Click! The sound of the remote control reverberated through the silence of the night. I had just watched a variety show about different types of porridge around the world. Congee, polenta, risotto - as they were all fondly known. Stifling a yawn, I dragged myself to my bedroom and fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow.

Where am I? I wondered as I opened my eyes. I was lying on a bench in the middle of a strange city. Strange gurgling sounds could be heard from the thick, viscous liquid that flowed through the middle of the city. People with sharp gnome-like ears walked past me, shooting me quizzical looks. As I brought my hands to my face to rub my eyes, I realised that they were covered in a layer of creamy sludge.

Fear started to build up in me. The last thing I remembered was closing my bedroom door. Desperate to find my way home, I tried to blend in with the crowd. Suddenly, a car whizzed past, splashing slush all over me. Scowling in disgust, I tried to wipe the gooey mess off myself but to no avail. Argh! I fumed.

Sitting under a nearby apple tree, I contemplated where to go from there. To my horror, a bright red apple fell right next to me, bursting open and splashing hot white mush everywhere. Stupefied, I looked up. The other apples were hanging precariously from the tree, ready to rain down on me. Jumping to my feet, I took off, trying to evade the crimson bombs. I was too late! Alas, another apple dropped on my head and spilled hot sizzling porridge down my neck. “Ow!” I exclaimed in excruciating pain. A few passers-by gaped at me and whispered among themselves. Not wanting to cause a scene, I quickly ran to the nearest house and pressed the doorbell. An old woman greeted me at the door and immediately welcomed me in, as if she knew the exact reason why I was there.

The glint in her eyes threw me off and I entered the house cautiously. “Would you like to take a bath?” The old lady grinned as she suddenly grabbed me from the back and shoved me into a cauldron of gruel. What in the horrid porridge was going on?

I knew I had to break free from this congee prison! Splish splash splosh! I sprinted out of the house, screaming. Then, I heard a familiar voice call out to me. “Mother!” I cried. A wave of relief swept over me and I embraced her in a hug, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Up so early?” Mother asked. “Would you like some porridge for breakfast?”

High in the alpine peaks, the sweltering sun shone down harshly. An exhausted boy stood. “Wishing well, please grant my wish,” pleaded the boy as he tossed a shiny gold coin into the last remaining well in the world with water.

He waited listlessly in the unforgiving heat. Nothing happened.

After what felt like forever, a booming voice echoed around the deep, dry stone walls. “All my life, children have asked me for wishes. I have provided water for thousands of summers. I am tired of obeying orders while no one cares for nature. You have to work for your wish.”

“What do I have to do?” asked the desperate boy eagerly.

“I would like to hear people sing, to remind me of better days,” the well replied forlornly.

The boy dashed to the underground shelters where everyone lived, hiding from the inhumane conditions. “Mum, Dad,” he said,” it has been extremely hot for years. I want to make one last wish before we all perish. Come to the surface and sing please!” The boy’s parents stared at him.

His mother snapped. “No way! We will surely die up there. I haven’t seen sunlight for half a decade!” The boy glared at his parents, deeply hurt. He stormed out of their sight. “I can do this by myself,” he thought.

“Friends!” The boy shouted. He knew he had to do something to help his people. Everyone had been devastated by the lack of rain. He called out to gather everyone to sing. Confused, his loyal friends agreed - they were desperate for any signs of water. “Great, we probably have more than half of us,” said the boy happily at the sight (he had no idea how many humans remained on earth). The survivors cautiously followed the boy up to the surface. Jeweled with perspiration, they raised their heads to the blinding sky and started singing.

The harmonious melodies rose to the heavens. The wishing well had not heard such dulcet tones for years. Children used to sing joyful tunes when visiting the well, but that was long ago. The old stone well was very moved. The gaps between its weathered cobbled walls filled with tears. Moisture seeped through the crevices. The first drops sizzled when they hit the parched, cracked ground. Drop by drop, tears of delight overflowed. It became a fountain in the empty cloudless sky. “I didn’t think this was possible,” whispered the well.

In awe, the boy walked closer to the brimming well. “Good job,” gasped the gushing well, “Now, what is your wish?”

The boy raised his head again to the sky and smiled, ”Rain.”

The sound of footsteps stirred me awake. I awoke from the deepest slumber I had ever slept. Immediately, I knew something was wrong.

