.

Then, as the nerves on her hunched back began to tingle one by one, she would feel an unstoppable surge of power arising within her, and her playing would stop as abruptly as the light came. Embracing it, she would whisper again, take me with you, and Serge replied. He was everywhere. He was embalmed in the molecules that pranced in the beam, he was carved in the shadow that was cast on the floor, he was the straight line that shone right up into the heavens, where the clouds parted and the sun rested.

One day, she stopped playing the piano. There was no longer the need to resort to music when that ray of light carried every single drop of her soul’s essence, but what was the power it possessed? To be able to render Juliette void

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of her unrequited yearning for Serge, to be able to unsheathe the clouds that darkened her eyes. The stupendous feeling of warmth and hope that rushed through her body lit up every sensation, and she thought perhaps it was time to let Serge go.

Some years later, when she was no longer living in that little apartment, she met Frank. It was during a thunderstorm, and Juliette, having lost her umbrella to the cruel rain that reminded her again and again of Serge, fled to the nearest shop in fear. She felt distressed in rain, because for her, it meant Serge was crying from above. She couldn’t bear to feel Serge’s tears, not when she had her own to shed.

When Frank trudged in after her, seeking refuge from the rain as well, Juliette couldn’t help staring at his amazingly delicate fingers. The way they twisted and turned gracefully around his dripping umbrella reminded her of father’s great artisan hands. This man, this striking, energetic young man, was everything she had ever dreamed of. Tall, handsome, and clean, he was sophisticated, and he was beautiful. His outright femininity resembled a proud feline, waiting to pounce on whatever came his way. Their gazes met, he smiled at her, and for the first time, she felt genuine happiness, almost ecstasy. She was gone, smoke had clouded up her eyes, but she never sensed the calamity in him until they pledged themselves to the sacred bond of marriage, and moved back into the little apartment that did not receive sunlight well.

He first hit her in rage on their wedding anniversary. They had co-existed a year in harmony, but the cracks in their marriage were starting to show. He couldn’t stand her pessimistic musings about Serge—her brother that was never born, and he despised her dependency. That day, with an air of distinct irritation, he planted an excruciatingly painful punch in her stomach when she tried to confront him. Juliette did not expect the violence that suddenly poisoned her life, and she became afraid again. She was so afraid that she didn’t tell him about the fetus that was growing inside of her.

The abuse became more frequent as the wind made its rounds, and Juliette felt herself shrinking back into the shell that protected her from the jaded world. She was scared of losing Frank’s love, when he didn’t have any to give her from the start. Juliette never figured out the reason for his violence, nor did she expect that the soft-spoken, sensitive man without any ambition would turn out to be the cause of her demise; she was sheltering half of him inside her! How could she have been so wrong, how could she have looked past all his flaws and his malice? She caressed the bruises that were tattooed on her body, and felt disgusted. All her life, she had been the banal victim of sorrow, pathetically put in an endless pit of deluge that washed over her senses day to day. She needed that ray of light.

Juliette opened the piano that was now covered in dust, and once again started to play the Nocturnes that plagued Serge many years ago. The dreary resonance pierced through her senses as Frank continued to strike her down from time to time. With one hand on her stomach, she bowed down her head

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and wept in shame. She would have named the baby after Serge, but surely he deserved a better life.

Suddenly, she felt the strangely familiar tingling on her back, and it stopped her heart amidst its beating. Slowly, through a little crack between the curtains, a ray of light peeked in, its vibrant beam even brighter than the ones before.

Juliette closed her eyes and smiled, she felt the light blossoming just for her.

This must be the sign, the sign from Serge she’d waited for all these years. As her playing grew more forceful, she felt Serge’s melancholy come to life. Her stomach churned, and through it she felt the heartbeat of the blessed creature that was radiating his own sorrow.

Frank rushed into the room, greatly annoyed by Juliette’s banging, and was ready to hit her again. Blinded by the strong wash of sunlight that suddenly filled the room, he was forced to put out one hand to shield his eyes. What he managed to piece together through the fragmented contours of his delicate fingers stopped him in his steps— There she was, perched by the broken piano, a halo of light around her wounded body. She looked like a prima donna, a queen of her own reign. The slight inclination of her stomach was disappearing with a life of its own, and the red liquid that was starting to flow out of her and towards Frank commanded a force that raged with condemnation. It took him some time to understand that his wife, his beautiful wife, was going to lose her second title as a mother. A chill ran through his body, he had not known, nor had he bothered to notice, that he had been cursing his own child. Many years later, he would still recall the shame, guilt, and anger that had possessed him all at once, and vividly he would see, as if it was still yesterday, the bright light that filled the room, and her blood trickling through the cracks of the wooden floor.

Towards the end of her life, Juliette was completely lost in space and time.

Mesmerized by the ray of light that peeked through the curtains at 3pm, she would stare at the molecules dancing in the air. Finally, she recognized that this light that she had clung onto through all these years was hope. It was hope that perhaps one day, she would truly let go of Serge. She had accepted that for everyone else in the world, life must go on; but for her—sweet, innocent Juliette—she would forever sit by the window, hands clinging onto her flat stomach.

Juliette would wait from one day to the next; she would wait for the day when she would be reunited with him, because there was nothing in this world that could take away her guilt. Serge would’ve been a great boy, but he died with her music.

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