For a year, I had suffered from insomnia and had never slept for more than two hours at a time. Then, I realised. I began questioning my sanity. Where was I? I rubbed my eyes and blinked multiple times just in case I was having a weirdly vivid dream. The buildings and vehicles around me looked like something out of a child’s drawings. It was beyond strange.

All of a sudden, I was pushed out of the way. I whipped my head around and expected to see a person speed-walking towards their office, but instead, a stickman was making his through the crowded streets.

In fact, I was surrounded by hundreds of horribly-drawn stickmen hurrying to their destinations.

I had so many questions. How did I wake up in this bizarre place? Why did everyone look like drawings?

Eventually, I decided to explore this odd city. I got on my feet and began wandering around. With every step I took, I felt an unusual sense of familiarity. Strange. I doubt I had ever been in a city that looked like a five-year-old’s art homework.

Just then, a colourful disco ball appeared in the sky and slowly lowered itself down. Music started blaring and was so loud I could feel the vibrations of the beat of the grounds.

Every stickman and woman started dancing to the tune, and I looked like a fish out of water. I was getting more confused by the minute. What was going on?

Instantly, the thought struck me like a bolt of lightning. I did see this place before. This peculiar place with real-life stick figures and outbursts of dancing was all in the random drawing I drew when I was five and bored at home one day.

How did I end up like this? I did not recall eating or drinking anything weird last night. Was it because I took a peek at my classmate’s test answers during Math yesterday? Is the universe punishing me for all my previous mistakes?
Combined with the reverberant sound of the disco music, I was light-headed from all my thoughts. This was definitely just a nightmare…

Suddenly, the ground began rumbling and a large crack started to form. Everyone around me began running away, with some even sobbing, whispering prayers under their breath.

Then, it hit me.

I knew the ending better than anyone. I had torn the drawing into shreds and thrown it in the trash.

I knew this was the end.

The ocean ravages the island I sit on. Waves crash over me, sending me drifting between land and water.

I close my eyes in muted grief. I wish to go away, to sink into the darkness.

The ocean pulls me under, day turns into night, and moonlight washes over me.

“Oh sweetie, you’re cold, sad… Why?”

My eyes flutter open in a tired shock to find a woman, glowing silver, holding me in suspension.

She sighs. “I’m not supposed to help, but it is the summer solstice. I can make an exception for a soul such as yours.”

I’m about to decline when she grabs my shoulders, pushing me roughly down. I yell, and saltwater fills my lungs. Silver blurs my eyes as the lady disperses into dust and I go down...

———⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆———

I wake up, my mouth open in a silent scream.

A nightmare.

I survey my bedroom, trying to calm my heart. My books. My scrapbook of memories. The guitar that my mother gave me, hanging, in its case, on the wall. I look out the window.

The moon.

It’s hypnotising. As moonlight trickles into my bedroom, my hands twinkle with silver pollen.

The guitar is now in my hands. I play the notes I’ve known since I was ten and they melt into a melody that has the moonlight growing strong, and the pollen dancing over my scrapbook.

The pollen whisks it open, dancing over my memories as pictures of my family flick by - eating ice cream, swimming at the beach, Christmas.

I watch us happily, my playing of the guitar easing. The lump in my throat shrinks at these wonderful sights of my family, still whole.

The pollen becomes static, freezing at a party for my mother with a banner saying, ‘Bon Voyage!’

My heart sinks.

My mother was a musician, a believer of Magic, and a sailor.

She died in a storm.

The last picture I pasted on that scrapbook was of her ship, Daffodil, dashed against the rocks.

The pollen starts moving again, forming her shattered ship. A ghostly figure—my mother—stands in the wreckage.

A smile appears on her face as she stretches her arms open. I’m rooted to the ground, but my fingers start strumming a song with a few twinges of hope.

A glittery body—mine—manifests and runs towards my mother.

When they hug, a wave of warmth rushes over me.

The other me fades, leaving only my mother.

‘I love you,’ she mouths, as she too disappears. Where she stood are daffodils, and a ribbon wrapped around them announcing ‘New beginnings’.

I place my instrument into its case, then pen new words onto its ribbon: ‘New beginnings. I won’t ever forget you. :)’

I hang my guitar on the wall, and the Moon smiles from above.

The raindrops were falling quickly, forming a mist. I sat beside my bedroom window and groaned. I hated rain and being cooped up indoors, listening to that annoying pitter-pattering noise. Just then, the sound of singing jolted me out of my thoughts. Was my mother singing? No, that couldn’t be. She was still at work. I listened intently. The music was coming from the rain!
“Rain is coming to you,
This won’t make you get flu.
It will cool the weather down,
No more hot days for you.” (“Happy Birthday to You” melody)
“The rain can sing?” I muttered to myself. Was I hallucinating? To my surprise, the rain heard me and replied: “Hello! I am Mr. Rain!” He chuckled.
I was taken aback by this strange encounter. “So… you can sing?” I asked doubtfully.
“Yes, I sing about my travels all around the world. From Morocco to Mexico, and all the countries in between, I sing about them all! Let me sing to you about the time I was in a rice farm in India.” With that, the rain started singing again.
“Last harvest, I gave you my rain,
But the very next day, you shooed me away.
This year, to save me from tears,
I won’t give you any water.” (“Last Christmas” melody)
I laughed at the funny recount. However, the rain seemed to be falling heavier, as if it was wailing. Was Mr. Rain sad that the farmer had rejected his help? I comforted him by saying: “You are essential to us! Without you, all living things cannot survive!”
Mr. Rain said with sorrow, “I know that. But I cause unhappiness to humans sometimes. Whenever I hear little children singing ‘Rain, rain, go away’, I wish they will start singing this instead…” Mr. Rain sang at the top of his voice this time.
“Rain, rain, here it comes,
Everybody shouts ‘hooray’!
Children all jumping in puddles,
We all love the rainy days.” (“Rain, Rain, Go Away” melody)
Hearing Mr. Rain’s songs, I could not help but smile. Right then, I heard knocking on the door. It was my mother coming home from work. I bid farewell to Mr. Rain and he ‘disappeared’, leaving a beautiful rainbow in the sky.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry I could not come back earlier because of the heavy downpour.” My mother said with a frown as I opened the door.
I grinned and started singing the songs that Mr. Rain sang to me a while ago. “Rain, rain, here it comes…”
“Are you okay? I thought you didn’t like the rain.” My mother asked.
“Mom, look at the rainbow!” I said excitedly. Then I started humming the songs again.

Yu stood among the shadows, gazing at the children dashing across the streets, listening to the silvery peals of laughter that rose like plumes of smoke from the village below, which pulsed with fiery, jewel-toned light from hundreds of lanterns that dangled from shops, houses, and taverns.

Tonight was the fifteenth day of the first month - the Lantern Festival - which the villagers held dear in their hearts, for it was a celebration of peace and forgiveness, a century old tradition dating all the way back to the Han Dynasty. Yu had always loved to overlook the village from the hilltop, where the gentle breeze rippled her clothes; where the moon-kissed leaves rustled in the wind.

The night was alive with sounds. Insects chirping in swaying branches, wisps of conversation from the village, and the steady trickling of a river not far from it. Yu closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of the night, like damp soil after rainfall, clean and pure.

She watched as the villagers crowded by the river bank. One by one, they cupped a small flower in their hands, whispered a wish, a dream, a secret in its delicately-crafted petals, then released them into the water. A trail of glowing flowers swirled downstream, carrying the voices of those living to the land of the dead.

Gentle rain stirred the night, blanketing the village in a thin layer of mist. Yet the lanterns glow only grew brighter, and the flower candles in the river never dulled in brilliance. The water washed away sorrow, regret, and impurities. Cleansing the village, and cleansing their souls.

The rain was speaking- no, singing. Singing in an ancient language that was forgotten with the flow of time, yet Yu understood every heartfelt word.

It sang of courage and hope and love. Of a dream on a hot summer night, of a bitter cold winter morning. The melody rippled over her, about lush, exotic forests surrounded by a ring of snowy mountains; endless dunes of golden sand and warm sun; a place where land and water meets as far as the eye can see.

The rain told Yu to listen, and so she did.

It whispered tales of gods, of emperors, of battles and wars ending with a resounding victory. Of stories with a monster frightened by the color red, of a goddess that lives alone on the moon, of a white snake demon who longed to experience love.

The rain sang of nations that rose and fell. It had seen everything, and now it wove all its experiences into one song, for Yu and only Yu to hear.

Because she was the rain’s true heir.

“Isabelle, wake up! Breakfast is getting cold,” my mother nagged as she pulled the sheets off me. “By the way, you have received a postcard. It was at the gate this morning,” mum muttered under her breath as she threw open the curtains. A postcard? Who sends a postcard these days? Rubbing my tired eyes that resisted the glaring morning sun, my mum placed a card in my hand and headed out of my room.



Dearest Isabella,

🤝🍜@➡️🎢🛝@🍔🪑2️⃣3️⃣1️⃣2️⃣@🕐



Huh? What did the message even mean? Is this a joke? I tossed the postcard into the dustbin and decided to feed my rumbling stomach as the sweet aroma of freshly-cooked waffles wafted through the air.

A few hours later, I sat on my bed and noticed the postcard peeking from the dustbin. I picked it up and looked at the message again.

My sister, Luisa, flopped on my bed and grabbed the card from my pudgy fingers. “Hey, you have an emojigram! Let me see what it says. Meet me at East Coast Park at McDonald’s on 23.12 at 1pm. Haha! Looks like you have a secret admirer!” she teased. Who could have sent me the card and when did my sister get so smart?

On 23 December, I realised that I had not visited the beach at East Coast Park in ages. It was 1pm and I waited at Mcdonald’s patiently. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a young lady looking at me, trying to get my attention. “Hello,Isabella!” I froze. Who’s that? I wondered. “Remember me? I’m Kiko!. It’s Kiko from kindergarten! Remember the bald girl from Japan?” she exclaimed. I gasped. There had been rumours that Kiko had succumbed to cancer when she was in primary school. I had believed those rumours, Was I seeing a ghost?

“Kiko? Is it really you? Is it really, really you?” I grabbed Kiko and pulled her into my arms, pure joy welling up within me, as my best friend from kindergarten was alive and well! I stroked her hair, marvelling at how it had grown back as she used to wear a hat to school to conceal her baldness. I used to sit with her on the toilet floor in kindergarten, wiping away her tears as she would bawl in my arms when bullies made fun of her bald head.

“You were the only friend I had in kindergarten, Isabelle. I am back in Singapore to further my studies and I had to see you again!” Kiko shared.

“I have to bring you home, Kiko! You are the best Christmas present!” I squealed.

“Let me lead the way. Your gate and I have already met!” Kiko laughed.

“Look at what I’ve collected, Mama,” I whisper, cradling a puddle of rainwater and craning my neck towards Mama.

Mama, towering into the sky, has her branches extended protectively over us. Sunlight, filtering through her canopy, casts a glow on the rain-drenched forest. Blossoms are budding, and chirps of sparrows resound.

I am a heart-shaped leaf, sprouting in season. My older sisters and I form the canopy. After the skies unleash life-giving rain, we frolic and catch water.

“Water, our life source,” Mama nods encouragingly. “One magical day, you’ll hear the rain sing, but that day’s not today.”

Gradually, heat engulfs the forest. Morning dew disappears, unveiling emerald-green pigments that work tirelessly to make food.

Soon, we turn beautiful shades of reds and oranges. I gaze at my sisters, preening in crimson.

A frigid day arrives. The winds are howling when my oldest sister turns tan, her skin drying into a dreary brown.

I watch, horrified, as my sister peels off, floating lifelessly to the ground.

“Mama, what’s happening?” I query, voice trembling.

“Your sister’s work is done,” Mama answers. “She’ll return to the ground, nourishing it. But her legacy lives on in me.”

Day after day, I feel myself transforming from deep red, to tan, then dark brown.

“Mama? I’m afraid,” I whimper. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“This is part of life. Remember I mentioned how the rain will sing?” Mama answers gently. “You’re the last of your sisters; the time’s come.”

Right on cue, the skies unleash torrents of rain, gleaming like a million diamonds falling from heaven, its splashes echoing through the woods like an angelic, yet haunting, chorale.

“Glad that I live am I, that the sky is blue...” sings the enchanting harmony.

“Glad for the country lanes and the fall of dew...”

“After the sun, the rain,” I echo in a whisper. “After the rain, the sun...”

“This is the way of life, till the work be done .”

Suddenly, I feel myself peeling off Mama’s branch.

“Is it time, Mama?” I murmur.

“I think it is. Trust me, let go now; you’ll always be a part of me,” she reassures.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, preparing to glide with the wind, drifting gently to the ground.

“Once every 500 years the Night of the Summer Moon will arrive and it will channel the light reflected from the sun into a beam that will move over half the Earth. Some of what it shines upon will be given life for the rest of that one night.”

Occasional reports of walking statues and the like filled the news from sunset. The legend was true after all! Oliver peered out the front door. The serene moon gleamed brighter than ever. While scrolling through the endless news articles online about the Summer Moon’s beam, 28-year-old Oliver Tan’s mind went to another mystical object, the impregnable box Great Grandmother had found buried deep in the garden using her trusty old metal detector.

Most of Oliver’s family thought mysterious Great Grandmother knew something about the box. Unfortunately, she had passed away six years prior at age 102. Oliver adjusted the stand of a framed photo of her from when she was in her 90’s, showing her smiling cheekily as always.

As he turned around, a blinding light flooded the room, then receded, leaving mystical particles lingering in the air. It was the magic of the Summer Moon! Oliver paused, his eyes wide open. He knew he was extremely lucky. Then, he heard a frail voice.

“Oli?”
He was afraid to move. He turned around hesitantly.
“Oli!”
“Great Granny?”
Her face was moving around in the photograph.
“What’s this?” She said in a confused voice.
“It-it’s the Summer Moon!”
“So… The legend is true after all.”

After speaking with his Grandmother for several minutes, the particles began to disappear. Oliver had to act fast.
“How do I open the box?” he blurted out.
Great Grandmother chuckled. “Oh Oli!! I tried everything but I never figured out how to open that stubborn thing!”

The Summer Moon’s magic beam was moving away fast. Oliver’s mind was racing. He had one last idea. He darted up the stairs and threw open the storeroom door. He snagged the box, bolted across the floorboards and busted open the window. He leapt onto the window ledge. Maybe, just maybe, Oliver thought, the Summer Moon could do something to it. Oliver knew nothing about what the box could contain, but he knew he was not going to turn back now.

He hurled the box as far as he could. It was just enough to reach the Summer Moon’s life-giving beam. The box’s lid swung open, revealing the contents it had safeguarded for centuries. There was a flash of light.

Oliver looked at the box, but then the box looked back at him.

On the first day of April each year, the sun would usually shine brightly and April would fly a kite. It was a family tradition. This year, when April went out to check the weather, she saw that rain clouds casted shadows everywhere. The storm had destroyed her favourite rose bush as well as her plan for the day. April was forced retreat to the house.

She decided to explore the hidden secrets of the loft. Raindrops dripped from the shattered windows into the cold attic. As she rummaged through the long-forgotten treasures, she found a small note. The writing was smudged, and the paper was brown with age. April made out a few meaningful words: Meet, Blue Wood, 1st of April.

What caught her attention was the last bit of the writing. It was smudged and April couldn’t make up whether it said “Watch the Singing Rain”, Watch the Stinking Rain” or “Watch the Stinging Rain”. None of them really made sense. However, she imagined a chorus of raindrops singing sweet songs. She had always thought the wood behind her backyard was special and magical.

There was only one way to find out. Her heart raced! She quietly crept down to her room so as not to wake her grandparents who were sound asleep, fetched her raincoat and rushed out of the house. Clutching the precious note to her chest, she could feel her heart beating wildly with excitement.

A series of unfortunate events unfurled. She slipped in cow dung as she sprinted past the field leading to the wood. Her arms swung left and right as she tried to find her balance. They knocked into a bee’s nest. It tumbled to the ground and angry bees swarmed all over her, stinging her everywhere. April swatted at them helplessly, feeling sorry for herself. She was stinky, stung and wet.
Finally, she stepped into Blue Wood. She admired the little April shower. Raindrops on green blades of grass glistened in the sunlight. Suddenly, it hit her.

The first of April! With trembling hands, she turned the note around. Written in big bold letters were the words, “April Fool’s!” April smacked her head, only to find an enormous bee sting.

“There you are!”

April swung around to find her grandmother’s wrinkly face smiling at her. The smile turned into a worried frown when she saw the bee stings. She noticed the note April was holding. She chuckled. Her grandmother’s laughter tinkled in the rain. The owls, cicadas and frogs joined in the symphony. The melodious music rose and fell with the steady rhythm of the rain.

“You found the trick your grandfather played on me when we were young.”